It’s unfortunate that you’re such an unpleasant person now.

to see someone with such potential act the way that you do is positively revolting.
your ego built upon thin air, how do you keep your head above water?
denying the ones who were there for you, building a barricade of bullshit,
fencing in the foolish fucks you call ‘friends’,
soon you’re going to meet misery head-on; then we’ll see who’s laughing.
discouraging to think we’re cut of the same cloth…
but boy, you bitch, your brain will burn and boil-
loneliness is such a lavish luxury,
soon you’re going to obtain an abundance; then we’ll see who’s sobbing.

 

A Collaboration With Nicole M. As The ‘Stranger’.

Connecting to server…

You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

A word of advice: “asl” is boring. Please find something more interesting to talk about!

-

-

Stranger: The door closes.

-

You: The man looks up from his book, perplexed; he thought he was home alone. who would be closing the door?

-

Stranger: He had not noticed the rather large carnivorous tissue box lurking in the shadows.

-

You: He narrowed his eyes, picking up the shotgun that he always kept under his rocking chair.

-

Stranger: He felt a peculiar feeling in his sinus cavity. First, a gentle tickle, but then, he could not hold it in any longer… a sneeze!

-

You: Just then, the box lunged, latching onto his exposed neckmeat with it’s razor-sharp teeth. It began roaring violently, like a little girl might were she a giant carnivorous tissue box.

-

Stranger: His wife, awakened by the violent roar, called from the top of the stairs. “Morton, go back to bed! I’m not feeding you anything!”

-

You: The old man whirled around, crashing into everything, knocking over priceless vases that his wife collected. The box’s teeth were sort of painful, so we really can’t blame him.

-

Stranger: Morton fell down face-first into the shards, and they became lodged in his skin. His wife, annoyed, trudged down the stairs and started screaming over her expensive Ming vases.

-

You: The box immediately let go of his neck, and Morton was left there, bleeding profusely from his neck and from all the spots the glass had stuck him; of course the wife wouldn’t believe him about the box. Nobody did. How many more times would he have to endure this hell?

-

Stranger: He had tried to convince his wife that a lock on the door would be invaluable, but his wife would hear none of that; her passion for ancient Chinese antiquities consumed every cent that he earned from his job at the pencil factory.

-

You: Morton rose to his feet, shaking; angry. How dare she? She spends every penny that he earns at his measly little job on useless little trinkets, and she won’t even throw out that god-damned tissue box from hell? How dare she, how DARE she!? Morton saw only one solution to all his problems.

-

Stranger: He would have to take her to the town’s renowned hypnotist, Zambila Snodgrass, to undergo treatment for her obsessive-compulsive disorder… whether Helga consented or not.

-

You: Storming up the stairs, he kicked in the door to his room, where Helga had returned to finish her sleep. The door burst off the hinges and promptly turned into glitter. This struck Morton as odd, but he charged ahead anyway.

-

Stranger: “Put me down, you bastard!” she shrieked as he picked her up. But when he turned around, he saw a smaller but equally temperamental tissue box lurking in place of the recently evaporated doorway. The boxes had begun to multiply of their own accord.

-

You: He had left his shotgun downstairs, which meant he was defenseless… or was he? He threw Helga into the air and grabbed her by the ankle, whirling her around as if she were a pair of nunchuks.

-

Stranger: The box hungrily bit Helga’s arm as she soared through the doorway, down the stairs, and conveniently crumpled in a small heap at the bottom of the stairs. Morton had kept himself safe for now, but how much longer would it be before other boxes got the better of him?

-

You: It was of no use… looking out the window, he saw them. Hordes and hordes of tissue boxes. There would be no surviving this. He began to sob as he slowly walked down the stairs and picked up his shotgun, dreading what he would have to do to save his wife and himself from the boxes. They may not survive… but they wouldn’t be killed by those lil’ fuckers.

-

Stranger: The End.

 

Mindvomit.

It has been quite some time since I last posted here, I’m afraid; which is funny, because quite a bit has happened. Where to begin?

First of all, my plans to move to Colorado have been cancelled. I’ll be flying out to visit sometimes, but I’m not moving; for now, I’m staying in Belfast, despite how much I despise the winters. I hate snow, and I hate the cold… but I’m sticking around. I have, however, moved away from my ex-stepmother. This is good. I’m now living with my uncle and grandfather, actively seeking a job and waiting to take my permit test. It’s away from town, however, which is the only downside. If I want to walk to the closest store, it’s about a 45 minute walk. I suppose I don’t really mind, though- I walk quite a bit anyway.

Graduation was absurdly anticlimactic. I really only went because my good friend Chelsea needed a marching partner, and I couldn’t bear to leave her hanging. I was told that when I graduated, I’d have some sort of revelation, a great sense of pride- but I didn’t. I didn’t feel anything. I still don’t. There’s nothing there. It feels as though there should be more. 13 years of memorizing and regurgitating mind-numbing shit that I forget a month later, and here I am now; stranded with a bit of paper in my hand declaring me fit for the world, yet retaining little information that may actually be useful. I feel cheated, and a bit annoyed.  Maybe going to college will provide some higher sense of achievement, though it may take a little while for me to do such a thing. I can take the courses I need for my degree in Mortuary Sciences online, but first there are about seven prerequisite classes that I have to take; if I don’t complete the prerequisites, there’s no way I’ll even be considered for the course.

