2004-10-13 - 12:06 a.m.

10-7

I am a sucker. This is a bitter entry.

I wish it was funny, but its just not going to happen.

What the hell do I want to say? I fall for your tricks. I fall into your traps. I kept the faith, I believe. I make mistakes. I believe that you can come back.

And I don�t.

I listen to the doors. I wonder if Jim Morrison life could ever be as pathetic as mine. I wonder if mine could be as tragic as his.

I drink water from a glass that I bought from an Irish guy in sweatpants in the basement of a building near where I used to live though I don�t live there anymore. I like this glass. It�s from Ireland and for some reason that�s important to me.

I remember when one roommate noticed the pin I put on the lamp that I made and I wonder if anyone realizes anymore that I made that.

I wonder if the steel worker who was laid off, travels over the bridge he built to pick up his last unemployment check. I wonder if he sees the irony.

I hate these entries. I hate them so fucken much. They make me so upset with myself.

So what that I have a goddamn though. So what that I see people and I see stories in them. Does that make me cool? I think it makes me fucken crazy.

Why do I spell fucken fucking.

Oh fuck that. I mean the other way around, but I am just too incensed to bother to fix it.

I have a meeting tomorrow. Yippee. I have to make some bullshit up about shit. No one gives a shit. No one will give a shit tomorrow. The Red Sox lost.

Oh, 1,000 jobs lost�whatever. Why don�t we just shoot Matsui.

There is one song that always makes me think that I am not as big a fucking tool as I really am. It�s called Mr. Jones by the counting crows.

The song is good. I don�t care who the fuck you are, the song is good. You could be into indie rock scene and snort coke and think that the beauty of music is the rawness of the electric guitar or some shit like that, but Mr. Jones is a good song. Sure, maybe you don�t like it, but its better than anything you have ever done, so fucken face it. It�s good.

Round here, that song blows. I wrote a poem better than that song when I was six.

Here it is:

The toilet is still running.
I took a poop
Now I have to pee
The running water must be stopped
I know
The dog will drink it
As I pee

But when I hear Mr. Jones, I realize that guy is singing about the following thing: Becoming absolutely nothing.

It�s about he�s sitting somewhere not wanting to be lonely or a failure. He wants to be greater than he is, but the most beautiful thing that he isn�t. He�s just going to sit there and fucking fail.

Incidentally: I�ve seen the video and he looks like this guy in my High School who made John Kerry look cool.

You see I want to be great. But I am writing a goddamn diaryland entry wondering when I will get my head on straight. When I will grasp the talent and drive to make myself into something worth a god damn.

Let�s just say I hate this entry more than any other entry I have ever written.

I am just tired of believing in things, including myself.

The only reason I am posting this is because it�s the only thing I have felt like writing in like five days, and I feel like they might turn the lights off here if I don�t post something soon.

So here�s another crappy poem, so that you can leave a comment about that and not how bitter I am.

I am not nearly
as upset as I seem
This line is destine
To rhyme with dream
Not the girl band
That Puffy made
That went off the air
Quick as a band-aid

I have as much structure
As the five year old autistic kid
That I kicked in the nuts
And stole his cheap ass lid
My enormous skull
Made me give it to charity
In meek mild hopes
That my anger�s brevity
Would be passed by
As some homeless fuck
Got the karmic shit-storm
To continue my good Luck

before - After

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