Burn up the pain, my thoughts are strange.
I hate.
I try to ignore, but it's in me, twisting through my gut like a small rusty fishing hook. I want to scream, to claw my eyes out, to do anything that'll take it from my mind -- even if for a fraction of a second. I want something that'll shut these voices up.
I wish I had a gun, something that could deliver me from myself. Deliver me to a place where there are no worries, no need to wonder if anyone cares.
No more of this false existence. Like Lady Macbeth before me, I cast you out, damned spot.
I want to bleed
Show the world all I have inside
I want to scream
Let the blood flow that keeps me alive
la vie en rose
5:26 PM
5:26 PM
"You don't need anybody to tell you who you are or what you are. You are what you are!"
From the late amazing John Lennon.
So the news spreading across the internets is that John
Bullshit? Really? Why?
Why is it so difficult to accept -- or at the very least, to muse about -- the very real possibility of John (and perhaps Paul, too, even if he's in denial) being bisexual (if not a "closet fag" as Yoko so lovingly put it long ago)? Honestly, I'm not sure why it hasn't been acknowledged before now (with the exception of the every now and then "John was NOT gay" quote from Paul). It's really quite obvious if you're willing to take the time to do a little digging; you don't even need to go that far to find something.
Yes, it was quite obvious how John felt about his "Princess Paulie" (thank you, Yoko and Apple entourage). However, you have to wonder what Paul's true feelings were. Did John proposition him? Did he refuse (and did he only refuse because "we'll be labeled queer, and there goes the band")? Did he accept (and perhaps regret it later...and regret that much later)? Did John keep it to himself, but Paul always suspected as much? Did Paul feel the same but wasn't allowed to show it? So much can only be left up to speculation because Paul's a private man (rightly so).
My open letter to Paul:
May I call you, Paul? I felt I've known you my whole life -- which I have, in a way, through your Beatles, Wings, and solo work because my family of musicians are fans (except my mother, the '60s Motown fan; please excuse her). My brothers and I spent the weekends and summers wearing out every Beatles album my father owns (which would be every one ever printed, if I recall correctly). My two older brothers idolized the whole lot of you; the oldest took after John (minus the heroin) and the other older one took after you and George (he started out learning guitar but took up bass because there were no others to fill the spot). Hell, even down to the same haircuts -- that's how we grew up.
When I was younger, I fancied myself some sort of wannabe therapist. I thought I could read people, and well, perhaps I can...or perhaps I'm just delusional, but do you know what I came up with about John? He's bipolar. The man just had to be. I would know; I'm a first-rate lunatic, m'self. He also exhibits a LOT of gayish behavior (so do you, Mr. Yellow Sock Wearer). Yes, he could just be so comfortable with his heterosexuality that "acting gay" isn't strange to him, and he doesn't care what kind of mixed signals he's sending. Maybe the both of you aren't concerned about sending said signals. Perhaps it can be chalked up to a "British thing." However, what I do officially know is that it's all very confusing to those of us in (or just supporting) the GLBT community.
It's the 21st century, Paul! Sure, anything other than "100% straight" is still frowned upon in many parts of the world, but it isn't as if anyone needs to hide anymore. So what if a few thousand fans decide to take part in, once again, burning your records (or CDs as the case may be, these days) because they are outraged by your blasphemy? Who cares about what could potentially be a backlash of epic proportions should the truth come out? You don't have to hide your love away anymore. You just have to be willing to deal with the agonizing amount of headaches once religious fanatics start preaching about hellfire and damnation, and how The Beatles were really out to change the world into one big heaping pile of Satan-worshiping sinners instead of spreading the message of love; while the megaqueens will be busy bitching about how they always knew you were a flaming poof because your and John's tastes in women have been rather manly.
...
Perhaps it's better if you just let people think what they want (they will anyway, as you already know), hide your head in the sand, and pray for the end
Really, Paul, I love you, and I think it's great if you and John
la vie en rose
2:09 PM
2:09 PM
Memories, light the corners of my mind.
I realize I've been somewhat of a less-than-stellar blogger, but I lost this piece of history way back when Blogger was bought out by Google, and I only just found it a week ago. My old template was corrupt (Google seems to have a problem with buggy software these days), so I spent a while trying out a new one and adjusting code. I still haven't worked the kinks out of the Blogger Comment code (one minute it's there, and the next one it isn't), but I'll eventually beat that one until it submits, too.
Why are our minds filled with so much useless junk? Honestly, do I need to be reminded of exactly how terrible my brother's snot feels when rubbed into my skin? Or how much pressure he uses when trying to hold me in a scissors move on the couch so I can't run away his horrendous flatulence? Should I really remember quirky translations from a high school German II class? Or that Frau showed me samples of her poetry back when she was trying to show me that someone understands such inane ramblings? With the amount of worthless memories I have stored within this ill noggin, you'd think there would be room for the important matters, but that's where I have trouble.
In dreams, I recognize faces I can't pair with a name, and I hear names which are meaningless without a body. I find myself back in high school with some sort of unfulfilled purpose...but what, exactly? I dream more about school now than I ever did while I was still unfortunate enough to be learning there. Well, damn...I haven't been there in twelve years.
I can remember every teacher I've ever had and with what subject they are connected. I can name you many of the people who also attended with me -- some who left for places unknown all the way back in elementary school. Give me an artist, and I can tell you names of albums, recording dates, lists of songs, who played what on each song, how long each song runs, and what studio was used.
