Far, far away from here.

Tell me I’m sensitive. I bruise so easy.

                True story, I really do. If you check up on my Facebook you already know that I fell off a bar stool. I have a sore boobie and bruised shin. It’s a fantastic story. I was getting up to “fight” with someone, my leg was hooked under the bottom rung of the stool. We all rolled over, and I fell down, to the ground, to get out of the rain, boom boom boom boom. I laid there for a while. The fall itself wasn’t so bad; the recovery however, has not been pleasant.

                I like having thin skin; it shows off the effects of others on my being. If you upset me, you will probably know it. If you inspire me, I will tell you about it. If you hurt me, I will bruise.

                 No one’s favorite pass time should be beer. Its in my top 10.

                 I don’t think people ever want to be happy. I read somewhere that vacations don’t make people happy, it’s the weeks before. We like having something to look forward to, we like having hope that there is something out there that will be better than what we have right now. Its not the destination, it’s the drive. I’m happy right now, but its that bitter, twisted, fucked happiness. My hope is skewed, as well as my reality. But it makes me happy, who am I to judge myself?

                I’ve never been on a plane at night time. Why are there so many flights late at night? Gets my hopes all up for the shooting stars, but you give me something to wish for.

                Even when we fight we can be happy, it’s the hope that it will be so much better when we make up, those “little happy moments” that’s what drives us to deal with so much shit.

                I don’t know what I want, I don’t ever know what I’m doing, but I know why I’m doing it. I know what I don’t want. I don’t want to be bored. I don’t want to feel like I am a part of the whole. I don’t want to feel neglected or unimportant. I don’t want to be the big spoon (very often). I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to be tied down. I don’t want to be a mouth only to kiss. I don’t want to be someone’s Thursday night girl. I don’t want to be a secret. I don’t want to be a lie.

                We are all just looking for the little glimmer of hope, we are just waiting on the vacation. I’m happy not getting away; I just like daydreaming about it.

I'll set this town on fire

I need to quit writing “lyrics” so late at night. My mind gets all one tracked. Its bloody awful.

How many times have you wanted something just because you weren’t allowed to? I am insanely curious. I have an overactive imagination. I could list names, for discretionary reasons I won’t. But they are ****, ***f, *y**, r***, *o*, **l**. Oh dear lord, that was far more ridiculous of a thought process than I thought it would be.  I had to put in a letter so I wouldn’t get confused. Then I got sad, then I decided to stop making that list.

I was making that mostly to justify shit I shouldn’t need to explain. Oh well. More words….

You would’ve thought I’d know better,

Seems this happens all the time.

Like the changing of the weather

Wouldn’t want you if you were mine.

Hands I shouldn’t hold.

Lips I shouldn’t kiss.

Laughter's never old.

Never mine to miss.

What leads the smoke to fire.

The tension pulling tighter

You’ll always love a fighter.

Want what you’ll never have

Look deeper for that meaning.

Always try to make you laugh

Only love you when I’m screaming.

Don’t think I can do it better

Know I’ll never have the chance.

Wait it out like stormy weather

I love this fucking dance.

What leads the smoke to fire.

The tension pulling tighter

You’ll always love a fighter.

So I'm trying this new thing here...

So, if you remember I had a blog post a while back that mentioned something about a band. (sad hipster post about identity and procrastination) Well the mother fuckers flaked. So I pouted, got drunk and cried over all of the past wonderful, beautiful musical moments I’ve had, BLAH, BLAH, FUCKING BLAH…

I’ve had the whole “write lyrics if you want to sing” conversation with a few people. I don’t really do that… remember the bit about me and identity and being a musician? Yeah, still an uncomfortable word in my mouth... anyway... balls out. Please give feed back as lyrics are not my forte. Please don’t judge me if it sucks. I really just pulled this out of my ass..

Dream girls don’t exist.

Wipe her make up from your lips

All she wanted was your kiss

You will never call her “mine”

Look for love in crowed bars.

Stumble drunken through the cars

What she wants is who you are

More fickle now than ever

Roll me up in arms of cotton

Your past lovers are forgotten

Wanting only to be whole,

Never asking for any more

Roll me up in arms of cotton

Then her prince will take her home

Love’s so lovely, wonderful

Touch so tender, she’s alone

Pick your clothes up off the floor

Roll me up in arms of cotton

How to love? its all forgotten

Wanting only you to hold

Never asking for any more

Roll me up in arms of cotton

I got about that far and then I realized what was happening and started thinking too much.. so I stopped. I have a feeling lyrics are going to be like crafts with me. If I don’t do it all at once, I will never finish it.

e chu ta!

The floor is lava, the floor is always lava. I wake up in the morning (afternoon) and I make the decision to swing my legs over the side of the bed and let my feet get set on fire.

                My back hurts. Its irrelevant what I actually did to it. But it hurts. Working on my feet for 9.5 hours didn’t help matters.

