would you consider yourself more scene, hipster, punk, or metal? hahaha
i went over this last night with some friends. i’m post-skater.
The Scrapbook
formspring.me
Ask me anything http://formspring.me/KubrickKid
in ‘09 I…….
1. Dyed your hair an odd color.
2. Went skinny dipping.
3. Bought something you didn’t need.
4. Snuck out of your house.
5. Became obsessed with a song no one knew.
6. Learned a song on your phone with your keypad.
7. Knitted something.
8. Ran a mile.
9. Fell in love.
10. Said, “like yeahh” too many times.
11. Lost your closest friends.
12. Got into a fight with someone you loved.
13. Climbed a tree.
14. Did something you said you wouldn’t.
15. Figured out who your real friends were.
16. Graduated High School.
17. Shopped online.
18. Created a tumblr.
19. Got addicted to tumblr.
20. Realized who you truly are.
21. Sang karaoke.
22. Flew across the world.
23. Performed in front of a large audience.
24. Met someone you found online.
25. Found a new band you now love.
26. Realized that Kanye West essentially sucked.
27. Got drunk.
28. Got high.
29. Spoke to a police officer.
30. Realized everyone is a hypocrite.
31. Panicked over something stupid.
32. Failed a class.
33. Fell out of love.
34. Played a video game for hours straight.
35. Spent time with your family.
36. Ate dinner alone.
37. Cried in the shower.
38. Gained a new family member.
39. Shot off your own fireworks.
40. Made a snowman.
41. Got yelled at for no reason.
42. Waved at people you didn’t know in passing cars.(SHOT)
43. Sat on tumblr all day.
44. Changed your entire look.
45. Had sex.
46. Ran outside naked when it was freezing out.
47. Made your own fire.
48. Laughed at something that made no sense.
49. Fell asleep on the phone.
50. Told someone you loved them.
the third shelf of my fridge fits two thirty packs perfectly
Just sayin’ we’re colaboratin’
I dont watch the office, i don’t kill people. I want to go back to how things use to be. I miss millertime and puppets. negatives and nonsense. boyfriends and bullshit. girlfriends and gossip. ages is ageless and suchforth. waking up and making up. lusting and learning.
I miss dancing with the fireflies as a child. I miss Saturday morning cartoons. I miss seeing things for the first time. I miss wondering what sex was. I miss wondering why the teenagers smoked cigarettes. I miss seeing movies from a child’s perspective.
we are officially lost. we’re lost in hairless, post puberty but still pre-pubecent. urturn utorrent. the pot so nice, they named it twice. incomplete thoughts are not absuurd sir. absurd is totally through the green glass door, but only fucked up. do me a solid mang.
I miss the days before I started losing the game. Back when my thoughts were innocent and pure. Now my mind is in a perpetual state of losing the game. I can’t finish a productive thought without losing. The game—it’s ruining my life. No more shall i lose. I will never think about the game before.
i’m rattled by the future and it’s benevolent inevitability. soy amor. shut the door. sleepless deprovation causes instigations. lurks make assumptions and asses and assets. those are there. pass is too. pass the pot is better and there tambien. ‘i am’ there too. lets broken things.
State of consciousness is a hallmark of early twentieth century literature. We are great because we are confusing. Give us our Pulitzer Prizes, so long overdue. Give us the after party, with castles of champagne. We own this city. We run this shit.
Bo and Hans are both even. except I, Bo, has the odds. he has the stevens. mary jane has 3.14 and all the thrifts. the biggest joke, the lowest low. best of moods are decided by deciding. nothing makes you shitty or happy, unless you decide to be. stay gold and get fucked up 4 lyfe. life is good, it’s just better with substance. i’m always turned on.
If perception is reality, my reality is intoxicated. What is yours? Scheduled? Calculated? Responsible? Monotonous and boring? Break outside your box; it won’t hurt your future. Shatter norms. Break barriers and explore. Shock your structured peers. Scream at the top of your lungs!
our lives be like ooohhh ahhh, we let the drummer kick.
Just sayin’…
Nobody gives stoners credit for what they are: engineers. I have seen many a stoner, although written off by society as a incompetent pothead, build bongs and roll blunts with as much of a skilled focus to detail and as much of an eye for creativity as one would see in an architect.
“She Stands & Watches the Sea”
Everyday she watches the sea;
On the Widow’s Walk, alone is she.
She waits for he who loved then left,
Being drawn to sea by a fisherman’s greed.
No word from him for long years three;
Still she stands and watches the sea
Scanning the horizon for his vessel’s return.
Surely an impending widow is she.
The town lost hope and sung his eulogy,
But still she stands and watches the sea
Refusing to accept that dead is he.
Oh what a sad sight to see!
A year later it was learned
His ship was wrecked and shall never return.
