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Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in invert heath's LiveJournal:

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Friday, September 30th, 2005
11:15 pm
born on the cusp: it's bigger than love.
sit down. and listen.

last night i went fishing
and on the pier sticking out on the beach
i sat down and waited to let my line reach
to linger down in the water
and so i took time to wonder
about the fish all beneath me
and remembered the times i stopped breathing completely.

it's like life under powerlines
or like mud spit into dirt.
where puddles of rain,
sit soaking our shirts.
and baseball sounds sad
through the radio loop
and our young sisters in sundresses peek under the stoop
to point out the vines
bursting flowers from our split kitten's fountain
her little darling's belly exploding
it's the ethereal sign
of our spit-shiny spring time
while dad leans off the front porch
and mutters the words that send young hearts toward deep sleep
"things will be fine"
our dry dusty mantra "things will be fine."

i just got back from massachusetts. i spent 8 days hitchiking around a state without any real reason. and of course i always fall in love with girls who i can only see once, or maybe touch twice. and before i can begin to hate them and find fault in myself again, it's gone and i'm in the backseat of another station wagon, staring at the spot on the window where the reflection and the projection just blur into white light. i'm just no good at this and my quest to return to gainesville and fall back into life continues. a continuing saga.

and so it's just complete, utter madness. useless and hateful. oh well, whatever, i'll just sing a new song.

..h
(back from new england)
7 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Tuesday, August 9th, 2005
3:22 pm
an open letter for the past and the future's future.
you're worried. you're worried and you're nervous, you're sad and lonely and it's so obvious and just spilling and falling, raining from your eyes. just like drops of water haning from a leaky faucet, slipping off and falling. you hold everything too close, squeezing it tight, asphyxiation licking the last bits of life and love and the faint scent of happiness which somehow stuck to your fingers and toes. your feet smell like grass and dirt and earth and you still don't think that sunshine has a smell, or that maybe, when you lay down in tall weeds and with your head tilted back and your mouth open awe-ing that without constriction in your chest it's easier to breathe. and black ants dont bite, and birds and bugs and tiny things just sweep around you and you still won't to the flowers, naming "pretty weeds," shrugging, a misfortune which you have decided to become unable to cure.

you're worried, and you're sad, and there's no outlet for any of these thoughts, so they linger, make you bitter. more than anything you begin to want to be happy, to be tickeled. you can't taste rain, you can't see the individual blades in the grass, you can't feel the soft vibration through the seawater from a passing motorboat. but you wish for it, you wish for it more than anything, and you show these secrets to no one. they just dissapear quietly, twisting painful contortions like smoke rising from an extinguished candle in the middle of the night while you stare at your ceiling, straining your eyebrows into a perpetual expression of sadness and worry. it's the face you make when you make wishes on every long eyelash that fall on soft cheeks and fingers, a wish that counts twice when the clock hits consecutive digits. at 1:11 you wish for love. at 2:22 you hope for companionship. at 3:33 you imagine happiness.

and if you could only trust people. if you could trust people like tiny kittens, small hearts, pure life. blessed/cursed. if only people could resonate with the same honest vibrations that extend from a sleeping kitten, like karmic radiation, shakrahs exploding with peace. trust, and the hum floating out from somewhere unknown lulling you to sleep. a dull hum rising from the thought that maybe, if you could start slow- giving some love away to some anyone, that t could be somehow guaranteed they would give it back. as hard as it is to imagine, as hard as it is to find, i don't need to tell you that it's possible. _______ _______ has unlimited love to give, it's welling up inside her, it's ready to rain down like tears leaking from giant bars of sunshine, it's been spilling over since forever ago. since before america and before old sidewalks webbed wih cracks where boys walked and whistled and where girls wished for warm weather and wet hearts, while fathers wept and their daughters stopped wishing and started loving. you've been ready to open or burst or, fuck i don't know, you're ready for something, it's nothing i haven't seen before, you need a second hand, somebody to love and to worry about, but more importantly you need that someone, whoever you choose, you need them to assure you that they're worth worrying about- that they'll worry about you too, and that no matter what: if you let yourself in close to them they will still worry and always wait to be worried for. and no one knows why to worry or when. no one knows how, only that it must be your heart beating, and pumping without your own fist. whatever's a reason and there's plenty of time to wonder, wander. and at 4:44 there will be someone to call.

you can pick the day you die on. you can pick the time, pick an ending. but i know one thing, that when you die, a hopeful ghost is haunted by his wishes, having since become so hopeless.

..H

Current Mood: numb
4 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Friday, April 8th, 2005
10:32 pm
Last night, Montell Jordan and the RX Bandits played for free at the student union here at the University of Florida. Montell played a killer set, closing with "This Is How We Do It" and opening with a really swinging cover of "Analog Boy." After the show, the Bandits had to head back to Jacksonville, but Montell followed us back to the Outhouse and partied with us. It was really refreshing seeing a guy like Monty drinking Natty out of a keg just like the rest of us College Kids. Apparently, he graduated from Tulane and was in Omega Psi Phi. During the party some people did funnels, more people did keg stands, and Sarah Simpson was busy making balloon animals and giving people buzzcuts for a dollar.

Well, after the party, I got a ride back to my crib and I stayed up for a while, watching a Dart Tournament on ESPN and chit-chatting with my roommate about how beautiful and bootylicious Ciara is. It's almost nervewracking how quickly she's been able to come up behind and nearly surpass Beyonce. In all honesty, the politics of the hip-hop world have had everyone just absolutely reeling lately.

Today I withdrew from all my classes and so I have to pack up and get out of the dorm by Sunday or they're going to start sending a guy to knock on the door and fill our electrical outlets with Silly-Putty. I'm going to be in West Palm working for most of the summer, and then I'm heading back here to take classes during Summer B and start working on getting my male-modeling empire up and running.

So, I guess I'll have to catch up with all of you cats later, for now I'm off to play stickball with the lads down the street. 90210 Theme Party coming soon, keep your eyes open.

Current Mood: chipper
3 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Sunday, March 20th, 2005
2:31 am
GUIDE TO BE LIKE DONNY:

step one: alcohol, all the time, ntil you pass out. wake up ONLY to drink more.
step two: needle drugs.
step three: fal in love and get fucked over.
step four: miss home, reminesce and wade in nostalgia.
step five: just fucking die.


i am still here.
5 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Sunday, February 27th, 2005
3:15 am
ok, get this.
so the two least married groups of people in america:

asian men, african american women.

tonight i went to the most lame party ever, where everybody there thought everybody else was too drunk, and two girls were passing out drunk like 9th graders, and because of that, like 4 "party monitors" were pacing the party telling everyone they were drunk and should stop drinking. basically, it was a party full of 20+ year old who really had all waited until they were old enough befor they started drinking. it was like an 8th grade slumbr party, excopt everyone already had pubes and IDs.

