Put Your Money Down.

listening to: save our town - philadelphia grand jury.
reading: john - cynthia lennon.
watching: my dad drink his fourth beverage.
eating: air.
drinking: air.

all the best things fall to p-i-e-c-e-s, there's no point stopping now.

as peaceful and optimistic as that lyric is, i still can't help but wonder what my life (or everyone's life really) would've been like had the best things bothered to stay together. i mean, i can imagine there would probably be some sort of unethical balance in the way that "fairness" was dished out, because there wouldn't be anything wrong happening with the world, because everyone would be satisfied with their life. but little things, only sometimes, in the rare moments that i'm alone and still, and have a clear head purely for my own thoughts, i think on these things.

the littlest things that take me there.

i remember your nose wrinkling when it itched, biting your bottom lip just after you laughed, your monotone when you read the crab that played with the sea to me. and sometimes, only sometimes, i remember the day when we sat under the big whistling tree near gregory the duck, and the sky met the trees in this hushed, muted colour that i don't even think i can accurately describe in words, and your hair was soft in your eyes, and my palms were awkward and sweaty as per the usual, and you grabbed my chin and whispered something to me, with a small grin i could see with my peripherals, and i got thinking about that particular moment, and a very large part of me wanted to erase that, or at least make it so it never happened.

i've been thinking also, about my place in the world. what is it about skills? i don't really have a special talent. i have a few that put together, i don't think really resemble an apt compilation of things that i could use in a career. but then again, if anybody knows of job where you specifically need to: remember at least 80 phone numbers of friends in your head, can crack your right big toe continously, quoting almost every line from every sci-fi you've ever heard of, and can laugh at something sadistic like a little boy falling down the stairs, please don't hesitate to inform me. i may need to know about it to support myself in the future.

but basically what this all comes down to is:

those best things should probably purchase some adhesive, so they stop falling to pieces.

my autism quotient is 29. and i wasn't even baked.
good to know that i'm also mentally retarded. :)

Hard Time Finding The Words.

listening to: let it die - foo fighters.
reading: john - cynthia lennon.
watching: sherlock holmes.
eating: air.
drinking: cloudy apple juice.

so i see you sitting there, with your soft, dark hair blowing in the 8:40 wind, and your pad thai getting shovelled carefully into your smiling lips, and i want to be brave and run over to you, laughing and smiling, asking what you're eating, even though i know, and sharing it with you, panda beanie on my head, red woolly socks keeping my toes warm, and we would've kissed and written chalk messages to each other on the asphalt.

sadly, i was too afraid to even let out a squeak, so i passed you by in my dark crystal shirt, the wind howling around my ears, and my new piercings stinging a little with the force of the evening air, and tears of regret formed a little in my eyes. i remember him and i laying there in the soft grass, my breath wobbling a little, knowing he was going to leave, knowing there was absolutely nothing i could do about it. sometimes i still remember moments like that, of absolute pain, knowing that nobody else respects me enough to explain why, so i just have to tell myself falsities to feel better, but i know deep down it's no use.

the only thing he's told me in months, that he trusted me with, and he told me the stories of flowers and fungi, the affects. chopping down trees when really he'd just chopped the genitals from a flower, looking down at his arms, seeing the blood pulsing through his veins, his muscles expanding and contracting, the way his body meshed with everything in his expanse, everything he touched, no showers, or he'd melt away down the drainhole. walking, every step he took like falling down into a canyon, his tongue falling out of his mouth and dragging beneath his feet.

i sat silently as my mother fed me asparagus and apple sauce, all we've had for months now. she apologises as she cries into my arms, and hopes for the day when she'll finally be alive enough to die. soulful enough for the day her body finally goes. i stare at the tiny yellow boots on my study desk, and think about the days when my feet would've fit into them, and i would've walked the roads i've walked, dealing with drudgeries and melting in the melancholy moments.

the peaceful guitar plucking rings through this tiny room, and i imagine when dad pushed me on the tire swing, and i remember my patent shoes swishing through the long brown grass. and i realised in that moment that i was in too deep, and out of time. they say it takes a lifetime to be happy, and i say that the day i find happiness, i'll probably pass on.

Streetlights.

listening to: don't stop believin' - journey.

reading: john - cynthia lennon.

watching: auto-tuned robbery lady.

eating: air.

drinking: air.

talk about the most uneventful holidays of my life. i was expecting them to go off with a boom, considering year twelve is in two days, and i wanted to live it up before buckling down. still, despite the extreme party-hardy feel, i had an amazing holiday with chelyne to currarong, where we finished crash bandicoot: the wrath of cortex, swam in like, minus ten water, had a small reunion with a boy who i'd very nearly forgotten about, and discovered some very strange things.

i was looking at my old school work, whilst going very OCD on my room (i figured i was so OCD about my bookwork, personal hygiene, clean hands and neat clothing, i may aswell make my room that way), and found my 2P calendar. it has all the initials and signatures of the kids i was in that class with on the front. i had made a friend, one anthony smallwood, at mary's 15th birthday in centennial park whilst rather offkey, and played a massive game of so maca dora, listening to him yell out "pwned like a wow bitch!" everytime someone got caught out. he didn't seem familiar, yet his name rung a bell in a weird sort of way, i disregarded it till yesterday, finding his signature on my calendar. ( A. Smallwood with stars underneath it) now, this generally wouldn't weird me out, but it was the fact that i don't remember him at all and yet, i had spent a whole year of my life being around him five out of seven days a week (we even had choir and recorder together!).

after calling him, he ran off to find his yearbook, in which he found the photo. there i was.

strange what you find when you clean your room like a proper german. i think i'm even going to post my room at some point, just to rub it in everyone's face, about how incredible it is.

shoutout to my darling bear: you are so incredible. when you cry, i cry. if anybody ever laid a finger on you to hurt you, i would kill them. and i love you more than everyone combined, and the mere thought of sharing you with others kills me a little on the inside. so i just have to try and get over that. see me as soon as possible.

SAM I'M NOT DOING ITALIAN WITH YOU ANYMORE, BUT IT'S COOL BECAUSE WE HAVE ENGLISH WITH PATULNY, AND SAGE, PARSLEY, ROSEMARY AND TTIIIEEEEMM!