Late Night Lovin'

I cried last night and I cried for very, very good reasons.
Last night was absolutely lovely. The loveliest. There was a student musician showcase concert that I went to. The whole day had been just very off and odd and bad, one of those moods where I feel like everything I do is just made of failure. Still not entirely sure of whether I was right or not, whatever.
I am extremely close to this girl named NLE. Not romantically, but very close. She was there, too. So this girl named NLE and I decide to make the most of the music. When the larger bands came on, we decided to skank and just dance however the hell we wanted to to each and every song. Did we look weird and imbalanced and drunk? More than likely, but we so thoroughly enjoyed it. We looked so wild, I'm sure, and we felt awesome just getting everything out. I think that's what it was. She's had problems with a boy; I've been making up problems with a girl. She got too dependent on him too fast and found out he's not the kind of person you leave your things with. I just have the usual shyness that comes up when I want it least and beat myself up for being so complacent when I apparently have such a good chance. We confided within each other these feelings after the show.
We went off on a tangent. I forget where our conversation crossed into another, but I remember now. I found a small purple Swiss Army knife left behind in our room. Must not mean anything, since no one's looked for it. We talked about that, then we talked about cutting. She's the only one who knows about it here. We talked about it again last night. "Did I ever tell you that I used to cut, too?" I bet I looked astonished. She showed me a tiny scar nestled in between the wrinkles of her left wrist. She says most of hers are somewhere on her legs. We talked a lot about this kind of stuff. The emotional breakdown in front of my parents, and the awkward night my Ma first rubbed her hand across my scarred shoulder, how my dad didn't believe her until he saw them, too. She talked about her medicated youth, the helplessness of her parents when she would bang her head against the wall when she was little. She described it to me, and I could perfectly imagine the ironic little lamp adorned nightstand in her room, its bottom drawer with her medications, then articles on borderline personality disorder that doctors had given her, then her unbroken safety razors. We talked about what we thought about when we did it, why. We both had the same complex guilt. "I feel like shit and I feel so so so stressed, but I have no reason to." We felt we didn't deserve to complain. When we cut, that's when we knew damn well why we felt the way we did. What nuance in such an ugly thing.
It's not just the cutting. It's the extended meals we have, the almost empathetic connection we share. The sheer synergy. It's also the other stuff we talk about with each other, the helping out with stupid problems we probably make up all ourselves anyway. I got to telling her how happy I was that I had her as such a close friend, how grateful I am to myself for swooping in on her that one night after dinner. How awesome we've been since. I teared up, and I almost shed them.
I'm so happy about her.

The Significance of Unattended Bicycles

I thought I had learned not to trust this feeling, but here it comes again, ready or not, willing or not, benign or not.
We sat together at our own table with our vegetarian dinners and "Float On" was playing in the background, except you could only hear the bass line and the chords changing. I somehow manage to eat less than her, even though she's half my size. I had confessed to her why I like eating at this dining hall on Mondays, even when the vegetarian options aren't good, to see that girl for at least a few more seconds than I normally would. She lays her fork onto her plate and says, in a tone unpatronizing and even sweet, "You really like her, don't you?"
I've made a huge mistake. I've felt too much and done nothing, received nothing. If I was spartan, stoic, more scientific, more discerning, maybe I wouldn't have done this again, wouldn't see anything in where she leaves her bike. Now I'm at that awkward and self-defeating junction: Do I give up, sever all attachment and just think nothing of it anymore, or keep on this feeling, hoping something in it turns to boldness, words, actions perhaps?

