writing: a new practice

I'm listening to the Black Keys and practicing typing whatever comes to my head with the intent of editing later. But I guess I will not edit this blog. I will just keep typing. I should have listened to thickfreakness years ago, I got them at the same time as KOL, but got stuck in a listening rut and didn't like the Black Keys with my dedication until they opened for KOL with their Brother's content. I shall hang clothes today, and launder, and hang them. All three steps. Also yoga, with a coaching assist from the wii. I must practice my writing. I must. Maybe I'll also tweet.

Dear train: I've been grounded. I am here. There are tracks around me. I've ridden them. I've been intimidated on them. I've slept. I've known safety and luck. I've tasted superior upbringings. I've know that I do not live up. I've slummed it. I slummed it. And as I type there are millions of people in the world slummin' it. Some, out of apathy. Some, out of necessity. Some, think their fucking normal. And they are, western society. Fuck You.

i've tasted real and now can taste the artificial. i don't know what to read and i don't know when i'll read it. i bought the audiobook and i couldn't hear it. i decided upon continuing this "and" trend and now i cannot keep it. i am thinking of the flemington fair, the race track, the sounds of it, the lack of it, the greyhound i knew, its bad teeth, it's spoiled nature, and the fact that "it" is a he: ben. i can't imagine a town more charming than flemington. it was no bridgewater: it's mall failed. i remember the mall, though. the haircuttery and the animal shop and everthing else covered in black plastic. i love the cd store beyond the bed bath and beyond and the stationary store. i love the amish. i love the ceramic painting. i love the brick painting. i love the glass and the furs and the lindenburg-baby-stealer jail cell. i love that one brick house painted white that faded and the original entrance to the middle school. i love honey suckle on the mile track and the basement gym. i loved ruling the school and a free pass to the nurse's office. i loved the green nurse's office at HCRHS and the acronym itself. i loved changing buildings. i loved the fro'yo. i loved bagels with doritos and cream cheese. i loved mmmmm bop. i loved spilling coffee and my first xanga post. i loved ipod walks outside between classes. i didn't mean to love high school, just flemington. but, really. that's all there is to it.

i'm dumb, and being without a phone is miserable, already. i'm stressed. i'm stressin'. i'm buggin'. i'm a bug. i'm kafka. i'm kafka-esque. my computer's spell check says "esque" is not a word. or at least is misspelled. i do not agree. i went to a "wicken" store today and learned the proper way to wish to candles. BE POSITIVE. KNOCK THREE TIMES. LEAVE THE LIGHT ON. (oddly cliches, no? how POP is wicca?) I have reading to do and organizing to do and so much to do and just really no more positive expectations of being productive tonight. I'm making the most expensive jeans i've ever owned. (by making, i mean paying to have them tailored to a tune more expensive than they originally were. not creating. not fabricating. not.) i'm maybe reconnecting with my 2nd oldest friend. i will never have anything in common with my first friend, ever, again. my hair is short and i'm blogging. everything is connected. i couldn't be more pissed at my stupidity, thus i'll read and write and wine. but, really, if i wine i will not read. i am not delusional. i have to write, kindof, scholastically this semester, a lot. i guess i'll need that coffee pot. it will be american drip, not french press, not italian press, not pink-stippled-copper. just...drip...

quiche protagonist would have a problem with not utilizing her ideal first coffee-maker, too. it is the first i have thought of Her (not It) in 7 years. i literally don't even know if that means i should write or not. i mean, i don't think it means "not" but i've never had any inclination to fiction. i did write those two first NYC lines down, dann. (as if there were another reader? but this really isn't all for you. it's ideally consumable to a third-wall-unbroken audience.) "she only buys wine based on the label." --that's me, and my sister. we trust the gestalt. the whole, the shebang.

i never paragraph. literally can't imaging a blog post in which i've done it. (without "artistic" spacing. HA, xanga/zanga.) {i was so mad at you, dann, for not chronologing/"chronicling" our night to PC Richards and Son. there was no need for you to, really. I did a bang-up job. but still. you didn't pull through. and now xanga is gone and [currently, the third-wall is gone]}. BUT, i spaced for "quiche protagonist." she is so separate. but, really, right then, she was literally me. i don't even need wine/"whine", i already feel trippy. /////that was a finale enough. i'll never continue past an "organic" ending, no matter how much there is to say.

SHOULDSHOULDSHOULDSHOULDSHOULD

SHHHOLDSHHHWHOSHHHOWL'D.

{{{ps, i approve of powerrangers}}}

i suck at time management/friendship/expression/exploitation/etc.

also, i'm glad my fingers don't runfrenzy.

also, i'm gladd/gorman ludusly against drunk driving.

i cannot believe i've learned nothing---i cannot believe this is my life, past year, pastpast. packpack.

i'm terrified to ruin the tagging system

the world is full of discarded things

(this is not the title of the following)

she defined herself by the things she had lost, the parts of her strewn about the world, no longer hers. the great diasphora of her materialism. she wondered of the people who had taken her goods, misappropriated them as their own. she wondered if two girls, a missing earring each, would ever meet. she wondered if she would ever find herself at a thrift store, own herself again, and never know it. she wondered who would give her away in the first place. she'd lost mechanical pencils, some with semi-functioning erasers, and wondered if they had done more, accurately, in someone else's hands. she'd lost a book of stamps and worried that they may have gone to better uses, more exotic places. she thought about the tickets she lost to the concert and wondered if they:d ever gotten stamped. wondered if paying twice the price for one experience was worth it. if she would have had a better time, gaining admittance to the venue 30 minutes earlier. she may very well then may not have met.....

(you, rare, non-existent reader/future self should know that i didn't intend her to meet anyone, it was my way of realizing a cliche, my "in" for if i ever wanted to write about romance (i don't), but really. we can't always rely on character studies, can we?)

and then success, succession! something about how the speaker is always different from the author. always. don't let anyone tell you differently. always. but then really, are we ever expressive?