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I'm moving to Wyoming [23 Mar 2011|12:34am]
Anybody here live in or around Memphis, St. Louis, Kansas City, or Denver?
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Rechoosing My Vices [24 Jan 2010|04:46pm]
[ mood | optimistic ]

Recent musical obsession: Carl Simmons - Honeysuckle Tendrals LP

"Outsider folk" can be a tough egg to crack. The genre's music is almost uniformly oppressively isolating, adhering heavily to a lo-fi aesthetic. Its artists are frequently incoherent or outright loons, their words betraying no consistent beliefs or understanding of the world and making little sense out of the context of their songs1. The quality of these albums - almost all one-shots - is so scatter-shot as well, ranging from utterly inspired madness (like my 2009 Album of the Year, Amen Dunes' DIA) to stuff like the self-titled Marcus LP, which the Acid Archives accurately describe as "Rusty Evans broadcasting from burnout island." Certainly Honeysuckle Tendrals must've been hard to stomach in its original form, a 90 minute cassette that Carl Simmons distributed himself to friends and at open mic nights, but the Sacred Bones label's recent reissue on wax distills the record down to 30 minutes or so of utterly entrancing loner music. Some may see Simmons' childlike vocal manipulations as little more than a gimmick but to my ears it only enhances the eerie mood of the recordings, which often consist of nothing more than sound collages and a single, out-of-tune guitar. Check out this track, with credit for the link going to Mr. Andy French:

Carl Simmons - Kaspar Hauser

As a solitary person I've always been drawn to this sort of music. I can't shake the feeling I'm just spitting out bullshit by saying I "identify" with this stuff but I feel about it the way Don Draper feels about advertising, that it's "a billboard on the side of the street that screams with reassurance that whatever you're doing is okay, you are okay." Fractured minds capable of beauty are better inspiration than we can even receive from friends sometimes. Where artists and celebrities are unattached and static, ready for us to attach whatever we want to them, our friends are biased and constantly in flux, forcing their own meaning onto us.

My friend "Dan," for example, may well be gone. Having had a nervous breakdown a few weeks ago he's now this sad, lithium-aided shell of a man who can muster enthusiasm only through his distaste for his surroundings. Once, when I was on mushrooms alone in my bedroom and the song I was listening to2 seemed to be screaming at me to go find one of the endlessly fascinating people I've met in this city, "Dan" was the first person I thought to call. He'd always had this freewheeling attitude about him, a cocky swagger that could grate on you but that was fun to feed off of when he wasn't being confrontational. His confidence was something I'd always admired, though, often turning to him for advice on women and friends, and I respected his worldview, which had always been basely logical, any cynicism the product of an admittedly hard upbringing. It's funny to me now that that day on mushrooms was the first time I really noticed his mind slipping, when he, sober, was unable to stick to a single topic of conversation for more than 15 seconds, besides perhaps telling me how, when sitting alone at the place he was housesitting, he would try to communicate with the cats. When he got back to town from the hospital I made it a point to be one of the first people to visit him but the time over at his apartment just deepened the depression swelling in that part of me. Traces of his ego remain, but mostly now he just seems average, already succumbing to a middle age sadness at the absence of accomplishment.

"Dan"'s breakdown was a very public one and I think it may have tainted the way all of my friends are perceiving things. Mike, a guy who I previously didn't hesitate to call my best friend, doesn't hang anymore and I suspect it may have something to do with my Facebook. For those of you who don't know, I've changed my name on that website to "Smeagle D. Beagle" and change my profile picture (almost) every day to a new picture of a beagle puppy from this one blog on my Google Reader. Longtime Facebook friends will perhaps recognize that I've always treated the website as a joke, once posing as Swamp Thing for a month or two and another time changing my last name to Webpage and creating a sweet infinity effect with my profile picture. I think this may be different to people because I can get a dog but don't, it had no obvious catalyst and doesn't seem to reference anything else. I learned from Mike's roommate that he's seeing the new profile as a definite sign that I've lost it, and I think I understand it. My affection for dogs is no secret to anyone who knows me well, and likewise my depression. I try not to make this latter dead horse a constant harping point but I think it's probably a pretty common feeling to be disappointed with your reality and who you are/can be; thus, I think Mike probably reads my playing a dog on the internet as a rejection of my reality and an insane public desire to actually become canine.

I'm actually a little glad I took a while to write this entry because it might have just been too easy to write him off as just "not getting it" if not for a conversation I had with another friend - one separate from any previously mentioned drama - the other night. Normally I pay no mind to any judgment Camille passes, as she thinks she possesses some great wisdom from her time as a hopeless drug addict when really all that shit means is she made a lot of bad choices, but a lot of what she talked about seemed to echo my own ideas about what I believe other people think. She basically said that my self-imposed isolation was not good for me because I was losing touch with how people act, becoming so absorbed with the nature of performance that I was forgetting how to be natural or "real." Granted, this is all based on her having little interaction with me outside of Facebook as her status as "my ex's old friend" doesn't motivate me much towards hanging out with her, but it kind of struck a chord. I have been obsessed of late with this idea of "performance." Lying in bed with this girl a couple of weeks ago I was unable to stop thinking about how the me she knows is merely the me I show, and that her presence there despite my apathy towards her meant that I was capable, maybe for the first time in my life, of acting some way besides how I felt. I'm growing up and becoming more two-faced, more unlike the "real" me, and I've never been happier.

Sitting here staring at those last four words and I can't convince myself one way or the other whether or not they're untrue. I broke up with the girl mentioned above shortly after that night and have been seeing someone since that I am absolutely crazy about. I got a raise and more hours at my job and while that's cut down my free time considerably it's also given me more money with less incentive to spend it on booze. And while there are still things about myself I genuinely hate and wish I could change I've been reminded what it is to be adored, that I can behave in the manner of a likable and interesting person. And I have my internet beagles who produce feedback that, like the comments this journal used to generate, reinforce all good feelings, remind me that whatever I am doing, I am okay. I need more things like that in my life, to remind me that all experience is something of a blank canvas upon which we paint ourselves and these bad vibes are just indicative of the people sending them. I just hope Mike gets over himself, because I want to share these good feelings more.

1. I was at a bar recently waiting for a friend's band to start playing and Flashdance was on television. Having never actually seen the film I became amused with the showy images and muddled visual narrative. Equally entertaining were the closed captions, which not only verbalized the dog's barks ("Woof! Woof! Woof!") but also followed the lyrics to the soundtrack, sparking a discussion with a nearby soda-drinker about how ridiculous pretty much any lyrics sound out of context. The Facebook generation may have taken the application of personal meaning to lyrics to an all new level (or at least one not seen since Dylan's 60s heyday), but by and large rock lyrics - and I am perhaps talking specifically about rock lyrics, and probably those to dance songs, too, but I don't really listen to dance music much anymore - are filled with "Gonna have a party to save my soul"s and "I know you like nobody ever"s. I'd be interested to hear your favorite clunkers.
2. Magic Lantern - Deathshead Hawkmoth (thanks again to Mr. French)
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First real post in years [19 Dec 2009|03:19pm]
[ mood | sprained ankle ]

When I was little I loved the X-Men, was subscribed to X-Men and Uncanny and Wolverine and maybe even a couple of the others - Generation X, X-Factor maybe - even watched that cartoon that was on Fox Kids or whatever the fuck1. On Saturdays when my mom would lock me out of the house I'd run around the neighborhood pretending to be some sort of mutant. I think I was always one of those bullshitters whose superpower was "whatever became necessary in battle," like early Superman. The reverie wasn't limited to daylight hours, either, as - in a fantasy that perhaps portended future emotional issues - I'd imagine I was in critical condition, as a mutant, after a colossal battle (usually with Apocalypse, my favorite villain) and that all of my mutant friends were surrounding me, hoping for my speedy recovery. This method was an almost sure-fire way to get myself to fall asleep in a matter of minutes and was employed God knows how many times for years of my childhood.

With the fairly recent emergence of comics as a popular commercial/critical art form it seems regrettable that I didn't stick with the magazines. While some of my friends who never read comics before Watchmen got named to that Time "Greatest Novels" list still have fairly stilted understandings of the medium's workings relative to me, I feel like there's a lot more I could be getting out of them2 if only I'd remained a "true believer." But other interests always get in the way of what we love as little kids: for me it was sports, music, movies, eventually girls. These all came with their own set of headaches, complexes grown out of adolescence, until one day I'd forgotten how I fell asleep easy all those years before a warm body or booze accompanied me to bed.

Then a few days ago it kind of came to me again, and I decided to give it a shot. I got over the ridiculousness of a man my age pretending to be a new arrival at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, worried myself not with the elaborate imaginations of a fated battle. I imagined myself there, in bed, broken and battered, maybe even comatose, with imaginary friends silently pulling for me.

I can't believe I was surprised it didn't work. I'd had a similar experience just a few months before: around the time the second Iron & Wine album was released I figured out that either of those first two records could put me to sleep in three songs or less. For a month or two that was the go-to sleep aid, but then somewhere along the line rating communities (yes, I'm blaming YOU) spoiled the experience for me. Let's call it May of this year when I decided to download a bunch of stuff I was into before heavy LJ-addiction, including those Iron & Wine albums. When I listened to them in bed this time, initial happiness at still being able to enjoy songs like "Lion's Mane" and "Bird Stealing Bread" wore off with complete annoyance at stuff like "The Rooster Moans."3 Soon, the album was over and if anything I was more awake. Maybe familiarity with the songs (or, in reference back to X-Men, familiarity with those characters and storylines) in years previous is what allowed me to drift off without thinking so much, or maybe this kind of stuff just doesn't cut it for me anymore. I don't know. Sleep remains difficult. Another old strategy, reading books, doesn't help much anymore, either. I was up until four last night reading Helter Skelter.

I've written so much now about my trouble sleeping that if you're still reading you're probably wondering why. I'm having a similar experience with LiveJournal. I don't want to say that my posts from years ago were necessarily planned out, but I went into them with a sense of purpose - maybe not a theme but an idea of what I wanted to say, exactly - and had some sort of practice that allowed me to carry it out. A few weeks ago I promised a post with a starting point in mind: I'd recently returned home from spending a couple of days at my Grandmother's for Thanksgiving and found myself emotionally drained, not from spending time with the family but from the drive down there, roads I hadn't spent much time on since I lived in Savannah/Statesboro. I-16 and Highways 19/41 represent for me a past sadness. I can't be on those roads without thinking of Ivy, who isn't relevant anymore. There's a house on 41 that's been sitting in the same state of construction for years, in front of it a Rolls Royce covered up, it too having not moved or changed in forever. I was hoping to use it - its incompleteness, the abandonment, a made up story about the hows and whys - as some sort of metaphor.

