photographs, a shit memory, and sex

one of those things is something i'll never have, and one of them is something i'll never lose. then there are shitty memories. i take those shitty memories in pictures, not to look at, but to make the moments last forever. isn't it perfectly wonderful to know that something will last forever? that a moment you held in your hand will never leave? that, no matter how beautiful or melancholy it was, you've made it infinite?

i could take ten-thousand pictures, if i had ten-thousand moments and 400 rolls of film, and i would never look at a single one. that would take away from the memories. that would make it less real, and more of a still image. there's a mystery to things that i just can't comprehend, sometimes, but then i think back and realize that i know everything i need to. we are all we've got. we are the lovers. we are the last of our kind, so link your arms, and keep your chin up, and i swear that we'll be fine.

why i should post more

because, for once, i enjoy this. and spending time with my friends. and bad midwestmo bands.
because i love it. because i have nothing else to do.
and because i want nothing else to do. but not really. i'd rather be with my friends

and a pavement covered in skid marks

i think i saw oil in the snow
when you drove past our old place;
and i think there was something on your windshield.

and what should i do with the car?
its torn to shit,
and i just have no idea.

its weird, i think;
when i look back, the only thing i see is the back of your seat
rolling a little too fast down Lane,
a little too dark to see,
and a little too much ice on the road

and the only thing i hear is something i think sounded like your neck snapping;
they told me you died instantly,
but i'll never know

and i smell oil and taste blood
and they told me he was drunk,
but i'll never know.

i see you sometimes, mom,
driving past our old place.
i run outside, but i'm too late.
i'm always too late.
by the time i've reached the street, you've turned on to Lane
and all thats left of you
is a little oil on the snow

well, then.

this is awkward. i wrote a poem at school. and forgot to bring it home. which means, in essence, i have nothing to post. so i'm posting this; i know it seems like nothing, like meaningless jibberish, which, in a way, i guess it is. but, to me at least, it means a whole lot. more than you know. more than you can ever guess.

i love my friends.

ive been walking for so fucking long

its like a christmas card you've knocked over
because christmas isn't real
and who cares anymore,
i mean, really
?
we're all grown up now

("i am writing to you because she said you'd listen and understand and didn't try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have")

i feel like the snow collecting on my driveway;
there's nothing left but long movies and drugs and,
"darling, i think we should go to sleep now"

("i just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to sleep with people even if they could have. i need to know that these people exist")

but, goddamnit, i've been living so long
and i drive to mountains to watch stars with friends
and i go to games, and i watch everyone else slip away
and i watch bikes rust and friendships die
(and i think that's the hardest part)
and i watch trends change and i watch myself grow up
to the background of a field of flowers that die every year
then spring back up when my friends come home.

("i think you of all people would understand that, because i think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means")

its harder than it sounds to be in the moment
but, i think i've had it down for 15 fucking years
and i think i've got life down too;
i wish i was the one to say "i feel infinite",
but i feel infinite.
i feel fucking infinite

("so, this is my life")





"'we accept the love we think we deserve'"
Thank you to stephen chbosky for writing the most powerful book i have ever read. i wrote this for me, but if it weren't for you, it wouldn't have happened. i could've used my "favourite quotes" from "the perks of being a wallflower" but then i would've had to type up the whole novel again. so i chose the first page. beginnings, i think, are almost as important as the plot.

free-styling and why its dangerous

will: I'm doper than the pope, higher than a frequent flyer, pass this joint around help me set the world on fire, if you feelin shitty, just suck on a titty, life ain't all that bad, don't think of the shit that you could have had, just enjoy the present and eat the broiled pheasant

me: i can do better

will: do it

me:i'm flyer than fly, fucking ready to die, got my .45, gonna blow your shit to the sky; i'm fucking doper than dope, my shit can tear out the pope, and if you think you can dance,you think you got a chance, i swear to god i'll kill you right where you lie; you get your ass up, bitch, i got my hands off, bitch, i'll fucking smoke you like you need a fucking tampon, bitch

will: you win

lets do the time warp again!

on friday night i saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show with christy and saira. best fucking night ever. i ended up getting home around 4 in the morning. i won't go into too much detail, to protect the identity of those involved, and because i assume that you are pretentious enough to have already seen it, my constant reader. i will say, though, that if you are so presumptive as to have watched it on dvd, you deserve to die. in the most literal sense of the word "die".

indifference is a crime

and so is controlling how long student's hair should be. i'm starting an organized protest movement against administrator-based tyranny. INJUSTICE, LET THIS BE OUR FINAL BATTLE

things i regret, and things i never meant

i wish i could write a poem about what i regret;
like wasting two years on you, darling,
or like tripping on cellos,
or like not telling her "i love you"
because you told me not to.
(but maybe, just maybe, i'd regret that too)
but, regardless, there wasn't a time i wasn't happy,
that i also wasn't fucking infatuated with you.
you fucking whore, if i wrote a poem about what i regret,
it'd be a letter to you.
but i could never sign my name.

i wanna know all the love i've got

shortcuts: press Ctrl with:
theres not a key to type
to put emotion in words;
especially in the word love.
its a dead word;
its a dead word, because
we make it an
"its everything"

20 pages of shitty emo poetry

and all i got was a stupid certificate. i'll show you
i'll show you
i'll show you.
or i'll fucking die trying.

who are you and what have you done with

i wish i could say everything will be alright;
instead, all i can do is smile and whisper the truth through crooked teeth.

and i wish that football games and saturday nights tired and hungry and feeling alive
could be enough to make me forget that you were everything i didn't want

but i still wanted you;
and it took me so long to figure out why.
but now that i know,
i can't fucking stand you.

i can't fucking stand you,
but you won't fucking leave me alone