Friday, December 19, 2003

Dei Filius

I'd just like to do a quick post saying what I actually meant by what I posted in PT's threads.

I posted in them when I was in a humorous and such mood. So as such, my post about how British history and such is boring, it should obviously be interperted that I didn't mean what I said. It was in fun.

But it's like Alex to just be "Mr. Serious." And I've come to the conclusion that this is just him, and thusly I shall live with it. At this point I don't care if he posts like that at me all the time--I'm just not going to let it get me angered at how rude he is it seems. But that isn't him. He has to say things are his way and there's no way it's going to be elsewise, and everything is serious, even if I didn't intend it to be seemingly.

I'm sure there are better writers than Poe. But I love Poe. He's great to me. He's the kind of writing I like--and this is my opinion--and thus I am allotted it. Thus Alex cannot take it away.

It may be an ignorant opinion--but it shall change once I actually start reading some books by other horror authors when I get the money that is needed. But surely, no one can deny the greatness of "The Pit and the Pendulum." I think Poe is amazing--he is one of the first better American novelists out there. And far better than Twain--at least to me.

It's just annoying. I didn't mean what I said in some seriously mannered way. I posted it sarcastically, cleverly, and yet Alex seemed to not even see this mostly, and ended up posting some rhetorically refuting post against my post. Ah well. It's people like him that just make OB's friendly atmosphere seemingly crushed.

He is a good guy, just an angry little man. :p

PT's first art thread I posted in.
PT's second art thread I posted in.

I'd also like to mention that I do agree that his south parkish thread I posted in, that post was kind of spammy. But I guess no one understands the prospect that when people have lives and they are busy, they kind of don't have enough time to post as much as they'd like.

I guess no one understands this principle though.
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Thursday, December 18, 2003

Radiohead-Killer Cars

Too hard on the brakes again
What if these brakes just give in?
What if they don't get out of the way?
What if there's someone overtaking?
I'm going out for a little drive
And it could be the last time you see me alive
There could be an idiot on the road
The only kick in life is pumping his steel

Wrap me up in the back of the trunk
Packed with foam and blind drunk
They won't ever take me alive
'Cause they all drive...

Don't die on the motorway
The moon would freeze, the plants would die
I couldn't cope if you crashed today
All the things I forgot to say
I'm going out for a little drive
And it could be the last time you see me alive
What if the car loses control?
What if there's someone overtaking?

Wrap me up in the back of the trunk
Packed with foam and blind drunk
They won't ever take me alive
'Cause they all drive killer cars

Wrap me up in the back of the trunk
Packed with foam and blind drunk
No they won't ever take me alive
'Cause they all drive killer cars
They all drive killer cars
They all drive killer cars

Killer cars
Killer cars
Killer cars
Killer cars
Killer cars
Killer cars
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Here Comes the Rooster No He Ain't Gonna Die.

Today I feel short and sedated, so I don't think I have the strength to do some insanely long poem or post.

Lately I've been subdued on the internet and to it. Haven't been on it as much, nor as enthralled by it as much. And I guess that's the reality of everything.

This week I've felt a lot less of my "passionate" feeling I mentioned earlier--but I've felt it at times all the same. I feel it in a kind of meandering way right now, I felt it last night as I watched Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, and so on.

This week has also passed in some slow yet fast blur. I've wanted this week to be over with, and it's gone right along at a meticulous and tedium that is as fast as it is slow. So it's been a mixed week--as most weeks are.

I've felt sad. I've felt dead. I've felt alive, breathing, numb, wanting, high, down, up, everywhere, everything, there, that, this, and then yet another thing. But most of the week I've been brooding and melancholily comforted. It's hard to explain--but I find comfort in calamity, in death, in sadness, in reality. The comfort that this is the way it is--and this is the way it will be--and that there's nothing I can do and there is not really a point in my existence other than to deplete, reuse, destroy, all the time thinking I'm creating.

It's been a dark week. I've been alone to my own thoughts most of the time, just being what I have been for my life up to this point; that is, comforting myself with my own pain, and just living day-by-day.

It's funny too when reality hits you in the face. You're so carefree and happy and then it's like a shotgun has been pointed to your head and you can feel that trigger of that shotgun evermorely getting closer and closer to getting pulled, but still you see it regresses and goes back as the shotgun's holder gets tired in their arms and puts it down and just gives in to the realization that things are and be--and that you're awoken to reality.

Don't ask what that meant. I find it fun to mess with my mind and make some metaphor up and just expand and expand on it until I can't even understand where I'm taking it any longer.

But I did have a shotgun blast at me today--and it was shot in the air, thankfully missing.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot of my school, driving up and going into the turn that leads to the way out of school, the car in front of me turned, and so I went to turn. I put my feet on the breaks to slow down and better control the turn. Then, out of nowhere, just like some sigh, or just like some song you hear but don't, this car is right in my face, and I'm right in its face, and we're mere inches apart from crashing into each other as we pull to our stops. I just stared in disbelief, and a kind of sick happiness that I hadn't hit the person and they hadn't hit me. Another wreck on my car is the last thing I need. My insurance is already $90 a month, which my dad seemingly complains about never-endingly as if I'm an unchanging Peter Pan that needs to get a job when seemingly no place will hire me as much as I try, and also when my self esteem is so low to the point where I don't even care.

