ugly as fuck and washed up, from doing god knows what when he still had life in him.

the important thing is the obvious thing nobody is saying.
-bukowski

not again..

i'd like to finish that conversation on life we never got around to.

a banana split & the ups and downs of real life.

if you walk away from something, there's no guarantee you'll ever get it again. if you wait around forever everything around you will change. trying to choose the right path in life seems pretty much a coin toss unless you're willing to put up with just about anything.

things fall apart.

Arr..

life is cyclical in nature and now you're back to where you feel you've been a hundred times before, so now what?

take the quickest route to whatever's next. drink.

we only want to hear about your problems to feel better about ourselves.

we've all got issues of our own. thanks.

summertime bacchanalian

she was beautiful and we were dancing.. when the music stopped i kissed her, then she looked away. "sorry" i said, "is that not ok". "no it's fine," she said, so i kissed her again and we kept dancing. and kissing. and dancing and kissing. someone yelled, "get a room!" which just made me kiss her again. by the time we finally stopped i had forgotten it was a world with people who come and go through your life as easy as a summer breeze. i had forgotten anything existed at all except for me and this girl and our dance. but it did, and as the moment slipped away i knew happiness would be getting it back. love would be getting it forever. and that's when i started to believe such things were possible. and that some people will never know.

what were you thinking just then?

a series of looks that can only mean one thing: disappointment.

hope: the beginning of something new

one day something will change how you view everything all at once. one day everything will be different, yet eerily the same. I heard a good story:

a man was shot and killed outside a bar. "the city" was the bar. he was a homeless man, shot and killed. he was shot by another homeless man outside "the city". the two homeless men were having a dispute outside the bar when one shot and killed the other. he was wearing a kilt when he died.

777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777777788888888888888888888800000000000000000000000000000000000000006666666666666666666666666666666666

it appears that everyone else in the world has simultaneously gone crazy.. or i have. or maybe i've just grown apart from everything. all these kids, they're all grown up. priorities in closed relationships and establishing ones self in the world. almost as if there was some big memo passed around that i missed out on. everyone just seems to have a better idea of who they are and what they want in life than me. especially at this age. i've spent a good deal of my time lately thinking back on situations in my life where i've been the most pathetic excuse for a living being. awkward, unreasonable, irrational, unable to justify the things i do with any sort of coherent logic. fun seems about impossible these days. the worst of it is, i felt like i was normal for a while, just like everyone i can't relate to now. so far gone.

i was trying to learn something about people again.

but there was nothing to learn. they just do these things, sometimes because they want to, sometimes because they feel like they have to. it all ends up amounting to nothing. just a lackluster carnival of abandoned children pretending life can still feel magical. only the bird's wings are left behind, long after it's dead. they're not of value to anything else.

target consumer

don't sell them who they are, sell them what they want to be, what they aspire to be, what they'll never be. if they were ever there, they wouldn't have to keep trying so hard and we wouldn't be able to manipulate them so much. sell their weakness. their insecurities. if they want to be cooler, show them cool people using it. if they want to be artsy, tell them this is what artsy people are doing. you're taking them apart, setting them up for judgment. when this person they aspire to be whitnesses them having bought in, the embarrassment, the laughing in faces. you're no closer to being who you wanted to be than when you were born. you're not going anywhere and they know it. we all do.

strangers, stranger.

it's coming apart. surely. when the summer rain makes us wet and seemingly youthful. feeling, like i used to know someone. like we used to be the same. comforting ideas are all we get these days. dropping like flies. i always knew these days would come. i just never thought i'd be around to see them all fall away. and in a way i'm not.

as humans we're supposed to be so aware of the world around us. conscious of the chemicals they put in our food, the politics that influence our rights, the economics that govern our money. these things we should know, to protect us from other humans. humans that would otherwise fuck us over. we probably spend most of our lives trying not to get screwed by other people who are just trying to not get screwed by someone else..

most people on the job.

if you give them the opportunity to do nothing, they'll take it.

a wake up call

just because you want to be something, doesn't mean that you are. in fact, often quite the opposite.

they talk a lot about fucking, like it's still taboo, like everybody doesn't do it.

they only do it so people think about them that way. because otherwise no one would. it just gets sad after a while.

they're looking at you like you don't know anything, again.

