Tuesday, March 9, 2004

Houses of the Holy

I'm very tired at the moment. I could go take a nap right now. I feel lazy and am sick of the monotony of life.

But, this aside. I suppose I'll moan about some things.

School was pretty lame today. What's new about that? Not much.

Our Chemistry teacher's been gone all week. Since tomorrow is the last day of school this week (Thursday and Friday off) he went on vacation.

Our Chemistry teacher is honestly a slave driver. He's a great guy, but the way he crams assignment after assignment, and flies through chapter after chapter, is just too damn fast. I understand that the class I'm in is a Block class (meaning, it's two periods long instead of one, so it only lasts one semester). I can understand this. I can understand the need to speed up the class a bit because of this.

But the way he goes about it, it's insane. I think some of it's the way he teaches, too. Sometimes he'll sit there and explain something, and you won't hear a word he says, since he goes so fast.

He seems to really cram a lot of information in too-large chunks for my mind, and other's mind's, to digest. I just don't have the attention span to sit there an entire period hearing about Chemistry.

Chemistry itself just gets more and more lame. This chapter we're on moles. Not a mole you'll find, say, at a zoo, but a different one; this mole is a measurement of how much of something you have.

Last chapter was about writing chemical formulas. The way we went though that (we went through the entire chapter in a week) was just too fast for me to digest, and for many others to do as well.

The book itself is the lamest book. It doesn't explain things in a nice, easily understood, tangible manner. No; no, it has to just sound like some gibbering idiot that I could care less about. It's really lame. I suppose it's easy to translate if you care about what it's telling you, but I don't give a flying fluck at all. I'd rather be being whipped by a slave seer*.

I don't see how most anyone could like Chemistry. It's pretty boring stuff. Most of it's math, which is something I dread. And the way this teacher runs the class makes me hate it more.

I'm starting to wonder like AP (Advanced Placement) Chemistry is like with this guy. If this is only regular Chemistry, that'd be a scary thing to see. Because, pretty much, the class I'm in now of Chemistry seems to be ran like an AP class. We have to actually learn the material and be motivated about it. Which equals Mitch dies in that class. Shoot me now while I'm young.

So we had a test in this class Monday. I knew I was screwed. I didn't understand the chapter we'd done that week at all, and felt the test was probably going to be the usual. It would actually be challenging if you did not know your stuff right down to it all.

We got our tests back today. Mitch receives twenty-eight wrong. Out of about forty-five. Good job Mitch. I'm sure that's a winner. . .

That's more than half wrong. I think that falls in the D range.

Many people had this on the test too. I'm sure when Mr. Johnson gets back there's going to be some big sermon about how you should just drop his class if you're not willing to put in the effort.

I can understand moving quick in this class. But not like this. I see in the future my grade's going to continue to plummet in this class. Mr. Johnson just expects too much out of us. I'm not some teeming, so-interesting-that-I-care-about-Chemistry student. I'm indifferent about the class. I'm only taking it because it's required for a four- or more-year college. I'm not taking the class because I have an undying love for Chemistry.

I'm not all, "Oh Chemistry, wherefore art thou Chemistry?" I'm, "I don't give a crap, I'm just here because I have to be; I'm not going to excel, I'm just going to do moderate." My Chemistry teacher, he's the one all, "Oh Chemistry, wherefore art thou Chemistry?" And then there's me in my desk pointing, saying, "Mr. Johnson yonder looks lean and hungry. He looks like he wants to eat me. Even kill! Oh, what a slaughterous pig!"

I didn't take this class to learn. That's not why I'm there. I took it because I have to have four credits of science, and this, sadly, was the class in line for that. So I took it. I didn't take it to learn anything. Because I don't plan on being a Chemist. I plan on being a writer. I'd rather be in a writing class, or just be at home on my computer typing up and writing alone.

When you think about it, school doesn't teach you much; at least not on the Kindergarten through High School end. I'm not sure about College, but I'm guessing it's a lot of the same.

