hmm poof and shoot!

2002-11-01, 9:28 p.m.

Oh world of tilt and spin! i sit and feel a pain in my heart... not the metaphor. It feels like a pea is in one of my artery's and it blocks the blood. I cringe and type... ahhhhhhhh. then it releases and the build up of blood follows with a bubbling fury. You DONT know if im joking and i try to explain it because you cant feel it; maybe you wont ever i hope. And when i try to lean forward i feel like im falling into a glass window. i lean back again and take hasty breathes "when is this going to end!" i yell in my head. All you can do is write "?" because im glad you dont understand

Then its over and my whole body is steaming. Drops of sweat splash down and im so dizzy. You still make me smile though... yes you could... POOF It's not the perfect move because im dizzy and now im confused. Hasn't this happened before? am i the doorbell that pranksters ring? am i the old tree that people drive through? is the velvet rope linked tightly to my heart? or do i just smell really REALLY bad... choices choices... like a bad wine list, "ill have the shitty zinfandel with a bum cork and a bug at the bottom, thanks"

UGHHH... now i am really not liking myself. I am the bottle of refridgerated wine that makes teens vomit on their parents bed. I am the shit that a dog ashamedly leaves for his owner to step in... oh this is just to easy and fun. This is candy land, shoots and latters, hungry hungry hippo. Lay me out on the ground and assemble me if needed, then roll the dice on my chest.

Im trying to research for my english paper so that ill forget that stupid ache in my heart, right in the front left. "simple" math from the quantum theory... why am i not understanding it at all. This is supposed to be my major... my future profession. Am i gonna be one of those people that changes his major to "philosophy" so that he can graduate? What i left of philosophy anyway? the extent of modern philosophy is analyzing and predicting consumer needs:

-If handsome Johnny needs a bike every two years then shouldnt we start making bikes that last a year and a half?

-Swingin' Suzan is our modern woman, three kinds of eyeliner, four tubes of lipstick (one for each season), mascarra, blush, wrinkle cream (for a thirty year old), and assorted facial cleansers and body lotions. She needs a tan cream doesnt she?

And now i YELL out at this screen, ok, so im really fortunate... but sometimes its hard to say "this is the best moment of my life"... all the 40+ year olds tell me thats what it is. Am i going to say that if i am old enough to say it? might i say it in three years? or am i just talking to myself.

friends: hmm, to have a friend like him is good. its very good... more than a little, yes good. smiles because this is half of me writing the journal, we are like two people collided, coinciding, complementing, creating fun, concocting jokes, cunfusing the people who dare look. Like Bonney and Clyde but with confetti and jumpsuits. Thelma and Louise with leg hair and Leopard print fez's (Thelma must have broken pipes and loose wires in his head.. SPARK!DRIPSPARKLEPOP!)

strange girl who breaks the pipes: this is all out because all out is the only way for a boulder careanning down a hillside. why do you make me sit here and think like this? you are making me smash the words i want to write before they can run away. Whats left is a jumble of "poeticisms" that leave me feeling like the bum salvaging old baxes of junk. If i could wrtie what i wanted you would melt. You would run to me and away from me all at once. You would fly and crash simultaneousely, like an angel with a suicide note and a helium balloon. Angel who ive never seen. this screen cant do you justice. this screen that falshes cartoons and porn stars and car advertisements (ughghhhh that feeling in my heart is coming back and my ears are screaming and pleading no). this is like nothing ever told by the man sitting in his room. His chairs are tossed to the ground. His chair is spotted with knife holes and it bleeds white cotton. His tv is smashed and thrown in the fireplace. His dog, white terrior with chocolate brown face, watches him struggle; pacepacestumble. he sits on the carpet and reads a book. A smile like a dead man. If she would knock then he would get up. He would straighten his collar and open the door.

Lets her in with a swirl of magic in the air. this place is like a solid, a supersaturated igloo, a mixture of concrete and sex, a taj mahal snow-globe. It would be right to see her here. After all he wanted to open the door for her when she typed "you shouldnt talk to strangers"... type type type is the sound outside these headphones. Clicky clak, an elf hammering out a toy truck. INSERT EMAIL

Im actually tired now and i have no clue what to do... no work tommorow and im not ready to sleep...

he keeps writing because his fingers push him... they are the woodpeckers who stock up for winter. His arms are the vines that disappoint him... god why am i like this? why am i this folded paper, this strip of film that shows no beauty. this sack of rotten fruit with a shiny luster. look at this body and smile because even i have to smile, that's all i can do. is this face red with embarassment? or am i making someone laugh... thats MY curse. hanging on to this string that pulls away the curtains.. now i can make you laugh because the curtains are pulled back and the play is started. DO NOT TAKE ME LIKE IM THE ANGSTY TEEN. this is all he wants to write and right now hes tired of pulling the string and making people laugh. tommorow he will.