i didn't want to think about her being under the knife. her legs spread apart. the cutting. i didn't want to think about her that way. so i didn't. and eventually i forgot about it all together. but then he called, he brought me into it. so that i felt it with her, even after it was over. thinking of where i came from, everything feels like it needs to end. too tired to try, too tired to care. think about how you got here, where you're going.. why? did i ever feel alive, or is it only an illusion of memory? i know who i am but i try not to be.

the things that move us.

if i didn't do anything based on a feeling of social, moral, or cultural obligation, then i wouldn't..

race

a heaven would be much too similar to justify striving for.

it seemed like thet right thing to say at the time.

i could talk about putting my penis inside of you, and us holding each other so that we can be pretty happy for a moment or so. but no one wants to hear about that. not even me. unsatisfied by nature: who will crack first?

reminder to self:

don't say anything so painfully obvious that people look disappointed.

sometimes ducks just need alone time.

i saw a duck in a small pond by himself without any ducks in sight, just swimming around the pond. i wonder what he was thinking.. gee, i'm glad there's no one around..

jerk.

i always end up with girls nicer than i deserve. eventually they all figure it out.

today is a brand new day,

but i have to get up on time to hate life again tomorrow.

i'm not entirely sure that life is worth living. not just mine, any.

a loud noise. blurriness. the cold slide out of warmth, as we must feel being shoved from the womb. the cell phone alarm, the primer. right next to my head it is instinctively turned off, sometimes without being aware of it. then, something like peace again, but only for a moment. the music begins. easy at first, nothing so harsh, yet noticeable. it will be playing as consciousness intertwines with dreams. then the grand finalé. i have to get up to turn this one off. this is the one that is supposed to really wake me up, though i normally just go back and lay down. it's too cold. it's too hard being awake sometimes. eventually, after i think i can't possibly waste another moment without some sort of repercussions, i go into the shower. for a moment it too is warm and feels like a comfortable return home. but it too ends, cold, unhappy. no time for food anymore. just driving, only half trying to not ram into the person in front of me as i watch the break lights go on and off. still thinking how much better unconsciousness feels. the computer i will sit at for the next eight hours will be my only friend, lover, and enemy throughout the day. i feel more a relatitonship with it than any of the people who recite their recycled stories and respond with obvious anecdotes and stock phrases. good days and bad blend together into a miserable dance of servitude. the day closes, the sun goes down, the computer i spend my remaining conscious hours with at home is a nightly affair to the machine i use durring the day. every second of it all, i feel as little as possible. eventually this must end. it has to.

we can fly the jets. all to the moon. fueled by love. hating everything we leave behind.

her love takes hold. remembering life as it used to be, it's more like dreaming of someone else's life. there's no use in not trying for something grand. we're only going to end up ruined and broken anyways. her love is a reminder. it's something that can't slip through her fingers one day. she can't even hold it in her hand. sometimes she's not even sure it was ever there. but every now and then it grips her, like comprehending life in its entirety is almost within reach. then it slips away.

25 years later, thinking: was i always such a freak?

comments welcome.

easter is coming.

this easter, let's drink a bottle of red wine alone. again.

every day i feel more defeated.

this is a world full of people i want nothing to do with.

bite on rocks: teeth shatter, bite your tongue: thoughts shatter.

they're good people, it's just that other people annoy me. i hate other people. i would never tell them to their face, but they think it too. i can tell by how they look at me sometimes. they hate me. we're just suffering each other together.

discovery

i will never be happy the way i want to be.

find a fuck.

in a world where you could pretty much always find a fuck if you truly desperately wanted. more often it seems you end up rubbing one out in a dark room alone.

walk around the complex.

going out in the world is disturbing. people are annoying, navigation is frustrating. interact only when completely necessary. otherwise you become one of them. ignorant of your own flaws and obnoxious existence.

fill up with empty stupid thoughts.

something was missing; they took it. it was life. they're still taking it everywhere they go. nothing can be done. it's constantly leaving us at every turn.

the future of life depends on us: doom

as a child life didn't need meaning, just watching cartoons and playing video games was enough. friends weren't even entirely necessary. parents and school pretty much forced them on us, to avoid complete boredom and dissatisfaction with one's social standing. today i can't stand these routines. the ones i do, the ones i see others do around me, seemingly unaware.. everything we do is just sucking the life out of us and there's nothing we can do to stop it. we're doomed. space is our only chance at escape.

