http://emptyeyes.tribe.net/thread/d009304d-a3f0-4d97-9b1d-e6eed5372583?format=rss Tribe.net. Local Connections http://emptyeyes.tribe.net/thread/d009304d-a3f0-4d97-9b1d-e6eed5372583#65f5e34a-4ca9-4959-a37b-87893504523b Look at this, this line of words? What do you see within these lines? Space? White? Or something deeper? How does one try and understand this shit? Thoughts spilling out of my head like Trent and his blood. No one can understand this except me. So many errors I’ll have to go back and change it 3 or 4 times just to correct all these red lines under my words , and don’t forget the green one’s such a beautiful zig zag of a line. Spilling out of my head.. fucking warren makes it look easy like les Claypool. Fucking assholes. I was brought up believing I would have a wonderful life, a wonderful boyfriend who turns into a wonderful husband. Living in a nice house after meeting him in college. This sentence for the blind and a song for the deaf. Life was a lie and life’s a bitch. Then you die. None will understand me and none will ever understand you. We all live in a desolate and unknowing world. All of us are in denial of how this universe, this atom really is. Erik, I know you will someday read this, be it tomorrow or in a few years. I love you; I want to say it every time I talk to you. I know you hate it, I know you care about me, but I’m not satisfied and you know this too. It makes me want to try when I speak or in this case type my true feelings. You’re a bastard that stole my heart and it’s stuck to you like superglue you can’t get it off. It’s so annoying and ugly, my heart stuck to whatever part of your body, a bulge a bloody bulge for people to stare at and ask among themselves why it’s there and why you still have it there. But can do nothing. Nothing at all. Life is hard to get though. And speaking my mind is hard to do. Typing it is even harder. I don’t even look at the screen just the keys for minuets at a time. The music has stopped. I need noise…………..sex, it’s nice I like it. I cry sometimes when it hurts too much, those are the best times, when it hurts and makes me spill tears on them. I miss you I miss having a body by me. I never want to send this to you now; you will get mad, or depressed. Either way it will disappoint you that you were right about keeping those feelings I have about you alive. That heart is still stuck to you. That bloody mess of a heart. That blackened and shriveled blob. So many scars of when I gave them to other people and they smashed it twice in a row is too many for me. I am afraid of men now. Except for you, I know you. I know you care about me and that is why my heart is super glued to you. I was not meaning to have this thought type be about you but it ends up doing that because I am passionate about it. “Without pain there is neither the reason nor the desire to think or create” I don’t know who said that but I know tool quoted them. Or was it nin? No, I think I was tool. Tool, such a wonderful band.. I think I’ll listen to them……..I think my laundry’s done……fuck one of my underwear, the ones that had held all of this globules of blood clots at the primus concert had so much blood in it that it stained my clothes. Tool. This cd makes my computer’s cd drive sound like a small airplane engine. That’s very strange. But it still plays normal. Strange days. I like fire, candles are beautiful and romantic and scary all at the same time. Once I took a bath and had lots of candles and I burnt my hair, it wasn’t good. When I see what I’m writing it makes me feel like a child. Such simple thinking and sentences. So badly written. A jumble of ideas, memes, what ever. Southern cali. Is on fire. Burn tinsel town, burn. No one knows that that means Hollywood. But I didn’t at one time. People like to lie about what they know, but at some point you did not know this and it struck you or someone told you, you were not born with most kinds of knowledge. At one point in your life you found out what the word “fuck” meant. At one point in your life you figured out something that today seems extremely obvious. I ask a lot of simple questions and maybe that’s why people see me as not very intelligent. I know I misspell my words all the time I know that I have too many run on sentences I know that when I Wright stories they all have “and then” too many times. Fuck, I know! I know my writing is terrible; it has caused me so much grief and pain in my life that no one will ever know or understand. It’s a true handicap; I should get a fucking plate on my car for it. Fuck. Fuck all of you laughing at me. Fuck you for already going through the shit I have and doing nothing about it. Fuck. And I can’t think of any more descriptive words than fuck. Why am I still doing that? I’m getting so depressed and mad. All of you laugh at me. I wish I could leave it all behind. I wish I could make one good song describing all of my pain and tortures of my life, have every one I’ve ever me hear it and understand it. And then die. All I want it someone to understand me. I had an abortion. And abortion 5 days ago. And I want your pity I need you pity, I eat your pity. I’m hungry. Let me fuck something up in my life to have people pity me for. I don’t really do these things to my self consciously, but I might unconsciously. Consciousness I can’t spell it for the life of me and I never will. I hate my brain, can