At Long Last, We Brush Away the Tears and Live for the Last Dance Monday, Oct 13 2003

:: 2003 13 October :: 7.56 pm
:: Mood: cold. tired. sad. ready.
:: Music: Grateful Dead, Darkstar. Bob Dylan, Most of the Time.
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hi.

i’m leaving tomorrow.

i’m afraid.

i want the certainty of loss back.

i don’t know what there is to be afraid of. i want to find friends. it won’t be that hard, will it? out of all of these degenerate youth, won’t there be a few who don’t like rap music? that’s really my only concern. and i don’t even mind people who love rap as long as they don’t only love rap.

maybe there will be someone from … texas.

and we will listen to country music together.

and it will be like a really terrible made-for-tv movie about friends who “find themselves” together at wilderness reform school.

look out, hallmark channel. here i come.

i’m bringing a pair of pants that i bought at our 9/11 benefit yard sale in eighth grade. they used to belong to camp. in seventh grade. we went out. only, in that typical kent school way, we realized that he just wanted to get some, that i didn’t even like him, and that we didn’t see eachother. minor difficulties. anyways. i like the pants. they don’t really fit, but that’s okay. they stay up with ribbon.

i’m sorry, everyone.

i’m so scared of living. i’m so scared of dying.

..there is something wrong with me..

i want to close my eyes and listen to radio cure with conor.

yeah.

…distance has…

i love people in all of the ways i know how.
but i don’t know if there are some ways left.
that’s what i can say for now.

bye.

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Finding the Corner with these Black Fucking Walls Monday, Oct 13 2003

:: 2003 13 October :: 12.44 am
:: Mood: crushed
:: Music: Zwan- Jesus, I/Mary Star of the Sea … fuck i shouldn’t do this
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i hate not being there.

i hate myself for being so jealous.

i hate bringing him down because i didnt even try to understand.

because i did understand what he meant.

and i did understand it wasnt anything.

how do you delete these things

i want to erase last night

i am embarassed.

and i just I HATE EVERYONE BEING SO GOD AWFUL HAPPY ALL OF THE FUCKING TIME.

tess. tom. tim. steve. matt. fuck.

ROSS!!!! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!

i’m so sorry ned.

itried.

so if ned says. . . erk. i don’t know. he referred to conor as the love of my life. and that could be used to make conor guilty about telling me the good things that’ve happened to him. or it could be ned. because according to lucy i mean ned, conor and lucy just IS.

i wish that were true.

conor (12:52:10 AM): i ahte my fave

conor (12:52:11 AM): face

me (12:52:41 AM): i hate your face.

me (12:53:20 AM): i want to fill my house with rooms full of faceless dark blue pumpkin uglies

me me me (12:53:33 AM): and find happiness somewhere inside it all

conor (12:54:02 AM): crying is wet

conor (12:54:04 AM): wet is cold

myself (12:54:40 AM): sometimes

yo soy yo (12:54:58 AM): sometimes crying is wet and wet is warm and crying isn’t lonely

lucy (12:55:11 AM): but that doesn;t happen like this

lucy (12:56:28 AM): that doesnt even happen to people i know

lucy (12:58:19 AM): fuck that. yes. this is cold.

lucyyy (1:02:07 AM): shit. upside down, things on the computer screen look inside out. i’m sorry, conor. i don’t know what i was thinking. i don’t put you in the right place. i don’t know how.

conor (1:02:33 AM): oh.

yours truly (1:04:31 AM): i can’t figure out myself. i think so hard about it and it just makes no sense. who are you? you are my friend. yes. but. i want you. i want to be able to be with you. but i can’t. so i want no to want to be with you. but i want you to want to be with me. but i don’t because i’d want to stay over. and then i’d probably want a glass of milk in the morning. and once i’d had my glass of milk, i might want to draw a picture.

super conor (1:05:08 AM): maybe i’m not it

maybe not so truthfully (1:05:27 AM): the moral of the story is not to feed the meese.

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rum and diet vanilla coke oh yes indeed you better believe it Sunday, Oct 12 2003

:: 2003 12 October :: 4.43 am
:: Mood: drunk
:: Music: wilco, radio cure
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i want to get stoned and make out with conor.

on a blanket in the meadow, listening to wilco as the sunshine fades, warm feet on cold feet but not for too long.. snuggle.

and what if conor showed up to my house dressed up like the fed-ex man~

and then i would sqquuuueeeeezzzeeee him and moouullldddd him like playdoh and MAKE HIM INTO SPAGHETTI! pasketti.

while wearing Jeans And A Tee Shirt ..beat up and tie died like none other, made to take off check check shebangbang, mr. big stuff.

and after the game, after the beans get counted, after the counts are in and we’re all off tp the county of snuff, i want to pack up all the falalala fricky da wheeeoooo and bring it to conor’s house, all for him and some for me!

BECAUSE THIS IS AN INJUSTICE!!!! I WANT TO SEE CONORS UNDERWEARS! AND I UNBUTTONED THE BUTTONS! but creeeeeeek. dotty? ross?! bass!!!!!!

…iwannageteven…

tipoo, john… damn warping machine

and it’s me against the bears once i hit the wilderness with rainbow suspenders and pink chuck taylors on, so i want to tell y’all that i’m sorry, cause i know all y’all are going to get in a real funk about thism here, so just go have a boat eight chillaxing moment, please… i’ll see you in the morning, when it’s all new.

i love conor.

like… hold on and never let go.

where be the bottle?

where be the sex?

what a mess.

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