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2016-07-02 23:46:52 (UTC)

Hi. It Is Currently 12:40 and I still have not peed. I'm serious about my writing (joke. i think.)

"Home and Somewhere Else" by Mimicking Birds

Stolen from the kingdom
Heavy gold and one drum
So your father keeps a loaded gun
And your mother speaks with a golden tongue

A swollen and numb conundrum
Everyone's someone's sun
Your garden keeper's a cheerful drunk
Your fortune sleeps in a sunken trunk

I think I think best at home
Somewhere else on a shelf sits new ideas not yet my own
Somewhere else perfect health with no bad memories just good bones

I even get lost at home
Somewhere else someone helps everyone else except their own self
Somewhere else something melts making new sceneries
Gonna seem like home's hell

July 2, 2016 Saturday 11:50 PM

The pizza was. Delicious.

And I have to pee.

And also this song is beautiful, and I want to describe it but the act of doing so is somehow. Sacrilegious? Like, it'd suck meaning from the actual sound. And I guess – what's the point of describing a song. It's for listening.

I just sometimes worry people will not hear it.

I am more worried they will not like it.

I want them to understand the Prettiness.

"Pretty" is like the highest compliment you will ever receive from me. Pretty is my Ultimate Adjective for the world's beauty.

So. Okay. Right now I think this song is pretty.

And... I've spent much too long writing about it, just like I said I wouldn't. God damn it.


in the event of my death.

I will have left behind a lot of crap. A lot.

Like. Fifty pounds of paper, forty pounds of aforementioned fifty pounds being useless.

(I'm mad. I spent 3 hours organizing my school papers today. APUSH was in three stuffed filing folders. My mom then told me that I probably wouldn't need most of that stuff, and um. I realized that two of those three folders was Probably Useless. Damn it. All I wanted to keep were my essays and the readings that went with those essays, as they're all marked up with my half-annoyed notes in the margins plus drawings of random things, from dicks to swear words to more tasteful things like frowning faces. I like those.)

But: y'know, if YOU died and left behind all your boxes, in my reach, I'd look through all of it. Mostly because I'm afraid that no one will do me the same favor, and it would worry on me, to know that You're dead and all Your things are left dusting.

So, um. Yes. Pack up all your things. Clothes, letters, school notes, photos. I'll go through them, wondering why you kept it. Did you have your first kiss in that sweater? Did that girl in that photo die an untimely death? Or did you just grow apart? Who'd you write this letter to and why'd you never send it? etc. etc. Except for it won't always be that interesting. Sometimes, I'll probably come across a pile of receipts, and I'll read those through. Deodorant... milk... eggs.... tampons.... wow those tampons are expensive.... and so on.

I would actually do that for you (for me, actually, but it'd benefit your memory I guess).

Ya. I wonder why I want this. I guess I just want to be important. Which, okay. I already knew this. But that isn't just importance... it almost seems like. Worship. I'm not sure I want to want to be worshipped (no, none of that is a typo).

Legendary? Ugh, but I hate that word.

Something. Yes. That can be the placeholder. It has BEEN the placeholder for awhile.

I want to be. Something. The kind of something that makes people care about my junior high letters, the ones I'd get from my friends, mostly having to do with things we were too scared to actually talk about face to face haha.

(Cough like this diary cough where i pretty much say a bunch of shit cough that i'd never say out loud okay cough cough)

On the other hand, no. I kinda DON'T want people fascinated with what kind of teenager I was, or what kind of friends I had, all my photos, notes scribbled on the back of them... or this diary, haha. Not everyone at least. Maybe a select few.

Ah, nevermind. This is a stupid thing to think about. First of all, this is post-death stuff I'm imagining. A time period I will by definition NEVER live to see. Second.

Second, second, second of all. What was my second of all?

I want to be a tree.

(A willow tree – a big one growing in the countryside next to a family restaurant with outdoor seating surrounded by whirligigs. No, I'm not describing heaven, yes, this is a real place and yes there is a willow tree there.

(hi, hello, parentheses within parentheses i know. mentioned restaurant serves deep fried peaches with vanilla ice cream, which. is amazing. for those of u who don't know.)

I want to be that tree.

But, y'know. Being a different willow tree would also be really okay.)

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