I don't really feel comfortable typing in this blog, but I don't really feel comfortable sitting here either. Dear Women, I'm not crazy, you're just not interesting. I feel as though most of the words you will try to impress me with are from one of your "eccentric" friends, and he or she has probably searched vigorously through dictionary.com to impress you. Most of the topics you talk about are predictable and boring-- your opinions on art are all the same. Music, well, I happen to be the most arrogant music lover ever; as well as the worst musician. The problem is, I can categorize which person you fall into, based upon what music you listen to. You probably will say you like The Clash, but will fail to tell me one decent song besides "London Calling." You'll tell me then that you like the New York Dolls a little, but can not name a song. Throw in an obscure artist, namely someone whose voice is a little unbearable or whose music is ridiculous--- to the point where they are not anyone's favorite artist, but someone whose song plays and you bob your head to. The sad thing is that I know who you really are. It's unimpressive.

I take amphetamines and think of myself as a character from a novel; everything I think is pure but everything that you think is dull and tainted. I meet bartenders and fall in love, because I have now taken more amphetamines and feel so intelligent that I'd be a privilege to meet, let alone get to know. I talk to random people at the bar, and drive them to get food-- I've now had more than I should've had to drink, and I will miss last call because I'm trying not to appear as lonely and desperate for friends as I really am. I tell them about my life-- one girl is a photographer from Germany, the other is much too old for me. For a moment, I'm convinced they'll invite me back to their place and pretend they don't realize I am as lonely and desperate for friends as I am.

I take more amphetamines while my car is backed in and they re-join the party. The bartender is now gone, and the rowdy crowd bobs and jerks through the exit. I go to bed, most likely to take more amphetamines and pretend that I am asleep dreaming of more interesting things than I have to write of.

blacked out and looking for god

you know the one you forgot

decided complications hurt

im gonna have to break it off

if things are ever gonna work

nobody chooses their role

nobody loses their soul

its just that even flowers dry and rot

hearts can forgive but hearts can also stop

and if you want to look back,

to pick up clues from the trash

then i could follow the tracks

like sunshine shining in the past

to feel okay just one time.

i lit half a smoke

with andrews zippo

my lighter was broke

and half crack rigged up

i threw down the pack and borrowed a smile

it looks like everyone else here's on borrowed time

if the sun don't shine,

well atleast I have a light

gonna light up the corner

and sit in the back

gonna light up the corner

and sit in the back

gonna light up the corner

and sip from the tap

i walked out the front

and it smelt like rain

or maybe a skunk

or maybe just grain

everyone worries

and mumbles and hurries

there's not much time to relax

in commotion, new jersey

if you look for me,

jaundiced and tired and hungry

The day before yesterday dragged
a breakup out,
and the day after that
we ordered round upon round
won't talk out loud
with your friends here

I hate my thoughts
and hide behind my face,
some place no one looks
it isn't safe to
I fell in love today,
and I was glad to

Yesterday the bar locked up
to get away from the cops and punks
and drunks who think their thoughts
are worth so much
the same ones who will be there
when tomorrow becomes today,
and today becomes yesterday
and if you look for them,
well you you know where

and thats where i'll be
its dim and its damp
and its where i'm not ugly,
awake where I sit
asleep where you touch me,
but hey hey
i'm so glad i fell in love again
today.

and you mis pronounced my first name
when you announced that its my birthday
doesn't feel like,
20 should feel like
and the candles
melt on the cake
D isn't singing
he's much too afraid
someone will hear him
so he's staring

because i looked for an estuary
some place solitary
i could propose to,
if you're not opposed to
Ive been dreaming
of soaking wet
bottles of scotch and broken nets
but this town is dry
and these people are dry.

walking around
with your feet stomped down
you never stop just to listen
youd rather say
that yove got past the instict
the one that makes
you turn into mr fade away hey hey