Fire

That it's all for the best, you decided this

I am devastated, but we have plans for this. I have been shattered, and though each separate blow shatters me in new pieces like agonized snowflake crystals, I have felt this. I have to. I have to. I have to. I love you, but I have to. I let you in, I let you touch my heart and get caught up in those rough strings, so badly worn with abuse. I took you thousands of miles, close to my heart. I lived your life and you lived mine. I let you breathe me. In a life I approach with a cold armor, you were always beneath it, making my heart beat. In all the thousands of people I met and scoffed at and couldn't take seriously, I saw you. I alway saw you. And this is the weakness that's called love. I loved you. I love you. I feel each separation so acutely, each nerve fiber tearing on its axis as it's taken from me. Your smile I fell in love with. Your quiet "of course" when I would thank you for doing more then anyone else had before you. Teaching you to shoot, watching your eyes go wide when I showed you something new. How tight you'd hold me after not seeing me for too long. These are not mine anymore, and having them torn from me will make me bleed to death. I have to, this sweeping insensitivity is the only thing that will keep me alive.

I want to bleed for you, but you've lost license to my devastation. I can't let you see me hurt. I can't let you know I'm suffering even as you're enjoying relief. I can only grow bitter. Wish you'd be here for me when I need you most and instead grow familiar with the cold void where your arms used to be. I can't peel you from my heart, I can only let it grow quiet and cold as it was before I met you. I can retreat. I can grow cynical and give up on what you made me feel, as I had before I met you. I can see your flaws, try to forget the force behind my words each and every time I told you I loved you. Quiet the heart, slow the breath, dim the thoughts. Every day is a battle to keep breathing, and you were my only ally. The lights dim out one after another and you were my sun in a patch of dying stars, and as the lights go out and a chill creeps over my skin, I have a choice. I can sit in the dark and cry for the memory of light, or I can forget I ever lay in the sun. I can forget how much I loved laying with you, driving with you, fixing your parking jobs and protecting you. I can die a little to live. Or at least to breathe. 

So I will look forward to cold steed, to harsh judgements and the lights on the horizon seeming further and further away each day. It will seem like yesterday, and then perhaps months ago. Soon it will feel like a lifetime ago, and then finally it will seem so odd, so strange that someone might have loved me, that it will feel like it all happened to someone else. Someone not like me, someone who doesn't live like this. Till, no, you won't care a bit, no, you won't care a bit. I love you so much, too much, but it will break me to ever say that again. 

And this is what dying feels like. Happy valentines day. 

sleeping pill but no sleep

These robotocs do not define us, they do not eat away at the hand that made them unles they cause s to take steps back. A room made of balloons suspended a mile above the desert floor.A prison of balloons and a man bouncs from one side to another side and he is trapped but he is free and there is a stasis and safty but also violent praxis in shadows and drips that will explode and sieze your throat if you look at them and don't blink. He will never be free, he will be a short spectacle or trapped forever barred and boxed within the potential that would rage through and destroy him if you only asked, just whispered a thought and let it flow free down the glass to write words in the water.

And sandings, to rip off that which you felt in the hand and loved and believed in, the painting of all things one color so you never need be confused again. The wind will ruffle you when it comes from each window but not at the belt, this will rest as you're turned to glass and raised to meet the morning sun. A prizem.

It's slender and nice in a way a skeleton is disturbing, it negates your function for its own. Similarities yes but the primary effect leads back to chalk on stone and what I tried to tell you once when we sat in the water together, but instead the boy all alone heard it and knew that was the way all things should be but aren't. He carried it with him.

We freed them but they kept coming. It ate from my flesh and liked the taste for a snack but the window broke and I was pulled into the cold, into the stars and soft deadly snow that waited and watched me as I bled out for you. Nasty little boys take bites off and sometimes whole fingers and toes, they knock me down and I know how it is to be bruised but not beaten. My heart pumps to remind you that the only heart of mind you had was a stupid metaphor for your ability to destroy me that I loaned you and now need back as a reason to loathe you. But is there time? To trace fishhooks along old wounds until the stitches catch and ride these reigns to wherever pain was deserved but not delivered? Have we time for such divination, for such a worthy mission?

Or to bury it with more worthy scars, more worthy times, or even just times. Is it just the ending of a vision of a mask of banded iron set above all else, asking your worth. There is no capstone to all this, it lies open because all we can do is fit pieces similar to the voids torn from us in hopes the line will hold. Easy as breathing, easy as being alive.

Impossibly heavy and bronze, it means very little without the praxis we can give it.

Love letters

We were different people, all of us. Sean, Dane, Cyle, all the people who meant so much or so little to me, who consumed my life and made me feel. When was I the rational one, now or then? When I let it wash over me and consume me like spinning in waves that break with me, losing myself to the liquid organic feeling, or now. Now the sterile, cold examination. The consumer, trying on each and leaving it on the floor to be picked up by some poor attendant of things not lost with no one to find them. Do you remember when you told me you loved me and I felt it, washed warm, almost hot through my body, electric sap pushing sticky through my veins and holding on? When it wasn't calculation, it was my nose under your chin against your neck, my arms holding your small body to me? When I let you have me and it meant my heart and soul, I gave it to you and breathed in each moment deep and sweet before I knew what bitter tasted like. My heart would burst open and I would do these things for you. 

And now I sit back and revel in my coldness, how crass and detached I can be. I relate these leaps of faith, these quiet acts of love with a harsh voice, pick the shock and meat from the bone and throw the rest in a mute pile to rot. I'll hold aloft the pieces of power, the pornographic shadow left by your hands on my skin, and display it under the unforgiving light. You gave me that touch as a gift, and when I took it, it meant something. Now it sits on a shelf glassed over in amber and lifeless as an ancient butterfly, or perhaps a moth, it's hard to tell after so long. A piece in a game with no winners, just heartbeats and breaths and waking up again to this skin. The skin that meant something to you. But I don't measure these things in warm touches and acts of love any longer, I marvel at my steady hand. I measure these things by indifference to death, to resistance to loss. I count my victories in tears unshed, and cut cold razor sharp through the mess of sensation I once lost myself in.

Is it an expression of curiosity or brutality to become your own detached experiment?

We were different people, but I knew who I was then. It's hard to gauge that which is flawed but known against a cold, quiet unknown. 

And now I hear you say it

And I crave it because above all things, above all things it amuses me. And I cannot hope for more, but novelty.

Intense day

So, today I woke up to a raging fire not very far from my house.



So, that was alarming. I went up on my roof and saw the fire was pretty goddamn close and there was ash and burning shit raining down on my house.

So, of course, Colin and went directly towards the flames with cameras in tow.



We jumped a fence and got very close to the fire, and got some really good shots.









Then the police discovered we were way too close to the fire and decided we needed to be mandatorily evacuated via the back of a police car.



