i need a url for this pic... heh

zeitgeistmovie.com

everyone should watch this...all of it.


I hope everyone had a good festivus, here are some aired grievances for the world:

1. To everyone at my high school minus about two handfuls: die.
2. I hate people in my generation, we are the most inter-connected, technological advanced age ever, and instead of doing something important-ending hungry, poverty, class, capitalism, materialism. People want to play guitar hero and watch youtube videos of themselves getting kicked in the scrotum.
3. I have to wait until like march to know what college I'm going to go to, but everyone of my friends knows like, now.
4. I can't think of anymore right now, but there is a shitload of grievances, let me tell you.
   

Blazed

all the arguments of the world, rest between the two poles of black and white.
they swirl in thre demnsions so the make a double tear drop, attached at the drop, not the tear, but then as if pulled by a cyclone, it swils so that the tear drop becomes- for a moment- a cyrilinder, than if pushed by a parralle wind, it formed a timeglass. the white sands and the black sands would roll so fast around the glass that the shade would be grey, but the ill lighting of the human mind makes the decicevness of our own minds be not the blue ambiugity that we see it as, it is the vaccum of dissention and arguement, not the actually facts or the clues of reality, that shapes our lenses. that is the energy that pushes our stick to move sand...black stick, white stand.

y's and k's

If ice-rock fell at my toes
I'd hurl it at that damn phoenix,
so cocky in its resilience,
instead I kick at fire dust.

Which gets in my eye, scratched cornea,
like a DJ-backwards-so I can see
and almost, oh god jesus almost,
I feel her. I come so close to the warmth
of her breath flittering the whitest hairs
on my neck that these swollen memories
almost distract me from my swollen member.

Now it levitates again, foul fowl.
More dust-more lust-more reminisces
of dingy couches, whose 70's
floral patterns are high-tided by
quickly vanishing dresses and belts,
and its distinct "I've been alive
for 65+ years" smell is
temporarily covered by
the sounds of our minds leaving us
to mingle off into somewhere,
certainly not this basement
where our bodies-lips and noses
and who knows what else-are clanging
into each other like pots and pans.

and when the crimson rooster crows,
and my eyes fade from pitch black to
awoken, i expect to see
her, a visage of Helen, but
of course she is not to be found.
Which makes me want to launch my one
thousand microscopic white ships
all the more, but where is Troy?

Meditations of High School- I

The seniors, they walk with their chins so far in the air that they might as well be in their own assholes. Their eyes can only look forward, to whatever inane pursuit they will take up this Saturday-they are going to get SOOOOOO wasted-or maybe they eyeball that girl they've been trying to get with since 6th grade. Their footsteps fall as if the fact that the floor is gonna be there when their Air Force 1's smack it is some kind of a priori truth.


The freshman's necks must have some kind of disorder where they must be eternally bent down to look at the floor. Some would say their eyes dart, but I think it is more like a merry-go-round, always ending back at that one point right where they floor melts into the wall. The herk-jerk of their knees tell me that they think, or know, that if they happen to put their wal-mart plastic shoes in the wrong place or with too much weight then the world will crumble to pieces. Or maybe that big ball from Indy Jones will roll out of the Library, who knows, but whatever it would be, it would obviously be their fault.


In between I see nothing of value, nothing worthy of emulation. I see some amphibians, who have escaped the egg of introvert, but are not quite the douchebag of a frog that they will, blossom? into.

I think back to when I was that age, younger maybe, and I remember how they used to tower over me. Not in stature though, in attitude, in their total unwillingness to shut up or to or to even talk below the "I am so insecure that I need to make sure everything that blouts out of my mouth is heard and recognized" decibal level.
Now I walk through the Junior High hall and think, "Damn these kids are short". or maybe I said it, probably very loudly.

I've only ever wanted to be:
an astronaut, when I watched
Tom Hanks almost die.

