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Does God bless the individual or the whole? Are there really truly muses or is that just some thing we are sold? Fountain man find your fascination and you may flow forever more.

It is hard when things end. And it is fantastic when new things begin. But you can't keep piling furniture into a full room and anticipate fung shei. Let it happen. Let it go and know that the closed door is just an open window.

One of my favorite things is to be passenger.

I guess I'd forgotten that... It's a subtle joy? Pleasure? Blessing? To see you've memorized the way to campus from my house. We debated the drive there this morning; Do I drive you, or do you drive me, or do we accept that either option is frankly impractical and we should just drive our damn selves. When my car sputtered and yowled our question was answered.

I know some of the songs you're playing. You know some of the movies I mention. Alchemy.

I drive this highway every week and only now am I able to truly see it. The spring st 1/2 mile sign has an IBEAM tag right next to it! And the guardrail before exit 249D has that little spiral face guy I like sprayed on it. I like that I actually trust you enough to even look out of the window. I'm a chronic backseat driver, but you don't have to know that.

God- I can't believe my car didn't start. It's in the back of my mind like an upcoming exam. I guess it had to be my turn eventually. Your car gave you absolute hell when we first started hanging out. Our first date somebody backed into you and didn't even leave a note. You put on a very brave face throughout dinner and I dropped noodles and beef on my face. Definitely your turn.

You sound like a rocking chair banjo big big hug when you sing and as I write this the gravity of you pulls me in. I'm lucky I was in your orbit this morning.

The dentistry billboards smile on us as we pass that place where that one person works and I remember that thing they did and when but I don't work there anymore and the leaves are all orange now.

Thank you for driving me.

Current Music: that weird fish song by radiohead

One of my favorite secrets is an unspoken friendship I have with a woman who works at the corner store by my house.

When I interact with women at work I feel comfortable enough to show kindness. Men? Mean mug. Mean mug alll the way, all day, every day. I can’t trust that even a polite head nod won’t be misconstrued and cost me something.

So the first time I bought a soda, I smiled at her. She smiled back and did her job. I thanked her. She said have a good day. I had a good day.

I made a pit stop of this store, often dropping in for a honey bun or a juice can when I make the trek to campus on foot. I think she likes seeing me come in. I’m young and respectful.

It’s been a while since I’ve stopped in (saving money and what not) but tonight I guess I just really needed some sprite. It’s pitch black out and the “VAPE” sign is so bright I find myself genuinely squinting at it. Walking past a man playing digital slots, I get my shit. Theres two men outside yelling and enjoying their night. My face is nasty but truthfully my night’s been quite alright. Can’t let them know that, though.

I put my drink (and a Twinkie I definitely don’t need to be buying) on the counter, and there she is. We recognize each other and I instantly lose the tough guy act. I ask her how she’s been, and I know that I sound a little too genuine. She’s been good. She sets me up on the tap pay pin pad. I pay. And I leave.

I won’t ever ask her name, I think it’d ruin it, but I’m always glad to see her working. And I hope she doesn’t realize that I bought sprite to drink alone in my kitchen. Such is life.

Tonight I am sleeping on a mattress in the middle of what used to be my mother’s storage room. My not-so-little-anymore sister has her head by my feet, and mine is by hers. I didn’t know it was even possible to sleep with your knee bent up, but then again we haven’t slept near each other in four years.

My parent’s make shift nest lies in the remnants of the living room. The ridiculously large TV my father bought in 2018 now sits on a fold out table.

I don’t know when we got one of those. I wonder if they’ve been keeping it in the basement.

The walls are grey and sad and every ceiling feels too high. I fucking hate this house. I hate who I was inside of it. I hate what I said here, what I did, who I had become. I hate the fighting and the stomping. I hate the claustrophobia, everybody breathing down each others necks and listening for stepped upon eggshells. I hated the downstairs bathroom thats fan doesn’t work meaning that everyone can hear you pee when you use it. I hate this house more than I knew I even could, but tonight I find myself sad to see it go.

It’s different now that I see it’s skin start to thin and the light leave it’s eyes as my family bids it a final goodbye. And I thought I’d be over joyed to see it die.

My mother has been all out of sorts, horrified and guilty that she’s leaving the state and in turn leaving me and my older sibling alone in Georgia. A couple weeks ago they asked me and them to drive to the house and discuss the move, make sure that we’re all on the same page.

She kept trying to assure me that they weren’t abandoning us. They’re just a flight away. It’s only Florida, we already visit that swamp state so often.

It was then my turn to assure her that I was beyond fine. I hardly visited my parents anyway so nothing would really change, right?

Wrong.

