Tom Delonge sucks, he is so busy adamantly defining the difference between "band" and "project" that he hasn't noticed that all his songs suck
This is Mike. For some reason, I can't log in as myself, but was able to log in as critical.
As I pack everything I own into boxes for the sixth time in four years, I can't help but come to the realization that I'm running from something. It seems that maybe this something is getting closer when as of later today I no longer have a job, insurance or a residence of my own. All I have is me. While packing I found an old journal from a few years ago. I read the first few pages which have gone unread for some time before this. There are two explanations for what I found: 1) I have been running in one big circle since I graduated from college or 2) I've been running in place this entire time and haven't gotten anywhere. Either way, the net result is the same: Nothing. This is the first few pages of what I wrote years ago, date unknown:
A young kid who wants to write a novel, but is too lazy.
A senior in college, perhaps.
First chapter or two he'll be a senior in college.
TRANSITION
Why Chicago? Why NOT New York?
Uncomfortable turns to comfort. A kind of cold, contemptuous comfort.
Start out with some sort of hinderance; either physical or emotional.
You don't know how to live this life:
What do I do next?
What have I done wrong?
What should/shouldn't I be doing now?
How did I get here and where do I go?
If you don't know what to do, who do you ask?
Can you trust them?
Are they right?
QUESTION EVERYTHING
don't panic
Can you start from scratch?
Do you want to?
What if you never feel inspired?
What if you genuinely don't want to change?
How do you get to become honest with yourself?
And once you are there, how does it feel?
When do you know you are happy?
Is happiness real?
How do you spell E-X-I-S-T-E-N-T-I-A-L-I-S-M?
Was Sylvia Plath happy to be unhappy? She definitely became good at it. And successful. Maybe being completely unhappy and successful made her happy. In which case, she would not have been unhappy which would have ruined everything. Which in turn would have made her go mad. This, while assuming that being completely unhappy and successful made her happy, could have created some pretty wild poetry. (which is a pretty _____ assumption.)
I need to ask for a thesaurus and a dictionary. Both big, thick, and, of course, hard cover.
Some people like the way I smell.
Others don't.
I wonder if there's a way to tell if someone will like the way I smell when I first meet them. Because if they won't, then what's the point?
"I believe in God only out of fear that He actually exists."
Her smile faded when she looked at me as if I had just kissed a golden cow. A once bright and youthful smirk gave way to a hurt, perplexed tear.
I simply looked back with an air of wonder. After understanding her feelings, I could only laugh. More of a giggle, really. She didn't appreciate that, which became obvious as she stomped out of the room after having slapped me. Hard.
I was left to question whether the truth was the correct choice; and seeing as how I never really liked her anyway - a fact I had been denying - I decided that it was.
At the end of the day, everybody has to eat. Someplace.
I am in love with a D.J. I come home to my apartment after work and she's there. I knew she would be there; it was Tuesday night. She works at the station Thursday through Monday and she has been in my apartment, waiting in a pair of my boxers and her wife-beater undershirt, every Tuesday night since we met, which has been all of three Tuesdays. The apartment smells better when she's here; like a rose garden in spring which has a soapy smell to it as if it had just gotten out of the shower. I can smell her down the hall. I swear she has magic powers - to allow me to immediately forget everything that is wrong with the world after having only caught a faint idea of her smell through a door and down the hall.
Her smile cinches it for me. We will not leave this apartment for hours and hours and I feel as if the rest of the world is missing out on something great. "Hey you," she says, and I can't help but smile.
"Hey baby..."
"How was work?"
"Shitty. How was your day?" I sit down next to her and she shifts her position so she's now sitting on her ankle facing me.
"Great!" She said this with too much excitement. "I went to the pet store and..." and as she continued all I can think about is how lucky I am to have her in my life. When I hold her, everything is right with the world. When I'm not, I count the minutes until I will be.
This is how I imagine it, at least. In reality, however, I have spoken to this D.J. only once when I won tickets to a some stupid thing, I don't remember what it was. I only made the call hoping to be caller one or two or any number really, just trying to talk to her; even if that just meant her saying, "Sorry, you're caller number eight. Call me back, okay?" I would have been happy with that, but no. I had to go and win the contest, altering my life forever.
rhyming "feelin a-ight" with "high as a kite"?
dude, 50 cent fucking sucks