Thursday, June 24, 2004

A Perfect Circle- Brena

My reflection
Wraps and pulls me under
healing waters to be
Bathed in Brena

Guides me
Safely in
Worlds I've never been to
Heal me
Heal me
My dear Brena

So vulnerable
But it's all right

Heal me
Heal me
My dear Brena

Show me lonely and
Show me openings
To lead me closer to you
My dear Brena

Feeling so vulnerable
But it's all right

Opening to... heal...
Opening to... heal...
Heal.. Heal.. Heal...

Heal me

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Wednesday, June 23, 2004

The End

I was reading about Jim Morrison's death in Rolling Stone. Now I don't feel too good. I don't even know what it is I'm feeling right now. So don't ask me to express it.

Plus there's this crap with my mom. It's just getting ridiculous already. Just damn ridiculous. I'm going to talk it over with her tomorrow. Or try, anyway.

A shower would feel good right now, but I'm sure my dad would get angry if I did that, so I won't do that. Brushing my teeth sounds good. Then I think I'll write some poem or something, and listen to some calming, sad music.


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Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Don't fool yourself. . .

I got to talk to an Erin.

I am a happy Mitch.

Now I go for a walk.
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A Perfect Circle- The Package

Clever got me this far
Then tricky got me in
Eye on what I'm after
I don't need another friend
Smile and drop the cliche
'Till you think I'm listening
I take just what I came for
Then I'm out the door again
Peripheral long the package
Don't care to settle in
Time to feed the monster
I don't need another friend
Comfort is a mystery
Crawling out of my own skin
Just give me what I came for, then I'm out the door again
Lie to get what I came for
Lie to get just what I need
Lie to get what I crave
Lie and smile to get what's mine
Eye on what I'm after
I don't need another friend
Nod and watch your lips move
If you need me to pretend
Because clever got me this far
Then tricky got me in
I'll take just what I came for
Then I'm out the door again
Lie to get what I came for
Lie to get what I need now
Lie to get what I'm craving
Lie and smile to get what's mine
Give this to me
Mine, mine, mine
Take what's mine
Mine, mine, mine
Take what's mine
Mine, mine, mine
Lie to get what I came for
Lie to get what I need now
Lie to get what I'm craving
Lie to smile and get what's mine
Give this to me
Take what's mine
Mine, mine, mine
Take what's mine
Give this to me
Take what's mine, take what's mine, mine...
Take what's mine, take what's mine, take what's mine,
This is mine, mine, mine (whispered)
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Muse- Blackout

don't kid yourself
and don't fool yourself
this love's too good last
and I'm too old train, yeah

don't grow up too fast
and don't embrace the past
this life's too good to last
and I'm too young to care

don't kid yourself
and don't fool yourself
this life could be the last
and we're too young to see
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Lothlorien

Elvish or Orcish What Language Are You?

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Trip, pt. 2

Well, my mom's left the door open for me, so here we go. Next part.

---

We left about 1 o’clock or so from Bismarck. All I did on the way to Fargo was read the book I was reading, Depraved. I was pretty quiet.

It takes about 2 hours or so to get to Fargo. In that time, I pretty much finished Depraved. When we finally got to the hotel-it was a Super 8 hotel, one of those-we brought in our stuff. My Grandparents got their own room, and so did my parents.

I stayed in the room my Grandparents had. Having been around my parents so many times (throughout my entire dismal life), I wouldn’t have it that I would stay with them.

The room was nice. It had two TVs in it, two beds in this one little room, then a couch in another little room-then the bathroom, and that was about it. All I did while we whiled away the time was continue to read my book Well, actually, at first I called my parents’ room, randomly. It rang for a long while, then my mom finally picked it up. I said something into the receiver, but she just hung right up on me. No respect at all. I thought that was pretty mean of her.

Pretty soon though, we left. First I went to Media Play, then we went to eat at Olive Garden.

It’s funny. In Bismarck, we don’t have an Olive Garden. Instead of nice restaurants and all the things Fargo has, we have banks. Which makes sense, I guess.

I remember on the way to Fargo I’d mention a few times that Americans worship money. This wasn’t the first time I said it-I had said it to my Grandparents before.

Where I got the idea from was one night, at my house, when I was upstairs late watching TV, and I switched on HBO and there was this Chris Rock special on. Stand-up comedy, which is good stuff. Well, Chris Rock was going all over the place, saying how the whites rule the world, and that there’s a difference between being rich and being wealthy. Then he mentioned Americans worship money. I’m not sure if he really said it like I later did, because I took it a whole step further.

In America, most people are Christian. Being the sarcastic man I am, I went to go and say that money is the only real god. When I went up to my Grandparents’ once, I came up to them, and said, “I found god,” and they sort of gave me this serious stare. Then I said, “He’s money.”

During the time I was staying those three days at my Grandparents’, there was Ronald Reagan’s funeral going on on so many channels it wasn’t even funny. It was so bad that I changed from one channel only to see the same thing on the next. There was serious media coverage of his death, which I guess is fine, but I don’t see the point. The guy’s dead. Big deal.

I went to say in the car as we were going to Fargo, in a stroke of genius out of thin air (which happens to me often), that when I die I don’t want to have my funeral services at a church. I’d rather have them at a bank, since money is my god, unfortunately and sadly. At least I know where my god’s at, unlike most other people. I’m not saying religion is bad, though-don’t get me wrong there-I’m just saying I have no use for that habahlaha.

I mean, it’s funny. The bible’s the best-selling novel ever written. I only wish I could write something like that, that’s universally known and read over and over all over the world. Those people who take bible stories as true, I don’t know about them-they’re kind of sad, really. The bible’s stories are good and all, and allegorical, and enlightening-but really, most of it isn’t true, or what is true is so over done in this insane way. How can that be true at all? Can’t. There just isn’t any way.

So, in god we trust.

I’m also thinking when I die that I’d like to burn my money. There’s something beautiful about it, burning money. It’s sort of like being a rebel, burning money. And I like rebels. But say I win a million dollars or something-maybe on that Millionaire show, with Regis and all (who doesn’t even do that show anymore from what I remember, but anyway). Imagine Reg, his hair all beautiful, and that face of his, and me, sitting in the hot seat. Reg leans on over, asks me, “So what’re you gonna do if you win the million dollars?” I’d tell him right in the face that I’ll be burning it. I wonder what that would do. I’m pretty sure someone in the audience would give this remorseful wail, sounding like something broken, and exclaim, “You can’t do that! Gimme the money!” Or maybe Reg himself would get all peevish about it-wondering what in high hell was my problem. And being me and all, I’d just sit there and smile, sort of leer and smirk. It’d be great.

