I recomend getting your heart trampled on to anyone
I recomend walking around naked in your living room
Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)
It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)
Wait until the dust settles

I recomend biting off more than you can chew to anyone
I recomen sticking your foot in your mouth at anytime
Throw it down (the caution blocks you from the wind)
Hold it up (to the rays)
You wait and see when the smoke clears

You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn ...(Alanis Morisette)

-and a fat lot of good it ever does you.

I'm staying up at nights, with no excuse and nothing to do, because I don't want to sleep.
I'm putting myself to sleep in the middle of the day, because I don't want to be conscious.
I'm sitting here staring at this screen with nothing to write, nothing to say and nothing to think.
I'm listening to music, the irrelevant kind, trying to block it all out.
And it's working.

Feel Yippeeee!-fied: Got an email just now from Father Figure no. 2: Gordyy! He's sooo sweet :)
(I just had a thought, I get more emails from Father Figure no. 2 : Gordyy than I do from Father. In fact, I suspect that if I was to write to Father Figure no.1: Sting, the chances of me getting an email back from him would be greater than getting one from Father (and speaking of Father, I had the absurd desire to listen to Joe Cocker and I've been doing so for the past few days (not now. Now I'm listenning to Savage Garden, which I haven't heard in ages)))

Feel vaguely amused: Crazy Irish neighbours have found another excuse to rejoice in celebration of having no reason to celebrate, no doubt (Because the frequency at which they celebrate, thay aught to have run out of reasons long ago). They're blasting crap Irish music again and what's worse (wait for it) singing along to it. I suspect by 3:00 am they'll get pissed enough to start fighting amongst themselves, at which point, said fight will spill out into the street and guests/friends will tuck tail and return home. Until the next excuse to resume this cycle.

Feel like pot: How do I cope with this? I don't, I'm imune to it. I'm also wearing freaky eye makeup which Huden (talking to Daoud abi) just told me to wash off coz it looks freaky (which was the point) - man, haven't I the right to do what I want to my face at un-Godly hours of the night when no one has to see it? They never let me get my lip pierced either :( WHICH I STILL WANT BY THE WAY!

Feel sick: Has any one else noticed that Hershey's choclate has a vomit like after taste? Bloody yanks aint got nothing against Cadburys.

Feel the need to be superficial: otherwise I might succumb to the urge to shave off half my hair- which would be a big shame coz it's only just started looking half decent after the last dissaster. In fact it's looking rather rock stylish- hmmm...maybe I should get the scissors and give it a more punk edge...NO STOP, YOU'RE DOING IT AGAIN!

David Bowie was cute when he was Ziggy Stardust.
Jeff Buckley was cuter.
I'm listening to Hallelujah and feeling like a razor blade.
...
Damn.

This is not exaggeration. It's not self indulgent, live journal, angsting. And it's not vomit-ranting of all the thoughts that don't agree with my system.
I've lost sleep trying to make sense of this.
And this is what it looks like:
I embraced my disillusionment a long time ago.
I've been taught to compromise everything.
And I'm grateful for every last bit of it.
Now I'm at a point in myself where I've very nearly given up trying to fight for the second half of my life.
The half I grew up hoping I wouldn't have to compromise.
But the things you said last night brought back every one of my doubts and every last self-destructive bitternesses towards an injustice I have no power against.
And who's gonna take responsibility for it?

You know the great classic romances...no kisses...Nothing at all. Very pure. That's why they're great. Feelings that are unspoken are unforgettable. (Nostalghi- Tarkovsky)

They exchanged notes like children. My grandfather made his out of newspaper clippings (...) Meet me under the wooden bridge and I will show you things you have never, ever seen. The "M" was taken from the army that would take his mother's life: GERMAN FRONT ADVANCES ON SOVIET BORDER; the "eet" from their approaching warships: NAZI FLEET DEFEATS FRENCH AT LESACS; the "me" from the peninsula they were blue-eyeing: GERMANS SURVIVE CRIMEA; the "und" from too little, too late; AMERICAN WAR FUNDS REACH ENGLAND; the "er" from the dog of dogs: HITLER RENDERS NONAGGRESSION PACT INOPERATIVE...and so on, and so on, each note a collage of love that could never be, and war that could.

(J. S. Foer)

Sadness of the Fickle Human Nature:

or Why Being Enlightened and Being in Love is the Same.

-another one of those rants by someone who thinks too much at ungodly hours of the night-

I'm sitting here finding new sadnesses for Brod's list. I'm wonderring why it's so easy to come too dangerously close to losing something that ought to justify everything about why you ARE. And what do you call that then? What's close enough when even 'if', you have no other way to be? I'm listenning to crap, sad music (because everything human is imperfect and with it we have a tallent for creating bathos) and drawing out the difference between believing that God is One, and knowing that God is One.

How do I attest to a single truth when I'm condemned to change? How many faces can you face in a single reflection?

My enlightenment is not the life of a recluse nor an end to anything, when life persists.

It is to be constant in an inconstant world.

