So for the first time ever, someone wrote something to me, for me, about me. That doesn't happen. It made me speechless. It was something I apparently inspired her to write after I sent her a text.
Here it is:

A satelite in space facing the earth
Though there are billions of people and places,
Importance is in one verse.
"A boy in Washington heights sees the world in your eyes."
Little does the boy notice,
He is blind.
Blinded by the ray that he shines.
Bright enough to bring color to space,
Expose the darkest black hole
And brings hope to ones soul.
Beyond my iris,
Is his reflection.
Possibly that is why
He sees the world
In my eyes

hahahaha

Fuck.
I feel like shit.
I feel horrid, vile, just fucking disgusting.
It's strange.
I have this overwhelming emotional concoction consisting of this uninvited guilt and anxiety.

It feels like it's pouring out. But it took me a while to notice. I feel like a walking pair of eyeballs. Tired and restless; eyeballs at that. The only other parts of my body I feel is my chest and stomach. My chest feels like it's being brutally bashed inward. My stomach feels as though it has multiple knots on the inside, that are being pulled out like a game of tug-a-war.

I want more than anything for this feeling to disappear, but, at the moment it feels like this will be a never ending torment.

I want to fucking scream.
I want to fucking cry.
I want to just wake up and believe she never left me.

I want to stop thinking about her. I want to think about her forever.

I want to bash my skull against every brick building I've come across in New York City, ever since she fucking left me. I can't stop thinking about her. Not because I have no control, but because I want to be attached to her. I don't want to lose her, for indefinite and prolonged periods of time.

I JUST WANT HER BACK IN MY FUCKING LIFE!

10.18.09

I sat there at a deserted green painted, metallic table with you. Staring into your eyes. Your beautiful brown eyes. With those long lashes that curled just at the right moment, to make you seem so inviting.

It's said, 'That a person's eyes is the window to their soul.' Well, if that's really really fuckin' true. Well then, you my dear must have such a pure and untouched soul. I mean, something that evokes and epitomizes greatness. After all only a beautiful soul could be hidden behind such a breathtaking and memorizing window; such as those sitting inside your skull. I listened attentively and slouched forward having my elbows sit on your thighs and my cold, swollen, numb hands propping my head up toward yours.

You spoke about the only bo--man you've ever loved, or at least thought you loved. My mind wandered in and out of the conversation; from thinking about how beautiful you truly are, to thinking about every opportunity I had missed thus far to kiss you, to how fucking cold it was in the middle of October. I took my hand from underneath my head and smiled at you then put my cold, moist hand into my constricting pocket and took out my cell phone; just for a mere moment to take a peek at what time it was currently. 3:40 in the fuckin' morning I was astonished.

You noticed and happen to ask, 'What time is it, Boo?' In my mind I smiled, I really enjoyed being called that, even though I know I wasn't the only boy, you call that.

I replied, 'It's ten minutes till four in the morning.' She smiled at me. I didn't smile back. Not because I didn't want to, I just took to long to smile, and finally when I could get the cold muscles in my face to make the proper facial expression to much time had passed. So I deemed it obsolete and decided it was too late. There was an awkward pause between the two of us.

You adjusted your yellow hand-knit hat, and proceeded to ask me, 'Don't you think it's rather fuckin' strange how we have both just been sitting here talking for the last four hours in the middle of the night on 34th street and haven't noticed a single person passing us by?'

I replied, 'I hadn't actually noticed till you mentioned it, Dear.' She wrapped her legs around mine and pulled her seat closer using my legs as though it was a rope with her legs. I found that to be too adorable for words. I told her she makes me happy. I told her how there is no other place I'd rather be then here with her, right now. Right now in 30 degree weather.

Fuck this. Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... I want to write something realllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll.
PETER IS A LOSER! :D

'Sebastian, I don't miss your political incorrectness, nor your silly nose ring, and shaggy bird's nest for hair,' She said. I couldn't understand where that came from. But... The fact that she said that, actually, well, hurt. I don't know why it affected me. I mean, I only knew the girl one week. If even.

