17 November 2013

A few hours ago I saw Melt Banana play in downtown Oakland because some girls I like invited me and I wanted to be around them. Afterwards I felt deaf and tired and weird (but not so much in a bad way). When I got home I made tea and drank a bunch of water and looked at old pictures. I found one from December 2006, which was the winter after I had graduated from high school. In it, I have the same longish hair I have now and the same amount of “man, who cares” facial hair. I took a picture of the November 2013 version of myself and put them side by side.

The only real difference between the two is that now I look skinnier and sadder . . . and the dark rings around my eyes have deepened and darkened. Also I look dead inside.

(I would put the pictures up, but I don’t trust the world not to be cruel.)

17 November 2013

FOR GOD’S SAKE

PLEASE COME BACK TO ME

AND WE’LL GO FOR A WALK

DOWN THAT OLD CHURCH ROAD

15 November 2013

Short-term goals:

  • not starve
  • say genuinely nice things to nice people
  • say genuinely nice things to terrible people
  • rebuild my backyard
  • deliver chicken coop to the Pepples girls’ house
  • grow out a sweet mustache so (cool) girls will want to hold my hand
  • decide how to get back to California from Nashville
  • maybe figure out a way to get someone to sleep next to me sometimes in a non-sexual way
  • hug cool people

 

Long-term goals:

  • buy a motorcycle
  • drive a motorcycle into an active volcano
12 November 2013

It can’t be healthy to feel like this 80% of my waking life. It’s killing me, isn’t it? It must be killing me. How could it not be? It’s been over a decade now. A decade! It’s wearing on me. It’s destroying my body from the inside. It is manifesting in my bones and in my face. And it will for a long time. For-ever and ever. UNTIL I STOP BREATHING.

HOPEFULLY THAT’S SOON.

Just kidding~~~!!!!

(I am not kidding at all!!!! I am also 13 years old apparently!!!! You have discovered my secret diary!!!!! Mom, don’t look at it!!!!!!)

12 November 2013

I WOULD PROBABLY LOVE YOU

AND I HARDLY LOVE ANYONE

I USED TO LOVE EVERYONE

BUT IT HURT A LOT

BECAUSE I’M NOT COOL

AND NO ONE LOVES A LOSER

BUT YOU, BABY

YOU’RE THE ONE FOR ME (MAYBE)

OR AT LEAST A NICE PERSON

TO BE AROUND

WHEN THINGS ARE TERRIBLE

(EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE)

I WOULD PROBABLY LOVE YYYYOOOOOUUUUU

11 November 2013

The perennial apocalyptic glow over Oakland

And cat wounds on both my hands

10 November 2013

Reluctantly I had gone across the Bay for warmth and friendship and found it slumped against a lamppost on Montgomery and Market. She was smoking and looking at the sky. I told her I felt like a dope and a loser and, rising to her feet, she smoothed out her enormous sweatshirt and told me it was OK if I was those things. She walked briskly toward an Irish pub and I put a half-skip in my movement to keep up. There she drank a cider and I had two beers. In her little white car we sped over the new bridge and laughed like psychos until we were in the place where I am most comfortable.

“This is Oakland,” I said. I pointed at everything in view. “This is where I live.”

“It’s a real city after all,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Where people walk around. And things happen.”

“It’s true. It’s all true.”

She had a vodka sour and I had an IPA and we sat stupefied under the ruby light near the back. We were alone and we felt all right just then. I knocked over my auxiliary beer and, perhaps in a moment of pity, she gave me a cigarette. As I joylessly took the smoke into my lungs, I used the device in my pocket to say a thing to a girl I like and she said a thing back. It made me feel OK, reading that thing, because I was fairly certain it meant she found me agreeable and maybe even nice to be around.

Madness and swirling colors. Singing by the fire. Another beer from the kitchen island—who had bought these?—and I knocked another one over on the walk home. She asked me to touch her back and when I told her I wasn’t very good at it, she showed me what to do with my hands. She took her sweatshirt off and said something about modesty and I was pale and duct-taped together and feeling skeletal. I breathed heavily, her bones beneath my fingers, moving her flesh, and she laughed and said I was probably fine the way I was. I touched her spine and said it was a nice one. I lied and said I had felt many before. My eyes went dim before the sky was flooded with light and in that place where only I can go I thought of someone else.

08 November 2013

The other day I watched an 11-minute video where a guy just stood in front of his bathroom mirror and talked about pomade

I don’t wear pomade and never have

Maybe it’s time to die

08 November 2013

I WILL PROTECT MY FLESH

TILL THE DAY I FUCKING DIE

BECAUSE WHAT THE HELL ELSE

AM I GOING TO DO

WITH MY FUCKING TIME

(lol)

06 November 2013

Whipping through the whirling mutant city
I grabbed my balls and said a prayer
A widow cried
A child died
While Jesus combed his hair