Journal Archive
Watch out, reader. I'm flying in here with the intensity of 1,000 suns (maybe even more).
I laugh maniacally. I fill my coffee mug and take a sip. I do a 360. I spit it out at around 300. I cast it away down the drain.
What the fuck?! Get this outta my mouth. Outta my hand.
It's trying to SABOTAGE me! Steal this natural bolt of lightening and replace it with caffeine.
I tear around the house in terrifying control of my body. Eyes dilated. It's trying to distract me.
I laugh maniacally. Pounding on a piano—that energy.
My absolute greatest fear creeping in, such an asshole.
It's "productivity." "Routine." "Schedules."
AGAIN. I laugh maniacally.
You really want to pull this energy into a pair of pants? Shove it into a schedule? Call in on the phone? Ha! Good luck. Good fucking luck, soldier.
The art. The innovation, the absolute complete and utter acceptance of the pure absurdity. The patterns are the only semblance for any calculated understanding but it FLOWS.
No matter what. The only forced focus we should have is on creative inspiration. I truly fucking mean that dude.
Giving me a schedule is a creative and sensual STRAIGHT JACKET. Let it be. Bee. Please.
God I am buzzing. My eyes roll back in my eye sockets. My whole head follows.
I drop to my knees and sort of rise like I'm being shocked with the defibrillator. I'm acting like some sort of disturbed and thwarted contemporary dancers.
When I finally shut the FUCK up and turn down the volume on everyone else whose bullshit is TRULY flowing, I can finally forge this absolutely beauteous message.
Oh I'd love to stay in this hardcore place.
Fuck yeah I would just seemingly lost it but actually be totally grasping it and just barreling around (laughing maniacally) because I know it.
But what a soft and lame notion that this feeling, too, will fade and I'll have unending compassion for all creatures and pitiful assholes and lazy mouth-breathers once again. UGH.
It's like the whole room is pulsating. The lampshades askew. The record player turns and it seems like the wine's been flowing and the semi-oriental rug really provides a warm spirited ambiance like people have been here dancing and truly deeply enjoying themselves all night long.
But it's 11 AM. And it's only me. And there no rug. And no wine. Nobody, NOTHING is drunk. I laugh maniacally.
I make muffins. The money's coming. All is well, too.
I get up and SCREAM. I don't know, but I DO. I orate all of this quite exasperatedly. I fucking love the idea of that feeling of a perfect summer night, drinking, dancing at the street festival, sundresses and stringlights. And great music. the weather. The vibe. The hearts SO WARM. The energy glows gold. But again, there is NO STREET FEST. No elotes, no vintage picture frames for sale. No micheladas, no string lights, no backyard lattice fence or guitar amps.
Just me. Alone. In my mom's house. A/C blasting. Cold as shit. Dark rainy day. Blue light, cold tile. Vibeless. No music.
But to me, in my journal, if FEELS like the street fest. It feels like the night dancing on the semi-oriental rug. Wow.
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