:]

...If I could I would...

Rest our cheeks together so I could hear every word that escapes your mouth...

And kisses could act as punctuation and I would pray and wait for periods and exclamation points...

Tracing your outline in my sheets...

Painting your face on my pillow...

Faking going to sleep, so I can fake waking up to you...

No. Yeah, it fuckin' scares the hell out of me. It scares me that a friend of mine who once said, 'You always seem to take the easy way, Peter. You seem to never give yourself enough credit. You seem to just be afraid of failing,' is right. I don't take chances in my life. I am fuckin' scared of failing. Failing at anything, I try in my life. I don't take chances, because I am too scared.

I am scared that I won't make anything out of my life.

I am scared that of riding a fuckin' rollercoaster. I am scared of never writing and publishing a book. I am scared I won't have grandkids. I am scared I won't have kids. I am scared I will never get married. I am scared I will never find love. I am scared I will die alone. Love can't exist. I refuse to believe it does. Complacency exist. Love needs to be reinvented. It has to be. It's been fuckin' milleniums since love was started. People have changed since then, love should have changed since then. It can't be that I have lived for practically two fuckin' decades and haven't loved, or, rather been in love with; a girl.

I have never once in my life felt like I was looking a girl in her eyes and knew, just you know, fuckin' knew that she was feeling the same thing I was; like there is no other place she would rather be. Unless of course, she was looking at me as I was inside her. Erm, scratch that, she probably wished I was either someone else, or maybe, just maybe, she even wished she was somewhere else. I should boast about my sexual experiences they were nothing amazing. Every girl was the exact same thing as the last. NOTHING SPECIAL. So, why the fuck should I think I was something special.

I wish I had one experience in my life that was special, or at the very least something, anything, that was significant to me with a girl. My biggest fear isn't dying in my sleep; it's dying alone, with no one next to me in my sleep. My biggest fear isn't to not ever reproduce; it's to not have grandkids for my mother to see. I love my mother.

Rant over.

FIN.

Five Dollar Foot Long

Five Dollar Foot Long

Try to remember the moment when all the stupid innocent things you thought about life and love, all the things you thought mattered, all the things you thought were true... try to remember when they all turned out to be lies.

A lot of really intense things have been happening to me lately, it's hard to control them all. It's hard to decifer what is really going on, and what I've been making up. I have been convincing myself that I had feelings for this one girl, and when her and I hung out it was fun. Just plain wholesome fun. She has a nice smile, it's exotic. When she looks at me with her eyes, it's filled with promises and hope. They are faulty and misleading and I don't trust her. I don't have any real feelings for her and she isn't right for me either. But, she activily wants to spend time with me, and it makes me want to give her a chance. That's so strange to me. I want to spend time with a girl out of flattery, that, she thrusts upon me, by wanting to be around me. She is extremely dull and bleak. Our conversations don't go as far as I'd like them to. She is incapable of entertaining me in any other manner or then sexual or physical. But, my G*D is she entertaining sexually.

FIN.

Can you just do it?

Can you just do it?

The man who kicked the crap out of me resembled an artist. He was like Da Vinci and I was his Sistine Chapel. His fists being the brush; that he so gracefully used. My face being the canvas; that he slaved over to cover every part. My blood was his paint to mess with, and my teeth being the turpentine to this his paint from spewing out of my mouth. Each blow hurt less, than the one that came before it, his brush numbing, and layering his canvas; with knots on my forehead and black and blues appearing moments after he'd connect with my face. I was in such pain. I crawled into a ball, gushing out waterworks.

I soiled myself. He broke my dignity.

When he did a final kick straight into my groin, I noticed him breathing heavy and I actually felt sorry for tiring him out. He then proceeded to wipe the sweat from his brow, and walked away, but, not before christening his masterpiece with a huge loogie that was spat right at my bruised cheek.

It hurt so bad. It hurt so fucking bad. I just stayed there on the ground choking on my own spit and tears, screaming out cries.

