Listening to... The Libertines?

Iunno... 'sbetter than Franz Ferdinand, I guess.

It's New Year's fucking Eve and I honestly don't give a fucking shit...

I've gone off on how it's not fucking 2004 anyway too many times to go into it but I'm sure if you're reading this chances are you're smart enough to get it on your own.

Also, the fact that the year changes at the beginning of January seems rather pointless to me.

So fuck New Year's Eve, I say, it's not shit to me.

That then of course makes me sound like some disgruntled fuck who's pissed because he's spending New Year's Eve (too long to type - now it's NYE) alone and jealous of every person who's partying with friends and shit.

If anything it's my writer's block that's pissing me off more. Most of my friends aren't partiers anyway, and my five best friends are...

1) Doing something with her family
2) In another province.
3) Locked up inside anyway.
4) At her boyfriend's.
5) At 4)'s boyfriend's.

So meh.

*changes music to Anti-Flag*

good night all, and stay safe

(stupid fuckers shooting guns off to celebrate — as if people with guns weren't dangerous enough to begin with)

alex

Wow, obviously I suck at blogging here now

Considering I haven't in more than a week. I guess it's because with greatestjournal I have more of a readership, I don't know. Which just proves that the only reason I'm doing this is to garner attention anyway, but that shouldn't have been a secret.

Christmas was weird.

It had its upmoments and its downmoments and I probably won't remember either in a year but the presents were great and there were no serious disagreements so I guess I can't complain.

In any case, I'm an emotional jumble these days, a feeling-y mistake and man I need psychiatric help.

But fear not, I'm getting it:

I have a digital camera now to take pictures of things. That totally makes things better.

So that's a lie. I was just trying to make you jealous, O reader.

So sue me.

alex

I just watched the Royal Tenenbaums

and now I want to die.

It's so fucking depressing... I mean, it's an amazing movie.

But afterwards I just feel empty. I guess it's because I empathize too much with Royal... he kinda spends the whole movie trying to make up for the fact that everyone hates him and he's been a total asshole... and he never really gets his family back before dying.

It feels too much like me, just like Willy fucking Loman, I don't know.

All these characters are so ... héros noir, or something, old guys who've failed at life, and have no time and no way to make up for it. That's how I see myself in the future.

It scares the shit out of me.

So I drown my sorrows in A&W root beer.

And cry myself to sleep.

x

Chanson d'Automne

(to the tune of The Ramones - I Don't Care)

Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl makes him hurt
She don't care about his words
Autumn girl (He loves her)

Les sanglots longs (Des violons)
Les sanglots longs (Des violons)
De l'automne blessent mon coeur
D'une langueur monotone.
Les sanglots longs (Des violons)

Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl left him for good
She don't care about his words
Autumn girl (He loves her)

Tout suffocant (Et blême, quand)
Tout suffocant (Et blême, quand)
Sonne l'heure, je me souviens
Des jours anciens et je pleure;
Tout suffocant (Et blême, quand)

Autumn girl (Fille d'automne)
Autumn girl (Fille d'automne)
Autumn girl (Fille d'automne)

Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl (He loves her)
Autumn girl makes him hurt
She don't care about his words
Autumn girl (Fille d'automne)

Et je m'en vais (Au vent mauvais)
Et je m'en vais (Au vent mauvais)
Qui m'emporte deçà, delà
Pareil à la feuille morte.
Et je m'en vais (He loves her)
Fille d'automne (Au vent mauvais)
He loves her...

I guess I've written a bunch of stuff since last time,

But it all kinda sucked.

My highlight of the week was realizing that Rancid's ...And Out Come the Wolves cover was a nod to Minor Threat's Minor Threat cover. What an image... w00t. Now if ever I get signed to a CD deal, and I won't, ever, ever, ever, but I plan on it anyway, I totally want to pose like that. So far we've had bald-headed and mohawked... I guess the punk world could use some longish alexei hair.

I think it would be supremely cool.

Not that the rest of you would.

I totally had the weirdest week this week. I kinda lost my ability to spell, and to do homework, I didn't eat pizza once, at all at all, I kinda gained a girlfriend sort of, but I'll get back to you all on that one, and don't ask for my locker combo, fools XP

But, lots of new music, and new lovers, whatever. I can't believe all the history I missed.

I love you, Mr. Commins.

Anyway...

Don't fuck, don't smoke, don't drink...

And most important of all, don't do Chem labs on drugs.

Fucking idiots.

Makes me fucking sick.

Coming up to Christmas and I'm so fucking jaded... what a pity.

Dead like a dropped fishtank's fish,

I remain,

Alex

It's been a while...

I guess I kind of let you all down, all you blog-readers of my blog — not that that really made any grammatical sense.

At any rate.

I'm still the same old me, yeah, no worries there, but I'm busy as hell and tired as fuck.

I'm going to go see the play tonight.

I don't know why it was such a hassle. Whatever.

I guess the thing here will be to pass Chemistry this term. I don't think less than 60 will go down too well at Mariano.

Anyway, there's still Dawson.

Ugh.

Happy Birthday Billie.

aiyo

"...well pay attention / 'cause you know you'll have to pay either way / and they tell you that it's the new thing / but we know that it hasn't changed / watch us go down in flames..."

x

stfu, n00b

stupid fucken josh weissbock.

Anyway.

This here post is for Michaela:

the elements colliding
unknown forces colluding
as from chaos appears something concrete

that'd make millions they said
but the presentation seems to be locked in my head
is order just a fiction?

darkness encompasses all but a little
and far away the fires burn; leaving me bitter
it's only one of my problems

keep the pain coming, it rankles
holding up to my wings your beautiful candles
saying but a word or two brings this to a halt.

the windows blur, distort matters somewhat
encaged in glass i try not to cry but
eyes shattered impede my progress


- moving on is painful.


next one:


Droplets spatter, planets revolve
Amidst the orbs; dancing; stood my chance
Paths intersect, narrow misses
Gravity pulling me, entrancing me down & in and
I fight back but only so much can be done
Forces irrepressible; sounds interchangeable
& garbled; static.


and then:


Ruined scenes stand motionless
Leaves float by rustily
But there's no one to rake them
This diorama feels cheap, tainted
Like my life; a failure.
Ever falling short of too-high expectations
Like a perfectly-set table with a rat
in the milk.



that's all for now.

x

So I'm feeling capital in the capital...

Well, not quite. But whatever.

I got people and pictures there for me, poetry in case I want to die.

And a star to fight my wings back up.

Keep on fighting for the free world.

x

So I figured I haven't blogged in ages...

Ice ages, to be exact, now that unattended outdoor water is beginning to freeze. Not that attended water wouldn't, but it sounded cool.

I decided to blog again so I could move that ugly mastodon of a blog post containing my whole literary effort down the page a little bit. So I hope this will be a little easier to swallow. More of a blog-blog than a novel-blog.

Weekends are depressing.

Especially this one.

I fucking hate shit like that, prefecting today, it's half decent but things start to fall apart at the end, there's no satisfying end to it, then you start overstaying your welcome hoping someone will say something, do something, go home with you, whatever, but you need something fulfilling to happen and it never does.

Then you leave broken hearted.

And there's a beautiful girl listening to music sitting next to you on the bus.

fucken w00t

I always wanted to spell fucking fucken. It's so lame it's cool.

Billie wants a yearbook pic of me with sentimental writing on the back.

She said, and I paraphrase, "Something like, 'Ooh, Billie, I've always loved you...' "

Won't someone please stab me in the face?

I think it would be less painful than having to deal with my lonely, hormonal self.

Also, RIP Joey Ramone. I'm only three years late, but man, what an awesome dude.

So I left the school, utterly alone. Nothing worthwhile accomplished, no money made, no lessons learned, no nothing.

Then San^2 ran into me (literally), kidnapped me for fifteen minutes or so, and made me serve her orange juice.

And interfered with my room.

Weird.

My biggest question in all this is, or rather it's more a comment, is:

God speaks to me through my iPod's shuffle function.

I'm sure of it.

I got off the bus, started walking home, and what should come up but Audioslave - Light My Way.

It was totally what I was feeling at the time.

Won't you light my way?

x

Happy Remembrance Day,

not that that's an oxymoron at all...

Anyway, in the interests of self-promotion, here's what's so far of my novel/novella/short story/crapshake in its entirety, minus some parts I edited out because they were either crappy or unfit for immature audiences like you guys.

That being said, if you have a bunch of time on your hands, read away.

When I woke up it was one thirty two.

I collapsed back onto my pillow, the light coming through my curtains just so, in that somnolent, pacifying way that makes you want to just lie there forever and be content and warm and stagnant. But I'm a punk, so that's definitely not happening. I threw the covers aside, and blinked four times.

Then once more, for good measure.

Shaking the clouds of sleep from my mind, or attempting to as best I could, considering that my mind was sleep-clouded, and failing, I decided to sit there for a little longer. To pass the time, I picked the little bits of dried mucus that accumulate around my eyes during the night. There's little more satisfying to me than feeling that little tiny speck of hardened snot, which my mom used to call sleepy dust, in your fingers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger and then flicking it away to the floor, where it ceases to exist. Because of this, clearing the sleepy dust from my eyes is something I relish, and I was quite content to sit there for a few seconds, rolling specks of hardened snot between my thumbs and forefingers and summarily flicking them into the void that is anything further than a few inches from my face.

I blinked again.

I checked the clock.

One thirty three.

Giving my head a good shake in a futile attempt to rehabilitate my hair, I lurched forward off the bed, catching myself on the half-opened door of my room, and successfully not falling down again.

A step forward from yesterday's debacle of a waking up.

Scratching my head and sending millions of dead skin cells floating to the ground like a macabre and unhygienic snowfall, I yawned conclusively and stumbled into the hallway outside my room.

