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| My Sexiest Mistake Gave Me Herpes |
| 01.26.05 (9:24 pm) [edit] |
So, it appears that I've finally scared away my audience, which I suppose is a good thing. The tightened strings of my social girdle have loosened for the time being.
Or that January is a rediculously busy month for everyone. Maybe they'll come back, maybe they won't. I've given up on worrying, honestly. After Christina and after losing my job... I can't do it. [Where's it gonna get you acting serious?]
I suppose that the only thing I can really do right now is bury myself in my music, and feed off of my currently unrestrained creative portion of the brain. As soon as things start going well again, the rational side will take over and I'll be reduced to bland, boring tunes. Oh, the paradox of the life of the musician. True happiness brings down the happiest of dreams.
Or something.
Sorry, I'm just getting over a drastic disillusionment, which roots in a long term, deply vein line of hope. If I come off as sad/bitter/angry/dramatic then trust that time heals all wounds, and that my relationship with the dream will fade from memory, only surfacing when I get really drunk and I end up bawling in the arms of a friend who's only there because he's supposed to watch over me when I drink to make sure that I don't fuck my foot up anymore.
Or something.
Anyway, I hope that's personal enough for you.
I don't want to say anymore.
--Avarice
[i]Can we eat them?[/i]
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| It Kills Us |
| 01.23.05 (11:58 am) [edit] |
My lack of posts. That's what I really want to focus on. Really. Just understand that when I go on to a couple of tangents, they're all connected, like a web, where one broken strand does little to the web, but many makes it fall. [We were dreaming.]
Keeping track of my life through zeros and ones for the world to ignore is more theraputic than it is hindering, but it seems that when I need it most, I can't form the words. I beg to be a fourteen year old, who isn't ashamed of the words that he writes to vent. It isn't happening, I assure you. But I tried. I tried hard. Especially on "Give". [There are moments when I know it.] I wanted to say "Fuck this. Fuck it all. I'm gonna take some pills, drink some booze, hire a hooker, pass out, so fuck you all." Why can't I? Why can't I at least [i]do[/i] that list of closure that works for most of my peers.
Why isn't that me? [Why isn't that me?]
She's not ready for a long-term relationship. I found myself on the friend ladder for being honest, which is a demeaning place to be. Especially for being honest. [Do everything you can. Don't you worry what they tell themselves.] I'm the one that no one falls for unless they are crazy. Erix can attest. Lunchbox can attest.
Unfortunately there's no feeling behind this anymore. There's no passion for me to pass on to you, the reader. [Smile like you mean it]. It's not that it's a chore, persay, but I don't feel the desire to share anything with anyone anymore. [Dreams aren't what they used to be.]
The look in his eyes. So hard to really explain what I saw. Victory, mostly. Perhaps I was just putting things where things don't go, but I saw victory. What was I supposed to do? I took off my schmock and handed in my badge. I was too dead to even care. I was still wearing the clothes from the night before. I can't believe I didn't at least change. I can't believe I even got up and came in. I wasn't feeling it. Not after last night. [I've had it with this game.]
My fingers hurt from being the vessel from which my heart pours. Too much energy, too much emotion, kills. Too much hope, too much passion, disappoints. [Heaven ain't close in a place like this.] Bleeding my life through a text based medium seems so sad and pointless. Especially after that night.
I'm trying, Kendy. I'm trying LB, and Erix, and Process, and Night, and Cowboy, and Twilight, and Punk. I'm trying, but all that's happening is my hands are getting worn and tired. I'm trying Christina. [You would kill for this.]
God-dammit. I'm trying.
--Avarice
[i]-- Existentialism on a Prom Night --
When the sun came up
We were sleeping in
Sunk inside our blankets
Sprawled across the bed
And we were dreaming.
