sorry mister

but it looks like i made you take me to work just to have me come right back home. ive set up my easel in the back room. ive downloaded a few songs. ive got 6 cigarettes left. ive got a can of cold ravioli. im fucking set to have a fucking day.
its all ive got right now. thom yorke and a fucking dead brain. its all ive got to work with at this lovely moment in time. here in this back room. with its filtered light and shitty fan. im blogging now but in a minute im gona fucking dive headfirst into some pastel dust and maybe try a new take on my art. havent done a collage in a while. havent done very much of anything in a while. my thoughts walk like the lame when i just come from cubicle land, though, and i feel my fingers already, lost in their own lack of practice.
god. there is alot pushing back there. in that happy space behind the eyes. so much to say, and no where to start.
i want it all to come out right fucking now!
[instant gratification for 1, table for 2, please]
i hear voices behind doors, i feel the explanations evading, heres me misinformed.
fuck.
this is too much for me to think about. too much to fret over. drama and all its fucked glory can suck a cock today. im going to draw and dance to the strokes/the new young pony club/against me!.

i think it only fitting that i be happy today. i want to be.

lets see what i can create.