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:: 2005 1 February :: 7.38 pm

some lyrics that i like
My Bloody Valentine - Soon (this is my favorite song ever)

Wake up
Don't fear
I want to love you
Yeah don't go there
I let you get to me
Yeah yeah

Come back
Don't be afraid of me
That I'll harm you
Your eyes are blue, blue jewels
Yeah yeah

Come back
Have faith
Someone like you can find the reason
Of what I did to you
Yeah yeah

Braid - A Dozen Roses

a dozen roses in the car
and i don't know where you are
maybe i don't know what i'm doing
you're moving like a movie
you still move me
among the other ones
and twos and threes and twenty-threes
got to keep my conscience clean
but that hurricane what's-her-name
mentality was not for me
and never could be
cause it surely brings bitter things
and misery

and i say
heaven hits me hard
in with the new
heaven hits me hardly

in with the news
whatever gets me started
in with the noose
have you ever had a heaven here
and was it clear?

cause i just wrote a letter
a confession down the ladder
that things could be so much better
and through follow the leader
i met her and then another end
and usually a grudge
but i loved so much
the way we touched and psuedo-kissed
oh i already miss you singing like this
over the phone
every now and every then i tend to pretend
i'm not alone

static made old radio
now i know
static made old radio

heaven hits me hard
in with the new
heaven hits me hardly
in with the news
whatever gets me started
in with the noose
have you ever had a heaven here
and was it clearly better?

Radiohead - Climbing up the Walls

I am the key to the lock in your house
That keeps your toys in the basement
And if you get too far inside
You'll only see my reflection

It's always best with the covers up
I am the pick in the ice
Do not cry out or hit the alarm
You know we're friends till we die

And either way you turn, I'll be there
Open up your skull, I'll be there
Climbing up the walls

It's always best when the light is off
It's always better on the outside
Fifteen blows to the back of your head
Fifteen blows to your mind

So lock the kids up safe tonight
Shut the eyes in the cupboard
I've got the smile of a local man
Who's got the loneliest feeling

That either way you turn, I'll be there
Open up your skull and I'll be there
Climbing up the walls

Climbing up the walls
Climbing up the walls

Slowdive - Catch The Breeze

Feels like all the days are gone
Just catch the breeze
You know it had to fall
Rain, washes, ways down
And I, I want the world to pass
And I, I watch the wind to fly
You can believe in everything
You can believe it all
Hey, are you feeling something new
Just watch the rain, it helps in all you do
The breeze, it blows, it blows everything
And I, I want the world to pass
And I, I want the sun to shine
You can believe in everything
You can believe it all

so..thats all..give me replies with more lyrics, like your favorties.

Matthew James Hinton

3 . | .

:: 2005 1 February :: 6.49 pm

start my job on monday.

i get the internet on saturday.

im getting a car soon too.
" "

and eventually, i will be doing what i love.

so, thats that.

matthew james hinton.


:: 2005 26 January :: 5.14 pm

what can i say?

sometimes i even disgust myself.

i am sorry. for the 90 millionth time..and it still doesn't feel like enough to me.

2 . | .

:: 2005 25 January :: 1.30 pm

you know....

most of the time
i just can't make an sense out of all the shit that is in front of me.

i didn't realize the first time i read ryans journal

but adam emery is fucking dead.

we were never great friends, but we got along, and i've known him for the larger half of my life.

and..hes dead?
i just..i don't know.

i can record myself on my computer now, and since i have nothing better to do, i think im going to make a cd or something.

i tried to segue from bad stuff into good stuff right there..but its not going to work.

at least its like 65 degrees out.

i have to go.

matthew james hinton.

2 . | .

:: 2005 18 January :: 5.57 pm

today is my dad's birthday. thats a long time.

im going to san franciso this weekend, that should be cool.

nothing much really..bored.

this a poem i read the other night, i think its pretty sweet. its long, but worth reading.

its called "Howl (for Carl Solomon)" by Allen Ginsberg


I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats
floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the
scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror
through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada &
Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront
boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks
of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of
wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of
brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate
Fugazzi's, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State
out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of
hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on
the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in
Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no
broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively
vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard
to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and
ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their
dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos
wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild
cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering
their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond
& naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed
shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual
golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off
the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt
and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared
to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and
Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings &
especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up
out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open
to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of
the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates
of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their
heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where
they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up
clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of
sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the
ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on
negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic
European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears
and the blast of colossal steam whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or
Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find
out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver
& brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul
illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in
their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific
to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of
the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy
occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the
wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in
the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at
4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last
piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing
but a hopeful little bit of hallucination
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the
catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the
soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together
jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking
with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come
after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of
America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to
the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.


What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys
sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose
buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies!
Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless
Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the
specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and
manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me
out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral
nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which
exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years'
animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the
roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!


Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland where you're madder than I am
I'm with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange
I'm with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother
I'm with you in Rockland where you've murdered your twelve secretaries
I'm with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor
I'm with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I'm with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I'm with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I'm with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I'm with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you're losing the game of the actual pingpong of
the abyss
I'm with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die
ungodly in an armed madhouse
I'm with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
I'm with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against
the fascist national Golgotha
I'm with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from
the superhuman tomb
I'm with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas
of the Internationale
I'm with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs
all night and won't let us sleep
I'm with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the
roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run
outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we're free
I'm with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night


someday im going to make it..i promise.

matthew james hinton

1 . | .

:: 2005 15 January :: 12.05 pm

im running out of money.


the tables will turn back eventually.

i miss all of you.

more than you even know.

check out this, its pretty sweet, if you like space like i do.

sorry, i forgot how to make a link work so you will have to copy and paste, but its cool. so do it.

i have to go.

i love you.

matthew james hinton

1 . | .

:: 2005 6 January :: 4.17 pm

where its at by beck..its a good song.

i watched this movie called surburbia, it was really good, i think it my favorite movie now. i need to get it on dvd or something.

this library sucks. no good books, no good movies. just internet.

i get my computer next week, so there is more to come.

that is all.

matthew james hinton.

1 . | .

:: 2005 4 January :: 2.31 pm

i can't hold it in.
i can't live here.

everynight i lay awake for at least an hour thinking of everyone and every place.

i laugh sometimes when i think of certain situations.
3 in the morning, and im laughing uncontrollably into my pillow.

i hate michigan, but i love you. (consider "you" to be you, the one reading this)

i can't be away.
i must stay until august, for this job...
then i think im moving back, but ill get my own place and what have you. i think thats a good idea, because im going fucking insane out here.

so, until we meet again..uh...bye i guess.

matthew james hinton.

2 . | .

:: 2005 4 January :: 2.21 pm

yeah..i worked all last week so i didn't have a chance to come here.

nothing much some christmas stuff, a digital camera! woo.

and i think...

i think you'll find out when it happens dammit.

matthew james hinton.


:: 2004 21 December :: 11.39 am

so..another night, writing letters..ryan, kelly, my parents. thats all i got done last night.

im getting this william s. burroughs book today, "Junky" i bet its good. and this really big hardcover notebook that i want to write a book in..or maybe a collection of shit, i don't know.

im bored. i need a car. this walking is getting old because my feet hurt all the time.

chuck i've been trying to call you since 4 o clock this morning my time, but no luck.

i can't wait to do something with my life..i was thinking about it all night. my own place in the foothills of the sierra nevadas, my own car, my own..everything. mine. all mine. it will be phantastic. i want to move out of my uncles place in the summer because he is really starting to hate california because they keep fucking him with probation and shit. and im his little stressball or something and he tells it all to me, getting pissed off while he is talking about it (he is a very high strung man) so he ends up yelling all his problems at me. but hey, if anything, im a good listner. so i do what i can.

i have to go get some books. toodles.

matthew james hinton.

5 . | .

:: 2004 20 December :: 7.36 pm

got some books..more Kerouac and some Hunter S. Thompson..i wish he had more fiction, but stuck reading the gonzo letters volume 2 and fear and loathing: on the campaign trail '72. i got my cell phone. 1-916-899-4888. call me whenever, i have unlimited minutes all the time.

i've been playing my guitar alot..wrtiting some songs..i need more though, my acoustic just sounds so..empty. chuck i will call you, ryan i will call you too.

have a merry christmas chilluns.

matthew james hinton.


:: 2004 18 December :: 2.47 pm

i got my job. fantastic. its sad that i had to move out of state to find a well paying job. the lady that lives with me and my uncle for the time being is really loud, i don't like it.

i realized last night that drinking a bottle of robotussin isn't as fun as i remembered. therefore, i will not do it again. i just laid awake in bed all night very confused about everything. complete diorentation.

ryan i wrote about that time this summer when you and i went to the beach. ill send it to you when i call and get your adress.

i know i had something else to say..

oh yeah

i read an entire book in the bookstore, The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll. really good. even though it had a picture of Leonardo Di Caprio on the front..though i guess hes not that bad because he was in Gangs of New York, and i'm starting to think thats on my top five for favortie movies ever.

but yeah, the book was really really good..about jim carroll growing up in new york in the sixties and just being fucking crazy man. crazy.

"i just want to be pure"

thats all, i must depart.

matthew james hinton

3 . | .

:: 2004 13 December :: 7.38 pm

im in a library.
i walked 6 miles to get here.
i walked around a decommisioned airforce base all day.
i wrote letters all night.
im going to record my music.
im going to be certified in test backflows.
and im going to be damn good at it.

most of you that are reading this will get a letter.
ryan leave me your cell phone number.

oh god. im so happy.

matthew james hinton

3 . | .

:: 2004 1 December :: 3.21 pm

departure: Sunday, December 5th, 7:20 am.
destination: California
return date: none.

so its been good.
and im scared as fuck. everything i've ever known will be thousands of miles away from me. but i really can't wait..i haven't slept well all week.

and i just can't wait for that Bloody Red Sunset of Phantastic L.A.

that is all.

i love you. all of you.

5 . | .

