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.