The inside front door was open, and light poured into the hallway through the large glass panel that made up most of the outer front door. I squinted for effect and sloped off down the house towards the kitchen.

Manic was in the kitchen.

Asleep, as usual, at this time of day.

An explanation is required, no doubt, being that not everyone has a sleeping Manic in his kitchen at this time of day.

That being said, here's your explanation:

Manic is my best friend.

He's my roommate, my rock, my work ethic, he's my advice, he's my counselor and psychiatrist, he's my library, my encyclopedia and my dictionary all in one, he's my life-support and my teacher, he's my president and my preacher and my doctor and my support group, he's my muse and my agenda and my critic. And he's my best friend.

A sleeping Manic is a beautiful sight to behold. Well, that is, when he's not asleep in a pool of blood or vomit, and he doesn't have any obvious wounds. But a healthy sleeping Manic is something I like to sit and contemplate whenever I can. It's happened before that I've fallen asleep just staring at him, and by the time I'd woken up again he was gone. He attributes my fascination with his looks to some deep-rooted Freudian thing about how my father, who never loved me, was as ugly as a nuclear war, but I'm mainly just happy he isn't freaked out by it, like most people would be. That's another thing you have to understand about me; I'm intense in all sorts of weird ways. Doesn't win you friends, but I get by. I have Manic. Which is more than you can really ask for, as far as I'm concerned. Anyway. Manic's face is all long and angled, his cheekbones jut out at different angles and he has scars all over his face. Some still fresh. His hell-black hair is spiked, and no two of the angles are equal. I think he and I came up with some sort of formula one night, in two respective drunken stupors, that calculated something like that, but that doesn't really make sense, in retrospect. At any rate, his hair is really cool, but only once you've seen his wardrobe can you truly appreciate the respect that I have for this guy.

He can make anything cool.

I had to go to piss by then, so I cut short my monologue extolling the virtues of my main man asleep in the kitchen and entered the bathroom. Entered is the only word you can use in this situation. Our bathroom is really only something you can enter. You don't walk into the bathroom, or stumble into the bathroom, and you certainly don't crawl into the bathroom. You must enter it.

The bathroom is in black and white, which is to say, it's been decorated using only black and white, but for all you can tell, all colour ceases to exist upon entering it. It's like you're in one of those science fiction movies where there are no colours so it looks super-futuristic, and everything's very minimalist and efficient. That's our bathroom, minus the robots.

It's so cool, I can barely believe it's mine. Sometimes, after a night of partying, or moshing, or just drinking, Manic and I get home and by the time I enter the bathroom I can't even tell that I'm in my own house, much less that the bathroom in the house is as cool as it is, so it comes as a total surprise to me. Bam, it hits me in the face like a comically bad video game, bam. What an awesome bathroom. All the tiles are white, except for one, which is black. Everything else in the bathroom is white except for the shower curtain, which is also black, and the mirror, which is specularly reflective. I clean it religiously, with lots of pomp and circumstance every time I have nothing to do. I'm a little bit intense, like I said, but when I'm bored or heartbroken or both, the bathroom keeps me going. I love cleaning dirt and gunk from the clean and pure white surfaces in the bathroom like I love picking the sleepy dust from my eyes, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, and flicking it away from me forever. I guess some part of me enjoys knowing things are being kept orderly and perfect, and Manic hasn't made a big issue out of it but I bet he's written about it in his journal. He keeps notes on nearly everything. Sometimes he lets me read from it but I know the boundaries between us cover that whole notebook more often than not. I've often wondered how he manages to write so much in one notebook and never get a new one. Which isn't to say he doesn't, but it's that there's this insanely complex drawing that he did a few years ago, a wacky, trippy self-portrait which is, in my mind at least, completely unreproducible, and yet it's always been on the cover. Either he redraws it every time he runs out of space, or he erases what he's written and writes over it when he runs out of space. They both seem equally stupid ideas to me, but he always has reasons for everything. I'm not very good at debating anyhow. I guess he sort of likes arguing like that, playing cat and mouse games with me. Does his ego good every once in a while, can't fault him for needing self-esteem.

Anyways, so this is all irrelevant, because I'm standing there pissing when what should happen but the doorbell should ring. Jarringly. So much so, in fact, that I jerked to one side and pissed on the wall.

"Fuck!"

Manic wakes up in a huff and a hurry.

"Shit fuck damn!" I curse and curse and grab some toilet paper, my still-sleepy hands fumbling to pull more and more from the roll to wipe up the ugly, wall-marring piss on my immaculate bathroom white.

"Wha's goin' on?"

The doorbell rings again.

"Shit fuck fucking God damn it!" I hurriedly wipe at the wall, smearing the hot hatred here and there, it's a duct-tape clean, it'll hold until I've dealt with whoever's at the door. It's still tough to deal with, all that piss running down the wall. It takes me a second to notice there's some on my pants, which I've just slept in. I take a step back and lean over to see myself in the mirror.

Disaster. I'm in no shape to be seen by anyone at the door, no matter the person or the importance of the thing which has lead them to my door so early in the morning.

Of course, to add to my humiliation, what's left of my sanity at this point registers that it is, in fact, the afternoon.

Manic has started walking, or rather, he's lumbering, but the point is that he's moving towards the door.

The bell rings again.

-
-

As far as the eye can see, there are only three colours: red, white and black. The rows upon rows upon rows of red brick houses, the miles and kilometres of white sidewalks and black roads, there's the blackened windows and doors and the white walkways and the red sky and the black smoke in the distance. The carbon copy houses are so harsh in their rigidity it's enough to make anyone even a little queasy.

Not Anders Henrik Dvorak.

He relishes the endless similitude. It makes him happy deep inside, gives him an impermeable grin that he just can't shut off. He doesn't blink.

Anders lives alone in the house at the end of the row. House 1-1A-0A. His wife and children live next door.

The rising white sun reflects off his now-thinning-but-still-gelled silvery-blonde hair, and his blue eyes twinkle maliciously. He walks quickly and efficiently to work, black imitation leather briefcase in hand. No one knows the combination to the lock but him. His suit is impeccable. His perma-grin is plastered perfectly to his face between his two slightly chubby reddish cheeks. He walks quickly and efficiently to work.

-
-

Once inside Corp.Kn, you really forget about things. It's not just some urban legend or rumour or what-have-you that's passed around, originating with some disgruntled former employee (and most of the former employees are either disgruntled or dead, so that's a fairly safe bet) and evolves as it's translated and re-translated and edited for effectiveness. You really do forget things. Something about the atmosphere induces forgetfulness — and I don't mean short-attention spans. It's more like forgetting things for good, not just forgetting that you were supposed to be at a meeting twenty minutes ago. It's... it's difficult to convey, I guess, but if someone were to ask you, and someone indeed has, what your name is, while heavily ensconced in the building, you might take a good minute or so to remember your name. Once home again, though, I know perfectly well who I am. It's just that I can't seem to keep track of it all while I'm at work. Like something else keeps pushing all that vital information out of my mind. It's almost like some measure the higher-ups instituted to keep you working hard, something out of a conspiracy theorist's wet dream but who knows what really goes on inside my head or those of the Seven. The Seven run Corp.Kn and no one knows who they are.

No one.

Not a single soul in the world could tell you what they're thinking. That's what I'm pretty sure of, at any rate. They're one of those typical super-secretive factions of doom running major corporations that you always hear about on the news. Typical doom-saying but I like to listen to what they have to say on the news. Most people don't, too boring, too weird, not enough time on their hands, whatever, they have their reasons. I think I remember

-
-

The light flickers a little. It's an unstable glow, switching, flinching, twitching, ever adapting in an attempt to keep you watching. Total attention whore but it works. The room is dark, and silent but for the dancing glow's soundtrack. Everyone is captured, each guy enslaved to his very core by this weak, psychotic, dancing nymph of an owner.

What a fucking lie.

I call it a lie.

But they keep staring.

Signs of life are minimal. Occasionally one will adjust his body, maybe blink once or twice, mostly they just sit in various positions of relaxation, held and not released by a sadistic device to which society has produced no antidote and shows no signs of either doing so or being prepared to.

What a fucking lie.

I watch from the sidelines. They take no notice of me. I make next to no sound but it doesn't matter anyway. I don't watch the screen. I know the power it holds. I stay wary and approach slowly. Someone's to blame for this whole mess, though I'm not sure whom, but someone's to blame and it makes me angry. Someone's to blame for the empty streets, the absence of youth. The newspapers, though they're few and far between these days, they reported the numbers. The news channels did, but who was watching? Someone's to blame, someone's the thief who stole the boys and girls from the world.

I'm no doctor, nor am I a preacher. I'm just a kid myself. So I fight the power any way I can.

And I have some fun while I'm at it.

My hand's bleeding a little from having broken the window but my adrenaline's pumping so it dulls the sting. I grip the hammer and get ready for some fun, take a few steps into the room, smash the screen to pieces. Smash smash smash smash smash tinkle tinkle.

Then I kick it off the TV stand.

BAM smash crash tinkle and they still haven't reacted. That's one of the things I love about this whole affair. Hell, there are a whole lot of things I love. The action, the violence, the adrenaline thrill, the comedown as I tell Alex the whole story, the counter-culturalism and anti-establishmentarianism, but one of my favourite bits is seeing the shock in their eyes as they register what just happened. As far as I can tell, they go through the whole range of post-trauma reactions within about two or three seconds.

Then it happens.

A short, stubby guy in the front is the first to get to his feet. He probably hasn't used his legs in a few days so he's unsteady at best. His mouth opens a few times, sucking at the air of the now-pitch black room. He lazily swings an arm in my direction, still unable to produce a sound. His eyes are black like everyone else's, pupils expanded so much there's no room for anything else. He starts breathing hard and another guy is on his feet, and another two behind him. They all stand there for another second or two, arms swinging, legs wobbling and then we're off to the races.