:: 2004 15 November :: 5.15 pm

i used to dream crazy whackjob shit that made no sense at all. now my dreams are very real.

i dreamed that i broke my ankle.

i dreamed that i stopped people from robbing me and my friend.

those were alright i guess, and fun to talk about in the morning..

but i dreamed about josh, and how i killed him one day because he pissed me off.

and i dreamed about molly....and we were almost there.


:: 2004 12 October :: 12.22 pm

i'm really sorry i can't be there for you all the time
but when i start hating everything about everything and i see images of just destruction and death in my head..

..i think its time to take a little break from everyone.

as much as i'd rather not, sometimes i just have to think of myself first so that i don't go fucking crazy.

1 . | .

:: 2004 1 October :: 2.06 pm

i didn't want this

3 . | .

:: 2004 20 September :: 1.41 pm

so, i will call this it.

i did shrooms the other night and sat on a dock and watch a lightning storm. i think i found out who i was..which is a really confusing combination musical influence and personal experiance (well..duh..everyone is personal experiance.)

then i sat in my car listening to Loveless while watching the stas dance around and form patterns. I now think that kevin Sheilds and Belinda Butcher were/are in love. and they make music.

i just want a someone to trip with and write music.
i also just want to put my fist through this window.
i also just want to go back to sleep.
i also want to know why i wrote "I'm going to kill someone and change the world as we know it" th other night.
i also want to know why i can't look a stripper in the eye
or almost anyone

do you think you know me?


:: 2004 10 September :: 2.27 pm

i don't do these usually..but..hahahahahaha

Would anyone want to bang you? by phobia
Favorite Food:
Wants to Bang you:
This many times:92
Quiz created with MemeGen!


:: 2004 21 August :: 9.45 am

my house is the first house below that big cornfield thing, its just a blob.

2 . | .

:: 2004 27 July :: 12.57 pm

you still give me great ideas for songs and writing and all that sort of thing though.


:: 2004 26 July :: 5.32 pm

i wish i could say i was alright for the most part i am but sometimes you know, i just want to end it all in a big fucking blaze of glory as i fly off a bridge into the water down down down splash and i would feel reborn maybe. maybe i could be someone else in heaven, because if its heaven then it should be the best thing in the world right? or maybe im just being blasphemous. my lips said i love you in case you were wondering. if you have to go don't you cry, if you have to go i will get by, someday i'll follow you..see you on the other side. i had a dream about molly the other night. it was just like we were hanging out like we always did..laying on my bed, music, sunlight..tickle laugh hahaha make a fart noise on your stomach smile kiss kiss i love you cuddle. thats the hardest part really..thats gone i grew addicted to the touch and the feel and the comfort that you gave me.

i swear if i could hold you one last time, i would never let go. but we both know whats going on, so its alright.

i'm alright.

you're alright.

we're all...


:: 2004 25 July :: 1.45 pm

whatever the answer, I'll understand. Do you still love me?
isn't a dream anymore.


:: 2004 16 July :: 1.41 pm

i have no fucking clue what is happening.

wait. wait. wait.

1 . | .

:: 2004 10 July :: 5.53 pm

i think hell froze over, because i really really like the new blink 182 i bought it today. and i usually don't buy cds unless i really like them because i could just download them..but yeah..i bought it.

its good.

i love you.

michelle every time i try to call you it sends you your mailbox thingy. so :p. i love you too.

2 . | .

:: 2004 7 July :: 9.09 pm

im confused
im scared
i want to hurt myself sometimes.
alot of the time.
i feel like my life is slipping away.
so young, but i feel so old sometimes.
like i've seen too much for me to handle.
like i know to much for me to understand.
maybe i could bleed it out.
where are you?
oh God.
help me. im praying. i don't know what for, i hope you do.
i don't know who i am sometimes.

2 . | .

:: 2004 2 July :: 12.13 am

you got angry.

it was all i wanted.
now i can see you.
don't worry, its a good thing.


:: 2004 10 June :: 1.43 pm

im cold and its bullshit.

im sorry i yelled at you, i was just really frustrated.

oh hair is short now too..for anyone who cares.

now that all the things pertaining to graduation are pretty much done with for me..its really boring. i have nothing planned until; i get the fuck out of here. just waiting waiting waiting not finding a job waiting waiting no job..thats it. but its not really bad i just makes me feel alot lazier than i really am.

i love you.


:: 2004 8 June :: 2.57 pm

i actually have money now..i got a sizeable amount from my open house, but i don't feel any different at all. which is a good thing.

last night at the open mic thing at the coffee shop Greg, the guy that runs it, and who also happens to be one of the people i respect very very much, complimented me and talked to me for awhile about the stuff i played. which is a good thing.

i love molly. which is a good thing.

michelle doesn't leave until Sunday. which is a good thing.

i have a refridgerator full of mexican food. which is a good thing.

im really happy and a its a beautiful fucking day and she doesn't know it yet but im coming over to pay her back the mony she gave me last night so we wouldn't run out of gas on the beltline, and we didn't. which is a good thing.

lots of good things..and i guess thats a good thing too.

i love you.
i loveyou.

2 . | .

:: 2004 5 June :: 9.52 am

i learned a new song

hank williams no less

i love you

. | Random Journal