at one point, i dropped a full beer bottle, and i tried picking up the glass with my hands. i didn't realize there was still small peices of glass in my fingers and i cut my chest open, i only had one shirt, so i just became the kid with the bloody shirt. apparently this was even more "evidence" that i was "too drunk" and party monitor brad wouldn't leave me the fuck alone, telling me that i needed to lay off, and that he was just trying to help me, "i know you're excited, but listen, we can't have you overdoing it."

thanks party monitor brad, but uh, i do this just about every day, in COLLEGE. if i do happen to overdo, i welcome you to pour sugar in my gastank and leave me for dead.

the point is, after autumn left, it was pretty clear they wanted me out. they all thought i was too drunk (4 beers) and that i was trying to rape the drunk girls (get real). i was in the bathroom, offering my assitance when they basically yanked me out by my collar, the reason: i was suggesting they take off the girls' 3 inch heels. maybe it's just me, but i figured the last thing a girl three sheets to the wind, who is vomiting every half hour on the hour needed were three inch heels to deal with every time she stumbled to the bathroom.

apparently my suggestions were simply outrageous (and apparently, threatening, dangerous, and subtly sexual? i dunno, whatever)

anyway, my dad is kicking me off the computer, like i'm fucking 13 or something. so i'm going to go watch espn. im home in west palm for spring break, if you want to hang out, book and appointment. (haha)

.donny

Current Mood: aggravated
18 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Monday, February 14th, 2005
1:43 am
Fuck you, ______ _____
College Is Important.

See?

It's been a while guys, I know, but my life has been a complete rise and fall lately. Right now, I'm in the midst of an overdramatic relationship situation. I'm working my way out of a pretty overwhelming debt, and college is slowly becoming less dull. Spring break is less than 2 weeks away, and I've been writing again.

This weekend started on Wednesday, which is a little unusual, considering Thursday is the new Friday, but lucky for Justin, Jacob, Joe and Action Jackson, Joe's parents were kind enough to donate multiple Kash N Karry gift cards to us. Brilliantly, we made use of the available funds to cash in on a keg. So, starting on Wednesday night, the five of us began working on the most beautiful steel barrel full of what would become 2 days and 2 nights of glorious head swims and teenage decadance. Jacob and I made it to the Shamrock around midnight, he did a little spittle right before we made it into the bar, but later on, Nasty Nicole would end up blowing him up, flooding the floor in the back of the bar with a shimmering gooey pink puddle of vomit. Jacob and I giggled as she was like, basically carried out of the bar by this guy who I guess was like, laying the mack down on her, but I just remember being totally blown away by the fact she was completely doubled up, stumbling towards the back corridor, and with the help of yellow-shirted sleazeball, she makes it outside to a random carhood, at which point yellowshirt begins to fetch her tiny pails of water, for like 45 minutes. All I could think was, "dude, she's young, drunk, and full of alcohol. If this guy ends up pumping her full of cum, he immediately makes the list of most disgusting people ever. Not for riding a drunk chick's ass, but for riding Nasty Nicole's ass." I mean, to be brutal, and honest, the bitch is perpetually wasted, she slurs like it's her dayjob, and she's mostly famous for falling into me wherever I go, breathing hot vodka-cheese breath on me and groping me with her long witch-like fingers. She's a complete mess. After Jacob and I grew tired of the swaying, drunken orgy, which was fitted with bad open-mic night soundtrack we rolled back to the keg in the kitchen, and swallowed a handful of vicodin each. Eventually Wednesday did the slowfade into Thursday, and after class and all of that shit, we began preparing for the ever-important Atlantic. To make a really complicated evening seem simple: Justin got wasted and passed out on a couch by the door of the club. Jacob and I split a bottle of Liquid Hydrocodone, Jacob went into drunken redneck mode, I made a mad dash to drive Justin home and make it back to the club in time to do some more dancing. I danced like a Laker girl on pretty much every cute little number in the whole place, Jon Bush cheered me on when i ran out of decent looking ladies and moved onto a sexy pole dance sesh. Grace called me, and stumbled over to the front of the Atlantic, and holy shit, talk about being three sheets to the wind: she made Justin look like the goddamn Pope. I seriously felt like with the introduction of a keg into the lives of the 5 of us, all composure and prior drunken sensibility went flying out the window faster than a condom off the genitalia of a first-time fourteen-year-old. Eventually, I began to understand that this was actually really hilarious, and so from the Atlantic, Jacob, Grace and myself piled into my car, and thanks to the horribly off-tempo clear amateur extra help shifting for me on the way home, we played the most ridiculous game of Gin Rummy I've ever experienced. It was as if someone had sent 5 drunk -and I mean real drunks, not just 5 college kids and a bottle of wine, I'm talking like, 5 college kids and 151 water fountain on Sunday morning right before church- to a baptism, after explaining it was going to be similar to jello wrestling. Grace won, I think? And Justin was passed the fuck out on the couch, snoring. We conviced Jacob to let us smoke ciggarettes in the house, and within 20 minutes we were all coughing and rubbing out our red eyes like we had spent a half hour in a Zyklon B gas chamber. By this time, the keg was floating pretty freely, bobbing like a buouy in the Pacific.Somehwere between 2 AM on Friday morning and 6 AM Friday morning, the keg finally coughed it's last beer into my cup and I drove back to my dorm, the whole time, Grace fighting with her boyfriend on the phone, with me humming "One Headlight" by the Wallflowers, praying to god I didn't get pulled over for driving a car that was winking at oncoming traffic. On Friday, I slept. All day. At 11:30 Friday night, I woke up, walked to my car in like 45 degree weather and drove to the Outhouse, which was essentially the location of a 5 keg party, and the most absurd and random gathering of college students at that house to date. 50 feet from the driveway, I get pulled over by a cop, who searches my car, but not my pockets, comments that I look high on narcotics, and lets me off, telling me to make sure that everybody at the party stops parking on the street. After drowning pretty much everyone at the party beneath 5 kegs full of beer, Keith and I make it back to my dorm, snort sleeping pills and fall asleep for 4 hours. At 10:30, it was wake, rub out our eyes, and hit the gas station on the way to Seth's. I bought a 12 pack, and finished it as we hit the highway, heading noth to Tallahassee. Once we got there, and after we played volleyball, I passed out on Andrew's tile floor, and woke up again at midnight, ready for more party. We went to a couple bars, I puked on the floor of one of them and pushed a really tattered tweed couch over the puddle. At this point, I washaving Keith buy drinks for himself for his birthday, assuring him I'd pay him back. At this point, he still hasn't been redeemed. Sunday morning I woke up at 9:30, and after finishing all of the beers and gin on the coffee table in front of me, Keith and I stole Bill's car keys and drove around the FSU campus, enjoying the beautiful weather. When we finally got the group together to head back to Gainesville, I mixed a gin and tonic in what was essentially a bucket, and drank it as fast as I could while we watched the end of In & Out on TV. Once I was suffiently drunka nd ready for 2 hours on the road, I finally was able to talk Keith into buying me a couple 32s of Olde English. Nick made me chug one outside of the car before we got on the highway, and the second one I finished just as my bladder began preparing to explode all over the backseat. When we finally made it back into Alachua county, my speech was slurring worse than Nasty Nicole's and I felt satisfied that I had finally acheived something really special.

