i hear those first few bass notes, and everything rushes back. warm/cold winter/spring days when we leaned all the way out your window with butterfly wings. smoke trailed out of our mouths as we talked about everything. but i'm getting behind myself. those notes on the bass and whining vocals remind me of dim lighting in your room after dinner. sitting on the floor with a knife in your hand slicing up the top of your forearm. no worry, no guilt, no pain on your face. slice, squeeze. animatic blood cutting perfect lines into your pink skin. like that pink see thro top you use to wear. you use to do this thing where you'd press your fingers into your sternum right next to your breast and readjust something with your other. it was magical, and you did it ALL the time. perhaps it would have been least incanting if i had anything to adjust. never the less something about you doing it in the pink shirt was to die for. and i always teased you about it being pink. back to the black and white photos of cool air and smoking outside your window. do you remember the photo that you took of my from behind? shirt around my legs. back arcing in your camera shutter. god i loved you. sometimes i wonder how two people can be so close for just a moment and then so far apart. other relations pale in what we had. maybe it's not who i think it is setting the standard for my boyfriend material. maybe it's you. making it extra hard, cause, your a girl and junk. chills every fucking time, man. burr.
sometimes i feel like the main charter from it's a wonderful life. always talking about all the places his going to go, the people he's going to meet, things he's gonna do. i watch girls my own age go off to all the far away places that i wanna go. and i pounder, if i wanna travel so badly, why don't i? they wanted to and they did. what makes me so different? is it that daddy floats the bill, they go and do whatever the want on someone else dime? maybe, sometimes but it's not always that. they are creative and find ways to do what they want. they are out going, skinny and playful. making new friends, and once again traveling. so if i want so badly to travel, why didn't i do what they did? teach english, go to collage, be born friendly, perfect and outgoing? my hatred can develop in less than 386 images, for someone i never gave much of a shit about, one way or the other. will they be famous writers traveling the world over, while i'm stuck having a 'career'? yep i'll be george bailey holding down the fort, drinking my life away, settling. it's not their fault i'm to coward to get up and start my life the way i've told myself i want it to be. maybe i just worry that instead of making new friends i'd be setting in cafes alone. wishing i was sitting alone miserable somewhere where i spoke the language. but maybe i'm being to hard on everyone. they will freak out, student loans floating over their heads ( unless we're going with that daddy idea) collage degree doing them no good, and find work at a coffee shop, realizing that they now have to start their lives. with any luck that will be about the time, i've decide to grow a pair, throw caution and worry to the wind and become a traveling stylist. by the time they are having kids, i will be opening my own shop in one of those said far away places. they will be envying me, as they sit, bills and little person laundry above their ears . and i'll envy them, cause they will have the family. i can never have. i'll still feel very much alone. unless of course they just join the peace core, and foil my entire judgmental foresight. in which case i can be like, 'whatever bitches i've got running water! ah!'
and another thing!
why do rich people gotta be so unoriginal and boring!?!?
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