I guess there are people reading this site now. That's a strange concept for me. I'm worried I'll start censoring myself, consciously and unconsciously, because of the new readers, all two of them. It's not just a new audience, it's that now I'm very aware that people actually read this. Before my 'audience' was more of an abstraction, a faceless collective of readers who I may or may not know. Even the comments from friends seemed abstract. Comments were just little shouts from the gallery that puncuated my epic soliloquy. You see, I don't write posts as I would write a diary entry or anything like that; rather, each post is a little act, part of the never-ending play that's constantly unravelling in my mind. How is this different from the standard diary? Well, a diary almost exclusively deals with the truth. Each entry may not be factual, but the thoughts, ideas, emotions are truthful reflections written in a genuine way. My posts are nothing like that.

I mix and match truths, half-truths, white lies, lies and damned lies to create a post. Each post is a strange combination of who am I, who I was, who I wish to be, who I think I am, and a whole lot of who I fear I am. I suppose most diaries are like this too, but I consciously choose from which perspectives I will posting. And even after that selective truth I will straight up lie to finish off the post. I won't make up events or facts, but I will create emotions and thoughts that don't come from a purely genuine place. These half-lies are usually emotions I wish I had or thoughts I once had. The best part is that I don't really know where the honest emotions end and the lies begin. Each post is a twisted reflection of the identity I want, consciously and subconsciously, to present to the world and to myself.

This makes no sense but I can't sleep so I'll continue. Keep this in mind: I'm insane and my blog is not a reflection of who I actually am, it is not a reflection of anything except the play in my head. Prepare for no transition.

***

I, just like you, create my own identity. We both do this the same way. We buy things, eat things, listen to things, read things, CONSUME things. All of these 'things' create who we are, thank you English 205. So, according to other psychology people that I don't believe, occasionally we consume certain things not for the sake of their consumption but for the identity that these things create for us. (My response to this is a big, far DUH, but I digress). So, I'm guessing that I create certain emotions (theories, thoughts, or ideas would also work here but because of verb agreement I have to pick just one), not because I experience them, but because I want to be the type person who experiences them. That was a difficult sentence, especially with the parenthetical refrain, so read it again.

Right now you're probably thinging: 1) Of course you do that, idiot; 2) My head hurts; 3) Stop telling me what I'm thinking.

These emotions that I want to feel before I actuall feel them, are they real? Of course, I want to go into a Sartre lecture, but I won't. Simply because the origin of the emotions is unconventional doesn't mean that they are false emotions. I still feel them. I would argue that there is absolutely no difference between a emotion that is caused by the exterior and one caused by the interior. I would argue further that all emotions are interior; therefore, all emotions are choosen. But yeah, I'm losing you now with this existential shit. So what the fuck is my point?? I forgot. Oh yeah.

Certain ('All' should go here according to Sartre) emotions, thoughts, theories, and ideas on this blog have no exterior influence. Sometimes (Again, 'Always' according to Sartre) I choose these emotions, thoughts, theories, and ideas because I want the identity they'll give me. What does this have to do with the blog? Not a whole lot. It's just that I was lying before. Nothing on here is a pure lie. I feel everything I express in some degree. But the reader must realize that the emotions I discuss are probably not 'caused' in usual ways. That is to say, I create, without any help, a lot of this blog's emotion. And, most importantly, these emotions that don't really have a 'cause' don't affect me as deeply as one would think. Am I feeling them? Yes. Are the emotions 'caused' like most of your's are? No. Are they real? Yes. Should you be reading this? No. Should you ever believe I'm telling the truth? Absolutely Not.

I'm not going to read this shit because I know editting is futile. It won't make sense ever, and it doesn't really bother me. I'm 19 and I have a chance to live 60 more years, I'll have plenty of time to make sense. Listen to Grace and leave me the fuck alone.

That just reminded me of something. Those last few paragraphs are definitely applicable to music. But that's another post that I'm already writing in my head.

