[04 Dec 2009|12:40pm] There is a woman whose eyes never close. Sleep next to her and she'll curl you into her skin, she'll wear you like her prettiest dress and you'll hang on her arm and everyone will think, my god, how beautiful she is with that girl on her arm like that. And there will be so many girls for such a small arm. It will get crowded. You'll fall off and even though those pretty eyes never close, she won't look back at you as she walks away, wearing so many girls like a pretty, pretty dress. Comment

[15 Nov 2009|07:13pm] [ mood | information station ] Things That I Like by Carrie-Lynne Davis Blueberries Discussions about sociological problems Crossing stuff off my to-do list Bjork & Modest Mouse Sex Finishing a short story Giving advice Praise Telling stories Amy's macaroni and cheese Sweet coffees Lars Von Trier movies Getting robotic on caffeine Watching the Daily Show with my angry-liberal roommate Marlboro Reds Warm days in November Smoking hookah Perfume Comment

[15 Oct 2009|05:22pm] I've been in Lewiston for six hours and already I feel as if all the joy in my life has been drained out of me and will never come back. This house is depression manifested. It's utter chaos. Every fifteen minutes there's a fight. A loud one. It's so miserable. Comment

[29 Sep 2009|09:14pm] i will not be a doctor. i will not be a pilot. i will not be a therapist. i will not be a lawyer. i will not be a mother. i will not be a father. i will not be a social worker. i will not be a scientist. i will not be a teacher. i will not be a fire fighter. i will not be a mechanic. i will not be a farmer. i will not be a marketer. i will not be an engineer. i will not be a specialist. i will not be a secretary. i will not be an operator. i will not be a model. i will not be a student. i will not be a policeman. i will not be a senator. i will not be a dancer. i will not be an accountant. i will not be a babysitter. i will not be a stock broker. i will not be a web designer. i will not be a socialite. i will not be a reporter. i will not be a plumber. i will not be an editor. i will not be an athlete. i will not be a movie star. i will not be a dentist. i will not be a beautician. i will not be a bus driver. i will not be a caretaker. i will not be a prostitute. i will not be a mortician. i will not be a construction worker. i will not be a salesman. i will not be a grocer. i will not be a director. i will not be a chef. i will not be a line cook. i will not be a singer. i will not be a principal. i will not be a janitor. i will not be a bank teller. i will not be a locksmith. i will not be a chemist. i will not be a child. i will not be an adult. i will not be you. i will not be me. i will not be a writer because i will not be at all. Comment

[27 Sep 2009|04:32pm] When I think about my family I get real, real happy when I feel all their smoke in my own lungs How I can never be perfect and how my greatest art lies in mere existence despite the chains i made over all those taxless days sweating tears and the music or silence of baby screams in the downtown darkness; that's all, i am the shadow under a Maine summer sun black and without expression: so tell me, does my brother love me? dad's coughing on the phone again i blow pretty tendrils and say, i'm so sorry for my loss and mom's words are all one-again, nowadays it's just her vowels strung-out like the sticky buzz of a handful of rubies, late-night amphetamines, and a mouth full of ashes, because it's the last hit and it's your hit and there is little more perfect than an empty glass, an empty heart. I know perfection, I do. Their hatred stings me so sweetly; there is nothing more perfect than that. Comment

[18 Sep 2009|03:39pm] [ mood | workhorse ] [ music | arcade fire. ] I am unhappy. All options seem like bad options. All decisions seem like bad decisions. I miss adderall. At least when I was on it I didn't feel stupid all the time. I can't even raise my hand in class now, I'm stricken with an intense anxiety, and when I do actually muster up the courage, I get all tongue-twisted and end up saying something stupid or incoherent. I'm so sick of being such a fucking downer all the time. I get on everyone's nerves because I'm negative all the time and I never want to do anything. I just lie in bed. When I'm not lying in bed I'm doing homework. I'm slipping down the depression slope and I'm so afraid that I won't be able to do homework. When I'm down, I'm really fucking down. I'm talkin' "shades-pulled-down-bed-ridden-tissues-askew-never-wake-up-again" kind of bullshit. I just want to scream. Or die. Or feel better. But I can't do any of those things. Comment

I see horror in the future and I see horror in the past [08 Sep 2009|07:10pm] I'm in a class called Global Flow of Information, and for homework we're reading an article titled "Jihad VS McWorld." It's both terrifying and intriguing, illustrating the two paths our world could (and probably will) take in the future. Jihad avidly promotes identity (based on differences) which inevitably entails lots and lots of war. McWorld is the opposite, really, it's the elimination of identity, an emergence of one global culture. They're both terrible and they make me fear the future. I'm reminded of 1984 and Brave New World. I always thought my english teacher was right in having us read them back-to-back, since they paint the world in almost completely opposite ways. Jihad, then, mirrors 1984, in that a national identity is the way in which we achieve 'happiness' as citizens--the existence of perpetual war is necessary to keep this patriotism intact. Likewise, Brave New World refers to the McWorld--one culture, 'free trade', 'free press', 'free love', etc etc. This war between the West and Islam is important but irrelevant, in my opinion, since both offer little to the civilian who wants both peace and identity. But maybe that's not possible. 00300 Comment

