SOMETIMES...

things are just too personal to put on myspace. my family is falling apart. and im sick of being in the middle. my brother is selfish, demanding, materialistic and narcissistic. my mother is a drug addict in her own socially acceptable way, she is out of it. She doesnt understand joel. joel doesnt understand her. my stepfather is useless. my baby brother (johnathan) is being ignored.i am in the center of a hurricane of disfunction. fuck katrina, this is the worst disaster ive ever seen. i cant do this anyomre. i love my mom. and joel. but i cant deal with either of them. and i feel so bad for travis, he has been drug into this as well. and i know he doesnt mind, but its not right. and joels not even accepting the offer to go stay at travis' house. if he was really that miserable, he would take any opportunity he could to get out of that miserable house in douglasville.

on a different note, a little more personal. i love travis. i love him more and more each day. i love him so much that i finally got rid of the one thing that broke us up in the first place. but to be honest,  it stings a little. i know it was the right thing to do, so i dont know why it stings....but it does. part of me wants to keep that friendship, but i know i cant.and travis is most definately worth it, but i need prayer to get over any inkling of feeling that is still there.

ok what else....i dont know. im sick of emotion.

for courtney!

Vacuuming the sponge.

My mind is not a sponge, as some will say the mind is. Absorbing information with a certain fervor until some substance such as THC or glue or alcohol wipes out old information allowing room for the novel ideas one stumbles upon throughout life. But mine, no. Mine is a vacuum. When turned on, it sucks, inhales, devours every morsel within sight. Just everything. It will not rest until its hunger has been satiated. Until every word, rhyme, epitaph, poem, musing, haiku, story, tale, and any other general arranging of meaningful thought has settled sweetly into the crevices. Once aroused from its slumber of TV, radio, and humdrum daily activities, such as those of a day job, it is the real and only weapon of mass destruction. My right brain is running at full capacity and its appetite at this moment is insatiable. The words of Tom Robbins are freshly ringing in the great corpus collosum of my soul. Im running them over and over again in my head like a mantra. Inspiration? Maybe. Enthusiasm? Maybe. Longing? You betcha.
There are pivotal moments in ones life when one must step back from consciousness and observe as if watching a movie. To reevaluate ones current situation and ponder an extremely cliché, but inadvertently profound question: Is this it?
Is this it.
Is this job, this apartment, these feelings, this suppression of motivation and discipline, will this ensure me the future I desire?
Motivation. According to Webster, it is the reason for doing. According to Rachel, it is something I lack. And why? Who knows. Maybe the Freudian answer of childhood mishaps is to blame. Maybe its the humanistically infused answer of low self esteem. Either way, its lacking. And discipline? Well Ill leave that one at bay.
But lying here experiencing the anti-sleep which had plagued me many a night since moving to Macon, I cant help but ponder aloud

IS. THIS. IT.

I realize, not only from conversing with friends and family, but also from the incessant beatings I inflict upon myself, that I am not living up to my full potential. But, riddle me this, Batman! What if living up to my full potential is no more than being a relentless smartass, living with my dad in a two bedroom apartment, working two part time jobs and thrusting all my energy into trying to find good in a situation Im not particularly fond of in the first place? If this is to be true, then I am fucked. And not fucked in the sense I wish to be fucked, but fucked in a way that will kill me by age 25.

Po-ten-tial: a. existing in possibility.

Existing: To be or to live.

In: there is no definition for in in the dictionary. This highly irritates me.

Possibility: n. that which is possible.

Possible: a. able to be or happen.

Therefore, I want to live to happen.
My purpose, in being alive, is to live my life waiting to happen. Like some bum on the side of the road waiting for a buck for a beer, just waiting.
So what the hell am I waiting for? Im just waiting to fall asleep. Goodnite.

I will leave you with the wise words of an ancient Celtic tongue:
Sgriubh sibh agus pog agam asal

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Theres so many things I want to say

But they just go unsaid

Like the way I love it when you smile

Or the way you tilt your head

I loved it when you held my hand

For that short while at least

I loved it when you said you cared

Well you’re a fucking tease

I loved the way you rolled your eyes

When I made you feel good

Well its no fucking big surprise

That I did all I could

Im so used to being there

And then the next minute not

Why should you be any different

You’re nothing that I thought

I hate the way you smile and I hate the way you laugh

I hate the way you sing along to the radio pretending you’re on stage

I hate everything I used to love in the all too present past

I hate the way you make me feel in all this fury and rage

I hate the way you smoke when you say you’re gonna quit

I hate the way you lied to me and told me all that shit

I hate when you wear glasses and I hate your fucking car