on the road

she got it, but never really finished it.

i finished it, but never really got it.

she did it with only the half finished idea.

when you're at your lowest, they will leave you.

when we finally get there all we want are those same old moments back, but they're gone. the future of life is reflecting and forgetting. when god is in your head, life's just more tolerable. closed off and vacant to the natural world.

the difference is this.

when people look uninterested in what you are saying, you keep talking. i stop. everyone says i'm quiet.

an alien world is just around the corner (good morning)

the drugs tasted better once we realized they would run out. even better after they were gone. the lies we tell ourselves these days don't measure up to the ones we told that morning. when the sun woke us up because we didn't bother closing the blinds. even if all the birds could see in, we didn't mind sharing what we were doing with the birds and other strangers. you even wanted to do it outside, on the balcony. you asked for it. i was more modest then. but only at that moment, i can't recall why exactly. those days seemed sluggish and warm, along with the lies we told each other. something about how it wouldn't change. now the days seem harsh and sharp and i can't remember who i was then. but it felt like something better.

thinking differently.

if life feels like a punishment, it's safe to assume you should be doing something differently. when you hesitate at dancing publicly for mere existence, then there is something holding you back. take notes on living from the people you think have done well. if you can't find them, perhaps you need to reevaluate your understanding of life. being successful and making a living is becoming a sort of functional robot that performs certain tasks repetitively and without err. anything can become a habit. i'd just rather have mine be making love and smelling flowers. sunsets surrounded by horizons of endless ocean might be nice, maybe it would get old. depends on the company. desperate for friends, we find ourselves reaching out to those we might not otherwise reach out to. everything is circumstantial. even our existence is based on the circumstances that caused our parents' coital embrace, all the emotional factors, all economical factors, all social ideas pressed on. things could have just as easily turned out different. somehow i feel it couldn't be all that different.

an unnecessarily intricate philosophy, resulting from an overabundance of idle time.

she was skinny, but her face was full. like there's a chubby girl inside she's trying hard to hold back.

"it was better when i was younger." people go for years without love. even decades. will you?

i wish i wasn't doomed to love every love forever.

i wish i could forget. i wish i didn't care. easily turned to suicidal thoughts. love would be easy if we didn't have to think about it afterwards.

every day i wake up, i just think how awesome my life is and that this is the best day ever.

growing disappointed that it can never be exactly as it was. just playing it cool. playing it like a real cool hand. with no direction, no symmetry, no sense of familiarity in a world that's constantly pushing us forward. you've already lost who you've wanted to be a hundred times over. those moments weren't even poetry or song, they were just mumbled abstract thoughts that look ugly on paper or anywhere but your head. and the only thing that can keep them there is a night alone sitting on the floor in the dark with headphones on as the record revolves with eyes closed.

i tried to make it easy for her to fall back in love with me. i moved back. not too far, not hard to find, not out of the way. in fact, directly on the way. none of it mattered though. none of it would help make her love me again. i was just moving back, without her.

i could probably make her love me, but i wouldn't recommend it. she'd likely just learn things about life she'd be better off without. i feel the same way about myself.

it's like i have tourettes whenever i think of the past.

...fuck.

nothing comes so naturally anymore except unhappiness and regret. something drastic should be done.

if he had never gotten laid.

what the hell would bukowski have written about? horsetracks and puking in the morning? afternoon? no thanks. let's face it, if the old man didn't get a fuck, no one would give a fuck about him. people just want to try to understand how, being physically unatractive and socially inept, one can still manage to have sex on a regular basis with what one assumes to be decently attractive women.

thinking about it like this makes me want to start doing something detrimental to my health, habitually.

she talks like she's trying to be normal. she walks among them like there's nothing strange about it. she wants to be just like everyone around her, but she isn't. she's beautiful.

reading bukowski's a lot like an unhealthy addiction to pornography. you begin to alienate yourself socially, because you don't have sex as frequently as you are aware of others having it. and so easily. you must be doing something wrong.

going postal with a fear of brides.