FIN.

New York Kisses

New York Kisses

I wish I could awake in the middle of the 1980's and walk in my own skin, from Bennett to Brighton, and sleep on a beach all night. I want a teenage summer romance, that's filled with passion, where I can sing to my girl with my ego. I have a burning sensation in my veins, I have the dust of the desert in my bones, daydreaming of break-dancing hallelujahs to your daughter, filled with water in my soul. It's Monday and I thought about a friend that passed and all we went through. I wish she was still in my life, she always told me, 'not to be scared of the future and not to forget these summer nights that will always be ours.' I still love the way she smiles. I wish all would be forgiven and we could walk over that burned bridge.

I've been dancing on my kitchen floor, happy that the rain finally stopped. I used to want to be a star on Broadway when I was younger, singing a chorus about breaking a young girl's spirit and gluing the pieces back together with my hands; come on take my hand. I used to dream of driving all night throughout the town, looking to my right, and seeing your eyes--trying to touch my heart. I've never had a night on the town. Deep dark lights with two-steps from the two very best dancers in New York City.

FIN.

Petya PoopyPants

It's not art, just words. I swear.

It's Not Art, Just Words. I Swear.

I want to write words that make people assume, think, react. I want to be able to fill up pages with sexual innuendos and gripping nonsense. You know what I do? I connect. I get people off. I look for the guys and girls who aren't getting off, and I make them get off. I want to earn an honest living with weapons of mass destruction charged with love. I want my words to be misunderstood for what they are actually worth; art.

Write letters and notes in preparation. To have my readers turn into a stampede of raging elephants battling vicariously.

To stand on soap boxes in a world with no sound. It's all as simple as I make it. Slander and slaughter. It'll be over soon enough. Climaxes of speeches and electioneering collapse as lead hits bark. I want to shout volumes about the branches that looked like paint, they ran and stood on, or in, or outside, the lines, to spark thoughts about the trees in the foreground and the gestures of trees in the background. To have people listen about how the first cigarette of my day, makes me a feel a pulse for the first time in what felt like days. To have people listen to me describe how something subtle creeped down my spine, something from somewhere between the tall concrete I walked between. Or something from the dimly lit apartment that stole so many of my words.


Fuck it...


Without definition, or restriction, my teeth most assuredly were doing me a favor. Every word they were able to stop from chipping out into the open air was full of disgrace, dishonor, and invariably, quite anti-climactic. I figure silence and cryptic movements are my safest bet. Almost unconsciously I will put the cigarette out beneath my feet, and think, "I'll just never understand." I'll find comfort in solemnity.

FIN.

Tear Open My Chest to See Uncle Sam's True Colors

Tear Open My Chest to See Uncle Sam's True Colors

Tear Open My Chest to See Uncle Sam's True Colors

I pledge allegiance to the sweet nectar between the statue of liberty's legs.

To the red, white and blue stars and stripes that consume my body.

I promise that the pursuit of my heart will out weigh the ideals of my green filled phallic mind.

I will contain my lust for plowing the New York City cabs with my existence.

I shall withhold my urge, for aimlessly Pollacking my white seed, on the stomach of the Brooklyn bridge.

This is dedicated to the girls I loved and to the girls I really loved.

I can't cook.

I can't grill on the fire escape of a Manhattan apartment.

But, But I can clean.

Clean up the mess that Uncle Sam left all over your heart.

FIN.