Hot Water

Hot water is just fantastic! I just love how I can go to our bathroom down the hall whenever I want and I can experience it. If I've been outside too long with no gloves, I can turn on the tap to rub hot water on my hands to keep them from hurting and drying up. Every morning or evening, I can get up and take as hot a shower as I want. In the dining hall, I can get hot water to make tea with, and then pour in milk and honey and any other thing I want.
I don't know why it makes me so happy. For the strangest reason, I always think of what things would be like without that luxury. Less sanitary, if you look at it pragmatically, but who cares about health? The things to look forward to would diminish by, not one, but hundreds. Cold showers and cold tea, that would be awful. Warmth. How in hell is it so valuable? The sensation alone improves a bad mood, and it's not as addictive as other sensations.
There's a famous study of a baby monkey. He was basically raised by two robot mothers from which he would get his milk from and everything, except one had a soft yellow sleeve over it. The baby monkey soon only accepted milk from the soft robot. I guess maybe that sort of explains it, the value of warmth, I mean. Attachment is created through pleasant sensation. If something isn't warm, it makes the entire environment more hostile. Imagine being a college student with only cold showers and tea available. How difficult would that become?
I love overcast days, but if those little pockets of warmth weren't so easily accessible, I'd have a lot of trouble.
Is that spoiled? I don't think so. No one wants to live without warmth, and if they have to, their life doesn't seem better at all for it. People can deal, and so would I, but it just goes back to the monkey. The whole environment gets better with things like that to enjoy.

I Will Marry 60% Of My Classmates

We were talking about Erickson's psychosocial stages the other day in my introductory psychology class. We got to experiences in early adulthood, which ultimately determine a person's intimacy with other people, or their isolation. This lead to that until my professor said something about our friends now. Some of the people I know now I will still have a close connection to thirty years from now. That's simply the strangest thing to me.
The people I know are from every place. One's from Georgia, most are from Massachusetts, others from New York, Alaska, Michigan, so on. It's crazy to me that the people I casually eat dinner with now, I'll be flying across the country to see them in my middle age. Maybe I'm just not confident in that right now. Maybe I'm a cynic at the moment, can't see any of that happening either because I think people'll be too busy or are too busy, or I'll just fuck things up with the people I really wouldn't mind flying cross-country for right now. The latter just seems painfully possible at the moment.
I've been going back a lot to the old questions again: Am I annoying/stupid/mean/rude/making you feel too uncomfortable to even look at me when you say goodbye? I can't help but think that's all I ever act like.
But she laughs, confides. What does anything mean?

Vacillating, Fickle, Etc.

I don't know if I like this anymore, or what I don't like anymore. It could just be one of those old episodes of that very instant feeling of being upset, except it seems they aren't old at all. I hate those. They would waste so much time with me just staring outside my window watching the young fig tree outside in our backyard bend around in the wind. I can't let myself get into that state again, not even for a minute. Not thinking's just as bad as thinking too much about it, and both are never as good as doing something. I've got too much studying to do today, too.
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Avey Tare- "Laughing Hieroglyphic"

Dancing From Mouthtips, to Perfume, to Macquoit Road

For those of us who don't remember (what's wrong with you?), "Hey Ya!" was a hit single by Outkast way back in 2003. It was kind of popular. I danced to it last night, a little after I told myself that I shouldn't care about things right now. I was worried at first, but I told myself that I needed to get to thinking about absolutely nothing at the moment. She wasn't there. And if she was, what would I even do? If I couldn't even let go of myself when there was no one looking for me, then what? So I danced, and I didn't feel awkward. I really got into whatever song was playing, even if I didn't know it, which was most of them, and this isn't about her anymore. I can dance for myself, now. Least, so long as there's a group I know. At least.
I found the mouthpiece I used for hookah last night in my sweater pocket. It smelled of ashy guava and jasmine and I remembered how much closer I am to falling into this place. I don't use mouthpieces because I'm sick or a germophobe, I use them just for this reason, remember the night before.
Her scent's still a phantom, though, presenting itself at times I don't think of her, when she isn't even here or around, whenever. I think I'll just have to dance harder and bike until my lungs are filled with the air of the marsh that Macquoit Road falls into.

Bonding Over Violent Movies and Railroad Tracks (The Weekend)