The short motherfucker in the front starts it off but he trips over the TV stand and goes down. The three behind him are a little more agile and they all clear it easily. Two more arise from the nest on and around the couch. None of them are in much shape but they speed up quickly. The lack of television kicks their survival instinct in, gives them wings. They're all going to die without some animated stimulation soon and while killing me won't bring the happy pictures back, it's the least they can do in an attempt to retain some dignity. Besides, I can't exactly see them hurriedly fumbling over the remnants of their machine, trying to piece it back together. Might be funny, though.

If there's one benefit to the conformity of the houses, it's being able to elude the TV zombies. I know every house in the country inside and out before I even take a step inside. Might as well live in one of them myself, I know the layout so well. I think for a second about Alex, back home, alone, and pray that he's safe.

A hand from out of nowhere shatters my concentration as it grabs at my faded jean jacket and misses and I speed off down the stairs, grab the bottom pole of the banister with my free hand, whirl around and fly up the stairs. I like to take them three at a time but tonight I go for four, I'm feeling cocky, what the hell. I look back down the stairs and the three taller ones are at the bottom of the stairs now, the fat short guy's just behind them and there's a girl I hadn't noticed starting into the hall.

This is the second best part. Where things get crazy, where they get random, where the danger switch moves from the Off position to the On position and I see how long I can last before I have to bail and run.

I've never managed to stay in a house long enough to watch them die.

My mind goes blank and I let my legs carry me somewhere I haven't gone before, a strategy I haven't tried yet, a scheme I haven't yet pulled. The hammer, old and worn but far from dead, weighs heavy in my hand.

This is my night, and I'm out on the prowl.

-
-

"Corp.Kn stands for The Knowledge Corporation. We run the country's knowledge. We set quotas, define rules, make sure no one's cheating. We perform one of the most essential functions in the lives of Americans the world over: We keep things in check, make sure you don't get overloaded with the weights and doubts of painful knowledge. It can be a terrible burden to carry too much knowledge, and we here at Corp.Kn understand that. That's why we're here to help you out. For more information, visit our hypersite, corp, kn.usa”

"Cut!

That's a wrap, everyone."

The applause thunders.

It's only a 15-second spot, but it means a lot.

Michael James, the famous actor, steps off the set and a hustle of underlings rush up to him to peel his shiny black Corp. Kn suit from him. They unbuckle his buckles, unholster his gun, unlace his boots, and in seconds he's standing in front of the crew in only his underwear.

No one laughs outwardly.

"Beautiful, Mikey, just stunning, incredible performance." The smiles are both fake. The director slaps him on the back, right between the shoulder blades.

Michael James shudders a bit, and the pain in his face is easily read. He crumples to the perfect white floor like the most intricate sculpture made of nothing more than imagination, like he'd been deflated by something more than a pinprick.

No one's in any hurry to attend to him.

The hum of chatter fills the room, bends the walls like the building was a balloon being inflated.

"Hey, medic, medic!"

A tall man, skinny like loneliness, shuffles through the crowd, parting couples and interrupting conversations. As he walks, he pulls out a syringe and begins to fill the chamber with an antidote, brandishing the needle in front of him as if to split the sea of bodies. Upon arriving at the motionless frame of Michael James, he crouches efficiently, and turns around slightly.

"Sec! Sec! Hurry, I'm about to administer the dose!"

This time the people are more obliging of the men moving towards the set, falling quiet and drawing aside, personal comfort and chit chat thrown to the wind. Don't get in their way, everyone is thinking. Don't get in their way.

Five black suits worth of muscle get down on one knee in a circle around the actor. They wear suits identical to the one he just had removed, but their faces are covered by skintight hoods. Reflective black circles for eyes and a smaller circle where the mouth should be, covered in a filtering mesh should the atmosphere become less welcoming.

The needle punctures the skin, drives right in, and the plunger goes down, down down down eyes open with a flash and suddenly he's human again.

The doctor darts back faster than possible.

The words come.

"HELP HELP OH MY GOD DON'T HURT ME SOMEONE SOMEBODY HELP ME THEY'RE GOING TO KILL ME SOMEBODY SAVE ME OW FUCK FUCK OW AOW AARRGH AA-"

He's unconscious again but strong enough for the second injection. The doctor pulls a second syringe out of his bag and loads the chamber with a clear substance.

The five black figures move back in one motion, and the white coat of the doctor completes the juxtapositional dance by moving forward half a second later.

The needle punctures the skin, drives right in, and the plunger goes down, down down down eyes open with a flash and suddenly he's inhuman again.

The hum of the crowd rushes back in to fill the vacuum, the unsightly moment forgotten altogether.

It's remarkable what you can erase from the past if only you try.

-
-

These past few days have been pretty shitty. Anaïs left the a few days ago. We had a huge fucking fight, an absolute disaster. I've been drinking non-stop since then, I don't know what fucking time it is, what fucking day of the week or date of the month it is. No fucking idea. Just an absolute disgrace, drinking booze for breakfast and I'm fading. My head constantly hurts, both from the alcoholic abuse that I'm subjecting it to, and I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that she's gone, Gone with a capital g. She's gone. It's too real and unreal at the same time. I guess this is denial. I can't really believe for real that she's gone. I woke up a few times with a warm body next to mine in bed and it was Anaïs for a few seconds but it turned out to be only fucking Henry's sister, Alice. I'd forgotten I'd called her over the night before to fuck her and she got all pissed that I called her Anaïs — she was as shitfaced as me, if not more so, she starting bitching at me and I just lay there and tried to go to sleep. I was worried she'd wake up the neighbours but it turned out it was three in the afternoon. I ended up convincing her that I'd been dreaming, and we fucked again. She's decent, pretty damn good, she knows what she's doing, but she's just not the same. It's funny, I had to apologize to her because the girl I love left me. Fucked up world, man. I guess it's mostly just because Alice is a stupid bitch who only thinks about herself. She was too pissed at being mistaken for another person that she overlooked the fact that she was being used as a substitute for Anaïs in the first place. If you think about it, it's only logical that I'd call her by that name but whatever. Like I said, the sex was good. I guess I can't really complain that I have someone and something to lessen the pain the void she left has caused me. It really kills me how I was just never good enough for her, she always wanted me to be perfect and that's just something I can't do, but I wanted so badly to make her happy that I'd try and fail, time and time again. The failure fucks you up a little, builds up in your head, gains some importance and that's dangerous. You don't want too much failure in your life. If it takes too big of a portion of your mental pie, at which point I stop thinking for a second, lift myself up a few inches from the bed with great effort, draw a vague circle-like oval in the air with my index finger, and slump back down, your thinking starts to get warped, you start to imagine you're just not good enough even if your goals are completely unrealistic. In this case the goals were someone else's. I still feel like I failed, though. Goes to show what an impact she had on my life.

Oh Anaïs, Anaïs, Anaïs, what have you done to me?

Fuck it, I want you back.

I'm too tired to do shit right now. And my head hurts, I want to die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream, like Hamlet said. Or Shakespeare. Or Francis Bacon. Whatever. I'm not even supposed to know that. I'm in possession of illegal knowledge. All the literature got burned ten years ago, when I was nine. My dad managed to hide all of our family's. I still have a lot of it, among the piles hidden in the hole we dug out of the ground underneath the floor boards in the basement is Hamlet by William Shakespeare. Ridiculously old play, almost half a millennium old and it's so good. I mean, there's a lot of incomprehensible shit but what I can understand is just brilliant. I wish I could write like that. All of my poetry is shit. Mostly I burn it.

My mind slumps to the pillow and my consciousness collapses into sleep as the phone rings down the hall. It's muffled enough for me to pretend I hadn't heard it, and I'm tired, so fuck it, I need my beaut

-
-

Anders Henrik Dvorak strode into the Great Hall of Wealth and Unity with an air of confidence. His grey irises shone in his eyes with a look of calculated confidence, and you could hear the cogs of his brain whirring if you listened close enough. The high-speed motion-capture cameras of the press were going off four or sixteen times a second, depending on how rich their respective employers were, and there was an air of pomp and circumstance about the whole affair. In the background, the hum of conversation whirred. There were no placards in the crowd.

"I am here," he paused with great dignity, "to inform you all of something I'm sure you have all heard about." He paused again for effect, letting his words sink in. "This thing of which you all have no doubt heard many things," he paused again, annoyingly, and marveled at his position in history, being the one to reveal America's plans for the future. Then he continued. "This thing is Act Zero-Zero-Six-Nine-Three-Nine-Five-One-A." The crowd hushed furiously. "The Most High Court has decided." The hush grew and grew, like a black hole, swallowing all the sound nearby, travelling outside the fabled doors of The Great Hall of Wealth and Unity, stretching down the steps to the doors, down the road and across the lawns, onto the sidewalk, across Forty-Sixth Street, along the sidewalk on the other side of the road, down the lawns and right up to Henry Hanrahan's house. You could hear Henry watching television in his basement for a few seconds, before the silence swallowed him up, too, and Anders Henrik Dvorak spoke again into the wirophone. This time his voice, instead of being a self-important, booming declaration, was a whispered interjection of a voice, like that of a child trying to tell his mother some terrible news while she speaks on the phone.

"It has been passed."

He quickly strode off the stage from the podium, and his aides and bodyguards followed.

The crowd never rioted. They all stood there, standing stock still, waiting for him to return and say something else, anything else, just not that.

Elena fainted.

And thus the twenty-seventh Royal and Empirical American Public Press Conference of 2504 was adjourned.