Point is, the post never materialized. I couldn't seem to get myself back into that same blogging zone, even though all the parts of the post were there in my head. Even writing this feels different than what my memory of those posts over three years ago were like to write, so I wonder if reading me now is in any way the same sensation. I have a reputation now of being something of an asshole. People say this to my face, meaning to inform rather than to offend, and I wonder if I even remember what it is to be nakedly emotional. In other words, I wonder if people say this to me because I'm stonefaced. Because I don't cry anymore. Because I no longer have anyone to use as a personification of my troubles. Because I don't come here and get my catharsis (and frequently much-appreciated validation4). Because I drink more now than I ever had before. Because I only clumsily ache for acceptance, because I'm too self-conscious to whine about my ankle being sprained, because I only think of the right thing to say too late.

I don't know, I got pretty into that. If I'm not familiar enough with LiveJournal anymore to get what I used to out of it, then maybe I should be looking for something else, but if I think it's going to help me I'll do it here. I won't make any more promises about posting and can't follow comment threads the way I used to (fuck, I can't keep up communication with anyone, ever, so be hard on me), but I want us to be friends again. And the couple of you out there I know are already new: hello, nice to meet you.

1. I even made my parents take me to Pizza Hut so I could get the VHS tapes of that show. A couple of years ago me and some friends watched an episode - the one where Wolverine runs away to be an Eskimo but Sabretooth follows him and starts menacing his tribe to remind him he can't escape his past (literally screaming, I think, "You can't escape your past, Wolverine!") - and while I think my friends enjoyed it ironically I felt a supreme sense of disappointment at how simple-minded the dialogue and plot were, even for children's programming.
2. For example, I think I could get Shintaro Kago's "Abstraction" a lot better if y'all would buy me these.
3. The second album is a very similar experience now, though for me it's particularly back-loaded.
4. I hope this isn't taken wrong - I never thought of anyone here as an enabler, more like pairs of understanding ears.
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and now for something completely... [05 Jun 2006|02:11pm]
[ mood | sad ]

Time does little to diminish my memory. I can still see the sky in my head, all cloudy and dark, except for the moon peaking out. The stadium lights cut through the shadows like a knife, and there we were, the four of us, walking to the stadium. I was exceptionally dapper that night, trying to make up for the frenzy inside my head by wearing a three-piece suit to a football game. I was trying to get with a new girl then, but it didn’t take someone half as observant as me to tell she wasn’t interested, and I might as well have gone to the game alone for the way I felt. She sat separate from me and the new girl, one row ahead with her new man, a friend of mine, I guess you’d say. The new girl kept getting up throughout the first quarter and talking to her other friends, running into her ex-boyfriends, chatting away carelessly, and me? I was left alone there, one row behind her and him, watching them talk to each other, joke back and forth, and I watched one of them put an arm around the other and pull them close. Without a word or companion, I stood up and walked out. Just before I got to my car, my phone rang; it was my friend, asking me where I was. I told him I was leaving because I couldn’t take it, it was all coming back to me and I had to get out. He told me not to do anything stupid, and I told him it was too late. In retrospect, that might’ve been a little too dark.

She called me a few minutes later, said they were leaving the game and going to Chick-Fil-A. I told her my car had blown a tire because I’d swerved off the road and hit something, which was the truth. I said I had to change my tire, but then I’d see them there. I distinctly recall being unable to see what I was doing changing the tire because of all the tears in my eyes. Goddamn thoughts, they’re all the worst, I composed myself and got in the car, listened to music loud, exactly what I’d probably prefer not to remember. The air was strange that night, it was too cold for October, and the way things looked, way too blue, illuminated by the moon. I only watched the road directly in front of me, brightened by a yellow glow, like a shot from one of those neo-noir films. I pulled up to Chick-Fil-A with my windows down, hoping they’d hear what I was listening to and get a feel for my mood. I grabbed a Steno Pad out of the glove box and found a pencil and met them at the table. The girls sat together and I sat next to him, which was the way I wanted it, I guess. The waitress was familiar to me; she’d flashed a bunch of us at a party, a year or so prior. We were all too young to drink then; we didn’t know what that poison was supposed to kill. All throughout dinner, I wrote furiously, filling page after page with senseless thoughts, and every time someone tried to drag me into the conversation, I’d jump right out with a two-word response laced with hatred. It wasn’t long after that night that I swore I’d never talk to her again.

A year and a half or so later, I’m sitting in a hallway outside a classroom in the General Classroom Building at Georgia State University, waiting for class to start. I reach into my backpack and pull out a Steno Pad I’d found in a Reebok shoebox I hadn’t opened since moving. Though the box had six or seven of these things in them, I’d chosen this one because it didn’t have anything stupid written on the front of it like “Don’t read or you’ll judge,” which I’d probably put on a bunch of notebooks after reading Kurt Cobain’s Journals. I open it up and see a bunch of scribbling in pencil, and begin to read. At first, it makes no sense to me, I wonder what the fuck I was when I wrote it and what the hell I’m going on about, and then it hits me as I read one line:

“Andrew’s a terrific writer.”

The memories come rushing back, enveloping me like I’ve fallen into a body of water, and suddenly it becomes a little hard to breathe. The words burn through the page, postmodernist flames with no compassion or mercy, and I close the Steno Pad and put it away, opting to stare at the wall instead of face the past. So this is how it’s always going to be, then? The expectations become harder and harder to live with, as more people begin to assume them.

The days slip away faster than ever before now. Sometimes I don’t even listen to music when I’m sleeping; sometimes I don’t even turn on the TV for that reassuring glow it’ll fill my room with, sometimes I don’t even fall asleep in front of the computer, the way I used to when I had something to sit in front of it for. Sometimes I lie there for hours and stare into the empty part of me, remembering the days when it was full, and thinking about how much I’d like to fill it up again. Sometimes I curl up into a ball and fold over inside myself, and others it’s like I’m being crushed from above and I can’t tell if I’m moving towards the ceiling or if it’s coming down on me.

I used to explode all of the time. Feelings would well up inside of me and build and build until finally I’d burst, and tiny pieces of me would go everywhere and touch everybody and everything. Now, that sensation has been replaced with something else entirely, I crinkle and flatten like an aluminum can. Sadness is strange, one weekend in Athens I was watching a movie with my friend and I felt the stabs at my heart, but instead of breaking open my rib cage and tearing my inside out, all I felt was a boot to the chest, stomping down. Even bliss is different now, Transmissions from the Satellite Heart fills the rooms of my basement apartment and surrounds me on all sides, but nothing ever gets in. I only leave the door unlocked downstairs when I’m not at home, and I bet if The Man Upstairs found out, he’d be quite upset.

“We’ll meet again. We’ll meet again. We’ll meet again. We’ll meet again.” I kept thinking it over and over again but never felt the time was right to say it. I used to always tell her that I was always right, but in truth I’ve been wrong for so long now that the truth couldn’t seem more false. Andrew as you and I know him is hidden inside a fortress of deception, and all of the images you’ve seen are just false reflections from the mirrors I hung. A few tabs of acid and some fuzzed out guitars and I’ve got a great psychedelic record. It might too late, though; the truth is, I’m already feeling a bit burnt out, like my fifteen minutes have passed, and I would pull out now if I didn’t already have so much invested in this.

I can’t even begin to write about these things without somehow betraying myself.

It all came to me in a dream one night, the success and glory that I’ve been daydreaming about for years now. I was there in the bright lights with people cheering me, and everyone I’ve ever wanted to impress was there in the front row, there to witness my glory and maybe finally respect me, maybe finally love me, but for some reason it wasn’t any different than anything else. Like everything else that I ever achieved, it was tarnished somehow; the way being friends with everyone I love has been tarnished by deceitful means of attaining friendship, the tarnishing of my writing because of the untruthfulness of my “experience.” I’m sorry.

I’m sorry. I worry about the afterlife, because I know that no decent God would trust me. Forgiveness is a fool’s redemption, a temporary respite from sin that never lasts and is never taken seriously. When I’m at my worst: head buried in a pillow, body curled up in a ball, I ask myself who will be more charitable, God or my friends. I always convince myself that I’m unfulfilled, and that the respite from anger I’ll receive from my friends will last longer than the one I’ll face with God, but every time the question pops up again, I ask myself why I’m delaying the inevitable. I’m afraid I’m going to run out of answers.

I didn’t think of it when this picture was being taken, but it might be the final document of the Colquitt house, the party house, the house in Little Five. They kicked out one of their roommates (for sins similar to mine), and now don’t know if they’re going to have the money to stay out the summer. Like most of my friends, I’m completely distressed by the situation. I’ll still hang out with the guys if that’s the case – I see most of them every day, and I kind of dread going to Little Five – but I don’t know if any of us will be able to form a group like that anymore. From now on, small alliances will hold precedence over large mobs. It’s a change, but we should be thankful for the little things, I suppose.

I’m thankful for my position at the radio station, and the small amounts of freedom that I experience there. I’m thankful for things to do in the morning, because if I don’t have any, I’ll lay around feeling sorry for myself. I’m thankful for music, because it’s what really kept me sane through every hard time I’ve had lately. I’m thankful for movies, the passion for which I rediscovered about a week and eight films ago. I love all of the good things about life, because it can all be so sweet. I wish I could take a picture of the good feelings, and put it up on my wall, a constant reminder of everything there is to live for. My wallet went missing recently, which wasn’t depressing so much for the money and credit cards I lost or the ID that was in it, but rather for all the completely irreplaceable things in there – business cards, phone numbers of people long gone, and pictures. One was a cut out from National Geography, a portrait of a man burned on over ninety percent of his body who had survived a plane crash in Alaska and walked seven miles in the snow to the nearest help he could find. It was life affirming, and it helped me so much to look at it when I felt hopeless. Also life affirming were the pictures of people I knew in there, especially hers, the only reminder I had of her that didn’t make me wistful. If everything else in the world was going to hell, it was nice just to see her.