Money comes from trees. Too bad you can’t get it from there, since you have to mint it, give it its ink. Really’s too bad. But what in the hell can you do? I see you mouthing the word nothing-that’s damn right.

When I die, I want immense media coverage like Mr. Reagan as well. That’d be great. It’ll happen, too, you just wait. I’m going to be some famous author-people tell me it all the time. We’ll see.

So, back to the story I guess. I can see you’re anticipating it to go on-and reach some climax. I can handle it.

Before going to Olive Garden, my Grandpa dropped me on off at Media Play. We don’t have a Media Play in Bismarck, either. Like I said, we just have banks.

The reason I went there was because I had $50. My mom had given it to me, put it in my checking account I had still from my failed job at KFC I’m sure you’ve heard of (if you haven’t, the gist of it is that I worked there for about four weeks, then I was suddenly fired, to keep it short). Anyway, I didn’t know why my mom had given me that $50, but I went ahead and took it out of there before we left Bismarck. I felt like spending it finally, getting some new music up at Fargo or something.

And that’s just what I did. I got myself some new music.

There were lots of nice-looking women up at Media Play too. “Eye candy” as I sometimes call it if I feel like it. It’s just nice to have some diversion.

I was up there at Media Play for a while. First I looked over the games, thought maybe I’d want to get a game if there was one I wanted. They didn’t have anything, other than XIII, which the one who’s called PoisonTongue, or Alex Esten, or AnimeGurl, or Bean recommended in his My O. It sounded like a good game, and it was cheap. I thought maybe I’d buy that, but probably not, because I wanted music or something more.

I looked at the books for a while then. I wanted to get this book Diary by that guy who wrote Fight Club, and I wanted to get Fight Club too if I could, but they were too expensive for my tastes-they didn’t have either in paperback. Just hardcover was all. So that was off, sadly.

There was this and that that I looked at in books too, but not anything that really caught my eye. So I went on over to the music.

I checked to see if they had Scarling. No, they didn’t. I checked to see if they had Oceansize, since I’d gotten a taste of them from Tony’s (Semjaza’s) 150 best bands list he was doing. They didn’t have any of that either. I looked at what they had of Jack Off Jill. Nothing I wanted there, since I had already gotten Clear Hearts Grey Flowers last time. I looked for other bands I wanted to hear-looked at what they had of The Cure (which wasn’t much), and so on. I spent most of my time over there.

In the end, I decided I would get The Moon & Antarctica (Revised) by Modest Mouse, since I had liked what I heard at Tony’s site and that I would also get Aenima by Tool, since I really like that song “Aenema” and since I’ve really liked Tool for a long time.

By the time that was all said and done, and I had these two CDs in my hands, my Grandpa was in the store to pick me up, since he’d left me alone and gone off to do whatever it was he was going to do (I think he was going to fill up on gas). Since it was time to go, I went on over, but then I had an idea. Right then in my head I remembered I’d always wanted to read J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, and that it was cheap enough and I had enough money to buy it (since, as I added in my mind, these two CDs only cost 30-something dollars). I went on over, then, and picked that book up quick.

As I did some more last minute browsing over by the books, I decided there wasn’t anything else I wanted here. But as I was walking away, over a bit from the books, I saw Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle and on a whim decided to get that, too. I had always wanted to read that book as well, ever since it was mentioned in History.

Over where I saw The Jungle I also saw that Invisible Man book that I’d heard of in History too, and that my fellow My Oer Shinmaru had said was good. But I didn’t have enough of my god to get it, which was tough luck I guess.

I paid for my stuff, then we went on back to the hotel. I dropped my stuff off, and since my parents were gone, continued reading my Depraved book. A while after, my parents came from the mall where they’d went (Fargo actually has a crappy mall, too. It’s all these clothing stores, and there isn’t even a CD store, and only one video game store. I attest that I hate that mall, and that it sucks. Don’t ever go there if you’re ever in Fargo. Instead, come to Bismarck and see me. Trust me, I’m better than some godawful mall). My mom had gotten me some new shirts-two, in fact. When she showed me that first shirt, it was like love at first sight.

The shirt was this white shirt, and across at the upper part it said UNEMPLOYED. I gave a sly smile when I first read it-it was great. I’ve always loved cool little shirts like that. And it suits my type of humor perfectly, and what’s even better is that some people are just baffled by my sense of humor. So it all works out. In my favor, of course.

My mom said to my dad when she gave it to me, “Maybe this will give him the clue.” The clue being, of course, that I need a job. .

So I put on that shirt, then. And then it was time to go and eat at the Olive Garden. I walked in, we got set up-party of seven. Hey, I’ve always wondered: why do you have to say “party” when each of you that are going to get seated in the restaurant aren’t a party anyway, but just people who are eating together. I guess a party is a group of people, but whatever. I’d rather just say, “We have five people that’re going to be sitting here and eating this day,” instead of saying, “We have a party of five.” Ah well, what can you do? Yeah, that’s right, nothing again. Damn messed up world.

There were only six people in all. The seventh one was one of my Grandpa’s sons, Courtney. When I first heard this guy’s name, I thought he was a gal, too. But my grandma explained that she was expecting a girl, so they stuck with the name.

Courtney’s a good guy. Kind of a little silent and reserved, but he’s a cool cat. He’s a little overweight, has balding hair, looks older than he is, but he’s good. He works at Wal-mart there in Fargo, and sometimes he performs. You see, he’s a magician-does all those fancy dancy tricks that there’s no magic to at all, but just sly cunning.

So we had to wait a while to sit down-Olive Garden’s always busy, so you’ve got to wait. I was fine. All I did was read more of my Depraved book, and checked out some of the women around me, as I’m prone to do. When there’s nothing else to do, that’s just what you do, I guess.

When we finally got seated, as we were walking over, I remember old Court asked me what I was reading, and so I showed him. All he said was “oh,” and then we sat down.

I checked out the people sitting beside us, beside my “party of seven.” Right across from me was this nice-looking woman-she had especially nice legs. Nice legs are really my soft spot, I think. Especially if a woman’s wearing a skirt-then it’s even more soft. Skirts are one of the most sexy things a woman can wear ever, especially when they’re not too long and not too short.

She had a nice face, too. I remember thinking about how I liked how her cheeks sort of made a semi-circle, and caught the light and that nice glimmer. I like that. The thing was, she had a kid beside her, as well as some other girl-probably her friend. When I see beautiful women with kids, that just ruins it. At this point in my life, I don’t want a kid. I never want one. I think if I had a kid, I’d shoot myself and maybe jump off of some cliff while I was at it. But anyway.