Wrong!

Just plain as day, flat out, sliced-bread WRONG.

It’s the first time my family has moved and I’m not moving with them, and that’d be one thing if it were just down the street but I’ve never driven more than five hours consecutively and I’ve only been driving on highways for two years now.

I pay rent, I pay bills, I’m finding a new house to rent all on my own. I have an entire life!

But I’m just a kid inside. I’ll be a kid till I’m fifty, and then I’ll be a teenager till I die. My mom isn’t even an adult yet, I’m not sure my dad is either!

While plugging in my phone to charge for the night the significance of this all hit me like a truck.

Instantly I felt my lip quiver and my brow bend, and I knew I just wanted to cry my heart out.

I tried to move in slow motion across the kitchen but as always the floors ratted me out with their squeaking. I remember when I would do this exact maneuver to sneak in my ex girlfriend. Everyone in the house could always tell when I would. I was such a goof for that. And I certainly hadn’t gotten any better since then, eeking and creeking towards the back door.

I tried to time the door handle’s groaning with my father’s snores before giving up and just leaving.

God- what are they going to do with that stupid grill?!

This summer all the mosquitos are pissed and the cicadas are in full force. I’m reminded of when we first moved to Georgia. I couldn’t sleep a wink with all the maraca bugs screeching. But then I got used to it. Now I sometimes get kept up by the hispanic family down the road that loves to party deep into the night. I’m getting used to that too.

It’s always something. Somebody’s moving, somebody broke up with somebody else, somebody died, somebody’s not my friend anymore, somebody and I are friends again, somebody is switching schools.

I didn’t lie to my mother when I told her I didn’t care, I guess I just hadn’t realized that I did yet.

I’m not asleep right now because then the night will end.

We’ll wake up and I’ll help them pack the rest of their things, and then I’ll blow snot all on my dad’s novelty Siracha shirt and then drive to my own home and dye my roommates hair before her shift at waffle house.

I fucking love my life.

I do.

I love it a million times more than being here in this stupid grey dollhouse.

Even though I hate it I can’t bare to say goodbye and I think it’s because I don’t have a choice, I have to.

I’m not 19 and I don’t eat my parents food anymore, nor do I hide in my room to avoid seeing them. They aren’t around like they used to be.

Really, *I’m* not around like I used to be.

This place was like a snow globe that I could shake every once in a while and watch where the flakes had landed. I was the one who left. I was the one who visited. And I could always visit- I could always just come home.

Their new house isn’t going to be home to me, it’s all new and all theirs. My home-base isn’t a common space anymore. It’s just me. I’m my home now.

I cried my eyes out on the porch, shoulders shaking as I held myself. You know it’s bad when you run your fingers through your own hair and pretend it’s someone else soothing you. I cried until I felt myself run dry.

Having made peace with my distress, I opened the back door rather recklessly. The room was silent and I was unsure if I woke anyone until my mother proclaimed that I had scared her. I apologized and went to my sister’s bed.

I didn’t want to be there, though. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my parents bed. But that just wasn’t the relationship we had, not since I was like 11. That’s almost ten years of not being held, kissed, or touched.

It’s incredibly common for me to desperately need to be held by my mother, but that urge is never actualized.

Ever.

Fuck it- I’d regret it when they die if I didn’t at least try tonight.

So I snatched up my loaned pillow and blanket and plopped them onto my parent’s bed. My dad was quick to voice his confusion, and the way he asked “what are you doing” seemed almost annoyed, like he was expecting the worst. I don’t know what the worst could have even been.

I told them I wanted to sleep in their bed because I was going to miss them.

The coin flipped and they instantly softened and welcomed me in between them. My mom put her arm on top of me limply, not grabbing hold of what she gave birth to. I wondered if her mind was racing and if she too was reflecting on our relationship.

They don’t know that my little sister has told me about all the divorce “jokes” they’ve been making recently, and the three of us lay on top of the secret together.

Eventually she adjusted, taking her arm away. I gathered the courage to put it back and we all pretended that we could fall asleep.

It was nice, and I’m very glad I did it.

One measly hour later, though, and I’m back in the other room because honestly I’m more comfortable in here. I don’t have to force myself to mouth breathe so my sad, stuffy nose doesn’t whistle when I breath. And I can spread out and sleep just how I like to.

It’s definitely time that we all move forward. None of us can change the past, and we sure as hell can’t stop the future. It won’t be so bad.

It’ll just be different.

Goodnight stupid grey house… I love you. Goodbye.

Current Mood: blank

I hit on the lead singer of a band last night.

