great old slice of me.

so this man/boy once asked me to show him a piece of my writing. i told him he already read my blog. he said he wanted something that was really me. it was confusing, simply because this blog is how i wish to be portrayed to those who read it, him being one of 'those'.

but i scrummaged through a pile of shit to find some lame ass piece that i wrote about hate my body love my body shave my legs sing on stage bullshit. of course he wasn't mean about it, not so much because he was a gentleman, because he was (is) what i have only been able to reduce (and in a good way) to a perversely lovely human being. but i suppose he decided i had enough of brains otherwise to not have to be condemned by patronizing words, that im quite sure he thought.

whatever.

and we all go on our little self exploratory journeys. every time i do mine, its like flicking an ink loaded fountain pen that hasn't had the ink flow to the tip just yet. you pull your arm up towards your head, with a slightly limp wrist and elbow, and then whip your arm forward, forcing the intensity from the movement of your shoulder to travel up to your pen and force the ink to a splat of a shiny black rorsarch mark on the floor. and however similar your moment of force is, the drops of ink are just never formed the same.

and i find this self exploratory tiresome and futile. i change to much, and too much of me stays the same. i would age years in months if i tried too had to keep up.

im not into the whole love yourself movement, because that is just conceited as shit (and i'd like that to be said in a southern american accent, just for emphasis).

i think im more of the type that says, " this is me, man. what the fuck am i supposed to do about it?"

fuck yeah im quiet most of the time. and yeah thats because i suck at making conversation. i like it better when i have to listen and give the occasional remark. unless of course you piss me off about something i feel about at which point i will perhaps get intolerant of your beliefs.

fuck yeah, i beat my foot in once, just to get out of trouble in school. it hurt like crazy, and i felt deluded and very confused as to why i was inflicting harm upon myself, even thought i knew exactly why.

and yes, i wear glitter nail polish, well aware that im in my twenties. i also still live with my parents, sometimes don't have baths for two days at a time, and i have a slight problem with spending all my money.

also, if i like you, i wont ever tell that to you straight, unless you give me no other option. and if i like you, its likely im more quiet around you, because i suppose intuitively i want to know more about you, because there's barely anything interesting about me except the fact that this year my birthday is 11/11/11 and that i have a fourth cut on my little finger on my right hand, and i hate people who call it a 'pinkie'.

also, i like the occasional confrontation. my mom should have let me take up boxing when i asked her to let me when i was in school, and i resent her for telling me its a boys sport. also, i support homosexual, transgender and transsexual groups with a passion. i abhor those who follow religion intentionally being ignorant to reason.

i also understand, as i grow, that i am also becoming intolerant to a lot of opposite opinions. i realize that it is as cruel to judge people on their choice of music as it is to judge them on their economic backgrounds.

i do still believe time travel is theoretically possible. it makes way too much sense in my head. i am largely pedantic. i am figuring that my grudges, are in fact, not my children, or anyone elses, so any need to nurture them is foolish an time consuming.

i got my first true brazilian done a couple of weeks ago, and i wasn't nervous, i didn't cancel the appointment, the chocolate scented wax was devine, and it didn't hurt as much as i anticipated, and i am proud. also, i spend too much time on the internet. and perhaps blog way too often than is probably required since NONE of it is EVER cathartic. just aspirations of being empty i suppose, which is a contradiction and hypocrisy in itself, since im always insisting to myself and those around me that i have nothing really going on, while i somehow am able to write loquaciously.

you know what?

point is i'm me, and hell, i hate a lot of it.

but what the fuck am i going to do.

nothin' buddy (southern accent on again, please)

just write about it.

just a little bit of the ol'bottle just make it come smoother, you know what im talkin about, pumpkin?

(accent off).