Ascending the Position

Ascending the Position

mechanicalpulse

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Fuck.	[Apr. 3rd, 2008\|04:09 am]
I'm sitting in my girlfriend's room on her laptop, and I have no idea why I'm on this fucking website. I haven't put anything on it in well over a year; all I ever do is record, play shows, work, and hang out with the lady and the MCA kids. But it occured to me upon browsing that an old friend of mine still uses this thing, and I figured it would be a good way to leave one last message to him. I know you're going to read this, so please listen. I'm sorry. This isn't saying I want to be friends with you. You did some fucking shitty things to me, and for that, I do not want to be your friend. Absolutely no desire. But I do know that what happened is killing you, and the fact that you are being lied to makes me sick. No one deserves what's happening to you right now, and you don't even know that it's happening. When I found out that the two of you were still dating, I got physically ill. You may think I'm a horrible person, and you may be right about that, but one thing you should know is that I would never have done that if I had known that you were still together. She told me time and time again that the two of you had broken up long ago. I found out a week ago that the two of you were actually together when her and I had sex. I may know that I got lied to, and I got played like an absolute fool, but you can be damn sure that I am genuinely sorry for that. I don't know at all if you knew that. I'm assuming she's been telling you that I knew you two were still together. And that's fucked up. She had me believing that she wanted to be with me. I fell for that shit, and I'm an idiot for believing a word that came out of her mouth. One minute I think I'm falling for a girl, the next she's diving into a car and I'm getting shit thrown at me while I'm on stage. Trust me, the whole situation didn't help things in my life either, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm at fault, but you need to know that this thing was carefully planned by her. And I have no idea why. I'm not going to post anything on here again, I really don't want to. Don't try to call me. You come to my home again looking for a fight and I'll kill you this time. Just know what I'm leaving years of friendship with. An apology. There's nothing else I can offer. And a word of advice: just because it has a smile that makes your heart ache, doesn't mean it's not lying to you.
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(no subject)	[Jan. 22nd, 2007\|06:41 pm]
We spoke of the new day. The sky was red with flame, and the air smelled of smoke. Our children were dead, and our money was useless. We can't leave, there's no gas in the car, and the speedometer's busted. The radio's on emergency broadcast and the television hasn't worked for days. The beer's warm and the night's cold. Prayer, prayer, prayer, doesn't seem to work. My mother spent 24 hours praying for a child with cancer. They're both aflame. Survive, survive, we'll do it, and we damn sure won't enjoy it. But that's all we've got
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Deficit

[Dec. 10th, 2006|11:31 pm]

[	Current Location	\|	Home	]
[	mood	\|	foxy.	]
[	music	\|	Elliot Smith - S/T	]

At one point or another in the evening, David realized he had lost his mind.

This feeling was observed as fleeting, without merit, and outright ridiculous, but the very thought of it brought him chills of excitement.

"They say the insane man never realizes he's insane," he thought to himself as he sat at his kitchen table. It was around 11:30, and he was knee-deep in an intoxicated mental frenzy, completely devoid of physical symptoms, but none the less all consuming. An entire bottle of gin had proven itself a helpful aid in the mental vacation he had immersed himself into.

Despite the attempt, David just couldn't shake the notion. Insanity? How exciting. This had been bounced around his head earlier on in his life. The romanticization of mental instability had proven itself insatiable, and had almost become a desire of his. "From mental disorder comes art, beauty, and inevitably fame and glory." The ashtray, suddenly coming to the conclusion that it had had enough, was overflowing with butts, ash, and a tiny trace of hash he had purchased the previous day from a Mexican tenant in the apartment below him. "Surely this could be my big break."

His thoughts raced, filled with praise, attention and spite from those who didn't "understand." It would start out with a poem, a novel, something that could show just how crazy he actually was. He'd have it published by a sympathetic local company, and rumors of this man would spread like wildfire. Slowly he would crank out work after work, and the masses would eat it up, reveling in this new trend, something unique, something unrequitedly hip, that just couldn't be ignored. Teenagers, beatnicks, coffee shop fuckers that compare knowledge of pop culture like cock size, they would all want a piece of him.

"It wouldn't be hard. Just shack up in this little apartment, lose a lot of wait, maybe take up a drug habit. Blow is played out, heroin's in these days." His heart raced, blood flowing from adrenaline and drink.

Then there would be the eventual public appearance. He'd dress wildly, like a sort of homeless Howard Hughes, and make a scene in a proper New York Barns and Noble. Sign a few autographs, hit on loose women that just beg to stand near him, and then start the tyrade. Throw chairs, rip up books, scream about aliens, or Satan, or something that would really rile everyone up. He'd finish by jumping head first through the glass door, stealing a car, and driving into the sunset.

But how should it end? The answer was simple: Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, Kurt Cobain, what did they all have in common? Suicide. He'd scrawl a nearly illegible suicide note on the back of a chinese take-out bag, stick it to the refrigerator, and blow his brains out. No, too cliche. He'd have to go out with a bang. Can't stab yourself, Elliot Smith already coined that maneuvere. Sleeping pills? He laughed. "What, are you thirteen?" And then it hit him. He could shoot up, steal a car, and crash it, 90 miles per hour, into a day care center. "That would show them."

In the corner of his mind, he could hear the phone ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey David, it's mom, I was just calling to see how you were doing."

"Oh, I'm fine, just getting ready for bed, I guess."

"Oh, well that's all right. I'll call you tomorrow. I love you sweetie."

"...I love you too mom."

Click.

He poured himself another glass and chuckled. "Maybe I'm not that crazy."

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