His performance was incredible and I was so impressed with how he commanded the room. During the first set I decided I wouldn't bother with the pit but the energy this band summoned was just toooo~ tempting! I fought through the crowd towards my friend and got them to hold my things and then proceeded to get tossed around the room like a beach ball. I always feel like I'm doing something wrong when I mosh, like I'm somehow disrupting other's experiences. I fear I've got the wrong shoes on, or I push with my forearm when I should be pushing open palmed. When I tried to shout this feeling into another friend's ear we miscalculated our movements and almost mashed mouths. We laughed (because it was hilarious) and he told me he felt the same way which was funny too because he's much better at it than me. Later in the night somebody tossed somebody else into said friend and gave him a bright red bloody nose, which makes me think that him and me might just be the least of the scene's concerns.

Anyways, at first I just paid the singer a compliment. I told him he had a "Patrick Stump sort-of-thing going on." He was surprised by the comparison and I could see him think about it (you know like when somebody's eyes are physically moving because they're looking at something in their mind). The exchange was short and sweet and took place in the middle of the street as he took his guitar to his car. He thanked me and I thanked him and we went on with our nights.

I returned to the friend-of-a-friend I was chatting with. His shirt was drenched in sweat from the shirtless pit-princess man who'd been bumping into everyone all night (I complimented him as well, and yes I did tell him he was the princess of the pit.) There was a very distinct line where the moisture ended and this made the friend-of-a-friend and I chortle. Any time we were approached we regaled the story and laughed just as much as the first time we told it.

A girl came up to us and told me I was hot, or beautiful, or some other incredible and inebriated praise. She spoke so fast and jumped topics like a parkour party frog. I was thrilled to be receiving my first drunken sisterhood moment and I profusely complimented her back, despite being sober myself. She said the friend-of-a-friend was beautiful too, "beautiful like a woman with a mustache", and she told us about how she'd swapped rings with the girls sat on the steps of the venue. Before she left to go back into the belly of the beast she told me to never settle.

Needless to say, I was on a high. Friend-of-a-friend and I lamented about how she made us feel drunk just by being drunk herself. The air was moist with sweat and liquor and smoke, and I was so happy to be out of the house. The last act had just finished and all four of us had finally been reunited after splitting off into twos all night. We had one last mission; get the front man of the main act to "sign" my friend's notes app.

Back into the single room stage we marched, looking for the signature suit and mustache of said front man. He wasn't there at the moment, but the singer from earlier was and he approached me to talk more about what I had said. He spoke intelligently and we mused about Fall Out Boy's earlier works, and he seemed to feel just as strongly about them as I do. Feeling emboldened by the atmosphere and my lite beer cheerleader from earlier, I got his Instagram.

The exchanges at these sorts of things go so fast and by the time you're in them you're already out- which made it hard to gauge reactions or do much of anything but yap a mile a minute. I felt something when I got his username and it laid dormant in the back of my mind for the rest of the night. But when I finally got home, settled in, and opened the app I realized it was apprehension that I sensed.

Low and behold he has a girlfriend of three years! No wonder. She's every other post on his account, and they've been together since he was my age. Funny thing, that. Everybody is 23 or 18 and there is no in between. Well, except me and my friends I guess.

I do regret trying to "seal the deal" so to speak, but I'm trying not to. It's a funny story that I can laugh about and I had a great time recalling it in this post, so no harm no foul, really.

It's okay, though! I'll just get the front man's number next ;) jkjk

Current Mood: Fruity
Current Music: Bart Cup by Hospitality

Your blog is dead.

And I know I shouldn't have checked, it's not my business and you'd probably be pissed at me (youwerealmostalwayspissedwithme) but I clicked on anyway. You're still up there in that room. I have no clue if you still sleep on the top bunk or if you've deconstructed it. I do wonder about those things you know. I wish we didn't have to be enemies but you make it near impossible to be anything else. You've always been a dog. You gnash and bite after a warning bark. It's too much for me. I let you tear me to shreds because it was easier to point the finger than extinguish the flame. I feel like mush some days. Like a big, indescribable pile of innards. I feel like the baby on the doorstep being kicked from house to house like a football. You never liked my orange perfume. I don't really know if I like it either, it is a bit immature. But I love my hair in braids- I absolutely love it. I've put you out of my mind and washed you from my hair. Everything is moving so fast and it makes me scared. Maybe it's all catching up to me now. The runaway train is slowing down and without that sexy smog-haze I'm just a hermit crab without her shell. I fell in love with a girl in two weeks flat. I told my friend that my time with her made me "finally understand songs." You never made me feel that way but I'd lie and say you did because I figured that's just what everyone else was doing. You were so fucking important to me. Now I just put that energy elsewhere (thelieItellmyself). I'm a career woman- didn't you hear? Oh I've got it alllll figured out, don't I. What a fucking joke. I don't know a thing.

