Forgive me Lingelbach.

I have my headphones in because I'm trying to ignore you. I've got a heart on the sand in Iraqi land, and if I can't cope, please cut me a slice and try to understand. Of the two evils, I suppose this is the lesser, though it's the worst I could imagine. I've lost my edge, if I ever had it, and I know now that everything good will someday end and that's part of life. Because if everything was always good, we wouldn't need a God to pray to and that's where the money is, evidently. Yes, I've got those sticky digits and I set them loose in your donation basket, forgive me for I'm a loser and winning was never the trend either way. There's this superstition about 11:11 and I blame it for the reason my life is a horrible conflict of suck and blow, because I wished for tranquility. Because I begged for peace and for help with that cheesy one-liner I said when she knocked on my door the first night. She was tempting my empty bed and I don't think there's anyone to accuse for what I am because I know I was born this way. So call it coming out, call it anything you'd like, but I think I'm gay. Actually, I'm pretty sure I am interested in the female persuasion. So shoot me. A dagger through my eye, and a knife to the clitoris, I'll take it for someone who shares the passion I have yet to muster and have reciprocated. There's an hour til the hour and I'm shaking fingers to breasts, the bones protruding through my chest, and mom banging on the door with a softball bat signed by a football player for the Jacksonville Jaguars in 2000. Dry as the Lake I know for sure I once saw in my head that day in the desert on a football field lacking water from sprinklers installed with my tax money, my nerves are pulsing like veins and you can see them through my skin, blue like the water I wish would pour, but never will because, let's face it, that's too much to ask for, right? Edgewater's the Devil, and it won't rain in Hell, so the heat is what I get used to with the dark people around being my executors, though aren't I supposed to be in charge? There's a loophole clause allowing me to write this because flag burning is legal but short shorts will send you home the fourth time with that D.J. junior lady barking her insanities and telling us how she must compensate for a failed marriage and children that hate her at twenty-three, a spite like Belle will always have for me, my kin, my kind, and my mind, but I couldn't give less of a piccolo player's cute blond hair. The horoscope she hordes will read tomorrow morning: The environmental wizard's ideals on Ron Paul are sure to fuck you over, so back off because he's not your type, hence he possesses male genitalia and that's such a turn-off. I'll placate the caring lover, the one who's wounded worst, and I'll do my best to make it clear how I don't expect retribution and how I think she should go for it with the effort of a raging beast I know she has in her because lord knows, I messed around with that monster all hours of the night and gave sweat and moans to the beautiful terror. and that's how I operate, but we're different people and I can't help with problems I don't estimate correctly. Probability and Statistics is teaching me that and I smile with each lesson I attribute to the real world and the inner working of a party I never knew existed until this very day I switched lunch periods and the grass was truly green. Now, I write this blog instead of an essay on Adam Smith because free enterprise is less appealing than texts of an orgasmic nature and questions of sexuality prose. I've resigned myself to reading Twilight against my better judgement after finding The Host was the greatest piece of fiction literature ever created and the person who introduced me to it is now a long-shot crush, with gorgeous red hair and a body to shoot an archer through the eye. I have a thing for red heads, I guess, which makes me laugh and lose my concentration so I fall down fourteen steps of almost white carpet strewn with broken hangers collapsed in the closet and relocated to the bedroom floor, ready to tumble my balance in all ideas of direction, surprise. We're sleeping on my couch, getting off a picture high, and passing out before the big game we're no longer apart of. And it's amusing because none of my best friends go to school with me. Lindsey is in Connecticut, the worst state of the fifty, Mikael has already graduated, Jacob remains at Bishop Moore, and Chris is in some Baptist Academy near Hunter's Creek, and, Anna, as we know, is still in Naperville where I would give my pinky to be, even if it meant never sipping tea poshly again. For sure, I will dress as an Aborigine and toss those crates over the boat for a cause I'm certain won't die. Because in the end, Rebellions settle disputes and I'm trying my best to deal.

Little Bit, or not, I said I'd sleep with him if worst came my way, and there's no time like the present, so I ignore that he has a girlfriend and try to imagine what our other friends will say. I live unhealthily vicariously through their misery and that's a weakness I'm working on. As well as procrastination, which is what I'm doing now, but at least it's a useful stimulate to save my sanity, or what's left from last March. So, yes I have prove that Josh wasn't here but there was Chris and Mikael and Jake, Jacob, Jordan, and Nick-Nick. I have to distinguish between the one who hurt me and the one I treated badly because the bus rides for band were way to encouraging without the squeals of delight for following yet another trend set by my friends. No i am not jealous so shut your fucking mouth and wipe that smile off, I hope you drown in your spit and cry the blood I dreamed of stealing from your rock-hard body I touched and caressed in secret then and still in secret today because I never told anybody and I don't think you did either. Thanks for that because I wasn't attempting to be a slut, she had that covered but I don't hold it against her, it's not my bag to carry. Offended? You bet your Bishop Moore diploma and graduation robe I am. If you want her, take her, cause I don't need this anymore. Oh god, his instant message gives me frenzies of the spine, while his texts are making me sigh from irritation. There's this unsnazzy CVS jazzy music reverberating through the cell phone I can't afford so let me taste the fruit of the womb, voluntarily from that Mary-chick in that book that starts with B. I'll never read it again, i swear, though I know it by heart anyways. So thanks, again, BM, I guess, but I really should go write that paper on my bud, Adam Smith.

"I tried to be perfect It just wasn’t worth it Nothing could ever be so wrong It’s hard to believe me It never gets easy I guess I knew that all along If you believe it’s in my soul I’d say all the words that I know Just to see if it would show That I'm trying to let you know That I’m better off on my own."