hey jesus.

happy birthday.


i mean, god only knows how or why your fanatic, obsessive, even cult-esque behavior inspired so many to build yet destroy; love and yet loathe, preach without practice, et cetera, ad nauseam.

but, for 2,000 years, it's worked, so i guess you did something right.


ones that love us least, the ones we'll die to please.


been an interesting sort of week so far. happy, happy birthday indeed.

one thing i can say, although i have weathered years upon years of generic (and not-so generic) heartbreak, i will always, always have my friends... some have come and gone, of course (sometimes i was the one going)... but goddamn.

sometimes all this poor me, nobody-loves-me bullshit makes me lose sight of who and what is really important to me.

the ones that really matter, i hope they know. i know i probably don't say it enough. but i hope they know.


the mean reds

"does he lay awake listening to your breath. worried you smoke too many cigarettes"


always shifing the feelings from one person to another. the names, the faces change, but the sentiments do not.

sometimes, sometimes she forgets which one she's talked to that day; she'll wonder if her cute and charming anecdotes have already been mentioned to that one or not? did she call him by the correct name, even? and does he suspect a thing???

oh god. this is how bad she's become. she's become her father, she's become Ian fucking Curtis. all those horror stories, the pain her mother felt, and the betrayal; and now she's no different.

"i will not weep for those dying days. for all the ones who've left there's a few that stayed"


how do you turn it off? where's that fucking switch that makes you stop caring?


a blindness that touches perfection

courtney love once said of her doomed paramour, "kurt cobain makes my heart stop. but he's a shit"... goddamn blonde, blue-eyes-like-dinner-plates, piscean men.

i read that, and i knew exactly what she meant. that stupid, stupid feeling in at the bottom of your stomach... it's not nausea, but i am loathe to use the term 'butterflies'... maybe instead it's just the dread, the anxiety of knowing that this guy has the potential to, and most likely will, break your silly heart.

oh, maybe that's a little overdramatic. but for all the heartbreak i've given and received, the ones dispensing it have always been cold, Teutonic, emotionless ghouls.

maybe i am just as clueless as miss parker (see previous post). maybe i feel like it's some sort of game; let's see if we can make this one work. instead of accepting incompatibility, it becomes a challenge.

a challenge i'll always lose.

i am really, really down today. it's been a steady pattern of that for a while now. and what timing, too. happy birthday, indeed.


the direction you don't take

i just watched this, and i do predict a sudden, overwhelming fascination with the 1930's... great depression... gun molls... lives cut short... and other such nonsense.

and let me just say... wow. bonnie parker was really pretty. which is puzzling to me, why such a petite, pretty, and poetic young thing would willingly meet with such a horrific fate... i mean, is that really the draw, the pull of 'true love'?!?



just about another week, and i will no longer be eligible for that silly club.

although, in their terms, i would have had to been famous, or at least somewhat famous, or at the VERY least, contributed SOMETHING to the pop culture landscape. and i hardly think a glorified livejournal counts, sooooooo...

maybe THAT should be my hint, or my proverbial kick-to-the-rear, to get something going. maybe it's just the fear of getting older but i am starting to feel a sort of panic, a tightening in the chest whenever i start to think about how much time has passed and just how LITTLE i've actually done and seen. the clock is ticking, damnit.

'life's going by, but it's just begun...' and look where it got them. not members of the 27 club, but surely they've found a place in the rock and roll mythos. at least, i fucking hope so (although they aren't found here, i stumbled across this in my "research"... really, an amusing read if you have the time. go here for the ha-ha's).

oh! but i digress. i always digress. maybe THAT has been the problem all along.



I just got referenced, or cited, or whatever the word is, as a late seventies/early eighties punk/music "expert" for a college newspaper! and a real college too, not just a community college! mwahahah.

oh, excitement. tra la la.