She looked nervous staring at me through the window of the coffee shop, trying to tell me with her eyes not to come in, not to say hi, we’ve said everything we need to. I just couldn’t resist, I’m sorry, I love to see her riled up, on her toes, I still hold out hope that she’ll get that look on her face, “Oh, it’s just Andrew getting kicks, forget it, he doesn’t mean it, it’s cute, it’s endearing, it’s what makes him so good to be around, so good to know, so good to love.” It’s not, is it, though? I wish we’d all just grow up, myself especially. Forget this, it’s gone, let it go, it’s a stock that hasn’t been gaining in years, it’s a dot com company and you’ve still got all your shares. Any hope you hold out thinking maybe it will be a money-maker again is a mistake, abandon it now, while you’ve still got your sanity. It’s a balloon that slipped out of your grasp, and if you keep jumping high enough to get a close glimpse, soon you’re not going to be able to land on your feet when you come down. It’s a dead horse, Andrew, let’s let sleeping dogs lie. The past will only bother you if you don’t let it go, if you let it play over and over again in your head. And sometimes the past plays itself out for you. The script of every day I’ve lived the past few months has just been another rewrite of that one night so long ago, and if things don’t change soon, if I can’t get a recasting, a new ending, anything new… Fuck, I don’t know what I’m going to do.

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please be gentle [06 Mar 2006|12:56pm]
[ mood | sad ]

"Shh... watch your voice or she'll hear you."

Stone drunk again, cheek against the cold surface of a tile floor. Turn over and put eyes on the door, light creeping out from beneath it. Not ready to face it, not today, I’ll come out later. I sit up and peek into the bowl. The soft glow of the night light by the mirror allows me to see the stains of vomit on the porcelain just above the water line. Too much of this lately, or maybe not enough – it doesn’t seem to matter much anymore.

For a long time when I woke up in the morning I’d feel the mattress to my right, where the indention her memory left would bring me comfort. One particular morning I reached over with my eyes still closed and felt no indention, but rather something very strange, very foreign. It wasn’t the warmth of another’s skin, like I’d hope to surprise me, but rather something cold, something stiff. I opened up my eyes to see a large cardboard box in the bed next to me. Surprised, I got up and looked it over – nothing indicating any origin besides thin air anywhere. I opened it up and looked inside, and there was nothing, so I did what any sensible person would do and got inside.

For weeks or months I lived in the box, and it worked like a charm for so long. Every now and then I could hear a voice through the cardboard, but I wanted no company in my fortress of solitude, so I fed the voice any answers it wanted until it finally left me alone. I enjoyed the darkness; I never had the light of hope burning my eyes, or the distracting glow of the circus lights in Schumacher’s Gotham keeping me from my studies and my own selfish glory. With my knees to my chest and my nose to the ground, I didn’t have to be bothered by anything I didn’t want to be bothered by. But then I got bored.

The constant darkness of the inside of the box began to wear on me, so I tried things to throw some variety into my dreary existence: cracked the flaps on the top, poked tiny holes with a needle into the sides, made a removable view hole so I could see outside if I wanted. With all of these new additions, the box lost its ability to shelter me from the light, but at first the intrusion was welcome. It had been so long since I’d seen the sun or a fluorescent bulb; I’d actually begun to miss it. Then this weekend – oh, the decision I made this weekend. I’d heard the voice earlier in the week, maybe Monday or Tuesday, and looked through my view hole to see who’d been talking to me all of this time. Truth is, I’d known who it was, but was afraid to look because I felt guilty about never being able to look the voice in the face. “Today you’ll have some courage,” I said, and I did something brash. I opened up the box and I stepped out, I walked up to the voice and stood within arm’s reach of it.

I’ve placed a towel in front of the crack at the bottom of the door, unplugged the light, and now I’m sitting on top of the closed toilet lid, running my fingers through the hairs on my chin that’ve grown thick from my laziness. When I’d turned around to retreat from her, my box - my safe haven - was no longer there, and I’d been left with nowhere to turn for isolation. I whisper softly to myself, and when I raise my voice to yell I’m doing little more than muttering. Still, I fear she’ll hear the curses I pile upon her name if she’s standing on the other side of that door. I’m equally afraid she’ll hear the prayers I send out in the hope that she will be there if I open it.

When I come out there’s only one thing on my mind. J.W. Dundee’s Honey Brown Lager is surprisingly drinkable for a drink that costs $8.99 a twelve pack. Between that and pizza and milk, I’m going to go broke before the month is up, but I don’t mind so much. The lager’s kiss is cold, but at least it’s sensual, and more importantly, at least it’s there. Don’t be surprised if you find me at the bottom of a bottle sometime soon; I’ve no classes to get up for, so I don’t intend to get up just yet. Don’t worry, though – I’ll find a way to get back on my feet, or at least somewhere new to hide.

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remember when i said all my entries were really open letters? [22 Feb 2006|02:25pm]
[ mood | detached ]

Dear __________,

It’s been a while. Since we last spoke, not a lot has changed, which I guess is the reason it’s taken me so long to get back to you. Don’t worry, I’ve been writing plenty, and I’ll get around to sharing it, in time.

I’ve been lonely lately, nothing new there. My dreams have been like slideshows. In a dark image like something you see in an old photograph, I see her bare stomach, her hips hidden in boxer shorts, lying perpendicular to my body. Surrounded by darkness, I see her face, her skin the same color and tone as Robert Mitchum’s on the cover of the Night of the Hunter DVD. Light creeps through the blinds in her room, falling on nothing, only illuminating the objects behind the rays. I dream of nothing but loving you. The soundtrack isn’t music the way it normally is; instead, I hear voices talking about the weather, about traffic, about D.I. Go Pop. Every morning when I wake up, I pray that I’m still dreaming, and sometimes I think I am. I don’t feel like I’m involved with anything going on around me. I look at my reality as if it’s art, something that I don’t have to react to immediately, something that I can wait on and take time to consider. It’s like I’m in a movie theater and have completely lost interest in what I’m watching, and I’m just checking my watch, to see how long I’ve got until the show’s over.

I’ve been listening to Odessey and Oracle a lot, for different reasons. Feeling too much like “Maybe After He’s Gone” when all I want to feel like is “Friends of Mine.” Maybe even “I Want Her She Wants Me,” but I’m not that lucky - not yet, not without work. I need to learn to improve myself. No more music on the bus, I need to learn to talk to people. Only a couple of hours a day browsing LiveJournal. Watch one movie a day. Watch less TV. Dedicate more hours to reading, more hours to studying. Get to bed at a decent time every night. Call people more often. Love more people, and hate less. Meet new people. Listen to all of the music on your iPod, and when you’ve rated everything, clear it out. Then, fill it up with new music. Listen to new music. Do your laundry. Take out your trash. Clean all those boxes and empty beer bottles out of your car. Shave more often. Make a coherent story out of all the garbage you’ve written lately. Start getting to school early again. Spend less money. Make fun of that kid that wears Dream Theater and Blind Guardian shirts. Show other people the good side of yourself, because that side of you is amazing. Despite all the depression and detachment I’ve been battling, I’ve got a sense of self-worth right now that’s higher than at any time since the summer. I just wish I could figure out some way to apply this confidence to bettering my surroundings. I need to find something worth my time, I guess is what I’m saying.

I got my hair cut, but I don’t like it. I miss my long hair. I think I’ll bring it back. Let’s all bring back our long hair. Let’s swear off barbers and scissors. Let’s swear off fashion and norms and convention. Let’s all buy matching outfits, and go out in public, and make everyone turn their heads so they can see how great we all look together. Let’s watch old Betty Boop cartoons and laugh at her sexpot antics. Let’s listen to Cab Calloway, on and on for days. Let’s start a metal band, but never write any songs, and play concerts more concerned about our volume than our songcraft, and when one of us moves away, when we inevitably part ways, we’ll look at our fans and smile and say, “Thanks for the memories.” No, wait, let’s not move apart, let’s all move away together, to an island nation, and forget about what we knew here, except for the parts that are good to remember, which is all of it. Let’s make a lot of plans we’ll never follow through with, not because we don’t want to, but because we don’t have the means. Let’s not care, let’s dream big anyway.


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you're an idiot, babe [05 Feb 2006|01:49pm]
[ mood | tired ]

”If you see her, say hello/She might be living in Tangier/She left here last early Spring/Is livin’ there, I hear”

Atlanta has its ups and downs, its pros and cons, its good things and its bad. I’ve been telling people that all things considered, I couldn’t be happier, but I don’t know if that’s true, really – I mean, I always add the “all things considered” modifier to make sure everyone knows that I’m not really happy here. I wonder how much of it is me, how much of it is this place, and how much of it is everything that’s happened recently. Not a lot’s happened recently, or at least not a lot worth writing about. Physically, I haven’t been up to much, my heart and mind have been active enough for everybody lately. Not moving a whole lot in other areas, either.

”And though our separation/It pierced me to the heart/She still lives inside of me/We’ve never been apart”

Finished V for Vendetta, bought and started Thomas Pynchon’s V. Joseph Esteban’s recommendation as well as the main character from Vendetta’s sealed the deal. I hope to finish it before The Life and Opinion of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman arrives from Barnes and Noble, but don’t know if that’s possible. I think I’m looking forward to reading that book more than I’ve ever looked forward to reading in a book, or if that’s not true, I’m the most excited about a book before reading it than I have been in a while.

Musically, I finally started listening to white music again – doom metal and death metal and psychedelic and Blood on the Tracks (obviously) and other things of that nature (though that’s a very indefinable nature, I suppose). Went on a 2 day Nirvana binge after being spurred by Dave but didn’t go off the deep end. I have been listening to some colored folks - Ini Kamoze in particular – but not a ton. I’ve been searching for great basslines, and if you guys know of many that weren’t mentioned here, here, or here, please, I’d love to hear ‘em. I’m seeing a mix or possibly countdown sometime in the future, if I can get enough truly great ones. The question is, how much Bootsy and Watt is too much Bootsy and Watt?

