He said 'i really just want to dance'

Good and evil match perfect, it's a great romance And I can deal with some psychic pain If it'll slow down my higher brain Veins full of disappearing inkVomiting in your kitchen sink Disconnecting from the missing link This is not my life


Wear black on Tuesday

Breakfast at Tiffany's

Everytime I hear that song on the radio at work I remember how I knew how to play it on the guitar in first grade.
And I would do so until my mother got sick of hearing it all the time.

Now, I don't even know how to play any songs.

I have also realized that in life I have to chose between poverty and misery.
Few have other options.
I chose poverty.

there's a place

we can't return to.
It's theirs now.

I will be Grateful for This Day

I always fall back in love with Connor Oberst at decisive points in my life.
New Favorite Album: Noise Floor

I had girl I knew she grew became a woman
now I think that she teaches at one of the schools downtown,
we used to roll the windows down
and play the music loud
smoking out in her car
Lost in west Omaha,
and we’d get drunk and kiss
our bodies twist like shoe laces.
And we never came untied;
I guess you were just my type.
You know that summer never stopped.
I still pretend I’m there.
Bands in the living room,
neighbors ain’t never cared.
So when I sat behind the drum set.
Your heartbeat’s what I tried to play.
With kick and snares so careless not in time.
So you got ahead of me.
And I guess I’m still dragging behind.

I had a friend who changed his name
but couldn’t change himself.
Never quite figured out
how to do with what life had dealt.
He put a needle in his arm
to calm his handsome hell.
who would have imagined it?
Could’ve worked out so well.
Now he's a shape that moves
like echoes through my empty room.
And there’s a voice that speaks
like someone’s right behind me.
I turned around and found
exactly what you would expect.
Clothes I left on my floor.
The papers piled on my desk.
But where the ink is
where the cause effect what’s meant by it
the story is incomplete.
The pictures’ left unfinished.
So I am writing my own ending.
I’ll let my pen bleed black or blue.
And I will color in the meaning.
It will be gold and green and true.
And I’ll learn to love my new discovered proof.
I’ll be grateful for this day.
I will be grateful for each day to come.

Some people are like vodka

fun
spontaneous
crazy

And the next day you wake up feeling like shit and you swear off vodka forever.
But it frequents social gatherings andd so do you and somehow it finds its way back to you only to dissapoint once more.

What's with all these whiny blogs lately?
I am so annoyed with myself.

It's kind of pathetic

but I really can't sleep if no one tells me "good night"

the things we do

The problem is that I really like candy. Even though I know it's not good for me, it makes my teeth hurt and usually I regret eating it immediately.
But it is just so damn sweet.

The worst thing about good candy is that you usually have to share it with some stupid people who don't even appreciate your generosity.
I could use some healthier vices.

I need to get out more.

Mind the Gap

I keep being interrupted by unexpected glitches.
My life is currently undergoing routine maintenance and my expectations are under construction.

I'd like to create some stability, and this is the last time I am going to say it.

Ode to Dreams;

for in their absence sleep is futile.

What did I miss

when I blinked,
and where is my mind?

I suck

Yesterday I was given a special voodoo wishing match, guaranteed to make any wish come true. I lit it at eleven eleven.



the problem is....
I don't remember what I wished for.

Now that I understand

I wish I could explain myself to you, too.

Are we bored

or just stupid?

and when does this end.
Come home.
Yes you.

I have noticed

that "accessory" is a really strange word.


I wonder if anyone else ever thought about that.

Seasons are eras

I miss:

Andrew Crisp
Victoria Pollard
Katie LeBlanc
Delcee Shaffner
Janine Johnson
Rhianon Kilzer
Richard Figinski
Chris Teresa


I reallyy doooooooo.
fuck summer

Confetti

Ilikena Lasarusa Talebulamainavaleniveivakabulaimainakulalakebalau

Okay, I found myself

Now what.

Lessons;

Be considerate of your future self.

For what it's worth

Looking back I do believe that I lived my youth to the fullest.
Good clean fun.
We all know that is not what's happening now.
Everything has its time and place.
Experience.

isn't it getting old?

