December seems appealing right about now.
I guess it's been romanticised.
Saturday, 12 April 2008
Excerpt from a book that no longer has a title
Today I have been constantly playing “The Power of Love” to see if I can get my roommate to threaten to kill me again. He did it before and it turned me on a little. The walls holding my world in its place, and locking it away from other peoples worlds feel so frail right now that I swear I can hear the walls groan and feel them move every time I blink. I could get up, but I’d feel if I did that, I’d have to empty my ash tray, or put on clothes, and I like the fact that it’s overflowing ever so slightly, and lying around naked doing nothing but smoking makes me feel free.
I kind of have to go for a slash, but again, that means getting out of bed, and that isn’t something I’m prepared to do. I’ve been lying here for a long time, and it feels wrong to break my endeavour of nothingness over something as meaningless as that.
Besides, I do that several times a day. How often do I lie about cigarette in hand, exposed to the world. Or at least to my room. Probably more often than most people, but fuck most people, what do they know about enjoying themselves?
I really hate Huey Lewis and The News. Fuck you, Patrick Bateman, I was mindlessly drugged up when I decided you were a role model, in your own, psychotic way. And Genesis are, have been, and always will be utter shit. I hate Phil Collins.
I was in Texas, two years ago. My friend had a place out there, a beaten up El Camino, and a whole load of drugs. So we went out, and made pretend we were Hunter S. Thompson and his sidekick whose name no-one ever remembers, because they saw a little bit of the film, bought the poster, but didn’t realise it was a book. We ended up in some bar. It wasn’t rundown, but it wasn’t nice. If I got on with my mother, I wouldn’t take her there. I talked to the bartender there, whilst my friend covered his bathroom in all kinds of bodily fluids, and probably most of the drugs he’d put into his body so far. He asked me what I did, and I told him that I sang and wrote songs for pennies. He told me that he once tried to write a song for his wife, but she left him a few weeks later. He thought it was probably unrelated, but said he didn’t have the strongest voice anyway, and that he would stick to Johnny Cash from now on. I smiled, and thanked him for the drink, and for allowing me to stereotype him in my mind. He said he was jealous of anyone that could have a way with words, but not in those words. I thought that I was jealous of someone who could have such a distinct dialect. A rich accent, and a proper story to tell. A range of colloquialisms not only his, but exclusive to his world. I don’t remember much else of Texas, but I remember the old bartender.
I kind of have to go for a slash, but again, that means getting out of bed, and that isn’t something I’m prepared to do. I’ve been lying here for a long time, and it feels wrong to break my endeavour of nothingness over something as meaningless as that.
Besides, I do that several times a day. How often do I lie about cigarette in hand, exposed to the world. Or at least to my room. Probably more often than most people, but fuck most people, what do they know about enjoying themselves?
I really hate Huey Lewis and The News. Fuck you, Patrick Bateman, I was mindlessly drugged up when I decided you were a role model, in your own, psychotic way. And Genesis are, have been, and always will be utter shit. I hate Phil Collins.
I was in Texas, two years ago. My friend had a place out there, a beaten up El Camino, and a whole load of drugs. So we went out, and made pretend we were Hunter S. Thompson and his sidekick whose name no-one ever remembers, because they saw a little bit of the film, bought the poster, but didn’t realise it was a book. We ended up in some bar. It wasn’t rundown, but it wasn’t nice. If I got on with my mother, I wouldn’t take her there. I talked to the bartender there, whilst my friend covered his bathroom in all kinds of bodily fluids, and probably most of the drugs he’d put into his body so far. He asked me what I did, and I told him that I sang and wrote songs for pennies. He told me that he once tried to write a song for his wife, but she left him a few weeks later. He thought it was probably unrelated, but said he didn’t have the strongest voice anyway, and that he would stick to Johnny Cash from now on. I smiled, and thanked him for the drink, and for allowing me to stereotype him in my mind. He said he was jealous of anyone that could have a way with words, but not in those words. I thought that I was jealous of someone who could have such a distinct dialect. A rich accent, and a proper story to tell. A range of colloquialisms not only his, but exclusive to his world. I don’t remember much else of Texas, but I remember the old bartender.
I'm tired of acting out old clichés. I've got a certain set down to an artform.
I've been doing all that stupid shit you do with your mind when you're fourteen, and six years on, I should have gotten over myself by now.
I could write out a list of wants, but that would be a pretty futile and pointless exercise.
I've been doing all that stupid shit you do with your mind when you're fourteen, and six years on, I should have gotten over myself by now.
I could write out a list of wants, but that would be a pretty futile and pointless exercise.
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