Friday
also
I was going to write something about sushi and how sometimes you find yourself eating the shittest sushi, so shit that you literally have to spit it out, but I forgot most of it.
i can't believe that i am 22 years-old and only just listened to the white stripes properly.
a grim but honest realisation.
Wednesday
unfinished short story
Another diamond day. I woke with the sun trying to peel my lids. I felt heavy and lactic, as if only yesterday was worth a gaze. Yesteryears away.
There was so much to be done. Yet I could only bring myself to yawn slowly and pace my stiff self towards the other end of the house.
She was gone.
To be expected. I had wanted nothing but truce for the past week, so this was an improvement to my distracted behavior. Still I sat down on the couch, perfumed with her scent as the rest of the house was, and lit myself a cigarette.
Void.
I knew this shit would get better soon. I'm an optimist, although my actions contradict this like nothing else. I'm not trying to cause myself misery. Misery just presents itself to me. I try too hard, and I am too nice. No, this isn't true. I don't try at all. And she is just too brash; it's like I'm trying to overcompensate.
I wish I could lock her in.
I wish I could have kept her, but had not dealt with her. She kills me. She drives me mad. I can't produce a single song; I can't write, I can't eat; I can barely touch her.
I can only hug her when she's deep asleep.
The sunlight poked in from every fret. All the blinds were down, my eyebrows just the same. This eternal malaise of being. I wish I could be different. I wish there was more harmony to our song. Yet here I am despaired; quietly insane. I've been insane for so many months now that I don't know what it's like to feel real. This house is a theatre. I'm a doll in a mind game.
She depresses me but brings these ultraviolet colours to my life. All at once. The true definition of a U2 song. So apologetic but infinetly ruthless. She has the darkest eyes I have ever seen.
I tried to bring myself to eat something, but instead I ended up drinking milk from the cartons again. I drink so much milk. It's the only thing that goes down well these days. Had I been keen to slow down on all the THC I might have felt like a steak, or eggs. But slowing down slows down my own internal processes. Slowing down brings me to an Earth that is so not appealing; to a routine of suits and suitcases and zebra faces crossing the footpath at seven.
I don't want to be like them, I don't wan to give in, and I know she understands but she can't live with this creative laziness either. She is a frail girl and she needs me to look after her in every way; in every sense. And I love her and it hurts. And by three o'clock there were several milk cartons surrounding my workspace, but I wasn't working.
There was no work to be done. There was no material. There was just a putrid smell of rage starting to build up. I fiddled with a pen for a bit and got the same sentence I had been jotting the whole week. The same verse, the same curse that haunted me day and night, the repetitive thought that my brain seemed to be trying to expel, explain, or exorcise:
ANGER CORRUPTS ME.
There was so much to be done. Yet I could only bring myself to yawn slowly and pace my stiff self towards the other end of the house.
She was gone.
To be expected. I had wanted nothing but truce for the past week, so this was an improvement to my distracted behavior. Still I sat down on the couch, perfumed with her scent as the rest of the house was, and lit myself a cigarette.
Void.
I knew this shit would get better soon. I'm an optimist, although my actions contradict this like nothing else. I'm not trying to cause myself misery. Misery just presents itself to me. I try too hard, and I am too nice. No, this isn't true. I don't try at all. And she is just too brash; it's like I'm trying to overcompensate.
I wish I could lock her in.
I wish I could have kept her, but had not dealt with her. She kills me. She drives me mad. I can't produce a single song; I can't write, I can't eat; I can barely touch her.
I can only hug her when she's deep asleep.
The sunlight poked in from every fret. All the blinds were down, my eyebrows just the same. This eternal malaise of being. I wish I could be different. I wish there was more harmony to our song. Yet here I am despaired; quietly insane. I've been insane for so many months now that I don't know what it's like to feel real. This house is a theatre. I'm a doll in a mind game.
She depresses me but brings these ultraviolet colours to my life. All at once. The true definition of a U2 song. So apologetic but infinetly ruthless. She has the darkest eyes I have ever seen.
