Um.umumumum.
I don't get this Cheshire Cat thing. What's wrong with the lovableyetannoying stripey thing?

Keepingup-A-withallofthekids.

Likeafuckingmusical
WherehaveIheard. Thatname. Before.
WherehaveIheard. Thatname. Before.
WherehaveIheard. Thatname. Before.
WherehaveIheard. Thatname. Before.
WherehaveIheard. Thatname. Before.

It's like a melody, if you say it enough. Dun dun dun DUN, dun DUN, dun DUN. Dun dun dun DUN, dun DUN, dun DUN.

I'm sure this makes no sense. But I'll continue anyway. I'm a creature made of sound. You don't: feelmeseemetastemesmellme. You. Fucking. HEARme.

I am ALWAYS singing. I don't care about what my voice sounds like. I sing. I sing. SING. It's my greatest dream to be in a band. Someday. So somebody can hear my song. I'm tired of relaying my lyrics to the stonewallofanaudience that the internet is.

If: Youcan'thearme--youcan'tFEELme. That's the way it is.

Music is everything. I carry my CD-player with me EVERYWHERE. My tapes. Videos. MP3playerANYTHING. Music. Music. It doesn't matter what type. I'll listen to it. Granted, I don't like ALL music, but I will listen. ByfuckingGOD,Iwilllisten.

But maybe it's because I'm hoping someday someone will see me as special.

I don't want to be generic fluffer numero dos. I don't want to be a janitor with a fancy name to make it sound like my job is all the more worthwhile because I'm FUCKIN' PLANT MANAGER. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to stay in a cubicle. Nolight. Nosound. Nomusic.

I don't want to go down. Without. Afight.

I want to go down singing.

OhDearLORD.
Laaalalalala. I am. SOTIRED. Of [5150]'s. So we get to an apartment. And this woman is laying down underneath a blanket. We think she's all right. But she's sleeping.

Wewokeherup. She seemed dazedandconfused. "Who are you?" she asked. "My name is _____ _____," the psychiatrist says. "Are you clothed under there?"

"No," the lady says, then giggles and stands up, throwing away her blanket. She's fat. Fuckingblubbermound. "I am BUTT-FUCKING NAKED."

Holding back a laugh. Ohgod. I don't know whether to vomit or laugh my ass off. Three ladies in the room with me. I don't fucking know what to do. But then she says, "And I've got THIS in my CUNT."

And pulls a full. Fucking. EARofcorn. Out of her vagina.

THAT. IS FUCKING. DISGUSTING.

I'm tense. I'm the only man in the room and the ladies seem to get her calmed down from there. But allthewhile she's walking around her apartment. Naked. Murmuring about "Hitler's little men in [her] walls".

There was also a pack of cigarettes on the table. Nolighteranywhere. But suddenly she picks one up and is lighting it. With a lighter. The question is. What FOLD did she get it from!? YOUFATH0.

I sometimes wish I could wash my eyeballs. Shudder.

Nosuchthingasmeandyou.
Nosuchthingasweandus.
Nosuchthingasanobject.

I watch this constant popularity contest. Who do you really think you're fooling? When you dressuppretty. When you tagalong. You think you've got your mask on, but all you have is the sheet of napkin between you and the others.

Stop thinking you're an ostrich. You know. IfIcan'tseeyou, youcan'tseeme.

Being blind to certain incidents doesn't make you allmighty. Getoverit.

Mirrormirroronthewall, allthisuglinesswillmakeyoufall.

¿Whippingboy?
Quote of the day: "I would rather slit my wrists than give up living."

Idiots.

Inothernews. Things are pounding in my head. There is a voice that sounds like me, but isn't me. So whatthefuck. Telling me things are wrong and that I should off myself? Pssshhno. I keep trying to ignore it, but it seems to make it stronger. And I REFUSE to listen to it. Absolutelyfuckingrefuse.

It has the horrible screeching quality to it's voice of whispers you strain to hear. That wispy sound. Almost like mist.

It keeps trying to find a name for itself, and every time it tries I shove it away. But it bites back.

It resembles a snake. ¿Por que?

OHGODPARENTSHAVINGSEXINOTHERROOM.

In other news..

.//Speakyourmind.

testingtestingonetwotha-reehuthutHIKE.

sixsixsix has been stuck in my head all day. I don't quite know the ALLTOGETHERAWESOMEREVELATION of the Bible, though I've been reading it quietly for some time. Taking what I can to heart.

Don't get me wrong; raised in an atheist family, doomed to remain so. But unlike those fuckforbrains that say they're atheist but celebrate. I do not:celebrate holidays. I do not celebrate my birthday, even. I've gotten to the point without birthday parties that..I don't remember how old I am, most often. I think twentytwo. But I'm not sure.

I'm using commas and periods too much. How's this for a change!? EXCLAMATION POINT. SEMICOLON. WITTY DIALOGUE HERE COMMA PUNCHLINE.

Stop angsting. Stopitstopit. Go home. Feed the snakes. Feed the birds. Feed ALL your animals you ZOOKEEPER you.

I hate coughing when there's nothing in your throat. But I love coughing fits. Especially where tears squeeze out the corners of your eyes. YesI'modd.

Someone ask for my name? Eh?

For a moment there, I had almost convinced myself to find some sort of poetic irony in the fact that I picked a rose for the girl I liked. Got cut by the thorns. Bleeding, presented it, to have her sigh and shake her head.

And I held it until the red turned black.

There's more poetic irony in the fact that flowers must eventually wither, fade, and die. Die. Die.

Why.oh.why.can't.i.?

Because. Irefuseto.

Didyouwantangst?

Somethingsneverchange.

.//Pedophile.

By anger, I mean tension.
By tension, Imeanstress.
BystressImeancommotion.
BycommotionImeanHEADACHE.

My mouth tastes like sugar and bile. Mm.

Like a fat man wallowing through a pool of molasses.

Thank you King Bush. Youknow. For proving your stupidity. Yet again.

I wish. I lived closer to you.

That way I could scream profanities into your windows at night.

Scalpel tagged me today. Myfault. His head is the size of my palm. Yet I am compelled to pet it. Petit, it tells me. Petme. Petmyhead.

So I did. And he bit me. And I bled. But. I'm not too dejected. It happens. Wrapped it all nice so the people at work will stare.

It's good being an EMT. I'll post a picture of my nice new badge tomorrow. 31631A. These numbers rule my holocaust.

To breathe is human. To cure is divine.

Divine holocaust?

Word of the day. Synthpop.

Say it out loud. Thankmelater.

Still handling woohu. I love. I love. I love in that violentmolestationkindaway.

I love you in that violent molestation kind of way.