It's been a while since the last time i was drunk for essentially what would be five days straight, and I was surprised that I was able to maintain it so well without reaching a point of complete physical and mental exhaustion Thanks to my loyal friends in the pharmacies, I stayed on my feet, and never let myself down. Although I was completely incapable of maitaining a real conversation, or even begin to swing any sort of charm on a girl, I was still able to hook up 6 times, which averages to about 1.2 girls per day, and most importantly, if you're dancing with them, you don't even need to know their names. You just have to recognize their "style" and have a firm grip on the beltloops. So now, as I sit recapping the weekend at 5:00 in the morning on Monday, listening to Dr. Dre and contemplating the potential "religious" message behind my previous 5 day lifestyle, I've come to realize that happiness doesn't come from money, or women, or friends and family. It doesn't spout forth from good music, good food or even Keith Hauser's birthday. Happiness is pretty much a steel barrel hugged by a red trash can and some ice, not yet floating, and still ejaculating the most smooth and golden nectar a Wednesday night could possibly offer.

And so at this point, I'm just totally sick and fucking tired of how everything, and all I hear about is Valentines Day. Well I don't give a fuck. And I wrote a poem about it too, it goes like this:

I dedicate this to all the pretty girls
All the pretty girls
All the pretty girls, in the world
And the ugly girls too
Cause to me your pretty anyways baby

You give me your number, I call you up
You act like you're pussy dont interrupt-
I don't have no problem with you fuckin' me
But I have a little problem with you not fuckin' me
Baby you know ima take care of you
Cause you say you got my baby, and I know it ain't true.

I pissed on the carpet in Nick's rental car too, except he doesn't know it, and when I got out of the car somewhere north of Gainesville to shit, I walked into the gas staion with my pants pulled all the way down in the back. We saw a 12 year old kid drive a car too, I swear to god, I said we should shoot out his tires. I left my phone in my dorm room and when I got back it said: 37 Missed calls. What the fuck? Well for now, it's time to start planning for Spring Break part two, I'm thinking about just not wearing anything except a basketball uniform the whole week. On Friday night, I smoked seven ciggarettes all at once and then afterwards ended up puking into the fire at the Outhouse, for some reason it made the fire flare up really high and caught part of the tree above it on fire, I guess because of all the Tanqueray in my stomach. At one point i climbed up into the tree to hang over the fire and ended up falling onto the logs next to it and my sleeve of my sweater caught on fire so Jacob pushed me into the ground and rubbed dirt all over me and in my hair. I haven't showered in a few days.

So get out there motherfuckers, and ruin your lives. Cause if you get it right the first time, then nobody's gonna feel the need to even bother giving you a second chance.

if you want to talk to me because we haven't spoken in a while, don't call me because i lost my phone in the 'hood tonight when i was trying to find this crackhead i used to buy drugs from. so write me a letter and stick a stampy stamp all over the front of it and in the middle of the envelope write this:

motherfuckin' donny bee
15021502 mallory hall
gainesville, fl 32612

and i'll probably pack a return envelope with firecrackers and stickers and get it back at you. later.

your pal,
donny

ps: fuck you.

Current Mood: okay
12 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Thursday, January 13th, 2005
6:39 am
optimism.
alright, so..

even though numbers stretch for infinity in each; both positive and negative directions: by folding the number line in half and then claiming that each positive number is able to cancel out and therefore nullify it's negative counterpart basically states that by folding an equivocal shape in equal halves would essentially allow for that shape to dissapear, simply based upon matching forms, and this would also support an argument stating that mirrors do not in fact multiply, or double that which they reflect, yet instead, they diminish the object, and thus the object in general.

well yeah fucking right.

but yet, here i stand, even arguing myself over this same debacle: the slight fact that i actually believe that because i have been entirely up, in complete pure and beautiful form, that these crushing, and chronic lows, have capped what would be a "cycle" and simply justifies the end to a means which has left me reeling, feeling mostly destroyed, and only partially motivated to keep breathing.

my head can't seem to stop wondering, debating the give/take relationship between more breaths, and more consciousness.. rather, if the end of one would allow the other to also dissapear? if there's a way to somehow maintain one without the other?

and who's to say that personalities are completely devoid of mathematics, that we can't help but live by numerals, and that in 4 days, or 4 hours, 4 seconds could still change the lives of boys and young girls not seeking someone. in an instant everyone clicks.

now, whether you fall into or out of sync is completely up in the air, but the fact of the matter is, nobody wins forever, and most importantly, nobody ever wins for more time than they lose. even if that means that the last 4 seconds outweigh, in purity, the last 4 years.

no debt in the universe goes unpaid.

i wonder what it's like to die. i wonder if it feels like falling in love, because being in love is probably just like being dead, but actually dying, that must be quicker, and probably closer to, or just like, falling in love. now, i'm not going to ask something like "oh, but who's to say that either one happens? that anyone feels either?"

or wait, how about "how do we know that falling in love isn't actually falling out of nothing? like rather than 'climbing a tree,' wouldn't you really just be 'leaving the ground?' "

and it's stupid things like this that i think about, and at night when the time rolls around to go off, get away, dissapear or feel pretty, when the moments from really far away come back and this time, they feel better than before, and more vivid, more colorful, they smell better. i'm usually waiting, tapping my foot impatiently, ready to slide back into what is probably becoming the most empty and lonely time of my life to date.

wait, but listen: "never been dumped, 'cause i'm the most mackinest! never been jumped, 'cause i'm the most packinest."

truthfully? on that small list of things that make me happy, the things that make me feel pretty, right below the beastie boys and the nighttime, swimming, drugs and my dog, are my baby girls and my memories of living in west palm beach, particularly my 10th and 11th grade years, and of course, the sunny spring and confusion of my senior year. you know, i really had it made, and there was nothing else i could have asked for.

in the end, i really did this to myself, and i guess i have to stop waiting and hoping for someone to pull me up, because nothing or nobody will except me, and not just me, not me today or me tomorrow, but two or three years ago 'me' the same kid i am now except with much more reality to dig for. it's all still here, and i know that if i can still remember it, i can still have it. i swear, i'm totally not lying about this: it all really happened, and i swear to god, i was there, i was at the TOP and i could see everyone from there, and i just, i guess... i just rolled off the other side of the hill.

it's stupid to just like, try to recreate these quick flashes of pure memories that tint my evenings, i mean, i might as well pump you with a quick source of alcohol and everybody sees the same things: there's nothing quite like being young, and then you've got the same old things to say or think, the same old things to see: that you've come so much further than you had ever planned, and based upon that same mathematic principle, you just have to keep riding that sine wave, and then it's just like..

we live again.

but for now, there's nothing else beyond my deep blue bedsheets. and i'm taking the same color pills.

