I Am Still Not Getting What I Want

Is it enough to have some love
small enough to slip inside a book
small enough to cover with your hand
because everyone around you wants to look

it is enough to have some love
small enough to slip inside the cracks
the pieces don’t fit together so good
with all the breaking and all the gluing back

and i am still not getting what i want
i want to touch the back of your right arm
i wish you could remind me who i was
because every day I’m a little further off

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders

and is it getting harder to pretend
that life goes on without you in the wake
and can you see the means without the end
in the random frantic action that we take

and is it getting easy not to care
despite the many rings around your name
it isn’t funny and it isn’t fair
you’ve traveled all this way and it’s the same

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders
and i would tell them anything to see you split the evening
but as you see i do not have an awful lot to tell
everybody’s sick for something that they can find fascinating
everyone but you and even you aren’t feeling well

but you are, my love, the astronaut
flying in the face of science
i will gladly stay an afterthought
just bring back some nice reminders

yes you are, my love, the astronaut
crashing in the name of science
just my luck they sent your upper half
it’s a very nice reminder
it’s a very nice reminder

and you may be acquainted with the night
but I have seen the darkness in the day
and you must know it is a terrifying sight
because you and i are living the same way

All of this has meaning to me. And somehow nobody seems to take notice.

Something To Do With Nothing

Nothing, I just like her.

Things That Reek of What The Fuckery #2

Maybe this'll become a regular segment. Who knows.



Seriously. What the fuck?

The Despair Factor

I'm afraid of being right.

Who Wants To Live Forever?

Today is my nineteenth birthday.

No existential angst, thanks. I had a moment of that last night. Mostly I'm just trying to look forward to today and tomorrow. I get to see a bunch of East Bay friends, some of whom are performing.

Very excited Cbot.

These feelings tend to leave me with a hole in my chest

So... yes.

Busy busy busy.

No, not really. Mostly I've just been throwing myself onto the bandwagon that is Twitter. It's a tad easier than dragging out Constantine, finding an internet connection, and word-vomiting out a post. Usually by which time I've forgotten what I was thinking. (Constantine, for the record, is my laptop. Unusual, considering I named my hard drive Eris Kallistrate many months ago when I got it. Two separate entities. Does this perhaps mean Constantine is a transsexual? Curious.)

Transgendered technology regardless! Today this has come to my attention:


I love Eddie Izzard, and putting him together with Lego animation, well. The heart rightly squeals in not-so-girlish delight. I believe that there should be more Lego-influenced media. That White Stripes video simply isn't enough.

Speaking of delight, my birthday is in two days. For those of you who are familiar with my history of birthdays, you're wondering why the hell I'm excited. I am never excited for my birthday. This year, however, I don't care about presents really. My mind is more preoccupied with the show I'm going to at Blake's in Berkeley. Please Do Not Fight, Django James and the Midnight Squires, and Jon Devoto of the Matches are playing, and they're all sterling chaps— and lovely lady, Erin— with whom I've hung out and of whom I enjoy the company immensely. Plus those crazy Dizzy Balloon kids are going to be there, as well as all my other favourite East Bay/music scene people.

The mind boggles.

However, before that (tomorrow as a matter of fact) I have to present a piece of poetry for my communications class. Slam poetry isn't my usual medium, and it's not one I claim to have any knowledge about aside from that it's harder than it looks. Why did I write the assignment in this way, you ask?

No clue. Moment of insanity.

I also have to turn in a portfolio of bullshit assignments for my social anthropology class. Call me an overachiever for doing the take-home final mere hours after it was assigned, but I call it laziness: I am not going in next Wednesday to turn it in. I have better things to do. Like lunch with certain people who've been in bloody Maine for three months.

Urgh, that reminds me. I have another paper to write before Monday and a huge fuck-off final in Music History to study for. Both things I will do later. And not now.

Procrastination is the great equilizer.

Good morning, desolate

It's unusual being the only one awake in the house at 10.22 on a Saturday. My mother, usually awake around six or seven, fell asleep on the couch again a few minutes ago and the rabbit... no, I take that back. Asphodel just hopped up to my feet, but he was asleep under the dresser a second ago. However, my mother spoke— at unusual length, considering when I got home— about the terrible migraine and illness that overcame her yesterday. Yeah yeah, she already made the swine flu joke, but it's slightly more serious since drive-a-spike-through-my-head-to-make-the-pain-stop migraines were my first symptom when I had pneumonia last year.

So where does this leave me? I had a frozen waffle— yes, still frozen— a while ago, and I really have no other interest in eating except maybe a cup of tea. Which I can't make because I don't want to wake up my mother. Instead, I am sitting at the computer, frequently getting lost in thought as I write to no one about nothing and listen for probably the 50th time to the Dresden Doll's "Boston." No mean feat considering it's seven minutes long.

I had so much intention for this post; talking about how I hate the traffic going across the bay, how we trekked maybe half a mile around Berkeley in the rain, how everything in an unnatural state, including my hair, must revert to a natural state. But all of this somehow seems unimportant and not even worth expanding on to nobody now. It would be terrible for my sleep cycle, but I feel like going back to bed. I was having an alright dream; no bitches encouraging certain alcoholic guitarists to sluttery, no being covered in gallons of blood.

"Don't worry who all these jokes will be lost on. Come back to bed, my darling. There is nothing in the world we can count on. Even that we will wake up is an assumption." I couldn't have said it better myself, Miss Palmer.

Fuck it. I have a witch to burn.