I like to fork, she likes to spoon

"The Sad Truth Is This Blog, It’s What Happens When One Day You Don’t Have That Person You Talk To Everyday Anymore. They Leave. And You Get Desperate. And Pathetic. And You Don’t Know Who To Talk To. Life Goes On Without You. That Is What This Is. This Is A Horrible Loneliness. I Hate It. I Hate It So Much I Do It Every Fucking Day.

so i quit. i quit. i am an excellent thing to quit, my own self, actually.
obviously. so obviously."

- From the tumblr of Ryan Adams Tumblr ( quit? obviously NOT)

I think I've been writing and keeping some form of journal or notebook since I was in Middle School. At first, it was only because it was part of an English class assignment. But I started liking it, then loving it.... To the point I was slightly obsessed and found I needed it. That's pretty much how all things work for me. writing, relationships, work. I'm willing to Crash and burn with something I enjoy. I don't really see any way out of it. What looks like chaos to others is calm and control for me. At least the writing. It made me scared sometimes. What would I write next. Where it would go. How many secrets told, how many lies, how many times wouldn't I say her name, but want to. Then I do. Then erase, backspace..whatever it takes. But there is control there. the repetition of saying the same thing over and over and over in different ways. All for one thing. To forget. To remember. To let go. Fuel and release. If she is a drug. Words. These words. If so, then I am her junkie. Maybe if I confessed, I'd be be forgiven. The selfishness of the truth. Maybe it's that by showing yourself you face either love or rejection. That fear. That feeling of fear. It's just so enthralling.

So, I've kept on doing it . Some kids back then -they would draw on desks, or maybe actually pay attention in class. I would write. notes mostly. what i thought to be the most brilliant and heart capturing prose. If only I were ever to deliver one. If only I could somehow slip one into her delicate hands, surely then....

One day I am in class and writing in my notebook. The speaker on the wall starts to static and crackle. An announcement from the schools sound system blasts out my NAME. Could I please make my way to the Principals office?. Tisk-Tisk the teacher looked at me suspiciously, everyone else ohhhhhhh'd and ahhhhhh'd me from thier seats. Some of the girls probably sensed a little badness in me as i walked past them in my Van Halen Diver Down tour shirt and feathered hair. Out the door and down the hall I felt like I did something terribly wrong, although I had no idea what it was.

When I arrived at the office it was the Principal and some other adults. They instantly converged on me and started to congratulate me on being voted 8Th grades MOST HANDSOME boy.
I thought either I was dreaming this or it was a joke. My Dad was a pretty elaborate jokester at times but this.....
Then I remembered a piece of paper passed around in Home-room with names , and you were supposed to check and vote. I just turned mine over and wrote a poem about how bad-ass I am at playing Donkey Kong and at kissing the girl next-door who's mouth tasted like Watermelon Hubba-Bubba.
Someone is talking to me now.. Focus -
The principal. Mrs Anderson, she presents me with a certificate. Official looking. My name, golden seals and Most Handsome 8th grade class. Nineteen Hundred and eighty-three. And so it was written. So it was done.

I walked back down through the maze of hallways and corridors, my heart pumping, and face flushed. How could this be?
When I walked back into class, the kids were apparently coached up to start clapping. The guys clapped and whistled extra loud just to be obnoxious. My friend yelled out.. " He's soooooo pretty " " Hello pretty one" then I think someone called me the Karate Kid.
"Thank you, Thank you one and all" I said. Now discovering some kind of confidence I never had before. If I was going to be a super-star might as well act like one. I went back to my seat, in the back of the room. The 15 minutes of fame, fading fast. Everyone settled down and I looked around at the girls. I kept thinking .. They had to have voted for me. right? I had to know. Who? Why? Would they date me now, kiss me, screw me? but everyone was back to doing their thing. No-one seemed to care about the most handsome fucking kid in school any longer. Wow. I thought, that was fleeting.

I took my notebook out from my Dallas Cowboys book-bag, opened it and wrote something of a story like I just did above. Then I got bored and started to make some shit up about this dog with 3 legs that I had befriended behind the 7-11 on my way home from school. The walk to my house from school was close to 3 miles and the dog , he followed me all the way. At home he would wait for me by the back door while I put on my "play clothes" and then we would head off into the woods together. Sometimes the girl next door would come along. She liked dogs and I let her name Him. There was more writing about watermelon gum and her lifting up her skirt for me to see her panties, while leaning against a tree.