I thought maybe someone or something must've been smiling at me devilishly to make me almost get in a crash and then not get in one as if to slap my good mood at school being over away and bruised. Was it Fate? I don't think so. Coincidence? I don't think so. God? Certainly not. It was just pure the happening of things happening as they happen, that was what it was to me.

Just glad I didn't crash. Not just glad, thankful. I don't like being screamed at in incessance by my dad, nor do I want more damage on my already damaged and highly-priced insured car.

Today was mundane and urbane. It went about in its mannerisms and I was there, a mannequin to take its punchings and its useless bickerings. I went to my classes a shuffling, lifeless existential marionette. I talked to people as they sought fit to talk to me and bicker.

In Newspaper we played a trivia game. It was a waste of time. And I mentioned this, as well as it is more important to work on the paper. Yet still it was while playing that game and making ceaseless fun of one another that we were most moraled into senseless bondage.

It's funny how all work and no play make Jack a dull boy, but all work and all play seemingly make Jack an even duller boy. I think Jack should just get his named changed as it is--perhaps even die. Because Jack is a mundane, usual name. Perhaps if he has a name like Jack the Ripper then it isn't--but I know that that won't be. Unless of course I name my son that that I plan to never have.

This post is bickering. Might as well kill the monster that's just a yelping dog while I can.

I feel complexly simple at the moment. Like I need to use more words than needed to express the most simple things. And what is this simple thing?

That today was lame and boring and I hated it And loved it all at once. And also that tomorrow is finally Friday and I don't seem to care and am just the same as I am--I am somewhat content in the contention that I don't care about most things, and those I care about I feel much for.

Gym is a thing to note today though. Today we did the inanity that is the docility of "The Jitterbug." I could not do the twists and "styles" of this dance, so I was labored with just doing the three steps that encounter the basics of the dance--those being step left step right without even moving, then step back and tug whilst holding the hand of a fair maiden--who at my luck was a portly woman who was beautiful nonetheless, but that I had no sexual attraction nor affliction nor emblazon with.

So we stood there, listening to that stupid and decayed old, "Rock Round the Clock," song of yesteryear so many times I felt like I was watching Barney the Dinosaur sing in front of my eyes while I was being pissed on by an elephant that was being ridden by Richard Simmons instructing me that I am fat over and over again, while in fact Richard Simmons was wearing a Barney the Dinosaur t-shirt which was in fact the Barney the Dinosaur that was actually singing to me.

In realization of this, I felt like I was just going to die at that point in the stupidity that is "The Jitterbug."

Life, I think, is a lot like the Jitterbug.

At least I can learn that much.
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Wednesday, December 17, 2003

Blood Written

Demobilization—that's what began first. I myself, I think we need something like "dehoboization," but that's just me. Can't stand seeing them longing and melodramatic hobos walking and asking for my dollars.

I've seen what the government's done to us when we leave war. There's been strikes a-plenty, all ending with nothing—nothing gained, and something lost. Which equates to nothing. Sad it is that it is this way, sad indeed. I can barely keep my jobs I have from seeing how it is to work; lucky for me I've got a good enough job.

I was scared when the red scare scared me. I—I locked all me windows, barred all me doors, and when my wife Mortha was sleepy walking in the morning, I a-woke and hoisted me gun. My eyes were long and scared. I ended up screaming, "Commie bashturd," loud as my longs could scream. And I shot, but hit the ceiling 'stead of my wife. Think I went crazy; think I know I'm crazy. They all say I'm crazy here at this home—this place where they keep me all under surveillance and tied up most of the time. But I doubt it—I doubt it; I don't think I'm crazy at all. Now that Palmer guy—he's crazy. Getting me all worked up over them Commies. Making me all jitters. Now he—he's crazy—not me. And it makes me scared what he says—it makes me crazy, even though I'm not crazy.

Emma Goldman—now there's one sexy chick. Sexy as whipped butter being whippered into shape. If that isn't creamy I don't know what is. I went to one of her speeches—'fore I was brought here to the nuthouse—and she was fire. It was like there was fire all round. It was like she was a fire lady. All I could think about when I watched her speak was how sexy she was—how passionate she said things from her voice, it was a very hurting powerful. Badly, though, she was sent off—but you know, she'd changed me—and I wasn't longer scared of Commies. I was just scared of everything else. More or less I'm sick of talk of Commies, realizing there wasn't much to be scared of. I realized Palmer was a hic, and hics—hics should be hitten down on the ground, to end their torturous lives. I'd do it meself too—I'd plow a bat into his face till it was bloody—that I think would be mighty funny—then I can call him a bloody red, with all the blood on him—then turn him in as a Commie.