-
-

Manic ducked and ran and dodged and whirled and smashed a slender girl in the face with his hammer. It was quite a pity. She was a beautiful girl, long dark hair, light brown caramel skin, perfect teeth, eyeballs fully black and trying to kill him. She went down in a spray of blood, clawing at the air, and caught his jeans pant leg near the knee, yanking him down. Another whack to the back of her head and he was free, but now an older boy with a knife in his hand was upon him and it was dark but the light from the street lamps outside reflected dimly off the blade. Manic dodged but the knife bit into his cheek, a little slice and he was bleeding too and things sped up. He brought the hammer up swiftly from the floor and caught the boy between the legs, and tripped him as he fell. Bringing the hammer up to strike a decisive blow he caught a taller boy behind him between the eyes, and he landed with a thump on the wall to wall carpeting. Quickly the knife caught him in the ankle and his attention was returned to the first boy, jabbing away at his lower legs and he kicked him in anger, in frustration, he kicked with the energy of one who has just killed two people he might have befriended in another life. He kicked with a manic energy and he kept on kicking and kicking and kicking and soon he realized that he was kicking at nothing. The skull had shattered and the blood was quickly staining the carpet and his shoe and now he was angrier than ever, he shouted knowing he wouldn't be heard, he shouted himself hoarse, straining to get out all his rage towards the television and those who operated the system that kept it running, everyone responsible in any way for killing the youth of the world, he shouted until he could shout no more, and then he smashed the window to smithereens and leapt out of it before the Corp.Pol showed up, crying as he ran through the back yards, crying as he sprinted through the shadows in the alleys, crying as he jogged up to his front door and slipped inside so as not to wake up Alex, and he cried until he could cry no more and promptly fell asleep in the entrance way.

-
-

I'm infatuated with the past. All the culture I really love is more than a hundred years old, give or take a few years. The music I like, the literature I'm into, they all come from such a long time ago. All my friends give me shit for it, especially Henry, that asshole. They all listen to logic-prop, this genre that absolutely disgusts me, it's just a steady beat repeated over and over, no talent required. All the clubs play state-sponsored tunes, too. There's something wrong with listening to music that the government creates, as far as I'm concerned. Music's about art, about talent, about creativity. What does the fucking government know about that? What does the Ministry of Culture have on the fucking Clash? They were this awesome punk band from Britain.USA a good one hundred thirty years ago, and fuck if they ever put out shit like the logic-prop Top 40. I could go on, naming incredible bands and artists that shifted the world's paradigm back in the day, but no one these days gives a fuck. All the originals have been destroyed, all that's left are copies kept hidden by the owners, guys like me, there can't be too many of them, keeping them stashed away, pulling them out late at night for a forbidden listen. What a fucking shithole of a world we live in. I read books from 200 years ago, 500-year old plays, listen to 100 year-old music and it's all illegal. It's fucking illegal. I could be shot and killed, executed summarily for owning stuff like this. That's fucked up for you. My dad used to tell me stories of when he was a kid, before the Great War of '24 lasted eight years and ended with the United States of fucking America ruling three quarters of the world's land mass. What a gip, what a cop-out. Before the constant propaganda, before the executions, before the nuclear disasters at Grey River in Canada and Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky in Russia made the north pole ice melt entirely and dams had to be built in all the coastal cities north of the 36th parallel within a four months to prevent the cities from being overrun by the ocean. What a fucking shithole of a world we live in. Back in the day, there was freedom of speech, my dad said, you could say whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted, and the government couldn't touch you, let alone kill you. Couldn't fucking touch you. Man, where have we come since then?

-
-

"What the fuck?"

"Ma'am, I don't even know. I have no idea."

"No seriously, what the fuck happened here?"

"I'm telling you, I don't know, ma'am. I just don't know."

"Well that's just fine and fucking dandy, mister, but did it cross your fucking mind that maybe I will need to know?"

"I guess you might, ma'am. I guess you might need to know."

"You guess. That's cute. Real fucking cute."

"Ma'am, there's no need to lose your temper. We have everything under control here."

"Unh huh. That's funny, because it sure as hell doesn't look like you do."

"Well, ma'am, what do you want me to say? I can't make you see that everything's under control. If you don't believe me, there's nothing I can do."

The lady stared grimly at the old black man in the postal uniform. I hit the pause button on the remote and the frame froze. Manic still wasn't home yet and I'd already seen this movie a thousand times. It was one of Manic's favourites, made in 2025, during the war. It was an "epic moment in filmmaking," according to Manic, and I'm hard-pressed to disagree, not knowing much about film history, but also because it's an awesome movie. At this point, however, I'm more worried about Manic. He went smashing tonight, and usually he's back by now. I fucking hope nothing happened to him. I always get worried fucking sick, like I'm a little pussy, but I worry that he's gonna get hurt. I try not to bring it up too often but I think he can tell. He's probably written about it in his notebook though. Or notebooks. The couch is worn but it's familiar, it's comfortable, and if I sit low enough in it, it gives me something warm to press my shoulders into. It helps take my mind off Manic and his fight against television hypnotism. I reach over, grasp the coffee mug and slowly draw it to me, being careful not to spill any. It's lukewarm at best but it's more than half full and I need it to take my mind off my situation. I sip it slowly and inhale the scent. The digital clock shows one thirty one.

-
-

Vladimir was thinner than possible. His pasty white skin stretched taut over his bones, like it was straining to crush him but his fragile frame was holding out, like his bones were far too big for his infant-skin.

But infant-skin it was not. It was cracked, peeling, it was hardened with wear and raw in places. His hands were unrecognizable. They looked like plastic that had had something sharp run over them many times more than something sharp should ever be run over plastic, scratching and re-scratching and spreading out in different directions but the effect was always the same, the plastic deteriorates and so do Vladimir's hands. His fingers and continuously curled around a non-existent utensil, a weapon, a tool maybe, like he was ever ready to take up arms against any foe should his arms ever be strong enough to raise one above his waist. Everyone mocked him for it. It was a constant subject of reprisal in the prison, you could hear the derision in their smiles as he walked by, clad in a stained white t-shirt and his pants even more so. Holding his cafeteria tray as if it were an infant, cradling it, his arms shaking from the effort, his forces draining, he would fall down at the nearest table, taking great care to ensure his food did not spill before setting it down, at least. Whether or not it was intact by the time he managed to get up from the floor was another story. Sometimes a kindlier inmate would protect it for him, but for the most part something was missing or damaged by the time his head peeked above the surface of the table.

He'd gotten over it a couple of years ago, the business with his food. Being so skinny, he could often not manage even half of his meal and came to regard the stealing of his food as more of a favour or a service than an injustice. Besides, he always thought to himself, they are all bigger than me. They need it more than I do. It's the least I can do to help out.

-
-

The planes fly overhead.

Not far from here, I can hear the bombs dropping. You can hear them for miles around, but that's not the point.

Here, you can feel them dropping. You can feel the shock, the thud, the explosion, the dulled thump and the echo, reverberating all through the skies and it gets into your head and starts bouncing off the inside of your skull, dancing around, here, there, everywhere, you can't keep up with it anymore, the lights you can see them now even though they're not there and still the planes fly overhead.

There are so many of them, they cover the sky like a criss-crossing pattern, like deathly metal woven crossways into the air, the wings pointing one way and the bodies pointing the other. They go on as far as I can see, a great quilt of contrast, of bombs and of clouds, of propellers and winds, of bullets and raindrops and suddenly it's raining water and explosions at the same time, and I'm getting soaked as the city gets destroyed. I'm standing up outside and the streets are empty, everyone's gone or dead or hiding, I'm the only one out and I stand in defiance, irking both Mother Nature and Father Blake.

The planes fly overhead.

-
-

Also, I renamed it from A Rebel to Tame to: 2101: A Rebel to Tame, because it's like 2001: A Space Oddysey, and because the year is a cool year.

Anyway, good night/morning.

Compliment an emo kid.

x

Am I the star beneath the stairs? Am I the ghost upon the stage, am I your anything?

This one goes out to all the Violets and Elizabeths in the world, the girls (guys too I guess, though I'm not really aware of their existence) who are so awesome and yet friendless, lacking confidence and always depressed, those who are so cool and so different and so unique and yet hate themselves. It's a fucked up world when they feel like shit and the popular people think they're all that, but if you know someone who's always down on themselves, compliment them, cheer them up, let them know they're incredible people.

In further unrelated news, CANNONBALL!

Okay, not really. The point is, my novel is stagnating. I got in a decent paragraph about a new character I'm going to work into the story, but I should probably start expanding greatly on the "Evil Empire" characteristics of 2101 America. Flesh out the reason to hate them and to fight back a little more, it's been kinda non-existent so far.

Fuck that shit, 'cause I ain't the one / to have 20k words by the end of the month...

Anyway, I'm shooting for at least 25k. With that I have a decent novella/short story which I can continue and flesh out and edit and rework until I have a finished product sometime around July next year. Hopefully then I can get it published somewhere indy and garner some attention to my awesomeness, and then get it published from a major publisher and make some money on the side while I go through CEGEP/University.

Of course this is all unrealistic, but I can dream and I can try and I haven't really much better to do.

Grade 11 is tough.

It wears you down.

I need something.

I don't know what it is though.

But I know where to get it.

And I don't mean at an animal shelter, Them.

Heh, inside jokes are killer.

Anyway, that's all.

You are asian.

x

Arrrr...

I'm listening to The Clash.

These days.

And so should you.

Among others.

Songs of the moment:

The Clash - White Riot
The Clash - Rudie Can't Fail
The Clash - The Guns of Brixton
Moby & Public Enemy - Make Love Fuck War
Creedence Clearwater Revival - Fortunate Son
Creedence Clearwater Revival - Down on the Corner
The Ramones - Bonzo Goes to Bitburg (My Brain is Hanging Upside Down)

w00tness.

In other news, I'm falling behind on my novel.

