And sometimes I’d have it no other way. I’m the king of over-analyzation and incorrect conclusions. forgive me. I type whatever’s swirling in this head in the wee hours of the night/morning without any concern for consequences. but I was designed to break my own heart and my only real crime is this obsession with documenting it. it’s all (not) mapped out. and I am still lost. exposed to this audience I call my conscience and maybe I should listen but I won’t. sometimes I think I’m the only kid who reads this drivel; I honestly know better. ill keep a sharper mind in the weeks to come. (no promises). I instinctively typed “weaks”. gah.

P.S. that last entry actually had more than that one sentence in it, btw.

The story of my li(f)e.

September 29, 2006

responses to “how are you doing” are always a matter of who’s asking. just keep telling myself I’m over you. yet with each interaction, I’m left with every feeling you’ve ever given me and I don’t know why. like how those eyes can hatch butterflies within my gut and trembling in my voice and how sing alongs with you make me want to smile ’til I die. you mentioned tonight how you’ve got weak knees. you haven’t any idea. but he’s got your attention and we all can tell. and these are the thoughts that render sleep an ineffable concept. I hate being so pathetic. sleep easy, sweetie. I’m wide awake.

forced shut eyes & perfection on my pillowcase.
you are still my dream girl. :-(

Sexy back.

September 14, 2006

“I hide behind these books I read while scribbling my poetry. Like art could save a wretch like me with some ideal ideology that no one could hope to achieve and I am never real, it’s just a sketch of me and everything I’ve made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.”

Uh-pdates.

September 13, 2006

listen to Imogen Heap’s “Hide and Seek” when you decide you want to start living.

shows coming up: dashboard w/ brand new in san diego. the elected at the glass house. deathcab for cutie w/ jenny lewis and the watson twins at bren events. yay times ten.

I need to watch The Last Kiss and the Science of Sleep. come with.

I still heart guitar hero.

ed templeton’s next art exhibit is going to be the bee’s knees and I can’t wait.

no p!atd w/ what’s her face. dc and bn alone instead. :-)

its funny, but I kinda miss matt frazier. haha. fun kid.
and lauren menor, even though I worked with her today.

I finally passed super mario bros 3 w/ no cheats. yay.

new store = <333.

liz m. is a sight for sore eyes. & she’s got personality to die for. (small crushes and nervous smiles and speeding hearts and sweating bullets aimed at myself.) swoon.

speaking of sore eyes, I am now required to wear a contact lens. yes, just one. weak. :-(

new brand new record on 112106. lifechangerforsure.

this iPod’s on shuffle and every other song is either by bright eyes or saves the day or cursive or minus the bear and I don’t mind. :-) times ten.

less writing more living. end.

a patron saint of liars and fakes. I read and hear words from some “good” and “upstanding” individual while all I observe is some poor attention-starved kid trying incredibly hard to stand out with no avail. get a life. you’re just wasting precious time PRETENDING to be someone you’re not when you could be using this time to actually BE that someone. maybe if you did, THEN people would see a literal change for the better instead of hating your guts so much like the way they do now. walk the walk and stop screaming the talk because all it’ll get you are high expectations that you won’t ever (even pretend to) meet.

keep telling yourself and the world that you’re “cured”.
you are the worst case of denial ever witnessed.

a click on the receiving end, and you’re off. off doing the very things I hate you doing. with the very people I hate you to be around. and all I want is for you to be good. be good. pleasepleaseplease. I wish you could see how much I care. or sometimes I wish I meant more to you than that devil on your shoulder you choose to listen to. but all I am is a dreamer with your well-being in mind. and all you are is a nightmare with “better” things to do. I’m all out of things to say to you. at the very least, that damn dancefloor must’ve looked a hell of a lot better with you on it, all dressed in your Sunday best.

“be sure to open up your eyes.”
this quote goes out to you.

or quite possibly myself.