badbye
the title of this post holds no significant meaning. memories, yes. but nothing pertinent to tonight. well i suppose it could hold some deeper-surface-ness if i really wanted to go all dopey but i dont feel like it. its like saying badbye to the one it means something to, we fight anyway. truth being, i couldnt think of a title and my finger inadvertently hit the little 'b' key and 'badbye' popped up below the line meaning i had typed it up sometime ago but i dont remember when.
regardless, now that the post has a title it might as well have a body. whats a head without a body anyway? arent many of those known. i mean there was the chicken who survived for some odd number of years with 'is head cut off but thats a body sans head not versa vice {ever think that if "vice versa" were vice versa'd it would be "versa vice"?}.
when i die, i think it would be amazing to have a monument out in the middle of nowhere. just like...
"critter, whos the guy... that guy... the gonzo jounalist. hells angels... that guy {oh, fear and loathing in las vegas?} yeah, good book. that guy, whats his name? {i dont know but that was a good movie. johnny depp, benicio del toro... i dont know} oh come on, its fucking... fucking... {hunter?} yeah, hunter tom... fucking hunter thompson!"
like hunter s. thompson. because he wrote an essay while tripping on acid and looking for a window he couldnt find {aw hell, i dont remember, something like that}. and thats how i am now, sans acid and more of a mixture of boredom, an odd energy, compounded by the recent addition of a jury-rigged black-and-white, cookies, and a small plastic packet of chocolate covered espresso beans. oh, and i have more cookies in my bag. and its alltogether like im high on something... i just dont know what. all the frustrations of life just add up over and over again and it kills me softly everyday and i dont know what to do about it. i hear a pretty song but on the guitar all my fingers are left and they stumble and trip over each other and it comes out as fuck. and i want to break something but i cant break the guitar or any of my stuff or my roommates stuff or anything in the lounge so i stand there in the middle cracking my knuckles and thinking and get called creepy by some dude.
well thats fine cause i am sometimes, like when i stand up at the top of stairs in the dark and wait for people to find me... doubtless creepy behavior. but i dont hold cops up in alleys and make them blow me. not that creepy. however i do sit and ignore people in times like these and listen to wonderful music and read or play poker but when you have pocket aces for the first time in fucking ages and every high roller on the table folds cause the flop comes 2-4-2 and theres only a 7 and 6 waiting and theres some fucking kid with 11 pretend chips betting 0.25 every single time around and i just want to throttle him so on the last betting round i go all in because i know he wont call me and he doesnt, i just take his blinds, the little bitch (oops, im not supposed to say that).
and thats when i get up and stark around and cuss and get loud at things which pisses darcy off cause for some reason language offends her. i could tell her that language doesnt matter, its what you mean, its whats behind the words. i could tell anyone i love them and secretly want to slit their throats or i could yell about my fucking messed up left fingers and say fuck a couple times and be completely innocent. because words are only offensive if used that way. fuck shit. but i dont care if she gets annoyed. she can deal with it. i stalk and march around and converse about acid and hunter s. and shit like that and i just want to fucking do something because im clearly dying here but nobody cares. and i walk around the lounge and bang fists and pop knuckles and make rules for myself and i gather stuff and check the clock and kick around a flat soccer ball and i just want to walk to the goddamned coffee shop but its impossible.
because standing around is suddenly death and sitting around is certain suicide and though im sitting here now its ok cause im typing and being fucking productive and that means something to me. hell, its friday, i dont give a damn. and its fucking hot in here and im impressed with my ability to strike down with my left pinky finger the ctrl key and simultaneously strike up the i key with my right middle and back again after the word without looking or fucking up at all. and theres a rich girl in a bedroom who doesnt know anything about me and theres another behind the counter with guys and therefore i cant speak to her and there are girls everywhere and like jack says, the only good men are the ones that wont tell them how they feel.
and its ok that im popping these beans like lsd's because in fact i was listening to 'lucy in the sky' just yesterday and the rest of the supposed greatest album of all time earlier today. which makes it all legit, naturally. its just a fucked up night. its just a high night. its a night where anything that comes out of the old fingertips isnt checked at the door. and still nobody comments on the poetry posted below and i can plug sylvia and e.e. and walt all i want and sean will still not like poetry any more than before i started. which is ok, i guess, its just him thats missing out.
i really need to break something. or jump out some imaginary window not to die but only to feel it and come back to life. but i just pop more beans and gulp more grey and hear the spanish music without listening to it because its just so fucking hot.
also, i always wondered why there was a restaurant in garner called "dos bandidos" or maybe it was winston - no matter - because if two bandidos really escaped to garner/winston and opened a restaurant to launder their pesos, would they really want to advertise the fact that they were, in fact, bandidos? hell, bandidos could just mean "wealthy and talented hispanic cooks/business men" but somehow i doubt it. i dont espika espanyol so i wouldnt know anyway. so fuck it.
if anybody out there can dig this trippy post i salute them... its really just a pile of shit. i cant decide if i would rather be dead-jack or dead-hunter. both sound equally high and fucked, i just dont know which would be more enjoyable. jack i guess. i connect with him more. and he loves like i dont know if hunter ever did.
my hands are mysteriously bruised and i dont know where from. must be from the basketball game last night, i tell myself, or the weightlifting this morning. but the bruises are on the bones and not the skin. the little thin, hollow hand-bones hurt though i cant tell where because theres no damned discoloration and after the game last night (2,1,1,1) there were two splotchy red marks behind the last thumb joint on each hand and i cant explain where those were from, except to, as i do every other odd mark on my body, blame the devil. im cursed.
i am gone. i am sooooo gone. and if you know what that means, i love you
regardless, now that the post has a title it might as well have a body. whats a head without a body anyway? arent many of those known. i mean there was the chicken who survived for some odd number of years with 'is head cut off but thats a body sans head not versa vice {ever think that if "vice versa" were vice versa'd it would be "versa vice"?}.
when i die, i think it would be amazing to have a monument out in the middle of nowhere. just like...
