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Rue wants a story for his BDAY. I started to write words and they came out reminding my too much of my own life but in a surreal way where I am taking events but they're not really me. It's all blurry. But I thought I'd post this anyway since there's something journal-istic (note: not journalistic) about it. I'll write you a poem, Rue. Although I don't really think its me. It's like me in a bad wig pretending to be me (hello Tori Amos) or a muppet version of myself, lending his voice momentarily; my own personal critic as a child's toy.
I think I almost wish the Internet won't connect tonight as I stumble my key in the front door-lock. I am coming home from another day of hum-drum, the repetitive actions of a robot who has given up on being human. I step over old yogourt containers with the spoon still inside, the hard dried fruity-mix solidifed and stoned inside the plastic container. I ignore this and the possible Medusa awaiting in the corner to make me stone, and carefully place my brand new ninety-eight dollar blazer on a wooden hanger because I won't fathom getting it dry-cleaned or ironed if it wrinkles. I sit down in the uncomfortable pink chair I bought from the girl who lived here before me and turn on my IKEA nightlight. It isn't a very strong light but its better than the florescent light-hum the ceiling light emanates. As my computer screen loads up, I'm almost tempted to make my bed. But why should I put in the effort of folding its sheets if I'm just going to sleep on it soon? I know I'm not really going to sleep in the near future; I'm going to spend the next three hours on facebook, looking for old friends who I stopped talking to, forgetting there's reasons I stopped talking to them. I think I am maturing, letting go of the past but really I am just forgetting, naively investing myself into the opportunity of circumstances repeating, fucking myself over again. I look up old crushes who I never had the nerve to talk to and now, years later, still can't manage to write them emails. Like a hello would leave me revealed, naked and judged. So I keep this voice to myself. I'll add them as a friend without investing thought or memory into their guestbook. I could not have any thoughts or memories. What comes back to me are my fantasies, dried out and cliché; prince charming stepping up, after all these years he'll finally rescue little old me and we'll ride off into the sunset of wild white stallions. Having these once-crushes as 'friends' show the chances of my fantasy being fulfilled have been improved. But only marginally if I don't speak. And even if I do speak, the odds of both wild white stallions, him and a sunset together are almost non-existent. But what would I say if I had to speak?
In my younger days I thought about you every night before you were fat. I loved looking at you when you didn't know I was in the room. Writing your name on paper brought me comfort.
Let's forget facebook, forget crushes, forget people. I'm trying to find that original spark I left somewhere. I should put an advertisement up on Craigslist. Looking for my creative spark, lost in 1999. It had passionate rainbow hues smeared with oily black paint. The thought of this creeps me out. What would I do if someone found it? Would I even recognize it if it were handed to me on a platter? It all becomes too real so I go to nationstates.net or celebrity gossip sites like Perez Hilton's. I find out who died, who divorced and who's going to jail. At least something's happening to them. I still come here, night after night dreaming for success to slap me on the face, light up my life and put a check in my hand. I work, I dream, I shit. I spent all night killing eleven year old boys, awake past their bedtimes (or maybe they're just in different time zones), in World of Warcraft. All I am doing is surviving and some would barely call it that. I make excuses daily. I can't do laundry. The hairy-faced bully downstairs is sleeping. To avoid noise, I sometimes talk myself out of brushing my teeth. I think I am overconcerned for other people. I know I should fuck them all and do what I have to do for me. And then I think it's not my generosity, its Laziness settling into my skin, making me out of control of my life. I wish I had an answer but I'm probably too afraid of the quesiton so I say things like, "let it be" or "so?" or "who cares?". These seem to be working because sometimes I don't even know I do.
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childfoot's journal