With the end of the semester approaching we are taking life day by day

Messed up Monday
Tipsy Tuesday
Wasted Wednesday
Thirsty Thursday
Fucked up Friday
Sloshed Saturday
Shitfaced Sunday

We might need a new hobby.
I heard knitting is cool.

It's simple

If you weren't so condecsending, I would be honest.

Everything in Life is Analogous to the Circulatory System

It always comes back to the heart.

If I could be Anything

I would be skittles.
No one hates skittles.

Talkers

This is a history review session, what I should be doing is paying attention, learning, taking in material to aide my studies. All I want to do is punch this guy in the face. We all know them, the talkers. The guy who turns every in class discussion into a self indulgent rant to perpetuate some sort of self esteem in his crumbling ego. This guy, he knows where the Thames river is. Congratulations! So does everyone else. Not only that, he also knows that Charlemagne is buried in Cologne. WHOOPDIE FUCKING DOO! You don't teach this class fuckbag, so just shut up, please. It is not your time to speak, no one wants to listen to what you have to say. Wait, what is that...You lived in Germany for FOUR years, that definately makes you the most cultured person in this room. We should all polish your shoes and kneel at your feet. Dear God we are not even worthy of your presence. it is evident that you already know everything about the subject, then why take history 101 asshole? No one cares about you, or your personal life, or what you know. So just shut up and let us learn, that is what we came here to do.
God, I really hate talkers!

It never rains in California and when it does it rains coccaine

I feel like I lived the last few days as someone else,
things like that don't happen to me.

I guess they do now,

which is further proof that I have the ability to alter reality.

Insomnia

I feel new beginnings coming on.
Tonight was good.
This is the beginning of something beautiful.

For the past few months I was holding on to something futile, but it felt good to be needed for a change. I learned.
I learned these things should go both ways.

Change is good.
Change is better.
Sleep is also good.
3 am.
Good night.

The Most Sense Words Can Make

Time.
We have the ability to speed it up and slow it down. the construction of this concept exists only within our own demise.

We are not going from A to B, we are going just to go. We walk faster through the crown of people; Children on scooters, chasing, running, laughing, screaming.
A family outside of a restaurant saying goodbye. We are in the eye of a tornado of self-involved individuals. They are nothing more than characters in a movie.
Nothing is real
but your hand in mine.
I am slowly fading away from reality, every breath you take brings me back
to you.
Inhale
Exhale

A cigarette grows in your hand, smoking, now a breath of fresh air reminds us that we are still alive. Hold on to my hand, Baby you are fading away.

I am nothing more than a projection of a self constructed daydream.
I
am
not
real.

Under fluorescent lights we stand alone.
"I don't want to be here." I say and you push me back into the darkness.
"Someone is watching us."
"No one is watching." You say.
"Someone is always watching," I motion to the security camera attached to the brick building that towers over us like a growing sycamore. "it's the big brother!"
You pull me further into the night.
"No one can see us right now" you say "no one is watching, no one even knows we are here. The only thing watching you right now is your own conscience, your own thoughts."

We venture toward the light. Exhilarated by distant laughter I feel alive, truly alive.
"The donut shop, it's always open"
Nothing ever sounded so good. The more we talked about it and the more I thought about it I realized that was all I needed, that is all the world needed.
I brushed the ash from my shirt, I would be turned to ash soon enough.
The words you said were no longer mere sounds, they had meaning, just like everything around us. The donuts you said, would make everything okay.
No longer blinded by subsidiary ideas I believed you. That was all I needed, that is all anyone ever needs...
A
little
faith.

The Art of Not Being Offended

This completely speaks for itself, I just felt the need to share...