I kept rolling and taking pictures as we were whisked out of the burn area.





We then got some distance and got some wider shots of the fire, which was dying down on the east side but still raging on the west side.



Then we found out there was not one, but TWO other fires burning in the area. The one in medford was even bigger and threatening more houses.



We weren't able to get close to that one, but jesus fucking christ it was an intense day.

Attn to: Cunt Bitch

Joseph,

I did enjoy my time there a lot; Alex and especially yourself were very pleasant roommates and as I said I'm very sorry things got to this point. However, be things as they are, this is how I would like to see things go. Changing the locks, mailing my things, and paying for the locks and cleaning out of the security deposit is not acceptable or at all legal. I would like my security deposit back in full and the remainder of the month's rent. Depending on when you changed the locks that works out to around $200-250. Seeing as you essentially evicted me when the locks were changed, I think that's fair. I will come back for my things and car and be happy to give you any keys and the garage door opener, and that will be that.

Let me outline my reasoning behind this,

Entering my room without either providing 24 hours advanced notice or in the event of an emergency is against the law, specially Civil Code 1954, which states:

(a) A landlord may enter the dwelling unit only in the following cases:    (1) In case of emergency.    (2) To make necessary or agreed repairs, decorations, alterations or improvements, supply necessary or agreed services, or exhibit the dwelling unit to prospective or actual purchasers, mortgagees, tenants, workers, or contractors or to make an inspection pursuant to subdivision (f) of Section 1950.5.

Had the room been broken into or the condo been broken into, that would have constituted an emergency, however as that was no thecase entering the room in the first place without first asking is not only a violation of privacy but a violation of the law. In second, asking to pay for changing the locks out of my deposit is completely illegal. California Civil Code Section 789.3 states that:

(b) In addition, a landlord shall not, with intent to terminate the occupancy under any lease or other tenancy or estate at will, however created, of property used by a tenant as his or her residence, willfully:    (1) Prevent the tenant from gaining reasonable access to the property by changing the locks or using a bootlock or by any other similar method or device;    (2) Remove outside doors or windows; or    (3) Remove from the premises the tenant's personal property, the furnishings, or any other items without the prior written consent of the tenant, except when done pursuant to the procedure set forth in Chapter 5 (commencing with Section 1980) of Title 5 of Part 4 of Division 3.

 (c) Any landlord who violates this section shall be liable to the tenant in a civil action for all of the following:    (1) Actual damages of the tenant.    (2) An amount not to exceed one hundred dollars ($100) for each day or part thereof the landlord remains in violation of this section.  In determining the amount of such award, the court shall consider proof of such matters as justice may require; however, in no event shall less than two hundred fifty dollars ($250) be awarded for each separate cause of action.  Subsequent or repeated violations, which are not committed contemporaneously with the initial violation, shall be treated as separate causes of action and shall be subject to a separate award of damages.    (d) In any action under subdivision (c) the court shall award reasonable attorney's fees to the prevailing party.  In any such action the tenant may seek appropriate injunctive relief to prevent continuing or further violation of the provisions of this section during the pendency of the action.  The remedy provided by this section is not exclusive and shall not preclude the tenant from pursuing any other remedy which the tenant may have under any other provision of law.

My point being, not only is it completely improper to lock me out and then retroactively notify me, it is illegal. Asking me to pay you for essentially illegally evicting me is also not legal. In addition to this, it is against California Civil Code 1947 to evict me without providing 30 days notice via registered or certified mail, as is stated:

1946. A hiring of real property, for a term not specified by the parties, is deemed to be renewed as stated in Section

1945, at the end of the term implied by law unless one of the parties gives written notice to the other of his intention

to terminate the same, at least as long before the expiration thereof as the term of the hiring itself, not exceeding 30

days; provided, however, that as to tenancies from month to month either of the parties may terminate the same by

giving at least 30 days' written notice thereof at any time and the rent shall be due and payable to and including the

date of termination. It shall be competent for the parties to provide by an agreement at the time such tenancy is

created that a notice of the intention to terminate the same may be given at any time not less than seven days before

the expiration of the term thereof. The notice herein required shall be given in the manner prescribed in Section

1162 of the Code of Civil Procedure or by sending a copy by certified or registered mail addressed to the other

party. In addition, the lessee may give such notice by sending a copy by certified or registered mail addressed to the

agent of the lessor to whom the lessee has paid the rent for the month prior to the date of such notice or by

delivering a copy to the agent personally.

In regards to the cleaning costs, as you stated the things that needed to be dealt with were two pizza boxes, an apple in a trash bag, my clothing and a few used cups and silverware.This would have taken about 15-20 minutes for me to clean had I been given notice I was being evicted, and thus since I was given no opportunity to respond, prepare, or even know that the room was to be put in the condition to which it was rented to me, it is not my obligation financially to pay for it.

The way it breaks down is follows; on my side, I went on vacation, and then the day before returning, find out I'd been illegally evicted the previous week with no warning for the reason that my room was illegally entered and you were bothered by it being messy and having found shell casings I use to make belts for my brother's clothing company, all of which is legal. Overnight I'm suddenly homeless, and then I'm told that I am expected to essentially pay for the costs of being illegally evicted. I have no where to stay now in Los Angeles, so until I find a new apartment, which is a long, difficult, and annoying process, I am going to be living out of my car. 

Legally, I can do the following things. As I have been living there for more then one month and receiving mail, I can not legally be evicted without going through the eviction process. This means that I have full legal right to enter and live there until I am legally evicted, which will be enforced by police (I had a friend who was on the other end of this situation, and the police are required by law to ensure I have access to my things and the room I have paid for). I am also entitled to $100 per day that the locks have been changed, with a minimum of $250 for changing them in the first place, as you can read in civil code section 789.3. That code also states I am entitled to sue for moving costs, lost revenue, attorneys fees, filing fees, and other damages. Those are my main legal options at the moment, however because four separate civil codes were violated, I do have more options.

Now, all that being said, I would like this to be a clean break and continue, as incredibly inconvenient as this is, without getting mired in this. As I said, all I am looking for is my security deposit in full and the remaining rent already paid for the month. I do not want to continue living there, even if I am legally obligated to, as it would be awkward, uncomfortable, and hostile. Regardless of that, I do recognize that essentially throwing me on the street with no notice is completely illegal and I will not under any circumstances pay for it out of my rent or security deposit. I'm really frustrated, stressed out and wanting to get out of this situation, despite the fact that the next few weeks are going to be a nightmare because of this and I have substantial legal rights in this situation.

As I said earlier, I would like to arrange to pick up my things, vehicle, security deposit and remaining rent and drop off the keys and garage opener, and then chalk this up to a mutual learning experience. I hope you will agree with this after carefully reading and let us both move forward from this. As I said, I very much enjoyed my time there, but I do know my rights and I absolutely will not both be illegally evicted AND pay for the experience. 

