help me Scream again

I completely discourage the idea that material gain equates happiness,

and I'm somewhat opposed to the commercial worship of the holidays,

but sometimes,

every once in a while,

receiving isn't so bad.

Happy Holidays :)

...if it keeps you around then i'm down

test message relationships suck. happy birthday happy christmas. forget me, it'll just be easier this way you hold me down.

So, so you think you can tell.

I miss my best friend. I wish you were here. no, I wish I was there. happy almost birthday, I'm sorry I can't do better than snapshots of this life after you. would you like it? freeze, love 13.

Imitation is suicide.

"You know, when I heard you were coming back I thought that I might hate you", we both laugh it off, both knowing you're being malicious, both knowing I'm weak and horribly reliant and disgusted with myself. But this is my open letter to you. I'm tired of your bullshit. The subtle condescending comments paired with the "oh aren't I darling" looks won't fly with me anymore. You've stereotyped yourself in to a corner and you're cementing yourself in; I won't chisel you out. I get the fact that you think it's cute, and that you think I'll put up with it. You are wrong. The racist, homophobic, brainlessly nationalistic remarks are thrown out haphazardly now-- toeing my limits with a jacked up chevy-- honey, I'm reinforcing that line with barbed wire. The paint job won't come out the same. Daddy won't be proud, and the rest of us will be on the road soon. I've realized a lot of things lately, this education thing works sometimes when you accept it. I'll bust my ass and look ridiculous now, but I'll get somewhere, and I'll have done it without scamming people for favors. I'll be able to stand on my own two feet, will you be able to say that? 109 days. Advance on Chaos and the Dark.

Sounds like somebody's sheering.

Rant. I'm tired and pissed ; I hope you know what you did, And I hope we don't make up. I'm done being used and pathetic. And I hope your "friends" realize they're just accessories to your image; - - however feeble and fabricated it is. I won't make you eclectic anymore. 1790/2400 It may not be golden, but it makes me better than you. Something that you've never taken the time to see, I'm not a fluke in the system. Being vindictive and bitter is never attractive, but God sometimes it feels so damn good. 115 days See what I'm saying?

Do I feel joy again ?

Freeze. I'm over it. Highlighter yellow fingertips, gnawed raw and rough around the edges; dragging over blue-lined migrained peepers. And this constant reaching is making me ache, these tired arms are grasping at only ideas and getting me, nowhere. "She had not known the weight, until she felt the freedom", but if I'm weighted now, can I ever be free. And I have a confession: all you hear is how I'm anchored,

weighed down to the depths of your balmy seas, but I'm terrified to jump ship. So tell me, is it worse now out there on your own? Do you breath heavy, knowing the consequences rest on you only, that you are fully in control? Or is your smile real, now that no matter what the consequence, you will never be as caged as before. (please don't grow up completely on me, by the way, I need you atleast to stay the same) I'm grasping at nothing, but living for something, and realistic or not, atleast I try, all warning looks be damned. 122 days.

stop. go.

26 shrapnel

You know what else I can't get rid of?

Clowns, they're popping up everywhere, the infestation has begun.

One more week and I can stop thinking. maybe.

Welcome home. please stay a while. 126 days.

Salutations

So uh, Hi. What? oh nothing. I just think I might be dying a little bit, or a whole lot, but whatever. There are messages in all the wrong webs. From flaming sinuses and burning dry eyes, kick in the hypochondria (paranoia), 'gunpowder, treason, and plot.' It just has to be this one point in time. And where the fuck am I? 'Wretched, taciturn, eight-legged beasties', -- eight legged incubi shuffling under cell shallows. "Hey honey, you've lost weight." More like I've lost appetite. Increasingly out of character, and mental capacity. But October's done already? Just wake me up the second week inJune, if I last that long. I'm drifting off first week of December. 'Sleeping Beauty', standardized tests be damned. :edit:

It's quite amazing how every Friday little pieces of me pop up in three panels. 131 days.

Q 12. Have/Would you ostracize anyone, if so then for what purposes?

Softer world, harder reality.

- -

Sometimes all you need is a reason to hang on.

Sometimes it's bitterness, or determination, or revenge,

or opportunity, or maybe it's just the next Thanksgiving.

- -

Pass the greenbean casserole, I don't mind the family photos (I miss you) .

- -

135 days.

In my younger and more vulnerable years...

Do you think that when he wrote Gatsby, Fitzgerald intended for it to be ripped apart by a bunch of 16 year olds in cinderblock classrooms? It seems to me that it impedes on the meaning of the words, make's them a little bit worthless. And irony seems to be way to abundant lately, and I'm kind of enjoying it, even if it does throw me off a little; straightening hair with a curling iron is just the tip of the iceberg. On a slightly related note: am I the only one who's seeing apocalyptical signs these days? Everything's jumping out at me, newstory headlines and car crash corners, I've got a growing list of omens everyday, and they're starting out too earley for my liking. But speaking of ironic omens, how is it possible to get 17 inches of rain (symbolism much?) and have such an exigency just 500 miles north? I don't quite understand how you can't believe in global warming yet. But I guess that's one of those "family secret" topics we'll sweep under the rug again, along with Hillary, abortion, music, and Spirit. Play hard Pray harder sounds like bullshit to me. And God, here's October. "It was an hour of profound human change, and excitement was generating on the air." 140 days left.

Desperate Change Theory

Nothing else is changing so I'll be psyched at this. "Nothing"s gonna change my world. Seven weeks is an eternity, and not the good kind. Cystallized skies blankets cotton air, and yellow paint splatters on plastic. Did I even wake up today? If tomorrow's Thursday I'll be pissed. Though I've got to say, if sleepwalk days all turn out this good, then I don't think I'll ever wake up again. But how is it that I've never noticed something this monumental before? Twice a year and it barely shook me, and I'm feeling it everywhere now; it affects everything, seasonal or not. And my body's fucking up like, bad; days like this would be so much better, if it weren't for my brains exploding from my skull. I'm hoping that it's just a breakdown, cause I can't keep living in a daze like this. 145 days left

It makes you wonder how you can change things.

I hate this town. Raging pointless fervor and pinetrees. But for some reason I love that damn skyline, and sometimes the sunrise, when there's sun. but a rain day? like, seriously? I wonder if storms like this struck a hundred years ago, or if this is some new apocalyptical sign. Torrential rain, and thunder and lightning, at three in the afternoon, has to be a favourite. Being warm and dry inside your car, and watching tail lights splash through rainpuddles in a gridlocked parking lot, with 3,000 people, is an oddly profound experience. It almost makes you not hate those 2,999 other people so much. But I'm almost working up to that. Kind of. going on 19 inches and 151 days left.

Can nothing go on forever?

So I'm fucked royally. Why does there have to be so much History? even though sometime's it's nice to let the past catch up, I don't think that the Burgundians would mind so much if we forgot a little bit about them. Sometime's my OCD switches off at just the wrong moment. And there are 28 terms that I can't meet. It'd be a lot easier if there was some peer pressure, but my friends are just too goddamn nice. Those Whores. Smart whores though; (wasn't I supposed to be the smart one in this equation?). I seem to be contradicting myself too much lately, and letting old me catch up with new me. And is this Aspergers? or just really shitty social skills? I think those are genetic too cause I look like homecoming queen at family reunions. And I miss you, like a whole lot. You've got no idea just come save me please? I don't think I'm cut out for this. This. Is just. Another. Bull. Shit. Town. 160 days?

" I'm going to start setting realistic goals for myself. "

http://www.asofterworld.com/index.php

Are we out of toast? Ping.

C'mon honey let's go be British together.

Dancing under streetlights at midnight is so much easier when the neighbors curtains are closed. And metaphors (however cheesy they may be) can be stretched so many ways. And it's an amazing feeling, finding out how pathetic you are; how naive, or hopefull; Or how small your chances will be. It's not difficult to doubt yourself when everybody else does. But so many pressures from so many points create new problems, addictions, impulsions and insecurities. But they don't realize that they're doing it. Right? Commitments seem so much easier before you're committed. But why am I the only one stressing? How am I the only one who puts future over present? I may be socially retarded, but I've never been this gutless wonder before. I don't know how much more I can take before I break. I need a diversion fast. Great Awakening, that was 300 years ago, and I've never worried about pasts that far back. 170 days left.

Have you forgotten all you were gonna do?

Well fuck, kid. Didn't you know how much this would all throw us off? uneasy conversation and topics avoided-- Always in the back of our minds, as useless shit fills your place. advanced placement in academia, but regression in common competence. A modern Glorious Revolution? with bloodless battles in thoughts between too many plans and too many possibilities Nothing's ever resolved until it's too late. Or some things are just left alone; sitting in the seat to the right, with five second forced hanshakes, and 17 uneasy words. Ironically 'existential' was one of them. And brown eyes avoid connections under curls as red as cheeks. But She and Me are shaped the same, so i think there's something of that left over? -- They're like children of the corn but cuter, ( and I'm partial to the chubby one) but my maternal side is kicking in, and making me realize that Manifest Destiny is bullshit. We've all started out the same. Same potential, but, It's always been taught in public schools anyways. 174 days left.

'We are TPing the mansions of logic'

Ironic how it all ends up to fit jigsaw puzzle solved for everyone but me pieces stuck tight And every mishap looks like forboding and it feels like it's my mansion being rolled 'cause all logic's twisted now well, their logic atleast but for me explanations don't always come easy or seem necessary even though this isn't how i want to be seen but 'baby, sugar, sweetheart' do nothing for me but that subject's tired over used and cliche and at the back of my mind now 'cause my life's one giant panic attack Two books, Three essays, Seventeen questions, and Five days to go. Oh Fuck.

Forget What You Know.

I'm a lister. Neat columns of blue ballpoint ink on college rule paper, outlining my life, waiting to be crossed off. Structured, bureaucratic, exact. And there's nothing more grating than an unfinished list at midnight. But I seem to be collecting a lot of those lately. 'To read' gets longer (38 now, with number one still in place), and those three months of open time, glorious prospects, is now at 10 days. And the mini panic attacks are becoming more frequent. Hyperventilation included. "So long as we keep our bodies numb we're safe.", but now I'll never see that in person, and though I've been "Numb" for years (two? three?) now it still hurts. So I almost don't quite believe it. Another drink doesn't keep you safe from what's inside your head. Wednesday at 8 the existentialism kicks in. And I've got the feeling that convincing them I'm better behind a pen rather than a lens is going to be difficult. Because I'm not supposed to know what I want. And the system's too complicated to change now. But It's my future, however dark, not theirs. 'Right. Write.' Four sets of six and some odd ones out, it doesn't quite fit the formula.

Good synonyms for lonliness are hard to come by, antonyms are worse.

Lonliness smells like cold leather, sounds like a quiet bass rhythm through tinny speakers, looks like the brutal glow of a TV screen in a pitch dark room, tastes like flat generic diet soda. Lonliness lives under flourescent lighting, quivers and cowers from bodyheat, sends cold air arteries down raised neck hairs, and ghosts past every sensitive nerve and dialated pupil. dry still eyes stuck open, on echoing skull cavities, chest cavities, Inverted Heartache. Hypersensitive eardrums send shivers through shallow sinus systems. Portraits of solitude leave grease stains on cheap printed placemats. Edward Hopper never felt so obsolete. Cynicism is a palisade not so easily removed, and sometimes 2012 can't come too soon. But I guess the world had better end before the expiry of social security, either way I'll never be eligible.

That guy asked for our help. We lit him on fire.

There's something about the ocean that the swimming pools or river can't replace. I mean, laying in the sun with sea-salt drying on your skin is one of the top 5 best feelings in the world, and chlorine just doesn't dry in the same patterns, or work the same way. Being shut out isn't always so bad in good company, but dragonflys are friendlier than panic attacks and being sweat-drenched never really improves the mood. The 'open sesame' is always so simple too. 4-5-3 is only one out of 125, but jumping the gate is only something someone with guts would do and I don't have enough for the both of us. But I don't have too many options for who laughs at the inside with me, cause all my amigos have instant access, I haven't yet been able to find my ticket, and there are only so many 'bring one friend' passes. I guess that it's a nice break though, 'cause Cabin Fever's taking over. - making me think that maybe at this point I'm going through momentary insanity; 'Cause flickering flourescent bulbs in carbon-copy hallways are looking like home, unfriendly and maybe a little cold, but home. And I'm thinking that this may not be the last. I'm just keeping my options open.

Do you wish to rise? Begin by descending.

No narcissistic whimsical scribbles today, or for the next weekend or so either. Though I've got to say that Portugal.The Man performances do tend to motivate my creative side, after the show tonight I'll have to satisfy myself with pen and paper, cheap internet connection's a bitch to get at the beach. It's brine bathing and skin burning on the sand for me this weekend, with Misters Machiavelli and Kerouac to keep me company ( though more likely Kerouac, 15th century Italian politics aren't really a beach read now are they?). Anyways, St. Augustine's always been a favorite of mine. Ciao my dears, sunblock therapy is for bitches and yankees.

Are we not like two volumes of one book?

There are Two-Toned voices on rotary dial nightmares and incompetent receptionists ice nerve endings. Indian stereotype? No, social-security is a homebased issue. Pixelated Monocles in to foreign lifestyles, false or fantasy, pull from real life. 20th century sitting room setups are perfect for Blue-haired nagging rights. Yet, maybe I don't want someone to take home to mommy. ( 'cause really, mommy's never had such good taste) Just someone who feels like home to me. But it's her life goal, or last goal; and she's never been one to let up so easily. "What's wrong with you girls?" isn't something any of us understand or can put in to words. First, second, and third generation reticence. I'm just hoping she lets Up before sideswiped dishes, or grief, happens to anyone. Though I'll miss the peach cobbler more than she'll ever know. It's all fucking genetic.

Hey there, Edward Hopper.

Rogue yellowcard kicks and awry lip slips burst 50's era diner vibes with awkward breezes and nervously jingled keys. Lonely Nighthawk diner dinners eat at family get togethers and make for Elephant trodden living rooms. The Jones's fake smiles and the cul-de-sacs stay empty, but the cookie cutter blinds are wide open. All seeing eyes. Favorites at No.1 create guilty animosity, and copper chords pulled taught under fickle fingers are disenchanting and all wrong. Black hole open eyes know all half truths and lies, but smiling mouths say nothing. and unfit mothers (grandmothers?) are all in my mind? supressed memories? No, but unborn (or undone?) dreams stay buried somewhere. 3 pairs of carbon-copied marshmallow thighs. It All makes sense to me.

All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.

First posts are always the most difficult. There's a nervous anticipation in introductions that always makes me look like an asshole. And really, the internet is the worst forum for 'verbal' manifestation because it conveys little to no emotion. Nervous anticipation and sarcasm often makes the poster come off as a schmuck. I think this is why my generation is communicatively defective. ( lol? much) Stereotypical Jewish dysphemisms should be used more regularly in day to day conversation. 'The Prince' is killing me. Metaphorically of course, but really isn't ink and paper the best kind of blade? But I'm past all of that, now I just want to know why rising high school juniors (or anyone really) needs to know 15th century Italian politics. Sure it's semi-applicable to the modern era, but the critique is murder. Damn you Machiavelli, damn you.