I tried to bring myself to eat something, but instead I ended up drinking milk from the cartons again. I drink so much milk. It's the only thing that goes down well these days. Had I been keen to slow down on all the THC I might have felt like a steak, or eggs. But slowing down slows down my own internal processes. Slowing down brings me to an Earth that is so not appealing; to a routine of suits and suitcases and zebra faces crossing the footpath at seven.
I don't want to be like them, I don't wan to give in, and I know she understands but she can't live with this creative laziness either. She is a frail girl and she needs me to look after her in every way; in every sense. And I love her and it hurts. And by three o'clock there were several milk cartons surrounding my workspace, but I wasn't working.
There was no work to be done. There was no material. There was just a putrid smell of rage starting to build up. I fiddled with a pen for a bit and got the same sentence I had been jotting the whole week. The same verse, the same curse that haunted me day and night, the repetitive thought that my brain seemed to be trying to expel, explain, or exorcise:
ANGER CORRUPTS ME.
Tuesday
summertime
You forget who you were until winter comes around again. Reminiscent of old memories. Stuffed up pillows you never used to use, surrounding your body in bed for warmth. The warmth of a season cold. Jacket wheather.
The warmth of memories and melodies. Songs on your iPod you forgot you had, rushing it all back into your head in two minutes, eighteen seconds.
The nearly equal dates. The nearly equal events. The revival of an era in which you were so unaware, and yet probably so much more aware than you are now.
It is a season dry but beautiful. Wispy winds clean as white bedhseets. The hollow light that brings the sunlight close, but not nearly close enough.
I was happier then, I think, in a twisted point of view. Actually, I think that's a lie in favour of poetic license. But I am not here to judge, or to spell check: I'm here to narrate while I hold my breath.
It's hard to pin this feeling, but it's true what I say: we used to be so young, and now we're even younger.
The warmth of memories and melodies. Songs on your iPod you forgot you had, rushing it all back into your head in two minutes, eighteen seconds.
The nearly equal dates. The nearly equal events. The revival of an era in which you were so unaware, and yet probably so much more aware than you are now.
It is a season dry but beautiful. Wispy winds clean as white bedhseets. The hollow light that brings the sunlight close, but not nearly close enough.
I was happier then, I think, in a twisted point of view. Actually, I think that's a lie in favour of poetic license. But I am not here to judge, or to spell check: I'm here to narrate while I hold my breath.
It's hard to pin this feeling, but it's true what I say: we used to be so young, and now we're even younger.
Wednesday
the kids
Don't call me love, don't call me babe, don't condescend me.
I'm not your love, I'm not your babe, I'm not a fake part of your silly liar's game. Get to know your own parade. Sort yourself first before making valuable connections with valuable lovers. I may have never been your lover but you would have remembered me painfully if it had been the case. And you would have kicked me out of your life with might, because it is hard to live with the prospect of not having me.
And so trod on with ease; keep gliding your smooth charm around - I'm sure it's entrancing for rags and drabs, and even for those with a bit more finesse. I've seen you work your ways. I know how you do your doings.
And I'll keep living my enterprises so personal; the enterprise of me. The fun and the misere. I will live it all and I will take funds of creativity to tell a more truthful story - I'll have my cake and I'll eat it too. I'll gorge on the bloody thing. Sugar dripping from my fingers. Sweet melodies I'll make for myself, and you'll regret you left me so young, and to such capacity.
You kids always come back.
I'm not your love, I'm not your babe, I'm not a fake part of your silly liar's game. Get to know your own parade. Sort yourself first before making valuable connections with valuable lovers. I may have never been your lover but you would have remembered me painfully if it had been the case. And you would have kicked me out of your life with might, because it is hard to live with the prospect of not having me.
And so trod on with ease; keep gliding your smooth charm around - I'm sure it's entrancing for rags and drabs, and even for those with a bit more finesse. I've seen you work your ways. I know how you do your doings.
And I'll keep living my enterprises so personal; the enterprise of me. The fun and the misere. I will live it all and I will take funds of creativity to tell a more truthful story - I'll have my cake and I'll eat it too. I'll gorge on the bloody thing. Sugar dripping from my fingers. Sweet melodies I'll make for myself, and you'll regret you left me so young, and to such capacity.
