Remember the times when blank posts couldn't stay blank for more than five seconds after opening?
Remember when words used to fly faster than time and pictures were painted without intent; just a blind eye to the world expressing everything and not ever giving a fuck.
Remember when you could make sense?
Remember when you could write beautifully just free-falling, without some pre-planned format or gimmick?
Remember when you didn't paint by numbers?
Remember when it used to just come without effort?
Remember when you listened to your heart?
Remember how to listen to your heart?

I know there's something in the wake of your smile.
I get a notion from the look in your eyes.
You've built a love, but that love falls apart.
Your little piece of heaven turns to dark...

Please pick up the call.
Please pick up the trash.
Please put on some new songs.
Please put on some new clothes.
Please wipe your face.
Please face the mirror.
Please don't avoid it.
Please step outside once.
Please at least try?
Please wash your bowl.
Please don't smoke a bowl first.
Please don't turn the other way.
Please don't bury your head.
Please change your clothes.
Please clear off the bed.
Please set the alarm.
Please obey the alarm.
Please drink some water.
Please wash your hair.
Please leave the bed.
Please get up.
Please do something.
Please want to do something.
Anything?
Please write something.
Please actually write it.
Please don't leave it in drafts.
Please finish the story.
Please finish this sentence.
Please don't delete it.
Please don't read it.
Please don't do this.
Please come back.
Please stay here.
Please stay here.
Please stay here.
Please just stay...

I hit the ground running on a wing and a prayer. And if I looked back, I didn't act like I cared. There's a line between reflection that fills and reflection that kills, and the line isn't thick, but it sure is long. This road isn't over; it just never begun. Because the road on the map, isn't the road that we're on. And how can I keep up, when it takes strength to be strong?

Help.

All I wanted to do was just write one stupid poem on Xanga on my birthday....
That's it. What's so bad about that? Why couldn't you JUST let me have that?! Why don't I deserve to have even just one stupid little thing work out right today?
Is this all karma or something? If so,
WHAT THE FUCK DID I DO?!
I hope you're happy,
because now this rant is the post that will go down in my Xanga history for my 23rd birthday forever, when it was supposed to be just a gentle poem. It felt nice to write, even just five simple lines. Then like always, it got suddenly stolen from me without any reason or warning.
Well, it's probably just all my fault and I have somehow brought every single one of these things on myself, and I absolutely deserve every bit of this hell I'm getting swept up in... But that's not fair. Because someone or something made me this way, and has offered no help or comfort ever, not once. I fucking TRIED EVERYTHING. I tried EVERY thing from religion to science to drugs and everything in between, but not a single one of them ever worked out for me. I did try though. And I have no proof, because there's no reason to be proud of yourself unless you have a win to show for it. Or a superbowl ring. Another thing that seemed like a personal slap in the face from whatever the hell demonic "God" is ruling over this horrible world with his tight, merciless, power-hungry iron-fist. I just hate everything. I need more drugs.

