Chemical_laugh_of_Benzedrine

All Fucked Up
2001-10-14 09:05:46 (UTC)

Stainless Steel Switchblade: Made in Japan

Jefferson is fuckin' crazy. Need I say more? She just
called about five minutes ago from her boyfriend Cody's
place in Culver City. Jeff goes, \"Wow man, that's some heavy
shit
you've been takin'.\" Arghhhhh
So....I woke up absolutely miserable this morning. I
was literally reduced to the bedrock consciousness of
existence. Being a military brat, you grow accustomed to
being thrown a cup of water in your face every morning
while your crazy ass father is yelling, \"Wake up, sailor!
Wake up...the boat is sinking!!\" I have found that this
can easily be avoided if you roll over as if shunning an
indifferent world and moan, \"Ahh, let the boat sink, cap!
\"
LOL. So...that happened this morning....plus, Jeff screamed
her head off at me about some nonsense or another
She and Roxy get along so good; I don't get it. What
the fuck is wrong w/me?? Seriously...I really do mean that.
Why the fuck don't I attire myself in Fubu and
listen to rap? Maybe I just think too much...perhaps that's
why Dr. Murray calls me his \"Writer as marytr.\" Anyway,
Jeff and Roxy are in the other room giggling their fat
asses off and listening to DMX (ewww...I feel ashamed just
knowing who he is) while talking about celebs and all that
garbage they shove down your throat at a young age, being
nothing but a product of American culture....yadda, yadda,
Rama Rama ding dong..... So about an hour later, while I'm
lying in my bed hallucinating Rimbaud, the door slams and
Jeff's car races out of the driveway
Jesus, did they really want to get away from me that bad?? I
guess so, because according to them (these claims are NOT TRUE, by
the way), I don't shower, I don't brush my teeth, I sure as
hell don't comb my hair, I wear the same thing every
fuckin' day, and the killer of them all....they believe
that I shouldn't walk into the Salvation Army or other
thrift shops because, \"They might think you've stold their
clothes!!\" Hmmm, interesting theory, considering that my
wardrobe
was purchased from Macy's and Nordstrom's. Not cool
As soon as they left I grabbed my only friend, my old
switchblade and routinely began slashing the flesh on my
thighs and back (not on arms this time; too many scars
there)......relieveing myself from the stress and
sorrow....tomorrow, oh tomorrow, while all these images and
words flashed through my fragile eggshell mind: \"I feel good
about
the sin that I inflict on my own skin. I pay money just to cut and
burn pictures like the lessons I need to learn.\" \"As
the
sharpened blade draws nearer to the soft white skin, the
flesh trembles in passive delight.\" I supoose that sex
feels like something along those lines. I let the blood run
down my frail body like some ancient ritual of Nietzsche-
istic civilzation. Gawd....I really need to find a
different stress reliever. Anyway....it's no big deal; I've
been doing this all my life and my skin is practically
immune to it...can't feel a thing....seriously. You know what's 10
times worse? When I go to Minnesota during the summer...those
mosquitos are a killer
I spent today in exile at home reading Camus and
Ferlinghetti. Ferlinghetti has a certain quality to him. I
mean, not only is it apparent in his poetry, but in person
as well. It's something indescribable, really. I wonder what it is.
Perhaps the answer is lying in the switchblade.....