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6:43 p.m. - October 22, 2001 I'll have to paste something meaningful from some other time in this space, since I feel like being expressive but I'll have to settle for recycled expressivity today. December 2000. Offset by the fact that I think lots of things, everything is beautiful if you look at it the right way. I have lost the ability to differentiate between life and dream, right and wrong, truth and lie. Essentially what to do and what to believe are faded somewhere in between. If I could change him? Of course I can't tell him that, I would make him love me. Of course I would make him love me. It would fix everything. Everything. I hear you laughing at my naivete. Fuck you. Everything! Driving home down Lincoln Avenue I ran over a flare, continued toward Ashland, thought about the gas tank exploding. Looked at the stop sign and thought maybe this would be my last scene. Dark Lincon, the flames consuming the car, me somewhere hidden inside. Right before the bridge. 'She was killed on her way home.' Not that that's what I wanted. I just wanted him to feel overwhelmed by something. So he could see what it felt like to be head ovee heels bowled over by emotion. Flooded by desires, pushed from every way and where to fulfill them, NOW, like I don't have forever. And doing it all the wrong ways so I'm left with a drained heart and my feet in the puddle. Falling and falling with nobody here to catch me, and not having the nerve to start the descent anyway. So what am I going to do? Write about it? Write about what? I don't get even this down right! Find God, find God, oh, it it were only that easy! God won't kiss your hands, run fingers down your side, he won't lie naked with you in bed, head in the hollow of your neck. This is a person it would be them, not God, who would make everything better, even though it would fuck everything up. Sometimes love isn't pure and happy and inclusive. Sometimes it's messy and ugly and all over the place. Painful even. I wish I had any at all. -- Oh, back to the present, look, I'm making a mix tape. I am not dwelling. I am not dwelling. I am making a mix tape. See? kill hannah - sick boy sublime - date rape moby - machete sister hazel - champagne high silver apples - program less than jake - danny says incubus - battlestar scratchlactica mr. bungle - retrovertigo lucky boys confusion - saturday night bjork - alarm call eve 6 - on the roof again fantomas - book 1 page 25 foo fighters - stacked actors faith no more - she loves me not red hot chili peppers - right on time daniel johns/paul mac - rain caviar - going out tonight james taylor - sun on the moon everclear - babytalk twenty dead camels - fantasy maker caleb - i fall to pieces blues traveler - conquer me brand new heavies - shelter silverchair - lie to me
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