not getting much happier and not doing much about it. when a path to happiness presents itself, i look down the path to consider it. then i close my eyes, spin myself around in a circle until i fall to the ground, get up and walk in whatever direction i am facing. some people may call this stupid. i call it faith. some might say, faith in what, you're agnostic. agnosticism is much too indecisive to contain room for such uncertain concepts. blind faith is a beautiful thing, i argue. whatever you believe. and we all believe in something. for the gamblers and number crunchers out there, it might be just as good as an educated decision. in the end our lives are all we know, and what we use to compare and judge those lives against is our decision. we decide how we view our life, however mundane or shitty it is. we decide if it is of value. but if everything in our life is telling us it isn't or could be better, who are we to argue? who are we to tell ourselves they are wrong. after all, they are many voices and contentedness seems so hard to maintain.. maybe they are right. ok, i'll buy your pills. thanks.

claim to fame.

before he sat down at the table of people he didn't know, he pointed out all their obvious character qualities and the entire dichotomy of the group which was interchanging until he joined. you were the head of the group and then you took over. and you two girls have been going back and forth and you, he said pointing directly at me, you haven't said a thing. from that point on i didn't say but a handful of mumbled words the entire evening. this overt description of individuals worked not only as an icebreaker but pointed out his acute sense of awareness and skilled hearing. so what do you do? we're a design firm, the man replied. i was the one who said they should make the tupperware lids blue. it's his claim to fame, said his date. i'm the cfo of a telecommunications company said the intruder. he went on to talk about milwaukee and how his daughter is looking at the local college. then in a conversation pause he looked directly at me and said, and what do you do? i uh.. um.

the christmas party.

i have to write something good here. i had a horrible night and the only thing that can make it worthwile is some sort of epiphany or insight. i guess we always have the potential to disappoint oursleves. there's no guarantee things will get better, in fact, they're more likely to stay the same or get slightly worse. after you realize you love something it has already become something different. it's easy to look back and say none of it was worth it. not even the beautiful moments.

a need to be heard.

life is not meant for the quiet watchers. slowly taking things in. considering perspectives and pondering. full of both relevant and irrelevant ponderings. letting opportunities pass by and people finalize judgement. they should all be hunted, gutted, and served to the boistrous.

i didn't fuck anyone today, not even myself.

there's a lot of potential out there. everything presents a new possibility. yet most of the time it feels as if nothing really changes or ever really will. a potential constricted by perspective. if there were no music those girls probably wouldn't let boys they don't know touch them like that without a cushion of conversation. all i ate today was bread. it was all i had in the kitchen. i have a bank balance of -0.08 from buying the bread. i should have gotten paid a few days ago. but it will probably happen tomorrow, hopefully. not enjoying life is tiring. i'm thinking of just driving off. what do you do when you're tired of being yourself, but it's all you know how to do. i'm glad no one loves me who doesn't have to. it makes it a little easier to know that i'm not doing very well and if things go wrong it wont matter to more people than necessary. i wonder why people bother saying goodbye. just leaving seems to say it so much better. no note or anything, just the time spent together, trying to interact and relate, maybe. or just being around another person. then not at all.

nothing inparticular.

you could probably sit there forever and never really think of anything original. then again no one really wants or expects you to. some people say that if we stop the war on drugs society would fall apart. what does that say about society? puking and smiling, puking and smiling, fucking like shaking hands. curl up in a ball and try very hard not to feel. a habit of talking to yourself from all the lonely years. a parasitic tapeworm for a pet. don't forget to feed it. they look down on you when you throw up because they don't have to. they'll always love someone more than you.

why they're not alone on christmas.

Because otherwise, who knows what they'd do to themselves. What facing their memories and thoughts would turn them to. In this way, a house full of family is not unlike a psychiatric ward.

i've been trying to understand exactly what it is you do and i find i am unable.

the end of their lives was promptly followed by the relief of not living. she walked around the restaurant looking for empty glasses so that she could wash them out and put them in a tub of recently washed glasses. all the while she looked unhappy. she was the kind of unhappy looking girl, where it was hard to tell if she was just a naturally unhappy looking person, was miserable with life, or just dissatisfied with the position she served as a mobile glass cleaner in a bar/restaurant. the apartment is in a basement. the windows face up towards the world above. everything behind them exists below the world. they live beneath the world. if life is not exciting then we are doing something wrong. we are doing something wrong. everything we love is something we no longer have. this writing is for no other reason than onanistic filling of space. we are creators.

some people want to save lives.

some people never want to do anything like that. obsessive compulsive or busying yourself out of depression. none of it matters. people will still die.

heredity.

we're all just trying to deal with the mistakes of our ancestors until we have someone to pass our collective mistakes onto.