Thank you,

-Kody

40 mile per hour FUPA

A huge fat lady rear-ended me at a red light in her massive toyota tacoma. I hate toyota tacomas, I hate fat people, and I hate having the two slam into the back of my loyal, hardworking car. I spent the night in the ER. Cunt.

Los Angeles

I'm here.

I'm watching Sphere in my apartment, is that queen latifah? Did she guest star in Sphere?

Whatever. I've been in LA for a few months now. OH SHIT, jelly fish are attacking queen latifah! Oh fuck, queen latifah just got eaten by jellyfish. That's embarrassing, they don't even have a central nervous system.

I lived in San Pedro for a month before I got tired of driving 80 miles each time I had a job interview. Now I live in koreatown. I've had my car stolen, recovered. And been drugged and almost robbed. LA is fucking insane. People are fucking insane. Power lines explode outside my window. Police surround my apartment. I get by, barely. 

Such large changes

So, so little time before it all breaks over.

A failed attempt

Ideas for photoshoot:

1) things to convey, I am empty! There are no thoughts, just feelings and impulses that echo off walls of blood vessels. Electron currents, like flecks from sparklers burning down, such little things in control of such a large scope. It's a process, there is no mind to a sandstorm or the way the rain falls. Animals and machines are easy things, sometimes I feel more like one or the other. Humans think, I calculate. I think in sharp points, slice one in half and add up the pieces. I feel like a thing, an animal, more liquid in thought then the rigid confines of what "people" are can contain. This is not better, it is just messy. I can be poured, I suppose. I like sweet noises but they must change, constantly, or the machine in me ceases to find such patterns and rhythms and shapes amusing. None of these things are what I want to take pictures of because I don't want to take pictures right now. I want to be unconscious, mindless. I would like to break things down to simple pieces, but not set it up first. I am empty, I can't see forward and I won't look back, I hear a heartbeat and see this screen and the corner of SW clay and park. Stop. One Way. Expresso, Pastries, Fresh Juice, Sandwitches and Salads. College students walk by and it reminds me of when I was them and they weren't here and I was trying, really hard, to not be like I am now. I got stuck and just stayed, vibrating strong and clear but out of tune, out of chord. There is an emergency yellow light pulsing endlessly down the street, yellow, and I can't decide if it's driving me crazy of it I don't care about it in the slightest. Everything moves so slowly, is this productivity?

Dixheure

I feel a soulless lack of self identity when I think of my past, my friends. It feels empty, like I cannot associate or identify myself with the person I was or people I used to be around. It's disturbing to be so different from who you used to be and realize you knew yourself back then and know so little about yourself now, even things a simple as where you came from and how you ended up here. 

You live strange lives

Nemesis

So, I pull up to pick up Nigel and two of his friends, and I see four people approach the car. One person is obviously in his thirties and drunk. I can tell it's going to go well.

As soon as I pull up he starts ranting about how we're going downtown and how he's going to get us all high. I tell him I'm straightedge and that doesn't really appeal to me. I make a general announcement that there are about a thousand reasons that's not happening and that sixteen are right here, as I put a handgun on my belt and get out of the car. The guy starts telling me that our two options are to let him into my car or he's going to fight all of us and we're all going to go to jail.

I told him that's stupid because no one wants to go to jail but I'm not going fifteen minutes in the opposite direction to drop him off. He starts getting close to nigel and threatens to hit him. I start moving nigel's friends out of the way so I have a clear line of fire. The guy then tells us if we give him five dollars each he'll leave us alone. Nigel's friends walk off and I get Nigel in the front seat. I try to gracefully infourm the man that I won't be taking him, and he tells me he's going to break every window in my car. He then takes several menacing steps towords me and says something about "beating the shit out of you queers."

That was a mistake.

I hit him in the face with a combination of pepper spray and CS teargas. As he stumbled backwards, I came up and kicked him in the ass and then the face. "RUN MOTHERFUCKER." I shouted at him. "DO YOU WANT SOME FUCKING MORE? GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE OR I'LL GIVE YOU SOME FUCKING MORE." He continued to stumble around. He pulled his sweatshirt hood over his face and tried to stumble back at me, and I punched him in the face. As he staggered back, I rushed in and sprayed more pepper spray under his hood and into his face. I kicked him one more time and he sat down abruptly.

I was a little carried away at this point, got back in my car, and saw him get up and try to stagger back towards us. I gunned the engine and tried to sideswipe him, but he was up on a curb so instead I put on my brights and honked for a minuite, which made him stumble and fall back down. We then drove off.

Twenty minuites later, he and a bunch of cholos in a dodge charger saw us and tried to chase us down. I out-combat-drove them in a 93 geo prism and lost them in about 45 seconds.

And tonight was a good night.

ich

I keep a hard heart. I keep a safe heart. I keep a heart like a complicated equasion, two, three, four steps removed from the touch of reality and buried in supposition, cause and effect, action and reaction. There is little touch, and the caress that brings most hearts up or down is ones and zeros to me. It is factored in. It is tabulated and compared and theorized and then gains meaning through the strange series of cause and effect that has been proven to me over time. If they are interested in you, it is probably insincere unless they want to sleep with you. If they want to sleep with you, they will not want to do so more then once. There is something wrong with me. I am fading. If they touch you, it means that in that moment, you are okay. When you touch me it is cold. The impulse must creep from one equation to the next, finding context, meaning, through these things until it affects my world. These is a steep divide between physicality and reality for me. I do not trust intentions.

breathing down my neck

I am not

I am no one to balk at the odds, declare a miracle of unlikely things. I see them every day, I live them, I am an unlikely thing. To find love, or animosity, or anguish, or any strong emotion across the cold void is not so much remarkable as inevitable, as I see it. We crave it, we hunt it and seek it, so why be so surprised when we find it?

I can't focus. I'm disgusted by my lifestyle.

It's quiet. I don't like quiet. I speak and nothing echos back. When it's too quiet, I move. I transition from place to place.
I remind myself that stability is just a thing, a goal but not an absolute attachment to good. Stability is like chaos, an adjective to a situation, not the definition of it.
I don't have a lot of people. Sometimes I told myself, people matter. Not the classical kind of success. I do it for people. But now I don't have even that.
I'm tasting that success, that I lacked, that I gave up for him or anyone else. It's ok. It's stable. But I'm still unhappy.
There is no greater purpose, there is no plan. There is no future. I'm numb to most things but surviving and not surviving.

I cannot feel my fingers as I type, it's familiar. Portland is so easy, a game I figured out and play from time to time just because it's nice to win, even if there's no prize. I've been changing myself. I hate myself. I find nothing worthwhile or attractive or particularly interesting about myself. I derive all my self worth by the approval or disapproval of other people. Approval makes me feel okay for about ten minutes, max. Disapproval haunts me for weeks. I give myself away because I don't give a fuck, let alone value myself.