The waiter came on over and asked us what we wanted to drink. She came with this sample of wine. I wouldn’t have had any, even if I was of age to have it. You see, that’s why they give you just a sample, just a little taste-so you get hooked on it and drink more and more till you’re loaded like hell, and rack up some enormous bill. Also, there’s the fact that I’d definitely become an alcoholic if I drank. So that, coupled with a moral sense about it too (which is rare for me), and having seen my mom drunk, and others drunk (my mom’s gotten a DUI before, actually. She still hasn’t learned her lesson), makes me never want to touch the stuff, let alone have that sample. No one else at the table took a sample, either. I just got a Diet Coke.

I really like Caffeine. It’s a softcore version of alcohol, although opposite in how it hits you (alcohol is a depressant of the central nervous system; caffeine is a stimulant of the central nervous system). I live by caffeine, I really do. Although I’ve been trying to drink pop less (I only drink it when I go out somewhere, a restaurant or something), I still feel a craving for Caffeine every so often still. The stuff really is addicting, despite what someone else might say. But caffeine really clears my head. It’s just a nice old friend I suppose in some regards.

Caffeine is one of those things that makes me happy. Which is fine for me. It’s still a contrived happiness.

I got my diet coke, and there was some chit chatting going on. I was mostly quiet, as I downed my Diet Coke and waited for the onset of the good feeling I get from Caffeine. I also looked over the menu. I had no clue what I was going to get.

I’ve never liked Italian food too much. Most of it’s just pasta. Well, at least what they have at Olive Garden anyway. I had no clue what to get. My Grandpa said he was going to get whatever I got.

I ended up deciding on getting one of the things with chicken breasts in it. I chose some one my dad told me to get, and that was that. The waiter came, took our orders, I got what I was going to get. She asked us if we were going to get salad or soup, we all said salad, of course.

Olive Garden has amazing salad. They bring it to you as an appetizer, in this big clear bowl, with breadsticks too. Those breadsticks are amazing, too. Those breadsticks and the salad is one of the main reasons I love Olive Garden.

I had a large portion of salad, and a bunch of breadsticks. I was starving. The last thing I’d eaten the entire day was that breakfast at Hardee’s-and that had been eons ago. Hours and hours ago.

I don’t know, I don’t really get hungry much anymore. Lately, I try to eat three good meals, but sometimes it doesn’t happen. It doesn’t happen especially if I’m going to be going to some nice restaurant which I rarely get to go to (i.e, Olive Garden). Other times I’m just not hungry and don’t eat anything.

Lately I’ve been eating salads and fruits and vegetables, and things with nutrients in it. So that works for me. I’m glad to be eating healthy. Plus I go on my walks, as I mentioned before. I’m starting to see results on my body, too.

But, back to the story.

Eventually our meals came. Mine turned out being different than I thought it was. I actually didn’t like it too much, but I ate it anyway. It had mushrooms and other crap in it, all around the chicken, and then some noodles on the side to eat. It wasn’t too good at all, in comparison to other things I’d eaten there.

I had another stroke of genius when I was eating. I started thinking of why they call them mushrooms. Then it was rooms of mush that came to my mind. Because that’s really what mushrooms are, rooms of mush. It made perfect sense then and it does now. And it was another moment of genius, which I’m always glad to have, since it makes me feel like my mind itself isn’t just mush, but rather something much more.

We finished eating, we left. We went back to the hotel and it was decided that I would have to stay there with my brother, alone, while the “adults” went out and did who the hell knows what. I resigned to my fate, and I was forced to go swimming with my brother.

The swimming was pretty boring. At first, all I did was just sit in the hot tub, relaxing. But it made me tired, so I got out and went in the real pool with my brother. We swam around in there for a while, not doing much, and then I had finally had enough. I left. He followed with me.

Back in the room, I took a nice shower. I’ve always loved taking showers, and so this was my second that day, and it was nice.

When I was done with my shower, I sat down and started reading the rest of Depraved in my parents’ room, since I was forced over there to watch my brother till all them came back.

I finished Depraved during that time. I just read it in the other part of the hotel room, away from my brother, since my brother is really crazy sometimes, all hyper and such, and was that night. When I was done with Depraved, I started reading The Catcher in the Rye. From the get-go, I loved this book.

Holden is so much like me, I found out. J.D. Salinger is definitely a genius, too. I’m sure if you look up Genius in the dictionary, his name’s not there, but I’d write it in there anyway, because it should be in there beside Genius.

I love how the book’s written. The thing was that I felt I could’ve wrote a book like this, too. It kind of got my hopes up with writing-got me back into the feel of it, and where I stand. I mean, Rye’s considered a classic, I suppose, and is well-known. If I felt I could write something like that, then maybe sometime I’ll write a classic too. That is if I can even muster enough effort to write a novel first.

But really, this book’s just a whole bunch of going on and on about what happened here, there, then some tangent here, some digression here. That’s the book. It’s genius, really. Who cares about story, as long as there’s a little there, and it’s entertaining, and that’s what this book does.

Some of this book made me snicker (close to a laugh, but better), too. It has my type of humor in it.

So there I was and I started reading that book. I kept coming over into my brother’s room and just saying how great this book is. And so, I continued my reading fest and read and read, till my parents came back.

When they came back, I went to my Grandparents’ room, and settled on in. I took out the couch to make it a bed, since it was one of those couches. My Grandpa himself was going to sleep on a rollaway bed he’d gotten. I remember he’d called for it sometime when we’d first arrived, and the lady had asked him “Why do you want a rollaway?” and my Grandpa had just laughed. If I would’ve been on the phone, I would’ve said, “Sex.” But I wasn’t so I didn’t say it.

What I did in the bed was read more of Rye. The book was great, and I couldn’t get enough of it.

When I was finally done, I was on about page 50 or so, pretty good for how short I’d been reading it. Then I decided to call it a night. But before all that happened, my brother and dad came in the room.

My mom was at it again: drunk and ranting and raving and being altogether impossible to be around. So they came in and just sat it out. My brother, being the annoying beautiful little guy he is, came in and laid himself down on my bed with me. I eventually got him off, though.

My mom never came in the room (thank god), and eventually they left and went back to the room. I think my mom was threatening to sleep in the car or something, but I don’t know if that ever happened. I didn’t care. I’d had enough of her being drunk and being around me and all. I wasn’t going to worry about it.