Leave it to me to pick out a girl that just so happens to have a load of unattended baggage. Well, I guess I could pick out anyone from the dining hall on any given day and they'd always have problems with whatever people have problems with these days, so I guess it's inevitable and nothing to really complain about. Perhaps instead of being a point of contention, it's really a fulcrum I simply need to learn to use, and then use it, of course. I guess it's mostly just annoying for the moment because I don't intend to maintain my current status as confidante. It's fun to just be friends with good people, at least.
I figure I'm not being at all too tactful about any of this, though. The only obvious displays of affection I can ever manage are in private moments, not that we're always accompanied or surrounded, it's just that I'm very certain those displays are not all appropriate for me and her right now. In every situation, then, the only way I can actually express any desire for anyone is by being a friend, which is wholly counterproductive to my ultimate ends and isn't it just like me to now change my mind about the whole thing? I shouldn't be fretting and worrying about speeding this whole thing along. Maybe this is supposed to start with watching Fight Club and then Kill Bill the next night. And then, what does it matter if it starts absolutely nothing at all?
There are these train tracks in town that lead to places. We were told that if one follows them, they go to some nice little spots. Me and her decided to walk along them today. They're defunct, not used now. Some of the ties are shattered, and most of them aren't even straight. The surrounding forest isn't dense; you can see brightly and dimly colored houses in the distance through the trees. The ground immediate to the tracks is packed by all of these rocks. They crunch when you step on them and make this noise like bones rattling if you drag your feet and kick them, except it sounds more musical than that, but only if you get it right. We didn't really have all day today, so we only went so far as this bridge. It was slow to get to the middle of it, since it's not really meant to be walked on (there are gaps between the ties that have nothing under them). The bridge is over this river. I don't know which river it is. It was windy. She suggested that we bring a kite next time. The water was perfectly blue and wrinkled all over, and the top of the tree line was yellow and orange while it's skirt was still green and the ground it stood on was brown like it always is/will be. We talked about all different things. She talked about her problems with her recent ex for a small bit, but then she talked about other things: movies, school, the broken glass we would see in between the loose rocks, the way she wears brown-colored contacts even though she's got blue eyes. I haven't seen them yet.
I hugged her good night yesterday. It was one of those side-hugs, but still different. Somehow, my chin found itself on top of her head, the hard bone of her skull cushioned by her hair and maybe some kind of sentiment? I wish I could remember if it was me who pulled her close or if it was her who cocked her head towards me, and if it wasn't all because she was so dead tired.

Fuck me. It's like I enjoy being some kind of idiot.
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Grizzly Bear: "Two Weeks

White Wine, Pink Hair, College, etc.

How has college been? I have a lot of free time. I mean a LOT. Peter and I don't have a TV in our room, which is good because we don't really want one at all, so most of the leisure time I've got is spent on biking. I'm not familiar or comfortable enough to go too far into town, so most of my biking is done around the campus. Besides that, I sometimes go and talk to any of the many people I'm acquainted with, mostly girls, which I find funny. It's really really awesome to be allowed to be so spontaneous, and I love it. To be schedule-less and without commitments to anyone is great. I hardly have a schedule to follow most days, but I miss some routines, like having dinner or breakfast or lunch with the same person or people everyday. That comfort and anchor doesn't exist for me right now, which I dislike. I don't like it at all, actually, and I think I hate it. I haven't quite fallen into a perfect niche yet, but I'm sure I'll get into one, preferably one that still allows me this lovely spontaneity.
The weather is just like home, which I like, except for more rain, which I love. The overcast days occur often with their soft light and wind. Sunny days come just as often (for now) and they're truly brilliant, the sun veiling the older and more featured buildings with distinguished shadows. Even though it'd put an end to my bike adventures, I can't wait until it starts to snow.
I acquired wine the other day, but it's cheap commercial wine. yellowtail. I asked for some kind of California riesling, but they got me two bottles of yellowtail riesling. Not at all cool, but I haven't tasted it yet, which is the only way to be sure, but still. I know I'm a college kid. I'm supposed to just want to get piss drunk, but no. I like wine because I like having something complex and nice to taste with someone else, probably nice and complex as well.
I've learned lots of new phrases, most of them vulgar. "Mackin on" is a phrase that literally means fucking, but it's mostly used as a joke. If someone wishes to pursue a closer relationship with someone else, it could be joked that they're mackin on them. Charming in how blunt it is.
There's a girl with pink hair in my building. Not all pink, though I think I've seen another girl once with short hair, all of it an electric blue. She just has a few long locks of pink left. Not hot pink, which is what it used to be. It's more the shade of pale cotton candy, soft and light, all of it on blond hair. I don't know why it's so eye-catching. I've seen a lot of eye-catching hair, all attractive for some strange reason. There's a rather whimsical girl who goes here with a full head of dreadlocks. Something refreshing about seeing her. There's another one with short hair, except she has this rat's tail that grows asymmetrically from her neck. Anyway, pink haired girl's nice. All of her pajamas apparently have hearts on them which is both silly and charming. She has a self-consciously bad taste in books and doesn't listen to enough music. I guess one could say that I'm mackin on her. I guess. Fall break's this coming weekend, and I'm staying on campus. It would be nice to get to know her more then. We have a plan to take a trip into town to the Salvation Army store this weekend, and we'll explore the rest of Brunswick, too. I may even have someone to share the yellowtail with *a-wink wink*. I guess I still run into some of the old problems, though. The subtle shyness. The feeling of not feeling appropriate to the situation. Whether I'm actually wanted around or not. I'll try not to let them come up, though, especially this weekend.
There are lots of trees around on campus. My dorm faces a tiny forest. It's not the densest one in the world, but if you look at it from certain angles, it looks impenetrable. The trees become fence posts that guard some neighbor's yard. They start to hide something, even though you know it's only houses on the other side, but that's only what you know. You don't actually go through. They hide something for those that want to look below, through, underneath.

