Hitten no hikari matataku

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Friday November 6th 2009 01 38 pm

X3

I am soooooo excited.
Dude, you have no idea. I LOVE Toy Story.


DidyouseeBuzzwhenhewasreset?

Are you fucking kidding me!?


HE WENT ANTONIO FUCKING BANDERAS ON US!
Fucking Spanish guitars and maracas and shit.
Epic.

</dork>

write the odds sing the evens.

Sunday November 1st 2009 12 10 pm

Garbage day

Is a very dangerous day.

sing the evens.

Friday October 30th 2009 05 31 pm

Halloween

For Halloween this year, I want to dress as that great and legendary Roman citizen, Centurion Biggus Dickus.

Let us discuss.

write the odds sing the evens.

Friday October 30th 2009 05 26 pm

This song has been stuck in my head all day.

sing the evens.

Saturday October 24th 2009 11 22 am

Have I told you about your hat?

write the odds sing the evens.

Saturday October 24th 2009 11 19 am

Location, location, location?

An important thing to consider is business is location, location, location.

For instance.

Lab City has an automated car wash.

Lovely.

It's on one corner of a 4 way intersection.

All four of those roads are dirt roads.

Not so lovely.

write the odds sing the evens.

Tuesday October 20th 2009 06 11 pm

The tears and wailing and gnashing of teeth of freshly returning students is a balm unto my dark and caustic soul.

Fffffff. Suckas!

write the odds sing the evens.

Wednesday October 14th 2009 06 12 pm

Even if I'm One

I dislike it when at least two - if not three - good friends all want something, but are too passive aggressive or polite to come out and say it explicitly.

write the odds sing the evens.

Tuesday October 6th 2009 03 35 pm

I'm so useless.

write the odds sing the evens.

Friday October 2nd 2009 07 16 am

Happy freakin' Birthday, Tabi!!!

If you have not done so already, you really must wish [info]toasterssaymoo a happy birthday. owo She is twenty four and I couldn't be more proud. << Unfortunately, I was unable to grow you that mustache, Tabi. D> I wanted the whole world to see how proud I am of you by growing a mustache! Oh well. I tried. <<;;;;;;

Your present will be up later when I finish it. ♥

write the odds sing the evens.

Monday September 7th 2009 10 06 pm

Yep.

In the passed 48 hours, I have made a complete ass of myself, didn't I? I guess there's only one way to really respond to that.

Her name is Lola, she was a showgirl
With yellow feathers in her hair
And a dress cut
Just cut down to there

She would merengue
And do the cha-cha
And while she tried to be a star
Tony always tended bar

Across the crowded floor
They worked from eight 'til four
They were young and they had each other
Who could ask for more?

At the Copa, Copacabana
The hottest spot, north of Havana
At the Copa, Copacabana
Music and passion were always the fashion at the Copa
They fell in love, love

Everybody!!!!!












.....IreallyhateBarryManilow. My neighbors are always listening to this album over and over and over again, and it drives me nuts. But the sad thing is, I know all of the words to the song just because I hate it so much. Never any of the good songs that get stuck in your head at 3 in the morning. NoooOOOoo.

write the odds sing the evens.

Saturday September 5th 2009 10 09 pm

Time and Space. Too Much Time, Too Much Space

Silence steals the space between the dinner table, the awkward first sights when the sleep is still in your eyes but things haven gotten better in a way. It monopolizes my mind the idea of houses and homes. Familiarity in spaces and objects usher security and serenity from the past but the bitterness of the past is what draws the complete opposite in people. Oh but we still talk, small talk; the garbage, the coffee maker, the lawn, etc. We all live under the same roof but we’re still so far apart. But what would I rather have instead? The status quo drives me nuts and whatever this is now, it’s a tad more sensible, more relaxed. It’s always that way when pills and drinks are included in the picture.

Still I smile, I stretch my facial muscles as far as they’ll go without hurting, bearing pearly teeth and sharp dimples. Tainted by coffee and cigarettes, the only clear sign of dishonesty as I talk about the nearby wooded-lots (last vestiges of trees as old as nations), multiple schools (divided by Catholic or Public), and city parks (poor substitutes for the original beauty of the original natural habitat) for this latest suburban development. It’s a good investment, promising financial returns, in a safe neighborhood; close to the city but still far away from all of societies ills. A bubble where the sickness festers alone instead of with the rest of the world.