I have yours? You are so smart, or at least you seem to be. You Wright so good and speak so well and your hand writing is beautiful and you’re not depressed and you have a love and someone loves you back and I need that, give me yourself. I want to be you. Take me away. Give me television, give me movies, and give me literature. I don’t want to spell check this; it will take too fucking long. Skip, skip, skip, and skip, fuck. Suck a wonderful word in my vocabulary. I use it too much but it gets that point across, or at least I think it does. Pity! You fucking fool. Look at you, crying while you type so many meaningless words that no one may ever see. Pity! Pity! You fucking fool. If I could send this though e-mail to everyone I know most people would be confused or annoyed or not even read it at all. I have mail…………ok, I don’t fuck you then. Any way, what was I talking about? Bullshit? Oh yea… so any way I hate my self and I hate all of you. I guess that means I just hate. Fuck you for reading this, this opening into my mind that I have forced upon my self, non stop writing, well maybe not totally non stop but these are pretty long blocks of me writing. My fear is naked. So look at these words, this letter, this pixel, and with your brain processing them into meaning and understanding... well maybe that’s asking too much but slight understanding and look at me, I am here, and I’ll be here for a while, try the salad, or not. I know none of you get it. And “you “meaning who ever reads this. Yes you, ya fucker. And that means me as well, when I read this over again and again. Actually I never want to read this over again. It’s crap and if I do I’ll probably cut all the good shit out. Which would be bad because this is me putting my thoughts into letters>words>sentences>paragraphs… well maybe not real paragraphs, if it was then there would be a lot of fucking paragraphs but I don’t want to deal with that fucking shit. Why should I have to make it look nice and legible for you? If you don’t like it then you probably would have stopped by the time you get to here. Jesus even if you try and read this whole thing I bet you’ll get so bored with this confusing crap that you would have stopped after a few lines from the top. So? Why go on? By writing this I knowingly want someone else to read this, but I’m also afraid of that... maybe I should throw this away. The television looks ghostly with a candle in front of it. The interaction of technology and something very basic. Beautiful. A beautiful picture. I see so many beautiful pictures all around me whenever I don’t have a camera. But that’s life, or something like it. Tap tap tap of the space bar. Could you ever make music from the noise of a keyboard? That would be interesting. Don’t steal my idea though or else I’ll do something. Fuck all of you who would put something clever there. Like my “sick my flying monkeys” of “pink Satan” or that clever shit, I can’t take it. You’re all so fucking clever, so get over it all ready. But no, we have to eat it up like pie, and try and do the same. Fuck the clever. I like that “fuck the clever”. I think I’ll Wright it down………argh. I wish I could go back in time and take the talent I had for writing and use it again, but by myself. Description. Is that the point of writing? It seems to be. Am I writing? Confused? The best writers have wonderful descriptions, beautiful; they put you in the shoes of the main character or such. What is the purpose of writing? I am doing this to get out all the things I have wanted to Wright and I haven’t the nerve or something like that. I miss being able to get out my thoughts to someone else. I like to do it in person. This way I am opening my self up to any one, people who don’t know me might judge me on this. But wouldn’t that be a good thing? Because this is the uncut me? Aren’t we just our thoughts? This is all nice and philosophical. But I don’t really like to think about philosophy. Or any thing like it for that matter because then I’ll get into a argument and I can’t argue about a pencil in my hand and a another person saying it’s a pen. That doesn’t make a lot of sense but I don’t care. I’m bad at arguing. People that know me here only know a very small part of me. I would not know how to let them know more about me though. I’m incapable of doing that. Or at least to their faces. If I let them know who I am we would all see how alike we really are. Or maybe that’s false. We will never know. I wish I could open my self to someone. But I can’t trust. They would probably just think I’m a weirdo and never talk to me again. Or they would tell other people who I am. But seeing this it’s strange. I’m afraid of it. I can’t believe how afraid I really am to let someone know me. Erik, you don’t know me. All of you don’t know me. No matter how many thought writings I type. It’s so mysterious... isn’t it? Or maybe it’s just annoying. Fuck you. My computer keeps beeping at me. I hate you. No one shall ever understand any one. Argh. I’m lazy. And a procrastinator. I really should start my projects so I don’t fail all of my classes and end up a bum on the streets. But of course I don’t really think that would happen, that’s just what I was conditioned to think. And that’s why it’s so confusing to see Erik not really graduating high school. Never going to college and hating everyone. But I guess he doesn’t have everyone