1 more minute till i am out of here

i hate being weird. there is another matthew bigelow. he lives up north i think. he apparently writes really great essays. i want to meet him, he seems like a loser. and i am sorry to admit, but i am pretty lonely or whatever ( Read more... )

i want to gather flint and cameras filled with dirt. and when the cars fly by we can bless the arrows where the sun will never stall. avantgarde pills. blue poison. and our home below the gum stained table.

i am at work working. hate it.

i hate everything about this house. i need to leave. i want to fuckin run. but i just don't. eh, i am fucking trash. i just feel like trash and indulge in it as if i have nothing else to lose, and i dont. i dont care about my future, really. i'll just live i guess... until i die. we find all these diminutive and inessential things to agonize over. ( Read more... )

i think i am literally choking. eating an apple, and choking. whatever.

a simple word, are you there in the country? yr eyes so full, yr head so tight can't you hear me? remember our talk that day on the phone? i was the door, and you were the station with shattered glass and miles between us we still flew away in the conversation this is eric's trip we've all come to watch him slip he's slipping all the way to Texas ( Read more... )

i hope sam is ok.

well, i set my monkey on the log
and ordered him to do the dog
he wagged his tail and shook his head
and he went and did the cat instead
he's a weird monkey, very funky.

breakfast was good. i am going to play kickball. i'm a poet, and i know it, hope i don't blow it.

sam is so fun