There is an ancient and well-kept secret to happiness which the Great Ones have known for centuries. They rarely talk about it, but they use it all the time, and it is fundamental to good mental health. This secret is called The Fine Art of Not Being Offended. In order to truly be a master of this art, one must be able to see that every statement, action and reaction of another human being is the sum result of their total life experience to date.In other words, the majority of people in our world say and do what they do from their own set of fears, conclusions, defenses and attempts to survive. Most of it, even when aimed directly at us, has nothing to do with us. Usually, it has more to do with all the other times, and in particular the first few times, that this person experienced a similar situation, usually when they were young.Yes, this is psychodynamic. But let's face it, we live in a world where psychodynamics are what make the world go around. An individual who wishes to live successfully in the world as a spiritual person really needs to understand that psychology is as spiritual as prayer. In fact, the word psychology literally means the study of the soul.All of that said, almost nothing is personal. Even with our closest loved ones, our beloved partners, our children and our friends. We are all swimming in the projections and filters of each other's life experiences and often we are just the stand-ins, the chess pieces of life to which our loved ones have their own built-in reactions. This is not to dehumanize life or take away the intimacy from our relationships, but mainly for us to know that almost every time we get offended, we are actually just in a misunderstanding.A true embodiment of this idea actually allows for more intimacy and less suffering throughout all of our relationships. When we know that we are just the one who happens to be standing in the right place at the right psychodynamic time for someone to say or do what they are doing—we don't have to take life personally. If it weren't us, it would likely be someone else.This frees us to be a little more detached from the reactions of people around us. How often do we react to a statement of another by being offended rather than seeing that the other might actually be hurting? In fact, every time we get offended, it is actually an opportunity to extend kindness to one who may be suffering—even if they themselves do not appear that way on the surface. All anger, all acting out, all harshness, all criticism, is in truth a form of suffering. When we provide no Velcro for it to stick, something changes in the world. We do not even have to say a thing. In fact, it is usually better not to say a thing.People who are suffering on the inside, but not showing it on the outside, are usually not keen on someone pointing out to them that they are suffering. We do not have to be our loved one's therapist. We need only understand the situation and move on. In the least, we ourselves experience less suffering and at best, we have a chance to make the world a better place.This is also not to be confused with allowing ourselves to be hurt, neglected or taken advantage of. True compassion does not allow harm to ourselves either. But when we know that nothing is personal, a magical thing happens. Many of the seeming abusers of the world start to leave our lives. Once we are conscious, so-called abuse can only happen if we believe what the other is saying. When we know nothing is personal, we also do not end up feeling abused. We can say, "Thank you for sharing," and move on. We are not hooked by what another does or says, since we know it is not about us.When we know that our inherent worth is not determined by what another says, does or believes, we can take the world a little less seriously. And if necessary, we can just walk away without creating more misery for ourselves or having to convince the other person that we are good and worthy people.The great challenge of our world is to live a life of contentment, regardless of what other people do, say, think or believe. The fine art of not being offended is one of the many skills for being a practical mystic. Though it may take a lifetime of practice, it is truly one of the best kept secrets for living a happy life.
By Dr. Jodi Prinzivalli

The Chronicles of a Lush

Wasted nights are a bur in a constant stream of reminiscent ratings.
Stumbling incoherently desperate for attention from strangers. Is this what your youth has been reduced to?
I’m sick of making a scene.
Discouraged and nostalgic we seek solutions in potions made to numb.

So much for condescending.
But fuck, we’re young. Let’s make mistakes and learn from them.
Cheers!