"chestnuts, pecans
throatwood and saddles

heartswallow ashtin
helms versed and lasting

sweat pours so vastly
tears sag the mast wings"

what the hell?
i mean, sometimes, nostalgia just isn't fun.
-or wait! wait, i got it:
sometimes nostalgia..
just ain't...
what it USED to be!

ahahaha!

has anyone ever read "Ode To A Nightingale?"
shit man, sheesh.. talk about the story of my life..

goodnight/goodmorning




so that's it.

Current Mood: nothing.
4 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Wednesday, January 12th, 2005
3:05 am
here.

i guess i was there. i mean, i had to be.. but i can't remember... makes me wonder why i need to go back? its just, deep inside me, the same motherly instict to feed a child cough syrup, to lull her to sleep i would just breathe in her ears. i mean, to be really honest? in high school, car keys were like the keys to the bars and to be free in bars was all there was.

it's ok, because at thsi point i've already had the best times of my life...and so any letters to write, i love you guys.

.donny



Current Mood: nostalgic
3 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Tuesday, December 14th, 2004
3:19 am
it's christmas, time for my break, the end of the first semester, and i'm heading home.

except that, the one girl i'd die to go home and see, i could really care less about. and the truth is, i think she's the most miserable girl in my life.

and so i sometimes ask myself why i even go home to visit at all.

oh well, whatever, amen.

Current Mood: shitty (spectacular?)
6 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Monday, November 15th, 2004
4:48 am
paperplates and fingerpaints

pour la fille la plus belle, mon bébé.

we were younger, but not much. but still. she pulled my arm like loose strings on a sweater, begged to ride the tilt-a-whirl. she was smaller than me, and so she had to look up to really make me listen. well she did, i let her hand go, and so she stopped pulling. she rode the tilt-a-whirl and her keys and coins clinked in my pockets lightly. the same pocketsong i held for her every night. i watched her fly by, and each time she passes i can see her eyelashes and her t-shirt blurs. she watches me stand beneath her, and this time i'm looking up. she reaches out when she passes again, she reaches and misses and laughs and smiles and leans against the child next to her. she stretches, but she can't reach and her keys and coins sing silent silver songs in my pockets because right below her i stand still.

when she's done the gears stop groaning. the bar is lifted and she runs toward me, passing the other passengers, and she runs with her arms swinging like untied shoelaces, her shoes hugging her feet and then she's stuck to me and fishing in my pockets. she reaches inside and she presses her mouth to my neck. she's smiling, her mouth is split open like a strawberry and i can feel the space between her lips. she's laughing and breathing a warmer summer on my neck, giggling her bubbly delight all over my ears and cheeks.

she loves me. she says she does. she says it usually late at night, when she slides her rings from the tips of her fingers and tucks wet hair behind her ears. her earrings gone before the shower, but she forgets about her rings. she whispers it when i sit on the edge of her bed and i fumble with her pillowcase. her mother does the wash, and now her daughters eyes are washing gray, but as she steps into bedclothes and hops around into nightsocks she never looks away from mine.

i beleive her. it's not because i want to, but because i know she's telling the truth. i saw her lie to her mother once about bedtimes, and another time about her walk home from school. when she lies her eyes sink like fishing line, and her mom sighs but stays silent. and when she's telling me, she stares me straight on, and upstairs the floorboards creak. but it's only her father turning over in his sleep. and her mother stays still. she stays still without sighs.

she wishes her dad wasn't so sad. and all day she'll lay on her back, and stare up at the sky, or if i stand above her, she'll gaze at me upside down. she wishes her dad would let her hold my hands. she wishes she could grab my hips and point out things, but her father is unsettled and so she only points, and we lean toward each other and giggle. but at night when they're sleeping, we lean on each other, and then together we lean against my car. she whispers words that catch her short breath and drift below my ears, and only when she looks up will her eyes reach up to mine. that's when i know she isn't lying. and i say, "don't you wish you could go to sleep and never wake up and never have to think who likes you and who doesn't like you. you could close your eyes and you wouldn't ahve to worry about what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you're strange because you like to dream and dream. and no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy."

she shifts her weight from foot to foot and i tell her that before she met me she must have just sat and stared at her walls, watching where they meet in all the corners of her room. she laughs, blooming, and she looks up, and her eyelids are tall as bookshelves, and painted blue as a bluejay's back, and she's beautiful, and against the sky she's infinite. and she smiles softly. she looks and i look, and we lean against each other and brush our lips on each other necks and kiss each others' eyes shut. and when we're old, we'll take turns. we'll take turns, tucking in and turning out the lights. and i know she loves me because we make the same wish, and share it softly, pinkies linked. she says that my eyelids are for tickling the cheeks of our babies.

..donny

4.42 AM / 15 november, 2004



Current Mood: delirious
5 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Saturday, November 13th, 2004
8:15 pm
train dodge ... dig it ...
C:\Documents and Settings\Donny Barth\Desktop\edit

!!!

hey guys

i'm really horrible with this livejournal layout thing, but once upon a time, my buddy rainyxeyes (explosions___ ) helped me out: i illustrated a background and she put it up on my journal for me.

well, for some reason or another, recently it got erased, so if anybody who knows about this kind of thing could maybe leave me a comment and offer some help, that would be killer, i'd like to maybe reinvent my journal entirely.

your pal
.donny

Current Mood: weeiirdd
14 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Thursday, October 28th, 2004
2:39 am
the red sox won the world series, and i got drunk the whole drive back to gainesville.

i was thinking all these silly thoughts, and then i realized, 'well i'm just silly, cause i'm drunk.'

so thats it.
86 years, a clean sweep, and it happened in MY lifetime.
go in peace, serve the lord.

.donny

Current Mood: thankful
4 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Saturday, October 16th, 2004
7:43 am
i went to orlando last weekend to visit my friends from sarasota. falconetti and i spent a few hours in his dorm on saturday afternoon scoping for people passing by his window, whenever we caught one, we'd turn his computer speakers toward the screen and play the Seinfeld theme at full volume. at the time, it was probably the most hilarious thing we'd ever done before. it doesn't translate to be nearly as funny in a livejournal recreation.

in other news, tonight at the out house we had a huge keg party slash feature film shoot. chris bonnell and his crazy crew of tweaked out melodramady filmmakers were turning the house into some sort of twisted "abandoned boarding school for boys" that had since become an "abortion clinic." fuck if i know what the story is really about, but regardless, we didn't have any problems throwing a mega shindig in the backyard, complete with full-force bonfire and cold weather, whiel chris created his movie masterpeice in the frontyard.

so somebody definitely let the chicks loose tonight. grace called me (as usual) looking to hang out, i filled her in on the party details, she had me pick her and her friend katie up to join in on the excitement. well, as hot as they both are, grace has always been a whack, and like i said, she may be entirely beautiful and 100% tempting, she's a nut, fully, and i try to keep my distance, but katie was throwing herself at me like a bad pitch, and needless to say, i got hit. we kissed and touched in dan's room, until we got kicked out by the room owner, at which time we moved to bryant's where we experimented with sexy kissing against the wall while she lifted her leg and swung her hips into mine. hey, what can i say, we're in college.

