Hide your tail between your legs, it's time for me to excise my discordant existence-tales.
How odd is this damaged organism primming prose at your optics? I am odd.
I've committed verbicide; I am butchering the language that I once swore that I commanded authority over. Was my skill a side-effect of augmented pituitary activity in my youth? Did I have a disease, now extricated from my body, which begot me word-wise and articulate? My locution has ceased it's viability and I am a trembling husk of four-to-five letter words that leave me simple and sallow. Fuck my language.
Aside from my inimical feelings towards my diction, I am existing... and that ain't bad. The sound coming from my throat is less obtrusive that ever, meaning... I've learned proper singing technique. I do not claim to rival the angelic choirs of heaven yet, but I can make a not-entirely-terrible noise and it's becoming an almost-pleasing-sound increasingly each passing day.
I realized that I worry my nerves incessantly about what I've done with my life, yet I never do anything with my life from worrying so much. I'm twenty-three years old and have accomplished little, but I am beginning to realize that I am not alone. There are a tiny few that permeate the societal membrane and throw the accomplishment-curve for the rest of us. I feel meek and unseasoned when I think of them, but... Then I am brought warm by the thought that I am among the majority that did not attain prodigal status. The overzealous are the freaks and I am young, normal, and healthy... and without accomplishment. View the prospectus of my life's work, because making lists is all the rage these days....
Accomplishments:
* Three poems published in a review that I cannot remember the name of.
* A children's story published that may (or may not) be published in a text book this school year.
* My ex-band released a double-disc album that wasn't completely terrible.
* I've managed to fill enough journals, sketchbooks, and harddrives with enough art/music/writing that I could be a great artists posthumously if somebody takes the time to compile them, then praise them as if I were a genius. Because, we know that all it takes to be famous is another organism speaking loudly about how genius you are.
* I've managed to ruin the lives of several girls and while this may not be a positive accomplishment... it still qualifies.
* I own a lot of junk.
So as you can see... I have no fucking clue what I am doing or talking about. This has been e-rubbish at it's worst. What is a person supposed to write about in these things anyway? You don't want to hear about what I had for dinner tonight or what I did this weekend do you?
How odd is this damaged organism primming prose at your optics? I am odd.
I've committed verbicide; I am butchering the language that I once swore that I commanded authority over. Was my skill a side-effect of augmented pituitary activity in my youth? Did I have a disease, now extricated from my body, which begot me word-wise and articulate? My locution has ceased it's viability and I am a trembling husk of four-to-five letter words that leave me simple and sallow. Fuck my language.
Aside from my inimical feelings towards my diction, I am existing... and that ain't bad. The sound coming from my throat is less obtrusive that ever, meaning... I've learned proper singing technique. I do not claim to rival the angelic choirs of heaven yet, but I can make a not-entirely-terrible noise and it's becoming an almost-pleasing-sound increasingly each passing day.
I realized that I worry my nerves incessantly about what I've done with my life, yet I never do anything with my life from worrying so much. I'm twenty-three years old and have accomplished little, but I am beginning to realize that I am not alone. There are a tiny few that permeate the societal membrane and throw the accomplishment-curve for the rest of us. I feel meek and unseasoned when I think of them, but... Then I am brought warm by the thought that I am among the majority that did not attain prodigal status. The overzealous are the freaks and I am young, normal, and healthy... and without accomplishment. View the prospectus of my life's work, because making lists is all the rage these days....
Accomplishments:
* Three poems published in a review that I cannot remember the name of.
* A children's story published that may (or may not) be published in a text book this school year.
* My ex-band released a double-disc album that wasn't completely terrible.
* I've managed to fill enough journals, sketchbooks, and harddrives with enough art/music/writing that I could be a great artists posthumously if somebody takes the time to compile them, then praise them as if I were a genius. Because, we know that all it takes to be famous is another organism speaking loudly about how genius you are.
* I've managed to ruin the lives of several girls and while this may not be a positive accomplishment... it still qualifies.
* I own a lot of junk.
So as you can see... I have no fucking clue what I am doing or talking about. This has been e-rubbish at it's worst. What is a person supposed to write about in these things anyway? You don't want to hear about what I had for dinner tonight or what I did this weekend do you?
P.S. Thanks for the warm wishes