Round this time that Harding man—he came president. He was a real boozer, I didn't like him none—something like a boozermachine. I once heard he got such drunk one night that he couldn't run the white house—that he was so stoned he just couldn't do nothing but be stoned. I heard instead he ran round the white house screaming such obscenities that can't nor won't be repeated. I can understand the man—and I know what he screamed. I used to be quite on the bottle myself—I miss them days. They was a mess and a blur—something like Commies all in a soup. But this Harding guy, I didn't like him none—didn't like him and his Ohio Gang. Those gang—they was moochers. They mooched and mooched till they finally—some of them least—were caught. It's darn right they get what's coming to them too—damn moochers. I never done any mooch, and I'm glad. They here—they say I'm too mad here to be a mooch—don't know if I believe them though; I myself, I think it's mad to lock someone such as me up and deal with me. I'd say they was crazy—and as alcoholic as Harding. Harding he had a heart attack. I now kind of wonder what for, too—wonder if it was over some passionate love affair he was having—some squeege he was getting on the side dish—some mystery platter. Maybe it was just him missing being stoned. Not sure—but I know that if I had a heart attack, I'd be glad if I was him and it happened, cause boozers like that aren't good for nothing—nothing at all.

Silent Cal he was our next pres after. The man was radically pro-business—and the people her say I'm insane—I think he was insane. Man was as cold as cucumber—cold as a blizzarding snowstorm that just froze you frostbitten—he barely said anything—and when he did, it was always cold and distant. It was like the man was some silenced deer in the woods all bleeding in silence—the man, he was something like the anti-christ—he didn't know nothing. I heard he was once at a party—just being there like always—and someone asked him to say least three words. All he says is, "You lose." More like he loses—he's a loser. I don't go any respect for such a cunt as him. Always quite like some bashful blear—I don't like him none at all. It's cause of him the economy's controlled mostly be them rich moochers—them lucky sons of britches. I don't have any patience for some man like that, not at all. I'd silence silent Cal for real if he wanted it—not just silenced but I mean silenced.

Hoover he took over after Mr. Silent Atrophied Cal the Silent Man. And he's president right now—and he seems like a good man from what I see—though the economy's still only going for them rich people.

The 20's—they been a good time as well as bad. There's been much racial discrimination—specially from them punks the Ku Klux Klan. Now them guys—they are crazy. Good thing that man Stephedson he was put in jail—he's a bad man—and because of this, the post-WWI-grown clan, they fell to pieces. Good riddance is what I say—them guys got guts for keeping up the status quo when there really isn't one.

This age it has been labeled as the jazz age—and jazz is good indeed. I listen to it as much as I can here in the nuthouse—it's soothing. There's also ample amounts of good literature—specially poetry. Poetry is something I really like—and in this day and age there is much of it.

Then there's them Fundamentalists. Them crazed dastards. They don't understand nothing. The bible isn't meant to be taken literally like they think—as well as organized religion that is the dumbest thing I've ever seen. God he isn't about church—God he is about personal devotion and divinity. He's bout being your own with—not bout being communitied with. And me I don't believe in God either. I don't believe in anything till I can believe in it for a reason—and with God there ain't none at all. God he's just trying to comprehend something we won't ever understand—and if we do then I—I'll be long dead bless me soul—my accused crazed one at that.

I got a teary story to tell. It ain't for the squeemish neither. It's bout death and killing. You see, when I was still my last year of high school—there was this religious zealot—he went to my school and never he never shut up about God. He would talk bout God in everything he said and done—when he ate food he'd talk to the food like God gave it to him—and when he'd answer questions in school he'd talk to them like God gave it to them—and when he fell down or up some stairs he'd say God done it to him—and you see he had this mother and I hated her. She'd come to my house all the time by my parent's orders—and you see she'd tell me all bout God—all bout what she thought was God. And I'd just act like I was listening and I would just look in her eyes. And when I looked into her eyes I swear I saw craziness in there—a type of craziness that was zealous and insane. And I tell you I just couldn't stand it—it was mind-numbing. She'd come to me every day, tell me bout what a horrid kid I was for not believing in no God—and then my parents they would back her up—and she—she would always talk bout her son and how great he was and how amazing he was.

It ventually got the point where I just couldn't handle it none longer—I just blew up. So as I was walking home one day—I spotted her boy walking home, his backpack on his back and him with his hands gnarled together in prayed. And something in me just cracked even more then—I just couldn't stand it. All bout my mind I was seeing his mom talking to me gain and gain—as if she was some repeating record. And it wouldn't stop none—it kept going and a-going and a-going till I was insane and I couldn't stand it. And she was saying in my head—she was saying bout her son, and just then I stared again and there was her son again, only farther up the street this time. I don't know what happened then—it was all a blur. It was crazy.