So I just set myself down there, closed my eyes, and slept. I wonder if I dreamed anything. I guess I’ll never know.
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Monday, June 21, 2004

Time Is Running Out

I have another part of my trip post done (it's about 4,000 words long) but I'm going to hold down on it.

No one responded to the post below. I'm going to take this by the horns and say that you guys are just too damn lazy to read that. Either that or what you read was so damn amazing and entertaining that you couldn't even utter or articulate a resposne.

Whatever the case, all I want to say is that I walked for three hours yesterday. That felt particularily good, since I had been cooped up in that cabin for so long (I could walk there, although it was rather limited).

The thing is, my feet have some blisters/ wounds on them now, but it's nothing I can't handle. Damn shoes anyway.

Also, I should be looking for a job today, but I'm not, being the lazy asshole I am.

Otherwise, I point you to the post below. Give me some response, even if you just skim through it. I thought that post was really fun to write, and I'd like to hear some kind of response, being the egotistical man I am (ahem). Anyway, I'm off to Ryan's now. . .

EDIT: Well, my dad's forcing me to give him the key I procured which allowed me to gain admittance into here, and post what I could when I could. I'll post the next parts of the trip when I get the chance--but I don't know if I'll be able to.

Also, thanks for the comments Mimmi, you're so lovely. Well, off I go.
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Sunday, June 20, 2004

Trip, pt. 1

I don't have time to put in the italicizing tags and so on, but you'll live with it. I don't want to get caught on my mom's computer like I was last night, trying to post this up when I was done with it. My dad gave me hell about it and grabbed my nose somewhat hard and it hurt, and then he smacked me on the head among other things. So if I'm caught here it's hell.

---

I went up there with them to Dickinson that day. I don’t remember many details of the day, and many subsequent, but I have what memory has allowed to preserve and be kept. It’s here I’ll try to get what I can from this scatterhouse called my mind and its storage.

It was with my mom and brother and our dogs that I went to Dickinson. We were going up there to drop off our dogs, which would then be boarded at a pediatrician’s place. We went up there Thursday. I don’t recount what I did on the hour and fifteen minute trip it takes to get up there. I’m guessing I read Depraved, a book I had randomly started reading the night before we left. It’s a book about a serial killer in a time when the term serial killer had not been coined. A time called the “Gilded Age” often. The book chronicled the exploits of the one, and only, H. H. Holmes, his killings, and his eventual capture and hanging for his crimes.

When I arrived, I got out the things I had brought: a bag with miscellaneous books, a bag of dirty clothes (to wash at my Grandma’s), and my backpack with a notepad to write on, my CD player, my CDs, a few issues of Rolling Stone, and whatever else I’d put in there. I had brought most of the things I would need for our trip to our cabin since I was going to stay at my Grandparents’ house until then, driving there with them.

I’ve always enjoyed staying at my Grandparents’. In past summers, I’ve gone there for months at a time. And I would be doing so this summer, too, if it weren’t for my inherent need (or so say my parents) for a job. I’ve told my parents it’d be easier to just get a job in Dickinson, but they won’t have it. I tell them my Grandpa could easily use his connections in the town to get me a job as well (since he knows virtually everyone in the town), but they won’t have any of that, either. They won’t have anything of anything when it comes down to it.

It gives me a sort of melancholy feeling to realize I won’t be able to really enjoy my summer to its fullest extent, due to the fact I need a job. And the most pressing thing to me is not being able to be at my Grandparent’s for a few months during the summer, as I’ve said. It’s far more enjoyable around my Grandparents than it is around my parents. My Grandparents just seem to handle me so much better, as well as actually make me feel happy because I enjoy their company so much.

They are eccentric people, to say the least. My Grandma is overweight, but it doesn’t bother me. From what I see of her, I would’ve liked to see her when she was young, because I’m sure she was beautiful. She has blonde hair, and she plays Sega Genesis and Super Nintendo. Any woman at the age she is who plays those classic systems is great to me. The main game she plays is Dr. Robotnik’s Mean Bean Machine. We just call it “Beany Meanies.” It’s a puzzle game, somewhere on par with Tetris, where you match up pairs of same-colored blocks and cause chain reactions and a whole bunch of other things to beat the hell out of your opponent and drop blocks on their screen. I’m far better at it than her, but she handles it all right. The game’s extreme fun. Really, it is.

My Grandma is also very wise. When I talk to her, she tells me things I think all the time, and gives me encouragement. Sometimes I seem to myself beyond my years in how I handle some things, and she supports this feeling-but I try not to give myself too much. It’s just nice to have someone that listens to you, is all. Because she’s a very smart woman. I remember endless cases where I was sitting there watching Jeopardy, and she’d know answer after answer, while I’d just sit there, blank as hell and not knowing the answer at all. Her name is Margaret Kostelecky, but we just call her Marge. I’ve called her other names, too, derived from Marge. Merge is a main one.

My Grandpa is even more eccentric and different. While my Grandma’s a rather same person, my Grandpa is much more. From the first time I’ve known him and on, I keep considering him one of the best people I’ve ever met in my life. And that I know.

He’s one of those people you’d call a “bullshitter,” if you’d like to say it like that. He likes to talk a lot, is all. He’s not afraid to embarrass himself at all. Not afraid to stop some random person off somewhere and shoot the shit with them. But most of the time, the person he talks to is someone he knows. In the town where he lives, Dickinson, he seems to know everyone. And he just stops there and starts going off with them when he sees them, on and on, chitter chatter until who the hell knows when. The guy would’ve made a good, but disgruntled, orator, if you ask me.

But really, there’s been so many occasions where I’ve gone somewhere with him, and he’ll find someone, and start into some conversation with them till hell freezes over. It does get kind of annoying, but that’s just my Grandpa, is all I say when I think about it to myself. Just him.

When he talks, he has a slight stutter, which gives him a sort of accent that is genuinely his. It’s sort of like Ozzy Osbourne’s, only not as bad. His drawl is just him-and that’s that, nothing more to say.

He was one of those bullies back in the long-ago past he lived in. He only made it to about 5th grade from what he’s told me. He’s said that he’d “beat the hell out of you for not saying hi.” He was out of control, getting in fights all the time-but then, his father told him it was either reform school or barber school. His choice was barber school.

That’s right. I’m proud to say it, too: he’s a barber. He owns his own business, on Villard Street in Dickson (basically, a main street there in the town). He gives $5 haircuts-has been since forever, and it hasn’t changed since. He has a nice little building where he cuts peoples’ hair for the cheapest price you can find around. And of course, what is any barber without the ability to shoot the shit with his fellow patient, who he operates on and gives a haircut to their wishes? Not a barber at all, is what I say, and my Grandpa’s a barber if there ever was one. He’ll move the mouth with you, teach you over in the cheek and tongue of dialogue, and you’ll even get a haircut in the deal.