There are moments when
When I know it and
The world revolves around us
And we're keeping it
Keeping it all going
This delicate balance
Vulnerable, all knowing
(Sing like you think no one's listening)
You would kill for this
Just a little bit
Just a little bit
You would kill for this
(Sing like you think no one's listening)
You would kill for this
Just a little bit
Just a little bit
You would... you would
Sing me something soft
Sad and delicate
or loud and out of key
Sing me anything
We're glad for what we've got
Done with what we've lost
All our lives laid out
Right in front of us
(Sing like you think no one's listening)
You would kill for this
Just a little bit
Just a little bit
You would, you would
(Sing like you think no one's listening)
You would kill for this
Just a little bit
Just a little bit
You would
Sing me something soft
Sad and delicate
or loud and out of key
Sing me anything
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| All I have to give |
| 01.20.05 (8:27 am) [edit] |
Isn't good enough.
[i]-- Give --
I said it didn't matter
Lying, but you caught me
At least that's how I tell it
Making conversation
To re-poison the well
At least that's what I'm giving you
When all is said and done
I'm right here
I'm right here
This short drive felt like hours
405 at nine
Grabbing at directions
Down Burnside and 19th
We're gonna find our way
If it kills us
When all is said and done
I'm right here
I'm right here
And all I have to give
Is so much more than what I wanted
Letting it go under
There's cigarettes in all
The loves I've ever wanted
And it kills us
And all I have to give
Is so much more than what I wanted
Letting it go under
There's cigarettes in all
The loves I've ever wanted
And it kills us
If we're being honest
Then I am a bit discouraged
It doesn't matter
I can keep my cover
I said it and I meant it
It's what I'm good at
When all is said and done
I'm right here
I'm right here
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| Heavy |
| 01.18.05 (8:52 pm) [edit] |
God, I'm down tonight.
I am always the one who calls.
[i]-- Waiting for a Superman --
I asked you a question
But I didn't need you to reply.
"Is it getting heavy?"
But then I realized
"Is it getting heavy?
Hell, I thought it was already as heavy
As can be."
Is it overwhelming
To use a grain to crush a fly?
It's a good time for Superman
To lift the sun into the sky
Cause it's getting heavy
Hell, I thought it was already as heavy
As can be.
Tell everybody to wait now for Superman
That they should try to hold on as best they can
He hasn't dropped them,
Forgot them
Or anything
It's just too heavy for Superman to lift.
Is it getting heavy?
Well, I thought it was already as heavy
As can be.
Tell everybody to wait now for Superman
That they should try to hold on as best they can
He hasn't dropped them,
Forgot them
Or anything
It's just too heavy for Superman to lift.
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| Sentinel |
| 01.16.05 (8:56 pm) [edit] |
Let it be known: the Outlett mobile is about to be retired, and with it goes the memory of the half-could-have-been group that Outlett was.
The memories will fade, as will the drama that plagued the last few weeks. I just purchased a new death trap. It's a sentinel. It's expensive to repair, but it was a good deal. A steal and a half for $300. Fo' sho'.
Anyways, this is just a quick update. I'm getting ready to go meet Lunchbox at a Jack in the Box. God, that sounded dumb. Anyway, I'll post tomorrow after work.
Laters.
--Avarice
[i]And death followed with him.[/i]
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| The Meaning of Life. |
| 01.12.05 (7:52 pm) [edit] |
For those of you who think about the meaning of life and what not, I'll have you know that it rests on a plaque in a prize machine at the T/A station just off I-5 exit 278 in Oregon.
No really. It is.
You see, here's where I stood, on the outside of the glass, reading this half-buried plaque, trying to figure out the second half. I mean, this is some heavy shit I'm giving you right now. [i]I know where the meaning of life rests.[/i] And for a mere fifty cents, you can perhaps even obtain it, if you're good with those stupid claw prize machine. I pumped three bucks in that glorious holder of truth before two things happened: 1) I knocked the plaque flat, momentarily shifting the gravel and releasing the most coveted of all answers, and 2) I ran out of money.
But consider that from a moment. This actually says scores about the American citizen. [i]The meaning of life is reduced to a cheap prize in a truck stop.[/i] Not that the meaning itself was bad or false, it may have been the best interpretation of the real meaning of life that I've ever seen scripted. But that it was buried, intentionally, by someone who was seriously concealing the information in order to lure people into playing a game. I laughed.
I have this other thing that I've been meaning to talk about, but this isn't something that you follow with a story like that. This is something that will leave some smiling, some disenfranchised and some thinking. You don't need to worry about my personal stuff just yet.
