(no subject)
RAPTUROUS RAPTORS RAP TO RAPT RAPPERS
the teenage prayers - dont call
rm rudy
all i want to do is get drunk with my best friends and walk in the middle of the deserted streets in a thin sweatshirt feeling sorry for myself but unable to stop smiling at how accidentally big i feel around you guys.
12:23 AM
Thom Brekke
It's not accidental. We're all bigger together. Like a Megazord. In space. And I want that, too, and am extremely happy you're coming back to the 510 during a period when I'll be back, 'cause it needs to happen.
all i want to do is get drunk with my best friends and walk in the middle of the deserted streets in a thin sweatshirt feeling sorry for myself but unable to stop smiling at how accidentally big i feel around you guys.
12:23 AM
Thom Brekke
It's not accidental. We're all bigger together. Like a Megazord. In space. And I want that, too, and am extremely happy you're coming back to the 510 during a period when I'll be back, 'cause it needs to happen.
(no subject)
this morning it was very cold and i didn't have any clean clothes. i noticed my jeans with the annoying pre-ripped tatter in the right knee and i saw that they had my old giants sweatpants inside them. they looked clean enough and i was cold, so i put them on and went to work. i grabbed my headphones and the ipod with my brother's music on it. i had my bag on my shoulder and i headed off to work.
i went to work and not soon enough, it was over. i walked upstairs to clock out. i noticed the pretty columbian girl with the thick accent crying in the stairwell. i had heard yelling earlier and now it made sense why i couldn't overhear anything but the miserable tone and throaty shouts - a language completely foreign to me. i had heavy clothes on hangers digging into my hands and i almost walked past her. she looked completely hopeless as she lifted her head from her knees, so i couldn't just give her a polite smile and keep going. i asked if she was alright and she told me that she had just broken up with her fiance. i got incredibly awkward, almost offering her fuschia lame hot shorts with which to dry her eyes. i didn't know what else to do so i made her laugh and started walking again, telling another co-worker about the situation. after punching out i passed her again and made her laugh again, asking for lip balm because my lips were really fucking chapped.
the sky outside had clouds stained pink behind these anonymously handsome buildings. i walked to the subway text messaging with a smile, almost guilty about being happy when the crying girl was so sad. but i had made her laugh and decided that it was okay for me to smile and be content because the sky was goddamn beautiful and the weather was bearable. the subway ride stayed in the background as i was surrounded by jangling guitars and a voice too whiny to be considered pretty but the music was perfect for my mood and don barthelme anecdotes were perfect for killing time.
an old man tripped and almost fell but my hand was in the right place to accidentally guide him into the seat next to mine. he smiled but we didn't exchange any words. i immediately went back to reading. the album was nearing the end as i was nearing my stop. i changed it to some mediocre song with the intention of having it reach the great song at the end of the album by the time i reached montrose. it happened beautifully, as i was walking up the stairs and beaming at no one. i almost felt stupid for my grin but if anyone knew how it felt to be me at that moment, they wouldn't have laughed.
as i went through the turnstile, my phone vibrated, indicating that it was out of batteries. instead of feeling anxious, the way i do sometimes when my phone is off and i think that something important might happen before i get a chance to recharge it, i felt free. the song was building up as i passed the scooter that is always on montrose and humbolt. to explain the happiness i felt would be next to impossible. i felt carefree and settled and my chest was doing that slight swelling thing that i imagine must be my heart letting me know that it's doing alright.
after the song ended, i put on another song by another artist. it was seamless. i grinned at handclaps and faint banjo chugs in the background as i walked in time to the beat. i was about to cross the street when a van attempted to surge out in front of me, ignoring it's stop sign. the driver and i made eye contact. i never slowed my pace, my feet still in time with the snare. i saw him glowering in my direction and we kept that eye contact.
i felt a sharp cold feeling in my lower back and for a second i entertained the idea that the angry driver had shot me and the bullet went through my bag and my book and my notepad and into my spine. how stupid it would be if i fell to the ground, instantly paralyzed. how dumb i would feel to have been pleased that my phone was out of batteries. i was completely aware of all of the muscles in my shoulders tensing and all of a sudden i got that anxious hot feeling in my chest, a constriction based on nothing more than my own goddamn thoughts and worries.
that happy, rattling, bouncing music was still blaring in my ears and i was still walking to it's beat. i had to right myself. i had to shake off my overactive imagination. so i chuckled. i chuckled at the extremes that had just ran through my brain and body. how i was smiling and happy and content two blocks ago and how nervous and pathetic i became the block after that. it was ridiculous and just embarrassing enough to make me smile again. the song came to an end as i was putting the keys back in my pocket and climbing the first of two staircases to my apartment.