"critter, whos the guy... that guy... the gonzo jounalist. hells angels... that guy {oh, fear and loathing in las vegas?} yeah, good book. that guy, whats his name? {i dont know but that was a good movie. johnny depp, benicio del toro... i dont know} oh come on, its fucking... fucking... {hunter?} yeah, hunter tom... fucking hunter thompson!"
like hunter s. thompson. because he wrote an essay while tripping on acid and looking for a window he couldnt find {aw hell, i dont remember, something like that}. and thats how i am now, sans acid and more of a mixture of boredom, an odd energy, compounded by the recent addition of a jury-rigged black-and-white, cookies, and a small plastic packet of chocolate covered espresso beans. oh, and i have more cookies in my bag. and its alltogether like im high on something... i just dont know what. all the frustrations of life just add up over and over again and it kills me softly everyday and i dont know what to do about it. i hear a pretty song but on the guitar all my fingers are left and they stumble and trip over each other and it comes out as fuck. and i want to break something but i cant break the guitar or any of my stuff or my roommates stuff or anything in the lounge so i stand there in the middle cracking my knuckles and thinking and get called creepy by some dude.
well thats fine cause i am sometimes, like when i stand up at the top of stairs in the dark and wait for people to find me... doubtless creepy behavior. but i dont hold cops up in alleys and make them blow me. not that creepy. however i do sit and ignore people in times like these and listen to wonderful music and read or play poker but when you have pocket aces for the first time in fucking ages and every high roller on the table folds cause the flop comes 2-4-2 and theres only a 7 and 6 waiting and theres some fucking kid with 11 pretend chips betting 0.25 every single time around and i just want to throttle him so on the last betting round i go all in because i know he wont call me and he doesnt, i just take his blinds, the little bitch (oops, im not supposed to say that).
and thats when i get up and stark around and cuss and get loud at things which pisses darcy off cause for some reason language offends her. i could tell her that language doesnt matter, its what you mean, its whats behind the words. i could tell anyone i love them and secretly want to slit their throats or i could yell about my fucking messed up left fingers and say fuck a couple times and be completely innocent. because words are only offensive if used that way. fuck shit. but i dont care if she gets annoyed. she can deal with it. i stalk and march around and converse about acid and hunter s. and shit like that and i just want to fucking do something because im clearly dying here but nobody cares. and i walk around the lounge and bang fists and pop knuckles and make rules for myself and i gather stuff and check the clock and kick around a flat soccer ball and i just want to walk to the goddamned coffee shop but its impossible.
because standing around is suddenly death and sitting around is certain suicide and though im sitting here now its ok cause im typing and being fucking productive and that means something to me. hell, its friday, i dont give a damn. and its fucking hot in here and im impressed with my ability to strike down with my left pinky finger the ctrl key and simultaneously strike up the i key with my right middle and back again after the word without looking or fucking up at all. and theres a rich girl in a bedroom who doesnt know anything about me and theres another behind the counter with guys and therefore i cant speak to her and there are girls everywhere and like jack says, the only good men are the ones that wont tell them how they feel.
and its ok that im popping these beans like lsd's because in fact i was listening to 'lucy in the sky' just yesterday and the rest of the supposed greatest album of all time earlier today. which makes it all legit, naturally. its just a fucked up night. its just a high night. its a night where anything that comes out of the old fingertips isnt checked at the door. and still nobody comments on the poetry posted below and i can plug sylvia and e.e. and walt all i want and sean will still not like poetry any more than before i started. which is ok, i guess, its just him thats missing out.
i really need to break something. or jump out some imaginary window not to die but only to feel it and come back to life. but i just pop more beans and gulp more grey and hear the spanish music without listening to it because its just so fucking hot.
also, i always wondered why there was a restaurant in garner called "dos bandidos" or maybe it was winston - no matter - because if two bandidos really escaped to garner/winston and opened a restaurant to launder their pesos, would they really want to advertise the fact that they were, in fact, bandidos? hell, bandidos could just mean "wealthy and talented hispanic cooks/business men" but somehow i doubt it. i dont espika espanyol so i wouldnt know anyway. so fuck it.
if anybody out there can dig this trippy post i salute them... its really just a pile of shit. i cant decide if i would rather be dead-jack or dead-hunter. both sound equally high and fucked, i just dont know which would be more enjoyable. jack i guess. i connect with him more. and he loves like i dont know if hunter ever did.
my hands are mysteriously bruised and i dont know where from. must be from the basketball game last night, i tell myself, or the weightlifting this morning. but the bruises are on the bones and not the skin. the little thin, hollow hand-bones hurt though i cant tell where because theres no damned discoloration and after the game last night (2,1,1,1) there were two splotchy red marks behind the last thumb joint on each hand and i cant explain where those were from, except to, as i do every other odd mark on my body, blame the devil. im cursed.
i am gone. i am sooooo gone. and if you know what that means, i love you
posted by sunshine at 12:37 AM
2 Comments:
you still amaze me. while i was reading i was wishing i could write like that. i think i'd have to actually be fucked up to do it. i was trying to write an essay the other night and was slightly goofy...it made an interesting read in the morning. even though we dont talk so much i still read what you write. i miss all the relatively secret notes to/about me. i have a livejournal if you want to read it. theres a link in my profile. it isnt all that interesting. but alas...its there. smile friend. draw yourself a picture of a butterfly and smile.
ps- i would choose jack as well. :)
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