I need to start doing cocaine, maybe not cocaine, but definitely some sort of hard drug. LSD would be fantastic; it'd bring me closer to the dark side of the moon then I've ever gone. Marijuana blows, I'm not even considering it. Supposedly Hunter Thompson did a line of coke every morning just as he was getting out of bed. He was also a genius, and he also killed himself. And he did it almost exactly like Hemmingway did.

[Disclaimer: Please don't think I'm suicidal. I'm metaphorically serious about the drug thing, but the second half is just random thoughts floating around my head.]

If I am confident about at least one thing. I am confident that I know any possible flaw any person recognizes in me. I bet I could guess the first flaw that you thought of when you read that sentence. I don't know why I'm using the word 'flaw,' it doesn't apply to well. I'm thinking more of a quality/trait/behavior of mine that people would mention to other people, and do so in a mocking/contemtuous/disdainful/loathsome/jugmental tone. Basically, I have a decent grasp of what 'crap' people would say 'behind my back' (I really hate that phrase). Anyway, I have a great grasp on all my 'flaws.' I think it's the thing I'm best at, what a sad thought. So yeah, I'm confident there is no way you have thought of something that I haven't thought of, and take some sick pleasure in that.

There really was no point to that whole lecture on how well I know my blemishes. Whatever. When I'm called on the blemishes that I'm most sensitive about I have a reallllly hard time handling it. I need to grow some fucking skin. It's getting ridiculous. One of the things I'm touchy about is the whole juco thing and transfer thing and not-going-to-any-real-school thing, so if I don't get over that next year could REALLY SUCK if I'm constantly paranoid about being 'found out.' FUCK.

God dammit. Don't you want to stop reading this and just drive to the mountains or desert? Winter or not I just want to leave. On Countdown today Oberman was recanting 'Bloody Sunday' and a little civil rights history, and it really inspired me to leave. There really isn't anything to be gained in contemporary America, nothing to be lost either. I mean what cause out there has any of the weight that civil rights did. Obviously civil rights is still a big issue. The southern poverty law center has infinitely more cases than it did 40 yrs ago, but now it's different. It's like we're permanently engaged in a warring peace or peaceful war or some other Orewellian buzzword. Even the idea of changing something is gone. Green Peace and the Sierra Club (though the sc is barely staying together) work for such minute victories, and they only have massive losses. Even when there is a liberal in office there is no movement left on the enviroment. Women's rights is stagnant. Gay's rights are moving backwards. Africa is dying from the inside. I just see no issue that's worth fighting for that's also useful to fight for. Maybe people thought the same thing in 1950. I'm sure America seemed static to everyone who wanted progress in 1950, but for some reason I feel like our stasis is really, really entrenched right now. Entrenched statis I say. Oh whatever, it's not like I'd fight for anything anyway. If there was something worthy of commiting even a moment of my life to I'd probably still sit at my desk whining about my flaws and how shitty it is sometimes people have the gull to point them out. I don't want to be sensitive. I'm not really sensitive at all. It's just, for some reason, everything that makes me so insensitive for 23.5 hours a day is stripped away when I post. I really am a jackass, an insensitive jackass. If I didn't get such a high of saying I'm the 'nice guy' I definitely would have tricked many girls into having sex with me by now. Fuck the blog, and I need some sort of patch for my pseudo-nice-guy high. I'm out.

I had no idea normal citizens can buy tigers, like real tigers. I am abso-fucking-lutely buying a tiger. I have a new goal in life.

I wish I could wrap up all my thoughts into another post. The first one did a poor job anyway, I'm glad it's not up. I seek approval, and I seek it in extreme way. And I seek it from unusual places.

This has happened a couple of times but this is the only time I've actually cared. A MASSIVE post, gone. better luck next time.

um yeah. I can't for the life of me (what a lame cliche) figure out what the fuck you were talking about. There was definitely some random stuff that only dumb, white guys like me listen to (offspring and maybe korn). But there must be some renegade track that has either been forced out of my memory or some borrowed track from a sibling/parent.

This is really fucking dangerous. The timeline I just worked out in my head is not too fun, so I need to stop. I need to start reading. A run in the rain would be so much better, clear my head before I read/write.