i hadn't spoken in an hour so my voice cracked slightly when i opened the door, pulled the string in the center of the kitchen, and said, "hello". the dog seemed startled and didn't bother to get up from her rumpled makeshift carpet-bed in the corner. but she did lift her ears in recognition when i greeted her.
i went to work and not soon enough, it was over. i walked upstairs to clock out. i noticed the pretty columbian girl with the thick accent crying in the stairwell. i had heard yelling earlier and now it made sense why i couldn't overhear anything but the miserable tone and throaty shouts - a language completely foreign to me. i had heavy clothes on hangers digging into my hands and i almost walked past her. she looked completely hopeless as she lifted her head from her knees, so i couldn't just give her a polite smile and keep going. i asked if she was alright and she told me that she had just broken up with her fiance. i got incredibly awkward, almost offering her fuschia lame hot shorts with which to dry her eyes. i didn't know what else to do so i made her laugh and started walking again, telling another co-worker about the situation. after punching out i passed her again and made her laugh again, asking for lip balm because my lips were really fucking chapped.
the sky outside had clouds stained pink behind these anonymously handsome buildings. i walked to the subway text messaging with a smile, almost guilty about being happy when the crying girl was so sad. but i had made her laugh and decided that it was okay for me to smile and be content because the sky was goddamn beautiful and the weather was bearable. the subway ride stayed in the background as i was surrounded by jangling guitars and a voice too whiny to be considered pretty but the music was perfect for my mood and don barthelme anecdotes were perfect for killing time.
an old man tripped and almost fell but my hand was in the right place to accidentally guide him into the seat next to mine. he smiled but we didn't exchange any words. i immediately went back to reading. the album was nearing the end as i was nearing my stop. i changed it to some mediocre song with the intention of having it reach the great song at the end of the album by the time i reached montrose. it happened beautifully, as i was walking up the stairs and beaming at no one. i almost felt stupid for my grin but if anyone knew how it felt to be me at that moment, they wouldn't have laughed.
as i went through the turnstile, my phone vibrated, indicating that it was out of batteries. instead of feeling anxious, the way i do sometimes when my phone is off and i think that something important might happen before i get a chance to recharge it, i felt free. the song was building up as i passed the scooter that is always on montrose and humbolt. to explain the happiness i felt would be next to impossible. i felt carefree and settled and my chest was doing that slight swelling thing that i imagine must be my heart letting me know that it's doing alright.
after the song ended, i put on another song by another artist. it was seamless. i grinned at handclaps and faint banjo chugs in the background as i walked in time to the beat. i was about to cross the street when a van attempted to surge out in front of me, ignoring it's stop sign. the driver and i made eye contact. i never slowed my pace, my feet still in time with the snare. i saw him glowering in my direction and we kept that eye contact.
i felt a sharp cold feeling in my lower back and for a second i entertained the idea that the angry driver had shot me and the bullet went through my bag and my book and my notepad and into my spine. how stupid it would be if i fell to the ground, instantly paralyzed. how dumb i would feel to have been pleased that my phone was out of batteries. i was completely aware of all of the muscles in my shoulders tensing and all of a sudden i got that anxious hot feeling in my chest, a constriction based on nothing more than my own goddamn thoughts and worries.
that happy, rattling, bouncing music was still blaring in my ears and i was still walking to it's beat. i had to right myself. i had to shake off my overactive imagination. so i chuckled. i chuckled at the extremes that had just ran through my brain and body. how i was smiling and happy and content two blocks ago and how nervous and pathetic i became the block after that. it was ridiculous and just embarrassing enough to make me smile again. the song came to an end as i was putting the keys back in my pocket and climbing the first of two staircases to my apartment.
i hadn't spoken in an hour so my voice cracked slightly when i opened the door, pulled the string in the center of the kitchen, and said, "hello". the dog seemed startled and didn't bother to get up from her rumpled makeshift carpet-bed in the corner. but she did lift her ears in recognition when i greeted her.
(no subject)
(no subject)
babies are a fucking trip.
(no subject)
i'm terrified that i won't have any more adventures.
i'm scared of being too scared.
i'm scared of being too scared.
(no subject)
It felt less like sympathy and more like loyalty, which was nice to hear {even if it's subtext}.
i will.