School hasn't taught me anything. The only things I learn are the things I learn. The things I understand. The things I see that're important enough to be stored upstairs and be there for me whenever I need it.

By going and taking writing classes in college, and majoring in creative writing, I won't learn much that I already haven't learned. I'll only learn what I want to learn, what I see as important. I'm the only one that can make me prepared for something; not some interdicting system that seeks to learn me. I'm the only one that can teach me something; not some interdicting system that seeks to learn me.

I already know what I want to do with my life. . .why must I waste my efforts in High School toiling away for no reason. Because, you know, I'll be forgetting about 95 % of the crap I've learned here within ten years of my leaving. And once I leave High School, it won't matter. All that happened there will be behind me.

I doubt I'll become some premier, well-known writer. That's fine. As long as I get some novel published within my life, that'll be fine; or when I die. Posthumously sounds fine to me, it's what seems to have happened to some writers. Namely HP Lovecraft, who is an amazing writer. Just read "Beyond the Wall of Sleep." How I love that story.

What it comes down to is I feel that school is a waste of time. And that it is. All that matter there are the people. Not learning. And I'm sick of it. I just want to get on with my life.

I want my life to have semblance. I want it to feel whole. I don't want to sit here and be stressed about trivial, wasted things like homework or school or how I need to get my feet out from under me. School's like a shelter at this point. . .and it's getting old.

The only class I remotely enjoy is History. And that's because the class is so, so easy. And I actually have enough room, and it actually goes slow enough, that I can breathe and learn.

Otherwise, I feel congested most else of the day. I'm worried about this in school. I'm worried about that. I'm so sick of it. I just want to not do anything there anymore it feels like. I'd much rather sit here and write all day. Or at least be able to have a clear mind.

Writing has taught me more than school ever will. I've taught myself more than school ever will.

All school has taught me is that I hate humanity and how to feel bitter.

But ah well. I think I'm done.

I'll probably get terrible grades this semester. And I just don't care. It doesn't matter anymore.

Well, off to Quizno's. Then come home, do homework, and stay up till 3 AM writing.

*My teacher already is an allegorical slave driver. But this is not true. I'd rather do Chemistry, I guess, as much as I hate it. But then again, being beaten sounds like it wouldn't last as long as the tedium of Chemistry.

Damnit. Too much thought.

"the brain
is more powerful
than you will ever know

and me?
i am a slave."

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Comfortably Numb

I love writing.

I love Pink Floyd.

Can I love some more, please?

I was going to say I love you, but I thought that sounded too pompous, pretentious, irrational.

"Dreams oft lie where dreams oft lie; and hands oft finger where they feel they glide. And legs oft move with motion most devised.

But I have yet to find where the heart lies. And what oft it does."

When I was a child
I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons

Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am

I
Have become
Comfortably numb

I wish. I wish I could write. I wish other things. I wish I wish I wish.

A distant ship's smoke on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

Say something that matters to me. Say something that sets me free.

Your lips.

---

Weird things happen when you listen to Pink Floyd, kiddos.
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Wreath of Barbs

where you go is where you know
tracing the lace
to the angles of my heart
punctured deep
the incision's hand
rapture over me
in this no-where land.

veins, the fingers
charter on their strings
cellos tuned low.

will you beat me
beat me for show.
beat me so low.
will you play me.

the handles fit.
the instrument
you're meant to play.
make me a prodigy.

tracing the lace,
the curtains to the end.
outside the window
we pretend.

there shall never be
shall never see
will never ever bleed
such fair weather
on the fall's eve.
of the death of spring.

rebirth and resustanance
the blood anew.
the heart's axed log.
cut to a stub.
where a cold man
axes and axes identidem.
the identity is woodchips.
the smell of musk in the air.

born the birth cherished to stare.
born the birth the cherished the stare.
steel hands steel.
may it clang true.
feel into me.
into you.
the heart
it punctures
through.

the blood
cocoon.
where
change
will
not
win.