Story for English 206

Eww\

I hate first drafts, yeah

Remember the Autumn Rain
My father killed himself when I was fifteen. I came home that weekend to see him; I only got to visit my parents once a month. It was a warm spring day, flowers were blooming again and birds singing. Winds were soft and delicate; they carried the sweet scent of the season. It was the kind of weather people long for during the cold months of winter; it was the kind of day that gives people hope. My father had no hope. He chased thirteen Vallium with a fifth of whiskey. I found him that morning, lying on his bed with his tie loosened and his shirt slightly unbuttoned. I paced through the room analyzing his lifeless body. He looked much more like a wax figure than an actual human being. His face was expressionless, his eyes were closed, his lips thin and blue. He hadn’t shaved in several days and his chin bared the shadow of a beard.
I went downstairs to eat breakfast. My mother never made pancakes anymore. She never ate anymore. Her body had been reduced to sullen skin stretched over frail bones. Her fingers were long and thin, her hands used to be so beautiful. She used to hold mine with her right hand and Connor’s with her left. Once we got too old to hold our mother’s hand she held only my father’s. She used to use her hands to cook meals that brought our family together around the dinner table. Her hands used to hold so many beautiful things, flowers which my father bought to make her smile, the lipstick she applied only when my father took her out, books full of her favorite stories and the pen she used to label mine and Connor’s school lunch and to write post it reminders of her love for us. Later her hands only held cigarettes.
I watched the fruit loops float in the milk in my bowl. I pushed them around with my spoon and watched the trail of color they created. I looked up at my mother who was gazing into space while the ash at the end of her cigarette was growing. Her cobalt eyes used to shine with resilience, now they were just dead. The ashtray in front of her was beginning to overflow.
“Dad’s dead.” I said.
“Your father has been dead for five years.” she replied without looking at me; and she was right. He was dead long before he took his life.

I think my father secretly always loved Connor more than me. Connor was interested in cars and sports while I preferred drawing and music. Connor was usually more intrigued by dad’s war stories than I was, and as much as I loved playing soldiers, I never really connected with dad in the way Connor had. Every Saturday Dad took us to car auctions. He and Connor would talk about their favorite cars while I would wish to be at home with mom. She always baked cookies on Saturday. I stayed home with her once and helped. I had more fun that day than on any Saturday spent with Dad and Connor. They teased me about it for months; I didn’t stay home after that. Dad handed me a stack of car catalogues and lectured me on football. “I will make a man out of you yet” he would always say.
After the funeral my mother moved away and I went back to the psychiatric hospital I learned to call home over the past five years. She stopped writing after several months and soon the only person I kept in contact with was Grandma, who told me that my mother had met and married a new man. Grandma seemed somewhat resentful, after all my father had been her only son. I accepted that my mother made a new life for herself; I tried to be happy for her.

I stared at the Victorian lamp situated on the mahogany desk. Dust had started to gather atop its gaudy shade. This is where I spent most of my time writing in a journal composed entirely of letters to my brother, each one signed with an apology.
I’m sorry Dad couldn’t live without you.
I read that line over and over again. I read it silently to myself and I read it out loud. Whenever my roommate, Kyle, was not around I would talk to Connor. Sometimes I carried on entire conversations, even discussions and arguments with him. In life Connor had been my other half. That sense of completion never ceased to be. He did not need to talk back; I knew exactly what he would say. Connor always had an uplifting spirit. In autumn when blue skies turned to dull gray; he was the first one awake whereas I wanted to stay cuddled up in bed. He couldn't wait to greet the day by jumping in fresh puddles of water. I longed for the closure of walls, while he was comforted by the mere beauty of nature. Outside the trees scattered along the sidewalk, covered in a blanket of golden brown leaves. The wind blowing through the branches singing songs of precision, this was the only sound we heard on the abandoned streets where we played. To fill our lungs with cold air and watch our breath for the first time in months was the highlight of these days.
Most of my time at Sky Crossing was spent inside; I never got to admire nature anymore. At night I stayed up reminiscing about the incessant beauty of the seasons unfolding, while Kyle read the bible. I wondered whether it was genuine faith that inspired him or mere fear. I remember the first day he moved in. My old roommate James had apparently recovered from his manic depressive state after four years and got sent back home. Kyle moved in with a beat up looking leather suitcase covered in stickers with names of places and rock bands.
“Kyle this is your roommate, Ethan.” Nurse Amy said, waving a hand in my direction. Nurse Amy was the object of affection for all the troubled teenage boys completely deprived of sexual encounters at Sky Crossings. In her early twenties she was not much older than many of us. Scrubs make for relatively unflattering attire but the way she wore them they hugged every curve on her slender frame which she carried with such grace. Her delicate facial features were framed by her honey colored hair which was always loosely tied into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She was surely beautiful but I never thought of Nurse Amy that way. I never thought of any girl that way.
“Score!” Kyle said as soon as she closed the door. “That nurse is a babe.”
“Yeah she’s cute.” I mumbled barely looking up from my journal.
“I guess being locked up isn’t going to suck as much as I thought it would.” Kyle was several years older than I, or at least he looked that way. His auburn hair shaped a widow’s peak above his high forehead, and he looked like had had more than mere whiskers to shave. He was tall with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His forearms revealed an array of obviously self inflicted scars. His left wrist was wrapped in white bandages sealed by medical tape. He must have noticed me staring when he announced a deliberate disclaimer.
“Yeah, I’m pretty much here on just here on suicide watch. Momma’s orders.” He laughed as though he had just told a joke. “You?”
I watched him take off his shirt and toss it on the bed. I noticed his narrow waist and the creased v-shape of his torso. Kyle was certainly more of a man than I ever would be.
“I killed my twin brother.” I replied. I had gotten used to saying that out loud. However I still hadn’t come to terms with it.