I care in jagged little pieces. I give them to people and they scratch when moved against my skin. I care for only people who don't care much for me. Never people who love me. That annoys me. I give little pieces of a greater love reserved to whores and mindless automatons of flesh. I don't know why. I look for approval and love in the most base, unlikely places and crumble a little more as I confirm its absence. I only find feeling in rejection. Am I that desperate for sensation? Now I cannot feel my whole hands, from the fingers to the joints to the palms. My fingers are like cold sticks on the keyboard, stiff and unresponsive. It is familiar.

It is tricky to untangle these things. Stability, chaos, familiarity, progress. What is right, what is just a reaction. I don't have the time, the thought. I am.

ich

Evolving backwards to what I want to be, degenerating mentally as I develop physically. Degeneration. 

What a night.

So.

I park to go to a party, this woman in an SUV parks across the street and glares at us. As she comes out, Nigel asks her if she happens to have an extra cigarette. She replies no and then asks if we can happen to "move our fucking car." Nigel says no, sorry. She then flips the fuck out and calls us drunk assholes. I tell her I don't drink.

She responds by calling us all sorts of nasty names, to which I replied that she's a fucking bitch and she can go choke on a dick. She says she's going to go get her husband. I tell her she's a twat. She goes inside.

I check back on my car 5 minutes later and the husband starts knocking on the window of their house. I tell nigel not to look at him. Nigel waves to them. The man emerges from the house with a golf club and runs at us saying "THAT'S IT I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASSES YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKERS."

He hits the hood of my car with the golf club, causing a small dent.
This is a mistake.

I pull out my Bersa Thunder .380 and chamber a round, commenting "Back the fuck off, motherfucker. Back off right fucking now. Get the fuck away from my car."


The man runs back into the yard, but the woman freaks out and demands I shoot her. I tell her she's a dumb cunt and tell Nigel to get in the car. They scramble to try to get my licence plate. As I shut my door to drive off, I tell them:

"You two are fucking lucky."

Then, we drive seven blocks, call the police, file a report, and had them arrested.


End of night.

I have become a conquistador. 

It is no longer a question of love. It is not a question of attraction or matches or things falling into place. These things do not fall like paper cranes, they are placed, carefully, for you to see. They are a roadmap. They are markers leading you to the place I want you. And you'll discover them, little love, as if by an accident and revel in the perfection of chance. Of fate. But fate has no hold over me and my affairs, I make a point of it. 

No, it's not about love. Not anymore. This is revenge, preemptive and generalized to an extreme. Do you think I like you, your touch, your flirting and your compliments? Do you think my reciprocation in flirting means I accept you, I want you, I even like you? Do you think that, at the very least, it means I want you like you want me? No, I can't. I don't. What I am saying to you with my careful smile, my kind words and my flesh beneath your skin, so loud that I fear you will sense it beneath the thin layer of skin beneath which it boils in my blood, is simple. I hate you. I hate you and I want to punish you, not just for what you do and might do to me, but for who you are. I loathe every inch of you, every breath, every word you speak makes me twist up inside more with revulsion. I know you. I know what you want. I know what you are and what you do and, oh, I am so tired of it. 

Let me explain my attraction to you, if you choose to call it that. I want to have you in the palm of my hand and then I want to throw you away. I want you to call me. I want you to miss me and not miss you. I want you to become pathetic for me, overtly. I want you to have something you want and have it taken away from you. I want this from you because so many times it happens to me. There is no future to this, no kind ending. There is only me getting what I want, or me not getting what I want. 

Not with the innocent, I am afraid to touch good people anymore for fear of leaving stains. But you. Yes, you. I'll touch you, rake with my fingernails and leave marks on you. I know the song by heart and I can sing it convincingly, even as it grows tired and common. I do it out of hate, the ion of sadness that's burned and burned and become energized to a state of praxis. There is only one escape, one weakness, to this blind brutality. I shouldn't tell you, but I will. When I meet you, I want you, I do want you. That is the only time I want anything from me or that you can do anything for me. It's that need that's the only power a boy can have over me. If he pulls away before I have him, there is an echo of hurt that ripples through me. I'll want you more then any other, I'll follow you. I'll entice you. I'll do what I can and what I have to to have you. If you stay away, you'll always have power over me. You'll never be a broken product of my revenge, tainted in my own eyes. 

Conquistador, I'll slash and burn through them. I do not want to love you, I want you to love me and hurt. It makes me less sad, because when you're hurting I'm not alone. I am your intangible, I am the myth you can't quite lay to rest. I breathe life into it and leave it looming before you, cowering you into my hand. Herr god, Herr lucifer, beware, beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair, and I eat men like air.

I like how I think I'm really really funny

And most people just react to it with intense hostility. DONT CARE.


YOU. LOOK. LIKE. JIMMY. NEUTRON.
And I don't care if you get mad at me for pointing it out, scene boy.

Don't invite me to your parties

I don't drink or do drugs, so to amuse myself at parties one of my recent hobbies has been to try to make the absolute worst possible impression on people I haven't met. The worst.




So without further delay, this is what I did tonight.

































This is apparently what I'd look like if I picked up 15 year old prostitutes and went to bro parties after doing rails off their boners. Cool.

PS I'd never met the boy in most of the pictures before tonight and I don't know how he ended up on my lap, but he was rad.

fury

Looks can be deceiving

V

The difference between love and everything else is that love defies that which we hate about the world around us. Love does not suddenly die. It does not vanish when we need it. It lives in the back of our minds when we are alone. It can be trusted when nothing else can, it is a path straight through the defenses and mistrust and suspicion and apprehension and uncertainty that makes speaking or trusting or even dealing with other people so complicated. It is logical simplicity in a world of duplicity. It is to know when you go to sleep that you are watched over endlessly and benevolently by someone.



And the hardest part of love is when you can't stop ignoring the lessons of everything else and begin to realize that no, maybe it isn't absolute after all. Things are connected by strings. Gravity binds things together closely, absolutely, invisibly and perpetually. But these strings can be stretched, pulled, and eventually broken when they reach their limit. After that there is no string, no bond, just empty space between two dissociated objects. There is no evidence to suggest they ever coexisted, only the cold action of physics that drew them apart.