[03 Sep 2009|03:15pm] I rode on the Smiddy elevator with Linda "media res" Godfrey yesterday and she asked me if I'd written anything lately. I told her about "The Fetus." She said, "Ohhhh, did you submit it to McSweeney's?" Ahahahahahahaha. Comment

[30 Aug 2009|08:42pm] In chaos is where I am comfortable. Comment

[30 Aug 2009|01:53am] I constantly look for things to make me sadder. Comment

[25 Aug 2009|07:31pm] I hate secrets and that's why I don't have any. Comment

[16 Aug 2009|01:36pm] Apparently there's a law stating that drivers who cancel their insurance have to return their plates to the DMV immediately or else they'll charge you eight dollars a day until you send them in. No one told me. My car has been uninsured for like a month and a half. I'm going to owe three hundred dollars. I want to hang myself by my intestines. 00200 Comment

[07 Aug 2009|07:49pm] I fell asleep on my right arm and now my muscles scream in terror whenever I move it. This is not important, but it's the most interesting thing I have to say right now. It's been boring for a long-ass time, save a week ago when Danielle, Nate, and I decided to buy Robitussin and have a Robolicious night. My body had a violent protest and I threw up for the rest of the night. Yum. Danielle's skin turned red and it itched everywhere. But Nate had a good ol' time. Go Nate. I'm lonely and bored and I've been frowning at my calendar because there aren't enough X's on the days. I feel restless and I need work to do. I've been writing--I have a whole folder full of stuff I've written this summer. I want to write more, but I need to do something, my days are too monotonous and routine. I don't mind routine, if it has room for interesting shit in them, but I haven't been doing anything interesting, unless you count drinking a forty and talking to Owen online for hours 'interesting'. Danielle is on vacation so the summer unit was reduced to Nate and I. Then Nate's girlfriend came and he stopped hanging out with me, so now the unit has been reduced to just me. But it's alright. I'm innovative. I'll find shit to occupy myself. An Army of Me! Thanx Bork. However, it really does suck serious ball that the internet isn't working at my apartment. I'm currently sitting inside of a Barnes and Noble because I am addicted to the internet. I called my sister today and she told me that Adam has been bullying a kindergarten girl, taking less and less showers, and attacking Tonya. My mom works three days a week, most weeks, and spends her days off drinking and having sex with her boyfriend, who has an STD because he slept with someone else. Tonya cried and told me she didn't want to talk about it. Maine is more and more like a bad dream I had long ago. Comment

[01 Aug 2009|07:26pm] (i have a crush!) Comment

I understand. [29 Jul 2009|05:56pm] Beast my beast comes in the afternoon he gnaws at my gut he paws my head he growls spits out part of me my beast comes in the afternoon while other people are taking pictures while other people are at picnics my beast comes in the afternoon across a dirty kitchen floor leering at me while other people are employed at jobs that stop their thinking my beast allows me to think about him, about graveyards and dementia and fear and stale flowers and decay and the stink of ruined thunder. my beast will not let me be he comes to me in the afternoons and gnaws and claws and i tell him as i double over, hands gripping my gut, jesus, how will I ever explain you to them? they think I am a coward but they are the cowards because they refuse to feel, their bravery is the bravery of snails. my beast is not interested in my unhappy theory--he rips, chews, spits out another piece of me. I walk out the door and he follows me down the street. we pass the lovely laughing schoolgirls the bakery trucks and the sun opens and closes like an oyster swallowing my beast for a moment as I cross at a green light pretending that I have escaped, pretending that I need a loaf of bread or a newspaper, pretending that the beast is gone forever and that the torn parts of me are still there under a blue shirt and green pants as all the faces become walls and all the walls become impossible. -Charles Bukowski Comment

< RANT! > [24 Jul 2009|01:48pm] [ mood | cheryl davis ] [ music | guilty cocker spaniels, courtesy of Modest Mouse ] CHERYL DAVIS IS RIDICULOUS. I can't take it anymore. My mom was supposed to send me my check three days ago, and I called her today and she didn't send it. She told me that she shouldn't have to pay to send me stuff--it's not her responsibility. She says she doesn't have the money. I say Mom, a stamped envelop is 52 cents. She says, well what about the gas money? I can't argue with someone so ridiculous. She used to make me pay her to bring me to work. The conversations go nowhere and she ends up telling me to go get my own p.o. box, but I can't afford one, for christ sake, I can't even afford my car insurance. She refuses to send me my mail and the registrar won't let me put Ithaca as my permanent address. ADSFJADFADSFKDKFKDAFKDASKFD. Last night was terrible and I'm sick of constantly stewing in sadness and frustration. I need to get my shit together and quickly if I want to start out this year feeling good about myself and the future. barf! Comment