It was a cool October day spent at our grandmother’s cabin. Inside my dog Spencer laid spread out on the buffalo skin rug in front of the fireplace. That was his favorite place to be. Familiar photographs decorated the wall. One was a portrait of our family. Mom, Dad, Connor and I neatly aligned side by side. Connor and I were six and he had just lost his first tooth. In the photograph he wears a triumphant smile revealing his gap. I had not lost any teeth yet, as the envious frown on my face might suggest. The picture next to it is one of my father at his college graduation. He looked young then, clean shaven and laughing, not at all like I remember him. The bookshelf in the corner of the room had been collecting dust for ages. If you looked close enough you could make out doodles in the dust. Connor and I left a mark every time we went to visit our grandmother, just to see whether it would still be there the next time. Grandma never dusted that shelf; she said there were more important things in life.
On that fateful Sunday morning, the overpowering smell of bacon mixed in with the sweet aroma of waffles filled the air. It was a rainy day, where gray clouds stretched across the horizon, covering the sky completely. I could hear the tap, tap from the raindrops on the windowsill, while still content with lying in bed and dreaming the day away. I wasted so many days dreaming back then. It’s a bit funny actually, in retrospect. I don’t remember what those dreams were about.
To martyr ourselves for our country, that was our aspiration.
“It’s raining Ethan, let’s play soldiers!” Connor insisted while jumping on my bed.
“Ten more minutes” I mumbled as I rolled over.
“You have to wake up now. It’s not going to rain all day”
“Yes it is. Let me sleep.”
Connor didn’t let me sleep. He continued to jump up and down on my bed; he was full of energy, full of life. It didn’t take long for his vivacity to rub off on me; I got up and got dressed. After slinging down several waffles I was equally excited about the rain. Days like these were always perfect to play soldiers. Something about the atmosphere in which the air smelled of life in its entire splendor, helped us drift further from reality, towards these games where we could be anything and do anything we desired. From vista to vista all we saw was the battle field, the soldiers, us. Connor skipped across the wet lawn, the water pearling off his hair, dripping down his face, Spencer was trailing right behind him. What heroic soldiers we were. The fence was our frontline and no one could get past us. Our imaginary army was unsurpassed and the only thing that could ever separate us were the ten minutes in age difference. Make-believe weaponry soon became tedious, we needed something tangible. Dad refused to buy us toy guns. I never understood why, something about encouraging violence. Nonetheless we had to look for something, anything we could use in place. It was a toy, we didn’t know any better. No one had ever told us to stay away from the breakfront in the shed, and even if they had, it would only have prolonged our curiosity.
Our grandfather’s old shed was a junkyard of sorts. He never spent any time there but whenever Grandma asked him to get rid of something the shed is where it went. Grandfather died when we were eight years old and the shed had been unused since then. Underneath piles of tools, stacks of old magazines and miscellaneous collectibles we always found something to entertain us. Although I doubt grandpa would have appreciated us ransacking through his former belongings.
“Ethan I found a toy gun, Ethan come look! I think this will do” Connor called out of the shed “Finders keepers” I hurried along, skipping through several mud puddles on the way to the shed. I laughed as the water splashed up and hit my face. Withstanding such harsh weather conditions, I felt like a true soldier. As I walked into the tool shed, I wiped the mud from my forehead, smearing it all over my face. I found him with his fingers clenched around the handle of a silver gun. It was beautiful, the ideal toy, nothing short of perfect for our imaginary battle. I wanted it, but Connor was the one who found it. If he had let me hold it I wouldn’t have given it back. I knew the only way I would get to hold that gun is if I took it from him.
“Cool.” I said “Where did you find it?”
“It was lying next to the motorcycle magazines” He laughed “I think grandpa was planning for a drive by shooting.”
“Do you think it’s real?”
“Of course it’s real. Grandpa was too old for toys.”
“Let me see it.”
“Yeah, right. It’s mine find your own.”
“That’s not fair.” I was beginning to get irritated with him.
I could have let him have the gun, eventually he would have given it to me. But I didn’t want to wait that long. Instead I leaped forward and grabbed the handle in attempt to snatch it from him. In that moment both of our hands wrapped around the gun. Not willing to let go we began a game of tug a war that resembled Russian roulette rather than that game with the rope you play in PE class. Connor found the gun, it was only fair of me to let him keep it, but I never liked to play fair. I pulled on the handle, still wet from the rain my hand began to slip. I never expected an old gun to be loaded. In a split second, in a moment that seemed unreal, with the barrel pointed at Connor I pulled the trigger. In that instant I thought though it was me that had gotten shot. When the sound of the gun went off I felt as if my stomach had caught on fire. I let go of the gun and held on to him as we both collapsed. Connors hand was now clutching mine as the blood began to seep through his waterlogged shirt. The sound of that gun reverberated in my mind for years to follow.