And you, I'd breathe. In spite and hatred and violence there was always my family. Weak, strong, there was no difference for once. For once it was all safe, for once someone didn't let me go. I could seek solace without sacrificing my pride. Maybe these things exist only in mutual suffering, and vanish like shadows in the light of content. Maybe we are only family in the discontent that runs through our veins, half removed again when the wounds start to heal. I am hard. I am unfriendly and hostile. I have contempt. I have bitterness. I have vendettas of pride and spite and small insults. But it was never the same rules, pour toi. Je pourrais regarde 200 garçons meurent sans le blesse que te regarder pleurer me fait sentir. Est-ce tu devenir un garçon comme un autre, encore et pour le dernier fois?

mast

Tension. I don't mind that the strings get tighter and tighter with time. It's only that which allows them to vibrate louder and louder and drown out anything but the chaos. Discord. This is what it's like to live a life disjointed in full bloom. Potential wide-eyed, praxis scattered. I've traveled over a thousand miles in the last week. Why? To feel, the pursuit of feeling. To be struck down again while seeking the thought and feeling that someone gives a fuck about me. Here, there, under rocks and on beds and beaches and fountains and concrete and across oceans and states and miles and hundreds of dollars I look to feel slightly less alone. To feel cared for. To feel like I have some semblance of family. To hold on to the human half, the right to be weak, the right to be treated like a person rather then a novelty.



I feel like I'm standing very very high and the wind is blasting my hair back and making my eyes water and blowing everything from my hands and pockets and leaving me grasping. I am falling. I am. I am winding down. This is a last push, the way things stand. This is a press of dwindling strength, pitifully unfocused for a final strike. I have no great loves to fight for, only bitter hurts turned to bitter hatreds and sad scars to avenge. No great stories anymore. Resentment. I begin to treat my friends like enemies for marring the trust and faith and emotion I give to them.



You give up the right to be close with someone when you go away a lot. I go away a lot. And when I end up screaming and begging and clawing to speak and be heard and feel human again I find I am a piece. A novelty. Everyone has cashed in their faith in me. There is no one to choose me. There is no one to believe in me. I am central to no one's lives, I am close to no one's heart, I am small. A small piece that comes to bear as an amusement, a crutch, an angel sent by god to protect you in your times of need, requiring no thanks or reciprocation because that's my fucking job. I am self-sacrificing charity.



It's bent. I can't stand anyone because I know how this ends. I know and anticipate that feeling of wounded trust or of being shoved aside or passed over or forgotten. I don't want to care, I don't want reminders that embarrass me of caring for anyone ever because whatever I did and whatever I was and am is never enough.



I am becoming self destructive. I don't even feel the need to document the absolute insanity I brush against on a daily basis anymore and don't care if it's the last time I get away with it. It's not for attention because no one cares. It's for me. It amuses me. It's the only thing that amuses me, watching it finish bending and break. Someone offered to sell me a grenade, several for the right price.

To raise the day from nothing to the greatest, to wrench the day from the greatest to the lowest.

No one should have this power over me.

A shift resists the tide resists the liberation of that which carries the heart, the blood which carries the feeling which conveys the capability to love and the capability to hurt. To fracture. More pieces, the edges of old obsidian crushing against new flesh born again, heartmeat ready to be ground again into oblivion. Does it exist to be destroyed? I am growing new parts for you to hurt because the old ones won't carry feeling anymore. The current cannot pass the black spots left by the surrender of the blood from these places, given up to malice and ghost towns of feeling. Raw skin, new. It hurts to grow and it hurts in anticipation of the hurt, so sensitive after so much quietness the faintest echo tears. I can feel it swelling like a wave having pulled back for so long and I stand as on the sand waiting for it to crash over me. Diamond splinters. The weakness disgusts that which I have grown malcontent with, the strength that keeps me whole but also alone. Numb or sad. Cascades or flat lines. Which is living, which is dying?

The summit

There is no sanctity, even in the old things anymore. Through this all I've felt numb, hungering to feel again. I pursue it, against odds and obstacles and hardship. I find the echoes in the ghost of suffering, the impression of heartbeats in heartache. Anger, pain, loss, I lift my head to these at the reminder of sensation. Life! So consuming once now so elusive. Erasing all the questions that once consumed me as trivial and driving them to the bottom of my mind.

Today I touched a ghost and I question. Is it worth it to chase these phantoms of feeling, tracing down old scars to remember the hurt that caused them? I wonder if I gave someone my blood, if the numbness like an anesthetic would cool their thoughts as well. It is such a change.

I wonder. What was it like for him? Did he think to himself how much older I look? How my hands are still when they were once always in motion? I wonder if he noticed how still my once all consuming heart has become. I wonder if he felt the stir of what he once felt for me, or if the whole time he was already like this and I just had to play catchup. I wonder what it felt like to him to touch again, briefly embrace one who he once told he loved and drove and touched and called and shared and thought of and fucked. If he felt the echo I listened so carefully for in myself. I hope he did. I wish I'd had more time.

This place was sacred. This island, these trees, this boy and the water. They were dreams of a word before the harshness of adulthood and the coming of such stillness. It was like a church, a mecca to which I sometimes dreamed of returning to and to see him again. Not for love, not for redemption nor revenge but for the same reason one makes a pilgrimage to a shrine. To touch, to be in the presence of that which is reverent and divine. I wanted to remember what that love felt like, even and especially in the echos of the pain it caused, the most vivid reminder. This island, I came to find made of dirt and trees and rock like any and all other places I've been and found nothing but more hunger. The boy still shy and still living the same life. His arms still strong, his hair, skin, the same. A boy, like the boy yesterday or any of the boys before. When I remembered him I didn't remember that he was just a boy, I remembered that I'd loved him more then I loved myself. When staring at a boy, it is hard to remember that he is the one. He is the one who wrote an essay about how I set him free. He held me. He saw me cry. He came forever to see me. He picked me up. And he wounded me for years. Love and notoriety and animosity and significance symbolized by one boy, but it is hard to make the connection anymore.

When he told me it was over I told myself I would not care. I promised myself I would be better, that when he saw me again I would have fixed whatever he didn't want about me and he would love me again and I would not care. I didn't want to care. That's all I wanted, the absence of indignity. I imagined it in my head, some nights. And then when the day comes to pass so many years later it passes again like any other, my wish to not care inverting into so desperately wishing I felt something. But his skin felt like skin and his voice sounded like a voice and I did not recall the powerful blows he once held above me. I could not connect these things.

Maybe I will see him again. Maybe with more time it would be different. I think it might. But rather then wrought with years of weight and significance the time, the epic meeting of former lovers once so charged he worried I'd take revenge for breaking me so hard, passed as the rest of my life does and has and shall. Quiet, still for the most part. An exercise in existence.

It was nice to see him again. On some level I'd missed him. The ferry is loading now and the dream, the sanctity, the place of mystery and myth in my head of the boy who held my heart in his hands is over. I was afraid I was not free, but I am. I am free, no one holds power over me and I make my own choices.  The thought makes me sad, I had hoped to still have strings touching my heart, even if long left idle.

On verra. I hope I see him again. I want him to remind me how I felt, even if just to hurt a little. I am liberated and lost, and this trip has destroyed one of the few places and memories I'd kept sacred all these years.

