bollocks to you and your sod faced valentine
some people just have the face that says punch me. and if that weren't enough the person's body language reads like an insolent commercial advertisement for the kind of product you get mad just thinking about. what the fuck is this world really coming to when we have to set aside a fantastic 24 hours as a reminder for people to do something nice to someone else. its just about as if the other 364 days are spent so completely preoccupied with ourselves and what we need and want that it comes down to this contrived excuse for a sincere affection.
some days i feel like saving the whole wide world. fixing everything. making life good... other days i feel like designing some type of suit that will withstand some type of bomb that, when i emerge from the suit, in a post-nuclear fashion, i will no longer be surrounded by complete fucking sludge heads that live for almost no other reason than to drive me absolutely mad. and when that idea feels creepishly close to becoming a reality, i just pour myself some more tea and do nothing at all.
i don't think i'd ever be happy waking up and doing the same thing over and over. i don't think i'm happy writing that sentence. how can anyone be comfortable slating absolutes over themselves like they're the sheriff of they're own pathetic cardboard town of a life. i guess i just feel that way because i am so completely without the propensity to stick by anything i decide that out of sheer and complete jealousy for anyone capable of such a feat i can only spew rhetorical hatred that carries about as much weight as the combined poundage of all my finger and toenail clippings.
i miss swimming, and biking, and yoga. i miss many things made accessible to me via a very neat and tidy monday to sunday schedule i could almost be so bold as to render the title "normality" if not, at least consistency. i'd give much of what i have away in exchange for consistency. as i am almost positive that its absence in my life just may very well be the root of most of what i consider to be the cross(es) that i bear. who ever said it first sure had it right. YOU DO IT TO YOURSELF. (i think it was thom yorke, circa: the bends)
i still kinda feel in a stupor of some sorts. i'm also completely confident in my desire to want to express just how tired i am of people admiring "how well i'm doing" right now. and fuck me for even thinking it i know. ungreatful whiney cunt. fuck you all for drowning me in an answerless roll of your favourite target practice moments recapped in this delightful 7 series vhs format. it has nothing to do with anybody's measure of gratitude or humility. it has more to do with the soulless fucks who shit out of their mouths and are the absolute farthest thing from genuine affection and human contact. i'm sure a lot of it (well, all of it actually) stems from my resentment that every person i come in contact with while i work is NOT one of my friends. (excluding present company). every person i meet and interact with on tour is not somebody i have a relationship with, and in fact, in turn, this person, having replaced someone of real significance in my life has now assumed the role of mortal enemy, also known as walking piece of shit, or anything else i come up with at the time. and all of that is a result of how much of a detatchment issue i have with home and my family and my friends. who mean, so much to me, so much so, that the very thought of not having them around, let alone, replacing them (temporarily of course) with shit eating smoke blowing faceless industry weaseling fucks that have nothing better to do than waste my time with their senseless observations as to "how great things are going" never once thinking that,"hey, i wonder when the last time somebody asked this guy 'how he's FEELING' as opposed to 'what he's been up to lately'"
i am an enemy of myself and constantly struggle with the fact that for as much as my surroundings are capable of change, i fear i may not entirely be equipped for the equal and often greater forces that surround the ever developing circumstances that keep me both on my knees and at the very same time, fantastically out of breath. i am a calamity. i am progress.
some days i feel like saving the whole wide world. fixing everything. making life good... other days i feel like designing some type of suit that will withstand some type of bomb that, when i emerge from the suit, in a post-nuclear fashion, i will no longer be surrounded by complete fucking sludge heads that live for almost no other reason than to drive me absolutely mad. and when that idea feels creepishly close to becoming a reality, i just pour myself some more tea and do nothing at all.
i don't think i'd ever be happy waking up and doing the same thing over and over. i don't think i'm happy writing that sentence. how can anyone be comfortable slating absolutes over themselves like they're the sheriff of they're own pathetic cardboard town of a life. i guess i just feel that way because i am so completely without the propensity to stick by anything i decide that out of sheer and complete jealousy for anyone capable of such a feat i can only spew rhetorical hatred that carries about as much weight as the combined poundage of all my finger and toenail clippings.
i miss swimming, and biking, and yoga. i miss many things made accessible to me via a very neat and tidy monday to sunday schedule i could almost be so bold as to render the title "normality" if not, at least consistency. i'd give much of what i have away in exchange for consistency. as i am almost positive that its absence in my life just may very well be the root of most of what i consider to be the cross(es) that i bear. who ever said it first sure had it right. YOU DO IT TO YOURSELF. (i think it was thom yorke, circa: the bends)
i still kinda feel in a stupor of some sorts. i'm also completely confident in my desire to want to express just how tired i am of people admiring "how well i'm doing" right now. and fuck me for even thinking it i know. ungreatful whiney cunt. fuck you all for drowning me in an answerless roll of your favourite target practice moments recapped in this delightful 7 series vhs format. it has nothing to do with anybody's measure of gratitude or humility. it has more to do with the soulless fucks who shit out of their mouths and are the absolute farthest thing from genuine affection and human contact. i'm sure a lot of it (well, all of it actually) stems from my resentment that every person i come in contact with while i work is NOT one of my friends. (excluding present company). every person i meet and interact with on tour is not somebody i have a relationship with, and in fact, in turn, this person, having replaced someone of real significance in my life has now assumed the role of mortal enemy, also known as walking piece of shit, or anything else i come up with at the time. and all of that is a result of how much of a detatchment issue i have with home and my family and my friends. who mean, so much to me, so much so, that the very thought of not having them around, let alone, replacing them (temporarily of course) with shit eating smoke blowing faceless industry weaseling fucks that have nothing better to do than waste my time with their senseless observations as to "how great things are going" never once thinking that,"hey, i wonder when the last time somebody asked this guy 'how he's FEELING' as opposed to 'what he's been up to lately'"
i am an enemy of myself and constantly struggle with the fact that for as much as my surroundings are capable of change, i fear i may not entirely be equipped for the equal and often greater forces that surround the ever developing circumstances that keep me both on my knees and at the very same time, fantastically out of breath. i am a calamity. i am progress.
posted by honest at 12:34 PM
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