He’s also owned a drive-in movie theatre once in his life as well. Was in a past marriage, got divorced, then married my Grandma (who also went through a divorce before remarrying to him, too). He used to smoke a pipe, but doesn’t anymore. He has diabetes. He spoils us grandkids. His name is Theodore Kostelecky, and that’s my grandpa. His nickname is “Beave,” since he’s, apparently, so much like Beaver from Leave It to Beaver, which I haven’t even ever seen. He likes to watch westerns, he’s prone to be hyper sometimes, and he eats like a goddamned machine. And I mean that.

One of the phrases he says sometimes is “bullfrog.” I believe it’s a form of the word “bullshit,” only, it’s just what it is, “bullfrog.” It’s used to give admittance to unbelief of something. Is so-and-so saying they’re going to go out and do so-and-so with someone, but you know so-and-so isn’t? Well, he’d be prone to utter “bullfrog” at this circumstance. And it is bullfrog, damnit.

He is one of those people you’ll never forget, and you’re glad you have around. Sometimes he’s a little testy with you, but you can live with it. He’s a patient man-a fisherman, a hunter, and he’ll take his time with you, talking the smack with you and going about his way. He’s not the smartest man you’ve ever met, but to me he’s far better than most scholarly, insufferable know-it-alls out there. He has that thing called common sense that they don’t have. And he isn’t snobbish. Isn’t egotistical. Does not talk to you like he’s the king of shit mountain and you’re just some hemorrhoid rubbing against him. No, instead he treats anyone and everyone nicely, as long as they are nice to him. He can do math, he can read, although with trouble, he has opinions, he is a human being, and he is, in end, my Grandpa. A barber. A person thrown through this world and who’s come out different in a good way if you look at it right.

Now, back to the story at hand. For on the other hand, you have five fingers.

This was to be the only time I’d be able to stay with my Grandparents this summer. So I took it in and did my best with it. And I’m glad I stayed there for those three days that I did. They were some of the best days in recent memory. Except for the first night there.

My mom’s about 35 in age. She was there that first night, and so was my brother. My mom still acts as if she’s some college student on a road of reckless abandon. She is a somewhat pretty woman (her beauty’s faded), and prone to getting her way with things and doing what she wants.

She has smoked since I can remember. A terrible thing as far as I am concerned. At this point I don’t worry myself with it, nor have I much in the past. Every once in a while I just tell her that she needs to stop smoking, because she’s killing herself. I have even wrote her about two poems and given them to her to keep. One of them I tore up in a fit of rage though, I don’t quite remember why, but she didn’t seem to care too much anyway. Maybe you’ve had the chance to read these poems I’m talking about, maybe not-but the point is, I’ve tried to show her that I want her to stop smoking. I mean, my dad used to chew tobacco-he stopped. Why can’t she? But at this point, it’s not my thing to worry about.

It’s a really selfish thing though. Despite the addiction, you know it’s bad. And beyond that, it’s an entirely selfish act-it’s knowingly killing yourself, shortening your life you’re given, throwing it away. Also, it’s so bad that it even kills people who don’t smoke, which is called secondhand smoke. That’s something I don’t deserve to be around. And I don’t deserve to see my mom, someday in the near future, with lung cancer, in a hospital, tubes and wires all in her, an oxygen tank from that day out endlessly there for her-but it’s what I’m going to see. I know it. I had my grandma Violet, who recently died. She was like that. That’s what’s going to happen-but as I said, at this point, I’m indifferent about it. Let her do what she wants, she’ll learn the lesson the hard way.

Then there’s alcohol. She’s grown a liking to the drink. A while ago, she started going out night after night after night with her so-called “friends”-people who are in their 20s and so on. Does she really need to hang out with these people? My dad’s endlessly told her this, among other things, but she just gets her way, and thinks it’s my dad trying to control her.

Basically, it’s a big mess, when you bring my dad into the picture. It’s been getting so bad lately, they are getting near to a divorce. I think that’s for the best, too. Most of the time I cannot stand my dad, but I live with him-it isn’t that bad-and he’s good to me when he’s good to me. My mom’s just not even there most of the time, she’s always gone, out running errands, out late as hell at night doing who the hell knows what. I guess that’s fine with me.

The thing I hate, though, is when she comes home drunk, or near there. The way she acts at this point I cannot stand. She comes up to me, like she hasn’t since I was some little kid, and says, “Don’t you love me?” And she starts hugging me. Most of the time I let her hug me, but I cannot hug back with true feeling-I am just not like that, I don’t like being touched unless it’s by someone I want to be touched by, I haven’t for a long time embraced my parents. It’s just a thing that happens as you become a teen, and it’s just the way I am. I don’t see the reason to hug or anything else to my parents because I can barely stand them. And mainly, I don’t see the reason to hug my mom and say I love her when I don’t even know her, and the only time we talk is just when we talk for a bit.

Of course I love her for raising me, I guess. But sometimes I feel I just wish I wasn’t born, but I can’t come up to her and say that.

So when she’s drunk like that, she says, “You hate me, don’t you? Why won’t you tell me you love me? Why do you push me away like that?” and I just stare off in some distance and wait for the moment to pass, because I cannot stand to show emotion where I haven’t felt it for a long time.

I’ve been raised my whole life to be self-sufficent-to be enough to myself. Over the years, I’ve grown accustomed to being alone. From a young age, my friends weren’t even really friends at all, just people I hanged out with who I idolized but really who hated me. I’ve also moved about six times in my life, and this leads to further having less friends.

At this time, I only have about one real friend, and that’s it.

I like being alone. I like closing myself off from everything.

So here we have the night. My grandma and mom went out. They came back some hours later, and she was drunk. I tried to stay away from her, but she came up to me and gave me her same act. I told her that I just wanted to be left alone-I didn’t understand it. Why did she need me? While she was doing it, my Grandma voiced in with her wisdom. She told her that it’s all about what my mom wants, and that’s true. She doesn’t understand that. And as I sit here and try to type out my feelings about this whole mess, I am just getting tangled up. I don’t really know what to say. All I have to say is that I love my mom for who she is, and I love her for raising me (even though sometimes I wish I hadn’t been born).