Also

Two latina woman in a minivan with a camera filmed him and I walking telling us "OH MY GOD YOU TWO LOOK LIKE MODELS, YOU'RE SO CUTE!" and then something about how her cousin was gay and he was going to hear about us. I blushed a little.

Balls.

So. Met yet another narcissistic drug addicted spends-all-his-time-in-the-pursuit-of-drugs-and-alcohol square scene kid. Normally I'd have tuned him out after the first comment about how sweet blow is but HE IS AN EXACT LOOKALIKE OF MY EX. The one that I was in pathetic love with and then broke up violently? Looks. Exactly. Like. Him.

Only he's openly more horrible, manipulative, and narcissistic. But it just weirds me the fuck out that this kid looks exactly like Ryan. What the fuck.

Scattered, scattered, scattered.

I just had the most terrifying dream and I have absolutely no one to confide it in to feel better and that's a shitty feeling. I feel like moving.

Also

Gun people are so funny. A black man at the convenience store just quizzed me for five minutes about AR-15's and gave me four dollars off my purchase because I "got him all interested."

ink

Flashes. The flashbacks are so acute some times. I'm driving and suddenly my senses are in chicago. Night. Him, to my left, always left, and my heart, beating. Why in all the years my heart has remained cold had it chosen to wake to someone so undeserving and irreverent of such great weight? But I woke in Chicago, for once I broke down the games my subconscious devises to keep my eyes turned outwards, abandoned the practice of keeping things at a distance and wanted to love. I close my eyes and the smell, the air and the sound of the car and I'm in Chicago, I feel echos of what it was like to have my heart alive and breaking and I shudder and feel a icy touch creep through my body as if the memory has entered my blood, fresh with the chill of the snow and air outside the windows those nights. It haunts me. I am so stoic and unmovable, oceans of feeling break against me and I feel nothing but that dull echo through numbed scar tissue and I stay, incapable and unwilling to feel, a rock in the waves. What a strange feeling to be reminded of being at the mercy of another, to feel my heart sting like a living, breathing creature instead of the cold circuit it has been resigned to. To remember when I hurt. To remember when I was the one pouring my blood before an alter to immobility. Before I was like him.

Oh, for unhealed wounds. It matters so much and so little and it so easy yet hard to repair. The need for release grapples with the symptoms of the wound and I cannot cry, cannot explain in words the injury because I do not love you. I cannot love you. Il a l'fait. He has made it so I cannot love you. I cannot heal because I cannot speak or cry or feel it anymore unless you're with me and I love you. But I let the boys fall in love with me and then realize I cannot understand their feelings, I cannot relate and I cannot find anything in them worthy of that heavy pain I bore would take to wake again. It is not a choice, being without love. To be touched by those who are beautiful and feel only what my nerves tell me. I was transformed in the winder, in chicago. I took it in, the breaths in the cold air borne to my blood and crept to the core. I keep it there, a photo memory of the time place and circumstance of the death of things and I keep moving so it will not swallow me whole. The flight has taken me far, far, far and cost me money, friends, lovers, and most of all time. Years of my life tossed to air to avoid the feeling that haunts me tonight.

Alone in my car and I'm in chicago. I remember it by the cold in my blood and the echo of feeling alive cast against the absolute stillness I've lived within since. An echo in silence rips through the ears like a gunshot, and I am overwhelmed.

Knock Knock. Who's There? ME OPENING A CAN OF LEGAL WHOOPASS, BITCH.

Pre Workup for Case: Toyota Camry Purchase


    Basis for Case:

Goal: Receive back $950-$1,000 in compensation for car.

Justification for cash: Due to incorrect paperwork given, I was unable to register and thus legally drive car or take full possession. Attempts to contact the seller were ignored by her, forcing me to buy another car so that I could legally drive. By furnishing the wrong paperwork and then refusing to reply or respond to repeated attempts at contact, the seller denied me the ability to complete the sale and legally possess the car I purchased.

Justification for nullification of sale: The seller also made false statements about the vehicle during the exchange. While I was viewing the car, I reiterated questions I had asked about the vehicle previously and was told that the car got "decent" gas mileage, that it did not smoke or make noises, that although it idled rough it was not serious and the car was mechanically sound. I asked if the car had any other issues and she answered no. In reality, the car gets abysmal gas mileage, it smokes and makes noises due to a serious power steering fluid leak, and the "not serious" idling is due to serious engine damage which would require the engine to be replaced to fix. The car also has a variety of other issues which were, of course, not mentioned when I specifically asked. Some of these include, the passenger power window being broken, the stereo being not removed but cut from the car with a knife, requiring $100 just to repair the wiring, the power locks not working from the driver's side, the passenger door lock unable to be opened from the outside due to damage, a loud, abrasive noise upon turning on the air conditioning, and water damage in the trunk due to a pool of water being allowed to remain there for an unknown amount of time.

Upon further examination, a mechanic who examined the vehicle said that evidence pointed to the timing belt having previously snapped and damaging major engine components. He said it appeared the belt had been replaced but no attempt had been made to repair the damaged components. Instead, it looks as if once the extent of the damage was discovered, it was simply concealed and sold. It would be very unlikely for a mechanic to replace the timing belt, which is the newest component in the car, without noticing the damage caused by the previous one snapping and impacting the engine. As a result it is extremely unlikely that the seller was unaware of the extent of the damage to the car. The extent of that damage renders the car almost inoperable, at the very least dangerous, and has reduced the six cylinder engine to running on three cylinders without full compression. The end result is a car that could fail at any time, is hideously inefficient on fuel and in need of repairs worth more the the car itself. When asked specifically and repeatedly about questions retaining to this, the seller either avoided the question, minimized the problems, or outright lied about their existence.


Independent of this, the seller also furnished me with paperwork which had already been signed over to a separate buyer who was not a party over six months ago. Both the bill of sale and the title I was given release interest to a third party who was never mentioned. After apparently keeping the bill of sale I signed for herself, I only later discovered that the bill of sale she had given me was to another person. The car, according to the paperwork, is neither mine nor hers, but some other person's. Therefor, according to what she provided me with, the car was never hers to sell, or at the very least she chose to sell it to me in a fashion that ensured I could never register it, and then proceeded to ignore all attempts at contact.

Conclusion: Due to deception on the part of the buyer witnessed by an associate including apparent concealment of serious problems with the vehicle which would have prevented the sale had they been revealed, furnishing incorrect paperwork, doubtful ownership in the first place, and complete lack of cooperation with all reasonable attempts to contact the seller regarding these issues, it is my belief that the sale should be null and the money tendered should be refunded. The vehicle should be returned to the seller in the condition with which it has been received. I am not seeking damages for repairs, gas expenses, mechanic's bills, or other expenses. If I were to do so, the damages sought would be substantially higher.

