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foreward:

there are certain conventions of writing which i choose to disregard. they concern capital letters, punctuation, and all the stupid things that dont really matter anyway, because the only people that care about that either dont care about reading what ive written here, or their dead. most, i would assume, would fit into the first category.
im also convinced that those things make writing dead and meaningless, by trying to provide beauty through appearance. sentences are beautiful because they are sentences, not because i followed some arbitrary rules.
what im writing is the culmination of poetrycarridesinsidejokesbademomusicbloggingandstayingupallnightwithacopyofdoriangreytotalkabouttomorrow
what im writing here is prose; its a coming-of-age novel, i guess, and its one of those stupid novels that old conservatives will criticize and call promiscuous or inappropriate because they think that because its about young adults, its also for them. this is both unfair, and untrue.
this, to me, is a creative outlet, to express what i feel or dont feel or otherwise am concerned with. it is fiction. it takes place somewhere, with characters that exist only in the songs i hear and the things i read and places i go, but most of all, only exist inside my head, however similar they may seem to reallifepeopleplacesevents
it might seem to lose any sense of coherency or order in parts. thats intentional.
what im writing here is for my friends. theyll get it.
fuck you guys.
<3
-me



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simsun fonts and bad music are a good starting-place, i think. i dont know you, nor do i expect to. you are a human-being, and that is enough to commend you to me. you came across this, in adumpsteroratrashcanoraplacewheremagicalthingsgo, or maybe your friend gave it to you, with asmileorfrownorlaughortear, or if im lucky, maybe they gave it to you and said ‘i cried when i read this’. i hope i can get that out of you, because i really dont need anything else, at this point, but to have somebody to share my life with. i dont know you, nor do i expect to, and i dont care. im writing this to you because i know youll read it (and if you dont, thats cool too) and youll feel something, and maybejustmaybe thatll be something to you.
i hope you never know or have to know what it feels like to give up entirely, and i hope you never have to know what it feels like to miss out on everything because your moms gone and your dad still wont lock the doors, and i hope you arent one of those people who has no genuine-ness left inside you anymore, and that you wont fuck people just because you get the chance, or that you dont truly care about your friends or your girlfriend or everyone around you. i hope you get the chance to feel genuinely happy, and i hope that you get to feel love and i hope you try drugs and i hope you dont become a slave to money or stop living because living is too hard, and i hope you love life and live it for you (and your friends too).

i wish i loved myself.
i wish she loved me.
i wish they were still around to drive up and down the roads listening to music nobodys heard of and telling jokes and feeling like (or maybe wishing that) this would last forever.
theres a black-and-white smile for each distant twink-a-lee that brightens the horizon for each tiny moment the stars reflect on windshields or waterways or buddy holly glasses or hookah pieces or glass shards from second-story windows or guitar bodies or the eyes of someone sitting alone and crying because their mom wont come home.
i wish i loved myself like they used to love me.

someone, somewhere, a long long time ago, two people fucked and made my mom.
quite honestly, she has no clue who they were, and quite honestly, nobody ever really cared that much anyway. all anyone knows is that she was born in detroit, then came south and into our little town outside chicago, all homely and midwestern with rows of houses side-to-side (but with some character, not those stupid suburb development things). i wont tell you the name, or hers, because i feel like that doesnt matter. for the sake of coherency ill call her lizbeth (no last name, she never had one anyway. ours for a while) and the place where we lived wheaton (yeah, i know, thats not near chicago, but its not where we lived, either, so does it matter what i call it?). she showed up here in the early 80s after tramping around the midwest, then started working as a journalist for a local newspaper that isnt around anymore.

my father was (is) a lawyer from ohio. he came out to illinois for law-school and ended up living in ‘wheaton’ after he got laid off by his firm in chicago. he bought a house on arlington street, four west from central, with two stories painted greenish blue with a white trim. this was in the mid-80s so he got the place dirt-cheap from forclosure, and found a bag of weed in the toilet upstairs his first day in the place. point is, he moved in for shit, which was lucky with him being out of a job. he met my mom at a townhall meeting concerning, of all things, repaving the street next to ours, norfolk drive.