I get a feeling I am too young to understand the way my mom feels fully. But mostly, I see it as her just wanting to feel better, instead of a cooperation. And I just don’t need my mom coming up to me, drunk, her voice somewhat slurred, and revealing whatever the hell that is that she tries to do to me and say. My grandma said that “a mother needs her son,” but I still don’t understand. Why does she need my love? She has my dad’s love, even though it’s dead. And my brother, him. He’s going to 7th grade, and he still acts like he’s some four-year-old baby, the way my dad’s raised him. He constantly embraces hugs and tells my mom he loves her. Which is good, but that’s just not me-as she should know by now.

What I wonder is what my mom would do if I told her I loved her and meant it, and I hugged her and meant it. I bet she’d just find another thing to be mad about.

She’s a woman that’s never going to be happy. She takes endless amounts of prescription drugs, drinks, smokes-she seeks to find happiness in the wrong places. She’s been married twice, divorced my real father when I was four or so. Seems this marriage is going to go the same way. When she’s drunk and comes up to me like that, she seems like some little girl. She still seems so young and stunted in her growth-she isn’t a beautiful 34-year-old woman, she’s more younger than that at heart. She seems pretty naive to me.

The thing is, the path I’m on, I can turn out like that, easy. But I’m going to change.

She’s just not going to be happy, and certainly, me loving her isn’t going to change that. So I don’t see why she seems to center on that I “hate her,” that I wish “she hadn’t had me,” and on and on, as she rambles when she’s drunk.

On that night, I told her again and again that “I hate you,” sarcastically, and told her again and again “as the sarcasm bleeds from my mouth.” Basically, it’s just a game to me. I know she can’t find contention from me, so I don’t see why I should take it very seriously. And she’s only like this when she’s drunk, anyway. So I don’t really worry about it.

That night was a bit different, since my grandma voiced her wisdom, too. What she was saying was exactly right, but my mom wouldn’t hear any of it, of course. What she was saying to me was very selfish and something out of a soap opera, but I took at as I always do.

When it was all over, I decided I needed some music to clear my head, and I decided I’d write something to further help purge it all from my system. So I put A Perfect Circle’s Mer de Noms in my Grandma’s DVD player and turned it on, and took out my notebook from my backpack. I didn’t have a pen with me, though, so I went to my Grandparents’ junk drawer (they’ve always had one) and found my pen.

I’ve decided I’ll include what I wrote in here. I’m not too particularly fond of it, but why not, I guess. I actually wrote two things. I bet I wrote them that night, both of them. Not sure. I’ll include both:

“Intoxication, poison in her veins.
Comes to me, heart bleeding.
Expects my heart to bleed for her.
Emotionless expressionless indifference.
My heart’s all out of blood. It
doesn’t need any new blood.
It’s tired of bleeding.
Nothing left to give.

“What’s this thing they call love?
I’m going through this thorn
and it is not worth it. Too
young to understand the
complex tangle. Too young to
really know what this is.
She comes to me with poison
in her veins and expects me to
know what this thing called
love is.

“She’s not asking for much. Just
a little touch, that’s all. I never
signed up for this show, but
this show must go on. the
alcohol is poisoning her thoughts
is all. She expects me to be
something I am not.

“Maybe that something is what they call a son. I’m
just no one. The only
thing I feel is this lust
I just want what I want
and I don’t have reasons
why. I’m too young for
this thing called love.
Showing the open emotion
that’s coming from her
is foolhardy to me.
I just want to be alone
and by myself.”

Okay, I was in a certain mood when I wrote it. Doesn’t mean I feel the same. But it was just all about getting it out and sorting it out somehow. And that’s what this did. Here’s the other one:

“I’m ugly. The apple fell far from the tree. Why does she need me? I’m a lost cause. They tell me about my future but my future’s right here. It’s hopeless but I keep along. Sing the same old song. There’s nothing else to do but wait it out. My time’ll come.

“I’m not a kid anymore. He’s more dead than I knew. I’ve put him behind. I’m still naive. My naivete will be gone soon enough. I’ve lost myself in someone who’s not me. It’s all contrived. Same as it was same as it is. When she tells me to love her I feel it’s a waste of time. It’s a lost cause. She’s a drama queen, makes a hyperbole out of it all, expects me to give in. I’m too distant to care anymore. No longer sore. Just gone. What’s left here is an actor. He has it down to the face.

“She acts like she’s younger than she is. Still such a little girl. I’ll never understand her. She smokes it all away, drinks it all and lodges it in her throat.

“Her lungs are so gray. When she speaks it’s ash. You have to take a filter with it all. Stupid human survival, stupid human ways. Phoenix, go away.

“Every breath in this temple is another breath closer to that coffin. I think I’d rather just blow away ash. Please burn me to nothing.

“She’s far too poisoned to make any sense. I’m far too rotten to feel this innocence. All I see is dense. Just a concentrated moment. Just feel tense. I’m behind my fence. My isolation, that oxygen mask. Think I’ll drift away. Sleep it gone. No reason to hold on. Give in give down go where it keeps me fine. Where nothing matters but the feeling, how it passes time.”

This one’s even more sullen and somber as I read it now. What can you do.

So that’s laid to rest.

The other main thing I want to talk about that I did while I was at my Grandparents’ is watching two movies which I’d like to reccomend for you (who’s reading this) to see.

The first is called Mystic River. It’s based off a book. It is about a group of friends and how one singular event influences their entire lives. It is excellently acted, directed. If I were to be in the mood for it, I would give it three stars out of four. I know it’s rather arbitrary, but what can you do. It’s worth seeing, though. The movie won some Academy Awards, if that’s enough to make you want to see it.

What type of movie is it? I’d say suspense, mystery. The main story arc of it is about murder, and who did the murder, without giving too much away.

My Grandma had this rented, so that’s how I saw it. I’m glad I watched it. It was worth seeing. So if my recommendations mean anything, go out and rent it, since it’s out on DVD and tape.

The other movie I watched is called The Good Girl. I don’t really know how I started watching this movie. It just happened.

I was up late one night, after watching the end part of some other movie, and then this movie started. From its title I thought to myself, “Seems like some stupid chick flick movie,” but as I further watched it and listened, I was drawn in. I remember that I was reading Depraved as I watched it, and eventually I closed the book and gave the movie my full attention.

Jennifer Aniston is the main star, our protagonist if you will. The movie starts out with her taking. It starts with her in the supermarket where she works. Then it progresses from there, all over the place, where its story goes.

What made me keep watching at first was that that actor who played Donnie Darko in (duh) Donnie Darko was in it. I absolutely love that actor, and I’m sure if you’ve seen Darko you think the same thing. I forget his name right now, so don’t kill me, but you know who I’m talking about if you know who I’m talking about.

