When you say you will, it really means you might
When you don't come through I shut up, it may start a fight
Feel like such a fool. I believed in you
I compare the likes of you to the things I do.
Then the bother builds. I go through it at times.
You'd think I'd be used to it, but I don't have the time
to deal with your deceit or wallow at the feet
of empty promises or it's royalty
I never asked you to change
I only needed you to be there for me
And now I need you to stop taking advantage of me
Well I'm not coming around anymore
You can call it "fucked up" if you want
Smile if you will, a mile if you can
I don't care, I don't need to be the better man
I'm sorry if it's not the decent thing to do
Talk about it. Maybe one day you'll see the truth
One thing that I know. Friends they come and go.
A lesson learned in life and I have you to owe.
I'm growing every day, and fools get in the way.
If I whistle loud enough will you come and play?
when I was younger, like in high school, I was the guy that just tuned out in class. I didn't pay much attention after about sophomore year. I mostly just sat in the back of the room daydreaming and scrawling whatever random bits of angst I could dredge up into my notebooks. I didn't even bring books to class most of the time. I pretty much stopped doing homework all together in seventh grade. It's a testament to how easy it is for a kid to slip through the cracks that I was able to graduate high school at all.
These days I don't have the freedom afforded to a punk-ass teen. I have to work, I have bills to pay. I can't just veg out in class anymore. As a result, I don't write nearly as much as I used to. I think this trend exists for most people who might have been prolific writers as teens. Some might say that as we get older, our lives stabilize and the hormones and pressures of fitting in and all that crap that pushes us over the edge in school ends, so we don't need to outlet all of our emotions on paper anymore. Others might say that as we grow, we learn to express ourselves more directly, to others, or maybe even that we have less to express. I don't know which one, if any is the correct theory, in fact bits of them all might be right. I just know that since I don't write like I used to, more and more frequently, I am looking for alternate modes of expression. I find a song that approximates what I'm feeling and put it on a mix tape, or I'll be talking to someone or writing a letter and I'll quote a movie. Or I'll use a situation from a book I'm reading to illustrate a point. I don't generate thoughts and words and feelings anymore, I just recycle them. This is the second time that I've started a post out with lyrics from a song. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, but it might have been better if the song was my own. It might have meant more if the feelings started from within me, not within someone who had a similar emotion.
In the long run, this type of behavior, this database of pop culture expression, might serve to homogenize the communication of human experience. Something has to get lost, and obviously it will be the more deep, more rare, more difficult to express and essentially amazing emotions that will die out. There are very few people out there who care to take the time and put their feelings down on paper for future reference. There are even fewer who do it in such a manner that it's interesting to others. Not that everyone isn't entitled, or even worth reading about, but it's the ones that can do it in a manner that doesn't blend in so much with every other bit of information out there that, I feel, is worth listening to. I'm part of the problem. I'm not the most creative person on the block, but I love trying, so I'll keep at it. I just want others to try as well, because as much as I love to share, I love for others to share with me.
manic
But I missed it. Flew by like a 747. Not that things didn't happen. I just don't have any interesting stories to tell.
Things are really heating up now, though. Business is slow and money is tight. Time at work is getting like school as I try to learn six new computer programs all at once, making myself more "marketable" or something. And I don't have a pit in my stomach. I don't have a big empty hole where all the pain goes. I don't have any pain. There's no heartbreak (except for the tinge of hurt from being hung up on). Sometimes I wonder if there's even a heart anymore. Nobody gets to me. And now that doesn't even make me sad anymore.
All this ambivilance is really turning me off.
ha ha
manic
You moved like honey through my dream last night... - Fiona Apple
It was a dream. There was a girl. I kept asking her out over and over, like mutilple takes of a movie scene. And I kept getting it really wrong. I'm sure this has a lot to do with the conversation I had with Brian yesterday about where our lives are, professionally and personally. I dream alot. In fact, I'd say it's my number one passtime. If I'm asleep, awake, or moving between the two, you can bet that my mind is drifting off somewhere. I don't concentrate very much. Usually I'm off in my mind thinking about anything other than what I'm doing. It tells a great deal about why I am the way I am.
