Tuesday, July 25, 2006

I need a punching bag.

No, a stress ball will not do. My arm needs to arc through the air, screaming to unleash some of this pent up... whatever into something that won't get hurt and something that won't hurt me back. (The metal bars of the bunk bed are not conducive to my fist)

I really need to decimate and pulverise something, or at least get tired in the attempt to.

What is this? I don't know.

I need to punch something.

No, it is not normal. Or maybe it is? Maybe everyone walking around just wants to stop and brawl, or at least let loose a quick jab to someone's juglar.

Fight club seems pretty inviting at the moment. Okay, maybe not the broken teeth or the acid burns. But I'd sure love to fight something. Barbarism...random violence...go ahead and blame the media but the truth is, I don't have a clue where this is coming from.

But it's here. Typing this hasn't really helped.

And I still need to punch something.

Perhaps my head or soul or whatever (soul? wtf man) needs to explode. I haven't exploded in a while. Burst in a brilliant supernova of emotion. Calm before the storm? Creepy stare before the stab? Cue the damn horror music already.

Django Reinhardt, save me with your guitar.
Sage Sundi, save me with your game.

ARR WHAT THE HELL.

WHY AM I TYPING THIS

THIS IS NOT RIGHT

But what is right anyway? If there's some guy up there with a beard looking at me and going "oh. no. no i dont like that", who gave him that right? Did he have to fight for it? Does he also need to punch something?

"I need to punch something. Let's fuck Lebanon over."

My gosh. I am cynical right now.

Two seconds ago, I was happy and enjoying music.

What. The balls.

That statement doesn't even make sense.

I need to hit something.

I don't like this person talking. Someone please hit him. Someone needs to punch me.

This is so like, melodramatic "ooh look at me bitch bitch whine whine"

need some cheese with that wine, twat?

no, no thanks, not a fan of cheese.

But honestly. It's almost physical. I need to...I need to destroy something. Perhaps I shall construct small miniature houses, intricately detailed, and step on them, crushing them with the heel of my sole. Heal of my soul. Har. What a homonym. Fag. (and unoriginal, stole that from Chuck...whateverpalalalal whatever)

I need to punch something.

This is really depressive. Shall I repeat that line again?

Perhaps let's not, dear reader. Dear reader into the inside of my head, how does it look? Do you like the emptiness? Room for improvement, DIY perhaps. What is inside here? What lies beneath that stupid face of mine.

Why would you ever find a lecture more important than family?

Who brought that idea upon you?

What the hell is study for?

Stop questioning.

Says who?

Authority.

Hitler's a cunt.

So am I.

Wow.

What the.

I need to punch something.

Ok ok I'll stop being depressive, or try to anyway.

...

I need to punch something.

Don't ask me if I'm okay, the answer is obviously no. Or is it?
Maybe the question you really should be asking is, are you okay?

I think I found the birthplace of Emo. Please, please don't let me turn into Simple Plan. I don't think I could handle having all that gel in my hair, let alone the piercings. Maybe it came to me. Spectres. (Pullman's a genius.)

Lee Scoresby. Hold off my passage, please.

I want a daemon. An exterior representation of my soul.

Right now, if I had one, I'd gather she would be something stupid and irrelevant, like a sea cow. Wouldn't be like, a cougar (are there female cougars?)...or anything remotely cool. Maybe a beaver. An insect. A worm.

I hate worms.

I need to punch something.

This post, is way too depressing, furthermore, it's way too long.

But do I care? No.

I'm still typing.

Publish Post button, so close.

Mind wandering. Come back. You're too small to wander. Should stay inside.

Inside where it's safe. Maybe it's not warm.

But it's safe.

Or is it.

Harmful, hey.

You're worried?! YOU'RE WORRIED!? What about like, Israel. My gosh. And Indonesia. They got hit by water.

Think about that next time you go to the drinking fountain.

Road signs. They're so stupid. Actually, I hate roads in general.

Trains are more fun. I like trains. They...I don't have a good reason. They're better.

Strangers who are unfriendly are not.

Bus drivers can be nice.

They can also be obnoxious and retarded, and brake-happy.

I need to punch something.

Maybe like, this post will go on until I don't feel the need to punch something.

...

Still not working.

Really, this blog is very pointless. Perhaps I will close it. Why does it feel like I typed that just to get attention?

But no, honestly. It serves no discernible purpose but a chart into what I came from, and what I am now; not really happy with either.

Stupid happy.

This blog has no purpose. No meaning. It isn't about filmmaking. It isn't spreading the word about some dead guy and a really old book. What is it about?

Me.

How much more selfish can you get?

What about everyone else?

One in six billion and counting.

Stupid Africa.

I hate Africa. They invented the Ebola virus, and AIDS.

I'm not quite sure which is worse. I think Ebola.

I need to punch something, still.

Think I'll sleep it off. Maybe I'll forget, maybe it'll be sub-surface.

Counsellors are bitches.

I hate them.

Yeah...I'm gonna sleep it off.

I still need to punch something.

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