the blood cocoon.
swoon.
the blood cocoon
where change will not win.

where change will not win.

take me away, young slave.
take me where you can only take me.

the words
escape
on their
odyssey
to the stars.

and fall down
to the earth
in a scar.

they will not accept it
the rocket's too dead.
but shouldered
i carry it
instead.

i dream on.
as the world goes on to murder us. . .
i dream on.
as the world kills another innocent soul. . .
i dream on.

dear lady,
what wry fingers.
i dream on.
as the world goes to jail. . .
dear lady,
look to the stares.
i deam on.
as the world breaks free. . .
and writing,
in this thing's arm,
i fall
to the ground.
and i clutch.
i dream on.
as the world heaves its bars. . .
. . .as it escapes to kill again.

dear lady,
i shall never know,
capture me.
and let me go.

there i flow.
see me there?
a star, faded,
slights the sky.
the dead cocoon
has died.

and lady,
they will not accept
the words.

but shouldered
i carry it instead.

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The Great Gig in the Sky

Just the beginning of the piece. . .

I'll tell you right now. I'm writing pretty closely to my actual self in this piece. I have plans for it. I think I could easily make this a novel if I just kept going on and on and adding things about me in there often.

Read this like reading into my life. It's mundane, it's not, it's whatever it is.

A lot of the things described are things I am describing that are true to their description. Especially my car in this sense.

Anyway. Here's a sneak peek. It's far from done. I feel I could write more right now. But I need to sleep soon, sadly. Damn school. Damne everything. I just want to write. What can you do.

---

"Whatever."

The alarm. Beep beep beep. It's talking. Eyes open. My tired eyes. It's Monday morning, 7:00, and I don't want to get up out of bed. Why can't I just lie here? Why can't I just be.

I shove off my covers, a man abandoning his cover, going to where he has to go. The alarm's so loud. I wish it wouldn't wake me up?wish it wouldn't tell me the day, full-fledged, has begun. I wish it wouldn't tell me anything. I wish it didn't exist.

My hands on the side. Turning off the alarm. It stops its beeping. I stand there, wearing only boxers, and stretch. These arms can't reach the sky. You stretch them to their full length, they don't even reach the ceiling.

My schoolbooks lay scattered. From the party last night. It was a fun party. Let me tell you. It was a real bash. Three hours of homework done during it. Any man would be proud. Sure would.

I scavenge around and pick it all up, putting each book in my backpack. There's Geometry. There's Chemistry. There's English. There's US History. In the bag it all goes. I put them in there without any thought. I don't put them in a certain way. Don't even look at which book I grab. I just put it all in there, get it on its way.

My jeans lie on the floor, prostrate. I pick those up, hold them in my hand. I find a shirt from my clothes rack. I put that in my hand. Walk upstairs.

In the bathroom. Turn on the light, start the shower. I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. I put it on the side of the shower. I put my hand in the shower water.

Hot. Burning. Scathing.

I turn the round knob. Feel in again. There, that's good. It's hot, but not too hot. Good enough.

I take off my boxers. I look at myself in the mirror. Do I even look good? Is that even me? A strange face stares back at me. Same face I've always seen. Same old.

Body's same. Skinny, lanky, but with no muscles. With no strength. I turn around and look at my buttocks. Looks decent. I look at my chest. Looks fine.

Into the shower. The water torrents on me. Feels like rain. I don't care. There's little time to enjoy it. I grab the shampoo and put it on my palm. Lather it in my hair. Wash it away. Down the drain it goes. Into its mouth. Sucked down, washed down, flushed away.

I smell the scent of berries. A dull scent emanating from my hair.

I grab the bar of soap. White, and flaky. I let it flow in the water, getting it wet, easy to work with. I put it over my legs, my feet, my genitals, my face. Wash it all off. Watch it go down the drain, into its mouth. Good-bye. See you soon. Go where you're going. Have fun.

I do my back, my buttocks, the back of my arms. I lather it on. Wash it away. Down again.

