{{B A B Y MONSTERS}}_________________<3

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 14:14:02 GMT

GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.
I cannot take 2 more weeks of this.

My father is an abusive alcoholic with a temper problem and I'm a self-loathing dysthymic with an anxiety disorder. I don't know if there's a worse combination. I'm trapped here because I barely speak the language. I can't take the car anywhere and there aren't a lot of places that are walking-distance. I've been in my room, on the computer, for days. I feel like the lady in The Yellow Wallpaper. I'm going crazy all alone in this room.

Two more weeks.
15 more days.
Oh my fucking god, that's too long.

All of these entries are so depressing.

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 03:19:21 GMT

I used to be funny in my journal. People used to laugh & comment.
Now it's just my depressing, whiny, angst bullshit.
But honestly, that's all I have to talk about anymore. I'm consumed in self-loathing.

Today it's my mother. She's made it abundantly clear that she doesn't care about me since I left for college. It was like she was waiting for me to leave so she could drink her alcohol and smoke pot without being nagged day-in-day-out about being a more responsible parent. Pay your bills, so we don't get evicted. Don't drink on the weekdays instead of going to work. Cook a meal so Tonya and Adam don't grow up on fast food.
My brother's got that fat belly I'm so familiar with. He's going to develop the same compulsive eating disorder that Tonya and I both had, and it sickens me. Maybe it's good that she won't help me out with a plane ticket. I would probably spend the whole time crying in the broken shower about their broken lives.

Dad drinks and cries on Christmas Eve.
Mom drinks and cries on Christmas Eve.
My siblings and I just cry.

A ticket to Maine is $180. I didn't even ask for 80. I asked her for 20 dollars. Twenty.
Nah. Can't do, sorry.

Maybe she does love me, but she loves her alcohol more.
They all do.

Everything's just one, big fucking tragedy.
What is Maine? Huh?
It's a bottle of booze that you'll never stop drinking.
It's that sting in your lungs when you've had too much.
It's when you can't string a sentence together, when the thoughts don't make sense, when you can't go where you want to go, be who you want to be, or do what you want to do. Maine freezes you in a terrible place that's almost impossible to escape, and even if you do, you'll still find yourself trying desperately to go back.

I love Maine the way my mother loves her alcohol, the way my sister loves her bong, the way my brother loves his food -- with obsession, fear, and loathing.

Fri, 25 Dec 2009 08:56:37 GMT

These conversations with Amanda have got to stop. It's like I'm addicted to them. Whenever she comes online, I'm all smiles and I wait until she IM's me. I give her compliments, call her baby, tell her things she wants to hear because I'm addicted to praise, addicted to her flirtation, addicted to being liked.
It's clear now that a hooking up relationship is not going to work, because I don't even have good intentions in mind. I want to see other people and I want her to only be interested in seeing me. I want to hurt her the way she hurt me. I want her to fall in love with me and be just fucking DEVASTATED when she discovers that I don't love her back.

It would be insanely cruel to keep this going. It's unhealthy and I'm actively engaging in Bad Person Behavior. I find myself bringing up how I'm interested in certain men because I know that sparks a competitiveness in her. I'm being manipulative because I want her to want me, I want her to fight for me.

But she won't.
She never will.

Amanda will never love me the way I was starting to love her. I guess, in that respect, I am grateful that she ended it when she did. If I had fallen madly in love with her, I don't even want to think about how I would have handled her breaking up with me for Colleen. I reacted crazily as it was--shutting myself in my room, crying all day and night, sending Amanda cryptic texts about how I was suicidal. Not chill.

None of this is okay and it certainly doesn't mirror the characteristics of the person that I aspire to be. I need to find the strength to fight my attention-addiction for both Amanda's and my sake.
It's unfair for me to string her along with the sole intent to inflict revenge on her. That's just fucking crazy.
It's unfair for me to let myself ride the wave of insanity. I must take control of my life and regain my footing on the path to serenity and good will.

Jesus, that sounds fucking lame, but it's precisely the kind of corny ass shit I need to put my faith into if I want to be good and do good in this world.

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 19:39:13 GMT

I read all the time lately but my eyes are dull with boredom. I want the words to have meaning, but the concept of 'wanting' is characterized only by how little passion I possess. They say if I can stay alive through these next few years the red in my lips will come back little by little, but I feel so numb that it's hard to even imagine what that might entail. My life thus far has been defined by moments of tragedy, sickness, and self hatred. What does it mean to love oneself? How is this accomplished?
It's not as if I feel that I'm full of blame--on the contrary, I feel like a perpetual victim of depression. It's that powerlessness that further disconnects me from autonomy in the course of my life. Depression paints everything a darker color, and sometimes, depending on how far in the hole I am, it can warp things right in front of me entirely.
Poor impulse control.
Intense paranoia.
Constant neuroses.
Disrupted sleep.
Mysterious body pains.
Crippling anxiety.
It seems as if the only element of my identity that I can cling to with certainty is my self-awareness. When and if I lose that (and it is, by nature, the only tool applicable to knowing if I have lost my mind), it will be the greatest tragedy I'll ever come to know. If, even for a second, I doubt my sanity, I swear to you that I will swallow a bottle of pills, fasten a rope necklace, or have a nice bubble bloodbath--whatever I deem necessary in order to end my life.

I have been crying for years.
The activities I need to do to alleviate myself of this terrible sickness requires an energy that I do not possess as a result of that very sickness. What comforts me, or rather, what seems natural to me, is further pushing me into the ground.