I've only ever wanted to be:
the president, when I tasted
the sour grapes people still have over Nixon

I've only ever wanted to be:
a chef, when i felt
the burn of the flame on my skin

I've only ever wanted to be:
a rockstar, when I heard
how Keith Richards can barely talk.

but the in-between times?
when my eyes are not
inundated with sploches,
when my ears are not
drowning in booms?

nothing.
but not that kind.
the kind Parmenidas would oggle.
the kind that is something...if not everything.
the kind like the space between the stems and the stave.
the kind that makes the doughnuts that people call pitches mean anything.
the kind that most don't notice, but would turn to psychopathia if it happened to leave.

It swims, nay, motorboats
through my veins, and finds
the tiny little
warp points, like Mario.
World 8-3. assuming
that eight is the lick
in the measure three,
that i just can't play.

bar three is rests.

rests is the slur
that something calls
nothing, when something
has nothing better
to do.

2/3rds done

none are irreplaceable.
even the worthless;
the ones you hide from
or the ones you bury
into the deepest recesses of your mind.
Where they can play alone,
in long abandoned
swingsets, like that one girl
who used to kick you
in the 3rd grade.

no one is irreplaceable.
even those that idle,
the tingly ones
that leave murmurs,
on chilled flesh,
where they had feigned
a loving touch.
The ones that float
to the top of your frying pan.
on your front burner,
the tilted one,
where you always manage
to spill the eggs
all over yourself.

heh.

Powered by ScribeFire.

I wrote in things for all the unopposed votes today.

I wrote in Stephen Colbert, but I have no idea what for.

I wrote in The Grim Reaper as Coroner, because that just makes sense.

I wrote in The Cookie Monster for what ever Lupus was running for, because god know even overly-possessed fictional puppet would be less of an ass than him.

and when someone is unopposed, it says "Democrat-Republican" under him instead of whatever they are.

I'm sorry, I didn't know it was 1803. Can I vote for Jefferson instead?

Ruth ate a Reuben and it changed her life.







happy?



you can add that to my credentials of best-picker of food ever.

(although it doesn't take a genius to figure out corned beef + jewish girl = happy)

give up, you're a sham, go get a degree in business or something and hope to work in cubicle all day. marry the first women you see. hope to have a kid you can force to do some sport or activity so that he hates himself, but you can feel redeemed as a human being.

that's roughly my mental process at about 10:30 a.m. today.


actually my lesson wasn't that bad. i learned a whole shit load.
i don't think i've ever met a ~5'6" <140 pound lady as intimidating as her.



I coulda saw katy today.


i didn't though. I don't think it would have went very well, I still want her too bad.

i see her online and i feel like i should talk to her, but I also feel like there'd be nothing to talk about. maybe i should call her, force us into some type of conversation.








like she would pick up.




i am eligable for 113 scholarships according to some site that is basically the google of free money.

and i am going to apply for every fucking dollar i can bitches.

solipsistry.
I, perhaps, am the master?
cogito ergo, I don't care about you.
not really, of course.

I sure feel like it though.


Lesson in Philly tomorrow.

I hope she doesn't tear me apart.
I think I can hang with Ruth for at least a little bit.
I wish I didn't have fucking rehearsal when I get back.
I wonder how pissed Mrs. Riley is gonna be when she finds out I may miss both practices on the week of championships.



You can't draw the mind.

that's what he said.


i feel i should try.



though, I probably will get preoccupied.




I should leave it to the people who can actually draw anyway.





at somepoint I'll have to go back to school.

it seems like that isn't even real.

I still need to write my college essays

or i could just not go to college and move to a city and sit on the corner and panhandle like a madman.

i suck at quasi-stream of consciousness.

1060-350

that is how much we outscored people by at scholastic scrimmage. lol. I feel so lame for being pumped about that, yet we dominated so utterly that it's hard not to be. I might get 1000 bucks out of the thing too, so that's pretty badass.

92.25

man, after six fucking years I'm finally gonna win this shit.

It's pretty sick, i kind of don't really care though.

oh and apparently there might be a spot at Curtis? interesting.


things are looking slightly less sucky.

there should be two weeks notices for breakups so you can have enough time to buy drugs

The deliciously foul, brown liquids and
swirly tubes, filled with sweet choking fumes of
not thinking it, have been depleted.

