I'm not... difficult to please.

Thanks a lot, assholes, for showing me how far being funny will get you. High School was a crapshoot and college is even worse. I have no friends and I'm rather lonely, paling in my shyness, moonlighting with my loneliness. I can't seem to find the group to surround myself with. Acquaitances that think I'm funny. Maybe that's why I stuck around in band: because I needed to group atmosphere. Social whore, that's what I am. And I've got nothing to whore around or pimp.

I don't know any of you anymore. I've tried and I don't. You've all gone the way of the dodo to me, it seems. I've tried and I've tried but you're all just too cool anymore to even want to respond to my options about hanging out with me. Except Danielle Cobb, you've been pretty cool, but I've just been busy.

So fuck you.

Chk Chk Chk

It's Thursday. I've fallen into a do-this-every-Thursday pattern it seems. Just nothing to write about.

Waiting for Godot.

I have to write a new story.

Compass turns to coal.

Gyar. Not GWAR. Dodgers have gone on a hot-losing-stream. Hypenated-sentences-are-badass-.

Fuck.

It shakes your pretty little Clavicle

There's so much violence, so much pain, so much hate, that it's easy for one to be apathetic. John Lennon got annoying come the 70's. I just watched the US vs. John Lennon and he just got annoying, I thought. I don't know, I'm not a big fan of him. I'm a passivist, I think. Let it happen, the universe tends to unfold as it should--yea, that is from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle, but so what. I believe in fate. If it's meant to happen, it will happen.

I don't want to adhere to religions that kill for the sake of being right. So I am an Anarchristian. A Christian Anarchist. Of your own accord. Peaceful. Love love love love love. Though love is sometimes conflicting. Because to love someone, there is a point and place for chastising. It's not all roses. There's obvious shit-storms and virulent come agains. Come on to me and tell me your name sweet sister!

I believe in God. I believe in you. I believe in we. And love will conquer all.

It's a scary thought that Doomsday Theology has met Doomsday weaponry. True, fateful, apocalypse is capable now in the mushroom clouds. So relax and let it happen.

When my mom was in Israel, some of the soldiers and Jews were telling about how, in three weeks, they are going to bomb the Muslim Temple Mount because they're sick of it. Sick of God's wild Children of Islam, descended from Ishmael, both blessed and crazy, but blessed and of the Father nonetheless.

I just cry for harmony in a dissodant world. "You have a decent ear for notes, but you can't yet appreciate harmony." Beware. I think that the "apocalypse" is upon us, but the apocalypse is truly metaphorical.

But all human life is cyclical, so we are probably coming upon a proverbial starting over, just as when Rome was destroyed and deflated into a city in Italy. The children of Isaac and the children of Ishmael will destroy each other and deflate each other until there's nothing left but leukemia and fall out. And adaptation and evolution (yes, I said evolution) will run its course.

"Raise your fist and march around, just don't take what you need."

Tie me up tie me down!!!!

It was a summer camp and I fell in love with her. Her who lived miles and
miles and miles away from me. Her whom I had no chance with. Her. And I so
hopeless, and a godless Socialite. This was during the Downfall. I can guarantee
you that.

Away from music, our laughter made music. We flirted as far as I know. And I
fell in love with her. Great, unadulterated Her.

We would sit and play cards and talk and hang out and be together, and my
mind raced with Visions of Johanna keeping me up past the dawn. Her. She would
tell me about the boys in her life and I would ascertain a sort of repressed
jealousy. Never possible. I know for sure. But it was praised within my soul to
know of a growing girl who could satisfy my soul’s lust for a pastor’s wife.
Waiting for the pastor’s wife to be mine.

I could drive, I don’t care about distance. I had remembered what another
girl had told me about distance earlier that year. That we would be together
despite it. And I realized that there’s reassurance despite miles and miles. She
and I fell out but Her and I still talk, somewhat, and subdued by years of not
seeing each other. Years of separation, my heart is filled with longing for her,
or someone like her. Small and quaint and brown eyed and smiling and lost within
her God. Hailing the stars to come down to her and tell her things that were
unknown otherwise save but a little honesty.

A little trite honesty and ¡Viva Suzuki!

Oh but Oh how Her highlighted my week with visions of love, visions of hope.
She gave me hope that there’s someone, at least someone, out there that isn’t
fucked up the ass with religion and stupid. You can be fucked up the ass with
religion and grounded. Not lifted on the cock of propriety, but held grounded by
reality. It’s give and take, not rape.

And deep saxophone tones cried low low low and down down down come away with
me I need you TS! I need you to be mine! I am alone and nothing without you
withoutyou with you I am whole! Take me away from here and I will be yours!! I
know that that’s what you need and what I am going to give you! HER!

Won’t you wait for me? No, because I know nothing of how I think of you.

“I love you, Danny.”

Inimitable, unknowable, ineffable her. And that’s how it always will be. Too
many miles and I know all this shit. Cock-rodded women about me abound.
Cock-rodded religion.

And so I sank. Deep down and down and down and down and down and down and
down anddownanddown and down and down and down spiraling down and down and no
way out and up and up and down and down and down and spiraling with all these
vile sins racing so fast down and down this vacuum I thought everything were to
fall at the same rate feather and bowling ball down and down and down air to
hold sin is falling faster than me towards hell and inimitable sin and
repression down and down and down and things sit in this well of my soul where
nothing is allowed to be told save on pulp and paper and trees that are dead
trestles sadness transmutated and known unknown and cock-rodded cuckolded and
the sitting next to the soda bin where they rip us off and tell me my name in my
journal and remember me before I burn us down with gasoline and down and down
and down and decrescendo and ritardando and down down down down down down down
down down hearing the pounding hearing the pounding you let me know I was alive
but where are you now I know where you are and I cannot come unto you her. just
to say I love you would have been enough and I know it wouldn’t be for you so I
will leave you alone…!…