I’ve been working on increasing my skills with photoshop, and I think I’m making some headway. I’ve created a few pieces that I feel I can actually call “Art”, and I post them on my deviantart page- which can, by the way, be found here. Below is my latest. I’d really appreciate any comments anyone might have; if I’m delusional and complete shit, let me know, please. I’d like to think that I’m not absolutely terrible, but I’ve been wrong before.

The new Fallout 3 expansion is fun. So are Prototype and inFamous.

I met a girl. She’s pretty, funny, amazing, and a total bitch. It’s great.

That’s all for now.

 

15

If you can hear this
don’t assume that I’m talking to you
Yesterday everything I thought I believed in died
but today is my birthday,
today is my birthday
I don’t need you,
I’ll say it to myself
It doesn’t mean I won’t need somebody
anyone with half a soul
will hear this and they’ll never leave me

If you don’t know what forever feels like
I’ll show you what it feels like without it
I’ll show you what it feels like without it

This time I won’t hesitate
to kill to protect what I believe in
This time I won’t hesitate
to kill to protect what I believe in

I can get by now
I’m not really dead
but I really needed someone to save me
leaving me alone to die
is worse than having the guts to kill me

Not letting you win
won’t satisfy me
I’ll teach you about loss

 

You make this all go away.

Today was mostly an okay day, and though I had no coffee this morning, I was strangely awake. I had no coffee because I could not carry the cup of coffee and a giant stack of hardcover books at the same time. My friend El needed old hardcover books for an art project that she’s doing, and I had a shit-ton in my closet; so I obliged. Normally I’m not a fan of burning books, but this is for the sake of art, which is something I enjoy immensely. Also this morning, I was goaded into bringing one of my junior friendlies to the Senior Ball with me- which I suppose doesn’t really bother me, as I’m only bringing her so she can get in. I probably won’t see her again after that for the rest of the night. She buys her own ticket, gets her own ride, I am just a vessel. I’m still not exactly happy that I’m going in the first place, but alas, I am a man of my word. Usually.

What is with people today and mentioning their suicide attempts in everyday conversation? This is the second person this week. What’s more pathetic than drawing attention to the attempts is the fact that they were failed. If you want to kill yourself, that’s none of my business, and it’s your perogative; but it’s amazing how many people who are found just in the nick of time and such. Those who really want to die make sure they aren’t disturbed.

People are yelling downstairs about World of fucking Warcraft. I hate this game… so, so much. It’s a goddamn time vampire, and it has ruined a few of my relations. Way to parent, guys, spending all your free time on a fucking video game.

I enjoy long chats with Vongola. He is one of the few who can level with me on a mental level.

I enjoyed the following video. It made me laugh.

 

Never be enough to fill me up.

Last night dreamt that myself, an acquaintance from my current school who we shall call S and a friendly from my old school we shall call M were all together in some house. S and I had some sort of pill- I want to say it was Prozac or something. S traded some of her Prozac to M for some vicodin, which doesn’t make sense to me because I don’t think Prozac is used for anything other than what it was meant to be used for. In any case, they both went their seperate ways in the house, and I was trying to find M because I wanted to trade some of my Prozac for vicodin.  This dream was odd because I’ve never even seen a vicodin or a Prozac pill in my life.

I had sort of a mini anxiety attack at lunch, I think. I was extremely nervous, I was shaking, and I found myself unable to be near other people. I sat about ten feet away from the rest of the group and finished a drawing I was doing of a picture of David Bowie during the “Earthling” era while listening to “The Fragile” by Nine Inch Nails in an attempt to calm myself. The picture came out okay, I think, as I haven’t done any real work with a reference picture for a very long time. I have no printer. I wonder if the local library has a color printer, and if so, I wonder how much it costs to print something per page. I also wonder if there will be an art supply store near my new home in Colorado. I should think so, as it will be in Colorado Springs, which is a rather large city. I have only recently come down from my feelings of fright and nervousness, though they are still present. It’s just to a lesser extent.

I have many projects to do before the end of this month. I have a powerpoint presentation on cryonics as part of my final grade for Lab Physics, I’m working on a group presentation of the 90’s consisting of technology, entertainment, world events, sports, etc. for Advanced American Studies II as part of my final grade, I have a lesson I must teach on the poet William Blake as well as a group project on the Romantic age of British literature as part of my final grade for College English 4, and I believe that’s it.

The song “Tatakau Monotachi” from the Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children OST is full of lots of piano and is rather lovely to listen to.

I am very tired.

 

Because you’re young

Psychodelicate girl – come out to play
Little metal faced-boy – don’t stay away
They’re so war-torn and resigned she can’t talk anymore
What are they trying to prove?
What would they like to find?