There’s more to report on the movie front than there has been in a long time. Saw The Squid and the Whale, Cache, Capote, and Good Night and Good Luck (I saw the 2nd and 4th with Julia, it was nice hanging out with her again). In terms of being good, I would put them in that order, but I think all 4 might have a place on my top 10 of 2005 list (and while I liked all 4, I don’t think I could say anything that would be a bigger diss upon the quality of movies in ’05). I’ve also watched Los Olvidados twice since checking it out from the school library and plan one more for today before I return it on Monday. It’s every bit as good as I remembered, and I like savoring these opportunities to watch it again and again, since it is nearly impossible to find. Oh, and I’ve been watching about 20 minutes of Once Upon a Time in America every night before I fall asleep; at this rate, I will be done in two years.

”Oh, whatever makes her happy/I won’t stand in the way/Though the bitter taste still lingers on/From the night I tried to make her stay”

I’ve been writing a lot. I’m afraid to show it to all of you or to anybody, because I don’t know how it’ll be received. Somewhere inside of me I believe it’s all genius and somewhere else I believe it’s all tripe. I presented the idea of posting snippets of writings here to Basil and Uncle Voggy, and both of them thought it was a good idea, so don’t be surprised if this journal becomes a highly conceptual exercise in self-gratification in the near future. The two of them also expressed interest in making a film together, which I think might be a nice idea. It’d be nice to be behind the camera again.

”Either I’m too sensitive/Or else I’m gettin’ soft”

I drive around here a lot, and go on long walks to nowhere in particular, Faust’s first album usually blasting in my ears. I decided that “Why Don’t You Eat Carrots?” was the perfect walking song sometime when I was in Toronto, and nothing that’s happened since then has led me to believe otherwise. I think about things I probably shouldn’t. I wonder where He grew up. I wonder if He took these same walks, if I’m on the same path He used to travel, on bike or on foot or on whatever His privileged life afforded him to travel on. I think about my friends’ constant praising of Him, and wonder if they understand the cynicism lurking behind everything I say. I’m bitter, and I’ve got no problem admitting it. I’m mad, but I’m clearheaded. I’ve been thinking a lot about the government, and about politics in general, and how disconnected I feel from the rest of the world. I sit beside the creek out back and dream that it’s a mighty river, and wonder if I got a boat and sailed down that river to its end, if the world would be any different. I question experience, I question friendships, I worry and I brood. I sit alone at home when I should be out having fun and I don’t feel the least bit disappointed in the decisions I’ve made since I’ve been here. I sometimes wish I had given Statesboro a better or second chance, but then I remember how perfect my geographic location is. I don’t ever want to move, I just want to make friends, and I want to fall in love again, and I want to sit on my back in the park up the street and stare at the clouds and listen to Ohio Express until I just can’t stand it anymore.

But for now, confusion is the flavor du jour, and if nothing else, at least it feels right.

”If she’s passin’ back this way/I’m not that hard to find/Tell her she can look me up/If she’s got the time”

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Moving [23 Jan 2006|03:15pm]
[ mood | good ]

Driving up the interstate, I-85, to move into the new place, Heavier Than a Death in the Family blaring out of my car’s shitty speakers, the only way to hear it, man. Suddenly, I notice a car passes me like I’m doing 20 when my speedometer reads 85, and I catch a glimpse of the name of the back of its trunk. Charger. One of the 06 models, the new, slick, modern muscle car; it’s a silver one with a Mississippi plate, God knows what it was doing in the south metro area. What a beast, it’s doing at least 100. I floor it – I’m not tailgating, I’m drafting.

We go down the road like that, 100, 105 miles an hour, exit after exit, weaving in between cars, the two of us together. I often find buddies on the interstate to make my way through traffic with, but none like this before. He’s not like me, I can’t just stomp the gas and expect my car to immediately speed up, nor can I hope to go anywhere near as fast as he can. I’ve got one thing he doesn’t, though: instinct. He gets trapped behind some beat up old car, a Le Baron maybe, and I speed past him, thinking maybe our fun is over.

The difference between me and a racer is that a racer doesn’t have to make a conscious decision to speed away from a car he’s left in his dust, it’s just his natural tendency. Me, I realize that I’m not behind the Charger anymore, so I probably shouldn’t be doing 100 miles an hour anymore. I slow down and soon I’ve come upon heavier traffic than what I’d seen at any point before. As I slow down, I take a look in my rear view mirror. There he is, speeding up behind me.

We begin to weave through cars at breakneck speeds like it’s nothing. My speedometer is going crazy, from 75 to 90, from 80 to 110. This is what I liked about having to go from Statesboro to Newnan so often, this is what made the trip worthwhile. I’m in the far right lane and I zip past a light blue ’89 Tercel that’s been sitting on the side of 85 for a month or two, and I wonder how many times in the course of human history two cars of the same make, model, and color have hit each other on the road. No time to ponder it, the Charger’s getting ahead, and I pull up close behind him.

I wonder if he notices me the way I notice him. Surely he does. I wonder if he wonders how in the world a piece of shit 87 Toyota is keeping up with him like this. Instinct, I tell him. I wonder if he feels the same comradery that I do. He must. My thoughts begin to drift again, as we hit the open road and the roar of our engines the wave of sonic outburst from LRD wash over us. My mom told me she heard about a hostage situation in Statesboro the other day. “Good,” I replied. “Maybe it’ll give ‘em something to talk about there.” I can’t be bothered with the problems of that town anymore, I’m in Atlanta, this city is mine and Statesboro’s far behind me, like all of those chumps me and the Charger have left behind.

We hit the I-75/I-85 merger, a two lane bridge bending slightly to the left and combining the two biggest interstates in the state into one massive freeway. The Charger gets in the right lane and moves in fast on this minivan doing about 55, while I stay in the left lane and pull up close to an Excursion doing 70. We move up to his left, first the Excursion and then me, and for a moment, we’re side by side. I glance over and get my first look at the man behind the wheel. A business man, it looks like, or maybe just a guy who likes wearing suits. They exist, you know. He looks over briefly, too, and I nod, a gesture of respect. I notice the Excursion is getting well ahead of the minivan, and I speed up, shoot through the gap between the two cars and floor it, going down the bridge at about 95. I look back and see the Charger’s still stuck behind the minivan, but I can’t concern myself with him now. The difference between me and a racer is that a racer doesn’t have to make a conscious decision to speed away from a car he’s left in his dust, it’s just his natural tendency. Right now, I want to be a racer.

Just like that, the Charger is well behind me, and I’ll never see him again. In the past few months, I’ve been behind the wheel more than any person should probably ever be. This plight wasn’t a solitary one, but it was quite personal, and each little thing I’ve come across along the way has left its mark, even the Charger. He’s down the end of the highway I’m not visiting again, a thing of the past, like my school days in Newnan and those crazy summers me and my friends would spend together, hanging out as much as possible and hoping that this year we’d be in each other’s classes; like all those relationships and the girls who tickled my fancy: Leah, Casey, Ivy, their memories not too bitter and not too sweet; like Statesboro, the place where I’d lost my direction and where I’d lost my hope. The only thing that’s ahead of me now is the towering skyline of Atlanta, the place where I’ll find all of it again.

I get off on the Carter Center exit, 248C, and the directions begin to flow into my head. Left on Moreland, right on Ponce de Leon. I’m sitting at the stop light at the intersection of Freedom Parkway and Boulevard Northeast, “Night of the Assassins” blasting in my face, when my eyes happen to wander over my rear view, then suddenly freeze. An 06 Dodge Charger is pulling in behind me. I smile. It’s not the same car, this one is black, and the driver is considerably older. Still, I smile. As I gaze into its headlights in my mirror, I notice in my peripheral vision that the light has turned green and the person in front of me has left off their brakes. I shift my eyes to the road ahead, hit the gas and let up on the clutch. I’m making the last little bit of my trip, traveling the last few miles to my new home.

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Here’s a livejournal entry that tries to make gimmicks fun! [19 Jan 2006|02:40pm]
[ mood | anxious ]

I have decided that today will be the day you’ve all been waiting for. Ever since we became LJ friends you’ve been waiting for this moment. You knew it was coming, but you didn’t know when. Well, wait no longer. This moment… has arrived.

Today I plan to create the longest entry ever seen in my LJ. This is not an easy plan. In order to achieve my dream, I am going to need your help.

Every one of you who comments today, I will edit this post with a five to ten sentence(never exceeding ten) dream I had about you. It will be 100% true, because I never lie on the internet.

So, if you’re reading this, please comment and make my dream come true. Because MLK, Jr.’s never will.

Poll #655725 A poll because I always forget to do these things

Do you use lotion on your hands?


What about anywhere else?


On your way home from work and/or school?


With a homeless person?


In the backseat of a Chevy Nova station wagon?


With your seatbelt on?


And the heat cranked up to 105 F?


Rate the aforementioned sexual situation

Mean: 5.14 Median: 5 Std. Dev 3.20

I didn't even know you were talking about sex

Reality porn
Pictures of kittens
Me too!
Shitty shitfest
Show tits
I wish I had some cookies + milk
I touch myself at night
When grandpa dryhumps the prisoners in Forbidden Zone
Not really

This worked out well

You look like you, only you're wearing a top hat and your face is painted in blackface. You're sitting on a porch somewhere and I'm searching through this bag I have with me and it's like the thing is bottomless. Finally I find this bottle of 151 and I try to get you to drink some. You keep saying no, no and holding your hands up in protest. I get fed up and take a drink and it burns so bad I start throwing up all over your shoes. You tell me to shine em or you're going home.

You ever see that one part in Drunken Master where Jackie Chan has to balance all that shit on his knees and keep his arms out otherwise he'll sit on that sharp stick? My dream was like that, only you were Jackie Chan. And the stick was a huge-ass knife. And I was standing really close to you and threatening to push you on the knife. I don't think a fifth sentence is really necessary.

We were at karaoke and you kept making me sing Prince songs, even though I sucked really bad and kept messing up. I think we were drunk, but I'm not sure. We were definitely drinking. Then your boyfriend showed up, but your boyfriend was Hulk Hogan in his yellow Wrestlemania tights. He kept asking if I was a Hulkamaniac and threatening to beat me up. This was after we stopped singing Prince songs, but before he kicked me down the stairs at the bar.

We were riding on a magic carpet, but it was like a sitcom and you'd drawn a line down the middle of it and told me to stay on my side until we got to where we were going. I didn't know why you wanted me to stay on my side so bad and you wouldn't tell me. Then I started wondering where we were going and you told me Egypt because all I ever did was complain that I'd never seen the pyramids before. For some reason this made me very happy.

