Won’t say
I’m scared because I, this could be some really pretty, sweeping narrative. I have the skill, I know my craft well enough to paint this picture of scared and lonely, but fuck it. I don’t feel pretty inside, I don’t have any pretty words to bleed, even if I cut both wrists wide open. She won’t say, “I love you! Come back to me,” so I’m scared. The drugs will hit me, and I’ll get sleepy, and nothing will feel beautiful, and maybe I won’t find my way back.
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Was, Not
I was going to New York, now I’m not going to New York. So, yeah. I wouldn’t really be there anyways.
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Post #667
So, this is post #667, nothing evil about that. I’ve been writing here since… mid-2007, so the stretches that I haven’t written show in the numbers. Still, 667 posts isn’t an awful number. I’ve tried to not post garbage, which is why sometimes I write nothing at all. I don’t know where this post is going, I don’t know where this blog is going, I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know. Who knows?
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Post #666
So, this is post #666, aka Satan’s Post. I feel like rather than make it some regular post that’ll just get turned and twisted into some nightmare, I’ll just acknowledge that this is, in fact, Satan’s Post, post it, and move on.
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A happier picture
Less not happy
So, here’s me underneath my new, new 27″ iMac. It’s really fast etc. and what-not. Talking about computers is boring. My head’s at a funny angle, so the picture isn’t spectacular, but I think I look less not happy.
At least maybe I look it. I don’t know.
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Something good
I just want to feel something good, but I won’t. It’s my stupid fault.
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Tired
I’m tired and lost and alone, and I’m scared. I’m not ashamed to say so. I miss her so much, so much She’s somewhere else and doesn’t want me… I just, she’s my best, was, I guess, my beautiful love, she was going to be the woman I finally asked to marry me. I screwed everything up, fucked it all up so badly. I didn’t mean to, but every fuck up piece of shit who gets left for someone better says that.
