Ramblings of a Teenage semi-Intellectual


Memento Mori

Death, so much more prevalent than life
Inevitable yet we trouble with trifle and strife
Work constantly for others’ goals
Sleep little, wear ruts in roads
Trade life for rust and gold;

Commute daily, 9 to 5, 8.25 survives
Consumerist culture, buried alive with little drive
To strive elsewhere, for where is there to go?
The whole world open with key dangled above
Strangled by freedom of choice, capitalist love
A love so justified within it’s own merits
Inherited carried parroted and buried with
Only one other option
Dichotomy arise
If not corporate than communist the vice?
Why live by de juro, it’s the grey that matters right? 
Yet I work, sleep, complain and the cycle continues
Caffeine, nicotine, stress, momentum builds
Builds towards what? Maintaining a dream?
Maintaining my ability to not be sure of my life?
Unsure of my goals so I do nothing instead?
Work when I can, sleep when I get around to it.
Bullshit. I quit.  


I have work in eight hours

I have work in eight hours

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I’m relatively certain that getting high and listening to Carlo Gesualdo is quite possibly the purest form of zen. The voices cross haphazardly and weave beautifully undulating in polyphonic bliss. Loose and unstructured parallelisms, with little definition of time. The Italian makes it so much easier to not care what is being said and focus so much more on how it is being said. The lamentations of a cursed count composed coldblooded and crestfallen following creating cadavers of his countess and her companion caught copulating, coitus interruptus if one might be so crude. It’s pretty dope.  


My Dad

"I’m sorry, but life is a bowl of shit at the moment." - Dad

I don’t exactly know how to feel about him anymore. It’s dark. It’s really dark. I see him, so shell shocked and depressed and can’t help but feel mixed. He feels so miserable and locks himself within his own cage of guilt over “fucking up” my childhood that he doesn’t even see that it wasn’t his drinking or drug use that had an impact, but his absence. Sure, we were never the nuclear leave it to beaver family that he wanted us to be, but I’ve never known that life so I have no regrets about not living it. We were just some family, made up of people who were broken for different reasons, coexisting and symbiotic rather than familiar and codependent, not a hell hole that he has trapped in his mind.

When we were young he used to tell us stories about his childhood, how he and his friends used to get into shenanigans with farmers and shoot Tommy guns in his gunsmith neighbors basement into a shell trap. He used to tell me about how great his tennis career was, and how he went All American and was sponsored by Slazenger and Wilson, how everything was great. Now all he talks about is how he’s down and he is desperately grabbing for something to help him get on his feet but can’t find anything. They say as you get older, the future gets darker and darker, and even the dim parts of the past get so much brighter; he embodies that.

The thing that catches me so much about him is that he’s the only one of us that’s actually awake. Someone so jaded and depressed yet he sees things for what they are, rather than what he wants them to be. We’ve all been pretending to be happy of late, meanwhile my mother is dying of emphysema, my sister is drowning herself with drinking and smoking to hide how she knows she has no future, and I work and work and work for no pay in the hope that the experience will help me at least survive somewhere in the future. We’re pretending to be strong, and upper middle class in a house we can’t afford with a lifestyle we know we aren’t, but we are so damn close to cracking and falling further down than we were before I can taste it. He’s just living that rather than hiding from it. I love you Dad.


I really hope nobody cares enough to read this thing anymore

I know I had kind of a fan club of people I barely knew for about 12 seconds on here. I seriously hope that is gone. I’m sitting here at 1:09 am on a Saturday unable to fall asleep. I haven’t felt this worthless in quite a while so I guess it’s time to write again. I don’t even particularly care so much that all of my friends are out having fun and didn’t consider inviting me, or that the one response I did get was basically a “Fuck you, it wasn’t my responsibility to get you an invitation”, which I also understand. It doesn’t really bother me because most of my other friends are asleep, just as much not invited or part of the whole having fun experience. What does bother me is that I can’t even seem to knock myself out so that I can wake up tomorrow and not be a lonely miserable fuck. I hate not being able to sleep. I’m sick of being tired, and tired of being sick, and even more sick and tired of not being happy. As much as I insist that everyone just kind of floats around anyways, not so much moving forward towards achieving whatever delusional scheme they have cooked in their head, as heading in the general direction of whatever is in front of them, I hate floating. I’d rather sink. 



I hurt. Not in the emo my life is empty and meaningless so I might as well slit my wrists because my parents; who bought me a pool, a jacuzzi, a shag rug, a car and regularly supply me with any sort of food and shelter I could need; don’t love me and I have no friends; except for the people I regularly interact with and provide support for me; and I’m a lonely fuck; except for the fact that I regularly have relationships and push people away; sense (though I do feel a sense of longing, which will probably never be satisfied at my luck, but that’s probably the way I set myself up, just so I’d have something to complain about). Not in the “holy shit I just smashed my head against a metal bar in the side of a door in a car going 40” way (though I probably lost a number of brain cells then). Not in the “why doesn’t anybody love me?” way, as I do recognize many people’s support around me (though I am kind of an insecure wreck anyways). I hurt. Much more akin to the slow throb of a migraine, but not actually a migraine; as those are pretty easily cured by a pill and a nap or a shot of some purple fluid and a nap, or maybe even one of those fancy Migranal nose shots and a nap (no matter what, a nap helps). I am still young, still very much when youth is supposed to be fighting and full of energy and ready to smack up against any wave or wall that hits, yet surely and slowly my hull is cracking because I can’t afford to maintain it, whether it be money, time, or emotion that is spent. I’m not depressed. I’m not emotive. I’m not handicapped. I’m tired. 



I have somewhat neglected this blog of late, so allow me to write a book. 

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I haven’t posted here in a while. Posting one of my youtube videos to tumblr? Pretty soon I’ll be one of those douchebags who posts videos that nobody likes on facebook. So really now, what do you think?


There are people in my kitchen eating my granola bars. 


My first post that wasn’t of my own creation.