-And here's the Shakespeare part, not because no self respecting rant should be without Shakespeare, but because I don't know anything more relevant to all that I want to say these days, and fail so miserably at doing so.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

(...) it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

This here, is me flirting.
I am not in love.

She wished there were another commandment, an eleventh etched into the tablets: Do not change.
(J. S. Foer)

I'm gonna go back to writing poetry no one reads.

Sounds: very loud Hajime Chitose.
What am I trying to drown out? My life. Is it obvious? Does my honesty scare you? Then piss off coz it gets worse.
Speaking of which, my ingenious bowl-of-fruit metaphor to justify Ryo's Musical snobbery has gone hay-wire after listening to the last CD he gave me.

Elest when checking out CD: What tha-??? Wha-?? What is this? Is this right? Did he get the CD mixed up with one of his sister's stuff? ..SHIT, WHAT'S GOING ON? WHAT IS THIS?! AAAAARGH! MAKE IT STOP! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE!

ahem. I like Hajime Chitose. Hajime Chitose rocks. I think I'll make it louder.

Meanwhile: Hope that after I've gotten all this out of my system I'll have the courage to delete it and everything will be fine in the way it is when you have a secret you'll only tell to tree hollows, and cats stuck on roofs, and bottomless wells, and holes.
So I'm telling it to cyber space.
To the space that no one can read, that is the between of The Lines.
Or the space where speech-bubble-question-marks would appear above your head in an ideally cartoon world. (wouldn't that be ideal? If we were all more expressive.)
Because this is just too absurd.

Now to answer the most-asked-question of the moment, upon popular demand.
Our question was: "Elest are you blind? Or stupid? or both?"
And the answer is: Both. And a tad pathetic.
But you can't stop just because you're told to.You can't pull a switch or simply turn it off from the mains. You can sleep. And then wake up again and want to pull a switch, or something more humanly possible. (pause rant.)
...
I'm not writing this for you, I'm writing it for me. And I'm so glad you'll never read it.

So I'm starting all over: Count the days and the weeks and hopefully by the time it's months, I'll wonder why I was being so stupid.
I wish I could tell you not to call me again. But that'd just make me seem more pathetic.

I promise I'll delete this when I'm feeling better.
I promise I'll feel better.

-Grow up believing you're gonna change the world,
And you lose faith in your humanity.

-Grow up believing you're gonna become something meaningful,
And you lose sight of what that meant, in a plight to find your calling by trying to draw meaning out of every meaningless thing.

-Grow up with a crush on Peter Pan,
And you end up a late bloomer attracted only to 'boys' who are boys in all the wrong ways and the half-starved-feminine types, for reasons which couldn't possibly be sexual.

-Grow up daydreaming,
And your scepticism towards dreams has driven them away from off your pillow forever.

-Grow up seeking lonely roof tops,
And you're forever trying to surround yourself with people to drive away the dissapointment of all those lonelinesses never having done anything for you...
And you're avoiding starry skies like you avoid an old frined you never bothered to keep in touch with; because the awkwardness of not knowing what to say, even after having been so close once.

-Grow up wanting to grow into Amalthea,
And you become something dark-goth, in mourning of the innocence and puirty that never stood a chance.

-Grow up not believing you'll ever grow up,
And you don't, even though you do.

Standing at this crossroads, jet-lag from the disilusionment still lingerring, is a kid. And they keep telling him/her, already (not a moment to lose), that apparently he/she's got his/her whole life ahead of him/her.

I've got my whole life ahead of me
And I'm terrified because I don't know what to do with it.


The world's your oyster. Have it raw.
And if it make's us sick, maybe we can get our money back.

I am not sad.

When it comes to falling, do men hit harder? Is the velocity stronger? Has it something to do with weight? Our physical make up? Or is it that our masculine fellow beings are the pansy girls who moan more over their pain?
Maybe it's cultural?
Maybe we've been fashioned by a world which has no sympathy for melodrama; so that we can't allow ourselves the the indulgence...to wallow in self pity, to wallow in desperation, to wallow in the sadness eating up inside.
You do not deserve sympathy.
You do not deserve comfort.
You do not deserve this sadness, when others have sadnesses that are so much more real.
I hate you for wanting to.
I write it on your flesh, your limbs, where you can see it and not forget.
So it begins all over again. Some things just won't take the hint and piss off for good. They're like those annoying acquaintances you never wish you made.
Any way, initially there was more to this crap I've been needing to spew all week, but couldn't. I deleted it all and fealt real good afterwards.
Sometimes though, it's better not to say anything. Not because apparenlty in 22 years of not saying what matterred to make a difference, because I never knew what it was, and because it may not have been proper -(and I'm sorry if you're reading this and still finding it improper and too personal. If it makes you ashamed, then don't.) -but because words are so ugly.
STOP TRYING TO GIVE MY CONFUSION A NAME WHEN ITS TOO BIG AND MESSY FOR ME TO CONTAIN IT IN SHAPE. STOP WATERING DOWN MY FEELINGS.

J Rockers are Dorks
-I have no idea who made this, but thank you. Lol!
Ps. Spot the Haido.