Slavery of Speech

My right upper arm muscles are sore. I refuse to write about how I'm listening to Fugazi right now. I am also in need of a yoga partner. I have returned from a 505150. They kept me at my friend's apartment in Los Angeles with no money, and only two changes of clothes. They made me smoke inside and get high. They made me sit in the back seat of a car with no leg space. They bought me every meal, every drink, and every cigarette I consumed during my stay. Our first stop was a strip club where I spent every dollar I had. Suddenly my wallet was full of one dollar bills. "How convenient," I thought to myself. One of the dancing babes put her hat on my head. I was in a trance, but not for the reasons that are obvious if this was just some fictional story. I was in a new place with new people and it felt so familiar. Every time I tried to be in charge of something, it inevitably failed. I guess you could say that they took good care of me withoutright insisting. It felt so much like a dream because I had no concept of time; it just never made sense. Anything could happen in 3 hours, really... 10pm-1am...

Before that they locked me in a concrete room where drugs were available, just dangling in front of me like a dripping duck.

It was so terrible.

Then they made me talk to a blonde musician who was shorter than me.

A night in

" there is something deep inside of me. "

Something I haven't felt before. Today my professor explained something as "new" anger. The anger that re-pumps you up when you reflect on something that made you mad. I let myself get re-angry all the time. It helps pass the time, though. And one day I won't regret where it gets me. With how things have gone in my life thus far, it'll take me where ever I want to go. "Not with that attitude," they'll say. But how can I make up cheap enthusiasm when all we are dealing with is money.
Money
I am reflecting on my parents' life or what their life would have been like. I feel tears drowning the inside of my skull like when you boil water with the lid on. Of course, I am not crying. My eyes are soft and glassy. The wine like a blanket from the dryer, over on the table still warm for maybe another hour. I do not discount my parents life no matter how simple it is. It's so much more complicated now and I refuse to leave them behind. At least they never cock blocked me - literally never. I love them because they remind me of cats. I never would have thought that people younger than me would be that much sassier than me. I miss my loves of summer. My brow furrows and my heart is sensational. This unexpressed joy is deep inside of me, like the brain dead patient that could sprout back to life, theoretically. I have been wanting a night at home like this for a while.
Lonesome
Though. I wish I had a cigarette and my friend just happens to call me as I light it.

Anger

Someone has said to me before that anger is just fear. This person is evil because this person shat on my dream in the most casual of conversations. I was really just trying to say that if I really wanted to be a teacher, graduate school is just the next step. He was talking me out of it until I expressed anger, when he finally said, "Fine. Go to grad school." This was not a high-ass question of, "Do you have to be smart to be an astronaut?" which assumes that my time thus spent was not towards becoming an astronaut, rather understanding that astronauts probably have way different agendas dealing with larger, more demanding questions of the universe and I am just a mere suburbian, now living in the city with slightly wider eyes. Real friends would understand that second question and laugh. Real friends would understand that first question and just nod with encouragement even if they didn't believe in it - real friends are down for surprises.

This fucking guy. If he is who I hope he is, he is reading this right now because he took the time to research my google account - I'm sure you could find people's blogs through that. I could also be grandiose at the moment. Either way, as we split, I stressed that I would be seeing him around town and campus because that is just inevitable. Even if we don't see each other at school, we'll probably see each other at future symposiums that I, at this point, after being shat on, am determined to be a part of, that are held all over the country once a year and I can only expect to see him there. I stressed this because it's not nice to cut someone out of your life completely. I never said, "I never want to see or talk to you again." I stressed, "I don't want you to know where I live and I don't want to talk to you right now." I'm 100% ok with passing eye contact. Passing conversation, hell no.

I guess I'm posting because I forgot about this blog, because I've been made angry because of one of his blog post that reduced our relationship down to stoop smoking. There was nothing else. I must be fair and say that I am in no mood to be talking openly about this yet - that every time I try to I choke up and become increasingly confused and all the more angry.

I know of someone who is dying and said, "I can't live like I'm dying." She has brain tumors and stage whatever-gonna-die cancer. I know of someone living who says, "I live like I'm dying." It keeps me calmer, more centered, modest yet adventurous, open with people I trust, and realistic with the expectations of those friends who I trust. Because trust doesn't mean 100% everything. It just means faith... and I lost faith in this fucking guy... this fucking manipulative fuck. Unmodest, spoiled rotten, and in denial of his identity crisis.


It's so funny all the gay boys in high school wore Hollister and Abercrombie and Fitch sweat pants - even simple t-shirts because they were desperate searching for identity. I was one of those gay boys but luckily my mother was smart enough not to listen to her 16 year old who wanted a stupid specific shirt. Now look at him. Romping around in his "girlfriend's" pajamas and slippers, offering her his old sweats that say in large and purposefully distressed letters a brand name that makes her cringe. If my new life goal is to fuck a gay boy I think I've reached it and now I need to make even more grandiose goals.

Spice it up

I'm not sure

...but the things I know for sure have to do with this state of mind that is real and radical and not trying. How will my parents react when I tell them I'd rather spend the money on a trip to Europe instead of buying a car? A biodiesel converter is about $2000. I don't want to directly contribute to the war at the moment... I have a choice, right?

I could prepare myself for even more ostracism without a normal car or normal friend. But I really do gotta do my research.

Last night I was excited to be alienated from my friends because I lost my phone charger. A night at home and I watched a really cheesy movie - I won't tell you who is in it - and listened to my room mate stomp on the floor and throw shit in her room and yell at her girlfriend. She was drunk and high, it was 12:35am and she had to be to work at 6:30am. I felt really bad for her but I slept like a baby anyway.

Where does the disease begin (addiction) and the person end? Was she having an insane meth craving? I asked her how she was earlier in the day, tears in her eyes, and I asked her, "Are you ok?" and she said, "It depends on how many beers are left, then I'll know if I'm gonna be ok." I feel for her. But I know my plants make everyone in this house feel better. I thought maybe the patriarch would leave today but he left his cigarette box full of $16 of coins and machete here. I'll be seeing him later tonight.

Poor little chick. I never thought I could warm myself by lending my own wing.

She struggles

Holy fuck it sounds like war outside

Here in my new apartment I feel like I live where the war is. The fridge sounds like alien ship defrosting. Faint voices from another backyard sound like cops. Fireworks sound like war, even the ones that scream like some sort of laughing child. I sense an anvil dropping from the heavens when I hear that sound. The patriarch of the evening offered me a hot dog. I said no thank you and took an apple turn-over instead. I already ate my left overs, and my friend hasn't come over to eat with me the fresh. The national anthem plays faintly starting in the middle

"They're $5 a day," he said.
"For sure, thank you." I said. What I really wanted to say was, "How long are you planning on staying here?" I keep hearing, "Oh ok, then I'll go home." And then, "No, you don't have to go home, I'm just saying," something I can't remember now, but it's happened twice now. What do I say when they walk in and ask me what I'm writing about here, in the war zone, when there's hot dogs down stairs.

I think this apple fritter has satisfied my craving for over priced cigarettes found only out in the war zone. Especially if I went to splurge wearing my Obama-as-Mau shirt. The tree is squalking :}

the internet is like a bad dream
where everything is how it seems
people you know aren't anymore
and you question the sounds bouncing off blinds
the images play back in your mind later
images of ideas sprung
last spring and trigger

{omg that was the stupidest thing to fix}

member dis

http://youtu.be/T8UfNlWzmJ0

I really wonder why this blog wont let me make paragraphs.