aside from that, life has continued it's incessant, 100% of-the-time guaranteed suckfest. i continue to sleep on the couch in the garage (alone) i continue to fill notebooks with drawings and writings about being alone, about losing my wits, my head, my temper, my life, my love and my appetite. i've been listening to nothing but taking back sunday, and i really mean NOTHING, which is so miserable. west palm beach is still the only place i ever want to be, and i continue to have these nonstop dreams about this nonstop thing that is running nonstop in my head, and if i could have a ponytail i would turn to the side and shurg and wonder why in the world i can't get rid of this useless chemical that simply fills me up with so much of something that will always be nothing until the end of the months or whatever when it happens again.

it's been decided that the more couches you sleep on, the more blisters you walk on, the more hearts that you step on, the more losses you count on, all adds towards the most lifetime you're given. i can't decide if i've already exploded or if i'm starting my ascent, but i do know that bottle rockets only make one trip, and there's either a finale, or a lackluster explosion and a completely blank sky to fall back on.

this is so stupid, i'm sorry you guys. i wish i had some great news to tell you, but unfortunately, monica pazos (aka, potentially great news) is simply turning her head over in her hands, every night, to this day, and still makes it infinitely impossible to touch her arm or grab her hips. not only that, but im not even sure if they're the right hips anyway, like maybe the right ones are filling with goosebumbps and silent snoring somewhere. like maybe you don't know who the fuck i'm talking about. psh. whatever man.

so, as always, another uplifting and riveting live journal entry:
it's saturday morning, but there's no carpet downstairs or television to watch cartoons on. i've only got a few things in the world to keep me going, and most of them don't even belong to me anyway. so where am i going?

.donny

Current Mood: whatever
8 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Thursday, October 7th, 2004
1:40 pm
livejournal is for bitching, so listen.
oh my god.

"so is this really all just about you wanting to go back to high school?"
"yeah.."

the most miserable hangover ever.

me, and chris, and justin, and bryant all drank whiss key last night and now i have a headache. and i did the thing where you go through your phone and call everyone you know. i got through like, L i think, and then my phone died. i was standing in the bathroom of shamrocks and there are these tori amos lyrics painted all over the walls, but everything's spelled so wrong.

and now everybody's watching A New Hope (Episode 4) as usual, today sucks. i missed my anthropology test, college is for losers, and taylor's floor is so uncomfortable, i wish i had my own room, living in the garage sucks, it's always so hot, there's no internet, and i'm on empty in my car so often, that i think the little orange light that comes on when i have low gas is going to burn out.

there is nothing to read in the bathroom anymore either because i'm sick of dylan's bathroom reader, my hair is getting long enough to where it just kind of flops over and wont stick up anymore, i'm going to see the pixies on friday, matt and dylan are gluing pictures of tits to pictures of robots, taylor has nothing but bad advice, 300 dollars or more in debt, there's no beach in gainesville, street price for drugs go up, no more grocery money, dimwitted.

so things are obviously awesome here in college. i'd have you write me a letter, but i don't really have an address, and i have to go to a judicial meeting because ceren pissed in the bathroom of my dorm once a long time ago, and apparently there's all kinds of rules against that kind of thing. THESE ARE NOT THE DROIDS YOU ARE LOOKING FOR.

i kind of think bad things about myself and everything going on and i think it's only like 27 dollars to take a train to west palm, which actually turns out to be cheaper than my gas fees. dylan's walls are green and he has winamp, so it makes listening to music a pain in the ass, dan went to class and i just sat there, watching him walk out, eating cereal. on thursday american history runs for 2 hours instead of 1. everything is boring, everyone is boring, everywhere is boring or too far to drive to. gas is money, money i don't have. i'd like to be really far away and look at a map and run my finger from here to there, my head usually spins when i think about it. i went to california in february, which was really nice, my sister lives there. i didn't have a valentine. burbank is east of hollywood. joel brier has a good live journal.

myspace is confusing, tangerine sour. oh forget it, we hid our things in the box under the window seat. i haven't been in the backseat of a minivan in forever. i used to be happy with just laying on the tile floor watching tv in the morning. i don't think i've seen a morning in months, or when i do, my head is just pounding. i'm sleeping through most of my life, i've taken 18 and 19 hour naps. dylan calls star wars "the holy trilogy." i wish i had stripes on all my shirts. i used to love buying school supplies. it feels so good to sneeze multiple times in a row. it doesn't even matter that my friends are 21, oh my god i should start driving. why does it have to be expensive to go driving. nothing feels good, it always costs so much money. so much money. orange and yellow aren't my favorite colors, but i'll take them both. i like taking back sunday. oh...my...god. and to everyone sitting through 7th period over at alexander w. dreyfoos jr. school of the arts: do you know where your shoes and socks are? throw everything away and walk down okeechobee, over a bridge and stay there. forever. goodbye.

i mean, at least you know what it feels like when nothing makes sense. furniture is so fucking important to me.

we all need places to sleep. we need places to be. vacation is only fun when you balance it against the monotony of everyday, but even vacations can get redundant. i want a new one. dan falconetti.

.donny
i really miss you guys...
a lot.

Current Mood: uncomfortable
17 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Monday, October 4th, 2004
12:26 pm
saves the day is still cool.
so there are a few things that have been driving me crazy...

www.columbiacruelty.com
...check the link for more information, unreasonable, illegitimate, and torturous testing on baboons, currently being investigated. and, i hate to use livejournal as a political venue, but check:
www.cnn.com/2004/US/09/22/plane.diverted.stevens/
...for more information about the US government detaining, redirecting, and deporting musician cat stevens in what is being labeled as racial profiling on the islamic stevens. as jon stevens so eloqunetly put it on the daily show, "whew. finally, we got the guy who wrote 'peace train.'"

once again, i hate to swing left on you guys, especially here, but these issues have both been driving me crazy for the past couple weeks, and i feel like anyone who reads my journal, or anyone who happens across this entry should visit these links and look into both situations carefully.

i did some painting (peep my new user pic), a lot of writing, and some partying this weekend here in west palm, all in my continued vain attempt at satisfying myself emotionally, mentally, and at the same time, struggling to understand why i've been so depressed. i've been so lonely and unhappy in gainesville, and even though the band and all my friends live there, i just don't feel like i've made any changes in my life. i had a long conversation with an old friend of mine at TJ's house, and began to realize how much i was missing, i've been keeping everyone at arm's length, making sure not to let anyone get too close, possibly attributing to these feelings of emptiness.

the saves the day b-sides CD came out, which basically means that "Sell My Old Clothes, I'm Off To Heaven" has been reintroduced into my life, and upon hearing it again for the first time since like, 8th grade, my heart just split in half, and my head was swimming with all of these old moments, i remembered what it was like to live for nothing except weekends and girlfriends and best friends, and all of these things that have become so scarce lately. and there are still people around, people i know who i might have began to stretch apart from, but i still hold close, people who make me realize how much my life has changed, simply by understanding how much time and feeling i had once emptied into them.

