Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
29th Birthday Present
On my 29th B-day I am making a present to myself. I am going home.
'nuf with the bullshit.
;O)
'nuf with the bullshit.
;O)
Saturday, November 14, 2009
IT'S JUST AWESOme!
Big deal - somebody robbed you on the corner,
Big deal - your wife is telling you a lie,
Big deal - you feel as if you are a goner...
Be thankful, man, that you are still alive!
So what if you are tortured by sarcoma?
So what if you were not let in at five?
So what if you boozed off into a coma?
Be thankful, man, that you are still alive!
Don’t care if your buddy kicked the bucket,
Don’t care if your head would crack and rive,
Don’t care if they stripped you like a sucker...
Be thankful, man, that you are still alive!
Relax, although your skin is sores and scratches,
Relax, when only troubles boom and thrive,
Relax, when being carried on a stretcher...
Be thankful, man, that you are still alive!
-V.Vysotsky
Monday, November 9, 2009
I am smart
my old theory, which I found out, confirmed by Hemingway:
So if you are miserable, don't worry, most of us genius people are.
So if you are miserable, don't worry, most of us genius people are.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Progress
I talk to people daily.
I get out, pretty much every day.
I've started looking for a job.
I smile more.
I even laugh.
I watch not just suicidal movies.
I became vegan.
I drink less, pretty much don't.
I got back to my friends that I haven't spoken to in two years.
I respond to my e-mails within two-three days.
I am getting all better.
:)
I don't know what I have been expecting, using a cliche phrase - there is no "miracle" tomorrow. It's not like you can get up in the morning and feel a sun-burn at the places where the sun don't shine.
No, it takes a lot of painful getting up from your knees and being knocked back down.
But I see tiny bits of light.
Go West
You will never be happy.
You'll never find love or have a family, a home with a tv-remote and a dog. Nor will you have a friend that would stand by, when the shit hits the fan.
You can, however, get a job.
And then, you can get a paycheck.
That shitty money could get you a bottle Wiskey. You'll use it to stop the bleeding.
Like a real cowboy.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
A Portrait of a Boy With a Portrait of a Girl
He lived alone with his parents, two older brothers, baby sister and a dog. He also had two hamsters, best friend, and a fort.
He was 5. Or maybe a little older, maybe somewhere between 5 and a half and thirty.
He liked two types of people; everybody and nobody.
More than anything in the world he loved his secrets. That’s why he became a dentist. He wanted to be a Robespierre when he grew up, but that was a secret. And he loved his secrets.
He also loved a girl. He drew her when he was 7. She had long hair, two eyes, no nose, and lips. She had no boobs either. It was a portrait. Later, he wished he didn’t take so much space on the paper drawing her big face.
Some nights he would look at the portrait and think to himself: -”How ridiculous, she does not have a nose. What was I thinking? Everyone has a nose. Two ears, two eyes, and 32 perfectly placed teeth.” We only have 20 when we are young, he though, they are white pretty teeth, soft and sensitive, and they don’t last that long. Completely useless.
That’s how he spent his time. He entertained himself with deeply philosophical view at his work, and a portrait of girl without a nose, or even boobs. He, too, considered it useless.
He’ve met a lot women that looked exactly like the portrait. His assistant, in fact, looked alike, but not quite. She did have a nose, and a big one.
He could have flushed the portrait into the toilet, after all – but he loved his secrets. He cherished and nurtured them more then anything. More than himself.
He, secretly, was a noble man. The only thing that could have gave him away were his lips that uncontrollably drew into a smirk when people noticed nice things about him. That was no bother, however, as he was not aware of that betrayal act his lips played on him.
He was 5. Or maybe a little older, maybe somewhere between 5 and a half and thirty.
He liked two types of people; everybody and nobody.
More than anything in the world he loved his secrets. That’s why he became a dentist. He wanted to be a Robespierre when he grew up, but that was a secret. And he loved his secrets.
He also loved a girl. He drew her when he was 7. She had long hair, two eyes, no nose, and lips. She had no boobs either. It was a portrait. Later, he wished he didn’t take so much space on the paper drawing her big face.
Some nights he would look at the portrait and think to himself: -”How ridiculous, she does not have a nose. What was I thinking? Everyone has a nose. Two ears, two eyes, and 32 perfectly placed teeth.” We only have 20 when we are young, he though, they are white pretty teeth, soft and sensitive, and they don’t last that long. Completely useless.
That’s how he spent his time. He entertained himself with deeply philosophical view at his work, and a portrait of girl without a nose, or even boobs. He, too, considered it useless.
He’ve met a lot women that looked exactly like the portrait. His assistant, in fact, looked alike, but not quite. She did have a nose, and a big one.
He could have flushed the portrait into the toilet, after all – but he loved his secrets. He cherished and nurtured them more then anything. More than himself.
He, secretly, was a noble man. The only thing that could have gave him away were his lips that uncontrollably drew into a smirk when people noticed nice things about him. That was no bother, however, as he was not aware of that betrayal act his lips played on him.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
A master plan
I'm trying to say something positive, think something nice, do something good. But all that is coming out of me are random clogs of bile.
I'm tired and poisoned.
Life cheated me on that hope of wonder, which my parents have put into me, while I was cluless. And now I deal with it.
I will get back at life for it. I will plan my revenge. I will throw my pitty self into it. And close my eyes. And never think about it again, and never look even at it.
And maybe then... it will come crawling to me, standing right next and surround me. And when it does, I'll say: "allright life, you might stay - but never fuck with me again."
I'm tired and poisoned.
Life cheated me on that hope of wonder, which my parents have put into me, while I was cluless. And now I deal with it.
I will get back at life for it. I will plan my revenge. I will throw my pitty self into it. And close my eyes. And never think about it again, and never look even at it.
And maybe then... it will come crawling to me, standing right next and surround me. And when it does, I'll say: "allright life, you might stay - but never fuck with me again."
The way we live
Everyone. And I mean everyone, every day is searching for some rediculous IT in futility,
leaving a trace of abandoned MAYBEs behind.
leaving a trace of abandoned MAYBEs behind.