Motherly Instincts and Hug Defficiencies

Even though I had and still have a lot of reading and studying to do, this last study break was awfully enjoyable. I had to go to a meeting tonight, which included an encounter with a girl I have let down about dinner twice now. She neglected to eat dinner today, which is not cool especially considering she's kind of sick at the moment. In order to make up for this, I invited her over so that she could have Top Ramen that we have around.
I think it's really funny how motherly I get. I warmed up the mug filled with water for her, and cooked the ramen with the microwave we have in our room. I walked her over to the end of the hall, where there is chocolate. I took a bite when she told me to, out of the Reese's we acquired. I made sure that the music I picked was calm for her, and she did little dances when "Deadbeat Summer" came on. I won't be able to play that song soon, it's only enjoyable when it's too hot to want to do anything. She squealed when the ramen she ate became unruly and sighed when the heat of it came back up from her stomach and through her mouth. Her company was extremely enjoyable. Afterwards, I was obsessed with removing every little spot of its recent use out of existence before returning it back to the floor mates I borrowed it from. I just liked it a lot, the experience of taking care of someone.

I saw her out. The goodbye hug we exchanged was strange to me. I gave the awkward one-armed hug I have become accustomed to giving now after meeting and re-meeting so many people. She wrapped both her arms around me tighter than I guess I expected and I guess it lasted longer than I expected, too. She stood on her toes even though I'm not much taller than her at all, a bit of her weight putting itself on my chest and heels. Maybe she just gives hugs less meaning than I do and, because of this, gives better hugs. Maybe she was trying to tell me something about her dancing or the sighs she made or the slight silences we had in our conversations. Maybe I did something important. She doesn't seem like the kind of person who needs a friend, but maybe this was important to her. Maybe I need to relearn how to give hugs.
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Memory Tapes: "Plain Material"

Sandbagging

I really hope I can finally leave everything behind. I hope I can get everything done that I want to get done for myself. I'd be very disappointed in myself if I don't, not to mention I'd end up taking it with me. I really have to leave everything behind. I'm confident that I will, though.

This doesn't make too much sense

Well, how much pain do we bring upon ourselves? Now, I don’t mean stupid decisions, stubborn habits, and undesirable personality traits. I mean, how much of our emotions do we just make up? If we really miss whoever, or if it was just a stupid fling we had that we want to have meant something, try and convince ourselves it wasn’t a shitty waste of time, maybe. If they really get on our nerves, or is it just absolutely nothing about them, it’s just the way it’s become. If whatever feelings of inadequacy are just childish attempts at getting attention from other people. Do we really like them, or have we just gotten desperate about trying to quell any deeper problems that also may not exist? Do these emotions only exist to satiate some bullshit desire in our lives for drama or feeling? Why can’t we just remove any sentiment and purge every painful feeling that we have for someone? It’s so stupidly simple to rationalize doing so. Of course we shouldn’t fall in love when we know it’ll never go anywhere. We shouldn’t stay in love when we know the person isn’t good enough for us. It doesn’t matter what we wear today to anyone but ourselves. No one cares if we didn’t hold a door open or said something mean or not. People like us, we’re just too scared to think that it’s real or just too childish to agree. You just have to keep telling yourself that you’re doing more wrong to yourself than anything else is.

