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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