As much as I tried to omit the reason for being at Sky Crossing from my memory, I could not forget what I did. After all I was there to learn to cope. However, hours of confessing to numerous psychologists did nothing to clear my conscience. Every week I talked to Doctor Something. I made a point to forget his name. His name didn’t matter. His job was to help me, so that could some day lead a normal life. To him I was nothing more than another day at the office.
“How has your week been Ethan?” Doctor Something asked
“Fine.” My answers were not always this vague. I generally used the hour and a half I talked to Doctor Something to align my mind. There were so many thoughts that needed to be encrypted, mostly dreams. Doctor something usually asked about my dreams. Mostly he just nodded and took notes. Anyone could have done that job.

After our first conversation Kyle didn’t talk to me again for seven months. I didn’t blame him for being afraid. I’m not sure what exactly changed his mind but eventually he must have realized I would never intentionally hurt anyone. The first time we spoke again he asked if I wanted to join him for a cigarette. His sister managed to sneak him a carton. It was after midnight, the nurses were only doing hourly bed checks. We climbed out of the window and up the roof. From here we could see the glow of the city lights. We smoked in silence while admiring the view. Every yellow speck represented a person each with their own story to tell, some troubled like myself while others lived blissful lives. I missed the real world sometimes. I was safe at the hospital but I was not free.
That night I had a dream that it was me that died. I awoke in a panic, drenched in sweat. Gasping for air and with trembling hands I reached for a pen to describe to Connor the deviating episode brought on by my subconscious mind. I began to write watching ink rapidly pour across the page while I attempted to put into words what I had just witnessed.

Dear Connor;
When the bullet penetrated my skin, excruciating pain pierced my entire body. It started in my stomach and then moved to my legs and arms. Unharmed, you must have gone down just as quickly as I did. With what little strength I had left I begged you not leave me to lie alone. You didn’t and I was so thankful for that.

I am dead.

