Shots Fired

i wonder if there were people on mars, some time ago. i wonder if they drove cars with leather seats, utilized phones that operated solely by the recognition of the owners' blood genotypes. i wonder if they ever felt like this. i wonder if they ever felt like i do, you know, before they shot it all to hell.

my eyes crawled across dybek's words once (and only once, really. i don't find him all that fantastic, homebody or not). pet milk, or something like that. something about growing up and growing apart, memories, screwing his girlfriend on the train during the express run, a goodbye, her about to jump the pond, peace corps i think, and he was about to do something as well, a boy catching a glimpse as the cars slowed down past the platform. all that, yeah. and some time ago, when pet milk hit me in the eyes, a tiny part of me longed to possess a similar memoir. i wanted that story to be mine.

i don't anymore.
mainly,
1. the express routes are jacked because of budget cuts,
and
2. cta is filthy.

less frequent service, walk to work. blowing up the redline would only kill students and poor people, and what's the fun in that?

do you think there was an efficient form of public transportation on mars, you know, before they shot it all to hell?

F key, the lucky one, the hardest one, but i think i did okay. perhaps i am far, far more amazing than i ever thought possible. the worst part is, i'm still terrified. voicing my fears might make them real, and what's the fun in that?

i miss my new jersey success story. i miss the orange glow of the sun, mom calling me inside to finish my dinosaur diorama (and it was probably then, around second grade, when i decided i hated school), i miss the worst bloody nose i've ever had, i miss that childhood friend (the one that gets away), i miss tomorrow.

and i wonder if anybody got off mars alive. i wonder if they're out there, somewhere, nostalgia at its best, vocalizing their thoughts. i wonder if they miss it. i wonder if, looking back, they say to each other: man, those really were the best days of our lives, you know, before we shot it all to hell.

Goodbyes

Sweetie Steinle
(1992) 1998-2010

Repetition Makes An Impression

[so what's another word for desperate?]

there are good people in my life. good, good people. and it terrifies me, you see. i fear my instability, my paucity of genuine emotions, my insufficiency, my failure to recognize my own dissolution, is a disservice to them. the only solution i have at this time would fall incredibly short of a thanks.

the earth isn't melting, we came from monkeys, and i'm just fine.

[you see, it's never bad enough to just leave or give up, but it's never good enough to feel right]

and i don't want this entry to mirror the last,
an unending trail of forlorn sentiments.
and i don't want to continuously expel the same whims.
adhering to monotony is a surefuck way to vanish,
and i'm not entirely convinced that i'm ready yet.

PLUG![1]

not one much for plugs, but srsly:

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