They was fundamentalists—him and his mom—and they was also zealots. I couldn't stand them. And that day I just popped. I couldn't stand it no longer at all. I ran up to her boy as he was walking on the cement—and then I just punched him straight in the head and heaved off his backpack as if I was stronger than ever. And then I took his backpack and I threw it right on his head hard as I could, and I kept doing it and doing it—his mom's face coming into my mind again and gain as I did it—as if I was going crazy—which I wasn't mind you—and all my anger just sploded then. I couldn't handle it no more—I couldn't take it all inside—all my thoughts of revulsion of what his mom had said bout God just powered me and made me beat and beat her boy till I was tired and all panting. And I couldn't—I didn't—want to see what I done when I was finished. I just stared there forever and ever—till finally I did see what was there—and it wasn't pretty at all—it wasn't pretty none. Blood was all that I could see—blood as if it was a river coming from her boy. I almost fainted then—I couldn't believe it none—couldn't believe I had this in me.

I didn't want no one to find out what I done—I looked round—and somehow there weren't no cars round at all—they was all back at a stop light little ways back—all of them, least to my recollection.

And so I hid that body somewhere where none could find it—but some still did and they had me as a witness as his case—and I just couldn't speak none—I couldn't tell them what had happened—not even make it up. Then I was I was taken to a psychiatrist and he said I was down with something—I couldn't remember. But I know that I was blocking out what I'd seen and done. And this lead to nother thing—and I just couldn't do nothing any longer. I just all spurned up—then they sent me here—and here I am in the quiet of not I'm writing this with my blood. Cause they don't give me pens nor pencils—they too afraid I'll hurt meself or even worse. And maybe I would maybe I wouldn't—but I know that I ain't crazy. I know that I still see things they way them are—I just act like I don't when other people they are around. And I'm always living with my guilt for what I done—but still I know I liked it—if you knew what it felt like you'd like it too.

And so that's about all that's happened—I came into this just saying what the 20's been to me, cause I don't think I'm going to live much longer—I'm getting to the point where I don't want to live none longer—since I'm here in this place and they won't let me out. Each day I'm getting what I can and I'm I'm putting it under my bed where they can't see it—in a special place. This will be going there too—and I guess someday someone will find it—and they will know what I was about in some ways. Although I do think I haven't said what me name was yet—but I will at the end.

My name it is Silivan Taylor—and that is all the rest there is to say here. I've been draining so much blood day-by-day to write this here that I feel like I'm going to faint—might as well and it here I think I should.
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Tuesday, December 16, 2003

Welcome to the Machine.

Today started off rather hectic. But first, let me get into something I need to write down.

Last night as I was upstairs brushing my teeth, my Mom came in and asked me why I cannot say that "I love her" when she says it, and why I cannot hug her. I didn't feel like talking about it then--and I guess I never want to.

My entire relationship with my parents has never been "close." It seems that their parents and them may have had close relationships, but it is not like that for me. It's always been that I deal with what I deal with mostly on my own, and they simply yell at me to do things when I don't do them--such as getting a job, cleaning my room, sweeping the walks, cleaning the house, and so on.

I am not an affectionate person on the outside. I don't just fall to my knees because of my emotions and just hug and kiss and tell everything I love them or hate them. I keep it all inside--I keep it quiet. No one cares anyways. As far as I see it, I don't matter just as much as everyone else on this world doesn't matter. Why should I encumber them with my problems? Why should I be taciturn when I can be quiet?

The only place where I tell people how I feel is online. Otherwise, if my Mom asks me if I'm depressed--which she has done once recently--I simply put it off. My parents have their own problems to deal with. My Mom is going to college at the age of thirty-seven, she has a sore leg that hurts her all the time from past injuries, she smokes, she is withdrawn and quiet as me sometimes, she takes large amounts of pills to sleep, numb her depression, and all-in-all, try to make her a better, more functioning person.

All these things are far more important than me. So I do not understand why she expects me to just open up to her, tell her what plagues me. Because I'm not going to.

Why can't I tell her that I love her? I do not know. I do love her in the sense that she is my mother, that when she was younger and she divorced my real father, she took me in while working at a beauty salon and managed to keep things going and meat on the table. I love her for giving birth to me, and straining and living with the pain of me as I was in her womb, growing, being a parasite that fed from her body and drained her. I love her for just being there. But I don't love her in some affectionate way. I'm not an emotional person when I'm around other people--I just keep my straight face, and I keep doing what I'm doing.

I don't think it's exactly right to place your problems on other people. But the internet is different in this accord, at least. I can talk to people about what is bothering me--but I still feel that I'm more of a nuisance than anything. I probably only make people let down and less happy by talking to them when I'm in some bitter mood.

Because I know this happens to me when I talk to someone and they are telling me all the things wrong. Lately, when I have talked to Shy, this is the exact thing that has happened--I have gotten depressed because Josh is depressed because I want him to be happy. And in essence, this is what it's like for my Mom.

Yet I'm stoic. I don't show feelings except for, it seems, on the internet. I don't hug my parents. I don't tell them I'm thankful for them. I don't tell myself I'm thankful for being alive. Because, in reality, I'm not too thankful for much, although I try to tell myself I am. I am only thankful for things which I myself am. I am thankful that there is writing and that I am good at it, I am thankful for all selfish reasons. And this is the true of it all--and I don't see why I should act otherwise.