My toothpaste still lies on the side. I grab it and put some toothpaste on it. A small-sized serving of it. The toothbrush in my mouth. The bristles on my teeth, my gums. The mint flavor. I spit out the toothpaste accumulating in my mouth Watch it go down the drain. The water torrents on. Like rain. There's little time to enjoy it. Have to get going.

Done brushing my teeth, I turn off the water. The round knob goes down. Water stops coming. No more torrents of water. No more.

I dry off with the towel, dripping wet. Feel the water leave me. I go all around my body. Then my hair. Then I hang back up the towel. I put on my boxers, looking in the mirror. Put on my shirt, then my jeans.

Go downstairs. To my room. Get out socks, white ones. Put them on. Then my black shoes. Put those on.

Upstairs. The kitchen.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

He sits in the chair. Eats his cereal. Reads the paper. Same as always. Same.

I open the cabinet. I grab the cereal. Frosted Mini-Wheats. Cheap kind. Not the well-known brand

Shut the cabinet. Go to a different one. Open it. Grab a white bowl, made of glass. Shut that cabinet. Go to the fridge. Milk's on the side arm. Grab it.

The cereal pours out into the bowl. Clinks on the glass in sound and movement. He cranes his neck over at me.

"You still can't pour the cereal right." I keep pouring.

"You don't hold it that close. The way you do it you get it all over." I finish.

"Pick up the ones that fell on the floor and on the counter." I do so.

The milk goes in the bowl, white. I go to the drawer. Open it. Take out a large spoon. In it I can see my face reflected. A tired, uninterested face. The metal spoon is cold in my hand.

I sit down on the table, left side of him. My spoon swirls around in the bowl. The milk reflects light and shimmers. The square pieces of mini-wheats move with the force of my spoon.

He gets up. Puts his cereal in the sink. I grab the newspaper. Stare at the front page. I don't care what it says. Same garbage. Same. Always the same. Nothing new.

Nothing ever new.

The cereal goes mechanically in my mouth. I'm a big monster made of steel, craning over, creaking in use. Crunch crunch. Chew chew. In my mouth, down my esophagus. Into my stomach. Mechanical. I'm a mechanical animal doing what I do.

I finish the cereal. The last mini-wheat is hiding, but I find it. I put it in my mouth. Chew chew. The rough wheat wanders in my mouth. Then I swallow.

I'm done eating. My dad's just out the door, I can hear it shutting. No goodbyes. Just the afterimage of him leaving, going. I can hear his car groaning to a start. Can hear the engine flare. I can see him backing out, the garage closing, whirring. That's what I hear. The garage.

He's gone. Prompt at 7:30, per usual. What's new.

I get up, put my bowl in the sink. I gaze out the window by the sink. It's into our backyard. I can see the accumulation of snow. The white is blinding to my tired eyes. I don't care about the snow. All it does is get in the way. Just sit there on the ground. Without purpose.

The sink water runs cold on my hand. I feel it and move my hand away. The cold is biting and numb. I wash out my bowl. What's left of the cereal goes down the drain, down the hole. Goes to where the pipes lead.

I look at the digital read on our oven. 7:45. It's time to go. School starts in a while. Might as well get there earlier, so I can go on the library's computers.

Over to the clothes hanger. I grab my leather coat, and my backpack. The backpack's heavy but I don't care. All my books are in it. I haven't used my locker all year.

They say the heaviness messes with the back. At least it gives my muscles a workout. I never exercise them. It makes up for it.

I check the pockets of my leather coat. I shake the pockets. I hear the jingle-jingle of keys. Good. I have the keys to my car. Now my jean pocket. Do I have a pencil? Yes. I'm set to go.

Outside.

Outside the wind is a bitch. A cold, self-centered, heartless wailing wall. I can feel it pushing against me with its wall. Its invisible wall. If only I could grab it by its throat. Choke the breath from its pallid lips. But I can't. Wind's the same. Can't touch something that's not alive, and doesn't do anything but what it does. You can't do more than what reality gives you. The same is the same, the different is the different, but still the same. And the amazing is the amazing, but still the same. The same. That's all it comes down to. Same.