Even when the best things happen , the real world has nothing for me.

The bell rang and I folded up my certificate and shoved it in my notebook. By the end of the day I had lost it. Somewhere between the exit sign above the Cafeteria door and the long walk home alongside Gum-drop.


Artwork:Yosuke Ueno
Photo 4:yyellowbird

Ryan's tumblr

and the good days are like presents .........

1. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR:
kids form in groups. cliques, scenes, and perversions. The school patio littered with scabs and scars and walking S.T.D's. smokers smoke and whores whore. his father drinks - her father touches her at night. and i can't complain to much. semi-charmed, semi-hard, semi-smart. what I do is watch. what i do is write. broken streams of thought. a rainbow that isn't quite formed. the pre-cum dripping from cock that gets her pregnant. spider webs.
hot dogs and tater tots is what is served at lunch today. All the white kids drink chocolate milk and all the black kids drink white. Has anyone else but me noticed this?
I am more whore than punk rock, more glam than indie, more geek than jock, more dick than kind, more kind than nice, more pretty than handsome, more or less I am not noticed.
To be a senior is to be that much closer to escape. this asylum, this prison. It's like home. It is home, we all want to leave, and we never want back in.
things will be different out there, things will be much better. this is what we wish for. Be careful what you wish for.

2. YES, I COULD
if someone had a knife or a gun or the metal detectors malfunctioned. If that loner kids back-pack were to be filled with C4, if he could pass fucking chemistry. instead dumb mother- fucker talks like he is a black rap star - urban ghetto set in this upper middle class no-where near a real city town. He says "yo yo yo".. calling to his homey's. No-one turns around.
I'd welcome chaos and destruction. something anything.
the zombies, the sheep, flesh on bones, hormones, kids dying to fuck and fight and be free but having no clue how. pent up, penthouse, spread, spread disease, hate, rumours...eating, laughing, faking, lying, grabbing each others flat asses.
That girl over there knows of bands you've never heard of. to skinny with stars on her wrist, wasting away with her face in a magazine. She knows a drummer in a band. She's fucked a drummer and I've fucked her. So I have fucked a drummer. Big deal.
have you googled her, have you seen her myspace?, have you gone over to her house on Friday nights? I have. have you seen my t-shirt over there? can you return my books, can you return my name, can we take it all back. can i teach you to hurt again. be good again.
Oh wait, it wasn't her. I say "fuck it" forgetting to use my inside voice. The girl looks up. I am certain I just as easily could fall in love with her. I tip my pen toward her and she glares at me. Yes. I could.

3. I'LL LET YOU READ ME
look- this kid just walked by me and called me a bad-name, I stare back at him shooting ninja stars into every part of his body. i understand his mother must love him. he may go off to fight in a bloody war for our country. be a hero of sorts. he may just as easily stay at home lying on a couch collecting disability checks from a fraudulent compensation claim. All in all, he is no better or worse than me, I am no better or worse than him. but there is only *one* of me. Of this I am certain. I smile to myself at this little *matter of factual* - and what's more... I smell to fucking good today. mmmmmm. The thing is this: I love a little to hard, and am a bit to crazy for most people to fuck with. I'll let you read me a like book of fiction.

4. LOOK HOW YOU'VE WASTED YOUR TIME ON ME
my pen runs out of ink. I had a thought. now it's slipped away. has that ever happen to you?. The part where you look around and wonder how you got to this point. this moment. you try to figure out was it better a few hours ago, a few days, months, years. I am pretty content. I'd rather be dead than content. they quite possibly could be one in the same = equal. equal reminds me of math, reminds me there is only a few more months left at school, reminds me of prom dates, and all these stupid fuckers like me, trying to fit in. I realize i don't hate anyone and i hate that. I'm still mean but I feel so sorry for everyone around here, I just wish them happiness. No I am a piece of shit, I wish myself luck and charm and grace. I rather don't care what happens to the rest of them. Except maybe her.
Another glare, another day in ruins. Loving everyone, writing it down so that i won't forget, but I will. I do. Whoever finds this, don't waste your time. throw it out before you get to this point. Oh fuck. To late. You loser.