You kids always come back.
Tuesday
a fictional shortie.
Sleep swallowed me, like a pill. In those two hours I was stable, firm in myself. Put together. If I had a choice in this scenario, I would have chosen forever. But I am a human; I'm here but for a reason bigger than myself. And so I woke, forcefully, emerged from a darkness in me I had no previous knowledge of. My mouth felt bitter and my throat dry from all the gin I had consumed the night before. Gin is a married woman's drink, my best man Jay would say, and it's true - sometimes I feel like I have her heart.
An awkwardly misplaced organ in a foreign male body; my ribs ached. Last night had been fucked up, and I was physically hurting from the sexual escapade. If you could even call it that. It meant absolutely nothing, if not one thing: I had been trying to get back at her, in true good form.
Not that she'd care. She would never care save for those brief and slightly awkward moments in which him and I would have interacted in her presence. He was a handsome boy, with an emphasis on both the adjective and the noun. A pretty creature, a young pretty limb. A man in the works; intelligent, legitimate, honest, kind.
Affectionate.
I forgot affectionate also. I guess because this part hurts the most, if not it being the entirety of all this self-inflicted agony. I could be wrong. I could be blaming myself for insane things; things that don't exist. I could be imagining all of this. But the truth of the matter is, I saw him hold her forearm while she ordered a drink. I saw them hold each other, and I heard the smack of their kiss. Thinking about it made me sick in the stomach. I lurched out of bed and proceeded to the showering duties of the early morning.
I forget that loving is an open wound. She hasn't been my first, and she certainly won't be my last. I am not about to stop; I can't ever stop doing something once these things become me. I am terrible at breaking habits. I started smoking at fifteen and it has been nine years since. A cat only has nine lives. Well, it must be time for an epiphany soon.
When we first met it was by pure occasion. My clothes were wet, my face soaked with rain. The hairdo impression made me look every crawling inch my brother. He is a slicked back version of me. Bianca knew him from his whorish music enterprises, and I should have known better from that fact alone and kept the fuck away from her. Instead she called me Steve all night and made silly references to movies I hadn't even heard of.
I guess I should have quit my job and bought all these movies the very next day. Maybe that would have guaranteed eternal friendship.
But after that things were a continuous uphill. I never knew mountains could climb so high, really. I forgot who she was for a long time; if I had a radar as some allude to, like we're made of rusty machinery, then she had barely even registered. Sure, I thought she was nice, and kind of cute in a strangely deceptive way, as she is such a tomboy I considered her sexual inclinations. It's funny, really. Her face is tiny and her features so gamine, yet she looks like a fourteen-year- old boy sometimes. My feminine traits contribute to this hilarity. It's like we were made to complement one another; a strange design of salt and pepper shakes.
So I hardly knew of her save Jay's younger brother Ted, who has been completely and utterly obsessed with her since he was twelve. I made no point to understand this because frankly, I had better things to do. No fictitious turn here either, I had just begun occupying myself socially so my plate was full. And so I went about my business and constructed this kind of perfected mask of who my brother thought he was. I took what Steve had made for himself and put my touch in it.
And I guess, this was my second mistake.
I began to be noticed and hyped about. Hype and allure apart, I used Steve's growing success as my own personal media box. It worked. "This is Josh, Steve's younger brother." Yeah, whatever. Young by like two minutes and fifty seconds. No one ever believed me when I said Steve was my twin. Like I was trying to mop up some family glory. So I let him do all the relative talk. I never mentioned it again, and put it down to a plain nod every time someone asked if I was Steve Harrison's youngie band clan.
Clearly still drunk, I hopped off the shower and tried to find my towel in the dimly lit light. I live in a share house now. Long were the days where I would bear my belongings with people I care for. My mind racing furiously, the anger building into bile; so much I had to spit it out. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to understand something, even if it was just my faintly upset expression. Still trying to pinpoint in my mind where it had all gone so wrong, or if it had been wrong from the very start.
