Sunday, May 24, 2009
The California Dream
is attainable, beautiful
through the muzzle of a pistol
into the brains of the blessed
fine and pure
into the veins of the prosperous
spread open wide
like the legs of a whore
too tired to pretend to come
Monday, May 11, 2009
it is not so bad.
but it is not so good, either.
i have made an essential list of what i need soon:
-cha no yu
-a giant, civil war graveyard
-a library that smells old
-physical contact from someone who does not utterly disgust me
-a warm day without 18 mph cold wind
-a room so dark, it is always night
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sunday mornings, coffee and ink from a fresh page of colored comics. I would wake up late, pancakes.
Now I am awake at 9 because I live with too many people. It smells like garbage. My "friends" hit my car, scratch the paint, play their music very loudly. At night, too.
I am up early and down late. This has taken a toll on my mental state.
I was never a positive individual. But I wasn't so starkly negative that I would insult strangers before getting to know them. I do that now, to save time. All the same cookie-cutter-self-absorbed-types, I can shoot them down before they have a chance to aim. It is too easy to be mean. I do not feel regret. If people had feelings, they would consider mine.
My mother is an optimist. It takes someone special to be positive in the face of bullshit. I only learned recently that positivity was not always my mother's tendency. She said she had to work at it.
I am not a hard worker.
I am not special.
At best, I am mediocre in everything I attempt.
I can pass.
But I cannot excel.
My mother is better than everyone in this city combined.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
When we went on long car rides, we would travel with granny smith apples in the back seat. I was unsure how I felt about this. On the one hand, apples are fun to toss around. On the other, this particular type of apple is bad to eat on an empty stomach because it makes the inside of you feel like it is made of acid. Also, when it got too hot, the apples would smell up the car. Like hot apples.
But sometimes my father would get mad. He would say"GODAMNIT!" more than once every five minutes, and my mother would turn around in the passenger seat and say, "Get your father an apple, he is having a blood sugar attack." My father can eat an entire apple in three bites.
We would play the radio, but when it rained and the wipers had to be turned on full-force, my parents would turn the music down because they had to "concentrate on the road."
We'd get to the mountains, or the beach, I would wake up and be glad to stretch around outside.