2004-12-29 - 12:34 a.m.
"I guess if you can find that one person who's willing to put up with all your crap, and doesn't want to change you, or dress you, or, you know, make you eat French food, then marriage can be all right... But that's only if you find that person." - Luke // Gilmore Girls
Nobody ever fell for bloodshot eyes seemingly submerged in tar. Your eyes mirrored my disgust. My mistake. Keep your persistence on the path of least resistance. (Or take a page from NOFX and realize that you could really use a cerebral scrub.)
I'm lost in a tornado, a cliche of head wounds and brain injuries. Aneurysm? Dear me. Trauma, trauma - drama to the extreme. Could you ever seem to be more than a shell? Beg for the undone deeds, for the freakishly simple solutions. I dare not sleep for fear of never waking. I fell over in my dream. These thoughts inside my head, they run rampant like little kids, but I'm in a completely comatose state of mind - unthinking, unfettering, trapped in oblivion. And there are visions - snippets replaying, reminding me that nothing is ever right.
I looked back on the real hateful notebook entry from the day he walked back into my life. Apparently I could not stop smiling. It's sick how things take a turn for the worst. I could never be that kind of girl, nor would I want to be.
If I do turn out to be the touchy-feely or gushy type of girl, please shoot me with my stun gun. Incapacitate me. Don't let me out of the house. And please, please cut off all lines of communication with whoever turned me into such a girly loser. I'd prefer the Bill Haverchuck ("Freaks and Geeks") version of love, where you can't truly be comfortable with someone "unless you can cut the cheese" in front of 'em. Right on, Bill - to a certain extent. He also was under the impression that one can explode from suppressing flatulence, after all.
I almost quoted Diesel Boy, but that's because of my dope sick mind.
"Can we kill each other quickly, quick enough so I won't feel it? A shot of strobe light anesthesia and I'll be fine, 'cause I'm starting to feel cold. My hands are shaking from fear, white from clutching my pride, red from cutting you, and blue from telling lies." - Thrice, "Kill Me Quickly"
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