I'm whistling. There isn't a good onomatopoeia for it, so heretofore my 'bird whistle' will be indicated by [whistle]. I really need to escape right now, maybe I'll just get in my car friday afternoon and drive in some direction. My urge to leave everything is really strong. It's like there's a constant tug from somewhere pulling to who-know's-where-but-it-definitely-ain't-here. I really want to see stars. Iowa had stars. I miss them. I don't want to be a lawyer, journalist, academic, professor, business man, consultant, student, writer, and definitely not an employee of Abso Bookstores. I want to go to a place no one else does and do things that no one else does. I want to be on a trawler in the north atlantic. I want to hike in Denali. I want to fish the 42nd parallel. I want to explore old crash sites. I want to surf the gold coast. I want to worship cows in India. Whatever. It's obvious I don't want these things are I would actively change my status quo.

I'm bored. I just wrote the worst six pages in recent memory. I have to write 2500 words about some sort of consumer trend, and I chose metrosexuality. The writing was so bad, but the organization was horrific. I also refused to make any sort of consistent argument, so that's going to be a real problem. fuck.

I think I've bitten off a whole lot more than I can choose with my aspirations. I seem to think I'm a lot more special than I really am. What the fuck am I talking about? I know, but I don't want to say, because it's sad and all this blog-shit is sad, and you're a little bit sad for still reading this post that's bathing in self-loathing. Why do I have such a pre-occupation with prestige when I have no history of prestige? Why do I only make room for the most prestigous possibilities in my mind's eye? Why is my mind's eye so fucking busy? fuck.

Yeah, you are.

I showed up at 3:50 and picked my place in line next to a pleasant looking girl who let me go get my real ticket since I only had an e-mail confirmation. At this point there were probably 50 people in line in front of me, but I'm sure a lot more sneaked in front just as the doors were opening. My time as the last person in line didn't last long. Soon some girl who really liked this red star showed up. I kept thinking she was talking to me, but she was one of those damn people with the little phone ear-piece/microphone things. She was soon joined by her sister who also had a little phone ear-piece/microphone things. This was very confusing becuase I first thought that both of the girls were talking to me, then I thought it was just the star-girl, then I realized they must be talking to eachother, but, of course, their conversations had absolutely nothing to do with eachother. It was a glorious little exchange. Trying to figure what the hell these girls were doing took up the next half hour, but the next half hour was a lot more fun.

The pleasant girl in front of me was joined by her friend at about 4:00. We talked a little bit and they held my place in line while I walked around a bit. When I got back I quickly realized that the pair in front of me were way more than friends. These two girls were embraced so tightly that I couldn't tell where one girl stopped and they other started. And their tongues were equally interwoven. So that was cool.
***
It was really fun how the line developed. People who showed up before me just exuded that 'indie' vibe, studded-belts, dark eye-make, you know. The crowd seemed to stay pretty indie till about 5:00, then the crowd started get a little more neutral (neutral meaning dressed like me eventhough I showed up at 3:50). Then about 6:10 the super-trendy crowd just poored in, I swear I saw a guy in my pink-stripped shirt.
***
By the time the show started I was really exhausted. I hadn't eaten since sometime that morning and I was dangerously dehydrated. I had been standing since 3:50, I stretched my muscles one in 4 hours, and by the time Blonde Redhead came on I was not feeling to well. But they quickly pulled me out of my misery. They were great, particularly great since everyone was a little edgy. And despite the awful sound at Soma I could understand what they were singing. They played a pretty long set, over an hour, and by the 9:00 I was already blind, mute, deaf, and numb all over. Fortunately there was a really long set-change for me to recoup.

By 9:30 I had positioned myself as best I could. I was in the 2-4 row of humanity just to the left of Carlos. I was very close to a fantastically fat young woman, and I now know her much better than I know any of you. Anyway, Interpol came on a great things followed.

you're so cute when you're frustrated, dear. (and i'm sure) you're so cute when you're sedated, oh dear.

you really, really are.

Changed my life.

I have so much to say, but I can barely lift my fingers the mere inches necessary to type. Tomorrow I'll wake up and vomit my thoughts about tonight, most of today really, in some sort of emotional purge. goodnight my friends, and may we all sleep soundly.