Bianca had approached me. I never threw her the slightest bone, she had just found me. Added me on social networking rigs and persuaded me to trade phone numbers. Even still I was not interested. If Ted Parish was obsessed with some chick, well, who am I to judge, but I was not even going to debunk myself to that category. I had bigger fish to fry, better looking girls; girls with amazing style, girls with amazing hair, girls who were fake and girls who were overbearingly real, girls who threw themselves at me, girls who didn't wear bras, girls who lied to me and girls who said they loved me.
I was in no position to care. I don't know how I even got to that position. That was my third mistake. To thaw out my heart. And so Bianca started writing me messages, searching me, joking with me, being aloof and kind of cool.
I thought it was slightly insane. First she is not the type of girl I would go for; secondly, she is so socially exuberant it makes me nauseous. She used to be in a band, whatever, I couldn't really give a shit at the time. Posers are statues at heart. But that got her this ridiculously big reputation in a town dominated by male musicians and my brother, who runs the entire circus. But there she was, flirting with me, or at least what I perceived as such.
I think all this time, she had just wanted to find someone like me to educate.
And so I went along with this joke; because deep down I don't ever think I'm game enough to be a part of this. "It's all an elaborate joke by a musician mafia under a lot of coke", Bianca said once, or twice, I can't remember. She repeats herself a lot. I thought she must be screwed wrong in the head, or that I must be way too hot not to be noticed at this stage. And so there I am in that picture, and that one, and the one after, having beers and cigarettes with this chick whom I never even heard of. This chick who is never even in my circle of friends. But what is a circle of friends but fighting out fiends that don't actually exist?
And for the next month we hung out in a solely friendship schedule. I learnt more about myself than I did about her - she was great at reflecting me, and giving me pointers on just being, and living, and breathing. We fucked eventually, but I was already hooked then. And I still have the piece of paper in which she wrote all her stupid punk loves; music her ultimate passion. All these bands I ought to listen to; Motorhead, Big Black, Lightning Bolt, Venom, and scribbled at the bottom, her band, Grafite.
I blinked out of this memory in a moment of revelation, a glass of water unfinished in my shaky hand. Maybe it had been the fact she had given me so much, and I had had little to enrich her with. Her name a stated joke: Bianca Rich. Maybe this was why. Maybe I am just an empty cunt, and my void is always filled by other persons.
But no, it is the fact I could never give as much as I received. She gave and I took and I tried SO HARD to give back, maybe I should have not tried at all.
I want to see this truth so badly, that I don't care if it hurts me. I just want to understand why she left me. I need to comprehend. God, have some fucking honest mercy. My brother is Steve Harrison. He can throw a kick-ass party up there. And no, I'm not just saying that because I'm related. It's the truth; ask the circus clowns.
Slipping into my jeans, carefully as my legs throbbed, this revelation remained strong. There is something about him which I can't possibly offer. One of those things is affection. I could never be that honest. It's like unbuttoning your shirt, carving out your muscles and tendons with a knife, and exposing your bare chest, heart thumping and all, fucking scared at you for taking out the knife in the first place.
So this is one of his evolutionary traits I obviously missed, or rather, that my upbringing suppressed. It's all environmental, man. And so he's actually a pretty sweet warm person, and I'm happy she found him, I guess, because she deserves it.
Last night she told me she was quitting smoking because of his asthma.
Well, fuck you, pussy. He smokes too. This is a prime example of eternal Birdseye bullshit.
And so I guess she's too much, and her mind is too incredible, and I could never supply her with the affection she fuels herself off with, and yet there's something else. And so tomorrow when I wake up from a heavy dose of drinks or smokes with the boys, my body either sore with sex or sore with this stupid heartbreak - as it is right now as I sit in my car, ready to swerve into the first tree I see - then I will know more about this unravelling puzzle, this unravelling mystery. Right now things are so hazy.
I still have so many questions, Bianca.
An awkwardly misplaced organ in a foreign male body; my ribs ached. Last night had been fucked up, and I was physically hurting from the sexual escapade. If you could even call it that. It meant absolutely nothing, if not one thing: I had been trying to get back at her, in true good form.
