poppin percocet, I'm a nervous wreck (slim shady lp fa lyfe)

So I just really wanted to write right now. Unfortunate sentence, that. I'm currently high on percocets, and I'm enjoying it a fair amount. The thing about today is that it was the best day I've had in a really long time. I am in a good mood. This is good. I should write something really, really profound. Interesting day today. Bought some neat stuff at Val Vil, ate some McD's, got a bunch of cat food, etc. Got some food for the geckos. The weekend is already going really well. Wierd.

empty space


arms

rewind

eject



(drunk)

Sometimes They Attack You, I Guess, et. al.,

Would she be flattered,
if I told her what she came with?
last night the ocean
changed her mind when I met her
and the waves that hit the rocks
got deeper and deeper
til i swam in the wrong direction,
thought she might be floating

I gathered all the matches
and put them in my pockets
the ocean got boring
stopped talking, and dropped it
and I watched for your figure
in a doorway, by the statues
but they didn't move
and neither did you

this time it's different,
don't tell me anything

So I stood on a smaller step
and gathered my conscience
she told me, don't panic,
just breathe like an author
and it shouldn't be awkward
or clumsy or dismal
I just wait for the record
to scatter and flatten

when you were sixteen
you held your wrists up
and sang like a preacher
in the eyes of armageddon
and the world was too big
and you ran out of corners
and the cellphone was dead
and you ran out of quarters
but she wouldn't move
and neither would you
and I wouldn't move
and neither would you

this time it's different,
don't tell me anything

sometimes they attack you, I guess
and the rest.

give me a month

Snake Eyes

I've had this thing lately where I'm like, 'fuck snake eyes,' and with completely unreasonable reasons, but like...I'm the complicated artsy type, right, so it's all good. I've just been insisting that my 'lesser-known,' and 'more experimental' (lol, I have no experimental songs) shit is better and worth more talk. This is almost true. But for real, Snake Eyes is my Teen Spirit or whatever and I like pretending to hate it but I was strolling memory lane today and wanted to blog about it, so this is the thing with Snake Eyes.

Snake Eyes took an assload of work to write. Probably more than any other song I've written, in that I usually sit down and write some shit, but this song took like three weeks of lyric-writing, song studying, heartbreak and youtube.

My thing at the time was to go all out on the sad bastard pop music thing. I wanted to capture the over-dramaticism of like, Paul Anka when he's sad bastard, and the catchiness and perfection (ugh) of crooner shit (ie standards). Plus I wanted to write a song to convince this girl that I was worth her time. During this time, this guy Evan I was selling drugs with showed me this video on youtube of My Chemical Romance doing their song, Cancer, with just a guitar. And I won't explain why it took a while to convince me to watch fucking MCR, but I watched it, and it kicked my ass and I became obsessed and frustrated with the fact that they had written such a bomb song based on pretty much the same principles I had in mind (even if they didn't realize). Also I was listening to the oldies station all fucking day at work, and soaking it in, trying to figure it out.

Plus writing the lyrics took like 25 pages of lyric writing and rewriting. (Just said writing three times in one sentence, ugh.) Then one night I was at my parent's house, creeping in the front room by myself with a lamp and a notebook and my little brother's guitar and the shit just came together, finally. Although it took a lot of working out the kinks and such.

Then it was finished and I dropped it on some folks and that went pretty well. Never showed it to the girl though. Yet.

editor's note: also, i later realized that for the main riff in the song i literally play the chords from 'about a girl' in reverse, with a capo.

As I write this novella I can feel myself whirring down into fictional existential darkness like a falling ceiling fan onto a glass table in a living room full of family members. I slowly, with darkened perceptive pretension, feel myself drift from my family to a colder spot, in a small apartment where I take everything (especially myself) too seriously. And I feel like investing my emotions into a fictional character makes my problems disappear but it doesn't; instead I just stop experiencing everything and weeks pass by in impatient blurs pointed nowhere, and girls disappear and reappear vapidly, urgently, quietly, quickly. And when I scribble a barely legible 'The End' near the end of my faded, wrinkled, booze stained notebook, what next?

'I'm startin' to talk to you in prooooose...'

So lately I've just been working on a novella a lot. I have this crazily developed character, plot line, dialogue, etc., and I'm pumped about it. Anyway, the title is 'Someday I'll Be Nothing Again (or Someone Else's Breaking Heart)'