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| I was reading Lex's xanga on his trip to Pittsburgh and, without any ideas of my own, I'm going to steal it. But like cheapened bootlegs from China it won't be as eloquent, as structured and well crafted, and have typos. I won't be coming back anytime soon(ever), mainly because I have no place there, symbolized by the physical dimensions of our fraternity house. Barely enough room to fit our banners and paddles, given a few classes it'll be time to take down ours, and at which point my name will probably read, "S even an."
I left the last remnants of bygone days lay buried under the red plastic cups, dampened wooden floors, and soiled couch cushions. It's always nice to be remembered and missed, to hear friends recall a memory that you sometimes aren't sure happened, but are still happy to be associated with any kind of fondness. I noted everything everyone said, stepping away from elmo for a weekend and pretending to be Steve so I could gather who exactly elmo was. I learned that I wrote a skit, I was really good at naming pledges, and I tortured Klitty. Maybe this was all that I was, and if someone were to write a obituary about me today it wouldn't be too flattering. My fifteen minutes are up, were up, a long long time ago. I feel like a former child star, raised to a platform of prestige, but then placed in a different medium to find the same antics don't work for this new audience. Sucking my own dick isn't as cool a trick anymore. HAHA. Sorry. Had to. Don't get me wrong. I'm not depressed, but I think its a thought that everyone comes by. | | |
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all the time..
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| No one ever asked me why in high school I always wore a forest green, Nike anarak day in and day out, draped over a blue or dark blue t-shirt/polo. I could assume everyone thought it's because I had nothing else to wear, and for the most part it was true; a kid in high school doesn't really have a budget. Not to mention, I had as much fashion sense as that guy in Silence of the Lambs who wore knit pieces of his victims skin, finishing it off with cherry jubilee lipstick. I didn't look nearly as good donning my nylon, but I did wear it for the same reasons as our psychosomatic friend, which in itself is not so different from that small fear that sits inside everyone. But like everything else with fat people, our emotions are bigger and exagerated, and there's that odd fear of people knowing and being keenly aware, as if it weren't already blatant, that we are large and in charge, rotund, and stretching at the seams. Fat people don't want anyone else to ever know how bulbous they really are, and believe they've found a very clever disguise in baggy clothes. It is in their hopes that the slender onlooker will perchance think, "Maybe they're thin underneath. Those clothes are lying." And you wonder why we're always plucking at our shirts? Cause they get caught between the rolls of fat, snapped up like an unwary baby gazelle drinking by the watering hole in the crushing jaws of a croc. When sweat and flesh on a fat man come together it forms a vacuum of awesome efficiency; cottons worst enemy. Anyways, I liked my anarak just fine because it served as a shield to deflect insults and titty twisters. In a way, I preferred to appear formless. Instead of seeing two circus tents you saw one large mound of green, while Julie Andrews spins around singing the Sound of Music. Uh... where did this blog go.
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| I saw a charming girl on the subway. I say charming because she's fifteen and to say otherwise violates my probation. She was seated cordially by an elderly, well to do Chinese man, who like all Chinese men on the subway looked rather scabrous and unkept, the swirled patterns in his hair telling me he sleeps on his back. Like the lot of them he's a laborer with such a defined purpose in life, so much so that lifes liberties come as a concern then a privilege. But even still, despite himself and his sterile demeanor he commands the endearing eyes of this one girl. On occasion you're blindsided by a bewitching site on the subway, or maybe because of the subway it inherents beauty that would otherwise not be there. It's hardly hospitable, but at times its charm can be so endearing because of that sudden flash of humanity set against a backdrop of scratchiti, immigration lawyers, and Dr. Zizmor. I thought it was beautiful at least, but then again, I find a woman's laugh sexy and blown appendages funny. Above the shriek of wheels touching the rusty tracks and beyond the murmurs of straphangers, it was blarring and graceful. There's something to sign language that makes you stop and admire. Maybe it was 'cause it was a wispy exchange between a boy and a girl, albeit a leathery skinned man and a perky teen. Deaf people must have spell check built-in or else everything comes off as alphabet soup. I watched them go on as she carried the conversation while he would chime in, as elders do, pointing out the false positives and fragile beliefs of youngins. I don't know what they were saying. It probably had more to do with cosmetics or arthritis or how she accidentally kissed a boy or that one time he killed a racoon and then wore it as a hat, but whatever was going on I think everyone on the subway was trying to put their own spin on things. Then the moment collapsed. It got violent. A succession of smacks and claps, I've never seen sign language get so loud and dirty. Somehow, Cantos were able to ruin that too. | | |
| My alcoholism is making a path for a new friend, bolemia. At
its worst I don't know if I'm sticking a bottleneck or a finger down my
throat, but either means ends in a glorious display of fireworks on
the pavement. I love the look of last nights pasta on the floor. It's a confusing dilemma cause one side is asking for more and the other is begging for less. And when they come together I feel like I'm tickling a forgotten
inner child thats slender and extroverted. Maybe too slender and
leaning towards sickly, but he's smiling and enjoying his Stella.
After
a hellish night of eight dollar pitches and too many this ones on me, I
come home and do my sober walk past my father. I can't go to sleep
without finding myself in front of the mirror. I give a few splashes of
cold water to the face and let the drops drip as I'm compelled to continue pinching the numbness out of it. I wobble in front of the toilet like a top at the end of its run as I don't notice that the toilet seat is down. Asphyxiated, my
inebriation is thrown into a wicked spin cycle. I squeeze out tears as this alcohol distills another broken spirit.
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