We Are Mutes Stranded

in lieu of something real, i'm posting something i wrote on an old message board so that i can have it around. maybe i'll work on it, clean it up, make it presentable. whatever.

sorry. i miss you.

"Middles"

How did I get here?

It was a million miles from home. It was something more like fifteen hundred. The vibrations of the leather seat were tempting, too tempting. The wheel was cold again; what was up with that? Warm spots were needed, where hands had just been. Turn up the heater. Shit, turn up the radio.

It was easy, too easy, to skip off into dreams. Even those dreams were a million miles away. Consciousness was far off too. Far, far away... Still, there was an urgency to the trip. Someone said something about Jack, something about a lung. Somewhere out there was Jack and that lung. It was difficult, too difficult, to remember. Too difficult.

...

Something happened. Somewhere between Carlisle and Rothway the car stopped. Someone would see the smoke. Somehow.

The light was bright.

How did I get here?

Some things I've learned while owning a broken laptop:

-not all women are beautiful, some of them are four letter words
-inebriation is always coupled with bad decisions
-four strings are better than six
-don't be a dick
-some people don't know how to take photographs
-god damn them.

She'd probably say something like, "Cut the bullshit."

And I'd say, "That's all that comes out of my mouth. I can shut up if you want to, but we all know that's not possible."

But she took it back, so that conversation is no longer possible.

~

It's difficult for an individual to petition the group without feeling like an obtrusively centric burden.

Too often do my essays fall back to the subject of interpersonal dynamics and my idealistic theories to overcoming my inadequacies of. To cut the bullshit, yes: I am having problems. Problems of my own making, problems of my imagination, problems that I have resolved to make order of on my own taught as per a former-lover-fiasco I once witnessed.

Back to the theoretical bullshit.

Let's start on Sunday




I'm not masochistic, I'm just a martyr for myself.

late night 360 sessions with the guys, standing up dorm-room parties, lunch with kenny, realistic plans for beating up people in idaho, a new fantastic house for the fall, jameson, keystone, lambic, wine, bass lines, beer pong, hitting on pizza girls, tax returns, and loving.

hurricanes and fires
they're polar opposites but
they make our hearts pound

death terrifies us
life is a daunting journey
learn to exist, friend

Thus, no internets. I was using the unstable, unsecured "linksys" network for a while, but after listening to Luke play WoW on the other side of the wall, I wondered how he could bother to play when Facebook takes 10 minutes to load.

So, I guess I'm here. It's kind of sad, really.

I don't know anymore. This is a major change in my life that I've catalyzed myself. And another first: I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm scared shitless. I realize that a lot of people do this, but the novelty, while intriguing--as it always is--is also terrifying.

I hate to ask, but cross your fingers for me because right now, for reasons unknown, I feel like crying or throwing up.