Some more happenings and observations

If you ever stay in the Daisy Hotel in Tacoma, Washington, wear a nun outfit or something or the sketchy guy who runs it will talk about and demonstrate the free porn the hotel has to offer for fifteen minutes. He's an overweight, hairy, SKETCHY AS HELL indian guy who will then knock on the door a full half hour before check out time and demand you leave.

At said hotel, there are also no locks on the door. I worked around this by not bothering to do anything about the door but having a loaded gun within five inches of my hand all night.

The bathroom smelled like rape. I didn't even know I knew what that smelled like until I tried to take a shower. The bedroom smelled like hashish and semi-consensual sex.

The drive to and from Tacoma is boring and a bitch. I went 80-85 most of the way back and exceeded the reading ability of my speedometer twenty-nine times.

One of the things I loathe more then anything is when someone tries to quote a stand up comedian, because I know of maybe three people I've ever met who can do that and actually make me laugh. Usually it's quoted incorrectly and then delivered with that laugh-craving, needy "eeh?" kind of punchline and it makes me fake-laugh uncomfortably and try to change the subject really hard. The next queer who tried to tell me this totally funny Margret Cho said one time and then incorrectly quote a quarter of one of her DVD's is getting tossed out of my car. Extra hatred is reserved for people trying to quote stand up comedians quoting other people, especially Margret Cho doing the voice of her mother. I love hearing a korean accent come out kind of german/russian and trying to understand what the fuck kind of reference you're trying to make.

I stole a sign from a Jack In The Box that offended me. It said in huge lettering "FORGETTING SOMETHING?" and then there's a giant picture of a fruit cup. I took this to read as "I THINK YOU'RE FUCKING FORGETTING TO ORDER YOUR OBLIGATORY FRUIT CUP, FUCK FACE" so I stole it and plan to modify it and apply it as a massive bumper sticker on my car. I haven't decided if I want to write "YOUR MOTHERFUCKING FRUIT CUP" or "A FRUIT CUP MOTHERFUCKER CHECK YO SELF" in sharpie on it yet, but it's going to be something motherfuckery and fruitcupy.

Still living in an art studio in which I'm not permitted to live. Someone is sewing relentlessly next door.

Did a shoot with Jonathan, not NEARLY done editing but hey.

Plus side of being me

I look phenomenally cute with fucked up hair, first thing in the morning in a loose fitting tshirt and underwear.

Events

I've been circling around Portland doing much and nothing. Former arch nemesis now not arch nemesis Jonathan has been in town and I've done a photo shoot with him, results pending. I've temporarily moved into my friend's art studio while I look for a cheap apartment (FOUND ONE FOR $300, DAMNNN). For now this will do, wireless internet via metrofi free wireless internet, no mattress but tomorrow I'll have one. Door locks. No shower = shitfuck, but I can wash my hair at least.

Tonight while going to McDonald's for food a black woman approached my car and asked if taco bell was open. I said I didn't think so, and he asked if she could jump in and go through the drivethrough at McDonald's. I unwisely allowed this, after making sure my valuables and gun were on my side of the car, and of course she turned out to be totally insane. She placed an order of at least twelve or thirteen things, screamed of course, and then proceeded to pay entirely in change. It turns out she was staying at the Kent hotel, which is a sex/hobo hotel with her massive amount of children. I gave her a ride back, and on the way I was cut off by a taxi, to which she proceeded to comment, and I quote "WHAT THE HALL KINDA THING THIS MOTHAFUCKA THINK HE BE DOIN I'MMA GET SOME ROAD RAGE UP IN HERE I DONT LIKE A MOTHEAFUCKA WHO DO DEM THINGS YA KNOW? I'MMA GET SOME ROAD RAGE UP IN HERE YA KNOW?" I agreed on principle and she got the fuck out of my car. She smelled a little like meth and oxycotton.

Portland - Again

I drove up all day with some friends from Highschool yesterday and got in lateeeee. Again stayed in the closet - I'm looking at subletting an apartment SOON so I don't have to do that again. Casting was today and it took maybe 45 seconds, the rest of the day I have free and empty and it feels awkward because this isn't my house and I have only a handfull of friends here. But then again I have a handfull of friends anywhere. I'm considering driving to Seattle but I don't have anything really going on there either.

This is how I looked for the casting. I love how I don't take these things seriously, but then again modeling is a shit job and I only do it when approached.

I'd really like something to do at the moment but everyone I know is scattered and really difficult and expensive to consolidate. I need to start making some money. Soon. Once I get an apartment I can relax a bit, although honestly I can get an apartment in just about any city I want to at the moment. Seattle, Portland, Ashland, Los Angeles. Maybe I'll look to Seattle, but I worry about getting caught up in another side project there.

I also worry about writing nothing but meaningless musings about things that haven't happened yet. THE CLOSET STILL HAS FIBERGLASS DUST.

Oh, I just remembered I'm supposed to call someone. Sweet.

Events:

- My car ended up having engine problems AND the woman gave me faulty paperwork, meaning it would cost more then it was worth to fix it.

- Had to buy an entire new car god damn it. 1992 Geo Prism. 30-35 MPG. Red. Sweet.

- Had the following exchange with Geico while shopping for insurance.

GEICO to ME

"FAIR CREDIT REPORTING ACT NOTICE

As a result of your recent rate quote or renewal, we obtained information about you from the consumer reporting agency listed below. That information was used in combination with other factors to determine the rate that you were provided.

Trans Union
National Disclosure Center
2 Baldwin Place, PO BOX 1000
Chester, PA 19022
or call 1(800)645-1938

Since we may have been able to offer you a lower rate had the report been more favorable, we treat our decision as an adverse action under the Fair Credit Reporting Act. You have the right to obtain a free copy of a consumer report from the reporting agency listed above, provided your request is made within 60 days of receiving this notice. You also have the right to contact the reporting agency listed above to dispute the accuracy or completeness of any information in the consumer report provided. The reporting agency did not determine your rate or play any part in our decision and is unable to provide you with specific reasons for our decision or how the rate was determined. You may request, no more than once annually that we re-rate you using an updated consumer report.

The specific information provided by Trans Union that may have influenced our decision is:

-Insufficient length of credit history (-)

-Delinquency (-)

-Presence of collection accounts (-)

-Recent delinquency (-)

Still have questions? Visit GEICO's Credit Use-Frequently Asked Questions page."

Me to GEICO:

"Yours was the worst quote I got anyway so fuck off.

Thx,
-K

P.S. Your mascot is fucking retarded. No one wants to buy car insurance from an english gecko and no one gives a shit about his life story. Your commercials make me want to kill myself with a hammer."


- Going to Portland on Monday.

Thought of the night

Matthew Lush makes me want to shoot myself in the head. Just to punish him for being too stupid to live I'm seeding his sex tape on file sharing networks.

I wonder sometimes if my stepfather is retarded or just does these things to piss people off on purpose.

I've been here less then a week.

cineque

I move a lot for staying in the same place.