In it, the actor, I’ll just call him Donnie for nostalgia’s sake, plays a man in his 20s called “Holden.” (Although Holden isn’t his actual name, since he said “Tom’s my slave name,” in the movie.) I did not know it when I first watched this movie, but “Holden” is the name of another character in another story, a little book called The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D. Salinger, respectively. What’s funny is that after seeing this movie, I inadvertently purchased Rye at a Media Play in Fargo (which I’ll be getting to later) and learned this same thing as I just said. That “Holden” was obviously taken from that book.

When I was reading Rye, I thought more about it, too. Did Rye and The Good Girl have more in common than just that, since it seems pertinent that that’s where the movie might have gotten some of its story? And it did. It rang a nice bell, as I read further through Rye.

In Rye, the Holden in there calls many things “phony” and seems at odds with the world. The same is for Holden in The Good Girl, although I’d say that the Holden from the latter is much more at odds with the world than the other.

Also, and this is the main thing I found, in Rye, Holden asks his girl acquaintance Sally Hayes to run off with him, and live with him for the rest of his life. Which Sally doesn’t do.

In The Good Girl, the Holden in that one and Jennifer Aniston’s character have an affair (Aniston’s character is married to a fat bloke). Eventually, after many things lead to other things (as to not give it all away), Holden steals money from the store he works with her at. And he finds her and asks her to run away with her.

She doesn’t do it.

There’s a genius part in the movie where she’s at a stop light, and she’s talking about how she had to make the decision-on one side of her was where she worked, that same old job of working your whole life away for a world you hate, and getting old there-or there was on the other side the hotel where Holden was waiting for her. She just shut her eyes at the stop light, and when someone honked behind her, and she opened her eyes, it was green-and she turned into her supermarket, being “The Good Girl,” and then telling her boss where Holden was.

Another point to prod-in Rye, he says how he would like to commit suicide many times.

Well, The Good Girl’s Holden does just that, at the end of the movie. So I spoiled it. Wah. But, it’s another point I connect with Rye that they took into account when making this movie.

But besides this little tirade I have going on, what I’m trying to say is this is one of my favorite movies ever. Holden’s character is so much like me-I feel that I need a woman (as many others do) and I feel that I have nothing left to live for most of the time, even though I might try to cover it up.

Needless to say, this movie gets three stars from me (and did get three stars-it said that when I checked it out on the digital cable I watched it from). So I highly recommend The Good Girl if you want a good movie-even moreso than Mystic River.

While I was watching The Good Girl, there was this strange creak noise. After I was done watching the movie, I proceeded to write about it-late as hell as it was. I’d like to share that, as well.

But it was just weird. I had this feeling that told me I was meant to see this movie when I did, and it was as if this creak noise I kept hearing was the same thing:

“There is this creak. I don’t know where it’s coming from. I look around this room and try to isolate it. I think maybe it’s coming from the window, maybe it’s the blinds moving in the wind. But then I pan my eyes out more. And beside the window there’s a small lamp. It makes a round vale of light on the side of the wall. that light seems to be moving.

“When I really try to focus on the creak, it seems to stop. It seems to get delayed. But then it starts right back up again. I can be scared by it if I let myself. It’s really late and I’m feeling beyond everything. I think I’m hearing this creak for a reason. At first it made me think of a door sitting there and creaking. Then it reminded me of the way my bed creaks.

“Sometimes I wonder if there’ll be anything. But all I hear is this creak. It seems to be getting louder. It was going on the entire time I watched this movie, The Good Girl. It was like I was meant to watch it, just like it feels like I am meant to hear this creak.

There’s too many things going through my mind. I’m here in my boxers and all I want is what I always have wanted lately. I need to let this passion free. And that requires something more than these words. The creak goes on, like the pendulum of time itself. My heart beats onward, a muscle, with the sole purpose of keeping me alive, keeping me alive.”

Don’t ask, is all I have to say. I had the urge to write. . .so I wrote. And this is what happened. Damn it seems corny as I read it now. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, but what the hell. The rest of this notebook’s just blank pages. Someday they’ll be filled. With corny things like this. No less.

So here we are-on with the story, I know. I’m holding it up. Arresting it.

Those three days passed fast at my Grandparents’, as I said. The two last things of note to say is that I went to Wal-Mart with my Grandpa (as we often do while I’m there), and he purchased Michael Crichton’s Prey for me, and that I walked a bit too while I was there, preferably at night, as usual. I’ve been walking a lot lately, since it’s summer and nice out, and it helps to keep my lean muscular figure, as well as alleviate stress.

Maybe you’re wondering what Dickinson itself is like? Well, beyond its rather. . .strange name, it is a town a hundred-some miles from Bismarck, North Dakota. Dickinson is of course in North Dakota too. Mostly, here in North Dakota, everyone’s old. Especially in Dickinson. Hell, you’ll see old fogies all over the place, like bats out of hell-then going back again. Sad, I know. We’re also all hicks here too-my included. So whaddya’ll think o’ tat?

Yes. Anyway.

Anyway.

We left Dickinson on Saturday. Before doing that, though, we dropped the dogs off. My Grandparents have two dogs-Sassy and Missy. Missy is this absolutely beautiful dog that I cannot believe is a dog because I believe if she were a human and a female she would be my wife. She’s that beautiful, and I damn mean it. She has assets like asses have ets. Just don’t ask about that, but otherwise, she is a nice-colored brown in color. Thing is, I forget what type of dog Missy is.

My Grandma calls her “Missy Moo.” Missy Moo. . .genius name, yeah.

The other one, Sassy, (rather referred to as Assy), is this short, black, wiener dog. When you pet her and show her affection, she growls at you, even bites you. And she eats like a hog on heyday. I don’t like her. But other people do.

So we go in to drop off the dogs at the place. I go in, carry in my dog Bunny’s cage, dog food, other pet things. I’m walking into where the cage is, and there’s this beautiful and hot and attractive woman with a mop or broom something sweeping or mopping or whatever you have it. I just wanted to get that in here, since I own this story. I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but it’s sure that if this gets published somewhere and you read it, I’m hoping you know who wrote this- so remember me. Remember? Don’t you remember? I’m that handsome man who stepped in there and gave you the ole eye, and I’m sure you did the same. Do I need to describe myself? OK, will do. I am about six feet tall, long black hair (black as a raven), I weigh 235 pounds-I have a 10% body fat level-I’m all steel, with a barrel chest, six pack in stern resplendence, sternum tight and good for grabbing. Legs are pistons in action (as good as those Pistons he beat them Lakers out in the water). Hands and arms are brawn to the name. . .I’m your dream man. . .

