2005-11-16 - 9:03 p.m.
"How did we get here to this point of living? I held my breath and you said something." - PJ Harvey, "You Said Something"
Sometimes when I'm on campus or on BART, I listen to music. Yeah. Thinking, "I'm on the train and I got my phones. People all around but I'm good all alone." - y'know, Fight To Live. It's an old CD player. My dad bought this portable CD player from Costco years ago. It was on sale for $10. I think he only gave it to me (b/c it was used to be his) so that I'd stop blasting my music so loud that he'd have to endure it. Anyhow, sometimes people make fun of it, b/c it's pretty damn ancient, and it's ugly, and the battery compartment flies open at random. I still love it, though.
It seems as though life revolves around constantly torturing myself at the mercy of whichever guy decides he wants to break me. It's a good life, eh?
Being cool is worthless. All I've ever wanted was to be somewhat functional. A sneer. A glare. All these devices to stop them from discovering you, the way you work, the scared little girl behind the eyes disguised with charcoal war paint. You only smile at infants. Any older, and they can inflict so much damage. Cynical. That's what this is supposed to be, though. No room for sentimental lies. I lose. I love these implications. Once again, you're on the outside looking in, but in a sense, you're a part of it, too. Battery acid. Acetic acid. Down one of 'em, please.
Academic excellence means shit.
You're not hot shit.
Sometimes I'm just walking, and reality kicks my ass. She's gone past the point of waifishness. She's an emaciated ideal. She has sticks for legs and arms, and she has no breasts, but she's flaunting her bony chest anyway. Her practically nonexistent hips are accentuated with gold chains instead of a belt. A slit of whore, showing off her tiny waist that you could span so easily with your hands. You could break her. It's a jarred reality to keep me from becoming that ridiculously sick.
Work. Hard work. It's the one-woman freak show that just so happens to be you, the little spazz. Hell, you're not even that little. Slacker. Burnout. I want to go into substance-induced oblivion. All I'd need is a pillow to be amused. Then I'd pass out and wouldn't have to face the world. What a life.
"I've got this thing somewhere in between empty and dark always in my heart. I've got this glitch on account of which I don't add up, but I don't give up hope." - Mr. T Experience, "Semi-Ok"
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