I just do not like showing my feelings to other people that I don't see understand what I am feeling, as well as to people I've never really shown too much emotion to. This is the way it is with my parents. I do not like feeling emotion when I don't want to, I don't like trying to melodramatize things anymore. And that's what it feels like when my Mom sits here sometimes when she comes home late after drinking, telling me I hate her and that I can't even hug her.

She did give birth to me. But I don't have a bond any longer with her really. I am simply here because I am, and live with my parents until inevitably I shall move away, until inevitably they shall die, until inevitably I shall die. This is the reality of things.

I do not work well with other's emotions. I do not like to tell them how I feel unless I feel comfortable around them. I do not tell people I love them unless I really love them. Yes--I know that the love I am talking of isn't the love that my Mom seeks from me. But we do not have this loving bond. I don't even know my Mom. I don't understand her. She has never been too close to me, and I've never been too close to her--at least as far as saying as I've grown.

When she asks me to hug her and tell her I love her, as she is seemingly intoxicated, I can't. I'm not emotional like that. I don't know. I just don't understand myself why I can't say.

And what do I do when she asks me to tell her what is wrong--I push her away. My whole life I've learned to deal with things myself. I've come to the thought that people should keep their problems to themselves, because everyone has problems.

On the internet I'm not like this at times--but I try not to be too annoying, which I still feel like I am annoying. I'm usually just quiet about the real things that bother me. I just touch on the small things.

Usually I tell Tony at this point--but there was that night with Josh where I basically just said the main things in a nutshell. Usually I'm just quiet--especially if it is still day. At night I'm a little more open, because when you're tired, you just don't care what you say, because you're too tired to know.

So at this point, anyway, as I was brushing my teeth, I just said, "mmmmm," and such things under my breath until my Mom finally gave up. Then I went downstairs onto the internet, and I was soon kicked off because my Mom came down and screamed to my Dad that I was on the internet and needed to get off.

So I restarted my computer, crawled into bed, and put on my headphones. I wanted then to just go to my Mom and say that no, I didn't love her, or something to this extent. I was just being angry because I was taken off the internet, but that feeling soon went away anyway. And I drifted off to a nice, long sleep.

My alarm went off at 7. I shut it off. It went off again around 7:50ish. I shut it off.

I woke up about 8:30, late for school and hectic. In a haze, I put on my jeans, some random shirt, ran out to my car, and was off as fast as I could be, with no shower, no deodorant, nothing, just my clothes. This is the second time I've been late for first period. Luckily, I don't think it's enough to lose my final test exemption.

I then arrived in history, and we were writing this letters for our assignment that is due Thursday. The basis of the assignment is to show what life was like in the 1920's by choosing some specific thing to speak about into a diary entry of a false person.

I decided to do The Scopes Trial. The Scopes trial was with existentialists. Those are the people who think the bible should be taken literally, and thought that people accepting the evoltutionist theory, as well as other scientific theories, were degrading and demeaning religion.

Existentialists are stupid. It's obvious that the bible shouldn't be taken literally--if you take it literally it's almost silly, and quite sad. The bible is meant to be interpreted however you want it to be. It shouldn't be taken literally. And I also don't see what is the deal with the bible. It was only written by the apostles of Christ and his followers--it is people speaking from the God they think they hear--it isn't the "actual" word of God. So for anyone that takes it to the point where it's God's word, well, it isn't, in truth. Yes, it is to an extent, but it isn't truly his words. It's the words of us humans. Not him.

So the basis of this letter is I'm basically going to have my created character say that Existentialism is foolish, and that he doesn't believe in God, nor does he not believe in God, and say that The Scopes Trial is a joke, and so on. Should be good. I get to read it in front of the class, too. Hopefully I can blow some brains.

Needless to say, I was about 20-30 minutes late to that first period, and was pretty tired, but I got most of the letter done. Then it was off to English, which I was, for once, happy to go to. All this year we've covered things I mostly don't even care about. While the other classes--that aren't AP--are now learning about poetry, and were just learning about Poe, we've been learning about Transcendentalism, reading Huck Finn, watching a few movies here and there--Dead Poets' Society, Amistad, and so on. The movie watching is fine, but the other stuff we've covered so far I've found boring, mostly. It's nothing that I care for too much. Huck Finn was a decently interesting book, with humor here and there, but it isn't too amazing in this day and age. The reason why it was amazing is because it was released during the time that slavery was in its fulcrum here in the US, so it's amazing that what that book says was out there in the US at that time.

Today was more stuff on Realism and Naturalism. We did a little thing where we moved the desks to the side of the class, and were asked things, and had to choose if we agreed with it or disagreed.

There were religious questions--questions of abortion--questions of life's reason--all sorts of things; and throughout it all, I was mostly on the side that agreed.

When she asked, "I believe in the saying that life is a bitch, then you die," I was agreeing. When she asked, "I believe the bible is not the word of God," I was agreeing. When she said that, "I believe abortions are okay," I was agreeing. When she said, "Most of my thoughts are of food and sex," I was the only person agreeing, and I laughed. When she said, "I believe in guardian angels," I was closely in the area which was agreeing, and I looked over and saw all the brainwashed little zealots in their corner, and I said, "Look at all those people that are brainwashed."