Or not. Anyway. On with the damn story. She was great-looking, nice tush, but on with the damn story, as was said. On. With. Damn. Story.

It takes about three or so hours to get to Fargo from Dickinson. Fargo is this big metropolis (in North Dakota standards) in the right or so corner of the state, somewhere around there. Obviously, I don’t give a rip about its location. What’s funny though is that Bismarck, where I have my residence, is the capital of North Dakota, while Fargo is bigger and has more people than Bismarck.

So who would vote for Fargo as the capital?

Fargo is where we were going on Saturday, where we would stay the night, and then go to our cabin from there-drive there-the next day. But first, my Grandparents and I stopped off at my house in Bismarck. Before we left Dickinson for Bismarck, we got Hardee’s. I’d just like to say: Hardee’s has some damn good sausage and egg biscuit-thingies. Those thingies are good. And then there’s those hashbrown rounds they have-enough to give Taco John’s Potato Oles a run for them goddamned money, yessir indeed.

After going there, we hit that open road that never seems to end.

We got to my house. I gathered more books, anticipating that I’d end up being bored out of my mind at this cabin trip. Which was right.

The only reason I was going was because I was being forced-I did not have a choice. My mom had decided that I would go and so I resigned to that fate. The good thing about it was that I had an entire week before we left, and in that week I wouldn’t have to worry about having to find a job, because I certainly couldn’t get a job when in a week I’d be gone a week. No sir I couldn’t. So didn’t. And I’m being damn straight about that, too. I didn’t. Best week of my life, that was, when I didn’t have to worry about getting a job. Or worry about undertaking the medial tasks of whatever job I will have. Or would have.

We stayed at my house longer than I wanted. We arrived about 9 AM or so. So I bummed around, giving people the bumrush-telling them all the time that we “needed to go” and “right now” just because I wanted to be on my trip and have it over with.

While I waited to go, I went on my mom’s computer, which is upstairs, and snuck on the internet. I have a computer down here in my room (which is where I’m typing this right now. Ah, writing, isn’t it telepathy?), but my dad rendered my modem incapable of its duties; and this modem didn’t even get a funeral, either. Nor did it get embalmed. It just sits in my computer, severed and not working. Too bad, I know, but you can’t fight the evil ways of my dad’s communism. It’s sort of like this: when you’re outside this house here, it’s a democracy (or close to that), but when you step in, The Man of The House puts his foot down and puts it down with all the raging fervor of some crazed bastard, and you’re in Commie Land. Now, Commie Land is not a fun place, counter, and contrary, to popular belief. But you’ve got to suffer every once in a while.

Hey, it gives me something to bitch about, though, which is fun. I like that much about it.

So there I was, on the net. I checked my My O page-saw if anyone had commented on my latest entry. Someone had-Terra, an unlikely gal to have commented on it, since she seemed to be mostly nonexistent on the net for a long amount of time, but had recently begun posting again. She left a nice comment, of course, being the good woman she is, and so I continued about my way, browsing others’ My Os.

The highlight of this browsing was Megan’s My O, rather known as her internet alias which I’m not going to tell you right now because I can’t seem to remember. It’s late and I’m sure she’ll excuse me for this sin. So maybe now you who is reading this doesn’t know who I’m referring to when I’m referring to Megan, but what can you do, you suffer. I know that her alias has something to do with a word that means something like heaven. . .but it escapes me weak wearied mind this late eve. I hate this. You know, it’s that “at the tip of the tongue” thing. I can see the word but I can’t but I can and it’s blurring in my goddamned mind like some frolicking wandering thing.

Anyway, I saw pictures of Megan on her site. These were very beautiful pictures of a beautiful woman whose beauty is endless, of course, and I commented as so on her My O. My favorite picture had been the one entitled “Vogue.” I have not, yet, checked to see her response, but I am flattered to check it as such, but have not as such at this as such time as such.

Now, between you and I, I would like to tell you something: I have made an immemorial memorial, a picture shrine, to this Megan I speak so fondly of. She doesn’t know this, so you can’t tell her. Keep it hush-hush, okay? I don’t want her to know. I’m one of those shy coy little men. I don’t like people knowing I have a shrine dedicated to them.

Now if I could only remember her internet alias, which escapeth me and doth not utter forth from this tongue. Withal, “Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit I.”

Alas.

So that’s what I did. I gave her a comment. I remember it now as if it were brandished forever in my head and I was sworn to wear it for all to see: “I find you attractive, but then again I find many women attractive lately.” I wondered if she took that last part the wrong way, because, as I’ve evidenced, I find that Meggy’s a beautiful creature. But ah well, hell’s a slaughter. Sure is.

And I’m still trying to remember her alias. It’s killing me.

Now, it’s late as hell. I’ve kind of gone off course, as digressors such as me are oft to do. So I shall end this here and not write another line until tomorrow’s eve is upon me, and I feel the urging. So till then, this “part one” has ended. Ta ta, and tea for all.

And just now, it came to me. Arcadia. I was thinking I would have to cheat, but there we go.

It’s just like that Latin word for dearest I’ve been trying to remember lately. That still hasn’t came to me, but at least her name did just now. It’s crazy how it works. Really crazy.
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Saturday, June 19, 2004

Modest Mouse- 3rd Planet

Everything that keeps me together is falling apart, I've got
this thing that I consider my only art of fucking people over
My boss just quit the job says he's goin' out to find blind
spots and he'll do it
The 3rd Planet is sure that they're being watched by an
eye in the sky that can't be stopped
When you get to the promise land your gonna shake that
eyes hand
Your heart felt good it was drippin' pitch and made of wood
And your hands and knees felt cold and wet on the grass to me
Outside naked, shiverin' looking blue, from the cold
sunlight that's reflected off the moon
Baby cum angels fly around you reminding you we used
to be three and not just two
And that's how the world began
And that's how the world will end
A 3rd had just been made and we were swimming in the
water, didn't know then was it a son was it a daughter
When it occurred to me that the animals are swimming
around in the water in the oceans in our bodies and
another had been found another ocean on the planet
given that our blood is just like the Atlantic
And how
The universe is shaped exactly like the earth if you go
straight long enough you'll end up where you were

---

The lyric a bolded is genius. Just so you know.

I don't feel too hot at the moment. I feel like I'd like to just lie down and sleep. But, I'm going to go for a walk now instead. That should help.

The thing is, I don't know what CD to listen to. It's so hard to choose, and I need something that will make this walk perfect, so it can get me back in a better mood.

Writing a post about my trip should cheer me up too. Nothing to worry about.

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