Turned 23 while hanging out with Carlton's friends at 12:24am
Spent first 4 hours of my 23rd birthday taking frequent bathroom trips with a straw and some magic powder in my pockets from 12am - 4am
Got home at 4:20am
Re-dosed with another 15mg Focalin cap at 4:30am
Smoked a onie at 4:55am
Carlton passed out at 5am
Railed about 5mg of Focalin at 5:05am
Began writing this at [ATX-O-CLOCK!] AKA 5:12am (because Austin's area code is 512)
OCD begins to creep in at 5:15am
Spent next 3 hours writing a lot of trail-off-tangents and fragments obsessively from 5am -- 8am
Come-down starts setting in gradually, but the crash is still far off at 7:30am
Coming down harder now and possibly nearing the crash at 8:23am ... Need to re-dose again, STAT
[*Pause to dose-up*]
Chugged half an Icehouse tall-boy at 8:31am
Fading much faster now into the crash-slope while frantically racing to crush the pills before the crash hits, at 8:47am
Finished crushing 15mg of Focalin right in the nick of time, then proceeded to spill entire contents on myself and my bed at 8:48am
Well, I see no reason why the five second rule can't apply to drugs too, so at 8:49am ...
"Cleaning up" the mess at 8:49am
Beginning to fade back away from the impending threat of sobriety at 8:57am ... may have dodged this bullet for a bit longer now; will re-evaluate my dosages soon
Carlton woke up briefly but somewhat cognitive this time (thank God, I was starting to worry that I'd over-drugged him and he'd be comatose today) at 9:20am
*Time for another dosing*
Should I do an Amyl? Hmm, this shall be the crisis of the minute ... what to do? 9:35am
Feeling a sudden rush of emotions and ideas - one of the familiar peaking-effects of the drug; it used to be more exciting before I knew when and how to expect it and- ... *Now now, no need to get detailed - the format of this post was designed specifically to keep me from getting off track in that way ...  ... [9:44am]
Feeling an increasingly strong urge to overanalyze everything - LITERALLY, everything - that there is, in one nice, long, good 'ol therapeutic spill-all post like old times, but isn't that just what turns everything into nothing all at once??? Where are the lines between all the ... um, the ... the... something ... [9:45am] [edited at 10:19am]
Alright, stop there. No need to elaborate, that makes sense enough - at least for the amount of people who will ever potentially read this post; I think all of one. [10:56am]

Well, I will continue to update this post as it goes along, but I'm gonna go ahead and publish it now because well, no one will read it anyway and all that matters as far as this little corner of my world goes, is that I publish something at all, and not leave it to rot in my drafts like usual...

I feel bad now. I'm gonna go re-dose, then go from there.
Later gators

Xanga should go ahead and make an app now. I feel like $48 a year is worth an app.

Spawn should die. I feel like any amount of rent per month is worth him dying. Haha.

Bob Marley is hitting me with some music right now, right in the Trenchtown-Rock ...
I'm chugging a Lonie ...
And hitting a bowl ...
And doing some rush ...
And now Green Day's giving me some Novacaine.

[Drain the pressure from the swelling;
This sensation's overwhelming;
Give me a long kiss goodnight and
Everything will be alright.
Tell me that I won't feel a thing;
Give me Novacaine.]

There's a familiarity in these notes that feels like a a good drug or a good friend. Maybe both. And you too, Xanga. What a good drug or friend you are. Both.

And I love both. I love being happy. But I want some Summertime Sadness right now. Because after all, I am still just Summertime-Sad.

FUCK FOOTBALL. FUCK THE SEAHAWKS. FUCK FOOTBALL!!!!!! Why Broncos, WHY?!!! Ohhhhhhhh

Me and Carlton need to learn to duet to "Two is Better Than One" by Boys Like Girls and Taylor Swift. YUP! You're right, that IS the lamest thing in the world. Sue me. My mom already has.

I'm the real Slim Shady. But I'm sitting down.

This is a new form of writing I'm calling "Jacked-Up-Journalism". In a nutshell, it's just me getting fucked up and letting my fingers write whatever they feel like while I'm doing so; sans nutshell.
50% Gonzo Journalism, 50% more fucked up.

Substances Ingested (so far):
+ Two Lone-Stars down the hatch
+ Two bowls of Ganja smoked
+ Half a bottle o' Rush to go
+ Two Vyvanse popped about 7:05ish
*Cracking another Loner and sipping up*

I'm glad I'm writing I'm writing this.
I'm glad I'm trying.
But I know when to stop.

I hope I'll know when to come back.

It's 3:54pm on Saturday (I think?) and I am sitting on my bed writing this, waiting for Carlton to get back from KFC. *Om nom nom* Corabelle is whining about something. She might have to go out, but I thought Carlton just took her out. Oh well, I guess if she keeps whining I'll try taking her out myself here in a sec in case she has to go again. But if I do that, then I am gonna chug a Lone Star and smoke some ganja first because I can hear Spawn frolicking about out there, and I'm not tryna have any of his BS today. Carlton's home, later!

Yourself.