Rough Draft.
The Odyssey I walk through is being delicately, but deliberately, distasteful. I expected my journal to be gone by now, but to my surprise, as we all can see, it still stands. I take this reason enough to send in the money to keep this collection of my insides in the form of words. Now all I'm lacking are stamps, an envelope, and motivation to ascend to the mailbox.

Robert Smith's Birthday. Everybody put on their fake smiles and smoke your words to clouds.
No sunshine jelly tonight, just sweet-simpled updates:

Whew. Yesterday I won't even bother reporting. Scott and his 4/20 rituals left my clothes and hair smelling worse than a heavily populated urban area's dump on a hot day. I know now to better off just stay home. Or rather, in my closet being how my house smelled no different...

Onward, I get to bake a cake Friday! Or more accurately, I get to help bake a cake. Come to think of it, I'm not sure just what type of cake it is, but I probably wont eat any of it anyway seeing how I'm suppose to be making it for Alex. I promised him I'd make it if he kept the lead on the 4x4 relay, and he did, so cake it is. He'll be coming over when I'm done, (( however long it takes to bake a cake )) and we're suppose to watch some movie of his I've never heard of.

Saturday morning I'll be running if it's nice outside. It's a really nice trail that I'll go on with Ryan, Stevann, and Ammy. Maybe Corinne, but I need to ask her if she's up to it. Apparently the trail is 3.5 miles and leads to a swimming pool when you take a left by that Tarrot-Card place.

Saturday afternoon-night I have plans to go to Kelly's((some girl I barely know)) surprise birthday party, but I'm not sure how dedicated I am on that. Plus, I have no money to buy her a gift and would have to make her some cheap-homemade card and necklace to go with it.

Sunday...I'm not doing anything on Sunday yet. I'll probably sit at home all day on the computer, like what I'm doing right now.

Monday is my birthday. Nothing much to build with that. I'll get a card from my grandmother saying how proud she is of me for turning seven, and a lighter from my dad congradulating my 23rd with him scolding me on why I'm not out of the house by now. Or at least that's how it went last year...

And finally, this journal will be going to pieces since, as stated before, I have no money and won't be paying the two-dollar fee. Unless some magical wonder from nowhere special accidently puts my name on their envelope, it's gone.

My directive has no fashion-sense
I'm sick of just ignoring people and expecting them to believe my half-minded excuse to why I didn't call or come over when I was suppose to. I'm sick of it, but I'm more sick of the people who I'm ignoring. I just can't grasp why in the world I even hang out with half the people I do anymore. And for those I actually like, I'm so use to just blowing everyone off that I'm hurting those I care for. With the exception of few, I have absolutely no one. And right now more than ever I'm feeling lonely. From my own cost, of course. I'm in complete view of what I've got and I'm tried of sulking with those that know me best. Seriously, the only people I hang out with anymore is, ((excluding internet relations)) Scott, Alex, and Corinne. For Jimmy and Kat... I don't know. We're just not "us" anymore. With all the new faces in my pool of socalism I don't feel like fishing out the good ones, so I sink farther down until the drain consumes my whole and I'm left typing away my troubles into a box of metal and wires. In all honestly, I'm about to just climb in a closet and never come out.

I put down the script a while ago.
So why do I feel I'm still living in hypocrisy?



And lastly, if anyone has the urge to send my two-dollar fee to keep this sad journal alive, please don't hesitate to do so.

Two-Hundred pennies.
Apparently there's now a fee to keep this journal living. Is two-hundred pennies really worth my two-cents? I could easily just use Livejournal.com. I still have an account there, all I have to do is remember it. Alas, I've grown fond of this little work of mine and really don't want to see my efforts go in vain.

Decisions, decisions.

The Recher.
Blunt:
I went to The Recher last night with Scott.
We saw Species.
Who cover Pink Floyd.
They were nearly perfect in every song.
Very impressive.
A drunk man with a crooked beard asked for my number.
I told him I was nine so he'd leave.
And it worked.
We got back around 2:30 in the morning.
After arriving home, I got online and spoke with Ashmo.
Later, Alex called at 4:00 AM.
He wanted to watch "Prom Night" over Scott's.
So we did.
And all lived happily ever after.

Alibi for Apathy.
Nothing to say; nothing to do. But the plus in my heart has a new beat by which the tune has sparked. Will there be black lace around the pregnant cow's hoof? A promise too deep to fish; a fish too large to swallow.

A furneral party for his truly.
Scott transformed from my pot well to my elysium today. It was magically skeptical, and I fear I was too uptight to enjoy it all to its fullest, but... wow. What a transformation it was. The words to describe him are just too necromantic for my lips. Or hands, rather.
He made me these earrings out of white paper clips and broken fabric off his shirt.


