| I know you've forgotten all about me, so don't mind me. I've stopped trying. |
[10 Apr 2008|01:33pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 sick |
] |
Mars.
March was. Intresting.
I've never had a good birthday, and have finally accepted
I never will.
Got thrown into the fountain though, by a friend and
The guy I'm completely fall[en]ing for.
Whose leaving, in less than a month.
And wants to take a small pre-goodbye vacation with me.
I hate Itlay.
It's taking you away from me
And Montreal.
And who knows who you'll find to
Erase a bit of whatever it is that holds us together.
Ended up in the hospital, again, holding someone else's hand.
Spent the end of the month in a blur.
This better not be a fad.
Looking forward to:
Giving you your graduation present.
Fixing my car.
2 week end-of-summer road trip with my femme counterpart.
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| Next Phase, Next Craze, Next Nothing New |
[08 Mar 2008|09:37am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 calm |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Birthday Massacre |
] |
It's not dwelling, it's reminding myself what not to do again. I finally get that now. I can't say I'm proud of the last years I spent in this town, but at least I can say I knew who I was. And I had incredible strength from that then. I think I can walk away with some satisfaction that this wasn't all for nothing.
We were close, at one point. Thanks for that.
For some of you, it wouldn't hurt to pick up a phone and let me know you're alive, once in a while.
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|
| Count to Sleep. |
[29 Feb 2008|01:57pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
sick |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Prize Fighter Inferno |
] |
February. Février. 2008.
People change, for better or worse.
Tell him you love him, be told you're loved.
11 PM - 3 AM, live in hospital, holding her hand.
Drink wine.
Same-name support group.
Get an ounce of inspiration back.
Fall asleep to rain and purple lightning
Late night drive to Daytona train tracks.
Get sick, be bedridden.
Salut, Spring Break.
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|
| Chicken Nuggets and Sea Turtles. |
[21 Feb 2008|08:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 dicouraged |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Chicken Nugget CD from Becca |
] |
It's been a month. And now he's a Sea Turtle. |
|
| Time Will Always Slip Through. |
[01 Jan 2008|09:58pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Maria Taylor - Leap Year |
] |
We serenated the ocean on our last day of the year. Falling, we were swallowed by the darkness and frigid waves, twisting and receding around us. Dimly lit windows simply continued looking on.
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|
| You Are Your Mother's Son. |
[29 Dec 2007|04:00pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Expectations - Belle & Sebastian |
] |
It's a highly saturated mixure of frustration, disbelief, and amusement. The very act of walking over to us proves your mind set is stuck in tenth grade when pettiness was as common as broken promises. It makes sense, though, if he did run to you after I left him - he always ran with the kids that had nothing going for them.
If only you could look past your own issues, you could see the world.
God, don't you just want to get under my skin?
|
|
| Que Sera, Sera. |
[22 Dec 2007|03:27am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 Inspired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Birthday Massacre |
] |
My best friend's uncle is an Elvis impersonator. Thursday night, we slipped backstage at the local theater, The Lyric, in downtown. It was the first photography gig I've accompanied her to. Before the lights dimmed, I was the subject of her lens - she's the only one I'll let point a camera in my direction with the idea that the product will be of quality. We danced to Elvis behind the curtains. I ran my fingers over the walls, thick with repetitive layers of paint, and circled the cracks and scars of the theater. I decided something then.
"Becca. I know what I want for Christmas." "What's that, Sid?" "A boy who'll dance with me backstage at an Elvis impersonator gig."
So I made a deal with myself. I'm missing out by declinging offers to accompany friends of mine into the world.
A friend I haven't seen since middle school called the the next night while I was at work, asking if I'd accompany her to some party in Lake Worth that her friend was VJing at. After work, we drove south, ending up in someone's back yard with a handful of kids my friend knew from Atlanta. We were celebrating the Solstice. There were kids with dreads, classicly short punk hair cuts, bussiness men in suits, parents who seemed to have just set their children to sleep, indie kids, mothers who had their hair in pig tails and could pass for sixteen or thirty-two, punk rock kids with Ramones and Rancid shirts. Ages ten to sixty, we danced to good, old music. I stood with them as the smoked on the rooftop and sat around the fire in the back yard after navigating through narrow walk ways in a Through The Looking Glass maze of shrubery. We attempted hoola hooping a circle made of pipes that was bigger than any of us. The night ended in a jam session of a guitar, a bass, a bongo, and a jew's harp (or jaw harp, or juice harp).
I still smell like pot and burning wood.
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