I approach my car. It's parked on the side of the driveway, away from the garage. In a nook of its own where it fits. My eyes don't give it a time of day. It's dirty, grime covers its mustard-colored outside. It doesn't matter. I don't care. It's only a car.

Some value cars. Even more than people. Even more than breathing, living humans. Others purchase extravagant cars, ones that cost them money each month in order to pay for it. Pay for it with their lack of funds.

There is no point to it. Why own something more than you need to own? Why waste money when you could save it, since you don't need the car? Why even worry about having a nice car? Why not buy a junk heap one, use that, make sure it gets maintenance now and then. Save money. Buy something worth the while.

It's only car.

That's what it comes down to.

My windows are layered with frost. I hate frost on windows. Hate having to chip away at it. What a waste of time. I hate cars. Useless.

I unlock the car. Open the door. A creak as it opens. Inside my wheel protrudes out. The seats are a dull color. Pop cans cesspool all around. Diet Coke. 7-Up. Mountain Dew. Coca-Cola. A water bottle, drips of water on its sides. Dr. Pepper. It's all on the floor. Sits there in my car. I don't care to pick them up. I see no reason to. It's just a car.

On the dash there's a sticker of a dragon. It came from a 50 cent sticker machine. Been there ever since. It sparkles in the light, dazzles of colors.

There's a crucifix on the rearview mirror. My mom put it there. Been there ever since. I don't care to take it down. I don't believe in Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior. I believe he was a good man, and I believe many things he says. But I do not believe in him and what he said of God. What I believe in is dignity. I believe in that. That's where Jesus and I agree on a general level.

On the back window of my car there's a torn and weathered sticker. I put it there long ago. When I was just in Journalism 1 last year. I was a 10th grader then. It seems ages ago. The sticker says JOURNALISM, KANSAS on it. It promotes some school in Kansas that is considered one of the most prestigious colleges for Journalism out there. I could care less. I do not enjoy Journalism.

I enjoy writing columns. That is all.

In my car, I take my keys from the door. I put them in the ignition. Slamming the door closed, I place my foot on the pedal. Push it down with force. Then I ignite the engine, hear it struggle to work. It's cold. It's having trouble starting. Stupid thing. Just start. I don't have time to do this. It's cold and I want to be at school so it can be over with.

My foot goes harder on the gas pedal. There's a struggle. Loud noises. The car fights to start. And I'm the one making it.

Finally. It starts to run. Then stalls. Stops. The engine dies again. I start over, push hard on the gas as I can. There it goes again. Good. Now stay started stupid thing. It stalls again. I ignite again. It starts this time. And stays.

That took long enough.

Still have to chip off the frost. I take my scraper. Go out. I hate the noise the scraper makes. It's like nine inch nails on chalkboard. What a scathing noise. The entire prospect of scarping is a monotonous one. A hasty process that needs to be over as soon as it is started. Or else it runs on too long.
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Monday, March 8, 2004

THERE IS NO END OF THINGS IN THE HEART

"THERE IS NO END OF THINGS in the heart.

Somebody once told me that. She said it came from a poem she believed in. She understood it to mean that if you took something to heart, really brought it inside those red velvet folds, then it would always be there for you. No matter what happened, it would be there waiting. She said this could mean a person, a place, a dream. A mission. Anything sacred. She told me that it is all connected in those secret folds. Always. It is all part of the same and will always be there, carrying the same beat as your heart.

I am fifty-two years old and I believe it. At night when I try to sleep but can't, that is when I know it. It is when all the pathways seem to connect and I see the people I have loved and hated and helped and hurt. I see the hands that reach for me. I hear the beat and see and understand what I must do. I know my mission and I know there is no turning away or turning back. And it is in those moments that I know there is no end of things in the heart."