They're really not as shabby as I made them sound. I'll take a picture of them and e-mail them to whoever wants to see. Speaking of pictures, I should have mine ready sometime in the near future. I'm not setting a date yet because, as most of you know, I'm not the most committed person on Earth...

All-in-all, I went home with a smile on my face and a hop in my step. ...Sorta.

He's the end of reproduction; discard ideals of satsification.
There's a lustrous rainbowlike play of colour dancing through my brother's head. Infecting his bloodstream and brain, it's not a disease, it's a pain. Pain for the irregular, what's frowned upon by many. Differerntial refractions; it's nobody's fault. Who's to say it's even a concern?

He was just a tad too jovial when breaking the closet door down, if you know what I mean...

She's choking on her toxic of rotting hair and nails, hiding away in the small stairwell below. Do we help her? Do we shelter? The walls whisper no.
Me, my life is long with reasons few like you. When I go and when I'm gone, I'll understand these things I never knew.

Like dried up leaves turning cold black-
She's one of the fake; the quacks and the riff-raft. ...She's honing her leechcraft.

And by now I've brought myself up, no surprise to mom and dad. It's surgery, but with no knife-She'll make a great leechwife...

Her make-up's too cakey; catholics are pretty shakey. But maybe Candelabra's lighted. Or Satan will be sighted.

Can't anyone see it's all an act? The show was poor, but he still clapped.

Hiccup the ash right from the cracks of your thumb.
I've got this overwelming circumstance infecting my bloodstream. Not literally, but it sure does feel like it. Scott asked me out not too long ago. What could I say?

...What did I say?...

Ask me and you'll never have to ask again.

You see, strings are always attached when I deal with Scott. Long knots of string dangling with burning ends of haze.

I know what some think about this already, but, you know... I just can't please everyone.

Broken Halo.
Hm... I was attacked by religious activists Friday night, if anyone cares to know. Perhaps attacked is too strong of a word? But nevertheless, they got Corinne, Jesse- ((Corinne's Boyfriend)), Scott, and myself to take this questionair which they swore would only be three or four minutes at lenght. Jesse, being somewhat of a hippie-inner-peace-boycotting-pants-Beatles lover, say yes for all of us and then commenced the 45-minute discussion on how we will all burn with Hades and his crew if we didn't attend their Youth Group on Monday.

...I guess I'll be burning.

Dance Macabre.
I'm been utterly bored on Valentine's Day, feeling sorry for myself and watching the two kids across the street ride up and down the sidewalk on bigwheels. I also made a hemp necklace and cleaned my room.

My day was so... disappointing, I guess.

I expected Scott to come over, which he did, but only for about 15 minutes or so. Then he was off to some event I didn't even bother to ask about.

Tomorrow, though, holds high expectations. I'm going to The Recher to hear Corinne's boyfriend's band play. They better be good, otherwise I'm wasting a ton of money to just stand around and be harassed by drunks. I could do that for free by going over to K-Mart anyday. Alas, I finally got online today, hoping someone worth talking to would be on, and, of course, they're not. They probably have big plans or something. I don't blame them though,... If I had something better to do, I would. But for now I sit in my boredom. Just me and the wall.

Curving curbs of white traffic lights and ash trays full of sweet nothings.
I'll make this entry simple; no metaphors, no "he"-"she"-"it" deal, and no fancy expressions to confuse the confused. Deliberately, that is.

Moving on, I went to see The Perfect Score with Jimmy, Corinne, some guy named Ryan whom Corinne knows, and Scott. The movie... it sucked. But no one really watched it, being how only two other people shared the entire theater with us, and Scott wouldn't shut up the whole time. He kept rambling on and on about some ash tray and how there wasn't enough arm rests. Or something relative to that.

...Anyway, we left after the first 45 minutes and walked up and down the streets. No one had any money, so it wasn't like we were going anywhere soon. Eventually we sat on the curb conversing over pancakes and salad, which then turned into a quest to see who could find the biggest leaf lying around.

Nobody won. And nobody really cared. I wasted my Thrusday dreaming about pancakes and listening to Scott drag on about illuminating toasters. But you know, that's just how it goes. Later on though, Scott's dad drove us home and we made pancakes from milk, eggs, and bread we put in a blender ...Courtesy of Corinne's illusory creativity.

All in all, I guess it wasn't a total waste.



And I threw up the 'pancakes' an hour later.

Happy Trashcan.
Scott came over a while ago and brought The Rocky Horror Picture Show to watch since I've never seen the beginning before.

But before that, Mock ran away. Again. I swear that dog will die from being ran over by one blindsided old guy making a left turn down the street, it's just a matter of time.


But before even that, my Spanish teacher called home to notify my dad that I have an average of 38%.

By the rights of my will - I'll never touch another microwave.