[23 Jul 2009|07:47pm] ( 10 Albums that Soundtracked my Life ) What is your top ten? 00500 Comment

Tim Davis [19 Jul 2009|03:27pm] [ mood | nose sweat ] [ music | Night on the Sun, courtesy of Modest Mouse ] All the days I spend with my father in this mock-American-suburban condo in the Dominican Republic seem to blend together so that they all become indistinguishable. Dad'll wake us all up at fifteen to eight (as he calls it) but it's really forty-five passed seven in the morning, and this is because, as my father explained to me, his "biological clock" (similar to women's, which tells them when to have babies?) forces him to arise at five in the morning, every morning, and by 7:45 he's already fiddle-farted around Bit Torrent (burning DVD's--his new, rather boring, hobby), sipped maybe two or three bitter black coffees, and scolded/played with Max, the Rodent Dog, for a good amount of time. After nearly three hours of early morning solitude, Tim Davis simply cannot take it any longer. So he'll wake us all up, shouting jovially, "Carpe Diem! That means Seize the Day." I wouldn't mind this if he'd had some, oh I dunno, activities or something planned, or if he wanted to do something other than what he does by himself, but it would appear to me now that he just wants company while he does these things-- day after day after day. This is a man unsure of his hobbies. This is also a man, as I'm sure you can guess, who goes to work on his days off, just to see if there's anything that needs fixing, and there always is, so mostly he just works. Tim Davis is, I guess, boring. I think he knows that he's boring because, poor guy, he tries very hard to accomodate me as much as possible while I sit in the living room chairs, reading books while he downloads movies, watches movies he's already downloaded, or yells at the Rodent. Would you like a tuna sandwich? A tuna sandwich is something that Tim Davis would always say yes to, because there is a conceptual list of maybe three or four foods that he can prepare for himself, and he is perfectly content with those three or four foods. When I reject his tuna sandwiches, he is always quiet for a moment--I'd like to define this quiet, make something up that's humorous, but to be honest, I'm not sure what it's all about. Disappointment? Confusion? How could I possibly not want a tuna sandwich? All I know is that after a minute or two of sitting quietly in thought, he then asks me if I'd like a Diet Coke--yet another thing he would certainly never decline, because it's his beverage of choice. The man loves Diet Coke and would maybe wish his body were 75% made up of that rather than water (which, by the way, he argues is present in Diet Coke and therefore the amount of water he needs to drink a day is taken care of). He'll go down this invisible list, asking me if I want anything, and he won't shuttup until I say it firmly, "No, Dad, I'm alright. I don't need anything." And he'll give me one of those looks, you know, and then I'll add, "but thank you for asking," and I'll say it pleasantly, not bitchily. Regardless, he'll always get a little offended and retreat back into his Law & Order/Bit Torrent/fetch with Rodent. His Dominican wife, Jenny, is frustrated with my father's hobbies. She wants to go to bars, and sing karoake, and go shopping, and blah blah, stuff that women who wear shirts with fake gem stones want to do, and my dad'll have none of that. He'd much rather sit at home and download video games that he will collect but not play. I'm not entirely sure how Jenny came to want to marry my father. When they first met, Jenny was a pretty lazy customer service rep who spoke no english and my father was the frustrated, asshole customer who made her cry. About six months later they were married and she and her son Jean (pronounced John) moved into Tim Davis' condo, which was much less glamorous than what she might have (and probably) expected. When you think of an alcoholic American male who happens to have intense anger and emotional problems living on Latin American soil, I feel like you'd picture some guy in golf trousers and white hair, with a cigar in his mouth, chillin' by the pool next to his mansion with a young, sassy-but-still-submissive native hottie at his arm. This is definitely not my father. Tim Davis grew up in Waldoboro, Maine, which is literally the sticks, and not even the pretty sticks, you know? The ugly sticks. He was the oldest of three kids, under him was Brenda, who married a seafood man and built a house on the same land her parents lived on, and Brad, who is a World-of-Warcraft addict and an avid cocaine enthusiast. Despite his little sister marrying into money and his brother's irresponsible lifestyle, Tim Davis managed to literally become a work horse. His parents were alcoholics who couldn't take care of anything really, so he had to babysit his siblings while going to school and maintaining a job (hey, this sounds eerily familiar...) and once, when he was sixteen, his father beat the shit out of him (which was certainly not the first time, mind you) so he threatened to burn the house down. It was probably not a real threat--one of those sixteen-year-old meltdown exclamations, but my grandparents were bad people who did not take kindly to threats, so for the rest of my father's high school career, he lived in his pick-up truck. There are layers to my father that even a therapist cannot reach. I really wish I could do something to perk him up, to spice up his mundane life, because I know for sure (because he's told me several times) that he's unhappy living the way he is. What can one do about this? Me, I get perceiving your life as excruciatingly futile and depressing, but I'm the sort of person who seeks out medz to fix the bad chemicals, go to therapy, try (albeit desperately) to change the way I think and behave, but Tim Davis is not that kind of person. He is the kind of person that does not understand therapy and thinks it's just two people in a room having a conversation--which it is essentially, but it's really a conversation that makes changes. One time my dad told me he could probably murder someone, and that he considered murdering the man who robbed his house. Therefore when his birthday rolled around, because I honestly couldn't think of anything else he talked about with such fervent passion, I bought him a book about serial killers, and all their murderous secrets. Now that I think about it, my dad has the perfect history to accompany his deadly journey. What does one do to improve the life of an emotionally-damaged workaholic alcoholic who could potentially be a murderer one day? Please tell me, because seriously, I haven't got the slightest idea. Comment