It’s love back to front and no sides – like I say
These pieces are broken – like I say
These pieces are broken
Hope I’m wrong but I know

Because you’re young – you’ll meet a stranger some night
Because you’re young – what could be nicer for you and it makes me sad
So I’ll dance my life away
A million dreams, a million scars

He punishes hard – was loving her such a crime
She took back everything she said
Left him nearly out of his mind
They’re people I know – people I love
They seem so unhappy – dead or alive

It’s love back to front and no sides – like I say
These pieces are broken – like I say
These pieces are broken
Hope I’m wrong but I know

Because you’re young – you’ll meet a stranger some night
Because you’re young – what could be nicer for you and it I’ll make me sad
So I’ll dance my life away
A million dreams, a million scars

 

I fear that I may be going quite hideously insane.

fffffffuck.

Took a few pills to quiet the pounding in my head, and then decided that maybe I should write something. My headaches have gotten so bad that I’ve been driven to start bringing shit to school in a little pill bottle. I have labeled the bottle as “Peanuts of the non-suspicious variety” in order to deter those who may seek to steal them away from me. It’s only ibuprofen, but still, pills are a big no-no at the scholarly place.

I’ve been having a recurring dream. I am at a school dance, wearing a suit. Another man in a suit is holding someone (a girl) hostage, with a knife to her throat. As the policeman is trying to talk the person down, (I’ve no idea why he doesn’t just shoot the bastard), I’m sneaking up behind him with a knife of my own that I’ve somehow acquired. I get right behind him, stand, grab him by the hair, pull his head back and cut his neck open. The girl is able to escape and as his blood is spraying all over the place I throw him to the ground and sit on his chest, my knees on his elbows so he can’t move or clutch at his neck or anything and I’m getting covered with blood while staring at his wide, frightened eyes, waiting for the exact moment I can see the life leave him. After it does, I throw my head back and run my hands up my face, through my hair which becomes slicked back on account of all the blood. I look around, and everyone’s just sort of staring at me. Which, I suppose, might be an appropriate response. The question is, though, am I a hero in this story, or a villain? I could have just stabbed him in the arm, causing him to drop the knife and the girl would go free. Instead, I cut him open and make it a point to watch him die, not even trying to dodge the blood.

I believe I may have insulted one of the members of our hallway crew today during study hall. He sort of asked for it, though. A friendly person and I were messing around, and he became the topic of discussion. Somehow, the topic then turned to killing oneself, and he deemed it necessary to let everyone at our table know that he’d “already tried it two times, there’d be no point in trying again”. I was utterly dumbfounded at how desperately this person was attempting to attract attention. He put in his headphones. I called him pathetic. He took his headphones out and asked what I said. I told him that I was making fun of him. The entire table agreed that he should put his headphones back in, lest his widdle feelings get hurt. He’s a rather large drama queen.

I recently made a deal with one of my friends who’s name is Brooks. He wanted me to go to the Senior Ball with him and some others, and I really didn’t want to go. There would be no point. I don’t enjoy such functions. I finally agreed to go if and only if my taxes came back before the 23rd of may, banking on them not coming until after. Poor decision on my part. Dammit. On the plus-side, I bought a black Brooks Brothers pin-striped suit, white shirt, blue tie and black dress shoes all for $17.48 at Goodwill. The pants are a little large, and if I buckle it in the front my crotch gets all skewed. Instead, I buckle it on the side. This produces what I like to call the “Labyrinth” effect, creating the illusion that I have a massive package.

I recently stole a hoodie, a pair of pants, a pair of shorts and an Under Armor shirt from the school’s lost-and-found. The school got tired of everything being in the lost-and-found closet with nobody ever coming to look through it, so the took everything and piled it all on a giant table out in the lobby, begging someone- anyone- to relieve them of some of the shit that was there. I heard the call, and reported to duty. All items have been washed. The hoodie is my favorite. The pants are nice, too.

Did you know that if you boil flypaper, the residue that accumulates on top of the water is as deadly as cyanide? Neither did I, until a few days ago. Thanks, Encyclopedia of Serial Killers, Second Edition! I recently checked it out from the library, and it’s rather interesting. I don’t think I’ll be able to finish it before the end of the year, though, so I must look into getting myself my own copy.

I have decided to move to Colorado near the end of July. Friendlies and friends already know, I will inform family somewhere around the middle of June.

I have been listening to David Bowie almost exclusively as of late. Mostly shit from the late 70’s and early 80’s.

I have recently become afraid of the dark.

I dislike The Smashing Pumpkins.

 

I’m tired of writing. Always wanted a photoblog or something, though.

The world doesn’t get any less scary as we grow up, but somehow we’re asked to shed the icons of our childhood so we can become big people.
Fuck that.
There’s some impossible property in their stuffing which soaks up all of our anger and fear and uncertainty.
We try to replace them with other people, but other people are filled with the same selfish goo as we are, with no room left to store someone else’s insecurity, even for a little while.
Whatever attic he’s been sitting in for however long, he’ll love you just as much as the day you left him there. He’ll accept your abuse and your tears and your selfish love like he always has.
He’ll make you remember how to be a person.

[www.rockpapercynic.com]

 

Sorry ’bout that.

I know that I haven’t updated the site
in quite some time. I assure you that I haven’t forgotten
about it, and I’ll be posting some more things shortly.
I just need to get my thoughts together.