going out with a bang

I don't remember very much over the past few weeks. I need to go the hospital, and I am in a few hours. I am embarrassed and scared. I  want to be normal and better and understand other people. I think this is the first step. My brain isn't working right. Or, it is working differently. I am comfortable being rational. Now, the ol' gray box isn't doing so well in the logic department. I know what I feel, and that is what I feel, and a part of me still says it doesn't make sense but when I start to think about it I shut down. That sentence was confusing and would be better illustrated by an example. I can't think of one though. Perhaps this blog entry is a good example. Wait, no, it isn't. There is dog poop around the corner from where I am sitting. The flies prefer to congregate on me. That is a nice little image. I should tuck that into the old brain box for future use.

dont make me write

i dont want to write because i cant and because im tired of it and im not gonna punctuate as a non violent protest five hundred words takes up more words and space than 500 words its really hard not to punctuate my instinct is to hit that period or comma or to type and and then spout off and and and and nothing where ever my muse was shes hiding now i miss the incentive and burning in my gut that makes me want to write the value of my day was often based on the quality of my blog entry and i dont want it to be a chore and i want to do it and i dont want to produce muck and this is certainly muck and there is nothing of value to this punctuationless rant there is no creative incentive behind my lack of structure and gramattical failings i just dont know how to write anymore i would burn down that house if i thought it would spark my mind because i think i need delusions of grandeur to write for me to disseminate my thoughts and opinions i have to believe that i am something special and right now i feel like the scab festering on top of any wound attracting flies and bacteria i can live with not knowing what to right about but i cant live with not wanting to write this whole entry is a confession that right now i do not want to write and have not for several days and i fancy myself a writer that is gross and sad and i feel as sorry for you as i do for myself now im only half way to my word count for the day let me start listing off the words i know radical spontaneous bogus infatuated inflated groin great grating fantastic faggot furnace failure epic proportion correlation dissidence disappointment pathetic plethora pancreas placenta pussy penis pejorative principal palpate pulsate pupate copulate murder homicide genocide regicide infanticide fratricide burger steak chicken cordon bleu belch bile vomit spew hurl chunks blow stink smell reek forget promise remember never lie ok thats 358 words lets start going for phrases i know it is better to have loved than lost time heals all the sea is a cruel mistress get over it grow up learn to love turn the other cheek she loves me she loves me not fuck i just deleted something this was supposed to be a seamless expression of my sentiment and i censored myself i dont even remember what i was going to write this is pretty damn close to five hundred thats right 500 five hundred not two thousand not thirteen not seventy five not even one hundred and eighty two but five hundred words read em and weep marry my magic im out peace.

Monster

The monster had a scab on his foot. He made it himself by prodding an itch with his sharp and unkempt toenail. The more he irritated the itch, the more it bothered him. The more it bothered, the more he itched. Finally what was a blotchy bug bite turned into a festering flesh wound. He sat and stared at the pink, wet and raw skin. Flies competed for access to the wound. A mini dog pile they made on top of the hole. They fought for control of whatever juices were excreted. One would squeeze into the pile and displace another; batting wings and frantic attempts at the pile indicated their distress.

Freewrite

I'm listening to Gigantic. The Pixies were the first band I ever really loved. The songs Brick is Red and Break my Body moved me to tears on several occasions. Listening to them now, I have no idea why. The music is really cool, but it doesn't have the same value to me anymore. It is just music, not the anthem it once was. I remember really liking the Pixies and trying to get Dylan to listen to them in his car. He refused and asked what the big deal with the Pixies was. Once Jordan and Corey started listening to them he was all about them. That sucked. I wonder if any of the three of them will read this, and what their feelings on that will be. That was back in the days of skateboarding. I miss skateboarding. It was my best "sport" endeavor. I was good at skateboarding, at least compared to those boarding with me. I kick flipped the seven stair. Skateboarding did things that were good for me. I liked the independence and purpose it gave. Me and Michael and Jeff would pick up and hit a gap for a few hours. We sweated and sat on our boards and put our elbows on our knees and wiped our faces with our shirts. Grimy asphalt worked itself into the creases of our bodies. Sometimes I carried a bottle of seltzer water with me. Sometimes Michael was hijacked by the stoners and then skateboarding wasn't as much fun. Bleary eyed, he would sit on the curb and say silly things. I haven't found something comparable to that sense of accomplishment after landing the perfect flip, or olliing 5 skateboards stacked, wheels interlocking. I biked across the country in 9 weeks, and I am still prouder of my multiple attempts at olliing the 11 stair, even though I never landed it. To bike across the country all I had to do was wake up and put one foot after the other. The 11 stair ate two of my skateboards, and was never conquered. But to face her was to face an Everest. It took some balls culminating in a poetic pop-woosh. The pop was the tail of my skateboard clacking on the sidewalk inches before the abyss. The woosh was the flight. Like an arrow I flew through the air and down the stairs, an unusual approach to descending stairs. Time after time I landed with a crash. Sometimes the board shot out in front of me and my ass hit the ground. Twice I landed perfectly but the thing wood of my board just couldn't survive the impact, and the stress points of the contraption splintered, making me do the splits, one foot on each half of the skateboard rolling away from each other. Once I gave up half way through the air, kicked the board away from me and landed in a crouch like if I had jumped without the skateboard. My head, or eye, more specifically, collided with my knee with the force of 11 stairs skipped. That one is on film.

EmotiX

I am tired of trying. TOO BAD. It hurts in my heart. GET OVER IT. My pain is profound. WAA WAA WAA.

A childhood friend of mine was murdered. My roommates parents are separating. My dad has cancer.

Feelin' blue? Join the crew. Rhyme away your time.

Anguish allows apathy. Alliteration alleviates angst.

My sorrow is like a simile.

My tears are metaphor.

I'd fight off 10,000 hyperbolic armies for your love.

I am depressed. I DON'T CARE. I have issues. WHO DOESN'T. I need love. WAA WAA WAA.