Enough

I don't want to feel any more. I want my emotions burned out of me. I want the wick of my nerves lit, and as my nervous system flares the silhouette of my skeleton will strobe through my skin.

The hail has the cats startled, and the late night Saturday has me scared of the ghosts of Sunday afternoon as they walk along the street, and the stabs of random pain I can't seem to shake.

Sometimes I wonder what holds up the thin wall between my current self and the full goose bozo of a state institution. Clearly I'm the craziest person around, and the guilt of bringing such harmful words as these to eyes of my friends has risen past my knees. They are good people, they do not deserve such unkindness. But I have to get these words out. It's a compulsion as strong as addiction. Even so, as I type the keys I can hear the legions of internet commenters yell "cry more, emo kid" and I laugh, as if my pain makes me special. Somehow I don't think I left my 15 year old behind. You'd think I'd be able to exorcise that demon. All the words I write strike me as so much bad poetry written in the back of a mascara-stained notebook. But writing them makes me feel better. What is there to do with pain but keep on living?

Edit: and now after spending time organizing a folder of 80's pop music, I somehow feel better. Man those songs were upbeat. They may be fueled by cocaine mania, but they sure seemed happy about it.

Son of a fucking bitch

Ok, at a certain level, I can accept having night terrors. It sucks, I want them to go away, but I can deal. I wake up screaming, shaking uncontrollably, then I calm down, go back to bed, and don't have to worry about that particular problem for the rest of the night.

Except lately when I've been woken up with night terrors it's taken me so long to calm back down that by the time I actually fall asleep again I get a second round of night terrors. That happened to me twice last night. That means three sets of night terrors.

That's not fucking fair, ok? That's salt in the wound. Foul: piling on. Unnecessary roughness. 15 yard penalty, first down.

Pointless waste of time

No, I'm not talking about my life. Badumching. I've decided to go through my Netflix queue and find strange combinations, meaning two movies next to each other in the queue which seems odd or humorous. This is more to kill time than be actually interesting. Feel free to disregard.

Don't Drink the Water
Once Upon a Time in Mexico

The Fast Runner
Like Water for Chocolate
(I'm disgusting)

Dead Man
An Ideal Husband

Mrs. Henderson Presents
The Matador

The Weather Man
Lord of War
(sounds like a post-apocalyptic pulp novel)

The Majestic
Kinky Boots

Cry-Baby
Dracula 2000

Mini's First Time
Merry Christmas

Sexual Matrix
Babe
(what a twin bill that will make)

The Last Kiss
The Wedding Date
Dance With Death

Red Sun
Holy Mountain
(by Edgar Rice Burroughs)

A History of Violence
Blow Up

A Killer Within
The Dreamers
(another pulp novel)

Sex Sells
Masked and Anonymous
(Taco? Is that you?)

Sunshine
Under the Tuscan Sun

What a Way to Go
Lars and the Real Girl

Mona Lisa Smile
Paris, Je T'aime

Stir Crazy
Bukowski: Born In This

Eagle vs. Shark
The Chronicles of Riddick
(the next Riddick movie in the series will be...weird)

Gattaca
Frida
(I'll have the Gattaca Frida, with cheese)

Moon
Leave Her to Heaven
(sounds like a sappy chick flick)

Peeping Tom
Wanted
(for peeping, I'm guessing)

The Tenant
The Time Traveler
(short story, time traveler moves in next door, and he blasts his damn stereo)

And I've got Before Sunrise and Before Sunset next to each other, which makes sense, but I think I need to move After the Sunset after Before Sunset.

I think what we can take from this little exercise is that I have a very poor sense of humor.

Addendum: man, now I want to write a story called "The Weatherman, Lord of War" about a weatherman that, out of his ability to somewhat accurately predict the weather, holds sway over a Bartertown-esque post-apocalyptic settlement.