You still looked like you, but you were a robot. We were walking down a long street with a lot of street lights, but no buildings or cars and I couldn't see how far we'd gone or how far it was until we got where we were going. You kept trying to talk to me in that metal gurgle howl voice and peeling back your skin to show me the robot parts under your arm. I asked what it's like being a robot. You told me it's all right, but you kinda miss being able to feel stuff.

I was looking at the computer and suddenly your picture popped up and it was like a Japanese horror movie. You told me that I was going to die the second I stopped looking at the computer or fell asleep. I couldn't move. And as soon as you said that I had to piss really badly and at the same time I was very tired. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I tried really hard, staring at pictures all the time but it just wasn't working. As I started to fall asleep my last thought was, "Well, at least I didn't piss myself before I died."

Continuing an ongoing theme of alcoholic dreams, we were in a house I've never been to before. Apparently it was your house, because I didn't seem confused and never asked you where we were. You were making some drinks and kept putting in all kinds of ingredients I didn't even recognize. One looked like chocolate syrup but you called it something else, shredded cheese was another one(cheddar, I think), and some more stuff I don't remember. Then you dumped a bottle of gin in it and blended it up. It was all lumpy but you said, "I know it looks gross, but trust me, you'll love it" and I drank it and it tasted like Reese's Peanut Butter cups.

You were over at my house only either my house was smaller or you were even bigger than normal because you had to duck even when you were just standing and this fact was really annoying you. You were already annoyed because you wanted to your bottle opener back and I was searching everywhere trying to find it, throwing things around, digging in boxes I didn't even know I had. Then you took out a cigar and asked if I minded if you smoked. I kinda did, but I said no cause I didn't want to make you more mad. So you started smoking and pacing back and forth, watching me look everywhere for the bottle opener. I woke up before I found it.

We were in prison, like in old movies with black and white striped shirts and pants and those striped prison hats and we were chained together by the foot. We were breaking bricks with sledgehammers and trying to name every album we'd ever heard before. I think we'd exhausted every other topic, so this was all we had. We alternated back and forth, while the one person was hitting the other would say an album. It went on over and over like that until a guard told us we were being insubordinate and shot you. They wouldn't unchain us and they called lunch so I had to pick up your dead body and drag it with me to the mess hall.

It probably mostly has to do with your icon, but in my dream we were at a baseball game. You were eating the longest hot dog I have ever seen in my life. I kept telling you you should break it apart, but you insisted on holding the whole thing. It sagged in the middle. Oh, and it wasn't any real baseball team cause all the players were hot Japanese girls. Hot girls with sticks and balls, giant hot dogs, I think this was the most phallic dream I have ever had. Dreaming of you exposes my love for the penis.

This was back when you still lived in San Francisco. We were hanging out and there was some kind of parade going on. I think it was an S & M parade. All kinds of people were half-naked and walking around in bondage gear. I suggested we check it out, but you weren't really interested. But you went anyway. You were relieved when we saw a cop walking around, cause you knew shit couldn't get too out of hand. But then it was like a movie and the crowd slowly parted and we could see he was naked from the waist down - and masturbating. You asked if we could leave and I said, yeah, okay, this isn't as cool as I thought it'd be anyway.

More icon-related dreaming. Everything was animated and you, of course, looked like that clock guy. We were trying to come up with a good plan to rob a bank without getting caught by Batman. You didn't have your time-altering powers so we had to do things the old-fashioned way. So we made it down to the bank and I was nervous. You could tell I was so you kept telling me, keep going, don't fuck up or I'll shoot you. I asked the lady, who was pretty for a cartoon character, if I could please have all the money and I pointed my gun at her. Apparently our plan wasn't very complicated. She pressed a button that was like a Batman button and the alarm went off. I couldn't shoot her, so you had to and we ran, you pretty much dragging me, but Batman dropped down right in front of us and you tried to shoot me before I woke up.

In my dream you smelled really bad. I was at a really nice restaurant with a girl and I guess in my dream I'd gone on a banning spree and banned all but like three people in s_r just for fun, but I guess you were pissed about it and wanted to know why I would do that to you. I said, "This isn't really a good time, you know?" And you punched my date in the face. I laughed because it was totally unexpected and I didn't really like her anyway, but then I figured we should fight to uphold her honor. I broke my wine glass and tried to stab you with it, but only cut your arm. You tried to hit me with a chair and I got in a good stab in your stomach, but then the piano player who looked like Curtwood Smith took some piano wire and started choking me and one of the guests who might've been John Kerry picked up a whole table and threw it at you.

Sorry but this one is actually really boring. We were just sitting there at a bar and I was like, "Hey, could you pass me that beer?" and you grabbed the bottle and handed it to me. "Thanks," I said. You nodded. "Yeah, no problem." Then I drank some and it tasted like milk.

We were watching this movie in a theatre and it was slow, like maybe Tarkovsky maybe. And I could tell you were really into it, but for some reason I wasn't feeling it at all and I kept trying to talk to you about what we were gonna do afterwards(I think there was a party going on). You kept telling me to shhh but I wasn't listening. Then I tried to ask you if this girl we knew(non-existant in real life) liked me. You told me to just shut up and then stood up and changed seats.

We were at a metal show, I have no idea who the band was but you were headbanging and your hair was flying all over the place. And then they finished their set and everyone bum rushed the stage and started hitting the band and stealing their instruments. We snuck out as fast as we could but then there were cops everywhere outside arresting people. You did one of those jump slides across the front hood of a cop car and I jumped and ran up and over another one. We dashed into some bushes and were suddenly deep in some woods. There was a bear sitting by a fire and he tried to offer us some moonshine. You thought it was a good idea, but I kept trying to say, "No, you shouldn't, you don't drink." Then the cops showed up again.

We were riding one of those two person bicycles. I was in the back and kept trying to shout things at you but you couldn't hear me. You kept turning your head slightly and shouting, "What?!" but no matter how loud I shouted you couldn't hear a word of it. I wanted to know where we were going. Then we were in a race all of the sudden. I started peddling as hard as I could and you were peddling even faster. You yelled, "Pedal faster!" at me. I shouted, "I'm trying." You shouted, "What?!" Some little kid who looked like Eddie Munster and I guess his dad who looked kinda like my dad got past us and they were just about to beat us when I woke up.

I had to go to the dentist because all my teeth were ready to fall out and I was supposed to get some new treatment that was like a special kind of glue to hold all my teeth in. I waited what felt like forever in the dentist's office, and then finally they called me in. I was nervous and my hands were sweaty. You were the dentist and you sat me down in the chair and told me, "All right, there's been a change of plan. Instead of using that glue treatment I'm gonna have to knock all your teeth out and replace em with new ones." While I was busy paying attention to what you said I didn't realize the assistant was strapping my arms and legs to the chair. You put on a mask and took out a drill that was just a power drill and held it up and said, "This won't hurt a bit, I promise!" but I wouldn't open my mouth so you started drilling through my lips.

I'm not gonna talk about that one dream I had about you. We're in a huge city and we're walking on rooftops. Just hopping from one roof to the next, walking. It's almost night and the sky is a dark black mixed with purple and blue with the occasional pinky-orange streak across it. We're trying to find a way onto this huge old church and you find one and hop across first. I try to hop across and a piece of the ledge breaks off. I catch myself with my arms and hold on to the edge as you shout, "Holy shit!" and grab my shoulders. I look down even though I know I shouldn't and all I can see is giant shards of broken glass, some ten feet high all stacked and menacing three floors beneath me. You pull me up(it takes some doing) and then we sit down, shaking and panting. "Hey, thanks a lot" I say and you reply, "Yeah no problem" and start to laugh. The stars are coming out and it starts to rain and I start laughing, too.

I was working in an office building. I had on a suit and tie and my hair was short and everything. I was a file clerk and I was busy filing all these forms and things when you came up to me and handed me a black medical bag. "Don't look inside it," you said; "Just put all this shit down and I'm gonna walk this way and you're gonna walk the other way and you're gonna get in a blue car sitting in front of the office. Once you're in the car you can open the bag but don't say anything to the driver." You started walking away and I walked the other way and got in the car and when I looked at the driver it was you again and I said, "Hey I thought you went the other way" while I'm opening the bag and the bag has my head in it and I look up and notice we're driving straight towards a wall.

I had this one back in November after the infamous comment bomb entry and this is totally gay but here goes. We're the Three Ninjas. You and me and some other guy I didn't recognize but wasn't the kid from the movie. I'm Colt and you're Rocky, but we look like us. We're all practicing kicking the stuffed guy to light up the eyes but then the kid who I guess is Tum Tum keeps kicking him in the nuts over and over again and eventually it comes to life. It punches him in the face and his head explodes. We have to fight it to avenge our brother so you kick it in the kneecaps and I jump up and kick it in the neck. It goes down, but not for very long and it's actually starting to kick our asses but then Charles Bronson shows up and shoots it with a shotgun and we're all saved hooray. Fuck I wrote this all in present-tense again.

We were walking in the desert and the sun was shining really bright. But for some reason we were all bundled up in giant coats with fur hoods and snow shoes. I kept bitching about how cold it was and you kept agreeing with me. I could see my breath. You asked me if I wanted some water and I said, "No, the shit's too cold" and you said, "Really? It's warming me up." I said, "All right give me some of that" and took the bottle. I popped the top, poured some in my mouth and it felt like it was freezing my tongue. I spit it out on the ground. "What're you doing, you're wasting it!" you said and took the bottle back.

Sorry my dream is not as exciting as yours is. In this one you somehow got ahold of my LJ password and kept updating over and over again. Sometimes each post only had one sentence and I started going through trying to delete them all but it wouldn't let me and I found out you'd changed my password. So all I could do was sit there and keep pressing refresh over and over again and there was always a new post. And the whole time all I could think was "Man, everyone on my friends page is gonna think I'm such a dick."

I must admit that I have never had a dream about you. I'm very sorry to disappoint you. I could make one up if you want me to. I'm not sure how good it'll be, but you know, I can try.

