Reality provides me with a resounding smack in the face. i have to take a test tomorrow, so i should probably spend the day cramming. yeah, this is what happens when ya finish a class a month before the final. oh, what a total drag. dredge mother, and all that rot. i also have to do laundry and clean my studio. *sigh* i doubt i'm going anywhere tonight. except to work. [string of expletives] work! whoopee. more abuse of my poor flat feet. maybe i'll swap with miss muffett for the first half. somehow i doubt mike is going to let me. i appear to be "the best dancing ghost we've had yet." o, limitless joy. :::grumble::: i do not feel particularly creative, or even constructve -- all i want is to lay down and put this ankle up. i hope i can get my shoes on over the swelling... many expletives come to mind when i think of another six and a half hours of dancing like a broken gothic. somehow, "Doll Parts" takes on a (w)hole new meaning. (forgive the pun) so does "Machinehead," but that's another story... i hate Bush, but that's a pretty good song. Yeah, so there's this song, i think it's called "Pure Morning" and i haven't got a clue who does it, but when i find out, i'm going to get a copy. i'd pirate it off the radio, but that sort of thing tends to be messy at best. anyway, the chorus reminds me of you -- "day's dawning/ skin's crawling..." i think to myself this line from "Cactus," and i genuinely don't know --"oh, good god! what the hell am i gonna do with me..." what the hell, indeed. what a large unhappy mess this is... what a large unhappy mess i am. ah, well, work cures all ills. if it doesn't kill me, i'll have knees of steel or sone similar rot. "so much like me/ i melt at your touch/ another dream/ i love so much." <-- this is going in a song. i am suddenly much inspired to fetch my guitar and compose some sappy shit or other. all for you, my dear, all for you.
down another dark hall, dark hole, dark hell, squashed by the dark heel of my left boot. plastic like the sky above, plastic like the sky below, just another plastic cloud drifting through the mud. dreams of unreality, many things that should not be, crashing to the blackened pitch, until we meet again.
goddamn that woman!
-- c0demuse
1:38 pm
saturday, 10.24.98