any more. Now he wants friends. But what do you expect? Jesus are you that blind or are you just feeling sorry for your self. Fuck Erik! Open you fucking eyes! You alienated everyone from yourself, I don’t know if you mean to or not but that’s why you “have no friends” I swear to god, if you keep on fucking whining about that... ug, I just want to slap you awake! Maybe I’m getting a little carried away with this. Sorry. But you did. This music makes me angry. When Erik broke up with me the 1st time I cried and he said that was the first time he had seen real emotion come from me. That affected me so much. I never really noticed that before and it made me think, a lot. Fuck my computer! Technology is fucking evil, but also really good. Man and they sure are weird. Pretty unpredictable if you ask me. But oh well. Clever or cleaver? Ok, I spelled it right. Now that I’ve done all this shit with my computer I feel like not doing this any more. “Good” you think, “maybe she will finally shut up”. the screen is bright and is the brightest light in the room, the few candles you have sitting around don’t give much light and more of them keep on going out. Your eyes sting and the back of you neck hurts. You look at the period and stare at it for a few seconds and then shake yourself from the screen. The air is still and it’s cool inside your small room. Papers and books lie strewn across the floor. A school book has a bloody knife laying on top of it. You were cutting yourself again. Cursing, you pick up the knife and book quickly, but making sure no blood drips on the carpet or any thing else. You grab a black shirt from your dirty clothes pile and wipe the top of the book rapidly. A look of annoyance on your face. If you were bleeding a lot you would have already noticed it but you hadn’t this time. You get most of it off except where it stained the paper, not very noticeable. You wipe the knife off and feel you arms to see where you had cut. “Fuck” frowning, you cut in a more noticeable place than usual, past the sleeve line. A perfect oval is cut into the top of your hand, it’s not bleeding as much since you had cut it an hour or so ago. There is a stain on your pants from where you hand had lain while you were reading. A sigh of relief as you look around where you had sat and see no bloody puddles. You go into the bathroom and turn on the light. The uncovered bulbs above the mirror slightly blind you, squinting, the medical cabinet opens and you grab the anti-bacterial spray and gauze. Cringing, the wet spray digs into the cut with a billion tiny knives, killing the evil bad bacteria. You wish that you never felt pain instead of not always feeling it. Some times months at a time you would not be able to feel any thing. It was shocking to feel the real thing. Sometimes you would savor it, but that was rare. Usually it was annoying. With such an unusually high tolerance of pain you would have to cut some really sensitive places to really feel it at all. Thinking back, about all the times you had scraped your knee, cut your elbow, broken a finger. Walking back to the house, blood trailing behind like a dried up stream. You mother coming out and with a look of shock and then anger on her face she would pull you into the house and scold you. Saying you should notice that you’re hurt and why she had such a strange child. She never took you to the doctor, you had never been to a hospital, and mother had always said how they knew nothing and would take you away from all your friends if they found out about you. With anger and sadness you lean on the counter and look at yourself in the mirror. So average, so normal on the outside. The oily long back hair covering most of your facial scars. But they stood out to you, they is why you put on makeup to cover them up. You got pretty good at make up, since you started in Jr. High. Those were the worst years, living in Arizona and having to wear long sleeve shirts in 109 degree weather. Such a skinny twig of a boy. Unable to defend yourself. They would punch you and kick you and you had to act like you were in pain. You could never force yourself to cry, seeing other kids get hurt they almost always cried. But you could never squeeze out a tear. The first and last time you ever cried was when your mother had died. You never even cried when you were a baby. But college is a lot better, and since your father had died after your mother you get a check for three thousand dollars every month for the rest of your life. And that’s why you’re in an apartment in Westwood, California. Walking back into the room you squint at the bright flat screen with rubbish typed all over it. A smirk comes across your face “fuckin’ teenage angst shit” you press the button to turn off the screen and flop down on the bed. Pulling off your shoes and socks and the rest you think about tomorrow, Halloween. What the fuck am I going to do tomorrow? You think as you bury yourself under the covers and look at the ceiling. The back image of the computer screen burned into the back of your eyes when you close them. A smile creeps across your face and you turn to blow out the last remaining candle next to your bed. A plume of smoke floats into nothing. Thu, 06 Nov 2003 05:46:26 GMT http://emptyeyes.tribe.net/thread/d009304d-a3f0-4d97-9b1d-e6eed5372583#65f5e34a-4ca9-4959-a37b-87893504523b $item.owner.firstName 2003-11-06T05:46:26Z