But you know what I would have done with that plaque? I would have mounted it.
So everyone can see.
--Avarice
[i]I'm broken and colder than hell.[/i]
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| Given the time frame. |
| 01.11.05 (6:13 pm) [edit] |
Damn you car. Especially tonight.
If you read this, I swear, if I can make it up to you, I will.
I suppose it's time I let some others in on the nonsense.
So she is great. Wonderful. Uplifting. Like me. If I could marry myself, I would, so this is a great asset. She has other great assets to, but I couldn't explain without help of diagrams and photos. She is an excellent cook. [She was making me crab tonight, you God-forsaken piece of shit for a car.] She is an intellectual, which is good, because I do get bored with the idiots. She has certain qualities of Night, although not too much to make it weird. A hint of her eyes.
She is one of the few people in this world that I worry that I will let down. I did tonight. Trust me. This sucks.
Gotta go.
--Avarice
[i]Arg.[/i]
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| Bloody knuckles |
| 01.09.05 (6:40 am) [edit] |
Here's the thing about drinking. You start, and seriously, you can tell where your tolerance is. You know when to stop. You don't, for whatever various reasons. You get drunk. You fall face down in the biggest, coldest mud puddle in all of Oregon.
Sorry, I had a really bad night.
I was pumped, don't get me wrong. There was a lot on the line tonight, that I appearentally threw out the window. She was there. Oh, God, you should have seen her.
I had this dream last night where I was looking for some schott's tape. I looked and looked, and finally, I decided to look in my father's room. He said to look over off to one side, and to that side were empty shot glasses and bottles of liquors drunk long ago. I wasn't happy with this, so I looked on the otherside. My father became very upset and began cursing me and telling me to stay away because it wasn't what I thought.
I went anyway.
On the otherside of the bed was this blanket. I pulled it back to reveal gifts for me that I never had recieved. Some had postal stickers, some hadn't been wrapped yet, and some said "Love, Mom and Dad." I was angry that they'd hold something that was good back from me, but my father kept saying, "See, you little prick? You never know when good enough is good enough."
I'm not quite sure what the message is supposed to be. But that's the worst part about it. I don't know what any of it means. Is there a life tally behind me that's going to mark what happened last night in the "Good" or "Bad" category? Or is this for naught? I don't know.
I normally miss the message anyway.
--Avarice
[i]Here, I'm allowed.[/i]
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| Hard decisions and harsher words |
| 01.05.05 (2:51 pm) [edit] |
Not yet, at least, but trust that it may get to that point.
I once played this game called [i]Singles[/i], and I would laugh when I played it because I had a hard time thinking that the avatar for my real life self could get bothered by their flatmate doing whatever. I was so horribly wrong, and I purpose an apology to anyone whose had a flatmate go bad.
I wish there weren't so many God-damned strings attached to this one. Guitar stings, to be exact. And a lunchbox. I don't know what I'm going to do, but he is willing to trash the place where I [i]let him live so that he wouldn't have to marry his over zealous, yet horribly hypocritical girlfriend[/i]. I had invited him in on grounds that he [i]needed[/i] a place to stay. The end. I didn't want a flatmate then, and I'm starting to not want one again.
Jesus, I feel so damned trapped here. I have a group who [i]could[/i] make it, we really fucking could, but the setbacks make me want to dive into a suicide marrage, get old and die. Of the group, there's one person I can really count on being serious about it, and Lunchbox, I swear man, we're going to do this. I don't care how. It will happen. Otherwise, I'm ditching this lame state, move up to the mountains of Utah, build a log cabin and shoot at people who come near me, because right now, the Bunny is everything but comatose. We've got a singer/guitarist who plays six hours a god-damned day, a bassist who has been producing some quality tracks (even if they weren't my taste) for about eight years, a slew of one day drummers, and a guitarist that moved five hours away -or- a guitarist who would rather get drunk and fuck everynight than to make something of the skills he's been given.
Mediocrity, here I am.
Where's my drink?
--Avarice
[i]I am in such a mess. I can't cope without this.[/i]
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