I wish it were so simple, so effective.

Kids in Africa died today with empty stomachs and families in Israel are still broken by war and the worst news of the day is you feel a little shitty? Well, yes. It’s a chronic feeling, and even if it isn’t, it’s still a problem. The horrors of another land may make it seem like less of one, but it still doesn’t fix it. No one chooses to get beat or dumped or to feel bad about themselves no matter what they try. Sometimes bad is the only way you can feel. To try and make a problem seem transient compared to another obviously worse situation doesn’t fix the brooding insecurities of the body or of the mind. It doesn’t move you out of your house and it doesn’t put you to sleep any faster. The way you feel isn’t made up and your frowning isn’t insignificant. The gripping feeling on your neck is proof that you don’t make it up. The razor blade that plunges into your shoulder and the low tearing noise it makes is proof. The dirty sink is proof.

And I’m sure the beggar children in India want you to feel good, too.

Gunpowder

If it’d only light…
It’s not like there’re no sparks every day/night.
It’d start easy, fast,
Just that I’m kinda scared to freak out at last.
Freak out…
Oh I’d be launching projectile words,
I’d be set on automatic, make sure you heard
How I think that every idea you’ve got is absurd,
That every day in the house I feel unnerved,
And that I don’t like the way you talk to me anymore.

Bathroom Painting

I’m painting one of our bathrooms. Today I put on the primer coat. Not at all that exciting, especially at first, but then I realized that I have a laptop, which I then realized enabled me access to that one all-important thing: music. I dusted off the black lappy. I hadn’t touched it since it came last week. Didn’t really have a use for it, but I did then. I put my lappy on the tiny dresser (which really only actually has a prayer book in it) next to the bathroom door. I loaded up Grooveshark and got Delta Spirit playing. I aimed the speakers into the bathroom. Perfectly positioned. Two hours of wrist-destroying activity. Gobs of primer splattered onto the walls and I spread them over the bathroom like peanut butter as the sounds of Beirut, Animal Collective, Edward Sharpe, Fleet Foxes, and Songs of Green Pheasant kept the mundane task fun. I might’ve sung along aloud if I wasn’t so shy about my family. Whispering “White Winter Hymnal” under my breath sufficed. I was bored, but this was more than good enough. I’ve painted before, but I never got to choose the music. I like AFI and As I Lay Dying, yea, but it isn’t emotional to me, you see. It couldn’t make me feel good painting. I felt perfectly fine painting the bathroom, now. The fumes didn’t bother me too much at all, and I just felt good for the music. Took a break to eat with the family. My dad looked at me approvingly. He didn’t even say some stupid joke. Just said, “Mario should be the first to eat today. He’s the only one who’s been working.” I felt nice and well-fed afterwards, but there was still a tiny bit of painting left.

Those moments where you know you’ve just made a memory. I’ll remember how the roller brush was not as awesome for painting the ceiling as I though. I’ll remember that one tinge of frustration. I’ll remember the music, the uplifting melodies and gorgeous voices that carried me the whole day, and I’ll remember how my dad fell asleep to it on his bed. I’ll remember where that one streak of white paint came from on my laptop, just two inches from the trackpad where my pinkie must have rested. I’ll remember the mango I ate and how it sat in my stomach as I painted, how I could tell it still tasted sweet. I’ll remember the rest of my family laughing in the living room, maybe getting annoyed at how loud the music was. I’ll remember the music, and I’ll remember that I was actually a little sore.

