i'll be frank with you.
i want to wear a dress and be gorgeous and have a fantastic time. i really do. i wish i could. but my life doesn't match any of that criteria right now and it just feels so shallow that i'm ashamed to even wish for it.
the entire affair is so militial and cold. you take pictures with people you hate "for old time's sake" while you whisper fuck you into your knuckles.
pictures limo pictures food dance pictures drinking drinking drinking drunk pictures morning. this is not my life and this is not how i will remember it.
prom is an island and i'm just not wanting the mindfuck. are they in hell? are they in purgatory? who knows. don't get pregnant. you'll die.
excuse my crazy.
the satin bodice military is calling.
bEST. friEND.
established end.
Friday, November 7, 2008
"a little bit of blood is normal. a mouthful is not."
"I don't remember you telling me that at all," she drawls, and i can taste disdain. the coppery blood clouds it, but it's still disdain.
it's difficult for me to focus. i miss writing lyrics but i don't even think i have anything left to say anymore. i've given up on all of you, so what else is there to write about?
it's not your fault the pool is shallow. i'm up to my hackles in dreams and distance. the stars couldn't pull this one off, baby, but i'm sure you already know the words to that one by now.
that's a good enough place to start. i'm sure i'll get back to you on that one. so many works in progress, and they're all a little bit of a lie.
Just like when we sat on your roof and contemplated
Ourselves,
Exploding in slow motion like the worst action movie of all time.
And then you told me that 27 was a good expiration date
Because after that, it’s about how you’re going to feel when you die
And not about the radio,
Or kids in Africa,
Or getting an 82 in chemistry class,
And how selfish could you be?
where did i even come from?
focus. i miss the focus. something to write about. it's hard to write when i just don't care. angst doesn't exist. we don't exist. life is a hallucination.
i'm doomed.
it's difficult for me to focus. i miss writing lyrics but i don't even think i have anything left to say anymore. i've given up on all of you, so what else is there to write about?
it's not your fault the pool is shallow. i'm up to my hackles in dreams and distance. the stars couldn't pull this one off, baby, but i'm sure you already know the words to that one by now.
that's a good enough place to start. i'm sure i'll get back to you on that one. so many works in progress, and they're all a little bit of a lie.
Just like when we sat on your roof and contemplated
Ourselves,
Exploding in slow motion like the worst action movie of all time.
And then you told me that 27 was a good expiration date
Because after that, it’s about how you’re going to feel when you die
And not about the radio,
Or kids in Africa,
Or getting an 82 in chemistry class,
And how selfish could you be?
where did i even come from?
focus. i miss the focus. something to write about. it's hard to write when i just don't care. angst doesn't exist. we don't exist. life is a hallucination.
i'm doomed.
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