2004-12-05 - 10:51 p.m.
"Stupid fucking words. They tangle us in our desires. Free me from this give and take. Free me from this great debate." - Fugazi, "Promises"
I've been staring for a week, wondering what to write. If I said that I was happy, I'd be lying, and you'd be a fool. It's writer's block, but not. I fill an endless string of notebooks, but find it so hard to type. I'll say things like "Given up on being cute. I'm nothing but irresolute". Maybe I'm better off dead. Maybe I'm better off in your bed. Maybe you should pretend that I don't exist so I can get over myself. They're a bit slow on the uptake.
Wouldn't you like to know that there's a memo I wrote that has a big, fat "B" marked in red? It's from three months ago, and I can't hold my head up high. I tell you, I'd just rather vie for your affection and get rejected night after night. That's not genius. That's circumlocution.
I'm a balloon, with an emphasis on the "ball", as in "ball of confusion", and that's what the world is today. Hey hey, what do you say about our state of affairs? Love my segways? No? Don't worry. It's a drunken stupor for a loner who doesn't know the first thing about being herself in a room full of synthetic sheep. Could you please stop staring? I'm not welcoming you to the monkey house. My dear, you are a failure, and you are going to dwell on it. It's funny how nobody knows, and you're in trouble all the time. It festers, and you lose your sanity.
Breaking news: my repelling powers have been proven effective.
It overwhelms. It makes me so sick that I can hardly breathe. I need a Bob, like in Fight Club, so I can cry on someone. There's a tendency to give up, to not care, to stop being persistent and forward. I'm the biggest failure, but you never realized it. Maybe I don't want to fall in love. I must confess, I'm a little rough around the edges. My eyes do crazy things. Maybe you can fix me? Heal these wounds, or pretend you care? Hell, I don't care.
"Fatigu�e de l'explorer dit-elle. Elle passes ses nuits � penser, � regarder le ciel. Elle s'isole, elle voudrait tant qu'il prenne un peu soin d'elle. La console pour qu'elle puisse enfin se trouver un peu belle." - Superbus, "Tchi-cum-bah"
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