arrghhhh...
why am I having such a difficult time with this life? I shouldn't. I shouldn't. Life really isn't that horrible. It isn't. I know it.
four months on the verge of tears has eaten away at my soul.
let me go.
now. please.
give me a hug and let me crawl inside your soul. forever.

I want this to get better. I am the issue. I am ashamed and I am sorry.

I am going to click my heels together three times but they aren't red and sparkly nor am I going to go home.

type. type. type. if I want to leave I have to make this good but I don't have any conviction left to make this good.

I am the spoon left in the dishwasher please put me back where I belong.

I am doubting that this is it.

John Patrick Shanley! John Patrick Shanley you are right. So right.
But I wish you weren't....

I approach the dining center.
The smell of ish enters my soul and I know that I shall be led to the salad bar for a sampling of greens, pumpkin seeds, reds, whiteish-brown substances, and onions complimented with vinagrette. Which is lovely yet ceiling tile-esque.
But wait!
What is this?
Hmmm...a dinner? A Thanksgiving dinner?
Phuck yes.

There isn't any poetic or faux-intellectual way to state my feelings for Tofurky.
It's silly and probably not as good as I think it was but it was a beautiful experience. It made my slightly melancholy feelings towards the holiday of Thanksgiving far more lovely.
Tofurky + vegan love -john-e-cake's cooking = exhausted joy.
metaphorical intestines = dork - social skils


Elton John is my father.
Steve Perry is my father.
Flyod is my father.
Roy Orbison is my father.
Sade is my father.
Real butter is my father.
Old Spice and Heads and Shoulders is my father.
It hard to not "stop believing" and "hold onto that feeling" when I haven't seen your face or scratchy chin or or whispers/stifled laughter/"you clean up really well, wow...but you never change the sheets?" in chruch or opinionated, tainted wisdom or finger in Bible trick in a long while. The phone doesn't do justice to your vulgar charm.

yoshimia.
pink robots.
Flaming love.

such a vibrant burning in my soul.

performance. theater. art. is is love. my love.

ugh how cliche to say. but how passionatly true.

turns my frown slanted, replaces the garlic between my teeth with snow, and sticks a glow behind my spleen.

There is a certain attractivness to this.
this "loner" status.

Like being a boho child picking apples in California when all one can feel on their fingertips are the pesticides seeping into their spirit and corrupting their mind as they drive to Starbucks on a caffine crazed love affair with the cocaine of the housewife. Starbucks. business men in starched suits with birds. and savvy graphics that would make any intellectual feel all the more eddie bauer-esque sexy.

off balanced tables with obscure smudges and beautiful strangers make me swoon.

it's mysterious and playing a year long game of solitare and rebellious. There are no committments to any friendships beyond the interworkings of my fingertips or any permanent ties.

but mostly, I promise, there is more to me that you just haven't discovered yet.
Or at least I thought so.

And while I state my loner status with pride I miss conversations that aren't contrived in the back of my mind and the smiles that aren't forced with midwestern tact. This exhaustion of relationships and falseness and faux-love, faux-eccentricity from others and faux-skewed perception on life rides on my little toe like a hangnail that begs to be ripped off, bleeding, and soothed with a band-aid.

So I dance in grocery store asiles and strike up random conversations with the orthodontist. and cry in offices of people who have been kinder to me that I've known for just days than some of my fellow collegiate kindlings. maybe it's college self-absorbance or it's just the nature of the wind or my akwardness, but it's okay. try. try. try.

Dear Konstantine,

I really like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no.

box Yes box No

Don't check either. I am drawing a moon and swimming to London.

but I won't write a play and kill myself like you did. I'll just write some bad prose and escape to the river and pretend you're here with me.

Take that Brecht. I haven't reached the top. and I am going and still moving.
I don't think I will.

sdneirf on evah I tegrof em spleh retaeht
I wouldn't recommend trying to copy and past it into translator.com. It isn't going to make sense and it doesn't make sense in the sphere of this sun either.
does it?