--Michael Connelly, Lost Light, the page before the novel begins.
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Cannibis

I finished reading today.

I think I'll start reading .

Hm. Not much else I wanted to say. . .

(Yes. I'm just having fun posting pictures.)

Hm. . .shall I post my dogs? Sounds good to me.


This is Britney. We mostly just call her "Britty," but we also call her "Britty Sue" or "Sue," or my dad even calls her "Susan." She's a nice, genial dog. Friendly, cordial, all that good stuff. She'll come and lick your legs when you wake up sometimes, and she'll sit there and lick you perpetually if given the chance.

She is very calm-natured and is a very quiet dog. She doesn't mind being picked up, and is just a laid-back, cool little dog.


This is Bunny. We sometimes refer to her as "Bunny Love." Where that owes its conception to I don't know. It's just what we call her.

We also sometimes call her "BG." I'm not sure if it'd actually be said like "Beegee." Perhaps. Or perhaps this came from that one band, who I am not familiar with.

My brother, being the sick, strange kid he is sometimes, goes on Bunny and stradles her, proclaiming, "Ah, ah, ah, I'm doing the Beegees, I'm doing the Beegees. Ah, ah ah, I'm doing the Beegees." My brother mostly does it to get attention; it's always why he does things like that.

"BGs" or "Beegees" has become this funny word for sex to me now. I really find it a funny word for sex, since most people will be like, "What the hell?" if you were to just say it out of nowhere. And it just sounds cool. . .BG. Yeah. "Let's do the BGs."

Bunny Love is the most outgoing of our dogs. She's also our newest. She could still be considered a puppy, I suppose. . . but she's getting older, slowly. She's a Shitzu too, just like Britty Sue. She's also Britty's sister. They're from the same mother, but it's easy to tell Bunny's from a different father (since she has different colored fur).

She likes to play ball, and likes being outdoors. She's as crazy as me sometimes, and her and I get along well. She also likes to lick you, which I believe she got this affinity from Britty, her sister.

Bunny's a great dog too, although she still isn't fully trained in urination and defacation; but that's okay, I don't mind picking up her lozenges every once and a while. No biggie.

Another thing about Bunny. She has this unnaturally long tongue. It's pretty crazy. I should get a picture of her with her tongue out. It's awesome.

You know, when she's panting. It's awesome. The tongue's killer. It's all Gene Simmons-ish (or am I thinking of the wrong member of KISS? Who the hell knows. It's what came to my mind).


This is Buttons, my favorite dog, I guess. I've known her since she was just a puppy.

You see, our first dog, Bitsy, was a Lhapso Apso. She had all white fur. She died about two years ago, so she's no longer with us; we put her to sleep. She needed it, too. She had dermic [skin] problems. She would scratch and scatch her skin.

Bitsy is Button's mother.

When we were living in Monster, Indiana (which is where my brother was born, by the way; I think it's a suitably named town for him), Bitsy, being the horny harlot she was, got it on with the neighbor's terrier.

So, she got pregnant. And thusly, Buttons was born.

She'd (yes, Buttons is a she) be considered a mutt, or a hybrid by some. Whatever. I just say she's an awesome dog. I like the way her fur looks--all brown, multi-colored. I like how she's different than most any dog you'll see.

And I've known her my whole life.

Buttons is a lot like me, I think. Sometimes I wonder if we're interconnected or something. She just seems a lot like me.

She's quiet a lot of the time; I'm quite a lot of the time. She gets annoyed easily and will bite someone; I get annoyed easily (if the time's right) and will yell back possibly, or just walk away.

There's just a lot of things I see of me in her. She also likes to come down in my room at times and lie under my bed, or, lately, on top of my bed.

She's an odd dog, but I'm an odd man too. Sometimes she seems to be shaking, sort of, and I wonder what's wrong with her. I don't know what that's about.

Whenever she pees in the house, or knows she's done something wrong, she'll go downstairs under my bed.