It's looking a bit more like a novella or even a short story these days.

Whatever, it's still awesome.

Keep on stranglin'.

x

Sigh...

Only in America.

Only in America could they elect Bush, and then re-elect him four years later.

Only in America could 72% of Bush's supporters believe Iraq had either WMDs or a program to develop them and use them against the US of A-holes, despite the facts being readily available through all sorts of media.

Fuck Bush, sure, but more importantly, fuck America.

Fuck it.

Fuck 51% of fucking America voting for four more years of 1984.

Fuck the fact that Bush was facing off against Kerry and not against Nader. Fuck the electoral college system and anything that fucks with true democracy. Fuck the Bible Belt for giving Christianity a bad name.

Fuck all the arrogant Americans who see Canada as America's bitch, and fuck Canada for providing them with any kind of reason to believe so.

Fuck money and corruption and greed and fossil fuels and fuck humans for being so susceptible to temptation as to allow the world to descend into fucking madness the way it has and will continue to do so unabated unless something big goes down.

And fuck the whole world if and when something big goes down and they go in the exact opposite direction like they did on 9/11.

Fuck it all.

God, give the Democrats a viable candidate in the 2008 elections. At least. I'd prefer a complete overhaul of American politics, but I'll go for a Dem win in '08 over eight more years of war is peace, ignorance is strength and slavery's freedom.

Sigh...

x

I'm going to make you want it like tantric sex...

Watch me make you want my skills with da keyboard.

"When I woke up it was one thirty two.

I collapsed back onto my pillow, the light coming through my curtains just so, in that somnolent, pacifying way that makes you want to just lie there forever and be content and warm and stagnant. But I'm a punk, so that's definitely not happening. I threw the covers aside, and blinked four times.

Then once more, for good measure.

Shaking the clouds of sleep from my mind, or attempting to as best I could, considering that my mind was sleep-clouded, and failing, I decided to sit there for a little longer. To pass the time, I picked the little bits of dried mucus that accumulate around my eyes during the night. There's little more satisfying to me than feeling that little tiny speck of hardened snot, which my mom used to call sleepy dust, in your fingers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger and then flicking it away to the floor, where it ceases to exist. Because of this, clearing the sleepy dust from my eyes is something I relish, and I was quite content to sit there for a few seconds, rolling specks of hardened snot between my thumbs and forefingers and summarily flicking them into the void that is anything further than a few inches from my face.

I blinked again.

I checked the clock.

One thirty three.

Giving my head a good shake in a futile attempt to rehabilitate my hair, I lurched forward off the bed, catching myself on the half-opened door of my room, and successfully not falling down again.

A step forward from yesterday's debacle of a waking up.

Scratching my head and sending millions of dead skin cells floating to the ground like a macabre and unhygienic snowfall, I yawned conclusively and stumbled into the hallway outside my room.

The inside front door was open, and light poured into the hallway through the large glass panel that made up most of the outer front door. I squinted for effect and sloped off down the house towards the kitchen.

Manic was in the kitchen.

Asleep, as usual, at this time of day.

An explanation is required, no doubt, being that not everyone has a sleeping Manic in his kitchen at this time of day.

That being said, here's your explanation:"

Except you don't get the explanation because I'm so cruel and cold you put a coat on, to quote MC Frontalot.

So you'll have to beg my ass for it.

I > you.

That having been said, Kerry Edwards 04, and elections are not for the faint of heart.

<3 you all.

x

I'm the Anti-Hallowe'en

What another bullshit, crock of crap holiday.

Let's go commercialism, forward march!

Everyone who think's he or she's subversive and cool, and isn't, well, Hallowe'en has your nuts in tha freezer because "..there's colours on the street / red, white and blue / people shuffling their feet / people sleeping in their shoes / there's a warning sign on the road ahead / there's a lot of people saying we'd be better off dead / don't feel like satan but i am to them / so i try to forget it any way i can / keep on rocking in the free world / keep on rocking in the free world / keep on rocking in the free world / keep on rocking in the free world / keep on rocking in the free world..." honestly hallowe'en is supposed to be all dark and grim and not mainstream because we get to scare and be scared well it's all a crock of crap. it's just corporations puppeting the other side of things like they do with britney and avril : they sell to those who buy the bubblegum and to those who don't.

it makes a cynic out of you.

I feel like i'm living in a dystopia sometimes, so I think that's where I'm going to get my novel inspiration from, I'm looking at doing a sort of... alex caught in a futuristic 1984 type society. could be fun. self-discovery with bombs hitting the pavement all around you! scifi vs. coming of age!

actually, it sounds decent. now i need to put it onto paper.

that'll be the hard part.

anyway.

songs of the moment:

eminem - just lose it
public enemy & moby - make love fuck war
snoop dogg feat. pharrell williams - drop it like it's hot
creedence clearwater revival - fortunate son
neil young - keep on rocking in the free world
black flag - fix me
rammstein - amerika
the ramones - blitzkreig bop

that's all.

I went to school yesterday...

And the Che Guevara / A Rebel to Tame / Calm Like a Bomb shirt was a major hit.

Major.

Like, people were commenting on it in droves. I got asked to turn around so people could admire the front and back three (3) times.

It was the talk of my social circle. Jackie blogged about it, Ali & me talked about it, D. practically tried to own it, and Them was typical Them.

So, yeah, other than that, not too much happened, excepting Shuang declaring herself my scifair partner.

Suffice to say, it's a hell of a lot better than Alex all alone against the music [or the science teachers, as the case may be] and thusly something something humbera hum.

Check out the bin Laden tape news, dude says some pretty interesting things. Now I empathize with him much moreso than before. Too bad he's a mass murderer and a terrorist, huh?

Anyway, following the great anti-American spirit of the blog post, and in celebration of me not having posted anything since the 27th (it being the 30th) I will regale you with some awesome lyrics.

Rammstein - Amerika

"...we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / wenn getanzt wird, will ich fuhren / auch wenn ihr euch alleine dreht / lasst euch ein wenig kontrollieren / ich zeige euch wie's richtig geht / wir bilden einen lieben reigen / die freiheit spielt auf allen geigen / musik kommt aus dem weiBen haus / und vor paris steht mickey maus / we're all living in amerika / we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / ich kenne schritte, die sehr nutzen / und werde euch vor fehltritt schutzen / und wer nich tanzen will am schluss / weiB noch nicht das er tanzen muss! / wir bilden einen lieben reigen / ich werde euch die richtung zeigen / nach afrika kommt santa claus / und vor paris steht mickey maus / we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / we're all living in amerika / coca-cola, wonderbra / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / this is not a love song / this is not a love song / i don't sing my mother's tongue / no, this is not a love song / we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / we're all living in amerika / coca-cola, sometimes war / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika / we're all living in amerika / amerika ist wunderbar / we're all living in amerika / amerika, amerika..."

"Hey Houston, we got a problem here..."

x

*please note some german characters have been replaced by ones that blogger actually recognizes, and if this causes any indignation, outrage, or confusion to anyone, german-speaking or otherwise, reading my blog, you can shove it you know where. peace.

Augh...

Why won't November come already? The first week of November alone brings:

November 1: NaNoWriMo starts.
November 2: First report card. Possibly suicide.
November 3: More novel-writing, or maybe mourning or not for my death.
November 4: Green Day concert, or funeral preparations & epitath.
November 5: Aural hangover from concert, using my Friday night to continue writing, instead of staying up late for no reason. Also, I go to bed early.
November 6: I get up early, buy the AZGIIs, drool [druul] over them for a few hours, continue writing.
November 7: Writing writing writing.

You can see why I'm so excited.

This will be, like, the single biggest week I have EVER had, excepting maybe Senior Camp '03.

That big.

I know, it'll be crazy. I'll need to order pizza at least once, and listen to lots of awesome music, and buy lots of other junk food to boot. No if only I had an income for which I didn't have to work && a place of my own && no school... I could get that much more done. I could maybe do a "24-hours-of-music" on Friday to supplement some awesomeness into my week.

But even so there's only so much awesome one can take.

In other news, nothing much has happened this weekend.

Like, nothing at all, except my night sucking big time last night for reasons undisclosed.

Suffice to say, it sucked.

At least I have my homework done and my Propagandhi to comfort me.

Keep on rocking in the free world, whether or not you're allergic to cats, I say.

x

Hadda be playing on the jukebox...