JUNE 02, 2009

JUNE 02, 2009

I sat there on the stairs of my fire escape, which was cluttered with my all kitchen's cleaning supplies from under the sink; that was keeping me company for the last hour and a half, while I was on the phone with a friend. I crossed my legs, to keep my full bladder from spewing out of my genitalia. I took another pull off my snow white Marlboro light cigarette. I exhaled and smiled. 'Everything is back to normal again.' I thought to myself. It's funny I was doing the same exact fucking thing last summer. I took a giant swig off my golden Corona light, to finish it off finally. I placed it beside the other three I had finished during my conversation over the phone with my friend. My friend, that's a funny term. A friendship that has been terminated and rebuilt on multiple occasions. I took another deep pull of my cigarette, flicked the ashes, and watching in a marveling suspense as they drifted and glided in the cool morning summer air. I feel really good right now. I uncrossed my legs. 'It's five in the morning again, and I'm not tired. I'm sure I will be later today. I should get some sleep,' I thought to myself as I looked at the time on my cellphone. I crossed my legs again. I took the last drag from my cigarette, and flicked it into my superintendent's backyard, gazed at it as it hit the ground and the cherry turned into fireworks upon impact, filled with burnt orange pigment. I smiled, opened my apartment window and delinquently walked through my window into my empty kitchen.

FIN.

Ferris Wheels and Funnel Cakes

Ferris Wheels and Funnel Cakes


Ferris wheels and funnel cakes. Being 30 feet in the air with a stranger and two old friend of mine, seeing true emotions in each girls eyes. Seeing flashing lights and flickering on and off, every color picked from the rainbow and set out in fluorescent bulbs. Planning an evening in a carnival; with nine friends, and having the events set out in a desultory manner. Fucking brilliant. Thank you to everyone who came, it was an amazing and unforgettable night that was more than necessary.

FIN.

'Are you fuckin' kidding me?' she skrieked. My heart started to race, I felt it everywhere; in my throat, my stomache. My heart was even fuckin' beating on my skull. It was getting harder to breathe.

'Are you fuckin' retarded, Pit.' she asked. I felt my eyes starting to water and swell. My throat was closing up and get very dry, it hurt so bad. I hade absolutely no idea what to tell my mom when she ask.

It all started when I was in my room trying fiercefully to stay awake. I could go to sleep. My brother had work in the morning. I had to stay up. So, I remember what I had locked away in my cabinet. I took out a cigarette, then I put the tip of the cigarette between my index finger and thumb, as you would a pencil, and I proceeded to crush the tip and rotate my fingers back and forth in a diagnol manner.Till I got all of except one-fourth out. Then, I furiously look around my room for a pencil. A pencil. Yes a pencil. I then remembered, 'HOLY SHIT!' I have one in my Art bag, hehe, Art portfolio. You know, I'm not really, all too sure, that...Umm, Art should have start with a capital letter 'A'.

Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams

I awoke mere moment ago.
heh.
If you can call what I did, just that?
I was still in a daze, laying in my futon, entangled in two blankets--alone.
A smile on my face and my own hair clutched in my fist.
I just had an amazing dream.

Everything seemed normal; we were in my car with him driving, my brother riding shotgun, and me being a backseat driver. Yet, the fourth person wasn't our usual, it wasn't our best friend who had come to save the night of overbearing testosterone, with her presence. It was a past conquest of mine, and her and I were staring at the night sky through the moon roof, and we saw stars.

Real stars. Not just one or two, not just twenty or forty, hundreds of fucking thousands, and we were driving at top speed, with maximum capacity and maximum comfort ability. It felt like we were buoyantly going passed central park, just being cradled by these endless stars.

But... The best part about that dream was this; my best friend quoting something, something I wrote not too long ago in this blog, as though it was from a national best seller's list, and as though I was someone. I can't explain what that did to me. But it definitely did something.

Fin.

I'm waving my hand.

I'm waving my hand.

Lately, I've been trying pretty fucking hard. You have too. I think.
I'm glad you don't trust me. You have no reason to. You're a smart girl, you know that--just because I haven't done anything you've found out about, doesn't mean I haven't done anything. Does it bug you knowing I'm better at the game then you are? Because, because, because, you are myself in another life form. You are the unexplainable feeling I get when I try to think of everything I've had happen in my life at once. You're me choking on the last sip of my Corona twelve pack. You're the extra lead I brush off the paper once the art work is done. I choose to keep you around. Understand that? Choose to. You're no walk in the park, either.

You're no walk at all.