Whenever it thunders, and the booming is all in her ears, she'll go down under my bed. I think most dogs have a fear of thunder myself.

We sometimes call her a different name, too. Besides the easily derived "Butt" there's also others. Mainly one. We say her name like the "u" in "cruton." "Buuuttons." It has a nice sound to it, I think.[ I like it.

About Bitsy. I wonder if Buttons is devastated by her death. I can't really tell. I don't know if she can even understand it.

My dad used to say Buttons is the dumbest dog he's ever seen, since she'd pee in the house all the time, and cower at some odd things. But I always thought she's more intelligent than she lets on, just like I think I'm more intelligent than I sometimes let on.

My mom buried Bitsy at a cemetary someplace. I didn't go because I had never known Bitsy much, and so I wasn't affected by her death.

Bitsy has always been this mean dog after she had had her litter of puppies (we sold all of them except Buttons). She would bite you over almost anything. There were many instances when she'd bite people. Sometimes it was justified, but most times it wasn't. Plus her hearing was bad in the latter part of her life. She was just not nice to be around. Then there's the skin problems she had.

Buttons has some of her mother in her, though. She'll bite at times. When she has a bone, and you walk over and bother her, she'll growl. Unless it's me. She even growls at me sometimes.

My brother also constantly harasses the dogs, too. It's really annoying and mean of him. He doesn't do it to Buttons, since she won't take his crap, but he does it to Bunny and Britty. He seems to really enjoy torturing them too. He seems to do it more often when he's bored.

Whatever the case, I love my dogs. I'll probably have my own whenever I settle down. Marriage is doubtful at this point, and I kind of have this feeling I'll be alone my whole life. I'm just a person that's grown accustomed to being alone. It's what I am most of the time, anyway. We'll see.

I've even said that if Buttons lives long enough, I'll take her to live with me. But Buttons is pretty old. . .I don't know how much longer she's going to last.

I probably won't be sad when she dies, just bitter. Bitter.

Hm. Well, there's some stuff about my dogs. Maybe it was interesting and maybe it wasn't.


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Go on Roach, Yell the Antenna High/ This is This and I've died



Time for Chemistry.

I'm screwed. Test today. . .

Lord, ye art the shelter and the storm.

And I am a lamb for you to whore.

Hah.

Religion is a sad old man who likes child pornography.

He eats little kids.

He eats babies.

Okay. Time to go.
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Sunday, March 7, 2004

Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan.

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Pixies-I Bleed

As loud as hell
I'm bringing down
Behind my smile
It shakes me teeth
And all the while
As vampires feed

I bleed
I bleed
I bleed

Prithee, my dear
Why are we here?
Nobody knows. . .
We go to sleep
As breathing flows
My mind secedes.

I bleed
I bleed
I bleed
I bleed
I bleed
I bleed

There's a place
In the buried west
In a cave
With a house in it
In the clay
The holes of hands
You can place
A hand in hand
In bleed

I bleed
I bleed
I bleed

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Psychopomp

Today is homework day!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Watch Mitch do homework, do homework Mitch do homework!

Homework in Geometry, Latin, Chemistry! Two tests Monday!

It's a superMonday tomorrow!

. . .

Well, at least you can shoot me while I'm young!

Seen on a Hunting Arcade Machine: PRESS TRIGGER TO CONTINUE TO NEXT SCREEN.

Hm. . .sounds like a strange choice indeed.

---

Tea Party-Gyroscope
Come face to face with it
Pushed on your side
Lose all your self control
Worlds will collide

Inside out, you can't cope
My gyroscope

Witness the fall from grace
You shed your skin
Change if it pleases you
Just don't give in

Inside out, you can't cope
My gyroscope

Quiet now she said
you're waking up the dead so. . .
I cradle the excuse
In love with the abuse so. . .
I handle it with ease
It's a dignified disease
Slow down

Soul searching breaks you down
You'll never learn
Annihilate yourself
All things must burn

Inside out you can't cope
My gyroscope

*goes off to download some Tea Party*
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