But still she stands and watches the sea.
On the Widow’s Walk, dressed in black is she,
Awaiting the morning when she will wake to see
Her husband’s ghost come home from sea.
Chapter 2
The day, as you might have guessed had you seen the houses decked-out in red white and blue, was the Fourth of July. Every house on the street I now stood in had patriotic decorations from porch to roof and appeared to be a monument of pride for the nation. Even the house I had just stepped out of, the house whose interior was filled with the plight of youth and indulgence and carried about a fetid stench, ironically, appeared proud and respectable from the street. Which led me to wonder if the other houses on the street were filled with the same filth and excess; if American pride and prestige was only a façade cloaking a corrupt interior.
I continued on towards home. Stepping on my skateboard, I broke the fragile silence of the morning and cruised down the street. The ground roaring beneath me, I carved from side to side, smoothly meandering across the street. A gust of wind came and gave me a moment’s relief from the scorching summer sun. Soon the once-disturbing roar of my wheels on the ground turned into a soothing, concordant sound like that of a wave.
When I approached corner of Main Street and Maple, I came to a halt, reached into my left pocket, and pulled out my pack of Marlboro Menthols. Upon seeing the low number of cigarettes left, I began to feel a sickness in my stomach. Had I smoked 13 cigarettes the night before? Or had I been the generous party-go-er who lent a helping hand to the craving moocher searching the party for someone with “a jack to spare.” I had drunk myself to a stupor and could not recall. So, ignorance being blissful, I decided I had done the latter and pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and continued homeward.
The cigarette gave me a warm buzz in my body. The nicotine traveled into my lungs, caressing the walls of my throat as I breathed it in, and again when I exhaled, leaving a cool, comforting feeling of refreshment behind.
It was mostly curiosity that had led to the formation of this habit. My parents had always condemned it and warned me of its consequences. This was counter-productive, however, as it only intensified my wonder. When the opportunity to try it out came, in high school, I took it. I can’t say I liked it very much at first; it didn’t feel very pleasant and “ashing” it was somewhat of a nuisance. But I acquired the taste and the habit grew.
In the beginning, it had been an only-while-drinking activity. Then it turned to a once-a-day thing and escalated from there. The most ridiculous thing about it was, for a while, I refused to classify myself as a smoker. True, it hadn’t yet become a routine habit, but it was occurring often enough as to where I would be having a good five per week, scattered throughout the days. Of course then it became a part of my morning routine and once that happens, cigarettes seem to work their way into every part of your day and all efforts to avoid the title of Smoker are futile.
Although I was 18 and thus legally allowed to smoke, I had not told my parents. They had a Perfect Child image of me and I didn’t feel like shattering that for them. So as I approached our neighborhood, I flicked my cigarette to the side of the road and skated on.
Chapter 1
The image of an American flag in the backyard was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes that morning. The great banner stood drooping downwards, as if it were exhausted from the summer heat.
The next thing I saw was an adolescent passed out on the wooden floor with obscenities written all over his face in marker. He had passed out with his shoes on—the most damning offense one can commit at a party. His friends, deducing that this act was the result of an extreme consumption of alcohol, had taken it upon themselves to draw penises and “fucks” across his face to remind him of his drunkenness the night before. Nature would have already done this by way of the hangover, but Americans tend to take nature into their own hands.
I was on a leather sofa in the living room. I had taken my shoes off before falling asleep and thus had a marker-less face. But nevertheless I was reminded that I had been drunk the night before by a desert-like dryness in my mouth and a dehydrated headache. I arose from the sofa with my eyes half-open and still in a daze and checked my pockets for my belongings:
Wallet: check
iPod: check
Cell phone: check
Skateboard: check
With everything accounted for I headed to the door with haste. I wanted to distance myself as much as I could from this scene. You never feel like a guest the morning after a party, especially if you are not good friends with the host. There’s an intense motivation to get the hell out of there to avoid awkwardness. Also, the environment I had woken up in was repugnant: the marker-faced man, the half-full beer cans on the table, the water glasses full of cigarette butts, the vomit on the back-porch—it disgusted me how filthy this place had become in one night. The aftermath of a night of excess and indulgence is a repulsive scene, and right now I just wanted to get home and wash myself of this place.
Literary Bullshit
What can I force out of myself today? No thoughts are permeating my mind really. This is either the product of smoking weed everyday or a lack of thought-provoking events. Perhaps some anecdotes of the past few days can serve for my daily tumblr post. Never mind. That can be summed up in a sentence.
Fuck it. I can’t write today. Nothing legitimate at least. Anything I could attempt would be made for the sake of writing. Which is the pinnacle of literary bull shit.
This has been a useless post, except for the purpose of reinforcing this daily schedule. Maybe I’ll have something to talk about tomorrow. Hopefully.