When she said that, "I believe that when you die there is nothing," I was agreeing. I agreed almost the entire time, and when it was all over, she said that those who had stayed agreeing most of the time were naturalists more likely, and those that went back and forth a few times, but mostly ended up agreeing were realists. And she also said that those that stayed over in the disagree place, those were Idealists.

It's funny how naive people seem to be. When we drew on our blank sheets of paper what we thought life was, so many people drew family, friends, and most of all, religion and God. It's just naive to me. The world is so much more colder than that, life is so much more cold than that. And this, I think, is the reality.

After this we just read over some notes on Realism and Naturalism, and the class ended.

Journalism was the same old same old today. I didn't do anything, really. I just sat there on the internet doing nothing. As well as I printed out versions of my new, more lacklust column. [Lacklust. Heh. That word rocks now.]

Lunch was 3 chicken strips, a little bit of a baked potato, a breadstick, and some milk. Talked to my friends Ryan and Adam as usual, The chicken strips we had at lunch blew. They were these little mushes of flesh, that were very grandiose and lacking any form of chicken stripdom. Those chicken strips were seriously loser chicken strips. They tasted like rubber cement. The milk was good though. I love milk. Milk rocks. Everyone should drink milk--that stuff is great. It goes down your throat so well, and it just tastes so cold and nice.

After lunch is Geometry. Not a good class, to say the least. The teacher's been gone the two days this week so far, so it's been pretty lame. We sit there and get assigned an insane amount of work to do that isn't as big as it seems--since we have all period to do it. There's this thing that always happens to me when I am forced to do school work in school--I don't get it done. I just don't focus. I just can't. I can think of everything but what it is I should be doing at that oppurtune moment in time.

I did manage to get my worksheet mostly done, since that's what is graded. But I slopped up on the proofs--I hate proofs with a passionate burning that shall implode upon Geometry's face like a comet cometually cometing into the Earth.

I ended up not doing the book assignment portion of it--didn't want to at all. So I then proceeded to get out my Clan of the Cave Bear book I've been reading lately, which is a novel by Jean M. Auel. I've read it before, but the book is seriously good.

When I pulled it out, the girl I sit in back of, Shannon, started laughing. She then explained that her friend had said those books are really descriptive. Another student in the class, named Allan, who is cool, said what, exactly, was so descriptive? I went to say sex. And then they just stared at me like I had said some word that was the worst word to say, as well as the most pervasive and lustful. Okay, so not to that extent, but I'd like to think so, anyway, just so I can look like pervert as well as a pervasiveist and a romancer and an outspoken moron.

After Geometry is Computer Programming. This class rocks now, because we're finally doing HTML. Not much went on here--I just did the HTML lessons in the book, learning about the learner that is HTML.

After Computer Programming is Gym. I've already mentioned the dancing, but it isn't so bad. It's just useless to me. We did some new dances today, as well as a line dance for once Enough about that, anyway.

7th period was Latin. The teacher was gone in this class too. So we were assigned our work, and go to work on it. Again, I could not force myself to work on it. I sat there and got maybe half of it done, but then stopped, too uncaring to go on.

As I did this, this girl in the class whose name is Mclauryn asked questions about words, and other things. She asked something like, "Who are Marcus and Cornelia," and I said they were "hot passionate lovers." Then later on Mclauryn said, quite low, "I'm horny," when talking to Michael, who is a cool kid that now sits next to me in Latin.

At the end of class, Mclauryn came and sat on my desk, tickling my chest and other things. I couldn't really do anything, other than act like I was fine and not feeling anything. It was pretty funny, though. Michael kept saying, "Mitch, you should really feel special for having Mclauryn on your desk like that." And I actually was, but I am too shy to do much else than just sit there acitng like a moron. So I acted like I was trying to overpower Michael and move his desk over, but never succeeded because I am a physical weakling, at least arms-wise.

Mclauryn's done other things like this in the past. Just not to this extent, anyway. She's asked me to rub her back, she's touched my stomache a few other times, she's hugged me a few times. I don't know if it's just that she is feeling "horny," as she mentioned to Michael all low, or if she is actually attracted to me. Whatever the case, she's a cool girl, although I'm not sure the "right" one for me. I mean, it's certainly endearing that she's sexually aggressive, but I don't know. I'm too shy to even know as it is. But it's nice to feel special in some ways like that anyways.

When I got home I sat around and ate some frosted mini-wheats, then went online for a while. I then decided to take a little nap, and so I did. The nap was nice. My dog britty-sue, she came in bed with me and licked me, and I cuddled in all warm as she did too. It's just nice to have some other presence as you sleep, especially a dog. Dogs are awesome.

After sleeping, I awoke. Before this my Mom had came down and asked what was wrong. Nothing much was, actually. I was just relaxing. Thinking about things.

After taking that nap, I went online again for a while, then I proceeded to go and eat once our food came. We ordered pizza from Domino's. It was thin crust. I ate a whole large one of those, and had two large glasses of milk.

