Farewells, Hellos, and Morning Struts

It's been about a year since I have created this blog.

I probably have no followers.

http://www.theflamingtoaster.tumblr.com

That is where I will be.
Alas, I bid you adieu.

My Five Minute Shadow Ate Farrah Fawcett

I am not a metaphor for a summer song. I am no flowering plant, or seed-producing nightmare. This is the summertime, but behind my cloudy eyes I see no sun. This is the year of my life, but through the looking glass I cannot see another one to come. One day, comes the next, and am I suddenly missing out?
I despise being tied down, the same as one despises the death of an icon. We have fallen into a state of collective shock.

My condolences to the family. May he rest in peace.
May his body remain undisturbed, yet let his infamy live on through the hearts around the world.

Good Morning

The soft-serve ice cream tastes like Toledo dreams and spell-check mistakes; I've counted the stars too many nights to mistake them with the neon signs that line the roadsides. The sun is setting behind a cloud of dust, but it's only ten thirty... ten thirty in the goddamn morning and all I see is lichens and moss; other overgrown shrubbery.

So for a victim who only could sing the words of another, pray with hands together, legs apart. Pray, for a whore, a martyr, a godforsaken rant on bananas and apple juice.

We're here to count heartbeats, to electrocute the scuba diver and implement a bad idea. We've got a plan, we can't get caught -- we've got a plan, we're moving on and letting go.

The New Cities, illegal activities and foreign disaster all taste like Toledo too.

We Are The Ocean

I wish to stand the voice of a million, but I remain silenced in the face of humanity. I cringe at the idea that a façade so strong should eventually fall, yet know deep in my heart there lies nothing but rotting floorboards and silly string.

I can pantomime a collection of old school records being cranked out of my grandfather's radio reminiscent of the '59 sound and more radio hit references, or I could read Stephen King novels and go on hour long spiels about nothing. Yet here I am. Still alive. Still breathing.

This night, it tastes like the early morning. I'll be feeding the sunrise come sixx:AM. I'm at the corner of the world and the music; they're on two different planes of existence. Sometimes, I wonder on which I belong, or should I remain forever trapped in between.

I am naught but another faithless warrior, looking for a lover (or some resemblance of) and his counterpart so he does not befall his hopelessness upon myself.

Is It My Body?

I suppose I've fallen for your solidarity. I owe so much to these words that leave my tongue; I steal from men and women around the world. This is my fault, this is my wrongs and dimes and gutter face-planted Sheffield local music scene reference.

This is Bring Me The Horizon on crack, and Vegan Holocaust on fame. This is the local music and the local noise. This is local, in the sense that we're here, and you're over there. Over there, but I don't know for how long.

I've felt divided before, but I've never given so much for a foolish bad decision.

Hey, maybe Slayer is worth $80.

Bat Cave Remedies and Civics Class

The need was greater than the want; the ice that slicked the pavement on summer days or the cold that airbrushed the magazines. That cold mirrored our attitudes, and that attitude mirrored my life. It was a four-way intersection of seven-lane traffic, a bad reference to b-list celebrities and Vin Diesel. Like the scent of florescent road paint, and the memories that never were -- this forlorn reality interspersed with momentary fantasy barely qualified as life (or something like it).

There's the cliché happily ever after drowned in empty shells and fast retreat, then there's the real world (or what remains of it these days). I lead my life by the hint of sunshine behind the horizon, and the mess of insecurities -- a crumbling building that destroyed me from the inside out as I stand up tall. Here I am; almost a month worth of disaster and self-deprecation only got me so far in life.

Worst comes to worst

this coincidence could cost me my life.

I hate myself sometimes.

and those times, those times look like my life does now.

THE LOCAL MUSIC SCENE

and my friends.

this is why I am still alive.

Gabe Saporta

Is sexy.

Fuck my fucking life up the fucking ass with a fucking box of fucking KRAFT DINNER.

This movie needs a remake, and this song needs to be taken off repeat.
I just can't seem to hit the right buttons to make it work.

Old School Disco Moves

I'm lying because there's nothing better to do; taste the sin of broken skin and wretched bone to pavement screams. Shredded clothing creates a void in which we all must collide, collapse, combine and create combustion.

It was a communist dream to corrupt the coronary code in concise creativity caked with criticism. The alliteration allegory is back with a breaking baffle of busted bodies; born to the king of Thames and those who inhabit it. What were we to worry, but wonder that the wise would win our wages of war and waste?

