ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Caught in the Funk Oh, so it's my turn to speak, eh? I'm not sure my words would be well received. You see, my ass-kissing lips are dried and cracked so I don't use them anymore. You'll have to settle for my vulgar mouth and it doesn't like you. I'd like to juggle this world with the next. To blink and see the future. To exhale and be a woman. I'm so bored I'd like to detonate something to see if it gets a rise out of anybody, myself included. I'd like to see a movie that will make me cry or read a novel that would make me want to change the world. If I had a million dollars, would I still be so restless? How about two million? How much does contentment really cost? Everyone says you can't buy happiness, but I believe that is wrong. I touch by neck and my back and my arms to know how it feels to have hands on my skin. Shitfuckpisshell. Everything feels wrong like a phone with no "five". I want something to change but I can't afford it. If God were Donald Trump I would pray. If my head were detatchable, I'd take it off and watch myself sleep. I bet that would be entertaining because I wake up in the wierdest positions. I want to get completely plastered without fear of vomitting, but then I suppose I would only drink myself to death and that would be no fun at all. I scare myself when I'm quiet because inside of my head it gets louder. The thoughts are racing at the speed of depression, which, contrary to popular belief, is pretty damned fast. I wish the world had tags like items on a store shelf so I could define exactly what I need. It'd be easier to locate what I want and need that way and maybe I would be happy. But these are lofty expectations. I'd like to be heckled to the point of boiling. I'd like to have justification to behave as violently as I feel. I'd like to walk on water and breathe fire. I'd like to be crucified and come back three days later with a new-found appreciation for life. I'd like to be as unattractive as I feel so then maybe no one would look at me for a long time. I'd like to eat insects so I can feel them eat me. I'd like to sell my nose for cocaine just to see the look on the dealer's face. I feel like an empty track on a CD. It takes up time but there is no sound aside from the hiss of the speakers and the hum of electricity running through the system. The seconds click away and everybody is waiting for something to hear but nothing comes. It's existence without the properties of individuality. I'd like to trade in my lungs for a carton of Marlboros. If Satan were George Burns, he'd have a fat Cuban cigar waiting for me in Hell, the kind that I don't smoke on Earth because I can't afford them. I would inhale every drag off of it, too. Eternal life, in Heaven or Hell, is an astounding theory. Imagine the knowledge that, no matter what happens, you'll still be around tomorrow. Would that be comforting or nerve-wracking? I'm not sure. I'd like to yawn and wake up on Venus. I'd like to traverse the globe in search of a four-leafed clover. I feel like the face I wear in public is suffocating who I really am and I'd like to carve the mask off with a fountain pen. I'd like to know what a bullet thinks as it tears through human flesh. I'd like to take a 2-Quart microwave safe bowl of my blood and mix it with diesel fuel, set it on fire, and wait for the smell to envelope me. Just to know what it smells like. Curiosity will undo me if I don't undo myself. Like a misinterpreted song, she seems to me now. I thought he was saying "Pour the medicine / I'll do something right for you" but he was saying "Born under the sun / The planets will converge for you" Now it's all I can hear when the song plays. "born under the sun/ born under the sun/ born under the sun/ born under the sun/ born under the sun/ born under the sun" If I set the disc aside and wait a long time before listening to it again, maybe I'll hear my words. She's like that to me now. I thought I heard something in her that was actually something else. And I liked the words that, obviously, were no more than figments of my imagination more than the truth. Now she screams the right words to me every time I see her, but, to me, they're the wrong words. I need to set her aside for a long time. Chalk it up to bad timing and ill intentions. 3:04 p.m. - 2002-11-07 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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