For some reason you get the privelege of being in my single LJ-related zombie dream. Everything is black and white like in Night of the Living Dead and we're all inside the office of this car dealership. There's one window but the zombies can't break it cause it's bulletproof or plexiglass or something and they're out all over the place. There's a bunch of us in here, like eight or nine and there's no food. We don't have any weapons so someone decides we have to draw straws who will go out and try to distract them so everyone else can try to get somewhere with food. I draw the short straw and I get frantic and keep saying no no no no no and you're like, "Hey, it's all good man. Take this" and you hand me a steak knife. I keep saying no no no no until this big guy takes the knife and calls me a fucking pussy and opens the door and runs out. Everyone else looks really angry at me as they slip out the door and some other guy says "Don't fucking try to come with us" and you're the last one to leave and you say, "Sorry, man."

It's a huge barbeque and my whole family is there. And you. You've got a chef hat on and an apron that says "Cooks Make Better Lovers" and you're grilling up hamburgers. You're very insistent that they're not beef hamburgers but rather turkey burgers. "You'll swear you can't tell the difference," you say. I try to explain that I don't even like burgers and you get a little huffy. "Well, just eat a damn patty then." You've got your back to the grill and I don't know how it happens for sure but suddenly your whole back is on fire and you're running around and people keep telling you to roll on the ground but you're not listening. At first I don't feel too bad, because you were being such a dick about it. But then I see how much pain you're in as you finally start rolling around the ground and I start feeling bad about not feeling bad.

We're driving around and it's the middle of the night and we run out of gas up on the top of a hill. You suggest we just push the car a little bit and then we can coast all the way down the hill and hopefully that'll get us closer to a gas station where we can get some more gas. We get out and start pushing and it's going good. It's pretty scary, cause but we both manage to hop in and close the doors. It's exciting, cruising down the hill trying to brake as little as possible. We blow through a stop sign and then a stop light. We're almost to the bottom of the hill when a deer comes running out in front of us. The car nails it and it's up on the hood and then into the windshield and I can't see where we're going so I slam on the brakes. We stop and get out and we're right in front of a 76 station and the guy working there looks at us and says, "That's one helluva a deer" and you say, "Yeah, yeah it is. How much gas can we get for it?"

It's like we're us, but at the same time we're kids. We're like ten. And we're out in the street playing stickball. Everything looks like old New York from the '70s, how kids are always playing stickball in the Bronx in movies. You're the pitcher and I'm up to bat. "I'm gonna hit you with the ball," I say. "You'll be lucky to even hit the ball," you say. And, of course, you back up your word more than I back up mine. The first ball goes right under the stick and I'm swinging at air. "Haha," you laugh at me. "Shut up, I'm not gonna let no girl strike me out." The second ball is, well, a ball, but I'm so mad I swing at it anyway and totally miss. "You're trying too hard, Andrew," you chastise me. "Just pitch the ball." You throw it and I see it coming and I just smack it as hard as it can and BAM it hits you right in the kneecap. You fall on the ground and at first I'm running towards first but then I see you're crying and I start to walk over there and see if you're okay. When I get there and bend down, "Are you okay?" you grab the ball and tag me and say, "Out, asshole" and stand up and kinda hobble away.

I dreamt you and I were rolling around in a big pile of kittens. For some reason you and I were grocery shopping together. We were pushing the cart around and trying to find donuts. I wanted to get three or four giant boxes of donuts. You were telling me I should get something else but no dammit I wanted donuts. Okay okay, you said, we'll get some donuts. So we finally asked this guy stocking shelves where the donuts are. He told us they were in the back, through the doors and around the side. We went back there and find the doors and it looks pretty dark in there. "I don't know about this," you said. But I insisted so we went inside and it's a bunch of cracked out homeless people and they were all sitting on the floor eating donut after donut, just knocking them off the shelves and scarfing them up. "I think I'm gonna be sick," you said and ran out. I called out, "Hey wait" but you were already gone. So I pressed on, trying to push them out of the way and grab whatever donuts I could. I woke up before I actually got to try one.

I promise I didn't have a sex dream about you. We weren't in the back of a school bus driven by Tim Curry. There wasn't any funny business going on with ear nibbling or a bunch of kids in uniforms and backpacks watching us. Then we didn't suddenly shift and we were under sheets but floating in space like at the end of Moonraker and it wasn't tough trying to move the sheets around and find out where everything was. And we didn't suddenly enter Earth's orbit and crash down in a pile of misplaced clothes and sheets and blankets when gravity kicked back in. We didn't keep going anyway, even though there was a good chance we could die since nobody was piloting the ship.

We were hitting this kid with some tree branches over and over again and he kept telling us to stop but we were like, haha, fuck you and didn't. We kept doing that for a while until we got tired of it and the kid had pretty much stopped moving. Then we walked off down a street that looked like those old West Hollywood ghost towns and decided to stop in the saloon/brothel. Unfortunately, there was nobody there but this guy with a handlebar mustache behind the bar. He said they didn't have any alcohol, not anymore, but he'd gladly give us a couple of glasses of water. We said forget it, cause there were no girls either and we left. Then some guy with no front teeth came running up to us and told us we should get the hell out of town as soon as possible or find someplace to hide. "There's something unnatural that goes on here at night." "What do you mean, unnatural?" you asked him. And he was just about to answer when I woke up.

We ran into each other at a public restroom. I was washing my hands when you came in. I thought it was real weird, running into you by accident this way. Especially here. I said, "Hey, what's up" and you were like, "Oh hey what's up." Then we left and we were in a mall but it was completely closed and it was the middle of the night. "Well, I gotta get going," you said, but all the doors were locked. Maybe they forgot to lock one, I suggested. And we kept running up and downstairs, through department stores, checking every door but they were all locked. We tried throwing chairs and boxes at them but to no avail. "Well, guess we're stuck here," I said. So we looted the food court and ate a bunch of undercooked teryaki chicken and french fries.

For some reason, even though I know what you look like obviously cause I've seen pictures of you, in my dream you look like Ariel. Only less animated. Still, long red hair and all that shit though. We were in a giant ballroom full of people and I asked you if you wanted to dance. You said, sure that'd be all right, but I'm not very good. I took you by the arm and they were playing something, some waltz, fuck, I had it and now I can't remember what it was. It was kinda brisk-paced. Everybody was up and dancing and you were wearing a black dress and I was wearing a tux but with the bowtie untied. And we started dancing but I kept stepping on your toes and at first you were like, no no, it's okay but I kept doing it and eventually you told me you had to stop dancing cause your feet hurt. I understood, but it was kinda sad.

Everything was blue. Not the same shade, of course, but all different shades of blue. You had light blue skin and dark blue hair and your clothes were so light they were practically white but with just the tiniest hint of blue. Even though this sounds horrible it looked good on you and we were riding in an elevator that kept going up and up and up. Pretty soon all the blue buildings just got smaller and smaller until they weren't even like buildings, but kinda looked like a big picture of the ocean. "It's really pretty here," I said. "Yeah," you said, "You should stay here." And I wished I could, but I knew the elevator was gonna get to my floor soon and I'd have to go back to the world that had all those other colors. "Hey, thanks for riding up here with me, though," I said.

Sorry, but I have to admit I have also never had a dream about you. But hey, we just became LJ friends so you never know, there's hope for everybody.

We're climbing up a giant stairway. Like in A Matter of Life or Death, or, I guess, that dream sequence in The Big Lebowski. You've decided to stop. You're gonna go back down. "Wait, come on, we've come all this way," I say, "We can't even see the bottom anymore." "I don't care anymore. I've had enough." "But we're almost there," I insist. "You don't even know where we're going anymore." "Of course I do." "Whatever man, keep going then." And you start walking down, but I can't decide if I want to go up or back down, so I just sit down and keep looking up then down and seeing you get smaller and smaller.

Not to be the bearer of bad news, but I've never had a dream about you either. Sorry.
140 comments|post comment

goddamnit [14 Jan 2006|04:50pm]
[ mood | distressed ]

One thing solves itself, another thing presents itself:

My friend Derek will be unable to move until April. I will not last in Newnan until April, which means


Fuck. Help?


280 comments|post comment

an experiment with my mood and the passing of time [10 Jan 2006|04:12pm]
[ mood | hopeful ]

In the beginning...
When I saw Bringing Up Baby for the first time I thought it was a very strange movie because I thought they were regarding the leopard was actually supposed to be a normal housecat, which didn’t make any sense to me. I later found out that they did actually realize that he was, in fact, a leopard, which made the movie far less strange, but didn’t do anything to detract from the fact that is actually a very, very good movie. And such is the case with every Howard Hawks film I’ve seen, except for The Barbary Coast which was a giant pile of crap, but I don’t hold that against him, not at all. I watched His Girl Friday the other night, and I’m simply floored by it every time I watch it. I don’t understand how it can be so fast-paced and manic and be so coherent and congealed and so goddamn good. I always wonder why I fall in love with Hildy Johnson every time I watch it, because it doesn’t make sense to me, like that scene in Angel Heart where you see him reach inside a drawer to pull out a notebook and pen but the only real purpose of the shot is to show you his gun. Of course he has a handgun, he’s a private detective. A lot of things about that movie don’t make sense to me, though, like why he picks up that woman’s hat or why every black preacher in every movie with a black preacher in it is a fictional character based on Creflo Dollar. I suppose all of these mysteries are unsolvable, though, sort of like “Why do the birds sing?” or “Why do I not own an album of nothing but dogs barking (The Transfiguration of Blind Joe Death is the closest I can come, but John tells that dog to shut up)?” There may be no blank spaces left on the map, but there’s still plenty of mystery in this world. I’ve seen Peter Jackson’s King Kong too many times (3).

Two days later...
Yesterday was a good day. I feel weird saying that, not because good days are uncommon (though they are, but I always expect them), but because it’s odd to me how I feel it necessary to judge everything on a scale of good and bad, even if I have no idea what the criteria for a certain thing’s rating is. For example, what makes it a good day? Yesterday was a good day because I didn’t think about killing myself at all. Is that the foolproof meter by which I should measure all of my days? I hope not, because if so, then this one is already fucked. I can’t let that defeat me today, though. I told myself last night that I wouldn’t care anymore, since that’s what really gets me in trouble: not the things that I do, but thinking about the things that I do. Thinking about the things that other people do, worrying that they’re doing something horrible, that they’re further compromising themselves. Worrying, all of the time. I can’t do that to myself, so I’m not going to anymore. Or at least, that’s what I’m going to say I’m going to do.

After five hours...
I think I’m really, really gonna like this school. The first two days here have been better than any two days at Southern.