However, I haven't the slightest idea what I was doing fifteen minutes before now.
la vie en rose
4:59 PM
4:59 PM
INSERT ANGSTY SUICIDAL GOTH MUSIC LYRICS HERE!!!1!ONE!
Holy shit, the world is full of depressed people. More specifically, depressed teenaged girls into heavy black eyeliner and lipstick and a penchant for Angry Goth Music.
What is sad -- no, pathetic would be a more proper term -- is that even I, my fine friends, have been among them. Even I am suspect to this crime.
It's been said before that the world is filled with people from many different walks of life. For a good portion of the year, I belong to a select club of individuals with the same mental disorders and the same morbid tendencies. Not all of us are afflicted with the wonderful psychological disorder known affectionately as Bipolar Disorder/Manic-Depression, but I happen to be one who is afflicted with this damn hateful disease. Try as I may, I fight, bite, bitch, snitch, cry, and die with this shit. For lack of a better word. For shit is what it is, my friends. Utter fucking shit of the bull variety.
Sometimes, though, I am normal. I'm charming, witty, and lovable -- hell, even the dreaded perky -- when the darkness shrugs from my shoulders a bit.
I liken it to the Greek myth about Persephone.
What amuses me is that when I am...hm, the very definition of normalcy, even I cannot suffer these damned suicidal gothic vixens in their drab clothes and their deathly pale skin. As delicious as they may appear to the eye, they are rotten fruit; through and through.
And for fucksake, I hate the fleshy, gritty taste of worms.
I save my angst for my other lovely journal, but as with this journal, no one is listening there, as well, so ah hell -- what fun is a journal without a little self-psychoanalysis? I'm the bestest therapist I know. I also come cheap, and that's all that matters.
because in the end, the virtue of coming cheap accounts for everything -- dammit, just ask welfare moms
la vie en rose
2:14 AM
2:14 AM
"It is impossible to love and to be wise."
True love never dies for it is lust that fades away.
Love bonds for a lifetime, but lust just pushes it away. -Alicia Barnhart
Words of wisdom there, folks.
Talking to a friend brought up these thoughts again. What is it about love that makes us...well...love it so? Why must we need it to survive? We must we feel as though we need it to survive? Why do we give others our heart, only to have it crushed over and over? Why do we promise ourselves that we'll swear off from it, as if it's comparable to chocolate or cigarettes, and as soon as some new infatuation comes along, we start the agonizing process again?
Don't get me wrong. I LOVE love. I love being in love. I love knowing that others love me. I love giving others love in return for more love. I love...loving. However, I am also one of those schmucks who cannot quite attain it. Not in its purest form.
Wow, and like other poor schmucks out there, I, too, have struck out so many damn times that I cannot even begin to record them all for the sheer pleasure of torturing myself later by reviewing them in an obsessive-compulsive pattern. It's ridiculous how I let myself come to it each time.
Why in the hell are we programmed the way we are? Why in the hell would I, or any other unsuspecting victim, want to fall in love and still be in love with every damn person I or they have ever loved, even if they hurt us or they were a total dipshit? WHY? How utterly fucking perplexing this is.
So my friend and I talk, as we always do, and he's wondering if another friend of ours whom he used to love -- and damn the man, he still has feelings for her -- talks about him. And I feel so sorry for him while I also wallow in my own...patheticness because I keep wondering the same thing about another friend of ours whom I used to love, and Jesus in a handbasket to Hell, I still do even though she no longer loves me because I am the penultimate moron (with the ultimate moron being the boob who reclines in the big chair in the Oval Office).
So why do we do this completely awful shit to ourselves? Does humanity enjoy making itself miserable? I mean, hell, there is enough proof to think that it is that alone. Or stupidity. Yes, sweet Krishna, we are one incredibly dumb bunch of erect monkeys.
What's sad is that no matter how much I or any other sap like me learn, we are doomed to repeat ourselves every time we fall for a new person simply because no matter how antisocial we may consider ourselves to be, we, as a species, are very social, and well, of course, if we would never find anyone else, then we'd be labeled "that spinster who has 40 cats in a little house" or "that weird, middle-aged man who lives by himself down the street". And who wants that?
I'd like to believe it's our blind stupidity that drives us forward or some instinctual need to procreate, but I also remember that there's this word called "hope." Because most of us hope to find someone we love someday...someone who will love us back equally. Because we hope to be able to share a part of ourselves with someone else as we are programmed to do.
And being in love is wonderful.
la vie en rose
4:16 AM
4:16 AM
Introductions.
Hello. You've probably never heard of me before, or perhaps, you have merely forgotten about my existence. I am that little voice in the back of your head, known as your conscience! If you remember correctly, I take extra care in making sure that you don't do BAD THINGS. BAD THINGS would not necessarily be, but may include:
-Thinking BAD THOUGHTS about our president. Such as: George Bush is the Antichrist!!!1! No, Dubya is not the Antichrist, but it hasn't been disproved that he's the reincarnation of Hitler.
-Thinking about doing BAD THINGS to our president. Such as: I want to take a crap on the White House lawn!!!1! No, my friend, as hilarious as that may sound, you may face deportation to somewhere really terrible; like Canada.
-Thinking BAD THOUGHTS about our American government. Such as: No one ever gets anything done, so I'm going to vote them out in the next election. Nice try, but didn't the last Presidential Election Mishap™ teach you that your vote amounts to a whole pile of feces?
So you see! You do need me from time to time to keep you from facing execution at the hands of
Any relation to the blog-mistress' own conscience is purely coincidental. Also, no Canadians were hurt in the making of this post. Really, we love Canada!
la vie en rose
5:52 PM
5:52 PM
