“Why is my gun pink? Why isn’t it black like yours?”
Tears, memories weighing like lead, paint, lots of paint, dogs in heat, fired, hired, in love, all alone, all alone in love. Blurry, to say the least. Structure-less. Good moments too, of course, but I still get home and feel like it’s been a shitty day. I guess it’s the nights that make them shitty. I’m sick, and it’s not getting any better. Eating would help. And sleep, probably. Whatever.
The worst part about being sick are the dreams. They’re even more fucked up than I am. Last night I dreamt about a squirrel doing robot dance moves singing ‘All. Your. Base. Are Belong. To Us.’ in a mechanoid voice. And there was a S.W.A.T. team somewhere, too, with people wanting another color gun. I think I was in it. It’s so totally screwed up it wakes you up, but not entirely, so after a while you can’t seperate reality from dream anymore, and that’s where the fun begins. And, you can hardly breathe, with your nose so full of fricken’ snot, it’s fighting for room with your brain. I Hate being sick.
"I think my virginity is growing back." I laughed when my friend joked about it, but it makes disturbingly much sense. I bet if I’d get laid some day I’ll have to restrain myself from saying ‘um, it’s my first time’ cause that’s probably how it’ll feel.
There must be a name for the complex that makes people proud of being a freak in others’ eyes. Fat people that only want to get fatter and lay in bed all day long have it, "gay pride" fags certainly have it, there’s dozens examples. Since shortly I’m one of those, considering my "situation" as celibacy. For I am greater than a mere man, without primal urges like sex and food. And the world is not round, oh no, it is kinda shaped like a burrito.
The party is coming closer every day. I’m beginning to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. But I suppose I can only fuck up so much.
The guy I’m trying to get a place with is bass player in a band, and the singer of that band has opened a copyshop. I helped paint and assemble furniture, and in exchange I got to print my flyers for free. Not with the desired effect, though. Quite a few people let me know they can’t come. I can imagine a party with music that you don’t like or hardly even know isn’t too high of a priority on the agenda. But, we’re optimistic! …
Whenever someone says to me "Only a couple more days before the party!" I’m always amazed for a moment, as if they’re asking me "I got a party coming up do you want to play". I haven’t got the slightest clue what I’m doing. I don’t know if I have enough or even the right music. I suppose I should have picked a later date or experimented more. Coulda Woulda Shoulda. I always have the lame excuse "I’m new at this" if I turn out to suck.
There’s that dax bike against the house across the street again. I honestly don’t know why it fucks me up so much. If he’d see me he’d probably laugh in my face, I know I would. Sometimes I’m just sad, a regular hopeless case. Getting a message or email just makes my day, while he gets to fuck her and love her back. "Oh but he could never have with her what I once had." Heh. I’m so amusing. Like cripled dogs are amusing. Sad little fuck.