I finally finished the Star Wars trilogy, I had seen it in my childhood, but had no recollection of the films. I can name all 5 bounty hunters in order. However, I can’t spell that shit, so I’m going to share with you my word association in learning them. Danglars, P90X, Bobba Fett, Bosk, Forlorn, Zapatos. Also, Scrumptious Crum, Rafiki, and Max Reboom. Bacta Tank.

If you can kidnap me an Ewok, I will marry you/make you infinite sammiches.

Stupid things make me sad, like having nice conversations with old friends, fills me with all the sadness of how the friendship used to be.

Smells make me sad, cool summer nights and Parliament lights smell like last year.

“First the window, then its to the wall. Lil John, he always tells the truth.” Cue hyperventilating and overwhelming embarrassment. “Hello nervous system, how are you today?” “Oh, you are insane and want to make the world close in on me?” “Fuck you!” Seriously, I am insane, who laughs themselves into a baby panic attack? And who finds that endearing, or not really endearing, but tolerates it and fixes it? And is all sweet and affectionate, but then gives the shit? These are all wonderfully nice things that I have a really hard time swallowing. I’m used to people being shitty, I can understand that shit, I can justify it even, but affection? It makes me crazy. (Dear person this situation is talking about, stop freaking out. Its 5:30 in the morning and I am processing. Its my blog and I’ll do what I want!)

I had a hand in a conversation about the new Spiderman movie, two nerdy boys, two separate states. Two very different opinions, one on speaker phone, the other in bed on the other side of the door, in bed. Me? Oh, I’m on the shitter. You know, being adorable.

It is never ok to tell a stranger you aren’t wearing underwear. I just talked about something I did whilst pooping, that is more acceptable than telling a stranger I’m not wearing panties. I might have the least amount of class possible in a female, but I have never once told a stranger I wasn’t wearing panties.

I know I’m late to this whole party, but OMG! Jenna Marbles, total girl crush.

I really have no idea what it is like to have a normal sleep schedule anymore… No idea at all.

I’m tired, I am writing random thoughts instead of diving deeper into the world of Frank Castle. I know I won’t stop once I start. It starts stopping when it stops stopping. It stops stopping when it starts stopping. Can’t stop, won’t stop the beat. Beat it, beat it. No one wants to be defeated. Nobody knows what its like, to be the sad man. You’re my brown eyed girl. You look pretty in your fancy dress, but I detect unhappiness. Blue, oh so lonesome for you. Don’t stop believing.

Come Home

If you want to make me fall in love with you, show me good music. If you want me to love you, sing with me. If you want me to be yours, make music with me.

                I once had a conversation with someone about the idea of organic music. The laughter of children. The wind blowing leaves. The way you feel when you smell a fire. The crackling of leaves. The skipping of a rock. I once made her cry in the car. I was singing along to the song Wading In Deeper by Katzenjammer. That was a prime example of organic music. I wanted her to hear the song; I sang out with everything that song made me feel.                    

      

                 I don’t feel like I’m living to my fullest potential when I’m not singing. Tonight at work some guy drove by in his big “I’m compensating for something” truck. He was playing that song “Baby, lock the door and turn the lights down low...” I don’t feel like using the internet to look up the song. I sang the rest that verse in the parking lot. Noah, my coworker was out there smoking a cigarette with me, I wasn’t singing to him. He was just there. I felt better just singing. Its like I breathe in all the time, but the only time I ever truly, completely, exhale is when I sing.

                I have moments, moments when a normal person would want to cry, or smile, or laugh. I want to sing, I want to dance. I want to spin, round and round, until I’m dizzy and breathless. Just to feel something because no words I could ever come up with would describe the way I’m feeling. No ordinary gesture could express my happiness, or my sorrow.

                 I’m having an emo night. I’m sitting alone in my room listening to Ryan Adams. There are people in my living room laughing and enjoying each other’s company. I am satisfied just listening. I don’t want them to share it with me, I want them to keep it for themselves and let me sulk in my room. I missed all of the fireworks tonight. Its probably for the best, I would’ve thought too much about past years. Independence Days gone by, holding hands and swimming and singing with families that weren’t mine. Sitting on blankets, playing with cousins who aren’t involved with my family anymore. Talking to cousins who have grown up just like me.  Sitting on the ground in Okmulgee, before my parents got divorced, seeing the copper colored sparks and saying “pennies”, I believed money was falling from the sky. Holidays lose their magic when you get older. The booms of firecrackers make you nervous instead of filling you with awe and wonder. Its so bittersweet. The colors are still just as wondrous, but the fire trucks that continuously pass by make you weary. That was someone’s house, or someone’s yard, or someone’s thumb, or someone’s eyebrows.

                All I wanted to do was to sit on a tailgate or a porch or in a yard. Let the deep low booms fill in as the bass line of the evening. The sips of beer act as the descant. Chirps of crickets and the drone of conversations I’m not involved in carry on as an endless melody.

Come Home by Ryan Adams