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.