When someone answers my basic 'getting to know if you're a shithead' question of what music you listen to with: "Oh I like everything. All kinds of music. Indie. I can't name any, but I like everything," you have cut to the chase and given me advance warning that you are, in fact, a shithead. Worse than that, a shithead I can never be friends with.

If my entire body could stop shaking so I could get something done today, that would be awesome.
Kind of difficult making devilled eggs and getting ready for a party when your hand is fucking trembling like you have Parkinson's disease.

He types out his fucking blog while I live in the opposite room.

Oh Victoria Legrand, kill me with that darkly dazzling voice of yours. Kill me kill me kill me.

My loneliness is back ( Read more... )

Everybody wants a piece of the pie. I want a piece of cake. And I wanna eat it, too.

It would be cool if some of my (better) ramblings became R. Stevie Moore song titles. If "Under the Wrong Stretch of Sky" sees release, that was me.

Going to listen to Shannon and the Clams until I am a skeleton.

There is a dull pain in my heart, tugging at me with exhausting relentlessness, making my every footfall heavy, deliberate and dimly echoing. I could not penetrate that fortress of self-doubt. I fail to have any influence on the people that matter to me. Some are just hopelessly beyond my reach ( Read more... )

Arseloch.