|as sung by someone with caramel in his mouth
||[Aug. 25th, 2006|04:12 am]
i've had this twitchy itchy (subjective) paranoia since the beginning of the month. i feel like someone's watching me all the time and when i tell my friends, they all go huh huh gidget, it's me and i don't want to beat my friends with a lava lamp, so i just sit still and wait til they talk about something else. but it's informed all of the stuff i've been doing lately and i think it'll go down as my blue period. (blue period: are we really so afraid of menstruation that we have to demonstrate feminine hygiene products with blue liquid? i like to think of it as venutian blood.) i can't get past that spied on feeling. the shower scene was cinematic. it gave some significant gravitas to pissing down the drain.
my quote home-life quote was sewn up and then the stitches got ripped out. i've been trying to surround myself with positive influences. plus is better than minus, that goes without saying, but it isn't getting me wet yet. i'm trying to reconnect in ways that are pretty out of the ordinary for me. calling up people i'm pretty sure hate me only to find they don't. there was one major exception but i have to keep trying. the catalog of catastrophes that have led me up to this point set the undertone but i've adopted the teflon approach for regrets. i miss you but i can't afford to. disco hasn't helped. neither have the following: eating the sundaes with no (wild) cherry. watching you fly from ground zero. reading the liner notes. lurking in the control room. hiding under the bed with a mouthful of dread. i, monster. this is suckhole central and i just got my suit (re)pressed.
i just left the company of a wrong little lollipop who had a run-in with spray tan. the effect was some kind of amazing, like a dreamsicle, but there's something in the product that smells like a public swimming pool and it tastes terrible. i'm going to start some kind of newsletter urging transexuals to resist the call of the bronzer. i swear it's in some handbook left over from the 70's or something. i bet i could get funding, as long as i burn all of my pornographic artwork and wear nothing but priest shirts and black dickies and maybe driving gloves. at last, a life plan. sweet relief.
that's three. +leave screen names if you wanna.
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