[14 Jul 2009|03:44pm] In this society. In this consumerist capitalist materialist society. As a result of The New Family (which is, in my opinion, not really a 'family' at all, just an assortment of individuals connected by blood and physical proximity), and the rate at which we're all now growing up, is it possible for us to find love, given that we're operating under a radically different context? Our definition of love is what? Commitment, understanding, respect, physical and emotional attraction. These are values which have changed along with the institutions in which we live, so has Love changed right along with it? We're now seeing what sociologists call the "McDonaldization" of the Family, the Workplace, our food, our clothing, our shelter. There are so many options, we don't have to "make do" with the little resources that are available to us, now that we have a massive global market full of fun and exciting things that are plentiful and cheap. Are we seeing something similar in our Love lives? Has "settling down" or "making do" now been attached with a negative connotation? Why? Because there are so many other options for us. People are dating long distance, over oceans; dating websites help us sort out who we don't want. Do we make conceptual pros and cons lists for people we're interested in? Why put the effort in and make a relationship work when there are so many other people out there? The McDonalization of Love. We are imprisoned by too many choices, slaves of convenience, alone because we can have our needs met in other ways. Sex and the City taught us that our sexual needs are fulfilled by our casual partners and our emotional needs are fulfilled by our friends. But didn't they end up getting married at the end anyway? So what does this say? Does this system really work? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I am exhausted by this. I keep thinking about things in large-scale terms. I can't live in a society where we chuck someone when we get bored with them. I can't live in a society where we marginalize the importance of emotional connection with other people. I can't live in a society where we are becoming more and more distanced from where we come from. I feel more intelligent since coming to college, but I also feel more depressed about America. Every horrible thing I have learned all seems to connect to one grand concept: consumerism. It's fucking killing us. Our food is fake--it's being engineered in factories, not farmed on the Earth. The shirts on our backs made by foreign children who live in factory housing. Our families, if they're wealthy, ship us off to 'higher learning' facilities, which is really just an expensive vacation before we have to deal with the real world. Our families, if they're poor, discard us once we're old enough to survive in a world where we can't afford housing with just one income, and barely with two incomes. What do we do? What do we do? Comment

[03 Jul 2009|12:44pm] You sit staring at a white box and you feel nothing. Or maybe it's not nothing, maybe what you're feeling is the lack of feeling, an emptiness. The void is consuming you again. Nothing anyone says has meaning. Things people say are just words, and we're all a bunch of talking heads. You sit and you don't eat and sometimes you drink water because you feel like you have to. You don't want to go to that party tonight. The party tonight will be like all other parties and they're just rooms with sad people getting drunk so they can finally be honest about how they actually need each other to fill their voids. You tell your friends you'll drive them tonight, if they want. Do they see the void? If they do, what are they thinking? And you realize it doesn't matter what they're thinking, because you don't even like yourself, you don't need anyone to feel anything for you. But you're still drowning. You see people walk by and you think they're pathetic and you don't want to end up like them, even though you're the one numbly staring at the white box. You don't smile at your coworkers because the amount of energy it'll take isn't worth it anyway. You've never hid your unhappiness from others. Stringing words together to even illustrate how you feel seems pointless. Nothing will ever change. You wonder if you're flat lining or already dead, but once you stop typing, the only thing that is there is the little happy musical beat of your heart. You realize now that you are only a heartbeat. There is nothing else there. Comment

navigation [ viewing | most recent entries ] [ go | earlier ]