It sounds like

My Weakness.

like it could be school children singing some beloved anthem but slowed to half speed and played backward.

eerily beautiful.

the first time i heard it i thought, "this is exactly what it sounds like when you die. here is the thing you hear as you are exsanguinating in a final sense, as you draw that last chest full of air. when you are leaving. there is an instant that you know, and this is what you hear."

and you can't help but smile because in the beginning of it you think they're saying, "we're digimon" over and over and of course they're not, but you remember how you used to watch it with your sister in oly and how that shit used to make both of you tear up for how touching it was. and that just makes you think of the alf christmas special and how something that sappy and sentimental was the first time you ever saw your dad cry, and it is so endearing that it almost kills you but instead you grin inside like that first shot of whiskey snaking out its warmth to each and every bone. all the way down.

i would float in that half-drunk delirium of smiles and invincibility all day and i would touch you on the head and you would come too. because that's how i always pictured it.

yes, my weakness, moby.

In response to Anne.

1. My relationship hangs by a thread. I think of ending it at least once a week. It's quite manic.
2. I really like alcohol.
3. I am insecure around really feminine women.
4. If my high school boyfriend were 18 and out of school, I would really consider going to a movie with him or something.
5. The main reason I like to hang out with Terri is because of the gossip. She rules, don't get me wrong, but she is gossip central.
6. On one hand I think I have ridiculously high expectations of relationships, and on the other hand I think I'm a fool for believing that I shouldn't.
7. I hide my occasional smoking from everyone but my family and Terri.
8. I sweat easily and a LOT.
9. I have wanted to lose about 20 lbs for basically my whole life.
10. I am the all singing, all dancing crap of the world.

[extra] 11. I actively avoid any contact with friends/acquaintances from high school. I resort to snubbery even.

Sidney the Vicious

Some Stuff.

Here are a few paintings I finished up recently.

Brain is too mush like for much of any other kind of inputtings henceforth.

I just got this Dropkick Murphys album called "Sing Loud, Sing Proud." (They are a punk rock band made of creepily patriotic Irish bostonians. Patriotic as in majorly Irish. They have bagpipes and pennywhistles in their songs!) There's this song on the album called Good Rats, and you all need to go listen to it.

Nosferatu in Oberlin

Life During Wartime

Rock 'n' Roll Star

Started a new painting. He died seven and a half months before I was born and I believe fervently that we passed each other on the way. I can't get over the fact that there is a WWF wrestler donning his name, it seems like so much sacrilege. But then again, there is also a WWF wrestler named Booker T. Washington. No shit.

Ok. Nothing much else to say. Life is marvellous, isn't it?

Give 'Em The Boot

It comes from laziness, mostly, I think. It's scary to try something new and you have to jolt yourself out of normalcy, I think it has to be born of catharsis. You wonder if you'll starve to death and how you'll pay the bills but you also don't want to prove how fabulous and excellent life should be, and why is that? That part I don't understand.

What was I getting at, anyway.

Last night I watched a movie that Tim Armstrong made during one of their tours, but it wasn't just Rancid, it was a ton of neat bands. So I'm watching and there's this clip of them on a boat, and he panned over and there's M.C. A standing there! So I said, "Say what!" Later they were playing basketball and there's Adrock. So, apparently, the Beastie Boys hang out with Rancid, and it really just doesn't get any cooler than that. My thoughts are smoke rings being obliterated by the slightest breeze.

Pretty Vacant

I started to believe that breaks in life simply do not exist for a person like me. I started to cast myself in the category of holy fool, decidedly in the russian sense, and but the ascribing didn't make me feel any better. There are thirty thousand hash marks on my back, scraped out with each irritation, each straw that the camel tries so doggedly to take up, each and each and each, and when does it break you? And I guess it all depends on the you, whoever that is. I have not yet broken and it has been a steady slip doooooooooooooooooown.

Hey,

possessions never meant that much to me. I've got a belt that I really care about and a camera. It would be easier, I thought this afternoon, if I weren't in love. I would fill up a back pack and couch surf in olympia and then perhaps move down the coast because oberlin really just isn't cutting it for me anymore. But there are complications.

He had a history that at times rained down from everywhere.

We decided to, in five years, move to Costa Rica because life like this has become so loathsome. I keep looking at that tax return on the edge of the desk and thinking of all that it entails. I want out, I want out. I don't want a safe life, this country is a prison with gold bars. It's so hard to hack it as anything that doesn't report, in some way, to an asshole. And then even when you think you're the exception, there's that tax return again.

I love the sex pistols because they were the first ones. The pioneers when it was scary and who knew if you could make a living singing about anarchy and wearing safety pins and chains? They did it because it was their passion, and a fuck all to anyone who tried to tell them they'd starve to death and give their mothers heart attacks. I'm trying to live, that's all.