I take each step softly, on tippy toes with the heel raised high. I try to make it look like I’m just going to get something, up and out of the basement through the main hallway, up the stairs and into my room. But they know and I know they know. I open the window, stick my head out, and smoke to my heart’s content. My room always lingering with a slight smoky scent like the drawl of a regional accent. Noticeable but not overbearing. And I don’t know why but this little story, tale, parable or whatever, is what defines family to me the most. We all know but we don’t confront it. Better to just to shut up and play along. The unit remains intact only in what we don’t say.

I carry the cup, using the usual thoughtful expression. Not too paranoid with darting eyes at the placement of every person and action, nor not too blank faced and vaporous as if I was drunk. But despite the tight grip my hands still tremble, not at the voice of my mother or the darting look of recognition from anyone else; they just shake. And I look into the cup filled with vodka, gently swaying from one side of the cup to other, one to the other. Sending the sharp scent of alcohol into my nostrils. The first obstacle, the family room adjoining the kitchen, where the blob of my mother congregates. The total number of steps being all she can afford to take, that and of course the long journey up the hallway and into the bedroom. A trek I’ve myself have had to help, hands gripping her shoulders. Carrying soft flesh like bags of fluid up the stairs into her bedroom because she had a little too much wine again. She’s on the phone, bitching about another failed reality show. I take the orange juice and watch the clear liquid swirl and swirl until overcome by the bright orange. And my mission is complete, complete for this round and the many more to come.

Silence seeps into my mind too, calm ripples replacing the restless churning tides of stormy weather: I’ve hit a rut. I fear it’s the pills with the lab coats once again playing around with my daily dosages. The ideas are there but remain formless. Wispy ghosts who keep me company instead of tormenting me, demanding I give them life. I have a pill for my anxiety, I have a pill if I’m sad, and I have a pill to calm me down if I’m manic. My day is defined by pills divided by colour and size.

And so it goes. And so it goes.

write the odds sing the evens.

Monday July 27th 2009 09 45 pm

Psh.

Whatever. I still like Boy George, and I don't care who knows it!!

write the odds sing the evens.

Monday July 20th 2009 06 47 pm

Live Alone With Your Chemicals and Gin

The sound cracks into the open air as I grit my teeth a little too hard once again, things are slipping as they always seem to do. I’m starting to forget, thoughts slip away from me like the smoke I exhale into the air. Here of my own action, gone in the next second. The idea so pure, so perfect in its intangible form; gone before I get a second peek. But the things I’m choosing to forget can’t seem to dissipate in the way I want to, I’m a murderer. Hacking and slashing through the lives I’ve lived before, at the people who used to own the prime real estate of my attention. And I can’t seem to make it past 4 pm without some sort of drink, before the hope of escaping the nervousness and the shaking seems nothing more than just another creative dream of a sunken girl.

I finally roused myself out of the bed to go for a walk, a part of me felt chased out but it was the nice kick in the ass I needed. Anything to just get out of the room filled with all the books and the bed lying there like a beacon to derail the courses I’ve laid out. Walking along the canal lined with full moon spheres and the soft crunch of salt on wires. I saw the moon and the distant lights sifting through wind swept trees, the path is always the same as are the sights but the imagination, inspirations, and myself never are.

I am a coward, debasing myself to the point of a wounded animal but never enough to be the beast. Building myself up to a man but never following it through. And somewhere the idea of truth might justify all these poor excuses for sentences starting with Ands and Buts. There’s no justification really, not when you miss the heat of flesh and the comfort in skin. It’s the lump in my throat and the phlegm I can’t get rid of. The hacking cough only the uncontrollable reminder of all that’s missing. All just for a clear throat to speak up, to feel unanchored by the past. But shit. It may taste awful, but it works.

I don’t even know why I bother drinking, I hardly ever feel drunk anymore. Just on the road to getting there, then hung over, forehead resting in my hands with the forearm as the load bearing beam. This dizzying nauseousness with the guilty conscience being the signal that the buzz has passed. Drinking until I feel the click but it passes effortlessly, no matter the amount of work I’m putting into it.

If all I feel is this collection of failures, if these lists of faults no longer justify the endless amounts of excuses I’m capable of producing then perhaps I have a proven record to discredit. Especially when death is certain and life is not. If I want to live, why not start now? If I ever did live, it was chasing death down every rabbit hole. Line after line, pill after pill, shot after shot. Then there would be nothing to change, except brands of whiskey once a week.

write the odds sing the evens.

Sunday July 19th 2009 01 40 pm

Great Britain thinks of everything.

write the odds sing the evens.



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