1st Ever: 40s 4 Phun Night
scott: rabbit... you better not be drunk off one bottle of that crap
rabbit: oooooh yeah i am. [stumbles gettin out of chair] how do you open the fridge? [shes pulling on the wrong side of the door]
mouse: ugh.
scott: thats pathetic, babies drink more than that on the way to fingerpainting
mouse: i assure you im not in jersey dishes
[she meant the porno: Jersey Jizzers]
scott: [typing quote out]
mouse: oh shit.... its me i know it.
coach: god give me a break, ive had a mickeys im buzzy
rabbit: yeah, then youre behind me...
scott and mouse: *laughter*
breaking benjamin - polymorphous
rabbit: why izzznut she drunking anything shes the least druzdrunk [to mouse]
coach: dude i think i spilled some out of the bottle... [1/3 of bottle is all over carpet, and dripping on my chair]
rabbit: i was moving down to make room for mouse on the bed too
scott: kinky
scott: dude, youre going to hit the door
coach: no im not... its right here [waives arm]
scott: dude.. thats a wall.
coach: shut up scott
scott: you want people talking about your ass
coach: no i dont.. it a nice ass, but i dont...
coach: dude, you better get in there [scotts room]
scott: why
coach: rabbit is 'presenting' to you!
scott: nooo. [looks] oh geez. she passed out in my bed
rabbit: what the hell kinda game is this, stephanie looses?
scott: kinda. its called scott wins, but you get the idea.
rabbit: woah! no groaping
scott: that wasnt groaping, this is... [grabs]
coach: *vommit* aaaaandrea.... *dry heave* dont let me get this drunk *vommit* again.
coach: why didnt you give me a pillow last night?
mouse: because you would have puked all over it
coach: i would not... everything made it into puke box... see. its a little crusty now, but its all in there.
coach: man... puke bucket fills up... and then... then! he empties and hes ready for more!!!! waaah!
the final totals....
rabbit: 4 Stoli Mixed Bottles, wine sips... passes out from it
mouse: 2 Stoli Mixed Bottles, partial Mickeys, wine sips... walks away unschathed
coach: 2 Mickeys 40s, 1 budlight, 1/4 bottle of wine... obliterated and puking.
scott: 1 Old English 40, 1 Cobra 40, 2 Budlights, 1/4 bottle of wine... but only slightly buzzed
Saturday, August 30, 2003
Friday, August 29, 2003
Current Musical Selection: Jimi Hendrix - Like A Rolling Stone
"But Only Once Through The Glass I Did See..."
so much to say. i dont really know where to start with it all. the last few days to a week have just been a continual haze on my thoughts and soul. people tried to talk to me about it. some are good friends, some are people i know, and one is just little more than a complete stranger. and none of it seems to help. because the more i think about it, the more it hurts. im still thinking about what happened with the last one. and why do i still think about her? i dont know.
everyone makes sure they tell me about whats going on with her, if they see her, if they talk to her, whats shes doing and who shes with... im certain no one says much about me to her. im also certain that she probably doesnt care either. so why does everyone do it to me? i guess they know it affects me still. so where does that leave me? out here. on my end of town, in my room. by myself. getting IM's from people telling me more of it. while i sit and fill the big black book with more things as each tingle moves up my spine. [the little black book was long ago abandoned, as i got one phone number in 6 years]. instead its the black book thats the carbon copy of what i think about and how i feel. ive noticed ive gone from light pencil, to blue ink, to now black ink and lots of heavy dark pencil. its poems, its prose, its pictures. things that just end up being what i can reflect from myself. things that i guess i lie to myself about, or other people, that i just cant lie to the paper with. i guess some of it just happens to be me. just happens to be the streak inside myself that ive always pushed down. its like a sense of just utter revokation of life, happiness and all things that are pleasureable for everyone else around me. and instead, its just about living through a dark existence of anger, discontent, and solitude. where success is measured in rejection, and change is nothing more than greater sadness and pain. i wouldnt call it depression, or pyschological disorder. but i can see people thinking that. its different somehow. i guess. and maybe its not. this feels like just something thats been induced. never a constant way of looking. and it stays longer and longer now.
i remember the first time i hit it. i was in late high school; and it came from nowhere really. looking back, there was a lot that lead me there. but being stoodup to dances, screwed with by teammate, ridiculed by females, and resoundingly pushed away at any advance, the frustration eventually gave way to something much darker than i wanted to admit to. i never quite had the same sense of things then. things were about anger, were about getting even, were about fucking it up. and i did. i started playing darker music, hung out with some more misfit type people, and deluded myself with drugs and alcohol when necessary for a while. i guess i surrounded myself with all the things that i knew would understand why i felt the way i did; because i had no idea how i felt the way i did. thats when i started writing. i started keeping thoughts and pictures. but back then, it was mostly words. ironic, how im back to that point; but that was the other way i decided to cope with it. because being the kid that no one wanted wasnt a pleasant experience. and things like that dont change much. they just get more frustrating.