life; you'll never meet someone who thinks about it as much or quite the same as you. you're doomed to isolation in this aspect, as we all are. however, sharing ideas and compassion between these isolated worlds of individual ideas is the only consolation one can find. that or vicariously living through the scripted lives of beautiful people on television so that we forget our lives altogether.

now that you understand, be ashamed that at one point you didn't. man does not carry with him this shame of unknowing most things. he instead prides himself on the small information he has collected and recorded. people look at it and say, "wow". the great accomplishment of man.

everything made with a conscious effort by man has a logic system to it. man has a ridiculous love affair with logic.

i wish she was still that girl who wore bowling shoes.

she's become someone different, who has to rent bowling shoes like the rest of us. i'm losing the things i love about her to who she used to be. the past is eating away at this love.

the bathroom stall

an anonymous pair of shoes underneath a bathroom stall. he goes there to hide. no one will bother him, no one will ask questions. when he returns and they say, where were you? the bathroom. nothing more is needed as an explanation. he sits there on the toilet seat. just gathering his thoughts, just hiding from judgement and responsibility. he listens to the conversations grown men have while peeing, or washing their hands. he shuffles his feet some. unsure if they can tell he isn't really using the toilet. he likes it best when he's alone in there. when he isn't merely an easedropper on meaningless conversations of the world, but completely exempt from it. life and everything that goes along with it gets put on hold, except for an anonymous pair of shoes underneath a bathroom stall.

she never lets him put it in

he always has to wait for her to do it. thinking only of one thing while he's waiting. once it's in, he forgets all about that. he won't think of it again until he's about to forget it all over. his won't be the last. he knows this, but he just carries on and hopes. it's all that's left to do.

confiding is a good way of making friends.

she didn't look at all like the woman i was allowed to love. she looked at me and looked away. that was the last time i saw her.

an explanation of love

anyone at any time can change to the point that you don't know them anymore.

they have to write you letters

to remind you they're not dead yet. in case you forgot.

something about god or love.
or the lack thereof.

to tell you that there's nothing left.

to no one, kept in a private place, in hopes that things wont change, that the excitement of beginnings can be maintained.
beginning with love, ending with disappointment.

making you numb to what you loved about life.

the disappointment of sleeping with one's fantasy

we fall out of love so easy, only to remember why we bothered in the first place. with everything we try so hard to be, certain things do not escape us. those things we want will not fulfill us, we will want things even after they have been attained. it's endless, it's all we do. wrestless uncontented lives we live. it's best for the elderly to keep busy, without this wrestlessness, there is boredom, emptiness, depression, carelessness, and inevitable death. frothing teeth, pulling hair, getting things done until we stop, not that they needed to be done in the first place, or that anyone will miss them once it's over. the world is not how i expected it to be growing up. it's worse.

it's easier to be homeless in the south

he can stand on just about any corner and no one thinks twice, whatever time of year it is.

typical belief

believing is the whole battle. giving up better judgement for a hallow smile. it's only a matter of time until everything we see tells us there's no other choice. until we believe it is the better option. after having had it shoved down our throats all our lives. we're going to have to make some sort of compromise. every day of my life i realize i'm compromising more and more. until eventually it has to be considered merely caving in. if i would have known this from the start it may have saved me a whole lot of wasted effort, struggling. i'd still feel the same way, i just wouldn't do anything about it. i just wouldn't try so hard not to try.

lunch money for guitar strings

it's all a matter of what's important to you. struggling for a life with meaning. trying to make it count, without any examples to point to. "is there anything in your life that could change to make you not want to kill yourself?" there's probably a chance. he knows all about arguments and analyzing human logic and words, but he doesn't know shit about quantum physics, or even trigonometry. we're all just trying to be part of some whole that doesn't even get much done, except continuously fondle and yank each other. milking with an air of dignity and self-righteousness. power and a sense of control in this life always comes down to someone fucking someone else.

i know i'm going crazy

but i don't know what else to do. with all my time looking into glowing screens. all social relationships deteriorated. we live so we can die. i keep starting over and it keeps getting worse. it seems like sticking it out isn't an option, when it is the only option life has to offer. the good times killed me. the fact that they began to spread themselves out so thin.

he doesn't smoke.

at 36 he owns his own company, has a 25 year old girlfriend, goes on 3 hour runs, and thinks i want to be like him. he has no idea. i'd rather be a crackwhore.