Grouper-Wind and Snow

One of my most favorite songs ever. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous

Daily Routine

The day goes by
I’m sedentary,
Self-deprecating,
And the life’s dry.
And then in the night,
The past, future break into my brain,
Burglars leaving little monster thoughts,
Thoughts that taste like flesh,
And thoughts to remind me I’ll never taste it again

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Viernes-Swimmer's Ear

Pay me no mind, I'm just bad rant (really bad)

I don’t want to write it. I have to write some bio of myself for a Palma newsletter since I’m in the top 10% of the class and I don’t want to write it. All anyone ever wants to read in those things is how Palma formed the student into a young man with ambition and thirst for knowledge. How spiritual, moral, physical, intellectual growth is all owed to the school. I hardly have to write anything at all. People will fill in all the fucking blanks themselves. They’ll ooh and ahh at bullshit they wrote themselves, not me. Then people will forget it. No one will keep a copy except for anyone else’s family who has sons that have to write in. It’s a stupidly transient piece of shit. How impermanent it is is astonishing. How little anyone will remember it is just stupid. The parents want it written out and printed and maybe they’ll hang it up and feed their goddamn egos in one more way. I don’t want to write at all. It’s true that I haven’t been present and I never even want to be present in this house. The only times I ever am are times I hate and times when I need to. There’s never anytime when I want to and it really pays. The only reason I ever want to be present at all is because I have that need as a human to exist in an active manner. That existence is bullshit here, though. Everyone complains. I hate that the most. I hate how much everyone complains when we go out to church or wherever. I hate how everyone just has this insatiable need to prove themselves all the goddamn time, and I wouldn’t mind except that they’re all so fucking loud when they do it. It’s dumb whenever anyone argues in this stupid house. They butt heads about how the fucking refrigerator works. Of all the things to raise your voice about, they choose the dumbest. They get fucking butthurt and sore and start playing their guilt-trips whenever they feel the slightest part of losing, least dad does it. Maybe my problem is only him about how stupid arguments get here, but he does it loud enough and in a belligerent enough way that it makes everyone here stupid. It’s like he’s a goddamn troll by nature and everyone else just gets stupid by association. I’m being a bitch, too. All I have to do is write this goddamn thing and then be done with it. I think my problem is that I’ve already wanted to be done for such a fucking long time. It’s not so much that I hate flaunting. I share poems with anyone I think would appreciate them. The problem I have is that it feels like a waste of time to brag about shit I really haven’t invested in at all. I kinda hate the fact that I won the giant trophy. I like that it was for English, at least. That’s actually fun. I hate that it’s so grandiose, I guess. That I can’t do anything BUT flaunt it. I disliked that people I’ve never met kept on walking up and congratulating me. I think it made me nervous. Why did they feel that because I won some great trophy and everything that they can talk to me like I’d known them for years? I’m not explaining that right. I just hated that kind of attention. Why do I have such a problem with being recognized and praised as smart? I take it as an insult sometimes. I don’t know why I’ve always kind of cringed at being called smart. I think it’s because I add more to it than is there (like all crazy people). I feel like people calling me smart means that I can only regurgitate facts, write down things in a “pretty” way, and I don’t know. I hate the word for some reason. I remember when I was a little kid, I used to be obsessed with being smart. I think it changed a lot towards jr. high. I stopped wanting to be “smart” in the way people kept on using the word. It always applied to grades I didn’t care about. Dad used to yell if I didn’t get good grades. For some reason, my stupid psychology took the lesson as smart being undesirable. Maybe if I wasn’t smart, people would just leave me alone and stop yelling so goddamn much about “family obligation”. As if it was SO important to the family that I take part in some bullshit academic decathalon or get perfect straight A’s because a B+ was struggling in class and a B average would always end up a C unless I would actually try in the class (which I never was, apparently) and a C is an F. I’m being a bitch. I hate that I’m lazy and so pissy and I hate how aggravated I get with them. I hate how bored I have been with everything in the past five years and I hate how I’m still bored and I hate how there’s still two months ‘till I’m not so bored anymore. I need to get out and I need to write more, for myself at least. I need to stop biting my nails and I need to stop being such a bitch.

Barometer

Don't take me down now.
I feel nice with her, away.
Our eyes look drunk, sway,
Our bodies float
Slowly, like a boat.
The side has a blue stripe running along
With little scars of unpainted wood here and there.
The wind picked up, and so did the sea,
So now the boat swings, swaggers, drunk,
Like the eyes of two kids
Probably kissing a little too passionately.