We revel in the idea that one night, we shall be free. Revel, and loath in the light that calls itself satisfactory; safe... something like that. Don't lie, they said. We promise we'll make you out to be a rock star, a shock star, a break up and a porn star.

But tonight, well, it's better to tell a lie of nothing, than to build a life on lies themselves.

A Moniker for the Unbelievers and the Sergeant

I'm on the sidewalk; I'm bleeding out my lungs. The trees, they taste like honey and vinegar and French fries, the lice, they stomp and crawl and take over the earth. I feel them on my skin, hey; can you feel me on your skin too? I ask myself, hey, what am I doing here? I try to move, but something hurts so I stop. I try to talk, to yell, to tell you something above the surface of the ocean, but something else hurts and I take a deep breath of water -- lungful of blood.

I'm starting to miss the consistency that was the latency, miss the scene aesthetic, the magic and the monkeys. I told him to take me home; I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't stand, nonetheless fall. To prop myself up, it hurt, something hurt, yeah.

I closed my eyes, and felt my heartbeat. I felt the blood -- the blood had always been there, but not external. Never external. Here I am; tonight I'm inside out.

Vacant Eyes Have Learned to Make Me Cry

Let's play the eating disorder game today.
Let's make this list of songs to play.

Let's hate to pretend that this life is good.
Let's hate to do the things I should.

Let's have anorexia.
Let's have Meg & Dia!

Let's listen to the Used again.
Let's throw up in a trash can.

I hate the idea of the things people say.
"I guess it's okay I puked the day away."

Here we go.
Don't you love the scene; play slow.

I made a playlist tonight for EDO.

38 and a Half

Sometimes, I need people to realize that I hurt too.
That it's not just me, standing there like a goddamn rocket or something, and all that fancy pants shit.

No, it hurts when someone hits me.

Goddamit.

Forget Tacky Tablecloths, This Is A Brand New Low For All Of Us

Is it wrong, that after a night of video games and movie theatre popcorn, all I want is more Iron Maiden, a few dollars, and to resist a few urges? I've realized stealing from the garden centre at my local Sears a block from home is easy as shoplifting from the Mac's up by my friend's high school. It's all relative to the time we spend on the climbing, the taking, the breaking, faking, and shaking -- to the noise. The traffic moves on, turn your head the other way; the day moves on into night and we're writing final exams once again.

Fun while it lasted; fun to the extent that I explore every right to evoke eloquence in society.

Maybe I'm just overreacting, but she's the only person that can ever make me cry these days. In fifty-five minutes, it will be a new year; the year of the ox. I can only hope we can make the best of it, and it will end better than it began.

Happy New Year.

Momentary Insight On Monarchy And Revolutionary Rotation

 I spelt "sin" with a y (syn) long before I knew who Synsyter Gates was. Fuck Avenged Sevenfold; System Syn is where it's at.
I read Chuck Palahniuk long before I knew who Ryan Ross was -- Ryan Ross is a phenomenal lyricist, but Panic(!) at the Disco ain't got shit on Palahniuk.
I headbanged to Toxic Holocaust before they were on MTV. I followed their updates avidly and stalked the fuck out of Joel Grind before Relapse Records ever got a hold of them.
I thought oversized headphones and Converse were cool when I was in sixth grade, long before they were a part of everyday life. I also grew out of this phase.
I wore black when the "cool" kids were still saying "Pink is the new black". I still wear black -- not chains or spikes or bullets, just black.

So fuck you all and your mainstream culture.
Fuck you and your so-called metal, your so-called punk, and your so-called music.
I don't need your trends, your false hope, your plastic dreams and Hollywood dollar signs.

This world is mine, if I make it so.
This music is mine, this image is mine, this style is my state of mind.

One day, I'll let you know I've been writing before the cool kids knew how to write, and I've been dreaming since the dreamers fell from heaven.

That's me, and you -- one last night, talking about music nobody will hear about until ten years later, reading books by vulgar authors that nobody recognizes by name, wearing oversized headphones and Converse, dressed head to toe in black. You, my imaginary friend.
And me, the girl who fell for the media. The one who, ten years from now, will still spell "sin' with a y (syn), read the latest work of Chuck Palahniuk, headbang to Toxic Holocaust and stalk the fuck out of Joel Grind, wear what I want, and live my life. Free of media influence, no matter how anyone else sees it.

Happy New Administration... year

Come hither and join; black market does the mamba.
We only wanted lunacy and regency.
We should've asked for company.
Instead, you're given piracy.
Welcome to reality.
This is Sparta.
Or, you know… something like it.

This is me on drugs. I'm hyped up on ellipses. Excuse my grammar.