some things don't come naturally

the things of this world that everyone does. i keep find myself having to force them. if left to my own exploration of things in a vacuum of a world, i don't think i'd do them at all. i'm not sure what i'd do. probably just give it all back. here you go, you can take it.

i didn't eat much of anything for a long while.

he was just talking. about the 60's, after his parents kicked him out. he was a teenager. some guy gave him 10,000 hits of lsd. it was easy to get rid of. all those sheets. he was talking about how he used to travel around, living out of his car. some of his story didn't make sense. there were holes and exaggerations which were obvious. i didn't say anything though. he was drunk. it's allowed. sometimes life's better as a story told drunk in a car, on the way to a bar where you will drink more and think back on the people who have come and gone along the way. it mostly seems stupid going through it.

she's unreasonable, so whatever.

they're all doing their thing. sitting at bars, drinking drinks, getting upset and walking home. little battles won and lost. someone will want you, it's only a matter of time.

a question for the elders

do you ever stop having dreams about old lovers?

love = 0

math is logic. zero is infinite nothing. we're drifting around making calculations with our movements, trying to subtract the difference between ourselves and something else. trying to fill the negative with positive by creating something, let it represent us. it is a complicated equation we are performing every moment. we are rounding, creating variables and rules as we go. even so, the distance between ourselves and everything else is always greater than zero.

audrey hepburn

a woman who will do anything you ask... hesitantly. it's the subtle doubt that makes you love her all the more. without that it would just get boring. she could love anyone, the fact that she's with you is pure circumstance. when she crawls on top of you in the dark, you just happen to be the one she's crawling on for now. all those things you said to each other, those are words you can say to anyone, anytime. words are easy to say. love is easy to make. it's only a matter of finding two people looking for it in the same situation, in the right frame of mind. anyone can fall in love. anyone can fall in love with anyone. the changes that happen to us can make us love someone we may never have considered an option. in contrast, it can make us fall out of love with someone we thought we could love forever. we're all just waiting to fall in love with each other, even if we think we already are in love. we're waiting for something else in life to love. the only real love is a new love. like happiness, fragile, fleeting, and over.

trying to relate to her idea of god.

would i make something like this? no.

the accident

she spoke somberly about her scars to the camera. referring to it as "the accident", she mentioned, we don't always have any control over the things that happen to us, but we do have control over how we deal with them. she looked as though she was about to cry when she said this, but the editors cut to some footage of her walking majestically from an ambiguous office building. sometimes we deal with things by not dealing with them.

left of a labido: nothing.

those girls. you know the ones. that only have worries in life so they can feel like they're the same as everyone else. they even force it sometimes. doing things a certain way makes them feel like they have more control over their world. although it seems much more that it was made for them. they did this to me. they're still doing it. the most beautiful of relationships are doomed to wither and decay into barely recognizable artifacts of a forgotten perfection.

going back

i don't know if i believe in eternal return, but it seems to be something to be desired. as a man, always penetrating, always seeking the forgotten comfort of the womb. the mother, every man's first penetration. he seeks out others, he'll try and fail, and settle for something he can tolerate as a parallel to perfection; a reminder of where he came from. for girls it's different. perhaps there is comfort in being the host, a feeling of being wanted, needed, fundamental to a system. but even they have this cryptic nostalgia for comfort which compromises into coitus. inside of her he's a parasite. she thinks about him, he thinks about her. they both think different things. they both do their part to keep things going.

developing a nervous twitch.

"Historical Fact: People stopped being human in 1913."
-p. 95 Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

see that kids, there's nothing more to worry about. we're just one big assembly line. you're just worrying over something that already went wrong. this whole thing.

much too late for closure

throwing away what you meant to keep. getting what you thought you wanted. remembering only warmth and skin. feeling nothing like it.

some don't even have to think about it, some call that true love.

she welcomes each coming year like taking a stranger to bed. trusting each will be good to her, won't leave her worse off, beaten, or lifeless.

luciferian dilemmas and the ease of coping with the coke inspired orgy we had last night.

cheap champagne and hiding fom sunlight. sleeping in the same bed, but not touching. remembering who we were and seeing now that we haven't come so far. using tongue only to remember what it feels like. collectively letting daylight slip into bad documentaries, without saying anything. when they broke up, she moved all his photos from the shelf over her bed to across the room. he walked her home the next morning, filled with these ideas that make his actions right. justifications for marrying a teacher, for having kids, and not having to deal with them.

