I Lick Butter Off My Fingers

I sit. I wait. I watch what I can without being caught. This morning as I woke up things hit me like steam in the face. What if my manipulation is their manipulation. What if we all are naturally built with the gift to mold things the way we want or plan, but while we are all manipulating things we mess each other up. Like cats fumbling and tripping over each other in greeting the owner, the old woman in a small cute, or not so cute, house that smells of cat piss but she doesn't notice.

I had a dream about a girl who never left his headlights and he fell in love. It was almost the flattering feeling of being stalked for him and for me like watching a movie until I came to consciousness. My eyes clicked and focused in as my phone buzzed and played drums and guitars until a shock was inflicted. What they were dragged by who knows, but my limbs came together like magnets. Quickly I came into action tapping this, typing that, turning this on, this off, stuff this in there, and take this off put this on. I stopped. And it hit me. There is someone else. I'm getting smacked in the face with a baketball and it's coming from him. It could be that, it couldn't. What do I know from silence?

Inflict is generally used with inanimate object. Inflict "takes on"; afflict "takes with".

I'm done. This post is shit. I'm in school so it's not in me to write like I want to. Why? Because society influences me, makes me scared, cower. But it makes me stronger.

Hope For The Worst For The Best

Today I learned how strong my mind really was. As I read status messages searching for information I found it. I found more than what I wanted to find, like finding the treasure box but the gold is mud. The roommate is a girl. It's been four days since the question was posed on his screen and I've been, not eagerly, but curiously waiting. Days don't necessarily drag as they do walk. A simply walk. No hops, no skips, no dancing, just walking. I've considered intervening in the time hidden behind "I'll think about it" but I've lost all confidence. I still presume that it is indeed a matter of his pride in answering but I'll not say much until I know for sure... Which will be never. Josh is indeed correct, I'll never get the answers I'm asking for and even if I do they won't be the ones I want. But what I want isn't nice, what I want is to get the answers to kill it off, finish it all for good. The grand, bloody, drop dead finale. I actually have hope for the worst.

Feather Nujabes

I woke up last night and my skin felt prickly. It was tight like a balloon, tense, all around my bones and what muscle I have. It seemed my entire body was filled with tension and an immense longing, but for what I couldn't be sure. To be a feather? My breathing ceased and as my eye lids were flung back inside my head the monster's grip released and disappeared. Slowly the balloon melted and my skin returned to it's sand and bug state. It was more comfortable than sand and bugs actually. It felt weightless, soft, like I may have been floating. Soft breezes brushed against my skin and I was thrown into a typhoon of my own, higher and higher into the air watching everything below me. I was a feather as I woke up.

Couldn't They Be Butterflies?

Geezeus christ. Theres no escaping. It's like iron bars so close together air can't even get through and as you suffocate you rely on paranoia for answers. Your arms are weak from starvation, your head heavy from exhaustion, but still you troop on fueled by anxiety. Eyes here, eyes there, here and there and here again. Excaping is sleeping, even in sleep theres dream. Visions caused by maximum arousal, paranoia. It's all there. Paranoia is sleep and in dream. Screaming, shouting, all into the pillow in which you dream on. Your eyes are being pulled closer together by tension, by salt like slugs. You yawn and for a moment your body seems to relax until you realize theres eyes. Once again alert you rise, your skin crawling with bumps, your hair on end sending little signals up and down along your back.

Once thought as flattery is know thought as obsession. Still, flattering, still, seclusion is nice. Give it to me. Make them all leave me or set my mind at setpoint. My head feels as if it rotates back and forth like it might be malfunctioning. Even now the computer screen turns in my vision and words grow farther away. I grow sleepier yet but frantic, hectic to find a plan. Hectic. Frantic. Hectic. Frantic. Let those words die in their meaning. Frectic, is what it is. Desperate and impulse are my new companions as I try to find a way to please them and myself, and to get it all off of me. All the spiders. Get them off!

Killing Irony

You'll smack your knee at this one. I ask for a way to relieve stress and I find it in killing mice. Mice. Plentiful, bountiful amounts of mice that inhabit our pantry. Mice that my dog can catch. Mice that Charlie can catch. But more importantly, mice that I can catch that have been eating and messing up our pantry for a while now. Even after washing my hands, or dusting off my clothes, I can feel the mice relatives staring me down, crawling on my back, gnawing through my skin and crawling under my flesh. Even after sanitizing my fingers of rabies, dirt, and mouse blood I find I can't even touch my face without feeling infected.

Infected is what I am, infected my hands will stay until the spree is over, and I can concentrate on once again building my life up, over, organized, under, and where ever need be.

Strain My Body

First mistake, judgment. It's a rule, an impossible one. It's in nature, or human nature. Maybe not the primates.

So potassium, you've relieved what? A twitch? A lack in my system which reveals a little more than an unhealthy diet. My eyes are fixed again and I no longer need a stronger focus but in fact I suffer from a hazier view. Hazy from both my end of the day class and from irony I guess. As I'm bombarded by paper cuts I'll rebel a little more, wanting and needing to sit comfortably in pink, purple, gray, and... whats that, blue? It's almost the shape of a box.

My arms are overcooked noodles as of late.

Slap The Computer

Why I feel to compelled to peel bits of your cheek off and eat them I'm not sure, but I really cannot stand you sometimes and the things you do or say, thinking you're right or that you are justified in anything. I can't let you know because once again you'll interrupt, or never take it. You say men never change but I think it's more women, or no one. Why I'm so choked up over the canceling of these events is not because I wanted to go but because he did, and it would have been a first rather than a never, but what am I to do? A mistake like this, with a time limit, cannot be undone. I can't express to you much of anything not out of fear of your reaction but more my response to your reaction. I'm hoping that some day my plans will work out as they never have.

By god punch me in the throat, it'd go away.