It had to be flashin' like the daily double
It had to be playin' on TV
It had to be loud mouthed on the comedy hour
It had to be announced over loud speakers

The CIA and Mafia are in cahoots

It had to be said in old ladies' language
It had to be said in American headlines

Kennedy stretched and smiled and got double crossed by lowlife goons and agents

Rich bankers with criminal connections

Dope pushers in CIA working with dope pushers from Cuba working with a big time
syndicate from Tampa, Florida

And it had to be said with a big mouth

It had to be moaned over factory foghorns
It had to be chattered on car radio news broadcasts
It had to be screamed in the kitchen
It had to be yelled in the basement where uncles were fighting

It had to be howled on the streets by newsboys to bus conductors
It had to be foghorned into New York harbor
It had to echo onto hard hats
It had to turn up the volume in university ballrooms

It had to be written in library books, footnoted
It had to be in the headlines of the Times and the mind
It had to be barked on TV
It had to be heard in alleys through ballroom doors

It had to be played on wire services
It had to be bells ringing
Comedians stopped dead in the middle of a joke in Las Vegas

It had to be FBI chief J. Edgar Hoover and Frank Costello syndicate
mouthpiece meeting in Central Park, New York weekends,
reported Time magazine

It had to be the Mafia and the CIA together starting war on Cuba,
Bay of Pigs and poison assassination headlines

It had to be dope cops in the Mafia
Who sold all their heroin in America

It had to be the FBI and organized crime working together
in cahoots against the commies

It had to be ringing on multinational cash registers
World-wide laundry for organized criminal money

It had to be the CIA and the Mafia and the FBI together
They were bigger than Nixon
And they were bigger that war

It had to be a large room full of murder
It had to be a mounted ass- a solid mass of rage
A red hot pen
A scream in the back of the throat

It had to be a kid that can breathe
It had to be in Rockefellers' mouth
It had to be central intelligence, the family, allofthis, the agency Mafia
It had to be organized crime

One big set of gangs working together in cahoots

Hitmen
Murderers everywhere

The secret
The drunk
The brutal
The dirty rich

On top of a slag heap of prisons
Industrial cancer
Plutonium smog
Garbage cities

Grandmas' bed soft from fathers' resentment

It had to be the rulers
They wanted law and order
And they got rich on wanting protection for the status quo

They wanted junkies
They wanted Attica
They wanted Kent State
They wanted war in Indochina

It had to be the CIA and the Mafia and the FBI

Multinational capitalists
Strong armed squads
Private detective agencies for the rich
And their armies and navies and their air force bombing planes

It had to be capitalism
The vortex of this rage
This competition
Man to man

The horses head in a capitalists' bed
The Cuban turf
It rumbles in hitmen
And gang wars across oceans

Bombing Cambodia settled the score when Soviet pilots
manned Egyptian fighter planes

Chiles' red democracy
Bumped off with White House pots and pans

A warning to Mediterranean governments

The secret police have been embraced for decades

The NKPD and CIA keep each other's secrets
The OGBU and DIA never hit their own
The KGB and the FBI are one mind

Brute force and full of money
Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
Brute force, world-wide, and full of money
Brute force, world-wide, and full of money

It had to be rich and it had to be powerful
They had to murder in Indonesia 500000
They had to murder in Indochina 2000000
They had to murder in Czechoslovakia
They had to murder in Chile
They had to murder in Russia

And they had to murder in America

Ah, gotta love Rage for pickin' em.

anyway, i have nothing to say, except that two bullets instead of one is a safer bet is hahahaha funny not.

also, man, my sleep is out of whack.

and i have homework to do ;_;

lots of homework...

feeling so weak...

ugh

x

So Jems gave me this inkling of an idea...

It's national novel writing month in November.

Or so I'm told.

The challenge: 50,000 words in 30 days.

1667 words a day, and 1657 on the last day.

How impossible-seeming.

How tantalizing.

My normal rate is only 300 words a day. Maybe a little less.

I would have to step up both my words-per-day and skill-per-words game.

And I'd have to finish, and be one of the winnars.

NaNoWriMo, here I come.

All of you will be naysayers.

We'll see how this thing goes.

We'll see indeed. After so much poetry and lyrics, prose needs a chance in my life. It'll be the Catcher in the Rye of the 21st Century.

How tantalizing x 2.

Maybe the Hamlet of the Third Millenium AD?

I dunno.

The point is, I'll be spewing and spewing and spewing and still having time for other stuff somehow.

Weekends will now have a purpose.

Staying up late will now have a reason.

I will now be able to brag.

It'll be so fucking w00t I can only hope I can follow through.

omgah please I need to pull this off.

It would be such a milestone achievement.

With that in mind, today was blah. I failed the Chemistry test. I raped the Physics test. And the French verb test.

Sandy updated her GJ format but still no BC pic from Melshuang.

><

Kinda boring day, I dunno.

x

EDIT: Song of the Moment: The Sex Pistols - EMI

This blog is thick and / easy to get lost in / 'cause you're a dumbass / belligerent fucker

With apologies to Tool & Maynard James Keenan.

And John Maynard Keynes, just the the pleasures of Economics.

This post goes out to The Sex Pistols and the punk spirit that Giovanni so easily dismisses.

Damn the man!

God save the Queen though.

Lately, a lot of nothing has happened.

Bleh.

I guess that explains the lack of comments, maybe, partially, that and everyone's busy out of their asses.

I got my second email out to Henry.

I failed [71%] my Physics test and FAILED [50%] my Chemistry test.

And I failed [70%] my French grammar test.

Bleh.

I guess I'm feeling too complacent to seriously be a punk right now.

With that in mind, I guess I'll publish this tripe and wait another day or two and then a year or two and then I'll die of some debilitating disease like bullets to the face.

what an emo end

x

Man, I'm so fucking tired...

I can't wait until Christmas exams.

Well, after the exams part.

Y'know, free time, winter, celebration of Jesus' birth, carols, parties, hot apple cider, the whole deal, but mainly because I'll be sleeping in like a motherfucker.

w00t.

And I have to come up, on my own, [hem hem] with a science fair idea that's both good and not too hard and different but not too easy.

And I have to pick a CEGEP and a program and stick with it through thick and thin and I have to get good marks and play decent on my team, show up to church at least once and maybe flirt with some chicks and be an idiot and do arts & lit and write poetry or lyrics both french and english and most importantly get good marks O_O

Gah.

OMGAH if you will.

And I blog, daily, maybe not, but it's for you guys as much as it is for me, well not really but if nobody read my blog what would be the point?

i need those digits, or that email address...

but i'm self centred again, so bad, i can't imagine, and i try to joke about it but i'm always part of the joke myself, practically as bad as i joke myself to be it's so ugly like garbage in a pond or like a bunch of stupid people getting drunk and sitting around being fuckheads late at night and being dicks to passersby just for the fun of it lets start some shit hey you kid where the fuck you think you're going?

fucking cunt.

and i'm stressing bigtime about math, it's my monkey on my back, it's a bitch and it's a ball and chain and i have to carry it and the only way i can survive it is by forgetting it's there, ignoring it, but i gotta be reminded time and time again alex you're in 536 we're in precal kids in grade 10 are doing the same shit as you and getting better marks you dumbass why oh why fuck you mister fucking zion why oh why oh why fuck you alex manley, alexander fucking h manley you let me down, you fucked me over, now i have to deal with your mistakes, take the blame for everything you did and i hate you i hate you i hate it all my past self for letting me down and my future self for hating my present self for letting him down and it's just one big three piece ball of hatred.

so i wrote about it.

* fifty-three *

Forty - seven winks short of the impossible and i'm
losing sleep i'm losing ground but something tells me i've walked this
road before; that i've been here already

and now i'm looking to the heavens as i approach the
third doorway for the second time around the air is thicker
here and my load, once light, is now heavy

the problems blur in my mind as the pressure mounts, can i
take this amount of stress so early in this relationship?
only time and an enigma will tell.

zzz

and as if school wasn't bad enough, and my ability to cope wasn't shitty enough, and i was getting more than six hours of sleep a night and doing my homework on time and performing to expectations or maybe even above them there's the whole social aspect and the need for that info comes up again, there's the schism i'm trying to sew shut, there are the candies in the jar that i can't open and there's the ugly product that's not divisible by me of two beautiful factors that are and that's not mathematically possible but somehow it's killing me.

i'll email you tomorrow henry, sorry for the delay,

x

It really makes me wonder...

Actually, lots of things make me wonder.

But mostly I just sulk.

How the hell could one little six-foot-tall asshole be so self-centred? How much self-obsession can you fit into my 147-pound frame?

I mean, really, fuck me.

Ugh.

I hate this shit.

It's such an immense, complex operation devoted to driving me insane, I swear.

Not that that's much work to do.

My world is coming apart at the seams right now.

Why can't I be easy-going?

Not that I like that. As a matter of fact, I absolutely hate it but it seems to be easier to deal with. I'm wrong a lot though so you never know. But I seem to constantly live in the difficult, and relish it, and complain about it, and relish complaining about it, and it's all so fucking difficult is this really my fault?

I hope not.

x

A New Kind of Nihilism...

For me it's more like... nothing means anything. I often, and currently as of right now, get the feeling that my life is entirely meaningless. It's just a series of events strung together which no one will remember, which won't impact anyone, and which don't give me enough to keep me coming back. Like Hamlet once said, one of the three things that keeps me from committing suicide is that I consider it a sin; and I don't have the time to spend eternity in hell.

Secondly, it would probably hurt some of you. I don't want to be mean and heartless and selfish.

Thirdly, I'm too pussified, and I don't want to screw up and live the rest of my life fucked up somehow.

That having been said, life is tiring. It just wears me down, and I often wonder what the point is. Just keep on getting up every morning [or afternoon, as the case may be] to get battered around throughout the day, cling onto my wakingness as I try to get some meaning out of things while talking to people on MSN/message boards until early in the morning and then falling back asleep again.

Eurgh.

What I want, what I really want, is to be someone history remembers for having done something incredible, something that stays in the history textbooks, some kind of jarring photograph that gets burned into the minds of millions of people the day afterward in the news and in the papers, on the internet, I don't know, but I want to be a revolutionary or something. Be on the cover of Time magazine. I don't want to fade into obscurity like everyone else but how do you go about applying for the position of collective-world-paradigm-shifter extraordinaire? You don't. It happens because you're in the right place at the right time, and you do the right thing... and who knows how that would come about. History chooses you, you don't get to apply, and so my life constructs shallow purposes for myself as I while away the time until I'm too old to be an activist and not look like a joke.

Fuck things.

I guess the premium time for shit to happen would be 2018. Fifty years since 1968, which most people agree was the fucking craziest, most rebellious, revolutionary, activist year in centuries. I'd be 29 going on 30, probably holding some shitty job in the city, done university in a degree that won't get me any kind of profession, maybe a G8 summit comes to town or something, I dunno. I'd even like to be hated by most of the world. Viewed as a bad person, most evil, most likely to change the world for the worse, but if I knew I was right in my heart & in my head, and if a few people, here and there, maybe even after I'm dead and gone, look back, read up on me, go, "Damn, he was a genius, a great person, what an inspiration..." it'd be worth it, just for the few that saw the truth, having millions hate me. And I don't mean like Neo-Nazis like Hitler, I mean like the media portrayed me as a monster because I was attacking Corporate America, but in truth I was striking a blow for humanity. So I'd like to have a small "cult" following, if you will, because the best kind of people are the ones who think differently than the majority. So to be truly understood by those who matter most, posthumously or otherwise, would be awesome.

