whatiwas

Happy motherfuckin' birthday to me.
23 feels different, and not in a good way.
Nothing matters, and I don't know why.

the scrape of the hairs underneath my skin feels real enough to remind me that i am, indeed, living and breathing.

sunday: matt davis died. i spent a lot of time thinking about that. veronica, the girl wearing the blue jeans and light blue shirt at orenco station. i asked her the time, she asked me if i thought she looked stupid in the outfit...
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punk rock girls do not like me.

i've always hated that.

these are ours, sleepless nights trailing brittle days hissing as the life runs out, these are our moments, collected because that's the only way we can make sense of them, compiled by the skilled and argued by the unsure, the passives retreating into question marks and semicolons while all the periods just keep on coming. we're given all we'll ever know to forget, and the...
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"don't let them get to you first."

I bought a copy of Jim Thompson's "The Getaway" today at Powell's. It was a five-dollar copy, glossy cover, thick, rough paper. It was pulpy, really, seemingly intentionally so. I went there with the intention of buying a new copy of the collected "Watchmen" (residual traces of fanboy still course through my veins) but, alas, there were none to be found.

I found a CD...
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I'm falling in love again, for real, much like I did with the current love of my life.

I'm scared, actually, because I don't feel anything right now. I've become so used to realizing my emotions and then immediately suppressing them, be it because of my father or my grandparents or April. It's like I'm unconsciously unwilling to allow myself to feel anything that might...
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i've been doing a lot of thinking lately.

check out my pics. you can see my black ass...but red.

there's a new voltaire set up.

for those who don't know, voltaire's profile picture was the reason why I decided to become a member.