there are still people around, whether i've changed or they have, but i can remember high school, like this IV strapped to my arm, i can remember what "happy" felt like, and although i'm lacking it, it's not even like i want it back, i think i'm just afraid of it, i think i've been pretty much ruined. what's it like to be sorry? i know she knows how it feels, where have we both come from? the same place. i've been there and back, the extreme of every emotion, and somehow came out alive, and even though i feel like i'm missing more parts than i had, i know that i've just grown heavy with more.

and on trolleys, benches, on busses, airports and trains i've dropped quarters into payphones, and i can pinpoint moments and eras based simply on who i called, and for how long we spoke. i can remember, very clearly, the pure euphoria of having someone new to dial, and chalking up certain songs to certain times, like there's only one hour of one day per year of a decade to hear it, one time only to get the full effect, and i've sat nursing hangovers and heartaches and infections milking each song for all it's worth. it starts as a moment born, the glorious instant in which you bask in the nostalgia of a future feeling, and later becomes a realization that you've not only lost the time and place, but the meaning and the memory.

and for every song i've fallen in love with, i have a seagull and a memory tied loose with string, dangling from it's foot. i've got sweaters to remember, threadbare and sandy that still smell like her sweat, the aching scent of the last girl left. i've got yellow yarn to knit something new, and if there are secrets in your pockets, put them back where they go, it's only after months of missing each other, only during these young years, that we begin to notice how much we grew.

and there's no word for knowing how someone feels, but also knowing they won't admit it. there's no way of describing sand and sweat, rolling in each, pouring out new hearts for careless young lovers, there's nothing left for people like us who pray each night for more memories and melodies and ways to make her sigh. there are more ways than one to be happy with what happened, with the way things were, and with how much she may have loved you. every day the moon pulls the shores and the sea closer to each other, every day the sundrops and the moonsinks, and for things like fridays we've got cure songs.

there will always be nostalgia, burning bright in each of our pockets, and the excitement of life filling our stomachs like butterflies bursting from cocoons in the summer. there will always be new things, and thankfully, there will always be the memory of what was once new, keeping us blinking, breathing, dripping hearts are still wet, and feet pushing the clutch and hands pulling the gears.

let's move this machine towards each other. let's pull down our shades, our nighttime: split only by a few hours. im only still here because of the promise of a few more years. i'm only still here to catch girls like monica, girls who are only still here to be caught by boys like me.

i'm sorry it took me so long.
i'm sorry it took me so long.

.donny

...

"there's no warm world like waking girl,
and sad scent slips thick from where collars hinge skin;
slips past short shoulder, lonely; lovely, sinks in.
neck flushes red where his fingers have been,
breathing stays slight to mute this fresh sin."

.1995

Current Mood: beautiful.
12 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Wednesday, September 29th, 2004
10:11 pm
billy corgan . 1996

the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the aeroplane knows that is is alone in it's drama bones. madness, preconceptions, ray gun logics run and spit rationalized until a whole chorus of mug wumps, blue in the face from yelling their divisive mantras, run out of young breath and just plain give in to the spirit of the whole damn apple. face it, you love it, it's fun for one and all, and for all you know the earth spins on it's rusty axis just because of it. the aeroplane moves whether you want it to or now. cram packed with fuel injected jet missile action, this is war motherfucker and don't you forget it for one second. it is us versus the, and if you're giving in then you're giving up. all the names don't mean shit. ugly, beautiful, pretentious, arrogant, old, tired, happy, sell outs, careerists, transcendant, hypnotic, trippy, spellbinding, numb, egocentric, solipsistic, empty, hollow, shallow, lost, 70's, 60's, 80's, 20's, long winded phony, grand, the worst, the best, creepy, cranky, desperate...the aeroplane just flies higher, faster, stronger. there isn't much time for maybes, even goodbyes sometimes, dust settles, the arcwelders come out and reconstruct the obvious, and we are all left holding the blur. life will always be a sentimental way, you can vivisect it all you want. blood and will are indivisible. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the world pisses a silver stream to let you know that it is there. on the other side of the slipstream of countless thoughtless thoughts. it shatters and divides into a million fragments because life is not a lifestyle choice. we are not a fashion accessory.music is god's bones creaking pleasure, amusement, even occasional approval. we salute you all with a crack of the back, a baseball bat and a smile. god bless us all, for what we think and feel is all we really have. but when is too far, far enough? no limit that i ever knew really matters there is strength in the dirt of your garden sorrows, there are no more tomorrows, only blissed todays, purple and sneaky back, can you hear us because if you can't we will turn it up 'till your ears bleed nascent approving harmony. it's all good, and don't you forget it. the fourth wall is down and desrves to stay down, because all you are really watching in others is yourself, the third generation t.v. reflection. time is never time at all. there is no times, no heartbeats, no babies, no french fries, just spider webs strung to oscillate the fever pitch of blandkind, oops i mean mankind. once the sonic dart leaves our fingers, it is hard to get back. scratch, sniff, observe, obey, deceive, distort, disarm it all, the bomb is on and ticking. we know but we ain't telling anyone anything, because we know nothing. "tv generation x.y.u.," zero command calling capt. coconut sounds the alarm, every band you ever liked has reformed and is playing on a single bill, one night and one night only at the bottom of the ocean. once it is gone there is no going back, and it is never the same. wave to the magic balloons with your name's attached, 5 zillion strong circling the precious earth in search a friend in search of another. i hope you all find what you need in whatever hole you peer down, whatever cloud you peek behind, let the disaster dukes masticate on the green grass of hope and love. this year is the most joyous and happy, mournful and sad year i have known. ife is good beat the bleating heart, and it keeps going on bleating like an 808. never ever forever tomorrow comes, new dawns blister, new songs to be sung. the aeroplane flies high, turns left, looks right. the aeroplane know you know, sings the song of truth, of redemption, of sorrow. look no further than your dirty feet.


...


so good to be alive, wonder when i won't feel so ready to die. im sorry, im sorry, im sorry, i've shot myself in the foot, i've reloaded twice, i'm lifted, i'm fallen, but thank god that only heros can sink this low. it's not over, motherfucker. love is never done..


.heatheory?


"one and gun."



