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.