whatiwas

my dad's okay, and that's a big, big weight off my shoulders.

other than that, i'm still busy and stressed and a wee bit sad. but i'm not psycho-depressed darryl anymore...

...okay, maybe just a little. let's call it "psycho-sorta-depressed darryl."

I'm underinformed and petrified about the situation with my father, who apparently goes under the knife tomorrow (and not yesterday, as I previously thought). His doctors are optimistic, or so my mother says in one-off comments that have no real factual basis whatsoever.

I spoke to my grandmother yesterday, who says that, according to mom, dad is so nervous he's cleaning the house. The whole...
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i'm thinking time measured in condom wrappers and their more complete counterparts and it's all over, i have to stop, i've stopped and that's far scarier, this is not what i was because i never was like this before, i never was like this before, it's scary to think of this as what i was but even more so to think of it as what...
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The feeling begins at the junction between leg and pubis, sheathing the pulse in that kind of warmth that oozes rather than soothes, saturating nerve endings with an inescapable stickiness. It starts from there, hot and awful, and spreads over the length of the epidermis, culminating at the face, not even the face but simply the places where the skin folds and catches from overuse,...
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It seems as if I'm working at the Boiler Room tonight. If you're bored, come down for some karaoke madess.

If you're not otherwise occupied, that is.

Look at me, goddammit.

I'm standing up.

For real.

i know i should be sitting with better posture, but i think it's done burning through what's there and is working on what i need to keep. i can't take my own weight, i want to collapse in on myself and become what i always wished i was, only this time i'd be changing alone.

crush you with my blackness and maybe you'll cry out...
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and so, freed...
shut the fuck up when i'm talking to you, this is supposed to be read as a scream and heard by silent ears and adoring faces, SHUT THE FUCK UP WHEN I'M TALKING, I'M TALKING AT YOU AND NOT WITH YOU, SHUT THE FUCK UP WHEN I'M TALKING, SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT THE...
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I'm now "minus computer" for a few days while the Mac Store installs my new 20 gig hard drive. I'm not sure how I can survive, honestly, but I can try, especially when I think of actually being able to store a modest (yet still small) amount of songs on my hard drive and still be able to use the fucking thing.

I'm sleepy, yet...
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"...So," my grandmother yawned from the passenger seat, "this man invited me to go to a meeting with him, and had to go." The bags under her eyes were more pronounced, sixty-seven years of the constant in-out of breaths compounded by twenty hours of plane flights and bad food, but she was still disturbingly aware. "I found out later that he'd invited me to a...
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