Most of the time you bring me down to my knees. But who would we be without the struggles? What separates this disgusting human contact to all the rest? Why is it I've got scars on the inside out, all at your expense. You own me, I give up. You win. Because it's easier to have you under the impression that you're in control.

I like back seat driving anyways.

Because I could scream at you and cry and bicker, but I know.

I know, I'll miss you in five seconds.
I know I'll need you forever.
I know deep down, this is give and take, no matter how much we're not use to that.

The only reason I would tear you up inside is because you've left the pieces for me to fuck with.

The only reason I wouldn't love you is because....
Well.
I don't know.
You would think we'd have each other's heads on a post by now. And not even figuratively speaking.

Half the time I talk to you, I have senses that I want to snap your pretty little head off that neck, I so want to kiss up.

But now, now, this is just rambles. I'm going in circles. Now I'm just stuck in this rut. It's getting to the point, where if you don't let me in yourself, I'm just going to kick the door down, myself. That's when everything you throw at me will actually happen. That's when you'll have reasons to doubt me. That's when you can tell me you don't give a shit and actually mean it. But until then. I've done nothing but love you, and you're trying here. I can only baby step you so much until it gets to the point where I'm just living your life for you. I'll quit bitching once you stop fronting, Thanks.

Fin.

Exit Stage Left

Exit Stage Left


I'm sick of the lifestyle I lead. I hate that I am still friends with past girlfriends. I hate that I want to see them every so often. It's a waste of time. I broke up with them for a reason, why am I wasting my fucking time seeing them?

I hate falling to the pressures of my phallic mind. I haven't had sex in ages. Literally ages.

For what reason? For the simple fact that I made a promise to an ex girlfriend and feel too guilty to break the promise of 'not fucking a girl unless I love her.'

How homosexual is that? I still end up hooking up with girls, why can't I give myself the pleasure of feeling complete and whole for a mere 11 minutes inside a girl?

Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK!

I don't want to see any ex-girlfriend ever again. I don't want to see any girl I have ever spent time with; except one. I wish I could forget about them. I want to move on with my life. I want to, really fucking bad.

I want to stop smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day. That's disgusting. I am sick of smelling like smoke. I am sick of smoking.

I want to finally go to school for English in a school far away from my house. I want more than anything to find myself. I feel dis-attached lately. I frequently get headaches.

I want to shave my head.
I want to grow out my hair.

Fin.

A Cup of Dull Thoughts and Two Teaspoons of Sharp Words

A Cup of Dull Thoughts and Two Teaspoons of Sharp Words

On March first, we met too fast--as well as ended all ties just as quick; I liked it though. Regardless how brief. That day my heart pounded like a drum being controlled by a voodoo doll, that still haunts me... It had happened one exuberant afternoon. My mind was lost. I didn't feel like myself that day, or ever since then. My thoughts were one big ramble. I made a collage of a lighter, out of stale matchsticks, when I was done I soaked it in gasoline, and put my cigarette butt out on it, to make it catch fire. I watched the flame flicker in the crisp midnight air. I followed the flame with my beady brown eyes as it transcended into smoke--made up of different shades of gray. That was it. It was scattered. Just gone, just like me. A startling new concept. I couldn't think. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything, because she was everything. She was everything, she was an inconsistent giggling sensation. Made up of a precise type of beauty. I don't think I could ever really describe it into words. Let me just finish off telling you what she was like by saying she was brilliant. She made my head pregnant with thoughts of passion, I never had to disguise my amazement to her. Unfortunately, she had a very different look filled with determination to suppress all true emotions As all the others of my age group--and in this case I have no qualms about generalizing--it took me a long time to discover the sacred nature of sex. My belligerent years as a teenager that are coming to a halt soon enough, left me in a turmoil. Consistent to my age of experimental freedom, I had many great discoveries and even more excess experiences, which was followed by a period of conservatism and repression--the price to be paid for extremes that brought with them some very harsh consequences to say the least.

Work in Progress...

