"...and what her mind melts."

woke up at a party.
friend walks in the room and goes "shit someone wrote a novel"
he's holding a pile of post it notes.
here's what was written that night. in the raw. unedited. bear with the spelling.
i bet you feel special:

So she sat in the kitchen, Drinking black coffee, unsatisfied with the high. Caffine could stimulate her text, but not her libido. She was brilliant when she was drunk. Mindless in her reverse. Numb with diaologue. No one cares when your drunk. It's assumed your thoughts are manicured. Blanched with liquor - that ignites inhibition, honesty, and jealousy. So she relies on her pen to relieve herself in the midst of angst. Coffee and cigarettes a companion before the caloused hand of sober personel. People can only give you so much of what you already have. Problems you already had and have no time for. It's not nice to unsurface that old black and white childrens novel. You have wisdom thats too arrogent to enlighten and friends to stubborn to accept the voice of reason. Reasonably speaking - reason depends on the person. Coffee and cigarettes. Two of the greatest kicks you will ever be introduced to. You can feel sex in your thighs, man you can feel cigarettes in your calves. What 3:52 in the morning. Fuck steve. I'm smoking in the house. Everyone's asleep and she's drinking coffee and having the best damn cigarette she's ever had. Jessies neck is out, chen's being a friend, Liza ad Dodson are fucking and she's content. Lonliness is as asset. It teaches you to be realistic with yourself. Forces you to embrace shit and your own bullshit. Bordum can lead to great things for an artist. Take me. Had friends who worshipped the bible and played truth or dare at birthday parties. Now she's fucking every week, addicted to caffine, and drinks brandy to relieve emotional instability.
But thats the cost of beauty.
Fuck.
Dropped the cigarette in the noodles. What the fuck. Can't even flick a fucking ash and its in the noodle sauce. Fuck it it taste fine.
The sound of hot ash hitting a wet surface.
Ace.
5:59
4:00
Perfect.
Even. Even numbers fuck me up. What wants to be even. Being fair is bullshit. Why not fondle rucass. Being even has never taught anyone anything. The joy of winning, the mediocrity of falling just short. Never created war, never introduced democracy, or flaws in communism. Games, gambling, drinking, anorexia, divorce. Being even is the end all be all of history.
Being even to others will never introduce humour. We all fight to be more interesting that others, to impress. If we're all even then we're stationary. Everyone might as well be friends. Again, bullshit.
Smoke in the eye.
Balls.
Blinking it out. Gone. Thank Christ.
Stabs the cig in a wet plate.
Hisses.
Cat ticks behind her against the tiles.
And she wishes she had someone to come out and watch her. Someone who cared about her. Who understood and got her art. dillusional art. Who she could play demure to but really by super fucking flattered they showed up and started a conversation dispite sleep sickness at 4:07AM. She wishes that person was reckless and impulsive. A night and morning person. Had a taste for everything. Respected their parents but found away around guidelines.
And she's at a loss.
She doesn't wish she was prettier, she just wishes she had less pimples. She doesn't wish she was skinnier, she just wishes she had a better metabolism. She just wishes, fuck, a guy or girl could read her mind and share her electricity for life. Pessimism is old and 90s and Nirvana. She just wants to live the best life she can and won't let a bad moment or money or disbelief inhibit her from running as fast as she can. High. Down a street. Covered with trees. Alone. Dodging. Hitting branches. Getting scarred. Acknowledging the blood. Making her self better. Learning. Moving on. Craddling every moment as a chance experience. Pure oxygen.
No. No one will ever understand that.
Ever.
It's too real.
And we're 17 and we live in disney. And we're trying to find ourselves and we live in a fog of opportunity and personalities and no one knows what belongs to whom. But She does.
She's found hers. And she's lonely. Because the ones she loves will only find it in another few years. And she'll have to live alone that much longer. Perhaps a change of scene will spark a new title of bodies. Who may know her, and what her mind melts. But who knows.
No one knows how to chase what they love.
She will chase it until she is blue in the face. Until she is crucified.
Know what you love, love what you do and do it for the rest of your life. That's real. That's adolesence. Not trying to escape your house and find yourself. You've already found yourself, the next step is embracing it.

-**********
4:19
Dec/2009

take away for today:
www.brettisagirl.com
awesome artist. my favourite is togetherness. i bought a few prints for my friends this xmas.

Storytelling

I once had a history teacher that told me my English mark would always suffer and that if i were to pursue a career in business I would face the same issue because of my writing. She cradled her criticism with the reassurance that if I were patient enough to devote energy to spending time in a null state watching a novel build and leak in the heart of my head, I'd be famous. Now I suppose that's how i write. That the ideas do not exist until I have derived that one before from the idea before that and the idea before that, and so on. It gets messy. Often the ideas have no real link until the end which often leaves my fingers sticky and uncomfortable to rest together. It's only then i consider the best way to rest my hands to avoid odd looks from neighbours and to be able to rest naturally. I suppose if the substance is sheer on your hands you have little to worry about, just act like nothings there. I feel that way about acting too, act like nothings waiting to be flushed out of your mouth to support the scene/your character's purpose/the other actors intentions. Rather to pretend, scientifically, your brain sparked a reasoning function of sorts, and with the intention to respond sincerely to the person speaking to you on the set, instantly connected with the nerves in your lips to communicate your thoughts. I don't feel like I'm writing when I'm writing. I feel like my brain is communicating with my hands. And I feel like I'm running. I feel like I'm out of breath. If i run a bit further I'll reach a goal.
It's nice to achieve that. So everything ties together in the end. And I've discovered something new about myself that I perhaps just wasn't really aware of before.
Writing is about discovery. So is reading. How do you intend to grow if what you know you must experience is already planned. It's definitely why I've never been able to write essays, I try to explore too many ideas within one thesis. Growth happens because of the pull of ideas and the circles they spin. The moments that make you speak to yourself aloud inside your head. All call to arms. You can't always get what you want. Each idea is a powerful trigger that leads to the next, much like each milestone in life is a circumstance that helps you deal with the next that will surely follow. Unless you are dead, Wake the fuck up.
take away for today:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q85xVaTfdgE&feature=PlayList&p=8701FEDF5CDD4253&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=19

sorry if you don't laugh. you don't really have to pay a dollar. but shit happens some times.
you can't always get what you want.