Without the two biggest
guns in the arsenal
how can i protect
from the battering
rams of solitude,
aiming their butts at me.

I try in pitiful banality,
to hide beneath my sheets.
The cold of the ice
sculpture statue, nice
woman shadow. It
is under the sheets.
with me. I can not hide
from something in the
misshapen, oddly
crossed paths of the
neurons or whatever
makes my brain tick in
it's eccentric, yet
I hope is slightly
charming, kind of helix.

Couldn't you have at least
cheated on me, so I
could melt the ice with the
fire of my all to quick
to surface anger? heh.

Then I could listen
to shitty emo.
Bask in my over-
reacted, affluent,
teenage, (although I
guess I'm, getting a
little too old for
that shit) angst.

I know, as well as anybody else
who read this, faux-cathartic piece of shit.
I should just deal with it. summer romance
or whatever, at least I braced for it.

hmm, so

A) i don't have mono.

the doctors were just wrong.

B) my band is kicking a whole lot of ass right now.

first place and we whomped pittston by 2.4 at their home show

C) i am now single.


for some reason i had this idea that when my wristband fell off katy was gonna dump me but i guess she doesn't have the flair for the overly apropos that I do, as the battered, still kind of green ring retains it's position on my right wrist.




D) strike tomorrow.

i thought i might go down to philly, but now that most likely won't happen.


i still need to take some lessons with Carol though, so maybe.

so i pretty much have mono.



that's pretty kickass right?



i also sound like a fifth grader on my tuba.



fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuc kfuck fuc kfuc kfuc kfuc kfu ckfu ckfu ckfu ckfu ckfu c kfuc kfuc kfuc kfuc kfuc kfuc kfu ckfu ckfu ckfu ckfu ckfu ckf uck fu ckfu ckf uckf c kfu c kf uckfu ckfuc kfu ckfu ckfu ck

WORST DAY EVER.


man, lit test, finished late, couldn't go to phil. class, go to pick up my mom, ticket, in the rock cut, where else, 183 fucking dollars????????? fuck the police coming straight from the underground.

car battery dies, 102 fucking fever. man.



fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.


normally mondays suck, espcially after awesome weekends, but this is a tad much eh?



i would like to point out that the bus station in Wilkes-Barre was so much sketchier than the one in philly.

i feel very existentialisty today, not good when you have a test on plato and socrates.


maybe i am just tired.


i started to write a poem in calc.

i'd show it to ruth for advice but i'm sure she would laugh in my face, or behind my back, or maybe somewhere in between.


our football team almost won?

-weird


i need to talk to katy, but of course my phone calls lead not to her but to that blasted woman who screams at me for what seems a day before i can even leave a message.



I really like the word ubiquitous.


I think i've used it at least 3 times in conversation over the past week and more in my mind.




uhhhh, i need to sleep i think

there is a new office tonight.



Ty's voice sounds exactly like Pam's and it is weird, yet kinda cool.




I have shit to do but i keep getting distracted by this thing i keep typing shit at.



The battery is almost dead.



I wonder if I'll be more opposed to doing my work or to getting up and plugging in the cord.


I was thinking about this and the whole idea of a blog is kinda contradictory, because if you actually use it as a journal type thing you can't, because you you're gonna change what you write because you know people you know are gonna read it, but if you didn't want people to read it you wouldn't have one in the first place.


Meno would be proud.



Shit, I have a philosophy test tomorrow.



blue books.

who they fuck came up with them, what's wrong with just normal paper?

do you think there are multiple blue books publishers or does just one ceo reap all the benefits of academia's penchant for rambling?

I don't know why I made this other than Ruth said I should.

Maybe I shouldn't give in to peer pressure so easily.


Maybe I should just come up with some interesting shit to put here.

maybe.


i wonder what the word i use most is.

short list off the top of my head:
maybe
obviously
fuck (and all variations)
retarded
ridiculous

(well, probably shit like the and a should be in there too, but what kind of contest is that)


we'll give this a try i suppose.