This is the kinda blog post that, I feel, really makes me weird, because how many people would feel like this? How many would say it? Most people want to grow up, get married, a nice job, a house, kids, lead a fulfilling, peaceful life but for me, with my inner attention whore, I want to be world-famous for being different, for being a bad motherfucker with a plan and a Molotov Cocktail, I dunno. Maybe I listen to too much RATM.

EDIT:

I decided, a little late, but to blog for rizzle, so anyway.

Today was weird.

Woke up late, as to be expected, aucune surprise.

Did nothing.

Missed out on an opportunity to go see a movie with Dan.

I had a prophetic dream.

So fucking weird... I don't remember a whole lot, but it was weird, but Tadzeo was in it. For those of you who don't know, Tadzeo was my best or second-best friend for most of my childhood. We were both socially awkward so we were rejected by about everyone but each other. We were real close buds, we spent a lot of time together, sleep overs, watching television, playing Civilization II and just hanging out. He had been going to FACE since Grade 3 but we managed to still be friends. Around high school, however, he started to get popular, got sucked in by the cool kids at FACE, now he had lots of friends, didn't hang around with me as much, we still got together every once in a while but they were rarer. We didn't see eye to eye as often, he got frustrated by me because I was such a goody two-shoes. He started going through girls real fast, two or three girlfriends in a month, I still had none, he lost his virginity last year. Last time I was over at his house was November '03 for his 15th birthday party, I think. I really regret us falling apart but things happen. It really irks me, if you will. Fucking depressing, because he's an awesome guy, really funny, cool to hang out with but he's into the whole party/alcohol/casual sex scene which I despise. Anyway, last night I had a dream, and in it I was fighting a whole lot of people with a hockey stick in an alleyway, and then the fighting paused and he showed up and we hugged, and I was all hyped to see him. Later on in the dream it turned out he was a girl. Not sure how that works. Anyway, I was walking up the street to get milk and I ran into him and his friend, Alex [aka Big Jesus]... It was really depressing because we just talked about meaningless bullshit for a minute or two and then parted ways.

Nothing like reminding me of all the things that could've been. He was wearing the fucking awesomest outfit... I have never seen a guy look so cool. Heh. So that made me really depressed.

Then, nothing happened at all, really. I just kinda did nothing. I d/led a bunch of music though. I'm up to 1.7 GBs in two months. Pretty smooth.

My two songs of the moment: Coheed & Cambria - A Favor House Atlantic and Minor Threat - I Don't Want to Hear It

"...shut your fucking mouth / i don't care what you say / you keep talking / talking everyday / first you're telling stories / then you're telling lies / when the fuck / are you gonna realize / that i don't want to hear it? / know that you're full of shit / i don't want to hear it / know that you're full of shit / i don't want to hear it / know that you're full of shit / oh, shut up..."

and

"...good eye, sniper / here I'll shoot, you run / the words you scribbled on the walls / with the loss of friends you didn't have / i'll call you when the time is right / are you in or are you out? / for them all to know the end of us all / run quick, they're behind us / didn't think we'd ever make it / this close to safety in one piece / now you wanna kill me in the act of what could maybe / save us from sleep and what we are..."


x

Now for that long, extended-type blog post I was talking about...

You know, regular-style.

More than 200 words, if you will.

Si tu voudrais.

My French always feels incorrect, even when it isn't, I don't know. C'est un peu penible.

Anyway, today was more or less eventless.

Caught the early bus, which was cool.

Didn't take any tests, had three consecutive remplaçantes for the last three periods, didn't make out with anyone, etc.

Got back my Econ and Hist marks, 93 and 84 respectively.

I need to step my History test game up.

Rise to meet the challenge, or something.

Get better than 84, for certain.

Anyway, I have a hockey game in about 50 minutes, I need to leave in about 15, should be exhausting, hopefully less so than last time.

Should take up enough time for alla yous to get online and be on msn/reply to me/blog/etc.

Go nuts, I say, but not quite Bill O'Reilly style.

Certainly don't start talkign about vibrators 24/7

Bwahaha. Check the Smoking Gun site.

Peace izzout of stock.

I mean, peace out, sorry.

x

Just for the novelty of it all...

I thought I'd blog from school.

This will be short, but I'll blog when i get home, no worries.

Peace y'all.

x

Forty-seven winks short of the impossible and I'm floating amongst the dead & gone...

How could Math class be so poetic? Who knew?

At any rate, now, along with Chemistry and Mr. Zigby, I have a third pimp, Mr. Zwetkow.

Ugh.

ME FAIL MATH != POSSIBLE!

Yeah, not cool. I'd appreciate at least a pass on the Physics labs, and maybe a pass + better than all my friends so they can burn in Limbo for not having been SciFair partners with me.

Now I'll have to be alone, and my project will sUx0r the penis.

Gahz0rz.

On the, um, good news front [GNF] I aced the Econ test... 28/30... Not too shabby at all.

Maybe my Economics mark will cancel out my Math mark and I'll make honour roll with flying colours!

Of course, then something will have to cancel out my English, French, Chemistry and Physics marks. I don't see that as being physically possible, unless I get 1,000,000,000 % in History.

Who knows, stranger things have happened, like [no I'm not obsessed]

I had a stroke today.

As in, as I was trying not to kill something on the heels of my math failure, and loading and unloading my bad with my locker, Jin walked on by, and stroked me as she passed.

WTF?

As far as I can tell, this is just some "oh-he's-supposed-to-like-me-but-he's-ignoring-me-so-I'll-breach-the-physical-barrier-to-see-what-happens" type thing.

Whatever.

Anyways, poor Them is irritable because D. is away on the Stratford Trip [eSTi] so I won't make any jokes at his expense, especially not about his Math abilities.

*cough*

Heheh.

AAAAAAAAA H MMMMMM

Boy, do I ever need to get my act together...

Realrealbad.

Badrealbad.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I'm lonely, bored, depressed, cynical, in over my head, hating myself, hating lots of other people, awash in a sea of misery, and, sadly, listening to Creed.

Yes, I know, it's a pretty sad situation.

Won't someone out there save me?

xalex

Read between the lines of what's fucked up and everything's alright

Or, make that nothing.

Nothing's alright.

This weekend has been piss.

Pure, straight, unadulterated urine on alexei.

FUCKING 'ELL.

BLOODY WANKING SHITE.



You have no idea how badly i need respite from this trash. Oh it's been so bad... gah.

My cousins and aunt came over. They weren't so bad but they added nothing and were a chore to deal with. I got a good argument on abortion in, three decent chess games, and I played a little bit of basketball.

No one was online, ever, until today, and even then it wasn't that great [mostly because no Them X(] and the aftermath of the Sandy's Party fiasco resulted in a severely depressing conversationg with Dehui. My parents are getting after me about getting a job, I forgot a whole lot of fucking shit at school, including my science fair sheet, which is due tomorrow and has to be signed by my parents, not to mention I don't have a partner because the rest of BC screwed me over [You have no idea how much i ache inside...] and I'll have to study for my physics test throughout the day. This weekend has been mostly an exercise in "let's-see-how-much-we-can-make-alex-hate-himself-o-rama" whoop de fucking doo ...

Man, the design of this site is lacking.

Too bad you can't be more liberal in your choosing of layouts and design your own to an extent. Maybe a switch to greatestjournal is in order? My problem with that is that Blogger rocks GJ's socks.

We'll see.

Anydangway.

So my profile is updating again... I'm averaging 310 words a post or so. Pretty slick.

I said, a few hours ago, that the mechanics had changed. I'm still convinced of that. Here is the story.

"...push the envelope, watch it bend..."

In this case the envelope = Dehui's patience with my antics.

Apparently last night, everything I did in relation to Jin was == an enormous faux pas, and that now that they've told her that I tentatively like her (I hope that's what they told her at any rate) she's puzzled and/or weirded out by my lack of visible feelings toward her. This is mostly because this kind of stuff has happened before and I don't want to make the same old mistakes - so I'm cool with making a whole set of new ones, I guess, in this circumstance. In the past generally Alex's approach into something like this was to go super-emo, and pay attention to only Jin, really until everyone else knew about it and that put extra strain on me - and to boot I had no chance anyway, so it was just a great big ugly mess. Secondly, like Sandee said, Jin has an attitude which I don't want to run afoul of, and I certainly don't want to presume that she tolerates and/or accepts my semi-feelings for her. So lacking confidence and cold, hard facts on the matter, I do nothing. Forgive me if this sounds logical, I tend to think things over a lot.

Anyway, I've got lots of time, and, barring her getting asked out by anyone else [though come to think of it... that's a distinct possibility... that sort of mistake has tripped me up in the past. though i doubt i could have made much of a difference had i taken a different chain of action.] my chance, or chances, will come, and depending on how this unfolds, things will happen. Should be interesting. I'd like to invite you all along for the ride. Cordially, even, too.

I wanted to talk to Dehui about this beforehand [before the blog post, if you folla me] because I figured maybe some info from her would clarifiy matters, and maybe make her annoyed, which is always amusing [i kid, i kid, stop hitting me] being that she talked to both Jin and Sandy about the whole mess last night behind [literally] my back.

So it seems that the success, if that's what you call it, of the poetry experience, was diminished noticeably by my screw-ups last night. I don't think the middle finger over my shoulder helped either.

And got heim Brian and Ray were idiots. Oi. My bleeding eyes, and ears, ugh.