Current Mood: hungry?
3 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Monday, September 20th, 2004
4:55 am
gainesvillain
ok so the girl who i saw the party at 2nd and 5th one and one half months ago has since shown up at Leonardo's Pizza two days later, the Atlantic (indie dance club) 3 weeks later, and then a play downtown 4 days later. her name is jessie, she's a junior, and after our run-in at Leonardo's, Mike has since forced my name and my socially frustrated and curious situation upon her, and so thus, has spilled the beans.

she knows i dig her like gold mine, therefore, whenever i see her, the awkward situation invariably ensues, her friends all glance at me, jessie and i exchange uneasy looks, and my nerves shatter like single pane windowglass.

not only that, but monica love-of-my-live-from-early-january-to-late-april-2004 has recommenced communication with me, and so now my incentive to visit west palm has skyrocketed, no longer just to relinquish my drug supply, but also to press lips with the cubana beauty monica pazos. if her friends are reading this: please keep my confessions on a serious down low.

now, because of monica's recent interest in continuing a telephonic communication with me, i've started to have the "good dreams again" and it's been really nice being able to enjoy my nighttime adventure, spending each evening with one of my past love affairs, and michelle chapman has begun to show up also. unfortunately some of the more stomach wrenching figures have appeared as well, and as i sit here pounding away on seth's keyboard, with no bed in the whole world to call my own, i wonder when i'll climb another tree, sit crosslegged on the carpet, tear the tiny arms off my wristwatch and giggle in the corners of a boyhood mansion, drifting off to sleep in a treehouse straddling the satisfaction of an adulthood desire to fall in love with a childhood lover.

everybody remembers their first time being held:
by mother and father, by carpets and bedsheets, by sailboats and treehouses, by sisters and beaches, but mostly by girls who'd button our collars and sigh us to sleep, then shake us by morning and pull us to our feet.

i've still got pockets and linen and all of the soft things that i've been waiting so long to wrap you in.

.donny
...death
...before
...dishonor

Current Mood: lonely
4 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Friday, September 17th, 2004
8:14 am
push,
shove-
hit the rug.

never
thought
that i'd fall in love.

.donny

pensacola got battered last night: 130 mph winds, mass destruction...

girls remembered which boys they liked, and which treehouse they first kissed in.

it's mostly over now.
almost like tying a great big fishing line to the last cloud in the sky,
and letting yourself ride it out until the horizontal goodbye.
a slow drift off the floridian peninsula,
calling for something better every 16 miles the whole way home.

his livejournals are dead, wish he would stll make sense.
wish he still cared about the girls who care about him.

Current Mood: lonely
2 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
Wednesday, September 8th, 2004
4:02 am
that's a lot.
so many things happen every day, and every time: I forget to write them all down. i guess, well i guess i'll just do this all earlier.

.donny
1 .milligram | .bottle.of.blues.
Tuesday, August 17th, 2004
3:07 am
the fall pharmaceuticals
three forty-seven for eight seventeen oh four. eh, em?

i've torn the skin from each of my forearms
and tied it up around my wrists,
a new swimmer by the time she threw me,
ripping off her stapled lips.
pushing her hands behind the sand birthed
more shaggy dust for coughing
a moment 'now' forever,
suspended so very quite and slightly
over some stupid 'infinite night.'
she spoke of one per lifetime,
but they bleed for months thereafter,
and- left on the shore for hours to rinse;
those bleeding blue joints.
torn open and hanging,
caught by the hands of her watch,
were strapped delicate to my knuckles and my fist.
we are anesthesia.

on july 22 i turned 18, and spent the day feeling like there was a big brown eyed gift that must have gotten lost in the mail, and there were beers and things but there were less things than things. slow summer semester has ended, i'm in college and im just waiting to swallow more college and i'm ready and excited. there's a girl in college, a girl who deserves a story, some sort of live journal immortalization, and so her slanted tweak-ed shrine is therefore being prepared to be stepped on, so join me as i outline the misery of her invasion on my already skewed lifestyle. this is the story of elaine dyjak...

i met this girl one evening in my usual state: drunk with plans to become a drunkard, and regardless of how cute she may have seemed, regardless of how short her hair was, she was sitting with a spear through her lip and a tattoo upon her foot. she was the kind of girl who would swing her feet while she sat, and was more apt to swing her eyes than her whole head, and sitting at a table while i walked past meant that her eyes followed me closely, her head unmoved, she was stuck to a chair in my dorm's common room like a miserable trophy proclaiming mere mediocrity and emphasizing the most extreme example of what i call the un-delicate female: un-romanced, unfathomable, impossible, worn and tired and loosely based on better things which had once taken place.

regardless of my complete insatisfaction with the less than perfect "moment" i was having with this shaggy brown haired boredom, i was hucking two jugs of wine on my back, and so was justin. almost as four jugs of instant and magnificent indicators of future feelings, my drunken sentiments heaved at my heartwalls and i allowed for justin to invite the two plain and boring "beauties" back to our room. after a few hours of the usual bullshit boring background noise, myself and the present company had grown quite drunk and unbearably antsy, eventually opting for a trip to our friend mike's dorm. most of the walk and the details following our departure are fairly unclear, however it is certain that much of the journey was spent with me pushing elaine to the ground and leaving her wet, muddy and quite tousled. my frustration with stupid and haggard girls was growing with every swig, and was very plausibly mistaken by the dumb bitch as flirtatious violence, when in actuality, my disgust for elaine's miserable personality and uncanny ability to fall short of past love interests was driving my positively mad.

within the hour, mike, justin and myself had stripped down to our bare skin and were playing guitar and singing madly in the neon glow of mike's tacky dormroom decor.

although this chain of events may seem very much in the vain of an effort of boys toward striking up "conversation" with the "female elite" in our presence, i was fairly certain that my heterosexuality was writing me tickets, excuses, reasons and hall passes left and right to hop upon one of my guy friends rather than one of the sadly ruined and miserable girls sprinkled around mike's dull three AM dorm room red light district.

well nobody has ever won the war on alcohol and suddenly mike and i were each trapped beneath a writhing mass of boring girl. homely girls with serpent tongues and lip rings and perfectly plucked eyebrows and denim skirts, each full of sad lines from Story Of The Year songs, girls who were kicking their chuck taylors to the floor and making their way up our chests towards our cerebellums- which were drowned in cheap wine and thirty two suicidal ounces. upon squeaky blue mattresses with the sheets kicked to the floor and bad radio wafting like the stench of boring girl breath from a muffled CD player buried beneath bed linen in the bedroom's back corner, michael and i sacrificed our pride.

eventually the evening made it's own escape and the sun started crawling up the corner's of mike's windows, streaming upon the teenage "lovers" and revealing them caught in a sort of weird and contorted translation of teenage passion: clouded mostly by alcohol, boys with desires stretching for miles in every direction had their hopes eclipsed instead by these goddamn dull-ass damsels twisting upon our loveless torsos. mike and i's regret was framed by the solid sweat and swollen red ringing our eyes, pushing our morning into a weird divide of acheivement versus displacement, later exhanging phone numbers with disgust and spitting on their keypads.

mike and i's mindset that maybe "once upon a time was all" must have been the worst expectation since ben affleck's acting career, because suddenly elaine dyjak was everywhere. granted, i made an effort to involve her with some activities amongst my group of friends, more often than not, the effort was to score a ride from here to there. you see, elaine drives a killer car, a yellow 20th anniversary of the VW gulf or something like that. it's a 5 speed, and there's nothing like a clutch as smooth as the skin around my baby's neck. to tell you the truth, there were multiple times that i found myself in the room across from mine, with my best friends brendan and justin, (elaine dwindling about; drinking and losing sight of reality), when i would decide to climb into bed, only to be followed by the shaggy brown haired boredom bitch immdeiately thereafter. fearful of kicking out what i had begun to recognize as an extremely insane personailty, i simply dealt with her nightly omnipresence while i slept.

most of the time, she would burrow her head into the bunker i would create with my arms to protect my head, begging me to tell her how i felt her, pleading with me to confess my love for her, whining about how miserable i was to her, and bitching, in general, about everything, punctuating each torturous request for an answer with punches, bruises, slaps and kicks. elaine's desire to fight me grew each day, while my apathy was swelling like the blister from a ciggarette, and her driving me crazy with incessant convictions that i "loved her." i made it very clear that as far as fighting me, there were only two girls who could have actually stood a chance at taking me on, and she was not even close, also emphasizing the fact that until she actually COULD come close to becoming a true combatant, she would remain a horrible imitation of a very "comfrtable shoe" (lets just put it that way, the metaphor will stretch far enough for it's recipient to understand it's interpretation clearly) so then, if anything, my realizations began to lean towards girls i must have inflicted similar instances upon, but never feeling that i was guilty of such an extreme case of stress.

and with sincere and severe apology i offer my regret for ever putting a girl through such agony, however, elaine's next calculated move was completely beyond the boundaries of anything i could have possibly imagined or attemtped.

after a night of beers and bongs and all of those things which divide teenagers from adults, myself; while in the presence of very good company, chose to make a morning vacation at denny's for one last meal before sleep. well, although elaine was supposed to be meeting us there, i had grown very tired of offering her directions and repeating myself over and over. parker then decided that it was high time to turn my phone off and disconnect elaine from reality. all in attendance agreed with the notion, and therefore, elaine was no longer up the creek without a paddle, she was simply up the creek with nothing except a wet t-shirt and wet, messy hair, her lip ring rusting painfully inside her skin, and a notion that maybe she would never be loved by anyone ever.

after finishing a delicious meal, the caravan trekked back to our dorms and taylor, who had decided that she would sleep over, came into the restroom while i was preparing for bed. tay peeked in the door, and would then utter the most frightening words to ever rattle my eardrums:

"don... there's someone in your bed."

thinking it must have been my best friend across the hall, i replied:

"who, justin?"

"no, not justin...guess again"

suddenly, my muscles tensed, my eyes froze, a small chill began tumbling down my spine.

"is it... elaine?"

taylor simply smiled coyly and began nodding her head.

at this point it must be explained that although elaine was around quite often, her dorm was located approximately one half mile down the road from mine, and therefore, at 6 in the morning, had no way to access my dorm, OR my room, without somehow breaking in and waiting for someone to open the lobby door. so basically elaine had broken into my dorm and crawled into my bed as though it somehow belonged to her.

college is weird.

my weekly thoughts...
beginning sunday, august 15

I.
chesnuts, pecans
saddles and throatwood
heartswallow ashtins
helms versed in lasting
sweat pours so vastly
creek sags the mast wings.

II.
eyesight and candle-
wax licks the table
-i left most of the label
slip slow from the bottle
morning makes more flings
and head swims in places
much more real
than i'll ever feel
i'm just a fuck
checking my wrist watch
some matches, a lighter
and far too much time
to sit and burn these candles
measuring a wick wrapped in wax
as distance to the panhandle

III.
baby, will you tie this up around your wrist?
the same string that once held up your dress
the one that had hung it from your closet,
and on the hanger, way before you bought it.
the same string i had around my fingers
the one i stepped on-
oh girl you're such a mess.

baby, will you join me falling in the sand?
baby, please don't bother using up your hands.
i'll swing it for you, push you back so you confess,
the last thing you have left are those stupid needles tying off your chest.
and with this tiny string hugging my right wrist
i've become so much more than blessed
passed out drunk,
i'll let you tell me what i've missed
baby wrote that letter trying to teach me how to kiss

IV.
instrumental

V.
sometimes i think that the most of this is just a linear fuck-up. and more often i recognize a bleak future and the emptiest past, it's same time wherever, whenever, without the messy haired beauty rolling in the shoreline and makes me understand loss. without pure happiness we've got no spectrum of misery, and without three days alive i've got not one empty moment of sadness, without a shore to hug or some tousled hair to push back behind an ear i'm just hanging, swinging and delicate in front of some sober eye, no tweaked smile, no dirty dress, no green, no slingshot couch, no nothing, not now, not ever. nowhere to be, nowhere to breathe, no such thing as tired, only yawning to seem sleepy, and only faking sleep to watch the good ones with their eyes closed, touching their hips to hear what silence really sounds like, touch them to make them breathe heavy makes them stop snoring, makes hot breath on the curve in my neck, makes me feel the good one's blood tumble underneath her skin, makes it warm up against mine. so, nothing but blackened fingernails, white knuckles clutch the hem of a dress, white knuckles used to tie off the good parts on the good one's small frame, white knuckles around all the important arteries, white knuckles to hold the visceral moments, white knuckles to snatch up her seams, white knuckles to hold up the heavens; her dreams. one day we'll grow up and shrug at the thought of a lonely year or an eleven hour divide, embracing instead, the idea of a, "once and for all," the one that all the young boys and girls wrote about wildly on the backs of all their folders and in the margins of their homework. and i forgot to tell you, that while our adolescene exploded deep within our hearts, our secret admirers churned beneath our fingernails and so our scalps itching like boys in love with girl down the street who combed her hair fifty times each side for the boy down the road. the street 800 miles long, with no haze or clouds, and a clear view all the way from front door to front door. one day we grow up and that last handheld moment holds invitations of yours and hers, but ours are right now and standing here we're just useless peices of love bouncing around inside, waiting like wash cycles to be worn again forever, favorite shirts and underwear never to be owned by anyone else again.

VI.
so. save yourself, keep your sad slow heart from harm,
sway trees and silent twigs towards your own focus-
hold her hand while they draw blood from her arms,
swallow her gaze up on the ride home,
and with your hands crush her tiny bones,
bigger and well known as much more alone,
hollow, like a bird's and more often flown.
and so you forget why you started-
so much easier to invent a new story, than to find
new ways to swallow her lies each time:
force fed like her tongue, or her hands-
curled around the back of your head,
without which you're just sandy and mostly alone.
grains are friends, and stick around until you've washed away-
so mostly you're at fault,
and mostly it's just your nausea,
and no music to remember like those lips strapped to your neck,
no black tourniquet to take in your teeth,
so you know then it must have been real.
real old. real lost.
and maybe sometime, real wine, bad memories ferment in real time.
there's nothing like a long and miserable drive to perpetuate a long and miserable life.
we're so full of lies, those which the girls have focefed to boys.

VII.
it all happened while wearing polyesther.
the glass had exploded,
leaflets had blown out and tired,
and there were miles of destruction-
hallowed, uncontrollable fire.
so she stripped me, and left me naked in this weather,
calling out behind her:
"if only you had owned some more leather!!"

mixtapes are on the way, my kittens.

.heath
making
millions
off
his
miserable
memories.

Current Mood: washed out.
22 .milligrams | .bottle.of.blues.
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