"...A Fleeting Image; But A Ghost Who Shimmers On The Edge of Darkness..."
so im here, on my own, thinking about everything that was, and there isnt any positive to come out of it. a cool girl from chicago was talking to me, asking whether i thought there was ever a chance anything would happen again; and i know the answer is no. but i said no way. but i wish there was a way. a way that would show me how to stop feeling like i do about all this. it almost seems that to everyone else involved, the feelings that im going through are nothing and shouldnt be happening to me. despite that, they are. and its not comforting. there is no comfort. i wanted so badly to be able to cry about it... just because you always think that crying atleast makes you feel better... it atleast puts some of those feeling out on the pillow. the wet tears are your souls way to bleed some times. and every once in awhile, we all have to let it out. but i cant. save the tears that might come up out of frustration, when i think back about how bad i feel to get burnt. how much it hurts knowing you put your entire heart out there with someone, and they walk on it, and walk away. no remorse.
so sometimes i wonder about my sanity. somedays i think i know what it might be like to be driven over the edge by things. theres always the constant stress and presure that work, friends and school put on me. and then theres my own guilt, my own baggage that i sort out. sometimes its nothing, sometimes its a freight train full; and theres rarely a derailment. the whole car is just obliterated. maybe thats more like what it felt like. having put that much of myself into it again; to know once more what it was like to have been happy, and to make someone happy; and to let people know how much it made me happy. then to watch it explode. like a shotgun to the face. that split second later; between the pull of the trigger, and youre standing there waiting for it to hit you. and it does. its the longest second of your life. its has to be the shortest, but its the longest too. because its the only memory you ever have again. then everything you hoped for; you wished on, you worked for, you took pride in, everything that you ever fucking loved about someone else... its blown all over the wall. nothing else is left but smoke and a hole. and once again, you get reduced to nothing more than stains and shit that ruins everything it touches.
but going over the edge is something i hope never happens. sometimes i think i can come close. closer than i need to; and closer than i should be; for safetys sake. sometimes i want to know what its like to ruin things. to be free to fuck everyone in the way that it feels to be fucked with. to know that im responsible for someones heartache; and not my own. i wondered once how many people i could take out. its sick. because i know i could get quite a few. but then again it isnt. its perfectly natural to think that way. minus the killing. but to convey hurt back out on the world that seemingly only you ever take in. that everyone else is free from these manicles of digust and discontent. instead, its abstract thinking that way, sitting on a crowded bus that makes me think that some of what im thinking about isnt so bad. times like that, when i realize that i know im not that far gone; when i know i have other depths to go to in my mind. thats the suspense though. when does the storm finnally end; and will i know it when its over? but for now all i do is stare out the window. listening to the voices in my ears. reminding me of the lifestyles ive avoided; that everyone indulges into; that some have only sunk lower into. and i remind myself, that someone has to make it out of here.
so then my thoughts have to turn to saving whats left. sometimes thats scary. to look in the glass infront of me and see whats still sitting there. my reflection is pale against it. the faces and everything surrounding me arent friendly. so how does one beging to seek something worthy of salvation? how do you know who is really there on the otherside, how can you trust what you see; when you cant trust those who see it? its about learning by feel. going one fingertip at a time, to reconstruct the things that maybe only you see-- only those things that they neglect. the things you know that are still burried and blurred under that sheet of glass; because you see it in youre own eyes. its not hope. its the truth. the world will move beyond us, and those that stand along the road only watch you go past. seldom will they offer a hand, few may offer words or encouragement. instead it is a path that we each walk on our own. our own solitude. our own ideas. our own misgivings. and our own strengths. and this is the way that i must walk it, so i can return to what i knew before; and what i hope to sometime know.
... And It Is The Look, The Favor And The Eyes That Belong To Me."* just something i wrote once
"But Only Once Through The Glass I Did See..."
so much to say. i dont really know where to start with it all. the last few days to a week have just been a continual haze on my thoughts and soul. people tried to talk to me about it. some are good friends, some are people i know, and one is just little more than a complete stranger. and none of it seems to help. because the more i think about it, the more it hurts. im still thinking about what happened with the last one. and why do i still think about her? i dont know.
everyone makes sure they tell me about whats going on with her, if they see her, if they talk to her, whats shes doing and who shes with... im certain no one says much about me to her. im also certain that she probably doesnt care either. so why does everyone do it to me? i guess they know it affects me still. so where does that leave me? out here. on my end of town, in my room. by myself. getting IM's from people telling me more of it. while i sit and fill the big black book with more things as each tingle moves up my spine. [the little black book was long ago abandoned, as i got one phone number in 6 years]. instead its the black book thats the carbon copy of what i think about and how i feel. ive noticed ive gone from light pencil, to blue ink, to now black ink and lots of heavy dark pencil. its poems, its prose, its pictures. things that just end up being what i can reflect from myself. things that i guess i lie to myself about, or other people, that i just cant lie to the paper with. i guess some of it just happens to be me. just happens to be the streak inside myself that ive always pushed down. its like a sense of just utter revokation of life, happiness and all things that are pleasureable for everyone else around me. and instead, its just about living through a dark existence of anger, discontent, and solitude. where success is measured in rejection, and change is nothing more than greater sadness and pain. i wouldnt call it depression, or pyschological disorder. but i can see people thinking that. its different somehow. i guess. and maybe its not. this feels like just something thats been induced. never a constant way of looking. and it stays longer and longer now.
i remember the first time i hit it. i was in late high school; and it came from nowhere really. looking back, there was a lot that lead me there. but being stoodup to dances, screwed with by teammate, ridiculed by females, and resoundingly pushed away at any advance, the frustration eventually gave way to something much darker than i wanted to admit to. i never quite had the same sense of things then. things were about anger, were about getting even, were about fucking it up. and i did. i started playing darker music, hung out with some more misfit type people, and deluded myself with drugs and alcohol when necessary for a while. i guess i surrounded myself with all the things that i knew would understand why i felt the way i did; because i had no idea how i felt the way i did. thats when i started writing. i started keeping thoughts and pictures. but back then, it was mostly words. ironic, how im back to that point; but that was the other way i decided to cope with it. because being the kid that no one wanted wasnt a pleasant experience. and things like that dont change much. they just get more frustrating.
"...A Fleeting Image; But A Ghost Who Shimmers On The Edge of Darkness..."
so im here, on my own, thinking about everything that was, and there isnt any positive to come out of it. a cool girl from chicago was talking to me, asking whether i thought there was ever a chance anything would happen again; and i know the answer is no. but i said no way. but i wish there was a way. a way that would show me how to stop feeling like i do about all this. it almost seems that to everyone else involved, the feelings that im going through are nothing and shouldnt be happening to me. despite that, they are. and its not comforting. there is no comfort. i wanted so badly to be able to cry about it... just because you always think that crying atleast makes you feel better... it atleast puts some of those feeling out on the pillow. the wet tears are your souls way to bleed some times. and every once in awhile, we all have to let it out. but i cant. save the tears that might come up out of frustration, when i think back about how bad i feel to get burnt. how much it hurts knowing you put your entire heart out there with someone, and they walk on it, and walk away. no remorse.
so sometimes i wonder about my sanity. somedays i think i know what it might be like to be driven over the edge by things. theres always the constant stress and presure that work, friends and school put on me. and then theres my own guilt, my own baggage that i sort out. sometimes its nothing, sometimes its a freight train full; and theres rarely a derailment. the whole car is just obliterated. maybe thats more like what it felt like. having put that much of myself into it again; to know once more what it was like to have been happy, and to make someone happy; and to let people know how much it made me happy. then to watch it explode. like a shotgun to the face. that split second later; between the pull of the trigger, and youre standing there waiting for it to hit you. and it does. its the longest second of your life. its has to be the shortest, but its the longest too. because its the only memory you ever have again. then everything you hoped for; you wished on, you worked for, you took pride in, everything that you ever fucking loved about someone else... its blown all over the wall. nothing else is left but smoke and a hole. and once again, you get reduced to nothing more than stains and shit that ruins everything it touches.
but going over the edge is something i hope never happens. sometimes i think i can come close. closer than i need to; and closer than i should be; for safetys sake. sometimes i want to know what its like to ruin things. to be free to fuck everyone in the way that it feels to be fucked with. to know that im responsible for someones heartache; and not my own. i wondered once how many people i could take out. its sick. because i know i could get quite a few. but then again it isnt. its perfectly natural to think that way. minus the killing. but to convey hurt back out on the world that seemingly only you ever take in. that everyone else is free from these manicles of digust and discontent. instead, its abstract thinking that way, sitting on a crowded bus that makes me think that some of what im thinking about isnt so bad. times like that, when i realize that i know im not that far gone; when i know i have other depths to go to in my mind. thats the suspense though. when does the storm finnally end; and will i know it when its over? but for now all i do is stare out the window. listening to the voices in my ears. reminding me of the lifestyles ive avoided; that everyone indulges into; that some have only sunk lower into. and i remind myself, that someone has to make it out of here.
so then my thoughts have to turn to saving whats left. sometimes thats scary. to look in the glass infront of me and see whats still sitting there. my reflection is pale against it. the faces and everything surrounding me arent friendly. so how does one beging to seek something worthy of salvation? how do you know who is really there on the otherside, how can you trust what you see; when you cant trust those who see it? its about learning by feel. going one fingertip at a time, to reconstruct the things that maybe only you see-- only those things that they neglect. the things you know that are still burried and blurred under that sheet of glass; because you see it in youre own eyes. its not hope. its the truth. the world will move beyond us, and those that stand along the road only watch you go past. seldom will they offer a hand, few may offer words or encouragement. instead it is a path that we each walk on our own. our own solitude. our own ideas. our own misgivings. and our own strengths. and this is the way that i must walk it, so i can return to what i knew before; and what i hope to sometime know.
... And It Is The Look, The Favor And The Eyes That Belong To Me."* just something i wrote once
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)