I've considered it all. Bleaching my hair and joining the circus (youknow-theusualoffenders). I want my mom, man. But I don't have her like that, I never have. Maybe I'll try anyway but it's so late at night and I don't want to bother her. I just need someone to tell me that everyone feels this way when they're my age. I can't just be this level headed fucking boy genuis all the time. I can't. I'm a kid and every day I wake up and someone or something has tied my shoelaces together again. I have so many fucking people around me but sometimes it's still so lonely. I've been through hell and my feet are fucking iron- don't you make me walk on coals again. You won't like me when I'm red hot again. Raped, beaten, fucked over and fucked up. Chapter after chapter it's been fucking hard. I've always been an explosion and everybody who loves me knows the risks. They sign the waiver and promise not to sue when my shrapnel pierces them someway somehow. But everybody feels that way. BUT EVERYBODY FEELS THAT WAY. I tell myself this over and over and over again. I need a hug. I want to break down in your (chat this is a different you than the original you I mentioned) arms because I think you'd see me for who I really am. I did it. I did what I always do. I made a mona lisa of you. Smile? But you want him and I'm all me. Alllll me. All the time. There is never a break from this endlessly beating heart. Take it a day at a time, a pill every morning and every night. I think you'd understand too (another you) and you're honestly my best bet. Fuck- I'm so terrified of making a mistake. I need to pray there is just no other way. Only God can handle me. Only God can handle this. I need Him.

I might as well post this publicly and let the ghosts of blogsites see my ruin. I'm really fine. And if you read this (the original you) then you read this. Hey- you might even see me as a person again.

Current Mood: Holding on
Current Music: Sending Postcards From a Plane Crash -Fall Out BOy

I want to live somewhere no one else lives. A tragic circus's petting zoo, but all the animals have hard rubber faces to mismatch from their soft plushy bodies. They stare at me but I can only face forward to stare at the painter. The clouds are cotton and the colors blend into each other softly. I am hard. I am a suit of armor among the sheep. The Shepard's field I loiter in is lush and encompassing. It stretches from infinity to eternity. No one will find me here except for everyone, who could see me here all the while. The song that plays for my lifetime is tragic and beautiful and it means a whole lot. They'd put it in a museum and I would be witnessed mysterious forever more. Just another tragedy to explore.

Current Mood: creative
Current Music: O Sailer -Fiona Apple

I am consistently and reliably blown away by Fiona Apple's discography. Extraordinary machine is such a killer album, full of whimsical melancholy soaked in the acceptance of the unacceptable. The instruments speak to my body so masterfully, and with the swells and sways I find my anatomy reacting. Maybe it's the autism but God DAMN! More to come at 6.

Current Mood: bouncy
Current Music: extraordinary machine -fiona apple

Left Alone by Fiona Apple is four minutes of pure teleportation. God, all her music is! I'm just not in my shoes anymore when I really listen, I'm somewhere super high up with all the rest of the balloons that people let go of. The swells, the bursts, the sheer energy within every measure. This combined with her lyrical prowess, oh my God. It really is something to behold. Her voice stuns me so so much. I think that rich people can make such music because they get told yes. But who knows, maybe she told herself yes and I'm an asshole for thinking so. I don't really relate to what she writes, honestly. It's a lot of stuff I don't feel myself, really. Or just situations I haven't been in, and don't think I'll find myself in. I just know what she's talking about. I see it around me, and as another person on this earth I feel all the same feelings just in different circumstances. My breathe tastes like almond milk, haha.

Current Mood: Entranced
Current Music: Left Alone -Fiona Apple

AHHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHH AHHHHHHH OH MY GOD AHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAH AH AHHHHH AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH AAAHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Taylor swift commercial is on AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHAHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAA AAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA

Current Mood: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Current Music: AHHHHAAAHH -IT HURTSSS AAAHH

So close to either side

And that's so special

You're so special in between worlds, a place where not everyone can go. Don't you feel unique and precious? You're a ruby in a creek...

Don't make me feel selfish for wishing I could be a stone. Each polished, hand washed rock in the river bed is beautiful in it's own way. They're unique, you're just a freak. To be either or is to be nothing at all, and to be nothing is a rather rotten something in itself. The zebra with rainbow stripes will be found out first, no matter how much you pretend to envy it. To stand out is to be a target. If you want it so bad paint big red rings on your own stomach, welcome the arrow to your nest in your own gut. Do not place that responsibility on me.

