My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I fairly recently came across Priscilla Ahn, and now I’m totally addicted. She’s a good writer who sounds amazing.

Whenever I’m a little down, playing this song really loud always seems to make things a bit better. It’s so upbeat and positive, with a great sound. Oh, and I’m pretty sure it’s about a serial-killer.

The me in my head, I think, is the real me. Unfortunately, he can be astonishingly ineffective.

I’ve written about Atheism, liking the idea of Atheism, but I’m not an Atheist. I tend to believe in God, but not a happy God. I believe in Tori Amos’ God, a God Who doesn’t come through. I believe in Tyler Durden’s God, a God Who doesn’t want me, doesn’t like me, probably hates me. I believe in Elliott Smith’s God, a God Who makes problems just to see what I can stand before I do as the Devil pleases.

I tend to think that we’re God’s tv show. He probably doesn’t help us, He doesn’t hurt us, but I think He gives, or allows us obstacles to see how we’ll react, things to make the show more interesting. Mostly, He just watches as we find pleasure, or suffer. I don’t think God is actively out to fuck anybody over, but I definitely don’t count on Him to do me any favors. 

Ultimately, all we can do is solve our own problems, and help each other out. God would just as soon watch you struggle and die than do anything about it.

She’s beautiful, so smart, endlessly interesting. You tell her these things, because they’re entirely true, because whenever she’s around you’re entirely happy, but she just smiles and looks away. She doesn’t think she’s particularly amazing, but you know she is, and you want her to know it. Talking with her is the most natural thing in the world, you’re both so ridiculously alike in your odd contemplations. Your wants and worries are so the same.

You’re a restless sort, rarely content, often lonely, no matter who’s around. You always feel that you ought to be somewhere else, but that somewhere is elusive, never within reach. These feelings are usually so palpable, but not when you’re with her. Lying next to her, holding her hand, her head on your shoulder, loneliness doesn’t exist. You don’t want to be some place else, there is no place else. Being close to her is like walking through an opiate fog, but that feeling of peace, of contentment is real, not a drugged out illusion. You want to say these things, her lying so close, but you don’t. Her brown eyes are gorgeous and bright, warm and alluring, they make you forget your way with words.

T-e-d-i-o-u-s i-s t-h-e d-i-s-t-i-l-l-a-t-i-o-n o-f t-h-o-u-g-h-t-s i-n-t-o w-o-r-d-s.

2009 hasn’t been around long, but it’s given us a beautifully poetic film line…

“Bleed out, bitch!” – Autopsy

Follow my head, follow my heart, I’m not sure which is right. Maybe they’re both wrong, both deranged, both telling me the wrong way to go. My head and my heart, two lunatic mental patients, bickering a bunch of nothing. Or… maybe they’re both right in their own way. I really don’t know, and the more  I think about it, the less I seem to know.

While I think about it, I do nothing, or next to nothing. Perhaps I think too much.

Last night, my friend, Sarah, and I went to see the spectacular foreign vampire film, Let The Right One In. It’s playing at the very old, and very gorgeous Tampa Theatre. I’d been there plenty of times for concerts, but last night was my first movie. It was a rather beautiful movie, but I want to see it one more time before I really write about it. 

For Christmas, a friend, Jayleen, got me an Amazon gift certificate which I promptly used to buy Incesticde, the only Nirvana CD I didn’t own. I totally love it, particularly Stain, Big Long Now and Downer (Downer being originally found on their first album, Bleach). Obviously, I only like the happy music. Though, lately I’m really digging Tracy Shedd’s Cigarettes & Smoke Machines. It’s music that sounds sad, but her lyrics are actually pretty “up,” as “up” as I like to hear. Also, Cigarettes & Smoke Machines is just a fucking cool album name.

I’ve been to see Doubt four times now. Honestly, that movie is as relaxing as any drink for me. It’s so compelling and brilliantly acted that I just kind of lose myself in it. Also, I have decided that I want to become a nun.

Yesterday, my allergist said I’m “an inspiration,” which is interesting, as I’d only known him for fifteen minutes. I’m not really sure what I did in that amount of time to be inspirational, aside from breathing and moving my eyes. That label is always weird to me. I mean, I understand it, but I don’t think it’s right. I’m nothing spectacular. I do good things sometimes, I totally fuck up sometimes, just like almost anyone.

Dear Diary,

Today I was actually very sad. The nice lady with the puppy was hit by a BIG truck running across the street after her puppy. What does d-e-c-a-p-i-t-a-t-e-d mean? Daddy lost his job and said we can’t afford to feed my tabby kittens anymore, so he drowned them in the bathtub. The nice ice-cream man was going to give me another free ice-cream sammich, but I had to go in the truck to get it, then he touched me in a BAD place and I ran. I told mamma and she told a police-man who took the ice-cream man away. I didn’t get my sammich. An older boy at school was making fun me and I told him to stop because Jesus loves me. He said Jesus is burning in Hell because He let Himself get crucified and that’s suicide. I don’t understand what that means, but I cried and cried because I don’t want Jesus burning.

I’m very sad.