Not that she'd care. She would never care save for those brief and slightly awkward moments in which him and I would have interacted in her presence. He was a handsome boy, with an emphasis on both the adjective and the noun. A pretty creature, a young pretty limb. A man in the works; intelligent, legitimate, honest, kind.
Affectionate.
I forgot affectionate also. I guess because this part hurts the most, if not it being the entirety of all this self-inflicted agony. I could be wrong. I could be blaming myself for insane things; things that don't exist. I could be imagining all of this. But the truth of the matter is, I saw him hold her forearm while she ordered a drink. I saw them hold each other, and I heard the smack of their kiss. Thinking about it made me sick in the stomach. I lurched out of bed and proceeded to the showering duties of the early morning.
I forget that loving is an open wound. She hasn't been my first, and she certainly won't be my last. I am not about to stop; I can't ever stop doing something once these things become me. I am terrible at breaking habits. I started smoking at fifteen and it has been nine years since. A cat only has nine lives. Well, it must be time for an epiphany soon.
When we first met it was by pure occasion. My clothes were wet, my face soaked with rain. The hairdo impression made me look every crawling inch my brother. He is a slicked back version of me. Bianca knew him from his whorish music enterprises, and I should have known better from that fact alone and kept the fuck away from her. Instead she called me Steve all night and made silly references to movies I hadn't even heard of.
I guess I should have quit my job and bought all these movies the very next day. Maybe that would have guaranteed eternal friendship.
But after that things were a continuous uphill. I never knew mountains could climb so high, really. I forgot who she was for a long time; if I had a radar as some allude to, like we're made of rusty machinery, then she had barely even registered. Sure, I thought she was nice, and kind of cute in a strangely deceptive way, as she is such a tomboy I considered her sexual inclinations. It's funny, really. Her face is tiny and her features so gamine, yet she looks like a fourteen-year- old boy sometimes. My feminine traits contribute to this hilarity. It's like we were made to complement one another; a strange design of salt and pepper shakes.
So I hardly knew of her save Jay's younger brother Ted, who has been completely and utterly obsessed with her since he was twelve. I made no point to understand this because frankly, I had better things to do. No fictitious turn here either, I had just begun occupying myself socially so my plate was full. And so I went about my business and constructed this kind of perfected mask of who my brother thought he was. I took what Steve had made for himself and put my touch in it.
And I guess, this was my second mistake.
I began to be noticed and hyped about. Hype and allure apart, I used Steve's growing success as my own personal media box. It worked. "This is Josh, Steve's younger brother." Yeah, whatever. Young by like two minutes and fifty seconds. No one ever believed me when I said Steve was my twin. Like I was trying to mop up some family glory. So I let him do all the relative talk. I never mentioned it again, and put it down to a plain nod every time someone asked if I was Steve Harrison's youngie band clan.
Clearly still drunk, I hopped off the shower and tried to find my towel in the dimly lit light. I live in a share house now. Long were the days where I would bear my belongings with people I care for. My mind racing furiously, the anger building into bile; so much I had to spit it out. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to understand something, even if it was just my faintly upset expression. Still trying to pinpoint in my mind where it had all gone so wrong, or if it had been wrong from the very start.
Bianca had approached me. I never threw her the slightest bone, she had just found me. Added me on social networking rigs and persuaded me to trade phone numbers. Even still I was not interested. If Ted Parish was obsessed with some chick, well, who am I to judge, but I was not even going to debunk myself to that category. I had bigger fish to fry, better looking girls; girls with amazing style, girls with amazing hair, girls who were fake and girls who were overbearingly real, girls who threw themselves at me, girls who didn't wear bras, girls who lied to me and girls who said they loved me.
I was in no position to care. I don't know how I even got to that position. That was my third mistake. To thaw out my heart. And so Bianca started writing me messages, searching me, joking with me, being aloof and kind of cool.
I thought it was slightly insane. First she is not the type of girl I would go for; secondly, she is so socially exuberant it makes me nauseous. She used to be in a band, whatever, I couldn't really give a shit at the time. Posers are statues at heart. But that got her this ridiculously big reputation in a town dominated by male musicians and my brother, who runs the entire circus. But there she was, flirting with me, or at least what I perceived as such.