Shots from my parking spotCollapse )

I love this city.

68 comments|post comment

2005 in brief review [30 Dec 2005|01:48pm]
[ mood | pleased ]

The year that my normally laid back life was turned upside-down. The year I changed my mind about who I am/who I want to be more times than in any other year of my life. A year whose range of emotions was far greater than in any other year in my life.

In 2005, I forgot why I love movies, why I made them and wanted to continue doing so for the rest of my life. In 2005, I remembered what films school could've never taught me: why I love movies.

I listened to more music in terms of both quantity and variety than I ever had before in 2005, and I'd like to say I expanded/improved my taste quite a bit. I probably didn't buy as much as I did in 04, though, since I have so many CD's that I don't even want anymore.

I started reading pretty heavily again in 05, and have been working at a steady pace of about a book a week since September. I haven't written as much as I did in 04 (or the years before that, for that matter), but what I have written has been better, and I'm improving all the time.

2005 was not the first time I fell in love (that was 04, too), but it was the first time that I fell in love right. 2005 provided me with the happiest time of my life (the summer), and it also gave me the loneliest.

In 2005, my mother moved away from Newnan and up to Toronto, and for a couple of weeks over the summer I went to visit her. Toronto was a really cool city, and I wish I had explored it more - you see, I was too homesick to really enjoy myself.

But that was another thing about 2005. 2005 was the year I really learned to love my home, my state, and everything about it. 2005 was the first time I felt like a real, live Southerner, and like being from bumfuck Georgia wasn't something to be ashamed of, but something to be proud of.

2005 was the year I spent several months living in a town that, to me, was hell, and 2005 was the year I escaped. If there was one thing I learned this year, it's that there's no shame or dishonor in returning home where things are safe and comfortable if you have to.

2005 was the year I learned, or rather, was taught, how to love myself, and it was also the year that I realized I could be by other people, too, and let me tell you - that's the greatest feeling in the world. In 2005, I made a lot of friends, but lost even more, but right now I'm okay with that.

This was the year I spent more time on the internet than in any other year in my life, and while I may still not be okay with that, I've learned to love this place. I nearly quadrupled the size of my LJ friends list, and I met a ton of great, excellent, wonderful people on this website, and I'm so glad to say that so many of them are my friends.

To honor my friends, and because I'm a psycho with way too much time on my hands, I took upon myself a labor of love. If we interact with anything approaching regularity on this site, I probably made an icon out of your face. If I didn't make one of you, it's because I couldn't find a picture of you (lj_llll111lll1l1ll). SO SEND ME ONE!!!

2005 was also the year my LiveJournal stopped being really boring and stupid and actually started being okay, but, as always, there is plenty of room for improvement. I want all of you, anyone at all who is reading this, to tell me how I can improve my journal. If you don't have a LiveJournal and read this, you should probably get one, but if that's out of the question, just leave an anonymous comment.

Poll #642678 Improving my journal

What would you like to see more of in my journal in 06?

Long-winded meditations on nothing
Complex analysis of trivial events
Me kissing your ass
Creative writing
Voice posts
I am a faggot and your journal is perfect as is

Suggest something else I could add to improve my journal

The best thing about my journal is the comment section

I am indecisive
I hate all of your LJ-friends

If you marked true, suggest me a journal to add who might comment here and make that section better

On a scale of 1-10, how would you rate polls (in general)?

Mean: 7.00 Median: 7 Std. Dev 2.77

I really like them

I got an external hard drive for Christmas. Tell me what I should download.

These things really can be all-purpose


I love you

Let's get married

This doesn't have anything to do with 2005 anymore

Happy new year, guys. Hope it's great for you.
179 comments|post comment

The Ghosts of Christmas Past [25 Dec 2005|02:03pm]
[ mood | nostalgic ]

Merry Christmas, everybody. I hope you’re only reading this because you have some free time away from your families and your presents, and that everything where you are is warm and happy, the way this day ought to be. I’ve always thought it was strange that this holiday, the biggest of the entire year, takes place on the first day of the last week of the year. We’re constantly reminded, every Christmas season, to remember Jesus and his divine birth on this day, and with the New Year only a week away, it always seems like a perfect day to look back at your past year – I mean, since you’re already looking into the past to Jesus and everything. I always have trouble around this time of year just focusing on the events of the past year, though (I haven’t really thought about Jesus in years, I guess). To me, Christmas has become an annual time of remembrance of my parents’ December 23 divorce a few years ago, and what has changed in my family life since then. That always brings me down, though, so this year I’ve decided to break tradition.

Talking to bad_juice about my oldest LiveJournal entries really takes me back. It's weird to think about all of that now, a time when everything was so different for me, both in my real life and the one I've come to love, here on the internet. I remember talking to llll111lll1l1ll a while back about the existence of dual lives and personas within a single person - the persona and life in tangible reality and those of the internet reality. I remember even further back, talking to agreatnotion about the difference between one's real-life personality and the identity they portray over the internet, and her saying that she thought I probably was pretty much the same in both places (we can only hope). Neither one of those conversations is as far back as I've been thinking, though. Jesus, they aren't even close.

I lost my mom's Christmas present somewhere in my room and tore the place apart trying to find it today. In the middle of all of that, I came across this old photo album, pictures of shit I did as a little kid, taken with my first camera, an old Kodak that probably wouldn't cost anything more than a dollar today. Probably didn't even cost $10 then.

pictures and memoriesCollapse )

Ah, the days before the internet, back when there was only one me, there was only the Andrew who lived in the real world to worry about. I wonder when the internet really started to impact who I was, who I am. Middle school? No, too early, that was before I really needed it. High school, then? I can't think of any significant relationships I made with anyone in middle school via the internet, but high school was full of them. For a while, it seemed like it was the only way I knew to meet people, as my general discomfort with talking to people in real life situations kept me from making any friends off of cyberspace. Back then it didn't matter much, though - these were still the days when the only thing I used the computer was for AIM, and maybe Napster. What was the first song all of you downloaded? I still remember downloading my first song, Bon Jovi's "It's My Life." It took 35 minutes on dial-up.

One of the things me and bad_juice talked about briefly was the development of a LiveJournal, how so few start off as anything worthwhile, but eventually become good reads. Now, I don't exactly fancy myself as a good read - most of this stuff is self-congratulatory bullshit that only I care about, I know, but it'd be impossible to say that my journal hasn't developed over time. In fact, my entire internet persona has been slowly developing, since those first AIM conversations so many years ago.

I read the internet diaries I kept before LiveJournal and goddamn I was a fucking goth kid. Not really, but reading these fucking journal entries would lead you to believe otherwise. I talked about music a lot more then than I do now - bands like Sonic Youth and Pixies and My Bloody Valentine pop up in every entry, somehow or another. Nowadays it's rare to see me even mention music casually in a post, except for the occasional reference to German Oak or the Deep Listening Band. Still, I think my journal has improved drastically since those days - the majority of those old posts had very little to do with anything besides my desire to kill myself and other people, a problem I've overcome, for the most part.

What bothers me about all of this digging up old entries business is thinking about it in terms of the real life Andrew and the internet msnvwls. I became overwhelmed with sadness this afternoon, cried for the first time in a long while. The holiday season does it to me - a lot of bad feelings associated with Christmas - and I was thinking about the fight I got in with Ivy last night. I was thinking about how much she's changed since I've known her, and how much I miss the chipper young girl who fell in love with me such a long time ago. I was thinking about how much it disgusts me that she still controls me in ways that I don't like to think about. I was thinking about how I couldn't find my mom's Christmas present anywhere. I was thinking about how everyone's characterizations of me as irresponsible and unreliable were 100% accurate. Eventually it got a hold of me and I had to let go of it all. My mother saw me and tried to come help me, and of course I had to suck it up and keep it from her, because I didn't want her worried about me. I felt indignant towards her afterwards, because I felt like she'd robbed me of the catharsis I deserved, and this feeling of animosity towards her made me feel even worse about myself. Got me questioning who I am, who I was, and who I play, on the internet.

It seems to me that the more my e-personality has developed into something real, into a three-dimensional character (or the closer it has come to that, anyway - in a lot of ways I still feel very flat), the more boring I've become in real life. Back in the day, I was one hell of a character in real life. My appearance was striking, I did odd things like wear suits on Wednesdays, and I was so fucking passionate about so fucking much. Now I'm passionate about so fucking little - music, movies to a certain extent, literature, and maybe video games. I often tell people that my dream is to have a job that will allow me to do nothing in my free time other than sit on my ass, play video games and listen to doom metal. On the internet, though, I'm so active, so alive, commenting everywhere and talking to as many people about as much as I can.

I think I need new hobbies. I think I need a job. I think I need to do something with my free time other than sit around the house and jerk off to an imaginary girl who looks suspiciously like my first girlfriend. I think I need to take New Years' resolutions more seriously this year. For those of you who don't know, I plan my posts for a while before I ever update my journal, because I feel like I'm horribly boring if I just try to wing it. I'm currently planning a big year end blowout post that will compile all of my thoughts about the events of the past year as well as what I've learned and also my hopes for the new year, and I'm gonna make some sort of uber-poll for all of you to fill out to end the entry. It'll be great, as long as I can remember what I thought about 2005, and as long as I can figure out what I've learned. Maybe that's what this entry has been, me in search of some sort of lesson I might've picked up sometime in the course of my internet life. If I have learned something from all of this, though, it, like so many other things in my life, is totally unclear to me right now.

39 comments|post comment

Voice Post: paid account [20 Dec 2005|10:36am]
15K 0:04
“So uh .... I got a paid account.”

Transcribed by: kumquatpie

Redux, just for Jess.
36 comments|post comment

Best Music of 05 [15 Dec 2005|02:28pm]
[ mood | accomplished ]

So everyone else is doing their list, and I suppose I'll do mine now, too. I'll do my film list after Christmas (still waiting to see a couple of things), but I guess nothing is gonna come out to top all of this. So without further ado,

My top 25 albums of 2005 (plus honorable mentions and notable reissues)Collapse )

I know I bitched all year about what a shitty year for music it was, but after doing this, wow, it really wasn't that bad. Anyway, hope you all enjoyed.

133 comments|post comment

topics of conversation [11 Dec 2005|03:17pm]
[ mood | bored ]

"I don't think I'm going to do the hair post I've been talking about doing."
"Why not?"
"I think it's kinda stupid; I mean, what am I gonna do? Say, 'Do you like the way I looked then or now?'"
"You look like you're going to a funeral, all the time."