long story short, he asked her to go get some beers, they went home and ‘passionately’fucked each-other’s brains out on the stupid green couch he bought at goodwill. i cant walk past it, after gleaning this information from my dad 16 years later, without tearing up and wondering what wouldve happened if he wasnt so damn alcoholic and she wasnt so damned easy. but what was, was, and thats just about the extent of the metaphor.
i was born nine months later, into a world of rapestarvationmurdersubstanceabusesexliesdivorcecustodypaperselopingwiththedentistandalsolove

Fallen Among Thieves

^i used capital letters today to make something irreversible clear. People are not good to each other. And i suppose they never will be, nor do i ask them to. But today made me angry; today made me realize the depth of the intolerance, the violent sub-culture, and the all around ignorance of american suburbia. Today, while at the park with my friends, i (or more specifically ben) was accosted by a large group of ultramasculine individuals who claimed that my friends and myself were trying to "start shit" with a group of younger kids playing football nearby, who had previously called us faggots. This group of individuals, lead by a self-righteous jackass, numbered about 40, compared to our group of less than ten. They approached us, circled around ben, and began to verbally harass him, then threatened he and the rest of us with violence. They then took ben and another of our group named tanner and forced them to play a twisted version of "smear the queer", in which they were repeatedly taken down. Tanner was hit in the face. After observing that one of this group carried a knife, ben and tanner walked across the street to escape, at which point the leader, and main purveyor of the harassment, tried (and failed) to tackle ben from behind.

and so i must say, fuck jocks. fuck kids who think they need to prove themselves with violence and sports and exercise. this is the last time i deal with it; promise.

and most of all, fuck kids who are too nervous to do anything about it. fuck all the nice kids in that crowd, who were too pussy to stand up for the weak kids who had nothing to do with anything at all.

i don't know what to write

i'm deep into po-mo prose right now. i feel like everything i've written lately reflects that, but now i feel lost. i wish i could write something beautiful, or something meaningful, or something powerful. i wish i could draw emotions in words, and make people laugh or cry, or feel like a living being. i really do, i promise.

and so, without further adieu, i would like to announce that i will be writing a short novel that no one will ever read. i hope you care enough to ask me for a copy, or a draft, or a page from the final edition with my name on it, because that would make me happy. i intend to pay for the printing of about 50 copies of it by the time i am done, and handing those out for free to whoever wants one. i also intend to have it available as an .pdf if you're really interested and too lazy/far away for me to give you a copy. so, if i ever get around to posting something that isn't completely stream of consciousness poetry or faux-philosophy, it'll be a draft of a few pages. i'll even tag them as one and the same, so that if you want to read it from start to finish as a series of posts, you can.

later.

so i think its time for some emo music to spruce up your day

Treetops

One of my favourite emo bands of all time. Its up there with the Promise Ring and Cap'n Jazz, in my opinion. Everything an emo band should be. Tear-drawing lyrics, melodic feel, and beautiful, miserable vocals that can make me cry just as fast as "12 sweaters red" by the Promise Ring. Two albums (that i can get a hold of):

Write Out the Lyrics from the First Crass LP on Your Math Notebook
http://www.mediafire.com/?unyioqnzmmj
just beautiful. My favourite is "lets go swimming". reminds me of treetops (because i love it that much), die emperor die!, and a better version of texas is the reason.

Twink-A-Lee
http://www.mediafire.com/?2y24njz2ht5
everything music should be. twinkly guitars, desperate singing, and lyrics to die for.
download both.
kills me they're gone.

and sometimes i want to blame myself, but you left too. so what do i do? i wish you were here to help me. dear world, i'm still here.

i want to write a few lines for every person that has touched my life.
in some ways, i already have. but i want it to matter.
i want you to know that i care.

tell me a never ending bedtime story so that i can stay up all night wishing you were back here with me but then i wake up and you're still gone

two fucking years. that's all i have back here, before i go away, to california
or someplace like that. college, then nothing. what's it like to go away?
i want to say i'll miss home, but i doubt it.
i doubt i'll miss anything about this shit-hole
except the memories i've made here.
like substance-abuse under the bridge, or graffiti-poetry or taco bell or walking into fry's late at night or sitting on the stoner hill with all my friends looking at the baseball fields, because sometimes that's nicer than the sunset.
its a weird feeling, knowing that things change. i don't know if i can take it.
i'm having trouble imagining this place with a different cast of characters;
a new dramatis personae, to discover what its like to pile onto a staircase to nowhere and to read off all the shit under the bridge and to sleep in the park sometimes and tell their parents they're at a friends. i can't believe that one day we're going to be gone, because we've made this ours.
we've spraypainted our memories on everything here, and i don't want that to fade.
but it will, and when it does, i'll hold back tears with laughter and smiles,
and think about what's next, and i won't let go of my stupid friends and i'll promise that i'll never look back, until i do.
and then i'll cry my fucking eyes out.