I'm still not full. If you've kept track of what I've eaten from this post--it actually isn't that much for someone of my age. Or so I think, anyway.

After eating and drinking that, I took an oatmeal creme pie cookie--those things rock--as well as a diet coke, caffeine free (bleh). And I ate those too. And I'm still not full, completely. I feel thirsty right now.

Then I wrote some of my english oaper that is due Thursday. It's this big paper contrasting things. I got over half of it done.

And that's about all.
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and you think you can tell?

do you think you can tell me
so you think you can tell?

you think you can tell
so you think you can tell?


i traded my ghosts for wishes,
and my hot ashes for trees,
and i traded my happiness
to know what i believe.

i traded heaven and hell,
a cold steel rail for something you can't tell,
blue skies for pain.
a green field for a smile full of a veil.

and you think you can tell?

can you tell me what a hero is?
did they get you to trade your ghosts for heroes?
cold breeze for the hard earth?

and you think you can tell?
so you think you can tell?

you think you can tell heaven from hell?
blue skies from pain?

you're just like me
you're just the same.

so you think you can tell me?
so you think you can tell?

tell me what heaven looks like,
tell me a smile from a veil.
do you think you can tell?

is heaven all white,
is hell all fire.
do you think you can tell?

do you know the difference from cold comfort
to change?
do you think you can tell?

you're just like me
you're just the same
and you think you can tell?

and you think
you can tell?


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I'm Locked There.

fall
down
it's the twist that will never go on
the rivers never go on

i give all i have
breathe in the air
i give all i have
breathe in the air

fall
down
the diabolical anthem
cannot breathe the air

fall
down
the distraught faces
cannot breathe the air

fall
down
the happy-hands
cannot breathe the air

the rivers never go on
buried
gone.

the rivers never go on.

i give all i have
my sacrifice
my disgrace
my waste

i give all i have
nothing is fair

i give all i have
nothing is fair.

what did i ask for
nothing
it's there.

the rivers never go on
never go.
never go.

never go on.

it's the hope that burns the blind
the rivers never go on.

fall
the
diabolic anthem
cannot breathe the air.
cannot move any longer
cannot feel anything there
cannot see the future
cannot breathe the air.

i give all i have
distaughted humor
i give all i have.
nothing gets me there.

the rivers never go on
the rivers never go on

never go on never
go on never go on.

the rivers never go on.

rivers
never
go
on

rivers

never go on
rivers never go on.

now is lost
puppets are broken
smoken in the distance
smoken hands and dead.

i give all i have
i destroy it there.

i give all i have
i destroy it there.

nothing is soothing
nothing is fair

prisoned in a small place
what did i ask for?
i'm locked there.

i'm locked there
i'm locked there

the key the lock
i'm locked there.
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Monday, December 15, 2003

Angels Thanatos.

the angels thanatos
in white snow
bleed down thou murther
thou dove lone
eat way my sadness
with contemplated prostrate.

thanatos thy weak
thanatos thy speak
thou canst not.
thou canst not.

destroy thine heart
thine bleeding thing
thine monsterous monster
thine innocent who breathes.

thou art the art
destroy thine heart.
thou art the art
destroy thine parts.

vena cava
veins of blood
thine own kisses
thine own love.

vena cava, the sweet.
that large, sweeping, beat.
thy own demise thy own bleat.

angels thanatos

the angels with scabbed wings.
itching themselves all thy times.
the wicked disease.
and above them their Dominus
their Lord O Mighty.

O Mighty be so small
O dear the fall.
O death thine wall.

angels thanatos
up in absolute snow
down--down they go.

thine angels with scabbed wings
thine angels with the disease.

Dominus--thy queen--
thy king.
Dominus--supreme.
the owner of the angels
with scabbed wings.

II
they fall
they leave
thine own creations
thine own things.

mutiny
thanatos sings.
in the corner
from absolution
on his knees
the biting lover
that kisses
true lover's greed.

down they fall
in christmas
as snow breathes.

down they fall
covered in white
beatific beings.

the angels
with scabbed wings.
the mutiny
beautiful nothings.

O my Dominus
O so fair
O my Dominus
O so fair
thine own creations
break there.

in the sky
burning cries
in the sky
burning cries
in the sky
burning cries

in the sky
thanatos
death's cry.

and the angels
with scabbed wings
fall as they fly.

mankind
born
from their demise.

mankind--the angels
with scabbed wings.
their tool of vise.

eat
repeat

the thanatos eyes.
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All in All You're Just Another Brick in The Wall.

Today hasn't been too good, either. I was doing decent until English 2nd period.

We began studying over Realism and Naturalism today--which are two things which I feel a lot for.

At times I am more of a naturalist than a realist, other times I'm more of a realist than a naturalist. So I don't know where I lie--but I do know that I like these two philosophies more than transcendentalism.

