I'm thinking about starting one. Why?
I don't know.
It took me a ridiculous amount of time to even choose a theme. My eyes welled up at the frustration of not even being able to make the smallest of decisions. One that doesn't even matter.
Which started negative self-talk of which I am still not above.
How can one so pathetic still be existing?
All I seem to know how to do is appreciate beauty.
“Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.” CHARLES BUKOWSKI [1920-94]
“An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.” ERNEST HEMINGWAY [1899-1961]
“I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they’ve always worked for me.” HUNTER S. THOMPSON [1937-2005]
“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” EDGAR ALLAN POE [1809-49]
“After a month’s sobriety my faculties became unbearably acute and I found myself unhealthily clairvoyant, having insights into places I’d as soon not journey to. Unlike some men, I had never drunk for boldness or charm or wit; I had used alcohol for precisely what it was, a depressant to check the mental exhilaration produced by extended sobriety.” FREDERICK EXLEY [1929-92]
I was just told not 15 minutes ago that I will be receiving MY OWN office/cubicle. I'm not sure what to call it. It has a room number... Anyway, I'm pretty excited to be secluded and isolated, not gonna lie. Won't have to deal with creepy guys, as much. At least, I hope.
I think my prediction of another Mana-sama phase was premature, as it seems I'm still obsessed with Emilie Autumn on some level or another.
But for another flashback, this time PRE-high school, I've logged into GaiaOnline for the first time in... I actually don't know how long.
Speaking of pre-high school flashbacks... get ready for some old journal entries. And by journal I don't mean blogging, I mean hand-written in a little black book with the word "Journal" printed on the front, in silver. I wasn't very subtle back then.
I'm not going to type out every single entry, obviously. Just a handful, of note. The ones I find more interesting than others. Typed out exactly how I read them, how I wrote them. Complete with little "+'s" instead of "and's".
Thursday, August 18, 2005 10:23~in my room~First real day of school. Met another cool girl, her name is Clara. Had to wear a beanie all day. Didn’t get to get online because we went to Jazz on the green. It seems as if the day is pointless if I don’t get to talk to Dave. Nothing to keep me going. No enthusiasm. I’ll paint my nails I guess.
Monday September 5, 2005~10:15~in my room~I was only there for like 20 minutes when mom shows up, insisting I have to leave. I was so incredibly pissed, I started crying on the way home, + it continued for a long time afterwards. I was so mad, I wanted to just run out of the house + run all the way back to Dave’s. How would you feel mom if you only got to see Brad once every 2 weeks or so? No, scratch that. All your bestest friends. And all of the sudden, you get snatched away from that. I wanted to kick + scream, should out for all the world to hear.
September 20, 2005~Tuesday~8:46~in my room~I painted my nails a deep red! Kind of like a blood red. RAWR! I am the vampire goddess of the dark coming to rip you to pieces with my bloody fingertips! Haha! Woah. That was weird. See, when I don’t talk to Dave for a couple of days, I start to go insane... Pray for me so I don’t go around killing people, like Kassie, that Slayer-gone-Psycho-Demon..thingy thing.
November 24, 2005~Thursday~6:16~In the dining room at Carolyn’s parent’s house. Umm...yeah. Brandi’s on the computer, everyone else is either eating dessert or watching the football game. I can’t go lock myself in the bathroom like I do other family get-togethers because 1) this isn’t my family and 2) there’s only one bathroom.
Friday~November 25, 2005~1:48~In the same room. Kassie must have brought up my neck fetish or something. Great, huh? It’s stupid, something that doesn’t matter, something that shouldn’t have or ever again be brought up because it concerns no one save myself. Which is my I’m going to build up a resistance for it (+ also my waist) so nobody will care + no one can make fun of me for it. I can build up a mind-set for that, can’t I? I already accidently built one for kissing, great for Julia. Dunno how I’m gonna tear that one down, but I think Kayla can help me out mentally on that. As for physically... nevermind that.
You know in Portal, the creepy graffiti on the walls?
Here's a snippet:
"Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The cube had food and maybe ammo.
And immortality."
This is actually a twist of Emily Dickinson's poem, "Because I could not stop for Death —", which begins as such:
"Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality."
Part Three:
Everyone can taste sugar. But do you know all of the elements that make up sugar, and the flavour of each element alone? And what if you could? Would this ability - no, not ability - necessity, inescapable necessity to dissect that which is sugar make your experienceof sugar any more pleasurable? Or would it distract you to the point of no longer tasting the sugar at all, but instead the acids and other less than savory elements simultaneously, each flavour, and each flavour within each flavour, vying for dominance until you are gagging, chockin, gasping for air . . . until sugar is no longer sugar but something awful and confusing and impossibly complex, infecting your tongue and your body and finally your brain and all you want is water?
But what is in the water? What is it made of and where did it come from and why does it hurt?
What depths of horror. . . black, revolting, deadly horror might one experience were one's base ingredients not sugar, but, perhaps, ash. . . or metal shavings . . . or blood?
Ophelia drowned, they say . . . drowned herself, herself drowned, drowned in senses, drowned in sounds, drowned in voices, unhappy and unheard . . .
We are machines, all of us . . .
And what does a machine do when too much is assigned to it? When too much coal, too much ink, too much information is forced violently through its channels?
Why, it stutters, it chockes, and, finally, it shuts down.
[1920-94] 
[1899-1961] 
[1937-2005] 
[1809-49] 
[1929-92] 
-sama phase was premature, as it seems I'm still obsessed with 
on some level or another.
... it's funny.
,
. John Constantine, asshole.
That's right, I use a CD player... in my car.
. But I have seen 
, and believe me when I say that this rings true true true as blue.