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Jul. 3rd, 2006
Fuck how i'd love to strangle all those shallow half-assed dilettantes who can only talk shit about a pretty sunset, and all those stupid dopey bimboes who support various teams for their various hot dudes. It's just so wrong and insulting to stand up and proclaim 'WOOHOO I SUPPORT GERMANY!' when you haven't fucking seen them play a fucking game. - Yen
GOD YES. YES. And I must add, haven't seen them play a damn game until this world cup, ALL OF A SUDDEN.
Ah, GMUFC.
GOD YES. YES. And I must add, haven't seen them play a damn game until this world cup, ALL OF A SUDDEN.
Ah, GMUFC.
I wonder, does any one actually realize that I do go through shit, and that I am currently going through shit that'd just turn your intestines inside out?
No?
Well fuck you too, because either I don't have anyone to spill to, or I don't know how to spill. Strange, considering how I made my life through always knocking over that glass on the side of the table.
Then again, the glass had never anything in it. Never half-empty or half-full. What am I doingwhatamidoingwhatamidoing. Why is it that I cannot express myself in the way I want to express myself. Why am I always (alwaysssssssss. that never ending SSSSS sound) caught in between shades of mallow and green. green. my favourite colour. that says a lot about me doesn't it. perpetually living in envy, in the shadows of the forest, i don't know, maybe i am a leprachaun who's dyslexic. haha. dyslexia ala sprite. i type, i cohere, i talk without paragraphs. without borders, without proper punctuation guiding or binding me. i speak to the stars, i speak my own hysterical high-pitched language over 8000db that only the birds canhere hear... but God cannot. i am quiet. i sit by meself. i know, i know not. i ask myself, when can i start living for myself and meself and iself fully. selfselfself. what is it you need, is it what i need? i haven't refound my muse. refound. haha. i just created another nonsensical word. out of the blue. if i lost it, did i even have it in the first place. why can i convey other's thoughts and impressions but not mine. i feel like spongebob squarepants. i suck it all in and spit it out - i have no style, i have no mind possibly, of my own.
yet.
alright. i am done, for the moment of course, at being the typical 17 year old emo kid. sometimes i just hate it when my mother's (mother, not mum now) being honest with me, because i'm old enough to understand.
i want to be that kid, i don't want to be old enough to understand. where is my field with the nurse in it.
No?
Well fuck you too, because either I don't have anyone to spill to, or I don't know how to spill. Strange, considering how I made my life through always knocking over that glass on the side of the table.
Then again, the glass had never anything in it. Never half-empty or half-full. What am I doingwhatamidoingwhatamidoing. Why is it that I cannot express myself in the way I want to express myself. Why am I always (alwaysssssssss. that never ending SSSSS sound) caught in between shades of mallow and green. green. my favourite colour. that says a lot about me doesn't it. perpetually living in envy, in the shadows of the forest, i don't know, maybe i am a leprachaun who's dyslexic. haha. dyslexia ala sprite. i type, i cohere, i talk without paragraphs. without borders, without proper punctuation guiding or binding me. i speak to the stars, i speak my own hysterical high-pitched language over 8000db that only the birds can
yet.
alright. i am done, for the moment of course, at being the typical 17 year old emo kid. sometimes i just hate it when my mother's (mother, not mum now) being honest with me, because i'm old enough to understand.
i want to be that kid, i don't want to be old enough to understand. where is my field with the nurse in it.