My coffin keeps me warm.
I will not leave, I will not leave.

I'm losing hope.

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 17:40:35 GMT

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.

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 00:13:05 GMT

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

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 22:24:31 GMT

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.

Wed, 30 Sep 2009 01:25:36 GMT

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.

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 20:45:50 GMT

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.

Fri, 18 Sep 2009 20:15:30 GMT

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.

I see horror in the future and I see horror in the past

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 23:29:53 GMT

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.

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 19:19:16 GMT

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.

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 00:43:00 GMT

In chaos is where I am comfortable.

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 05:49:08 GMT

I constantly look for things to make me sadder.

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 23:31:13 GMT

I hate secrets and that's why I don't have any.

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 17:33:24 GMT

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.

Sat, 08 Aug 2009 00:32:39 GMT

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.

Sat, 01 Aug 2009 23:33:55 GMT

(i have a crush!)

I understand.

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 22:08:59 GMT

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

< RANT! >

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 17:59:36 GMT

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!

Fri, 24 Jul 2009 00:28:58 GMT

Bjork - Debut

Obviously. I've been listening to Bjork since I was six years old. This was the first album my mom bought and played over and over. I liked it. "It's Oh So Quiet" appealed to me the most (since I was only six!) but I soon adored all of the tracks and every single album she's come out with since.

Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

This album has always made me so sad, even before I found out that it's all about the Holocaust. Every song is perfect to me and I fucking love the lyrics. I've loved this album since I first heard it.

Fiona Apple - Tidal

When I was in middle school I'd lock myself in my room and listen to this album. "Sullen Girl" and "Never is a Promise" were my favorite tracks. I felt like Fiona Apple "got it" and her lyrics spoke to me.

Modest Mouse - Good News for People Who Love Bad News

I was really resistant to Modest Mouse when I first heard them. It all started with Maxwell Hansen. Or at least that's how it seemed in my circle of friends. I remember being in his car, him turning around in the passenger seat and shouting in our faces, "Do you like The Mouse?!" and I said, Yeah, they're okay. But I never really gave them a solid listen until much later, when I became fucking obsessed with them. "Bukowski" was what got me hooked, and then later it was "The Good Times are Killing Me" and "Broke." Now, all of their songs are my favorite songs. I fucking love Modest Mouse.

The Postal Service - Give Up

Oh god, I love it! This is probably on everyone's album list--who didn't listen to this album repeatedly when they were in late middle/early highschool?! If you say no, I bet you're lying!

Bright Eyes - Lifted Or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground

I still really like Bright Eyes. I don't care, fuck you if you're judging (and I know you are!!). Conor's misery was as intense as my misery, and when I listen to his music I feel like we're both wallowing in our anguish together.

Patty Griffin - Living with Ghosts

After my mother got divorced, she went through a feministy-music stage and this is when she introduced me to the folksy, sad Patty Griffin, who coincidentally was from Maine! Now, normally I don't like acoustic artists who are the epitome of over-the-top folk, but I really like her. She made a little crappy tape of her playing the guitar and singing songs to some record company, and they liked it so much that they pretty much produced her album as it was, which I find very admirable. I listened to her a lot when I was little, and I rediscovered her last year when I lived in my Garden Apartment and was having a terrible bout of depression.

The Smiths - Louder Than Bombs

I attribute a lot of my music taste to my mother. She introduced me to The Cure, Kate Bush, and Bjork. She also introduced me to The Smiths when I was ten or eleven (or somewhere around there). I remember her saying that Morrissey and I were both whiny and dramatic. She was right! I appreciate and understand Morrissey's angst.

Simon & Garfunkel - Greatest Hits

I was wondering whether it was appropriate to put a Greatest Hits album, but honestly, I think so. This album really got me into Simon & Garfunkel, and I wore the hell out of the CD, so it's on my list. To this day, America is one of the greatest songs of all time for me.

The White Stripes - Red Blood Cells

This album was the first rock album I ever purchased with my hard-earned cash! I loved it. It was kind of noisy but still poppy enough to stay in my head. Michel Gondry directed their video for Fell in Love with a Girl! However, my favorite track was "Little Room."

Daniel Johnston - Welcome to my World
I discovered Daniel Johnston when I watched the documentary about his life, "The Devil & Daniel Johnston" and I fell in love with him. "Devil Town" became an anthem for how I felt about Lewiston and all the people in it.

What is your top ten?

Tim Davis

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 20:16:49 GMT

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.

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 20:01:53 GMT

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?

Fri, 03 Jul 2009 17:29:46 GMT

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.

Thu, 02 Jul 2009 20:16:57 GMT

Today I turned twenty
and my veins turned red
my eyes rolled back
the clock keeps on
ticking in rhythms
my heart dreams of
when soaked in six cups
of hot crack in cozies
like little kids in winter coats;
i envy the king of the mountain,
snot-nosed, flake-lipped, but aware
that being on top meant
standing over the corpses
of the weaker ones like me
and the game makes me sick
but it's all that we have,
and i'm not sure
who's living my my head now
but I know it's not me
or maybe these eyes are getting better
at seeing inside of me when i'm
dreaming of being alive.

____{{B A B Y MONSTERS}}_____________________<3

All of these entries are so depressing.

I see horror in the future and I see horror in the past

I understand.

< RANT! >

Tim Davis

{{B A B Y MONSTERS}}_________________<3