Rituals.

From now on, or at least today, Wednesday is "You know what I hate?" day. So to start things off: You know what I hate? English majors. I know what you're thinking. "Aren't you an English major?" Yes, I am. But why do you think I put it off for 3 years? Because they suck. They are unbearably pretentious and the only form of life more useless that Communication majors and the only ones more annoying than Art majors. They all think (and by "all" I am excluding myself) they're going to write the next great novel. But what they fail to remember is that most people who become famous for art related issues only become famous after they're dead. Picasso. William Shakespeare. (he was, admittedly, popular in his day, but that was because he wrote plays people wanted to see, he wrote what was "hot." It wasn't until much past his time that he was honored and respected for creating "art.") There are more, obviously, but I would

And it begins. Each day a wall. Each step towards the edge. I am struggling. I cannot keep my eyes open. I cannot win this war again. One chance to prove the point. Our burning desire to become. Other than our own. Other than the ones before. Unanswered question. Unfinished truths. Understand the burden. Unwaver in your insecurity. Unaccepting of the horrors of your eyes. Yearning to break through. Your desire to survive. Your desire to live. Your suppression. You pound us with obsession. You need to be silent, volumes in my mind.

John Leguizamo is joining the cast of ER I'm very happy.

It's so hard deciding what to post sometimes. I've reread a bunch of the posts and it suddenly doesn't surprise me why no one reads this. To be quite frank, I often have nothing good to say. There are many cases where's it's just pointless prattling. I get the subtle feeling that it degrades my intelligence. A friend of mine told me I should write more poetry. A good suggestion. Except that writing poetry is very hard for me. I know, the shock. unbelievable that writing, in any way, could be difficult for me. But honestly, half the time I don't even like poetry. I've started feeling better about it, though, since discovering some poetry I liked. I hate the childish, rhyming ones. I don't mind poems that rhyme, I've written some myself. But poetry for me is often like music. I know whether I'll like it or not by the first couple lines. And I hate when lyrics are forced. Like when lines are there because someone thinks they have to be, because it&#

I have to go to work. It's a good thing.

Does he kiss your eyelids in the morning when you start to raise your head? And does he sing to you incessantly from the place between your bed and wall? Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes? Looking down every few steps to pretend he walks with you. Does he know that place below your neck that is your favorite to be touched and does he cry through broken sentences like “I love you far too much?” Does he lay awake listening to your breath? Worried that you smoke too many cigarettes? Is he coughing now on a bathroom floor?For every speck of tile there are a thousand more that you won't ever see but most hold inside yourself eternally. I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death. In every city, memories would whisper “Here is where you rest.” I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” I kissed a girl with a broken j

Whenever I watch Episode 4 (of Season 2) of Farscape, I get a craving for crackers. (understandable if you've seen the episode.)

Recently, I kissed a boy. There was, and don't be offended by this, no chemistry. No spark. No reason to keep kissing. But. And this will sound strange, but it seems that somehow the lack of chemistry with this boy has me thinking that there might be chemistry with others, or with the right one. It gave me hope. Very odd. As though the lack of something signifies that somewhere that "something" must exist. Like if there's a Point B, there has to be a Point A, or else why would you bother designating it "B," you'd just call it a point. Does that make any sense to you? Well, it makes sense to me so I suppose that is what matters. Also, do you think it's possible to have an obsessive-compulsive heart? I know it sounds ridiculous, but the last several times I've gone to donate plasma, my pulse has been too high. Now I'm not, consciously or subconsciously, nervous, so I think that, like me, my heart sometimes forgets what it's already done (li

------ It was a bitter summer day. The already brown grass was baking to a nice charcoal color. Inside the little white church, dozens of fans waved in dozens of hands but did little more than circulate the air in what was essentially an oven. The clapping of the choir made a dull smack as sweaty palms came together to glorify the deaths of gods. Every Sunday was the same in this never ending summer. Robed bodies swayed back and forth in time to a rusty organ, a swirl of color perfectly matched with the waving lines of air boiling off the dusty wooden floor. Hard benches creaked when a body shifted, squealed when one turned and resonated as children did their best to keep their bare thighs from melting to the poor peeling finish. In a world where cooking was big on meat and grease, there was far too much fat to be crammed into this one-roomed building. Sundresses were fixed in young boys minds as small squares of fabric wrapped far too tightly around sausage-like limbs and young Caleb

I'll post some of my writing later, probably tomorrow. I'm working on some stuff for one of my novels, plus I still have to figure out what I'm gonna post. In the meantime: If you want to buy me a present, this is what you can get: Dane Cook has a new CD called "Retaliation." It's new stuff (since I more or less have all his old stuff). Dane Cook is hot. And one of my favorite comedians. /

"Fuck Chuck Norris" I still laugh every time.

I changed some stuff. I moved The Quote of the Day. It used to be \/\/\/\/ at the bottom of the page. But I don't think anyone realized it. I often forgot and I'm the one who put it there. Then I moved it, a week or so ago, to the bottom of the quotes section. But I still didn't look at it. So I moved it above my profile. Now I'll actually read it. And speaking of my profile, I changed it. The current difference between my bedroom and my living room? 6 Degrees. Nice, huh? For some reason, I have been exceedingly tired this week. But on the plus side, I cleaned my room, sorted my papers, wrote Ringo a letter, and took care of some other stuff that was necessary. Tomorrow I need to donate plasma and call maintenance. Have a picture. And some artist recommendations. FeFe Dobson & Lacuna Coil. Maybe later this weekend I'll put up some of my writing. Maybe later this weekend I'll actually work on my writing.

This song makes me cry. It's sad and haunting and makes me feel hollow. It's one of my favorites. "Wild Is The Wind" by Cat Power Love me, love me Say you do Let me fly away with you We are creatures of the wind Wild as the wind Give me more than one caress Satisfy this hungriness We are creatures of the wind Wild as the wind You touch me I hear the sound of mandolins, baby You kiss me With your kiss my life begins Like a leaf clings to a tree Baby, please cling to me We are creatures of the wind Wild as the wind You touch me I hear the sound of mandolins And you kiss me With your kiss my life begins. Love me, love me Say you do Let me fly away with you

That "The Transporter" is written by the same guy who wrote "The Fifth Element"? (i.e. Luc Besson). Neat huh? Oh, and "The Transporter 2" is coming out soon, so make sure you go see it. You know, 'cause Jason Statham is Hot!

I LOVE the rain. It's just...so nice.

Nauseas in my dying skin.

Oh the burden we bear, being able to speak. Who would read this? Who would care? Meaningless trivialities cycled over and over. Spinning around to be spit out again. The inability to create originality every day sickens me. Who would feel sorry for me if I shared? I tell myself and even I can see the truth. I have only myself to blame. Circling the drain. Washed up. Washed out. Filthy in my disgust. Disgusted by my bravado. So personal I try to share. Without anyone knowing it is me. The mood swings. The mind screams. The empty echo of all I've been. The emptiness of my past is immeasurable since I still have nothing done. Nothing to measure with. Nothing to measure against. A failure in my own skin. No matter which direction you look in. Petty accomplishments. Pitiful acquisitions. Oh what fools mortals be. So alone and convinced it's okay. Months and Months. Days and Days. Years, even, when you think of my intentions. Who could ever feel sorrow? Who could ever truly care? Who