The Infinite Void

I really need some effective way of archiving ideas and such. SO many nice and clear ideas get lost way too often. Songs get thought up near completion in my head, but I don't have a good and consistent way of getting them down. Totally awesome revision ideas for Novel are being eaten up by forgetfulness. It's difficult to write things down as ideas because I get frustrated that way. They're not complete, so as soon as I put them on paper, they don't look anywhere near as attractive. I don't have a recorder, and recording things randomly on a street or something seems a bit pretentious, not to mention even more lo-fi than writing song ideas down. Now, a lot of times, I just have a super foggy memory. Things get remembered eventually or off of some random act, but for the most part, I take a magical shower and think of stuff that would be awesome, I dress and forget it all. Maybe I should stop getting dressed.
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Song I was listening to for this post. Pretty violins and gorgeous voice, yo

Saturday And Dream Girls

My ma and I went to JCPenny to buy stuff for my dad. 'Twasn't at all that exciting, but creativity saves a lot. It's funny how whenever I go looking at shoes, the ones I like the most are the super colorful Vans for girls. Now, I would never wear a pair (although I swear some of the designs could pass as unisex) but they're still just really nice looking. I saw this pair of Vans today that were awfully funny. The edges of the material were already frayed and the design was a bunch of multi-color peace signs on a black background. I don't know why I thought so, but I honestly think they were cute as hell. I thought about how immediately charmed I would be if I saw a girl my age wearing them. Attraction's funny like that. I thought about what a physically ideal girl would be, too. Maybe she'd be wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, too, and a thin and worn light purple sweatshirt with a bit of white on it. Maybe she'd have short but really wavy and wild hair, black or brown with a small barrette in her hair. Perhaps her face would be small with shining cheeks and bright eyes and thin lips. Would she be big hipped and flat-chested? Who knows what a girl has to have to make me skip two beats a look at her, really. Maybe what I really want is the tall and busty blonde model type. Well, maybe not that extreme... at all, but whatevs, whatevs. I could draw a perfect picture of what I think I want, have it come to lif,e and maybe she'd still not be it. A VAST majority of girls are awfully attractive, really, in different and super-subtle ways. Wearing purple and fun shoes helps, though.
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Neutral Milk Hotel-"Song Against Sex"
Super nice song by a pretty good band(/understatement).

Told you this thing would be annoying

You’re not what they want. You do a lot, but you’re not what they want. You put yourself out in places you wouldn’t normally be just to give yourself a better chance at what you want. You watch them across the room, watch their back, legs, but hardly ever their face, since they always face someone else. Most times, someone else they want, but not you. Hardly ever you.

You pine for them at night, day, whenever, but you never whisper words about it. You plan and fantasize, write stories in your head about telling them, write more stories about them telling you, but nothing ever gets published. You put those all in little closets in your head. Maybe your family will find those after you die, but no, probably not. They’ll be burned and buried by then.

You see them go through the same, ‘cept their feelings go requited, and your feelings go unrequited. You play like chess, move deliberately. Every word coming out of your mouth is precisely picked, planned. When you’re not flirting, you’re holding your breath, hoping things are responded to well and the way you want them. You never get to know, so you get home at night and lie in your bed while your heart and mind and soul all convulse and all chastise you for not being aggressive enough or outgoing, for saying stupid bullshit, and for ruining your chances forever.

Your stomach hurts.

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Just to lighten the mood, I'll suggest some lovely music for you. Off of LCD Soundsystem's newest album. Haven't really explored the guy, but this song's really nice. If you're feeling lazy, just skip to around 3 minutes.

Obligitory First

This is mah new blog. I guess the first thing I should do is apologize for it, for within this little corner of the internet, you'll find bad poetry that I wrote, bad prose that I wrote, bad reflections on my life that I wrote, and people in the comments lauding my writing for some strange reason.

Second order of business shall be an explanation of the title. One, it's the name of a song that I really like. Two, I really just like the sound of it. Three, by naming my blog "An Assassin", I hope to attract government probes looking for suspicious activity on the internet and thus increase the traffic my blog receives. You see, Big Bro is attracted to buzz words, so I'ma just take a minute to really get them interested in me. Let's see... bomb, Al-Qaeda, Los Zetas, truth, Area 51, cp, kidnap, president, pirate. There. Hey FBI dude! I dedicate this post to you especially <3<3>^-^)> <3<3

Third order of business: A promise to post something substantial tomorrow. This is for you, FBI