miniature tigers dancing like wraiths between fingertips

i've stepped out into the street now;
ive seen god in two headlights, and i stayed, and i left.
it tastes like linoleum floors and white-washed windows and doors,
between and around and over and under and inside and out and left and right
but mostly between.

i think the same things over and over and say them with different syllables,
only who's to say whats right or not?
i think its an approaching car with 60 miles per hour on me,
because nobody, not even the rain, can make it stop.

there's a god in car-crashes, i think.
that sort of "lack" of control
that comes from being in control.

some nights i stay up on purpose until i cant sleep anymore,
just wondering why or why not;
does it really matter, in the long run?
it does. the long run, on the other hand, doesn't matter at all.

the long run doesn't matter at all,
and ive spent my money and my time and my energy trying
with outstreched hands, i promise,
trying and trying and trying to reach the sun,
but i cant. and now im cool with that.
i can dig it.

its like not knowing what a heart is.
maybe i've just forgotten, but i dont think ive ever really known.
have i?

theres a god in car-crashes, i think.

inbox (30)

i cant seem to believe
that split ends and tight corners don't mean anything anymore.
where did we take this?
brackets and empty mailboxes, maybe.
probably nothing, but i think im supposed to tell you
(ask might be the better word)
control yourself, for christs sakes.
fucking bastard.
fucking bastard.
FUCKING BASTARD.

i ran out of things to say,
and im quite possibly full of thoughts,
but where do the words end?
being blown off and being left-out and being labeled again;
where do the words end, and where does the heart begin?
cliche, cliche, cliche.

my little moment to talk

i have something i would like to say;
it may be inconvenient, it may be liberating.
i really don't know, and quite frankly, i don't care.
let me start off by quoting someone charles bukowski;

"who put this brain inside of me?

it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.

it will not say
'no.' "

i recently had a moment of reflection, and in that moment, i realized something.
something beautiful.
i still care. those three words mean far more to me than anyone in the entire world can imagine. they don't mean that i didn't think that i cared, nor that i, for any amount of time, didn't care.
they mean that ive realized how very much i care about everything, and everyone.
i love you. and i love the people sitting around you, and your family, and mine, and your friends, and your enemies, and mine. i love them, and i would walk through fire for them, because they are. but, and i guess if you've read anything else i've ever written, you already know this, most of all i love my friends. the people that i've chosen to surround myself with. the losers and the winners
"too much too little

too fat
too thin
or nobody.

laughter or
tears

haters
lovers"
i love them.
they are, in my little world, "god". and that's all that matters to me. if i had no money, or no food, or no home, or shitty grades, or anything else you want to pin down as bad, i could survive. because of them.
and i guess that's why i am what i am.

"Dresses" by Franz Kafka

often, when i see dresses with many pleats and frills and flounces, draped beautifully over beautiful bodies, then i think to myself that they will not long be preserved in such a condition, but will acquire creases that it will be impossible to iron out, dust in their details so thick it can no longer be removed, and that no woman would want to make such a sorry exhibition of herself as to put on the same precious dress every morning, and take it off at night.
and i see girls who are certainly beautiful, displaying various attractive little muscles and bones and taut skin and masses of fine hair, and yet daily appearing in that same masquerade, always laying the same face in the same hollow of the same hands, and having it reflected back to them in the mirror.
only sometimes in the evening, when they come home late from a party, it looks worn to them in the mirror; puffy, dusty, already seen by everyone, almost not wearable anymore

its november

its still too hot.
wrong fucking seasons, always and forever.
but its pretty out, so its okay.
where did all the stars go?
i think they're hiding behind miniature tigers disguised as streetlights
who do you think we are?
probably tired.