Its Easier to Play Dead Than to Be Alive

You can't be saved until you've seen where the alligator tears are coming from.
And you look into the eyes of the only one who could show you.
When you can see whats missing, and how you've been gone for oh so long.
Its easier to play dead than to be alive.
The act follows a script full of literate languge thats just muted and convaluted enough to resemble feeling and sense.
It all feels and seems so normal that the motions have you believing yourself.
That this was who you were supposed to be.
Buried doesn't mean forever.

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Its funny to me how you think its always me thats trying to inspire awe. And how you only criticize the words when you think they've failed some grandeouse purpose. Not every peck on the keyboard is mine. Not every phrase is meant to make your mind spin. And I'm not making money, like he is. So take it up with them. Why won't you go away? Just baiting me for attention is low. You're one of the ones who cannot be helped by anyone with a semblance of normalcy. Maybe its the money. I'm sure its only amplified by it. Because I refuse to blame dollars and cents for your problems. You use it as a crutch and a microphone. Your accent is fake too. The funniest part is how I matter, and am driving you wild, in some twisted capacity.
I abhore the use of the word "waste" when it comes to people. But for you it just might be fitting in one way or the other. If you saw this your ego would suffocate everyone in the room with you. You never understand when each sylable wasn't created to build you up.
Go on now, go. Go go go.

Carnival Offsets

I'm either on or I'm off.
And the middle is either painfully static or such a mix of off and on that its as though you've known me for ages and never thought to hear me speak.
And I can stand in two countries at once. Each foot firmly planted in the land of "off" and the continent known as "on", respectively.
Straight up and leaning. Shuffle. Ball change; weights shifted.
Because no one can stand flat all the time.
Do you ever find yourself holding your breath and balancing on one foot?
Just as you notice, gasping for breath and struggling to stay on the wire, when your eyes flash white with the vision of falling.
I can remember the process of training myself to become more self-aware and then the deprogramming that was necessary to stop the endless obsession with over-analyzation.
How am I doing?

Just So You Know

If I ever am in need of a burlesque-esq name (esq because it will never be an act that requires pasties...ever), I believe it shall be

Lovey St. Claire

"Lovey" because its got an easier flow than "Lovely", and theres a hidden meaning behind lovely to begin with...St. Claire, well, just because ;-)
This is not to mean that Fiasco's August is out, no no, just aside because I don't know what/how to use it just yet. Not that I have a need for Lovey St. Claire, but from the boredom that arises from my monday classes I began to concoct little names and this was the best one I came up with.
So there you have it. This date marks it, so don't steal it because I'm laying claim here and now.
Now lets find a reason for me to need it.
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Also, visit http://www.pandora.com/
I need classical music on to study and this streams it for me, after I created my 'station'. Fabulous I say, fabulous.

Time Warp

Why does 2006 seem so lost? Like I never even lived it. But here I am, 2008. 2008? I feel like I've been in it for years. Senses of time and milemarkers of life seem convoluted and have been for a while.

Broken Eyes and Sobbing Hearts

I've been writing like crazy lately. In my dreams.
In the past year I've been having a ton of those 'waking dreams'.

I notice it mostly when I'm asleep but think I can see the inside of my eyelids. Then I begin to see whats around me, where I'm at, what I'd be seeing if I was awake. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm not.

Lately in these last few minutes of my waking dreams I've been 'writing'. In my sleep its genius, and when I first wake up I think its some brilliant showing of a deep dream. But alas I barely ever write it down because I'm always running behind on getting where I need to be. But in the afternoon when my mind slows I remember pieces. Most of it is not good, not bad, but not genius for sure. And the rest of what I think is right on the cusp of being something worthy can't be recalled. The only thing left behind is the idea of the greatness, the memory of impact.

Here now as I write this I feel very stunted, very short. Perhaps its because I'm awake.

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Last night a convo with the man at the liqour store:

"Oh Misssoureeeeeee. It is beautiful there?"

Yes. Very.

"You are here on vacation?"

No, school. Law school.

"You are a very smart girl"

Or very crazy

"I tell my daughter to be like you. That way it is her house--she can kick him out when he mistreats her. I dont want her need anyone"

My Dad did always say I wasn't out for a MRS. degree

"You are a very smart girl"

Or crazy



Then Michael Buble's "Home" played on the car radio as I drove home.

Manufactured and Double Bleached

Watching VH1 epic songs of the 90s. Talk about memory lane and lighting flashes of life. This would be wicked and I might even cry if I was high or drunk. Good thing I'm not. But this is almost an overload as it is. The circuit breaker might not be able to handle too many more currents.

Its funny how they really don't mean anything and never did at the time, but how much a part of the fabric of a background of a memory they weave themselves into.

Apologies for the Crude Word Usage

And the slutiest slut award goooooes to: the daytime whores.

The girls who make-out (term used loosely of course) with boys in the library, an empty classroom, in the middle of the afternoon. These boys aren't their boyfriends, the person they're dating, or even a serious prospect. No no, just boys they decide they are going to have that day. I'm conviced there is something inherently worse in these girls than the regular people who moonlight promiscuous. These moonlighters operate on booze and powders, dark rooms and lingering drags off cigarettes they wouldn't dare touch during business hours. Conquests and the means to their acquisition are firmly sworn off for good when the newspaper hits the door and lasts until the itch strikes again with the rising moon. And in that inbetween day the thought of having their way with a co-worker in a broom closet may play a part in a sultry after lunch daydream, but thats as far as it goes. If called out on why they're sitting there with a grin and sigh, I'm sure the response ilicited would be no more than a blushing mumble. Because under the cloak of darkness is when our demons come out to play with each other.
Maybe if I was a fly on a wall, I'd be less astounded by the mid-afternoon display of such a high slut factor. But that I can't even begin to imagine how that conversation or lack there-of would be leads me to think I'd only end up more perplexed. And bothered. I don't understand these animals. How they formulate thoughts and actions in this manner in the harsh light of day and without the fuzzy lines of stimulates.
I'm not jealous, of this be sure.
I do not wish for this ability, and so for now let it suffice I just find them to have some disturbing factor built into their makeup that deserves an untrusting eye. Untrustworthy by some nature. Even if their mid-day action stays firmly within the northern hemisphere, I still think they're the sluttiest of them all.

"I've Got to be Honest, I'm Terrified to Fly Blind

And I never wanted anything like this before."


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Forever have a weak spot for the piano.
I love their name, because I love the book.

Storms of Fabled Foreign Tongues

Losing the feeling of feeling unique
Do you know what I mean?
Back to the place where we used to say,
"Man it feels good to feel this way"
Now I know what I mean

Sometimes I think it just might be better if I didn't stick around. That it might never happen. That the feeling I get in those 2 minute snippets, those second to second blips will forever stay there. Static. Both so full of hope and so confirming of despair that if the emptiness is so profound now that there's no telling how swallowing it will be in the future if nothing moves forward. So selfish, I know. But sometimes I just can't help thinking.

I've had everyone I've ever wanted.
But this little heart has never recieved what it really desired.

Alive.

in need of a pause button, just long enough to let me catch up to my life as it takes place around me

swirling. speeding. deafening. suffocating.

Quite An Occassion

I find these fantastic but I would never, even with the proper occassion, and oh have there been occassions, send them (shall I count thy ways why?). They'd sit and sit and maybe I'd mail one off to a friend but would have to make sure I included a proper explanation ("isn't this funny? I don't really mean it *I swear*"). Too much work for a simple 'hello'. But so freudian they're fabulous.
Aptly titled "BitterSweet"