stiflingly cripplingly another adverb that may not existedly bored. the kind of bored that comes on in waves and the undertow will fuck you up. google image search seems to be broken on my end, my go-to cure-all. furthermore, i am pretty done with working on my webpage disaster, i no longer enjoy the company of men, who have, i must admit, been hitting me up all day today, and i finished el padrino of all zines yesterday, placing the cover on this morning. theres not a thing in the world i can think of doing that doesnt cost more than 38 cents (whats left of my vast inheritance, squandered on cigarettes, bart tickets, and books that didnt mean a thing) god loves punctuation and i cant indulge him right now. i have been playing long drawn out games with myself such as Seeing How Long I Can Go Without Tweezing My Eyebrows, or Counting the Number of Weird Noises I Hear Per Hour. i should learn how to draw but i drank too much caffeine this morning to ward off a possible hangover from a date with that cheapskate scoundrel Ancient Age last night (pronounced “H&H”) and now my fingers falter intermittently when i try to move steady. i should be learning something, a lesson, a story, a trade. but none of it, nothing this world has in it sounds like it could be any better than laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling so hard it trembles in my eyes.
truly i cant be so displaced that i dont even want to eat
what has become of me
after a staggering amount of work (work being labor today) i was slumped on the floor, hugging a cardboard box of records (records being vinyl forever) i ripped it open, causing that plastic packing tape to turn into a clear skinny worm stuck to itself with cardboard fiber guts, and lo! music. the box was unorganized, beautiful. from credence to trick daddy (you like that lack of alliteration) it was all there. except it wasnt, it was only one box. i kept picking up slices of awesome and sliding them back in and thought, that hey, maybe i finally had the time to count. in one box i counted 97 records. theres 5 boxes. theres still more back home, a small pile by the door, and i havent been out digging proper in over a year.
money come find me fast so that i may turn it into black or limited color gold
i am tired of thinking, ive been thinking about whether or not i think too much a little too much lately. it hurts my brain and toes and my cancer in between. im not on cough syrup. whether or not i have stimulation is not a question because i am constantly seeking it and it doesnt let anything else flow in: should i smoke should i read should i eat should i drink where am i going what am i doing; once the last two start creeping in my brain screams stop and i start doing one of the first three and when all else fails comes the fourth. i am trying though, i think.
i made a collage today it sucked, i walked about 60 blocks for no apparent reason, and i finished moravagine. it was my brothers birthday and i ate probably 2 dozen potstickers. but we are tired of estimations only the definite, which at this point is nothing. i researched quite a bit about the year 1914 and 13 as well, i dont know what happened in 12, 16 i believe boccioni died and he was only 34.
im only doing this because i cant think of anything else to do and this i can do without thinking.
making my dreams come true