Looney Tunes

It's days like these when I can't fall asleep. My bed is empty and my arms, lonely. In order to escape feelings of dread, I put on the television.  It's 12 AM.

I don't watch it, really, only glancing occasionally as the light flashes across my face creating a glare on my scratched and dirty lenses.  Chances are, I won't be asleep until 4AM. Is it really insomnia if the only time I have trouble sleeping is when you're not here?

I don't think it is. Eventually, sleep will come, though. Mostly because I know that if I fall asleep at 4AM, you'll be trying to sneak in my room at 5AM. I know you're trying to be quiet, trying to let me sleep, but I haven't gotten into a deep enough sleep yet. Besides, Looney Tunes is on.

You'll snuggle into bed with me after you turn of my animated night light and we will be comfortable until we have to wake again. Then you'll ask, "What time did you go to bed?" Your voice is stern, and your kind eyes take on a harsh edge to them. I'll try to lie, make it seem less bad. "Eh...one or two...." But you know I'm lying and reprimand me, calling me stupid and silly (though you'll later assure me you don't mean I'm stupid, just silly). Then you'll smile at me and your rather brief inquisition will be over. Questions fill my head, though, like, "does he ever lose sleep over me?" or "how come sleep comes so easily to him?" or "why do I always fall asleep with the tv on if I never watch it?"Mostly, though, I wonder how I got to be so Looney Tunes.

And that's what's up Doc.

Spoken Word Poetry

I have a new love in my life. It's called spoken word poetry. Maybe you've heard of it. These people have taken the art of storytelling to a different level. They weave words like expert basket makers, carefully crafting their words into something you can choose to carry with you throughout your life. They go beyond writing their thoughts and feelings down on paper. This is far too static. The dynamic nature of these artists is found in their performance. With such incredible expressiveness and raw emotion, I can't help but get a little choked up when I watch them.

My favorite ones are humorous, yet they nevertheless are just as meaningful as the most poignant and pitiful. What is life if you can't laugh at your own misery, or at least in spite of it?

Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to bare it and share it all; to not only show you the words, but the eyes, the lips, the hands, my heart, my mind, my soul - the fear, anguish, love, lust, happiness, elation, excitement, anxiety, sadness, depression, and so much more hidden behind the computer screen, the lexemes, the unseen - me.

But for now, I'll recommend you just one. A jumping point, I hope, for you to discover all this art form has to offer.

So...

It's been something like three years since I've been on this thing; I forgot I even had one. Yikes! Anyhow, maybe this would be a good place to share my poetry with my close friends or anyone who considers me interesting enough to follow.

I was really negative, but those posts are far too amusing for me to take them down now. We live and learn, as they say.

Normally I'd post something like....the "Welcome Back" song, but since I'm the one who is coming back, it's not really pertinent....*sigh*

I'm good at babbling, not sure about blogging. We'll see! :D

Fuck you.

I hate when people play mind games with me. Just come out and say how you really feel and stop going through the motions. It pisses me off ever so much when you can't just verbalize....IN ANY NUMBER OF WAYS your true feelings about me. I'll talk to you one day, but completely ignore you the other. That's such bullshit. Leave me the hell alone if you're going to go that route. Not as if it would make a difference since you neglect to share anything with me...and I'm the reason you're even there!

I hate people.

Why I Suck in a Paragraph or Less

I cried today.

I didn't just cry once, I cried twice.

Not only did I cry twice, I cried twice in the restroom.

Two different restrooms, I may add.

These two restrooms, however, did have several things in common:

1.) Toilet stalls, sinks, mirrors, trash cans, and the like.

2.) They were both on school campus.

3.) A girl crying in the stall, practically clinging to the shit stained door.

So, after I was done crying in the last stall in the first restroom, I spied someone I really didn't want to see at that moment, ran downstairs and cried in the last stall in the second restroom.

I waited until I had semi-decent composure. Since I felt the lump in my throat that is usually indicative of a heavy sobbing session, I heaved a large sigh and swallowed my pride. Persuading the lump in my throat into some dark hole of my heart, I no longer hid in the restroom. I walked outside in the cool night air and let the biting cold sting my cheeeks. My nose continued to run as I sat down at a table, ungracefully plopping myself down on the bench. I searched through my backpack for something that would make me forget what had just happened, but I found nothing. Instead, I pulled out my yarn and my ball-point pens to continue knitting as well as I could. My eyes were watering again; this time from the bitter whipping wind. This very wind invited a woman outside to the tables. She lit her cigarette, and the stench radiating from it was enough to sicken my stomach. I shoved my knitting in my backpack, hoisted my bag up, and quickly pulled it over my shoulders. Glaring, not at the woman, but at my own life reflected in the cars speeding on the street, passing each other, turning, stopping....constantly, I huffed off . Disgusted with people and thoroughly ready to give up, I continued to walk.

Hood up. Head down. Hands in pockets. Hole in heart.

Why is this relevant? It's not.

Cheer me up?

Shoulders.

This is going to sound ridiculous and creepy/gross at the same time. That's fine. I can manage.

I really like when guys touch me on the shoulder. I had two gentlemen do it yesterday, and I'm not attracted to either, but holy heck in a hand basket I was hot.

I think it was because their hand was warm, and felt foreign on my skin. Who cares!


Anyways, now that I've freaked out anyone reading this let's move on to better things.

I love fog, and cold, and getting warm. Do you?

Jinkies!

I didn't realize the appalling lack of readers I had until I was prepared to say, " I know you all thought you got rid of me" and backpedaled (a.k.a. put the brakes on). I backpedaled because well, I actually don't have many......any readers of this blog.

But just in case someone happens to stumble upon this, here's the latest of ramblings to myself in the shower:

No one I ever meet in life will be as satisfying romantically or otherwise, not even nearly, as a person I read of in fiction. This really depresses me. I want Hogwarts to be real, and I want characters from books to be real. I want to befriend those people. It is surreal how boring people are. If life was more like what I masturbate to and less what it is, this world would be better off. No bathroom breaks...(speaking of which, do they even use toilet paper in Hogwarts?) pure adventure, fantasy, and action. The storybook characters are more real to me than half of the people I've met in my very short life, and they certainly excite me a great deal more. Case in point, I want something I dream about and wish for to actually exist. Bring on the wands and send me my invite (to Hogwarts, of course), I'll be waiting (probably in the shower).