I think all this time, she had just wanted to find someone like me to educate.
And so I went along with this joke; because deep down I don't ever think I'm game enough to be a part of this. "It's all an elaborate joke by a musician mafia under a lot of coke", Bianca said once, or twice, I can't remember. She repeats herself a lot. I thought she must be screwed wrong in the head, or that I must be way too hot not to be noticed at this stage. And so there I am in that picture, and that one, and the one after, having beers and cigarettes with this chick whom I never even heard of. This chick who is never even in my circle of friends. But what is a circle of friends but fighting out fiends that don't actually exist?
And for the next month we hung out in a solely friendship schedule. I learnt more about myself than I did about her - she was great at reflecting me, and giving me pointers on just being, and living, and breathing. We fucked eventually, but I was already hooked then. And I still have the piece of paper in which she wrote all her stupid punk loves; music her ultimate passion. All these bands I ought to listen to; Motorhead, Big Black, Lightning Bolt, Venom, and scribbled at the bottom, her band, Grafite.
I blinked out of this memory in a moment of revelation, a glass of water unfinished in my shaky hand. Maybe it had been the fact she had given me so much, and I had had little to enrich her with. Her name a stated joke: Bianca Rich. Maybe this was why. Maybe I am just an empty cunt, and my void is always filled by other persons.
But no, it is the fact I could never give as much as I received. She gave and I took and I tried SO HARD to give back, maybe I should have not tried at all.
I want to see this truth so badly, that I don't care if it hurts me. I just want to understand why she left me. I need to comprehend. God, have some fucking honest mercy. My brother is Steve Harrison. He can throw a kick-ass party up there. And no, I'm not just saying that because I'm related. It's the truth; ask the circus clowns.
Slipping into my jeans, carefully as my legs throbbed, this revelation remained strong. There is something about him which I can't possibly offer. One of those things is affection. I could never be that honest. It's like unbuttoning your shirt, carving out your muscles and tendons with a knife, and exposing your bare chest, heart thumping and all, fucking scared at you for taking out the knife in the first place.
So this is one of his evolutionary traits I obviously missed, or rather, that my upbringing suppressed. It's all environmental, man. And so he's actually a pretty sweet warm person, and I'm happy she found him, I guess, because she deserves it.
Last night she told me she was quitting smoking because of his asthma.
Well, fuck you, pussy. He smokes too. This is a prime example of eternal Birdseye bullshit.
And so I guess she's too much, and her mind is too incredible, and I could never supply her with the affection she fuels herself off with, and yet there's something else. And so tomorrow when I wake up from a heavy dose of drinks or smokes with the boys, my body either sore with sex or sore with this stupid heartbreak - as it is right now as I sit in my car, ready to swerve into the first tree I see - then I will know more about this unravelling puzzle, this unravelling mystery. Right now things are so hazy.
I still have so many questions, Bianca.
Monday
letters to Rachel
This is a special delicate situation that we're in. There's all these kids trying to be so scene and getting lost hazardously about it. They haven't even got a taste of the smoke. Once you inhale, you want to get rid of it.
It's like money. If you make it you want to give it away. I guess this doesn't apply so well. The important thing is that they're trying something, and it's quite irreverent of them but they'll never quite make it.
Gay boys hanging out with straight hot girls. Yeah, I really don't get that shit, hey. It's such an angelical hypotetical situation. Such prudes. They just want to stare at each other and be admired. It's retarded. It's cool. Hey, mate, it's robotic.
Wake up.
It's funny though because the slight signs of fame appear. And it's funny because you're my main correspondent, and they adore you because you're game enough. It's hilarious. You're too smart for them and I guess I can understand why you had a break from it and I can see how they would only discuss fashion and I can see that, well, their insecurities would really throw you back.
"Hang out with those that are similar; don't hang out with people that put you down; store your shoes away from the rain," all advices from a sole loyal mother. So she would have told you, or your sister would have told you, and if they didn't you probably started realizing by yourself, that, well, some people put you down and it gets in the way of sunshine.
