03.May.2003
did you think that it's just plain old luck
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it feels like that to push me is to shove me
Five-AM finds me donned in head-phones, worn and displayed religiously, sans sound pumping into my ear-canals. I don't think it's ironic so much as it is asinine. This is the Great Musicless Entity I've become in the past two hours.
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I spent tonight cursing all things physically displeasing while distracting myself with Igby Goes Down, drawing the usual parallels to myself and varying flesh-friends. What a delicious piece of film this was. The apple-bong was horribly reminiscent of my garage-pot days I decided to experience well after school no longer became a feasible option.
I would have run away with Igby.
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I rang the Beast at the film's finis and cooed many a delightful adjective into the phone, describing why it's massively imperative those important to me who haven't encountered the film acquaint themselves with it while I'm present.
I am manic when vascular about anything. If you have ever spoken to me on the phone before, you are aware of this. You may even be chafed by it.
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The past few days have been spent contemplating my formulation of a rendezvous with an old friend from school who works at a restaurant here, as well as winding up in awkward areas, aiding my brother's exuberant paramour, Terri, in playing a skewed version of Love Connection to teenagers and nurses placed strategically throughout the greater Oklahoma City Metro.
Match Maker I am not.
During a stiff point of inebriation when I discovered my illustriously cheap, American fags were rapidly and upsettingly dwindling in number, I murmured agitatedly to one of the teenagers, "Fucking just get it on with her already; you are wasting my time."
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I haven't read anything lately even though I have five new books to devour. It perturbs me when people inquire what I do with my time simply for the horrifying fact I can't recall what I've been doing with my time.
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I am privy to movies I could have written myself, and it urges the depression. I still require a change. The difference is that I'm actually leaving the house. My literary bilge is strewn ceremoniously across my bedroom floor, and I am excogitating plans to take it outside and set it on fire.
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Half of the Paseo Arts District is constructed of pottery those born in New Mexico have decided is a pathway to God. I have decided the pathway to God starts between my legs and ends at your teeth.
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I feel like rationing myself out to the very limits of the Eastern United States, where my metaphorical brothers stew themselves rotten.
I told Jason, my little Reznorian sugar muffin, that I still wanted to leave.
"Where would you go?" he questioned.
"Somewhere extreme," I said.
"That's my girl," he responded.
Traveling is my lifeblood. Unfortunately, I have to settle and work to achieve this. I spent the past five years psychosomatically cheating the system. I consciously chose an alternative path by commanding the educational system to place its educational mouth on my visceral nether regions. While I cannot say I've been paying for it ever since, I have been paying for something ever since.
There is so much of the this world I desire, but I can simplify my wants to five very basic needs:
1. A tuned piano
2. Multiple orgasms
3. Money
4. A suitcase
5. A reliable pair of eyebrow tweezers
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I require a mate who is as inclined to irascible spontaneity as I aspire to be. I want someone who does not fear consequence with brewing words. I want someone who is as incensed with mental anguish as I am. I want someone who comes without ties to any one place, and can scam his way into large sums of money.
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I bound and gagged Slit at approximately ten this past evening; Slit has been flashing doe-eyes at Nabokov, and that was simply the final straw.
I want a split-screen photo shot of me beating the shit out of myself.
If I actually possessed any level of confidence, I would become such an invincible bitch. I would also like my coffee to come prepared with a bit less broodiness.
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time & machine