"You know, I read your LiveJournal from time to time, and I see the things you say about me."
"I haven't written anything bad in a while, have I?"
"No, not bad, but you do bitch about me sometimes."
"I'm not bitching about you, I'm immortalizing you."

I'm always so much more witty after the fact.

"I'm mad at Phil Woods."
"Phil Woods."
"The Saxophonist?"
"Yeah, fuck that guy."

"I feel like my existence is completely aimless now that I've completed all the secret levels on Yoshi's Island."
"Don't talk like that, it brings me down."
"I'm just kidding, you know. I downloaded Doom, everything's fine."

"Yeah, you know, they recorded this album in a bunker."
"I don't know, because they're bad ass, I guess."
"Deep Listening Band recorded their first album in a cave."
"Who cares?"

"Now that I listen to better music than I used to, I like music a whole lot less than I used to."
"What are you talking about?"
"Same goes with movies. But for some reason, not TV. I like TV a lot more now than I used to, when I watched whatever my parents did."
"That makes sense, I guess."
"Yeah, since I didn't have a very high opinion of TV to start with."

"I wish I could write John Donne poems for my girlfriend."
"From now on, that's what we'll call them, man. John Donne poems."
"She killed the flea? Oh, a compass - that's a good metaphor."
"haha, dude, it's fucking brilliant."
"I know, right?"

"I didn't ask for this."
"No one does."
"I don't deserve this."
"No one does."
"How did it happen?"
"She put peas in your pudding, and you ate it anyway."
"But I had to, I was starving, I could feel life slipping, rushing out of me with each passing moment."

What's crazier, talking to yourself, or pretending that you're talking to yourself?

"Do you think he read this?"
"I don't know if they every had any contact with each other at all."
"Man, the further I get, the more morbid it gets."
"Fucking tragic."

"I just finished The Republic."
"What'd you think?"
"Not the easiest read, but a fruitful one."
"I agree somewhat. I like Plato's thoughts on love a lot more than I like my own."
"Wow, that's particularly self-depricating, even for you."
"If you say so."

"Mama, what happens when love goes away?"
"It comes back, son, after a while. At least, I hope it does."

"Are you going to finish that?"
"Yeah, why?"
"I'm fucking dying of thirst."
"But I paid for it."
"Fair enough."

64 comments|post comment

On leaving [10 Dec 2005|10:44am]
[ mood | depressed ]

This past week marked the closing of another chapter in my life - one that was wrought with frustration, anger, and depression. Needless to say, I'm not the least bit sad to know it's behind me, and though I don't feel like those three emotions are anywhere close to being a thing of the past, at least I'll be dealing with them from a different locale. I completely fucked up this semester of college, and I'll end up paying the price for it soon enough. There is a huge, huge part of me that just wants to cut my losses and drop out, because I think I'd do a lot better if it was fight or flight - but that's not a decision I want to be forced to make on impulse. There's also that other part of me that doesn't ever shut up talking louder now than it normally does, but I know better than to talk about the "s" word here.

Wednesday night, I hung out with Jorge and Lee for the last time. I'm gonna miss those guys so bad; without them, I would have never, ever made it through this semester. They were the only two constant friends I had, and though they weren't always there when I needed them, they kept me from doing anything stupid. Well, besides skipping class. It really sucks to think I might not see them again for... a long time, but I'm getting kind of used to the idea of close friends leaving my life. Life isn't like a movie, it's more like a TV show - one that has to deal with serious cast overhauls every season. There's the characters you never want to see leave (I was going to put names in parentheses here, but anyone who reads this will know who I'm talking about), there's characters you never want to see again (my roommate), and there's those that don't really make a difference (every recurring character in my life, it seems).

I spent the final minutes in my room on Thursday playing Doom 2, getting frustrated in a style that was reminiscent of all of the events of the past few months. I turned in my keys and got in my car, I said my final goodbyes to the schoolCollapse ), and I left Statesboro, hopefully never to return. It's sad to think that there is a place on Earth that fills me with such bad feelings that I become physically sick when I think about stepping foot back in the city limits. I may pass the exit one day on the interstate on my way to Savannah, but unless I, for some reason, decide to go back to visit old friends (and given the incredibly small amount of friends I made, this is highly unlikely), I will never, ever go back to Statesboro. Frankly, I don't care if the place falls off the face of the planet.

Yesterday was the typical day in Newnan - not a whole lot to do, but at least I had a welcoming bed to come home to. I saw The Chronicles of Narnia. It was okay - a little too awkward, unevenly paced, and cutesy for my taste, but enjoyable nonetheless. I can feel a rift growing between me and my permanent friends in this town. Maybe they resent my departure (which they shouldn't), and maybe I'm just imagining things, making everything out to be worse than it is. Maybe they were always this thoughtless, this casual about their insensitivity, but before I was never the one who had to deal with it. I like my old position a lot better. I like not having to worry about whether or not I have any friends at all. Right now, it feels like those 67 people on my LJ-list are all I've got.

Believe it or not, I actually have high hopes for this winter break. I have a full month off, and that should be plenty of time to get myself together. I have plans to see some people I haven't seen in a couple of years who'll be returning home for the break, and I'm very excited about that. I want to see Ivy again - it's been two months too many. I want a white Christmas. That may be asking a bit much, but I just want a good Christmas. I usually hate this holiday (don't believe in the divinity of Christmas/parents' divorce became final two days prior), but in my current state, I'm willing to accept it as a celebration of hope.

Please let this all turn out fine. I don't know if I can pull myself out of this by myself, and I certainly can't afford to fail. Maybe I don't deserve the best things in life, but I know I've gotta deserve better than this.

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Shoes [06 Dec 2005|05:15pm]
[ mood | amused ]

So, those of you who have heard me talk about Newnan know that I refer to at as the weirdest place on Earth. Here is reason number 1:

We have a guy who nails shoes to trees.

My mom and I noticed the shoe above near our house last Saturday, and got to talking about it. See, the guy's actually a minor celebrity around town - he's hit trees throughout the town over the past few years. So we decided to find some.

Here are some of the crime scenes.

Man, I love my town.

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Cow Eata and Sir Vannah [03 Dec 2005|01:26am]
[ mood | sleepy ]

Today I:

-Woke up at 5 AM (sucked)

-Waited on/hopped a ride on MARTA at 6:45 (blew)

-Attended GSU's orientation (boring as hell)

-Got my schedule set for next semester. I have no class before 11 AM and nothing on Fridays, and all my classes are easy (v. good)

-Hung out with old_danube and his crew and got tipsy, not drunk (fun, good people)

-Offered to buy old_danube and his friend pizza at CiCi's, only to find out my debit card is a piece of shit at the ATM in CiCi's (note to self: You owe Matt $20 for being awesome and picking that up. Also, you still have his bottle opener and he'd probably appreciate it if you returned it)

-Was reminded by the pizza that I had got out of bed at 5 in the morning, and became exhausted, prompting my return to Newnan (zzzzz)

-Proved everyone who thought I couldn't go a day without getting on the computer wrong (yes)

Tomorrow I plan to:

-Sleep in (always rewarding)

-Study for finals (seems like a good idea)

-Watch The Sopranos (you know how I do)

-Reply to any and all comments you lovely people leave on this entry, which I hope will be many, as I will be looking for brief distractions from studying

Warning: Over the next month or so, I will probably be posting more often and more regularly (probably 2-4 times a week). Just a heads up.

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the return of msnvwls [28 Nov 2005|09:03am]
[ mood | depressed ]

Statesboro. Just 2 weeks left. Keep repeating it. Over and over. Just 2 weeks.

What am I counting down the weeks for? For the return home, the glorious, triumphant return home that I've built up in my mind for weeks and weeks on end? The dismal, depressing return home that could never possibly live up to my expectations?

Maybe it would've, if the semester had ended earlier. Maybe I would feel like there was something worth going home to. Maybe there'd be someone waiting there for me when I got there, and a bunch of old friends with drinks in their hands and smiles on their faces, telling me they missed me. I just wanted you to hold out until things could get better for me. I just wanted to you to make good on all the promises I thought you had made. I just wanted to be missed, so I could see you again and be loved. I just wanted the chance, for once in my life, to love. I never wanted this. It's not enough.

I create things to look forward to in my mind, so that I don't feel too bad to get up and face the day. Funny that I write this now, at a time when I'm too depressed to get up and go to class like I'm supposed to. Isn't this the problem I've had since day 1? I don't apply myself to anything. I've only been involved in one thing that I actually felt was worth the effort it took, and it crumbled like it was made of talc. I type nasty, horrible things sometimes, but delete them, afraid that she'll read them and know who I'm talking to. Just the voices in my head, I swear.

There's no escape. Yes, I'll be out of Statesboro soon, but I feel more and more everyday like I'm just jumping right out of the frying pan and right into the fire. Maybe it's precaution, telling me I shouldn't look forward so much to returning home, because I can only be let down by that place. I wish things were the way they were before all of this, before everything started changing again. Yeah, I was terribly unhappy, but I was comfortable with that. It doesn't bother you to lead an unhappy life if you never realize there's greener pastures out there. They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but I don't believe that's true; I used to scoff at the stuff on the other side of the fence, but I must've ate all of mine because now my side is bare.

What if things had never gotten good again? "Can I lay with you?" What if I'd said no? What if I'd held onto all that hate and never welcomed good things back into my life? "Do you mind if I give her your name?" What if I'd said yes, I do mind? You say you hate it when I go soft, that it doesn't suit me, that sugary sweet just ain't my thing. Well, I've been doing it for a long time, and I'm beginning to think you're right.

I shed one problem and gain another. Ain't that the human condition? I don't know why, but somewhere along the line all my Journal posts became personal letters to her, the girl that rarely reads this and would never let me know that anything I wrote affected her in any way. I guess I just want attention. I know I just want attention. Pay attention to me please, pretty please, please please please please OH PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!

I'm sorry, that was childish, this is childish, everything is childish. I need to toughen up, I need to grow up. I need to blacken my soul again. "I couldn't have done it without you." I still can't, I can't I can't I can't. No, I won't. But I should. And I want to. Isn't this the problem I've had since day 1? I don't apply myself to anything.

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