Someday I may learn to love it but it will never be for you. But for me and us. The paradox sex. The curse of conventionality is that to know what it is we must also know what it is not. If rules are meant to be broken then what is jail for

I'm just not surprised that the most influential and boundary breaking people wind up taking the easy, isolated way out. It's so personal to have no where else to go. Your heart can only stop beating within your chest.

Lest somebody rip it out before you get the chance

Current Music: "Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi" -Radiohead

My hair looks the way it did my freshman year.

The way it did before I dyed it.

The way it did before I cut it all off.

Is stasis healing? Should I instead describe it as regression? What about rebirth? What beautiful metaphor can I make of such a simple thing.

I guess I can say it's symbolic. For the natural cycle of life. I tried to deny who I was but how can you deny the color of your roots when they're always just gonna grow right back in. It grows to be whatever color it pleases. And it will forevermore, without a doubt. No matter what I have to say about it. Maybe I just got it all wrong, so nature is making it right again. It's pretty funny to see the person in the mirror that you used to run so far away from. You still do sometimes.

My body is so weak and I know it's from the bites. A lycanthrope with a self soothing tendency of taking chunks of flesh off it's own body. You always regret it but then you remember the taste. You remember the sting. Do I write aimed towards an invisible "you" because I hate to admit it's me? Is it embarrassing to do so? Who else could it be. You cannot write a memoir of an emaciated wolf without personally knowing the aching of it's stomach. I don't consider myself a victim here but I'd appreciate the pity none the less. My way. I want it. But I'll take the long road, and blow down little piggy huts along the way. And so I'll never get it. And at night when my bones turn to gelatinous toddlers, growing before your eyes and stumbling into their new form, My stomach stretches into a cavern with stalagmites of nausea. If only I'd learn to stop looking at the moon. The words of someone blameless, huh. Sure. I'll believe it for now. Because you're sick, and you can't keep up with your body. But you've been transforming for some time now, you think you'd get the hang of it. justshutupandeatthebacon.

Current Music: "Piggly Wiggly" by Retard-O-Bot

It is the final week of my freshman year of college! Technically! In reality I should be like a junior or something now, but I have not been great about the schoolarino stuff :P

BUT.

THIS MEANS...

I have a three page paper due tomorrow.

I uh... Well... You can just guess how much I've progressed on that from how many ellipses I've been shitting out in this one post. WOAH I CAN CHANGE THE FONT SIZE. WHOAAA HAHA. Well now we know haha. Wait that's too small, Here. Okay I think this is normal again. DUDE DO YOU SEE HOW I'M PROCRASTINATING RIGHT NOW. OHH MY FUCKING GAWD. Okay I have to do this oh myyyy golly good jee williking jelly bean. Okay. Bye.

Current Mood: productive

Such a big big world...

There is literally so much to do at all times and yet I feel so entirely unproductive. I've done... things... before...

But I'm doing nothing now. Oh how it feels to rot.

Like an orange peel from a picnic that you forgot is in the bottom of your bag. You discover it weeks later, but it's known about itself all that time.

You can strut your bright feathers but in the dark what does it really matter. You're just as plucked naked as the rest of us. Shrodinger's catfish. Just a hard prick with no kids to show for it LOL. All talk. So how do you be real? How do you walk the way you talk and say so humbly? Can it be done? Keep swimming buddy, maybe the next river will buy it. Ice to an eskimo.

So you try to do it. You talk read loud and you say what you think. But it's wrong. It can never really be right can it? Not when you're answering to others. Try living in your own head for a change, you might like it. (butitssolonelytobemyself)

Helllllloooooo Dreamwidth...

Ah... what a worthy adversary to the twisted corridors of fuckery within my mind...

So.

Who am I?

I'm a thinker. I think many'a' thought in my thinkatorium cranium. And if you so choose to subscribe you will be subjected to such thoughts that may be posted under the influence of hysteria, overwhelming emotion, disturbed cravings for lunacy, and shitty gas station carts such as the "cart simpson" and "cartnight."

Genuinely, though, I'm a writer! I write a lot of lyrics, short stories, some scripts. Expect a lot of journaling about emotions, my day, poetic ramblings about how I have no friends and whenever I lie my nose grows and that makes women scared of me! The reason I even started writing as a child was because of Ryan Ross's livejournal posts and AFYSCO lyrics, so if you wonder "what the hell is wrong with this dude" just keep that in mind and delete your string of profanities.

I am also an artist, and I love to use paint pens and multi media, usually coupled with a lyric or caption (:

I hope you will join me on my adventure....

INTO MADNESS!! BWAHAHA