And all of a sudden you meet these amazing shiny brights, and you want to understand how they glow a house single handedly, and WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY GET THEIR JEANS, and so on, and you just want to chase comets for a while. And that shit gets stupid too because there are no such things.
At a close-up lights can get opaque, illusions created by your favourably impressed brain. And then you forget.
And then you start thinking about brightness, and what is the essence of attraction, and why the fuck do you look back at scholar times. And then excellence becomes a matter of importance. Talents unimaginable and foray lifestyles, change of haircuts and suburbs, and warmth of self realizes itself. And with comfort comes an honest sheen, a glow to the forehead, an approach that gets people thinking.
This is where the wisemen have come and nested. The rest slip into a highly deceiveable persona. They try on some parts and fit some music around their hips - to see if the zip will close. Mostly it's their Grandmothers clothes and they wouldn't fit anyone anyway unless they were an 85kg, seventy year-old woman. Anyway, they keep slipping into confusion. They go gender crazy. They cut their hairs when all they had to do was move out in the first place, or get a nice tatoo from Jeff, my buff next door neighbour.
Retarded. Munted. Horrid. Placid. Epic. All big words that remind me of pretentia. Exquisite taste, they have, in the superficial. But ask who Mark Brown is and they wouldn't have a clue. Lady Gaga, Maddonna; fuck man, they didn't create very much of my experience. But that's another case.
Subsidizing off a big generation of posers, these kids are slightly in for a surprise, but I won't be mean, because they have teeth sharper than bare blades.
It's like money. If you make it you want to give it away. I guess this doesn't apply so well. The important thing is that they're trying something, and it's quite irreverent of them but they'll never quite make it.
Gay boys hanging out with straight hot girls. Yeah, I really don't get that shit, hey. It's such an angelical hypotetical situation. Such prudes. They just want to stare at each other and be admired. It's retarded. It's cool. Hey, mate, it's robotic.
Wake up.
It's funny though because the slight signs of fame appear. And it's funny because you're my main correspondent, and they adore you because you're game enough. It's hilarious. You're too smart for them and I guess I can understand why you had a break from it and I can see how they would only discuss fashion and I can see that, well, their insecurities would really throw you back.
"Hang out with those that are similar; don't hang out with people that put you down; store your shoes away from the rain," all advices from a sole loyal mother. So she would have told you, or your sister would have told you, and if they didn't you probably started realizing by yourself, that, well, some people put you down and it gets in the way of sunshine.
And all of a sudden you meet these amazing shiny brights, and you want to understand how they glow a house single handedly, and WHERE THE FUCK DO THEY GET THEIR JEANS, and so on, and you just want to chase comets for a while. And that shit gets stupid too because there are no such things.
At a close-up lights can get opaque, illusions created by your favourably impressed brain. And then you forget.
And then you start thinking about brightness, and what is the essence of attraction, and why the fuck do you look back at scholar times. And then excellence becomes a matter of importance. Talents unimaginable and foray lifestyles, change of haircuts and suburbs, and warmth of self realizes itself. And with comfort comes an honest sheen, a glow to the forehead, an approach that gets people thinking.
This is where the wisemen have come and nested. The rest slip into a highly deceiveable persona. They try on some parts and fit some music around their hips - to see if the zip will close. Mostly it's their Grandmothers clothes and they wouldn't fit anyone anyway unless they were an 85kg, seventy year-old woman. Anyway, they keep slipping into confusion. They go gender crazy. They cut their hairs when all they had to do was move out in the first place, or get a nice tatoo from Jeff, my buff next door neighbour.
Retarded. Munted. Horrid. Placid. Epic. All big words that remind me of pretentia. Exquisite taste, they have, in the superficial. But ask who Mark Brown is and they wouldn't have a clue. Lady Gaga, Maddonna; fuck man, they didn't create very much of my experience. But that's another case.
Subsidizing off a big generation of posers, these kids are slightly in for a surprise, but I won't be mean, because they have teeth sharper than bare blades.
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