oh dear, my friends are dropping like flies!
off to australia, and various senilities, tours, exiles.
not that i ever really ever had friends . . .
to be accused of stalking via facebook when i deliberately have no facebook profile . . .
the height of absurdity coming from one i felt to be above average mentally.
such paranoic foolishness helps me lose drive towards the great otherness . . .
a great trauma
as do the epithets
vampire
venomous
crass
underhanded
inconsiderate
cunt
bitch
slut
whore
stupid fucking american
incomprehensible verbal pollution . . .
all lovely words . . .
from "friends"
and now to be accused of "stalking"
as if i'd nothing better to do,
or no one better to stalk
hello
pirate bay!
which i can only explain as an interpretation of the occasional email every two months or so, despite obvious apathy, which might be noted amongst other "friends" . . .
to me a sign of my infinitely renewing good will and hope, despite the obvious lack of love . . . or attention . . .
oh heavens!
and when love comes, in odd forms, offers from lost lovers, new commuter aquaintances, or kind glowing customers, or genius proteges with raving minds . . .
i don't know what to do, or who to trust.
so i wrote a list of "pure fakes"
"bitch sayers"
"users"
and the
"still have a good feeling about"
"kind people."
i want to really think that everyone is great.
i guess that's why i keep getting stranded with raging haters.
i used to try to console myself with the thought that cruelty was a twisted compliment. a way people communicate some kind of survival instinct . . . earthshock . . .and there you are trying to absorb the force of their hatred . . . like what a compliment that you seemed strong enough to take it . . . nice enough . . . naive enough . . .lamblike enough to just have your throat slit in broad air.
words cutting to the core.
i told mosley i'm just like that awful smiths song, i would go out tonight but i haven't got a stitch to wear, or i never had a job, because i'm too shy . . .
and its the perfect night to hear the cure and avoid the world some more, and ponder how newyorkmag and newyorktimes and more fakemoney, and more flavorless food and flavorless interactions are supposed to substitute for real friends.
my goal is to wake up and get tea tree oil and maybe food and then study for my test and tune out the heat, city, smog, and bad memories, and hatemail.
but if you want to send me some more
try my gmail, because i don't check it as often, haters.
off to australia, and various senilities, tours, exiles.
not that i ever really ever had friends . . .
to be accused of stalking via facebook when i deliberately have no facebook profile . . .
the height of absurdity coming from one i felt to be above average mentally.
such paranoic foolishness helps me lose drive towards the great otherness . . .
a great trauma
as do the epithets
vampire
venomous
crass
underhanded
inconsiderate
cunt
bitch
slut
whore
stupid fucking american
incomprehensible verbal pollution . . .
all lovely words . . .
from "friends"
and now to be accused of "stalking"
as if i'd nothing better to do,
or no one better to stalk
hello
pirate bay!
which i can only explain as an interpretation of the occasional email every two months or so, despite obvious apathy, which might be noted amongst other "friends" . . .
to me a sign of my infinitely renewing good will and hope, despite the obvious lack of love . . . or attention . . .
oh heavens!
and when love comes, in odd forms, offers from lost lovers, new commuter aquaintances, or kind glowing customers, or genius proteges with raving minds . . .
i don't know what to do, or who to trust.
so i wrote a list of "pure fakes"
"bitch sayers"
"users"
and the
"still have a good feeling about"
"kind people."
i want to really think that everyone is great.
i guess that's why i keep getting stranded with raging haters.
i used to try to console myself with the thought that cruelty was a twisted compliment. a way people communicate some kind of survival instinct . . . earthshock . . .and there you are trying to absorb the force of their hatred . . . like what a compliment that you seemed strong enough to take it . . . nice enough . . . naive enough . . .lamblike enough to just have your throat slit in broad air.
words cutting to the core.
i told mosley i'm just like that awful smiths song, i would go out tonight but i haven't got a stitch to wear, or i never had a job, because i'm too shy . . .
and its the perfect night to hear the cure and avoid the world some more, and ponder how newyorkmag and newyorktimes and more fakemoney, and more flavorless food and flavorless interactions are supposed to substitute for real friends.
my goal is to wake up and get tea tree oil and maybe food and then study for my test and tune out the heat, city, smog, and bad memories, and hatemail.
but if you want to send me some more
try my gmail, because i don't check it as often, haters.
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