I don't think I'll have the same trouble tonight falling asleep that I did last night. But I wonder if she'll be there again...
manic
been looking from outside i've been watching
but i don't know what to say
changed the old backdrop, same face
but not who it used to be
trying to get out not out getting
thinking, you're everything you said you wouldn't be
time out, i see right through
you're running around again i'm around
and still confused in an instant
can't quite relate
and i don't know what to say
all of the bonds i see that i'm not part of
it's not how it used to be
you're running around again i'm around
and i've been cracking on the inside
it gets worse each day
and i don't know what to say
keeping my distance but still i see
it's not how it used to be
pushing the time in a daze
wondering how it got this way
time out, i've gotta ask it
am i on my own?
truth numbed my feelings
I'd be better off working. It's here, it's all here. Job, money, real life. Found a house, don't know if I can afford to live there. I have good friends, I love them. Can't always be the best friend. I wasn't this weekend. I let myself down a bit. There's so much more in my head. I'm not sure I can put it all out. There are things I can't communicate to just anyone. It's been so long since I've had someone in my arms. It's getting to me. I need sanctuary.
truth
manic
When Irish eyes are smiling...
Darts, Guinness, good friends. Joy to the world.
I'm 26, I'm getting more and more out of shape as the months go on, and all I want to do is relax. From a genetic standpoint, I should at least be motivated to build a life and family, but these days my ambitions are running shorter than a Pauly Shore movie lasts in theaters.
All the things I want: (shrinks say it's good to do this)
Financial Stability
Someone to love, who loves me back
Energy
Peace of mind (literally speaking)
On this list thing - Things that Bring Me Joy:
The big three up top
Wit
Music
A good movie, sometimes even a bad one
Natasha
Sleeping, which reminds me...
manic
Oswald was a fag.
Ok. This is killer. I have an opportunity. A GRAND opportunity. Someone in the industry wants to read my script, with the possible intent of purchase for production. Not a reader, not an agent. A full-fledged, working actor, with his own production company. And here I sit like a mouse in a hollow log, desperately trying to see if the owl is still hovering overhead. Afraid to make a single move for fear of dooming myself. I made that ego comment yesterday, but forgot to mention how it is tempered with self-doubt. Just write.
Just write.
JUST WRITE, DAMN IT!
But it's not enough.
It takes work. Hard work. And while I am familiar with the concept, it's not something that I pride myself on. I'm lazy, and scared. Co-dependant attributes that truly feed off one another. When you are lazy, it's easy to blame your lack of accomplishment on fear, and when you are afraid, lazy is a nice hot bath to take comfort in.
I know that my story is great. I know it could be huge. Can I write it? Will I write it?
Where's that ego when I need it?
manic
In an attempt to document my life through prose, poetry, lyrical mayhem, tomfoolery, ballyhoo, and all that, I've moved on from my feeble home-based leather-bound attempts into a digital field that might just keep me honest. Of course, I also thought that buying a copy of Final Draft was gonna turn me into Christopher McQuarrie. In any case, it should be interesting to see my line of progression from dilettante to supreme master of the Doogie Howser computer journal sect. Plus I have tried unsuccessfully for years to keep it a secret that I have a huge ego, and now I can go back and read and re-read myself to my narcissistic heart's content.
The only negative affect is the temptation to remove the more embarassing vittles of my story through post editing, which is a fully available feature of this ingenious device we thoughtfully call "the web" (with little or no irony, considering how we first practiced to deceive). So I am going to make a promise here, which should be treated like that of an incumbant candidate. I know I'm trusted a little, and also expected to lie a little. In either case I'll do my best for complete discolsure and honesty to a fault. Hopefully anyone I know who dips into this shitstorm of words will still respect me in the morning.
Oh, and look for rhyme long before any reason enters into the picture.
James Francis Hunt
manic till death
