In psych class, I feel like the presumption is "sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll," when really there's only rock and some bjs and mild, mild narcotics. O my.
My brother was an effing angel. All of his pictures from childhood are super adorable, with super hilarious faces. I wish I could've gone through these pictures with someone. My mom gets sad seeing all of the family she doesn't have. My dad is indifferent. My brother has better things to do. I think I need to track down Kristin R. and give her the duplicate pictures I've had for so long.
I identify with Ophelia, frail, insensible, goes crazy and suffers a tragic fate at some point in the future.
I've made some rockin' stuff. A few shirts, a few songs, a few paintings, a couple beautiful letters with a few lines of prose I especially liked. I recently stumbled onto excellent poetry that I've been savoring as well.
Gitanjali 35
To the Desert (this poem is soooo sexy)
To His Coy Mistress (this poem is even sexier)
Romance
Bilingual/Bilingue
anyone lived in a pretty how town (okay, so I already liked this one and forgot)
Black Boys Play the Classics
The More Loving One
Love Armed
Danse Russe (which I've lived)
I roll the volume on the cylindrical knob and throw my body to gyrating behind closed doors to opening Doors. It sounds hideous, the movement of imperfect flesh to imperfect sound on desecrated disc. It is, but no one seethes.
Usher is a very attractive man. I do not understand why he should take off two different shirts in "My Confessions pt. 2," but it's the sort of thing I'm okay not questioning. If I got more benefit from religion, it would be a good analogy.
HiQ meet tomorrow. Bring it on. I feel smart this year and weirdly older, especially in a sense I wish somewhat to be ignorant and passionate again. There is a certain joy to being alive. I'm going to climb a tree right now.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment