White && Blue Gown.

I cried today. I Sobbed actually. In fact, To be perfectly honest; I straight up and down bawled like a fucking infant today. I don't want to lose you. I'm not ready. I have just begun to really know you, and yet, I still know nothing. I know nothing about you. I don't have enough memories with you to last me long enough with out you. I want to know more about memories you had in your life without me. I wish I could make you promise, everything will be okay, and you will me with me forever. But, that would be very becoming of me to ask you to keep such a promise. It's non realistic. (At least I think that.) If it's really true. I just want to keep living a fictional lifestyle.

I love you. I truly love you more than I will any other woman in my entire life.


Lately My life has been pregnant with nothing, but bad news. It just all kind of blew up and give birth unexpectedly today, and it hurt. It hurt a fucking lot.
Get out of your white and blue patterned gown and come home. Come the fuck back, and never leave.

Fin.

Cruel Intentions of a Writer.

Cruel Intentions of a Writer

I want a wedding celebration worthy enough too make the gingerbreadman comfortable. I believe that if I truly aspire for it, I mean really believe it, I can have a candyland wedding. I don't know if, I'm all to sure why I think; candyland. Maybe it's the innocence tied with the idea. The meaning I hold dear to the word and ideals that are congregated with the word; candyland.


I value innocence. I know that. But, that seems weak to me. Weak in the sense of value and depth, or lack there of(I'm fine with being weak for the idea of relentless pursuit.) I have always valued innocence. Innocence personified by women. Innocence personified by life. Fun and simple. Innocence just seems right. It's why a person can't help but smile when they see a child clutch on to a balloon on the subway, as if this balloon was meant just for them. Just for them. But, they'll lose interest soon enough when they see something better, that's why we have two hands. There is always more than one choice. (A person needs to have a chance to better grasp it.) The choices are endless. The impossibilities are endless. Innocence dies out. Interest dies out.


That's where innocence comes into play with my life. I cherish it. I hold on to it. It means a lot to me, It's something I don't obtain in myself. At least not genuinely. I try to find it in others; friends, family, and girls. I try to discover it--in girls. I try to invent it in them, if I can't find it. I gloat about it when I get it. I hype it up like a good promoter of a bad movie. At least the trailer to the film was captivating. I have realized lately, I invent and recycle ideals about the girls I meet. Most men have a type of girl they look for. They have a certain criteria for the girls they want in their life; passionately speaking. They want their girl to have a certain look. I don't care much for physical beauty. Just moonlit eyes and a real smile. Whenever I find that, I don't want to let it go. I feel as though I can't. I take off my watch and forget about time limits or endings. I find nothing wrong with them...


I instantaneously fall in love. I fall in love. I don't go head over heels. I go crashing, in a bursting flame of passion, head first with my heart glued to my fucking lips. I will love a girl till the oil dissolves. Then and only then, will I pick my watch up off the floor, brush off the dirt and dust, blow off the cob webs, and wait. Wait till the clock strikes 11:11 again, and it happens.


It happens.

I smile.
She smiles.
It starts all over again.

I use scripted words of a real life fairytale.


I rediscover some pretty eyes, I invite a beautiful soul; absorb the innocence. I fail to determine fatal flaws that will clusterfuck my brain till another broad comes along, when the one before her is nothing more than a chapter in a book, that is; my life. A chapter that was great, but the new one is better. The newer, the better. Like any good book, I think the writer behind mine is brilliant. The author couldn't make any more dramatics for the main character; filled with trials and tribulations. He must be an alcoholic, a self loathing, disgust. A heinous person, filled with emotions and disillusions. That mimics 'strangers' far from his life to protect the creativity of his writing; that is my life. His Cruel Intentions for his episodic underdog story is causing unbearable obstacles filled with too many choices for me. But, as long as he's willing to write my story, I'll live my life. My life is filled with repetition and routine, the new chapter in his book shows laziness and lack of leaps. Take a leap of fate; Let me take a leap of fate. I want to take a huge chance on fate and without the blink of an eye, end up in Candyland.

(Disclaimer: The author of my life, is not in any kind of reference to G*D or Jesus Christ.)


Fin.

I wonder what you are thinking about now?

Do I still cross your mind?

Am I still your distraction?

Your day is coming in 9 days...
Will I still see you?
Fuck it.


I'm just drunk.

:]

S&M

I don't give a fuck about anyone or anything.
Fuck you!

FUCK YOU ALL!

I'm a 19ine teen year old man,
I am filled with a living lie,
consistent and ridiculous.

I take so much garbage,
my words are filled with shit,
and this shit is set on fire to burn--bright, and long.

I am disgrace,
I am a working failure.

I have nothing to show for the last 2 years of my 'college career.'
I have nothing to show for my personal training personification of a dumbbell.

I am never happy with my appearance,
to the point that I manifested a muscle dysmorphia.
I spend strange times 'working out' at a gym; that I 'actually work' in.
I have a liver failure,
I have a liver failure,
I have a fucking liver failure at 19teen years old.
All because I used creatine; a poor man's steroid.

Up to this date, I have slept with 5ive girls,
I have gotten 2wo different girls pregnant; 1ne of which was pregnant 2wice.
1ne had a miscarriage,
the other had an miscarriage and an abortion.

I have never been in love,
But, I have lied about it.

I got myself into $30hirty thousand dollars worth of debt in a month,
I have nothing to show for it;
I have a liver failure.

I laugh with a cynical and hysterical demise.
I am oblivious to the world around me.

Currently, I am seeing two girls at 1nce.

I am seeing 2wo girls at 1nce so I can gloat to my friends about it.

I think I am jealous of my older brother,
His hair has more personality than I do.
I am much better looking than him,
but, sadly...
My looks won't get me love,
I need a voice.

FUCK THAT!
I have a voice,
I need a mic.

--

FIN.

86ix My Last Post

86ix My Last Post

I was drunk.

I cant sleep.
It's strange.
I've had a few drinks,
I had the bar minimum of sleep the night before,
and I work most of the day today...

I want to go to bed and I can't.

I'm too horny to sleep,
too tired to fuck.

:[

Strange SelfPortrait

Closer. Closer I want to look. Look in to the pale brown in my eyes. Look at the blues and purples on the bags under my eyes. I drag my feet against my wooden floor, down the hall way, I get to my doorway, the doorway... The doorway to my bathroom; I stand still, silent, and poorly postured. I am like a walking pair of eyeballs. I am a walking pair of eyeballs. I am a walking pair of eyeballs. I am a walking pair of eyeballs. A walking pair of eyeballs; that has booger-clogged-vision. That had his lights punched out. That is gushing out ocean worthy amounts out of his tear ducts. My nose is stuffed. Stuffed with all types of unnecessary clutter. Unnecessary clutter that just won't go away. That just drips out so fluidly. I can't breathe. I breathe in. Breathe out. My throat burns. My lungs ache. Although it is the lowest, as well as weakest form of drug; I am addicted. I wish I didn't care what it did to me. I wish I could make myself believe that the amount of orally fixated happiness I get from it, overpowers the health destruction it causes. But, I can't. Fuck a cigarette. Fuck a cigarette. FUCK A CIGARETTE! MORE THAN ANYTHING... I want a fucking cigarette. I don't want to be sick, I don't want to be sick, I don't want to be fucking sick any fucking more. Fuck a cold and fuck a cigarette. I would kill for a cigarette right now. Kill FOR A CIGARETTE. Kill. Cigarette. Kill. Cigarette. Kill. Cigarette. I breathe slowly and deep. Breathe in. Breathe out. I take out a shot glass, I pour half a shot of Smirnoff into the glass. I take out a lemon. I cut out two circular slices. I shove and stuff it into the glass. I take out a head of garlic. I rip off a small piece and cut it. Cut it into atoms of confetti. I mix that into the shot glass. I drink it. I shutter. I throw an awkward smile, followed by a frustrated sigh. That didn't make me feel any better. But it made me feel. Pinch me. I think, I'm in love. I think therefore I am. I am in love. I'm in love with the idea of love. I'm in love with life. I'm in love with my idea of love. I'm in love with my life.

I'm in love with my life.

Fin.

Dreams

It's been fucking ages... Ages since I've written a single fucking thing. (At least it feels like ages.) I wonder why that is, it can't be because I have nothing going on. It can't be because I have too much going on. I just don't really know where to start or what to start about. (I guess.)


Dedicated to the the people born circa 1989, and still living.

If I could have anything right now; it would be you, two bottles of wine, a pack of cigarettes, an unlimited and assorted amount of tea, and any unconventional form of communication in my bed. I don't think it's you... I don't think it's you I'm attached to. I'm just prone to my attachment for you. I don't want to lose that. That's it.

Living in this day and age, being a belated teenager, I think, I'm not anymore fucked up than any of my peers. I just think, maybe, just fucking maybe... My life is too fast paced. I wished it wasn't.




After taking a steroids test, doctors informed Peter that he had tested positive. He laughed upon receiving this information, and said "of course my urine tested positive, what do you think they make steroids from?