2001-04-17 | 5:01 p.m.

*crack*

-paste-

*crack*

-paste-

This is what I do every day. I paste away at the fissure's and breaks so that no one see's that I'm shattering. In slow motion none the less.

And I'm amazed at the fact that I can stand up right an play pretend. That I can smile and nod and act like all the other pretty people when frankly I want to scream like Veruka did in 'Charlie & the Chocolate Factory'. Of course she did it because she was a snob. I want to do it because of all this fucked up tension inside. It's like this pet rock inside my head and it keeps bouncing around and lo and behold it leaves gaping holes whereit crashes and here am I and I'm supposed to look and act decent and normal? What the fuck is normal anyway?

My head pounds as my feet do going back and forth to work. I wonder how many steps I can count but I always end up losing count when my earphones are on. It's like they are deleting my memory as I hear the beats. And I'll continue on my rehearsed schedule because it needs to be done. I need to do it. Because it's what's normal. It's what pays my bills. It's what's expected of me. Expectations, Suggestions, Invitations. I don't know what they are and what they are supposed to mean anymore.

Excuse me if the only thing I really want to do is sit down in a dim bar and drink away while listening to conversation that doesn't necessarily need me to vocalize a damn thing. If I want to let my eyes wander around the dim area and wonder about all the people there and who they are with and smile as teh cold numb filters my sense's.

Is that too much too ask for?

Somehow I don't think so.



p r e v i o u s // n e x t