Anyway, stay hip and happening folks, I'm off to listen to some better music than yours. If San, D., or Them reads this, and wants to comment on the situation, hit me up email-style.

-*

Aight so things got weirded up last night...

Majorly.

Well, maybe not so much.

But I think they dynamic's changed.

I'll get back to you later, when I've contemplated the matter some more.

Don't catch feelings.

Peace.

(A)

O Irony of ironies...

Jin's only [so far] email to me in my Gmail account was, guess which number, that one that makes people laugh, that one special number which Them's msn name referenced, that's right, no deletions, no insertions, Jin's first email to me was email # 69 to my Gmail account. 69. That's right, 69. You're reading that right. Not 68, or 59, or any of those non-significant digits, it was 69.

That, folks, treasured blog-readers, is what I call irony, proving once and for all that Osama bin Laden and his cowardly terrorists failed to kill the unkillable despite killing a whole lot of people. I've always had a problem with calling them innocent, because let's be real, no one is. I hate to smack you in the face like reality, Raine Maida, but we aren't, we aren't all innocent. No one == perfect, thus no one == innocent. If you mean innocent of any crime committed against the terrorists, well, in their eyes clearly existing was a crime thus making them criminals and therefore not innocent. So as much as my heart goes out to all the 3-years-and-change dead, and anyone who's read into the archives a bit, or has talked to me in the past will know, I'm not one to make fun of the whole mess, I do play devil's advocate a lot.

Anyway, as I was saying, it's ironic. "What could it mean," you might ask, "is fate spitting in his face and laughing at him? Or is it proof of things to come?" Are you being realistic and saying, "Alex you're reading way too far into this, it's just a coincidence and the fact that you're making such a big deal of it is basically just downright creepy."? If you answered yes to any of the above, please take a moment to read Jin's poem, and then read mine, and then agree with me when I say her poem spanks mine as hard as, well, I won't go there, but suffice to say, she thinks mine is bettar and she is clearly on teh crack.

--------------------------------

I had regularly studied the bridge of his nose

Or his brows when we spoke face to face.

Never did I look into those piercing eyes…

Afraid I would be scrutinized down to every inch of skin,

flesh, not one fine hair undetected.

Scared to be transfixed in a deathly gaze.



He told me that our eyes are the windows to our souls

and I would eventually take that step to look him straight,

eye to eye,

but not until he gains my confidence.



At last, I did, but only to uncover my silhouette.

However, I discovered a whole new world of colors

once I reached in deeper, as I was grasping for what it was at the time.

knowledge? Or maybe simply just to understand.



His eyes were a sweet honey brown when he was mellow,

A forest green when he was enraged

And hazel when he smiled,

laughed,

and cried.



I do not look anymore.

There’s nothing more to see.

They are merely impenetrable bloodshot spheres,

of emptiness,

obscurity.



His lashes no longer meet…

------------------------

Now compare that piece of brilliance, a boring old Danish, if you will, with this delicious doorstop of an overrated poem:

____________________________

Lying, sprawled, in the dry sand grass,
Me and her whisper sweet somethings,
Or whatever they are called, into each
Others' ears; time, unending, passes us
By, uncaring, we smile with gawky looks
About us, and twirl the golden stalks
Betwixt our love-clumsied fingers, sighing
With the breeze, in perfect harmony with
Each other and Nature. Suddenly,
Clouds come rolling by on roads of
Tension in the air, they expand menacingly
Towards us, and begin their discharge.
Mighty is the storm, but we lie here in
Defiance; acting as though nothing had
Changed. The orage, enraged, doubles
Its efforts, attempting to drive us to shelter
Ourselves, but, persecuted, we resist.
Then lightning strikes, and everything
Is white.

_______________________________

That's right. Mine sucks, just like, well I won't go there either, but [Them, my pants are *on*] the point is she's clearly, as I said before, on crack. Which, of course, would explain both her lack of sense and her poetical skills, to some extent.

Now upon reading those two poems, a few conclusions must be drawn.

1) They're both about a guy and a girl. This could meanL 1) Our future together is assured. 2) We both have one -track minds, being teenagers, and single. 3) There just aren't that many poetry subjects out there anyway, and we just independently wrote on similar topics. Nothing special.

Secondly, now that we've both seen a sampling of each other's work, and think that it's better than our own, we have a good start to a healthy professional and personal relationship, known as Artistic Mutual Respect, or AMR. Any similarities to the word amour mentioned here will get you killed on the spot. We can now appraise other people's A&L submissions with more confidence because we clearly have the others' respect, if somewhat misguided.

Things are looking up.

Thank you Sandy.

Also, I have been informed [by Them, no less] that Dehui may or may not have tried to set me up with her this afternoon.

You'll have to fill me in on that.

So, after that whole blog post about Jin,

I think I need some alcohol. And sunlight.

XP

a

newsFLASH

They're like hot flashes except without the gender and age discrimination.

Anyway.

Bleuhh.

You know you're in high french when a 92 is fifth-quintile stuff.

Not that I'm complaining. It's what I deserved. But it is a little depressing.

Also, you know you're in Physics, first term, when you get a 60 on the homework and that's third-quintile material.

Bwahahaha. Wou got a 20%. That makes me feel better about myself.

And I think I did well on the Chemisty pop quiz.

But not so hot on the Economics test.

Sandee was right, again, I guess.

So, after that very marks-based intro.

I continue. A little further down the spiral. A little less inhibited. And I keep going.

Gliding along the surface
Gyrating, revolving
I can barely see through shutter eyes
But I can feel your presence

And who
Should I
Come across
But you

The shadow over
And behind me
Shades you over too
It took a while but now I see

Now who
Should I
Come across
But you

Gliding along the surface
Gyrating, revolving
I can barely see through shutter eyes
But we can dance right through this

Man, Lateralus is so damn good.

yAhweh

Remember, whatever, it seems like forever ago...

So the song of the moment is definitely Green Day - Whatsername.

Listen to it by any means you can.

Just do it.

Now, then, down to brass tacks, on to business, get your rear in gear, etc.

Well, I'm not really sure how to classify this week. It's been majorly rollercoaster, I guess would be the best description.

My lack of sleep is starting to fuck me over.

This is clearly clear.

And it sucks.

I need to get some artsy-fartsy shit together for tomorrow.

Must... submit... to A&L...

Which reminds me, I have to print out my anonymous poem.

Further down the spiral, as Trent Reznor once said, Jin != going anywhere.

I wonder if this job is actually going to have me working together with her at all, like in the yearbook room or something at some point, because she sure as hell isn't coming on MSN, ever, and I don't want to be all stalker-ish and start emailing/calling her up etc. because that's just weird.

So I guess I'll just let things simmer, if you will, while I try to get the rest of my life decent looking. Looks like I'ma need the Lord for this one, not that I don't always, but I tend to forget, like the bad [*ahem*] Christian that I am. Prayer set in effect, what what.

Anyway, for all of you who were just weirded out by that display of faith, well, fuck off. As Them told me to say so determinedly.

So on the grad noms side of things, I'm getting nominated, so far as I can tell, for four categories: Most artistic, should've gone out [with more than one person, no less], most evil and, of course, the ever-present worst jokes.

All of which are probably true.

I'd laugh if I was on the ballot twice for should've gone out.

That would be weird, and would prove that our grade is just a bunch of meddling wankers taking the piss.



Seriously.

Anyhow.

Time to get the art skills going.

I gotta go.

"...and in the darkest night / if my memory serves me right /i'll never turn back time / forgetting you but not the time..."

A

...and then it hit me...

Okay, so nothing in particular, but I figured today would be a relaxed-thoughts post.

So, here goes.

Man, I want to win Grad noms for something. The prestige! The honour! The glory and the pizza! Well, maybe not the pizza. But anyway. This is like my life's goal, along with passing Chemistry this term. Speaking of which, I should probably get around to filling mine out. I'll include all of you somewhere, somehow, probably, if you deserve it.

My lyrics are going enh lately. It's kinda sad that the best thing I have to submit to A&L. Of course that's probably because it's a poem and the others are lyrics. Also, I'll need to get my drawing game more on point. Jin said something about doing one together, and I said I was going to submit something on my own anyway but I'd be down with that. In retrospect it looks like I kinda turned her off the idea. I'll have to ask tomorrow. Not that we'd have much time to do it anyway. Shit. Fuck. Let's hope I didn't blow my first chance to actually get to know her.

Anyway.

So American Idiot is getting more skilled. It definitely gets my props. I did my French oral presentation today. Apparently I didn't suck terribly. That's definitely good. Mr. Zigby's mean though >< I hate lunch detentions. Not that I've ever had one before. But the one today really screwed up my flow, if you will. I didn't get it back until I listened to some Green Day on the way to the bus. That was cool.

In related news, I have to get Sandy a present for Saturday night. Holla atcha boy if you want anything. If not I'm warning you it might suck. Just being frank with you and all.

Dan's probably laughing right now.

Anyway. I can't wait until the Audioslave and Tool albums drop - and the U2 one. But what I'm really looking forward to is ZdlR's solo album. Which is not on the near horizon, I think.

Crapz0rz.

><

Which brings me to my next point: I've bought more CD's this year than most other years combined. I'm not sure if this is because now I care about music more, there's more good stuff coming out, I just have the cash, or what, but I bought 7 CDs this year. And we're still only in October. I'll probably buy the U2 one, which will make 8.

Or, two thirds of my CD collection. And that's not counting the ones I don't like anymore.

So hennywayss.

My profile finally updated yesterday. I'm averaging about 303 words a post over 48 posts.

SKIIIIILLZ.

So comment, mofos, because I told you to.

Do it.

"...i beg to dream and differ from the hollow lies / this is the dawning of the rest of our lives / this is our lives on holiday..."

*

-a.