It's a little bit past three in the morning, I am dead tired. Lately, I've been going to sleep any where from nine to twelve at night. I just got home. I want to go to bed. I am dying to go to bed. But, before I do I want to write. I want to write about a girl who means a great deal to me. I want to apologize to that girl for every wrong doing I have even created. For every lie and hypocritical instance I have spawned. I'm sure she won't ever see it, but it'll help me clear my head.

I am a fucking asshole. I toyed with your emotions. I made you just as insane as I am. I've said things on more than one occasion that you took in; and I didn't. I guess I just abuse my privilege of words.

I have absolutely no idea who the fuck you are

I Have Absolutely no Idea Who the Fuck You Are

When I was younger my family would gather around in the dining area and have dinner together. I remember that vividly. The usual meals I remember having was home made soup, then potatoes with fresh fish, and to finish it off tea with some sort of store bought cake. I remember I'd never eat the soup, unless I was sharing it with my father out of his super sized bowl. I remember it seemed to just taste better for some reason. I mean, obviously now I realize it wasn't actually any better, but at the time I truly believed otherwise.

When I was younger I felt like every first experience in my life would be epic. For instance when I finally learned how to ride a bicycle; a big boy bicycle, no training wheels. My father was there. He wasn't the one teaching me, but he was there. The first time I saw an opera in metropolitan and felt this magical feeling rush throughout my body. My father was there. He didn't buy me the ticket, but he was there. The first time I realized Winnie the Pooh wasn't real, I cried and hated my brother for it. My father was there for me. He drew my Winnie the Pooh bear on a huge newsprint paper and hung it in my room.The first time I felt a passion for something, my father jumped at me and tried to encourage me to do it.

webtow45yyhw45y68h g8erg8 awgyeu uyrui5h38tuegerubuysbf yy ferbyeri uil qio; qhoqwerfby sdfbfq4yih8rp0

Fin. (except it's not)

It's Only The Day You Fell Out of Your Mommy's Uterus.

It's Only The Day You Fell Out of Your Mommy's Uterus.


It's my best friend's 20th birthday today. I'm really happy for him. He is an amazing man. I hope I can spend most of the day with him today. When I think about him, I can't help but have this smile that overtakes my face. He has done so many things for me. I don't think I could truly ever muster up the courage to express my gratitude to him. At least, not in a manner that is remotely equivalent in eloquence as I could hope to. Over the years he's done a lot for me. Shit! Over the past year he has done more for me than any other person I know. He was there for me, when I thought I was heartbroken. He was there for me when my mother was in the hospital. He was there for me when I wanted to go out and get food at 4 in fucking ante meridian. He was there for me when I got sick. He was there for me when I got too drunk. He was there for me when all I wanted to do was get drunk. He was there for me when I didn't have enough money for a pack of smokes. But, most of all, HE WAS THERE. I love him for that. This man came a long way, from that little boy who came to America; from Poland. He became a part of my life. It's been over 10 yrs since we met. I hope we make it another 50.

:)

Happy Birthday Alan. Make this one count. Focus on some digital, get things together with school, meet that significant other, finally bring some real meaning to your life. I wish you all the self worth and happiness your big, ugly, doofy, Polish heart can Desire. I LOVE YOU.

Fin.

This is the Future

This is the Future

Life is nothing short of a Casino.
It's all about chances, choices, thoughts, if's, and's, but's, and most importantly yes's.
It's about thinking of all the odds against you and still making the choice to take a chance.