I am tired to death of making such little progress in life. I stay in quiet little circles, mini spheres of life in which I judge myself. And I succeed, more often then not, but with the decay of the whole while I play out these little games, real progress is slow. I become sidetracked, I throw away days, weeks, years. And I do it alone, but for tenuous ties due to my combative and discriminating nature. I am selective and most people drive me insane, I can't be around them. I can't be around much of anyone for any length of time. I lack excitement in my own life so I manufacture it. I want to be a part of something so I invent it. And I am still so fucking wounded and nostalgic even after so much time, it sickens and saddens me to my core that the most important thing, to me, that I've ever been a part of was such a horrible scar. It lingers over me and looms over everything I do and leaves me unable to appreciate beauty, kindness, and sincerity without first detaching myself from it. It leaves me cold, like I bled out all my warmth and I now go around observing everything with a cool, objective distance.

I wonder sometimes what I would do if I saw my first ex again. I know what I would do if I saw most of them, but not him. It's odd to think of spending two years with someone and then breaking off so abruptly, but I suppose I did that. After so much time it's more of a curiosity then anything, but I wonder if he looks in on me from time to time or cares to. It's faded to curiosity and who knows if it will fade still, but it's a stray thought I've caught in my head lately.

Thoughts are still and always fragmented, I hate being fragmented, disorganized. I am becoming more and more organic in my thoughts and decision making which is a horrible thing to do for someone who detaches himself from parts of life.


I can never focus long enough to say what I want to say.

omg

Update:

FUCK driving, FUCK bend, FUCK all the traffic lights in bend being out, FUCK drunk bros on a saturday night, FUCK cops, and FUCK that brick wall I backed into trying to get out of some fucking parking lot. And FUCK my GPS for telling me to turn left onto a street when there was a concrete divider so I had to go for 500 feet in the wrong lane before it ended.

FUCK tonight.

Well

I just had to shoot a deer 25 times in the head and 5 times in the heart. So basically I just unloaded 30 rounds on a deer we hit.

Messyyy. Grosss.

Video

UGH

I went to a job interview for a security firm a few days ago and was greeted by a very tall, very intelligent, very enthusiastic woman in a pant-suit named Michelle.  Michelle had braces, a lot of energy, and liked me. Unfourtionately I needed certification I can't yet get, so Michelle had to turn me away, despite liking me and giving me her card. I was asked to come back if I could get the certification, but it was, as always, discouraging.

I've been using Cary's free bus pass so the trips have been free so far, but without them it would have been a superbitch. I'm working on a few projects at once, getting a job and getting my record expunged and getting a car being the top priorities. I only brought a few pairs of clothes and I had to get new ones yesterday as my old ones seem to be full of fiberglass dust and are causing tiny itchy bumps all over my body. Lovely.

Hanging out with Josh again has been good, you don't just leave solid friendships and forget about them. Josh lives one of the more unusual lives of the people I know but that is because Josh is different from literally anyone else I know. One can take several interpretations on his behavior and the cause. I prefer to believe that Josh's unusual self sufficiency leads to a rift between him and people who's needs dictate their behaviors, that being the majority of humanity. That lack of relation leads to misunderstandings that frustrate him and disturb others as they see different events in entirely different contexts. Theory aside, Josh is unique and interesting and it's been refreshing to spend time with him.

I'm trying to write this fucking blog entry but people keep messaging me.

Growth

I made it back, in one piece no less.

My life has been marked by spontaneous decisions and the trip to Germany was no exception. Despite the trip being hard, it was more then worth it in so many ways. Hannes, alone, would have made it worth it. I was given faith in people that had been shaken from me, an a renewed sense of purpose or at least potential within myself.

The short version of the story is, I was told by my original hosts that I could no longer stay with them and I was effectively without a permanent place to stay for over a month till my flight. When I asked if I could at least get a ride to the airport, I got no reply. So, with 60 euro, two friends in the entire country, and a very unstable stay ahead of me, I had to make it work.

Hannes did that for me. Hannes did everything for me. He took me in when no one else would and he was the sweetest, most open and caring boy I'd ever met. He shared without questioning and really, sincerely just wanted me to feel safe and happy. He respected my space when I needed it and I grew close to him through that. I learned to cook a bit, learned the bus system in Munster and the cheapest places to buy groceries. I went with him to his parent's house in Dulmen and Oberhausen and Enschede. I loved him.

Despite being in one of the most healthy relationships of my life, it was underscored by the fact that I need to do a lot of work on myself. I'm not, not quite yet, fair to the people I love. It's hard for me, I recognize that I have some weird attachment and personal space issues. Luckily I was able to contain them as much as possible during my stay and avoid hurting Hannes with my own flaws, but I need to fix these things within myself if I'm going to have a future with someone.

The last part of my stay was significantly more comfortable and stress free thanks to a donation from a friend, I was able to travel and see more then I had in the previous two months combined. My departure was a bit hectic and sad due to the separation from Hannes, but I know I will see him again, so I was able to take it.

The flight was wretched, an italian and an annoying american spoke about really, really stupid things the entire flight. I was moved from my nice, pre-ordered window seat into a shitty isle seat by an arab girl who offered me an ultimatum of either moving so she and her grandparents could sit together or sitting next to a pair of pissed off arab grandparents for 12 hours, so I took the former. At LAX I went through an absurd amount of security before meeting up with Christoph and heading over to Cyle's dorm for the night.

Things were a little distant between Cyle and I for the first few days, but after things melted I realized how much and why exactly I had missed him so much. I spent a few weeks in LA with him and they were, to say the least, memorable. It brought he and I closer and I expect good things to come of it.

I finally caught a ride back to Ashland with three other people, a girl who was mostly quiet and had a good sense of humor but unfourtionatly encouraged the other two, the driver, a man named lance who's nipple allegedly had been ripped off in a car accident and then grown back, and someone who once, in Ashland, asked me to join his band assuming I played any instruments at all. Which I don't. The latter proceeded to sing originals and covers on an out of tune guitar in the back seat of the car for over an hour. I proceeded to not murder him in the interest of a smooth ride back.

When I arrived Taylor was asleep on my bed, having driven five and a half hours worth of driving in under three hours. The next two days were an insane compensation for everything I hadn't been able to do in europe. We shot at things, burned things, drove recklessly, and otherwise were americans for a few days. A few days later Taylor had to head home.

My 21st birthday was uneventful. So uneventful that I left. There was nothing happening in Ashland so I caught a ride to Portland just to have something to do. It was spur of the moment, and what started out as a one or two day trip has turned into a week as I try to see if I can get a job up here. My laptop died shortly after LA, and as of this moment I'm sitting on my friend's porch, typing on my new macbook I got myself for my birthday (I didn't get any other presents, except taylor coming to see me), on a sunny day getting ready to go out and adventure.



I'll try to keep more regular logs from now on.