I've been stumbling and tagging along and laughing and being a general mess these days. I should be chronicling the fuck out of this new start of mine. I should be taking pictures and writing down every place I've eaten and been drunk. But old habits die hard, I guess. Well I'm starting now, and I've got a terrible memory against me, but I'm hoping a few of you want to fight the good fight with me.
It's been a week and a day since I flew across the country looking for something I haven't been able to define for myself, let alone anyone else. I've tried to explain it to myself, but my life has been lacking in clarity for a while. Pretty fucking foolish of me to think that the fog would dissipate for one question. But hey, I moved away from the fog - I'm abandoning the metaphor at this point, keep up.
There will most definitely be more later, but somehow I'm in Connecticut, alone in a girl's dorm room, surrounded by boxes. To the right of me is a croquet set that appears to have all of the appropriate equipment and it's a fall-down, eyes-closed, goddamn beautiful day out. My plans include showering the hangover smell out of my pores and maybe playing the gentleman's sport. Hopefully.
Good Lord willing and the crik don't rise.
It's been a week and a day since I flew across the country looking for something I haven't been able to define for myself, let alone anyone else. I've tried to explain it to myself, but my life has been lacking in clarity for a while. Pretty fucking foolish of me to think that the fog would dissipate for one question. But hey, I moved away from the fog - I'm abandoning the metaphor at this point, keep up.
There will most definitely be more later, but somehow I'm in Connecticut, alone in a girl's dorm room, surrounded by boxes. To the right of me is a croquet set that appears to have all of the appropriate equipment and it's a fall-down, eyes-closed, goddamn beautiful day out. My plans include showering the hangover smell out of my pores and maybe playing the gentleman's sport. Hopefully.
Good Lord willing and the crik don't rise.
see you later, then.
In this freeze-dried environment my face felt useless and detached. The way that the air assaulted my eyes and then left them to dry, my eyelids quickly became stained with a contaminated, scratching feeling. My eyes dragged and stumbled in a losing battle and my eyelids did a real shitty job of calming them down. I pushed a button to stop the influx of dirty air, but the uncomfortable state of my eyes remained. Goddamn air conditioning.
Technique was paramount now. I closed one eye, the right one, and pressed tightly against the lid with my right hand. I relaxed my hand and began blinking furiously and uncontrollably. I swerved towards the median strip and then back between the lines. I said my "fucks" and "shits" with the appropriate mutters and growls. I knew I'd used the wrong words to express my frustration and it just made the situation worse. The things I had spat out about depth perception had little to do with my lack of focus on the road, but that scapegoat came to mind and so it escaped my throat in an attempt to placate my suddenly fiery face.
This was a miserably quarantined embarrassment - sequestered in a car with no circulation, now fearful of the air conditioning and outright terrified of the windows descending. I was agitated with my reactions and the situation; the discomfort made a home in my cheekbones and chest and in my still-irritated eyes. With cheeks hot like a cliche, my chest swelled with contextualized concession.
The involuntary eye-watering that followed after I lost my shit alleviated most of the initial eye issues, making the entire situation seem counterfeit. My eyes were still burning and the road was still blurred but the swerving and the swearing and the self-consciousness came off like a choice. That was the worst goddaamn part.
Well fuck feeling like that. Either the contacts go or driving does. I guess I'll move somewhere like New York and never worry about driving again. My ticket's booked for Thursday.
Technique was paramount now. I closed one eye, the right one, and pressed tightly against the lid with my right hand. I relaxed my hand and began blinking furiously and uncontrollably. I swerved towards the median strip and then back between the lines. I said my "fucks" and "shits" with the appropriate mutters and growls. I knew I'd used the wrong words to express my frustration and it just made the situation worse. The things I had spat out about depth perception had little to do with my lack of focus on the road, but that scapegoat came to mind and so it escaped my throat in an attempt to placate my suddenly fiery face.
This was a miserably quarantined embarrassment - sequestered in a car with no circulation, now fearful of the air conditioning and outright terrified of the windows descending. I was agitated with my reactions and the situation; the discomfort made a home in my cheekbones and chest and in my still-irritated eyes. With cheeks hot like a cliche, my chest swelled with contextualized concession.
The involuntary eye-watering that followed after I lost my shit alleviated most of the initial eye issues, making the entire situation seem counterfeit. My eyes were still burning and the road was still blurred but the swerving and the swearing and the self-consciousness came off like a choice. That was the worst goddaamn part.
Well fuck feeling like that. Either the contacts go or driving does. I guess I'll move somewhere like New York and never worry about driving again. My ticket's booked for Thursday.