If you want a magical experience go and bet every last dollar you own; in roulette on a number. One number.
No sleep for over 2 days.
Over 10 drinks of alcohol pumping through you.
Standing it a room well lit, with florescent, fuzzy white lights and no windows or clocks.
Your phone is dead.
You have no idea what time or even what day it is.
Time doesn't exist here.
Time doesn't exist here.
Times doesn't fucking exist here.
You have just put your entire life in the hands of a little white ball that is spinning around a wheel of randomly set numbers and colors.
Your heart is pounding.
Your hands are shaking.
Your mind is lost.
You can't fucking believe what you just did.
This is definitely the craziest thing you have done lately.
If you lose, you don't even know how you will get home.
You want a cigarette so bad, so bad, so FUCKING bad.
But, you need to wait...
You need to see how this all ends.
The odds of you winning are practically nonexistent.
You chuckle to yourself in disbelief of your dumb decision.
The wheel stops...
Your ears are ringing.
Everyone around you is yelling.
You can't drown anyone out anymore.
People are smiling.
You look...
You've won.
You now have thirty six times the amount you had about 30secs before.

You go to the smoker's lounge, you can't believe yourself.
A random black man with a shitty digital camera shows you a picture of a girl.
He asks you, 'what you think?'

You don't want to be rude, but you say, 'I'm fine. I don't need her for a good time.'

After all, who needs Jennifer Natalie Bop?
She's just a fucking 21 year old whore.
Just a whore with a 3 year old child.
She didn't finish high school.
You didn't believe her, when she said, 'My biggest regret is not finishing.'
You thought she was just another whore, as you watched her snort heroin.
You thought she was just another crackhead, when you saw her smoke from that glass cock.
When she said those scars on her face and stomach were from a car accident from when she was three, you didn't believe her.
You thought that black man, that pimp, that was the reason for those terrible facial mutations on her.
You couldn't believe she had 14 tattoos.
You couldn't believe the man you came to the Casino with, actually fucked her.
You couldn't believe he wasn't interested in talking to her.
You couldn't believe he couldn't care.
At least, not like how you cared.

But, why the fuck would you care about some young whore?


You got comped for a free room.
You got comped for free meals.
You got two thousand dollars in your pocket.

Just eat.
Just go to sleep.
Just go home.


In a casino, money never really belongs to you, until you leave.

In life, love doesn't really exist to you, until you leave.

You didn't eat.
You didn't sleep.
You have no money left.
You had to lose your car keys.
You had to lose a friend.
You had to lose yourself.

You have no idea how it happened.
But, it did.

Life is brilliant.

FUCK 2k9.

FUCK 2009.

FUCK THE NEW YEAR.

I can't help but love it.



What's the craziest thing you've done lately?

-I've lost friends, money, self-respect. I've lost myself, only to rebuild what I think about myself. I've met the most amazing girl in school; Alison. I've drank myself retarded. I've spent random nights at a friend's house and watched her seduce me. I've lied to my parents. I've cried in a bathtub. I've pictured myself getting the crap kicked out of me, by a man twice my age. I've gotten shy around a girl to the point where holding her hand was better than sex. I've had a girl kiss me on the lips, and make me smile for days. I've ignored a past lover. I've believed in fate. I've forged my father's signature. I've rudely spoken in a foreign language around people who don't understand it. I've laid outside in the snow, shirtless, staring at stars. I've finally met with a friend I haven't seen since he was institutionalized. I've watched a girl fall asleep in my arms and thought about marrying her. I've wanted to kill myself. I've wanted to understand how my parents are still together. I've thought about why they want to leave each other. I've imagined having a bird shit on me, for the shear reason; of a possible change of luck. I've loved New York. I've loved New Jersey. I hated them both. I have thought of past sexual conquests. I've wished. I've lost. I've won. I have lived more in the past 12 days, more livelier than the passed 19 years.

FIN.

O.C. (Remake)

O.C. (REMAKE)

The sun was shining...
Good Morning shuttle bus,
Where shall you be taking us?
Some place that I have never been.

It's cheap transportation,
To new destinations,
Where I leave my reflection on the glass...

In chilly sub depth railways,
In abandoned stairways,
Send me to the Crystal sands,
To untouched lands...

Under the Crystal sands,
I lay hand in hand,
With unpolluted dreams,
&& made up scenes.



FIN.

E.motions S.ometimes.Transend. E.verlasting R.omance

E.motions S.ometimes T.ranscend. E.verlasting R.omance

I laid there in your bedroom; on your folded-out futon, intertwined within your cotton sheets, smoking one of your Marlboro lights, staring at you. I stared at you dancing to The Gypsy Kings. You were so graceful.