When alive you hear a lot about death. People who describe the concept make it out to be something concrete. The truth is, there is nothing substantial about death and until you experience it there is nothing that even compares. The best way to describe what I felt is falling off a cliff. Just free falling, desperate to stay alive I tried to find something to hold on to, to keep from flying faster, to break the fall, to live. I can’t reach anything, my arms are numb and too heavy to lift, the cliff is disappearing from above; I am slowly descending into nothingness. But right as I begin to lose hope of ever standing on my feet again I see the ground approaching. This is when I realize death is not the end; it is simply a new beginning, the beginning of eternity. Most rational people would argue that eternity does not have a beginning, since it does not have an end. Most rational have never died. Time is no longer a concept of significance once you understand forever.
I don’t hit the ground hard. Once my feet touch I find myself walking barefoot on a beach; the sand feels soft beneath my feet but it is riding up between my toes causing familiar discomfort. I walk faster as I start to notice the scenery. A father is teaching his son to surf; a group of children is hunting for seashells, a teenage couple shares a kiss as waves crash over them, and a young boy is playing fetch with his golden retriever. I keep striding along when I notice the water rising and the people leaving, the tide is coming in. Instead of following them back into town I walk the other way towards the ocean with the water at my ankles I begin to run, the task becomes harder the deeper the water gets until the ground beneath my feet disappears. I find myself swept away by the tide but instead of panicking I calmly close my eyes as water fills my lungs, I am in complete control.
With a mind that is determined to hold on but a body that needs to let go, I dissolve from reality. With the tide I commemorated the end of my physical existence, but only the beginning of endless lessons and comprehension.
I’m sorry it wasn’t me
Ethan
Writing down my dream gave closure for the night. “Goodnight Connor” I said before going back to sleep.

On my eighteenth birthday I got a letter from my grandmother asking me to come home. She welcomed me with open arms and genuine love.

Few things had changed about the cabin. Spencer had gotten old and arthritic, he was in good spirits nonetheless. He greeted me at the door; his entire body was trembling with the wagging of his tail. The wall decorated with pictures was still the same; the bookshelf had yet to be dusted. I ran my fingers along its splintering edges. You could no longer make out doodles under the thick layers of dust that had built up over the years I spent away. On the surface I wrote:
Connor was here.
I traced the words with my fingers. I looked around the room, the familiar sights, the familiar smells and I realized it was true; Connor was here.
I walked across the lawn toward the tool shed in which I had shot my brother eight years prior. It wasn’t raining that day, the heat of the sun poured over my tired skin like a long forgotten flame. It had been too long since I felt the sun that way. The door to the shed creaked as I slowly pushed it open. No one had been here in a while. Looking around I realized that the shed looked no different from that day. Piles of antiques and old magazines were aligned in multiple piles and stacks, some taller than myself. I sat on Grandpa’s old rocking chair and took out my journal.
Dear Connor;
Someday I will lead a normal life. I will do everything you never go the chance to do. Coming back to this shed I feel alive for the first time in years. I need to live for the both of us.
I’m sorry I didn’t realize that before.
Ethan.
On that note I closed my journal I walked over and set it atop the stack of Grandpa’s motorcycle magazines.

Friends

I have decided to create a list of every person I ever considered a close friend throughout the entirety of my life.
I've tried to keep this linear, some names I couldn't remember.

My social life began in 1990, I don't remember having friends before then.
Mona
Alexander
Victor
Luis
Anna
Boy who lived next door from 91 to 93 whose name I don't remember.
Girl whose little sister's name was Lisa and whose las name was Dadario.
***her name was Elda as my mother later reminded me
Boy who was a neighbor from 93 to 95 and ironically again in 99 (completely coincidental)
Linda
Stephanie
Julia
Tanja
Birgit
Elsa
Patrick
Sebastian
Ariane
Paulina
Jan
Nicole
Kaitlin
Jessica
Delcee
Jennifer
Bethany
Carrera
Aerin
Jordan
Joey
Wendi
Kendra
Holly
Alisha
Rhianon
Jarom
Victoria
Janine
Kaysi



NOW (the only time that really matters)
Alissa- My sanity
Andrew- My bee eff eff








**Influential people are in bold, people I still know are italicized.

Reflection

I wrote this in 2005
I remembered it today:

Words seem so much more allusive when they are spoken quietly in the dark.
500 words a day.
No more.
How would you use them?
If this was the case, would we lie, whenever it seems convenient, like we do now?
I'm sure if the amount of breath we use for talking was limited, relationships would be more honest. We wouldn't say so many pointless things. We'd choose more carefully who we talk to, and think before we speak. Anything we say could be the last, it could be what we are remembered as. I'd rather be remembered for pretty words than bad habits.
Last words.
Let’s say you really love someone, but you just forgot to tell them, too busy wasting your breath on soon to be forgotten counterproductive phrases and stories, then they unexpectedly die, without ever knowing how much they mean to you. In that case wouldn't you wish you had said the right words? We all live, knowing one day will be the last. Yet we waste the little time we have whining and thinking it is too long, believing what they tell us to believe, closed minded, because that's how we were taught.The world needs an eye opener, a revelation.
Unfortunately we are cursed with unlimited speech.

--Reflections in 2008

Few things ordinary (and with this word I don’t mean to offend anyone it simply refers to people I have no deep connection with, people I have never had intricate conversations with, mere acquaintances, if that)
Ok that was a very long sentence to put into parentheses, so I will start over with this blog.
Hopefully I haven’t lost anyone’s attention.

AHEM

Few things ordinary people say hold my attention. In class discussions I frequently find myself dozing off because they generally seem to be lead by people who enjoy hearing themselves talk. My English 206 class is no different, they speak as I doze. Every now and then someone says something worth hearing, I listen. The rest are just words.
Today however, whilst discussing our short stories someone brought up the subject of self discovery which seemed to be a common theme in almost everyone’s story. I continue to half listen to the professor talk about how the twenty first century has shaped everyone to want to ascertain themselves in life, when a girl whom I have noticed to be quite interesting casually says: “We don’t have anything left to do except to find out who we are”
Then I wonder whether this is the purpose of life, ultimate self discovery. But how do you know what you have truly found yourself? And does that mean you are ready to die? I remember this day one year ago. I was walking around aimlessly through the cflourescent halls of SkyView high school. I didn’t even want to go to school that day, but it was better than staying home and watching Jason play video games and completely ignore the fact that I needed consolation. So I walked around for no other reason than to keep walking. I looked at all the faceless nobodies I had gone to school with over the past four years or so. None of them meant anything to me, and after graduation I would not see any of them again. I actually felt that way about my friends as well. It was amazing to meet to watch the progression of lives, when someone else’s just ended. All these idiots seemed to be okay with carrying on in their normal habits even though someone they know, or at least used to know had just died. At that moment I hated everyone. In my cynical nature happy people tend to fuel my anger when I am not in a good mood.
(I am selfish Kay, I know this. It will never change.)
What I realized while reflecting upon this relatively hazy memory was that none of us really know what we want out of life, the difference is that some of us walk around aimlessly, wasting time while others search for a purpose.
I’m still searching, and while I am I will keep writing.

Random Acts of Kindness

As much as I hate this day, and I mean really really hate...
Valentine's day fucking blows
Anyways, I think I might actually have a good one.
I got a care package from my mom and a card from my grandma. I spent yesterday with a friend who makes me feel alive, and sane. Who can make me laugh shortly after traumatic events. Thank you Alissa.
Then I went to a fantastic dinner with an amazing boy.
I enjoy random acts of kindness.

Life might be okay.
Happy Valentine's (gag) day!

Connections

I’ve been dreading this week and what it means to me for a while now. The events of it make me realize over and over how fragile and unpredictable life is. Yesterday while I was thinking, Maddi came and sat on me. I looked at her and thought about how much she means to me, and that she too will die someday.
“Maddi Don’t die.” I said


I can't think right now, but all I know is that
above everything I am thankful for cigarettes and the people they have brought into my life.

eleven elven

Sometimes in life what seems like an unfortunate chain of concequences can have fantastic results.
Everything might be falling into place.