Friday, May 21, 2004

I wanna look out the window of my color TV.

McDonald's still hasn't called me back. Yay. They're such fags. All of them are fags. I just want a job, that's all I want, so I can say I have a job and I can act like I'm so happy to have a job and so I can get money and so I can just sit there and save it (for I have no use for the materialstic shit people buy. Give me a pen and a piece of paper--give me an open word document and a keyboard--and I am happy as I'll ever be).

Today was all right. I think that about sums it up. It wasn't anything amazing (not that it ever is), it wasn't too bad (not that it really ever is). It was just all right. That's rigt--just "All right."

The high point was making tie dye shirts in Chemistry. I ended up making on the front of mine a big fan with blood all over it, and then below that "Death is release, a bloodsoaked fan. (Thank god for that much to have had.)" When I drizzled the Isopropyl Alcohol on the fan to make it tie dyed in the method we were using, it turned out pretty good. Not to mention the lines from my poem "societyfuckedme" that I put are always close to my heart. Those are just some of my more favorite lines.

On the back, I wrote a timeless poem. It's the first one I ever wrote, I just call it "Underneath." I've memorized the little beauty, and here I will say it below for all you little kids:

"Cloudy water,
Endlessly deep
For someone to keep

Only underneath
That cloudy water
Will you sleep."

It's good, I think. The "cloudy water" is life. It goes on the notion that the only way you'll die nicely is if you give someone else your life and forget about your life. Only underneath your life will you sleep. Only if you cover it up and quite worrying about it.

I also put "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine," below that as well, on the back of the shirt. I think I've already explained that one before so it's all good.

In other news, Mitch is good. Mitch keeps looking through his jail cell and sees this Mitch here that's typing. He wondered why the hell this Mitch is here and Mitch is in his cell. Someday he'll break free, he thinks. Mitch knows he will sometime.

Haven't been writing too much lately. Feels like the words're dead. It feels like I've expressed all I can with them, that language is so limited for what I'm trying to express. I just sit there, late at night, the word document, blank, open, and wonder what I'm trying to say anymore, and it doesn't come. I'm just tired with this paltry use of words, it seems useless. I read some of my past poems, past stuff, and I realize how bad it is to me. I read someone else's poetry or writing and realize how much better they are than me. I don't have confidence is using these words anymore, I want to express myself in other ways, but there's no one to express this to. I just sit there and I'm pretty lonely, and I feel the physical release. I listen to the music and I get release. I flirt on a basic level with women at school because I am getting desparate to just have something that I can use to express myself with.

I don't think I'm good enough. I know it's useless anyway. I have no clue what I'm going to do when I graduate next year. All I know is that I'm told I should go to college and go for something. Sounds like wasting your life away to me.

Mitch--the real one, behind his cell, on his bed, thinking his thoughts, only laughs an evil laugh. Beside him, the murder is smiling.

The murder is smiling.

Besides that whole run-of-the-mill tangent, I think sleep is good. I've been taking naps a lot these past few days, and it's nice to just escape from the day. Because the day sucks and is a waste of time. But the night is something entirely different. While other people sleep, I work my hardest then.

In the day, dead. In the night, alive. Even though alive dead, and even though dead alive.
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