the time we lost our way

whenever i tell people my poison of choice is whiskey they always ask me if i'm a writer. i smile and give a cute girly giggle, "no, i'm not a writer but thank you!" 10 years ago i may not have been drinking as much as whiskey as i do now (i drank, my family never hid alcohol nor were we prohibited from having any) but i did write... a lot. in fact, i've been published and have won awards. i was depressed and lost, black hearted, ridden with anguish, a tormented being punished with hate, nooooobooodddyyyy understaaaaaaandsssss meeeeee. not really, in fact, a lot of my shorts were about how much i hated people like that. i was an extremely depressed soul and i respected it, i never tried to whore it out and actively worked towards appearing to be a normal person. i did that so well that i never actually learned to do it correctly. yes, i'm a superficial douchebag. but anyway, just like anything else iv'e done in my life, i took myself as far as i would allow in writing before having the opportunity to meet failure. therefore, i've done and learned absolutely everything i've ever wanted to but i never became as good at any of it as i could have had i fully pursued any single one. c'est la vie.

for the rest of my life i'll tell everyone i've been published, won awards, had several gallery shows, got into a few good schools, studied ample amounts of literature, pursued religion and philosophy, learned a couple languages, and spent most of my life learning anything about anything. too bad my memory sucks so much. don't do drugs kids, unless they're synthetic and improve your cognition and enhance your objectivity, then it's ok.

blogging thing

i want a banksy book.

you [you] don't want to die but you [not you] wants to

i kept dying last night in my sleep. my breathing would slow until it completely stopped. at one point i saw a sequence of three dim flashes and what my mind would remember as my present location. a darkness would then creep over my eyes as slowly as my last breath leaving my body. my thoughts... there were no thoughts. i had no flashbacks of my life, no regrets, no desires, no needs and no wants. i became fully conscious and as a fully conscious being i was only completely aware of one thing and that was that i was dying. nothing. nothing is what happened next. if one could be completely unconsciously aware of absolutely everything without knowing anything and can only recall the waking life that follows, that is what nothing is. there is nothing.

there was a force deep in the mind of my living body, a force so unpleasant and so unpleased with such a constant unforseen cerebro-authoritative decision that it heaved as hard as it could to wake me from nothing, each muscle embraced my ribs and my lungs, hanging on to any amount of dear life, pulled and heaved to fill my lungs with as much air as they could possibly hold and as fast as they possibly could. i was pulled from nothing and into the darkness of the bedroom, out of breath, confused and completely unaware of anything. i regained my situational consciousness, tired and sore, bothered and alone. i shifted my body into another comfortable position and started the process all over again with an open attempt to sleep each time but sleep would not come again until the morning.

- 40 minutes of my lyfe-

i wander around the room, 11:10pm. god. i hate it when this happens when i'm stoned. i put on my lavender thermal, the one with the soft japanese flowers along the left side of the torso. david holmes' bow down to the exit sign feels my ears for the first time. i like it. this song is his take on tom cat by muddy waters. god i love good music. music that you just stop for a moment and absolutely nothing else is in your head except how fucking good the music is. i put my t shirt with the rough stenciled dirty gold gas masks over my thermal. it's a shame this soft shade of black goes so well with this lavender, the flowers are so pretty and the v neck looks kick ass on me. it's a shame i have such small boobs.

i pull my make-up bag out of my purse. mama soul by harold alexander. i put the make up on and wonder if andrew would be down to head out to long beach for david's birthday on sunday. it'll be about 9;30 when we'd leave but that's still pretty early for a night that involves being able to sleep in the next day. andrew'll probably hate the idea of driving outside of pasadena, even if i offer. i need to get a new shift key. no, i need a new keypad. shit son, i just need a new fucking laptop. i was starting to get bored. sweet songs by jujus. every band member was introduced by instrument, name and astrological sign. i wish silvia was here, she would love this music.

a daddy long leg finds his way down and up my leg. i somehow lose him as i'm ducking around my leg to check him out. at this point i'm starting to crave a drink. if i had someone to go with me to the buck i'd totally love to walk there. i have no cash, though. i need to start keeping money in my wallet, at least a 20. i always think this to myself but still never manage to do it. i go to the restroom and put my hair into 2 short and messy braids. the clothy little girly hair bands remind me of a few years ago when i wasn't that much younger than i am now but still significantly young enough for there to be a major difference in who i am now. i remember lisa's house, hookah with silvia, sculpture and nick. seth told me at the last house show i went to in palmdale that he liked andrew and he thought he was a better guy for me to be with than nick. i had met seth only once back then at a party that chip invited me to. i remember seth gave me a hug when i introduced myself as nick's girlfriend. i hadn't run into him again until nearly 2 years later. he was so drunk that first time i never thought he'd remember who i was and i was slightly confused as to why he brought it up. seth's a good guy, though, i'm glad he's willing to leave scv.

herbstplatte '69 by valentin mehler. i would love to go down to the metro station, get completely monkied and ride the metro into hollywood right about now. too bad it's too late, the goldline stops running at midnight. 11:50 pm. ode a l'affaire by andrew perry. danielle, it's ok to stay in on a friday night. trust me, you need this time for yourself. fuck withdrawls. why the hell can't i be addicted to something physical instead of mental? i snap another bowl.