We were asked to write what we think life is on blank pieces of paper. I decided to put down my little piece of my poem that I wrote last night, paraphrased a bit:

life is you life is me
life isn't anything
life is you life is me
the way you move the way you breathe

life is you life is me
and that's the way
it has to be.

I would like to make this poem into a song someday. We'll see--I'm getting a guitar for Christmas hopefully.

We listened then listened to "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas. What a melodramatic song that sounds like. And while we listened, we were to draw what the song means to us on paper. I used words, since words are what I draw with the best:

a man closes his eyes
breathes in and cries
there is life in those eyes

melancholy tunes
the speaking that sings
when it is always
what should have been seen

romaticist romances me
but comfort isn't comforting

dust blows blinds me
the wind
and the sky
the eye that makes me see.

I still find it amazing how I can just write a poem right on the spot--and it usually turns out decent. Most of the people in my class said something to this extent, and when I wrote my "life is you life is me" piece on the board, some people said, "Wow, that's really good."

The teacher read it and said it sounded optimistic. I went to say that sometimes life crushes me and I hate it, and other times I love it. So I said I go both ways, and she commented that I'm more of a realist then. I guess that's true. But I still agree with the naturalists and their bare-bones meaning to life.

It was depressing to have started talking over these two philosophies, but it's not like it isn't something I feel every day. A lot of people looked like they were going to cry.

After that, we started watching a piece from the full-feature movie of The Wall. I actually didn't recall ever knowing there was a full-feature film for The Wall, but I now know. And the movie looks so very, very awesome.

I was also wearing my Pink Floyd T-shirt today, as that was pretty cool.

What we saw of the movie was amazing, though. It's totally the stuff I love--making so many things symbolic.

We watched the part where it showed a world desecrated by war, and where there was this bird-thing that kept changing, and then the British flag dismembered to show just pieces of it that made a cross, and then the cross turned into one that was on a tombstone, and it started bleeding a trail, and it showed the blood expanding out. Very beautifully symbolic stuff. I really, really want to see the whole movie now.

We started dancing in gym today. I hate it, mostly. Why we even have to do it doesn't even make any sense to me.

I'm not sure how it is at other people's schools, but each year near the end of gym we have to do dancing. The basis of this is standing in class and learning some completely inane dances and then dancing them with girls. While it is nice to perhaps touch a girl's waist, or touch her hand, I still don't like doing it. I don't even try when I do it, either, because I just don't care. It's pointless. I could be doing so many other better things than learning some stupid dances, but I have to just because we are forced to take the class.

I hate education.

I think it's useless at this point. I've learned what I want to do with my life. I could be in college already...but no, things have to be set up and organized.

I hate things that are organized. I think messes and chaos is far more beautiful than anything else. And the education system is one of those things that is organized, that is set out for you to do as soon as you are born, as is getting a job. I don't like being forced into things; rather, I like being subdued and encouraged into them, and having the opt to quit at any time. And also having the opt to not believe in whatever I am doing and never have to worry about it again.

A lot of the time at school I just sit there and listen to my music on my headphones. Anything to help me escape from existence. Anything that makes me feel like I'm more than I am.

I have felt very crushed earlier today, as if I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up again. I have also felt very sarcastic and very trying to just hang onto humor. I have been many things today.

Right now my mood is as subdued as it always is. But I don't feel too bad, not as bad as I could feel. I'm still sick of everything at this point mostly though.

I sent in two job applications yesterday. One to Dan's Supermarket, the other to K-Mart. Both places I've applied at before. And I highly doubt they will hire me this time.

I actually didn't even really want to make this post, I almost stopped right at the beginning. But I forced myself, so I can have something for my loyal followers to read. Not that there are any for certain, but you know.

I feel really tired right now. It would be so nice to sleep right now, but I can't. I have to do my stupid homework.

I cannot stand Geometry any more. That class is driving me crazy. I just don't care, but I have to act like I care. And none of it is making any sense any more, it's making less and less sense each and every day. I just do not care.

I'm just glad after this week it's Christmas vacation for me--yet all I see it as is more time to be lazy as hell.

I've been trying to get a job for about 4 months now. I stil haven't. I can't believe it's already Christmas, and I'm still sitting here being lazy as ever.

I'm just sick of so many things, and most of the time I do feel hopeless. Besides this I still act like I'm completely fine all the time. And if I feel terrible at school, I just put on my headphones if I can and listen to my music.

Lately I've been listening to AFI's The Art of Drowning. It's actually a very good record if you want something that's upbeat yet sad to listen to all at once, and it meshes with me well at this point. Because that is how I have felt lately.

We started HTML finally in Computer Programming today. Visual Basic was a total waste of time for me, so I'm glad we're moving on. We also get to design our own webpage, which I'm going to do about my poetry. That should be very, very fun to do.

Well, that's all I have to say that I can think of.

Lie in the comfort of sweet calamity.
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Sunday, December 14, 2003

I'm an Atheist!



Which Enemy of the Christian Church Are You?

Take More of Robert & Tim's Quizzes
Watch Robert & Tim's Cartoons



Damn right.

I'm going to sleep now, it's 5:19.

Goodnight world.
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