Eyes shut.
Arms high.
Feet gliding across the carpet.
You looked like an angel.
Pacing around rhythmically from side to side.
Occasionally, completely out of the blue; you spun around.


You looked at me as the song came to a halt. You looked so content. You looked so satisfied. You looked beautiful. You slowly crept up to me, as the song started to change unknown artist. It was very calming music, filled with boundless enthusiasm. You cupped my face in between you palms and gently marked my forehead with you soft lips. Your hands felt so nice against my face, better than any cashmere.You told me you'd be back in a minute. You walked out of your room and into the bathroom. As soon as I put my cigarette out and the last cloud of smoke from my mouth was drawn out, and cleared from the doorway, I saw you again. I saw you walk back into the bedroom.


You turned on a very familure tune by Muse, and you went back to your post. You moved around with such amorous intention. This time around I noticed you open your eyes every so often when your face makes contact with the mirror; you took small glances at yourself. It was adorable, as though you were playing hide and seek with yourself.

You looked at me again with such an ardent expression, you gave me physical proposals to come up and join you in your libidinous, ballet-inspired thrusts. I wanted to decline, but you were very persistent, and I wanted you to keep up this smiling facade. The way you wear you smile, is even more entertaining than watching your hips flail around ,and seeing your shirt ride up and down your belly, hinting at beauty that lays underneath your clothes. The way you move around would make Shakira jealous.

I finally got up the courage to dance and you playfully laughed at me. You did wonders to my ego when you pressed you fingers on to my hips and controlled me. 'Just let go. Just close your eyes and move about the way you feel,' you whispered into my ear. You made me feel comfortable, doing the one thing I felt the least myself in doing. It was magical. I'm glad we spent the last day of 2008 together.

Fin.

First Day Last Apology/

First Day Last Apology/

Awkwardly awakening at 6:00 in the fucking evening. It's a new day of a new year. It's the first day of a new year. My mouth stained with the shots of vodka from the night before. Strangely enough, I don't think I had all that many. Not anywhere near a usual consumption. 'Hi my name is Rabbit and I'm an alcoholic,' I rehearsed in my head as I pictured a room full of recovering drunk bastards. The way that is most common in detecting alcoholism and the striving addiction for it, is by how much they used to consume and how much they do consume. Usually alcoholic's don't need to consume much to get completely shitfaced. I couldn't believe what happened last night, it seemed like a distant nightmare from a night of childish sleep. I have no real recollection of any substantial thing happening. But, I have scratches on hands and what looks like, or rather closely resembles hickeys, on my shoulders. I have no headache, I guess I slept right through the hangover. Strangely, I don't remember going to sleep all to late, to crave such large amounts of sleep. Maybe I wore myself out physically. It could've been that. No, yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it. I'm pretty sure the tiring effects was from screaming incohearent words of haterad, about my brother, for no real apparent reason. It must have been my apparent yearing for my brother to seize to exist, amd so I tried choking him out and proceeded to scratch his neck, pleaing for him to appologize to me. I remember the passion behind my request and actions. I remember that all too well. Yet, for the life of me, I don't remember why I wanted an apology, I don't remember what could've been worth me saying such messy, regretful, ugly, fucking words.

I am such a fucking asshole.
I am such a fucking asshole.
I am such a fucking asshole.

I know why I slept so long, I was ashamed of my actions and just want to sleep through the day and wake up in the late night, so I could ponder this strange emotion. I know I am going to regret saying these words, but, I actually sympathize with trailer park trash asshole, family wreckin' men. Those men that beat their family members as if they are his dolls to break apart. I sympathize with them, the morning after, when they wake up and only remember bits and pieces of the night. That awkward, decaying sense of a real human being the next morning. That's what I sympathize with. Note to self: Rabbit, should never again mix Vodka with Wine.

I'm Sorry.

Fin.