whoever you are, i love you.

she only gave me a look. it was the most i'd know of love. there was heartbrake in her eye and i knew i didn't need anything more. i overflowed with my very own alienation from love. it was something to hold dear, like a secret they'll never pry into, they'll never even consider. my memories of love take me someplace that never existed.

lonely mistakes

she was alone at a bar and needed a ride home, that's the only reason she called at 2:30am. that and maybe she's a little lonely. either way it would be a mistake.

i was only her prom date, that's all i'll ever be. two bottles of wine later, she's touching a russian girl's boob between drunken interludes on the dance floor. she complains about men while we drive off, a little damaged, but forgiving. that and maybe she's a little lonely. either way it would be a mistake.

she's just trying to figure out her life like the rest of us. it makes us feel we have more control over our own lives when we help guide others. that's the only reason she's being nice. that and maybe she's a little lonely. either way it would be a mistake.

she talks about work through a computer when she gets home. she types about how she's trying to make friends. she talks about what seems to be working, but mostly what doesn't. she goes to church to keep her spirit up. that and maybe she's a little lonely. either way it would be a mistake.

you start doing things when you are one person and they become a habit until one day you find yourself a different person doing the habits of someone you no longer understand. habits and mistakes can disappear with enough time.

in the end there's only what we think

she convinced herself that love is what you feel when you desperately don't want to be alone.

things we learn before love

brushing teeth
driving
sex
drawing a straight line
fishing
tetris
the birthday song
not to eat rocks
the difference between good and bad sleep
long division
to tie shoelaces
tv is a good excuse to do nothing
hat hair doesn't matter if you keep the hat on
feed the dog
to make friends
itching makes it worse
to lose friends
money is a necessity
to use the toilet
to say 'thank you'
...for the most part.

the great thing about wanting to be bukowski

trying is already having succeeded.

practicing agnostic

i don't believe in god the way you do, but i don't think we're it. there was a lot of assuming going around. it was pretty obvious.

she never called to say she doesn't want to talk to me anymore.

he smiled a dirty smile as he held the bottle of whiskey, looking straight at us. we didn't know him, he didn't know us. but he smiled as he walked by showing off the bottle of whiskey as if to say, "this is where my night's taking me." thinking the same thing, they sit alone. each of them looking for a future to project their past onto.

so, today it was snowing.

i wish i was better. worrying about things only makes it worse, right? a paranoid life is not a life worth living. fish probably don't often want to be caught, but whatcha gonna do? hook in the mouth. poked and prodded. flopping around in a strange place. there are a lot of people out there who aren't socially adapted. society has failed them. they have failed. they life reclusive lives, possibly shared with an equally reclusive person, where they focus on specific menial goals in order to be fulfilled. it really doesn't sound too different from the socially adapted. it only comes down to dealing with other people, whether it be by choice or otherwise.

she spelled her name wrong, either that or i don't know anything.

waking up tired seems like it shouldn't happen. so pretentious, not like self-righteous pretentious, because aren't we all. not like claiming value where there is none, because who decides where there is value? but to try so hard to the point that things seem to take so little an effort. disappointed despite effort.

rainbows of cocaine white, she bites her lip.

relationships based entirely on self-concept. are you willing to let him think he's someone he's not? is his happiness worth that to you? are you willing to play along? for how long? if you let him think he's exactly who he wants to be, will he eventually become it? are you the only thing keeping him from it?

we use others to construct an idea of who we are. the people around us are constantly changing, we are constantly changing. depending on others for any amount of meaning is futile.

letting the cat lick it off.

realizing if you look hard enough, you'll find people who don't think you're crazy. even if you are. more time spent thinking than doing. trying to only see the world i want. looking at the same things. falling captive to an endless dream. not giving up on the life you want, even after it's over. a bitter afterlife.

dead dog, curiously approachable. a lonely heart diluted with experience, sits in the chest like a fist. he forces them apart, though they want to be together, his eyebrows. life catches them by surprise, like a cake, with a person inside; now there's nothing to eat. if cannibals find themselves lonely, isn't it their own fault? you could probably say the same for anyone.

the life we live is nothing more than something we do.

just when i gave up completely, something turned it all around. it was only hope.