.....

humanequalsgarbage.tumblr.com

it took me 21 years to finally accept....

it took me 21 years to finally accept....

i just might be awesome.

nah.

fuck that.

not just might be.

i'm fucking awesome.

for what feels like the first time in my life, i like myself.

i'm a cool motha fucka.

i write, and its really not as shitty as i make it out to be.

i get laid, even though i think i'm disgusting.

i'm stubborn with my beliefs, and I actually stick with em no matter how radical they are.

i got style motha fucka, i like my clothes. i'm a seamstress, bitch! i take normal everyday clothes from target and sew em up and make them original and dope.

i got a good job, i don't take it seriously, and i have enough cash to pay rent, eat and support all my addictions and necessities.

i live in los angeles, and i love it.

i got a beautiful girlfriend, and shes kinky and fucked up just like me.

i've been doing performances since 2007, and as of lately i do them at least twice a month, it used to scare the shit out of me and make make me want to puke but now i CRAVE perfoming.

today i saw a reflection of myself against a stain glass window, and i actually thought to myself "lookin' good sucka!"

i'm a handsome bastard, that's right, took me years to ever think that.

i listen to awesome music, and it makes me happy as fuck. i'm fortunate to have seen a bunch of great musicians live.

i dont watch reality tv, or really any tv at all, and i dont care much about modern pop culture, i like that.

i actually read, and i read good books, i don't just collect a bunch of books and never read them or start them and never finish.

i run a publishing collective with my friends and have my words and the words of my friends published in zines that are all over LA and not just that, there are people who have copies in oregon, new york, washington, LONDON and AUSTRALIA (what the fuck!?).

i've got some real good friends, might not see them much or ever, but when i know they are around when it really comes down to it.

i'm a weird bastard, and people accept me for who i am (work excluded).

i'm healthy, i eat well, ride my bike every day and dont drink as much everyday as i used to.

i do the things i want and how i want, i don't get myself stuck in situations i don't like.

in the last year i haven't done drugs or got arrested!

it took me 21 years to finally accept....

i like my life and i'm happy

MMMYYYYYYYYYYYYYFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCEEEEEEE, IHATEMYSELF.COM

internetz, myface, whathavewebecome.com, i dont need to go to art school because i have a tumblr (c) 2010

for all the time
she spent
doing her makeup
for her profile picture

for all the time
he spent
picking artsy photos
and setting up the perfect sequence
to post
on his tumblr

for all the time
she spent
thinking of something clever
rewriting it five times
perfecting the wording
to post
on his wall

for all the time
he spent
making commentary on it
breaking the idea
into several sentances
and adding poetic style
to post
on his blog (or his notes)

we could of
been so creative
we could of
applied all that effort
to so much
oh
all the beautiful things
we could of done
with that time

my pistol doesnt shoot, it just kinda drips...all over my sheets, when i pull out of you.

the black sheets of my twin bed
coated in a fog of sex strains and cigarette ash
my pistol doesn't shoot, it just kinda drips
all over my sheets, when i pull out of you
i cant help but wonder
out of insecurity, out of curiosity
am i defect?
are my little soldiers weak
lazy maybe
procrastinators like me?
unable to make it to their mark
i hope so
because i dont think of baby names
because i dont plan on having babies
but i still cant help but wonder
was it all the drugs through puberty?
was it all the times i was kicked in the nads?

when i think back on puberty
when i think back on my younger self
i almost cant believe that shit
im surprised i didnt try to kill myself multiple times
i cant imagine what it must had been like
to walk by me in the halls

i feel ugly
all the time
but back then
i think there may had been some truth to it
of course
im sure i was probably to blame
not just the hormones
if i wanted to do something about it
i should have

doing lots and lots of drugs
took care of the weight
made me feel like skeletor
but not as cool as skeletor
in fact
it made me feel uglier about myself
because it wasnt about appearance

before i got laid
i used to think my penis was deformed
hormone deficiency
ran in my family
my sister was never able to develop tits properly
she had to get operations to even them out
and i used to think
i had a tiny baby penis
i used to tell everyone i know

it was nice knowing my penis isnt deformed
still not huge
but not deformed
or atleast ive been convinced
by filthy cunts!!!
whom ive loved

even when ive got women frequenting my bed
my black stained sheets
i still feel ugly
afraid
even though i act like an asshole
and slap em around
try to show them im in control
i still feel
weak
tiny
a boy
who looks ridiculous
has a deformed penis
cant write for shit

dan
the pseudo intellect
the pseudo writer
the pseudo bohemian
the pseudo vegan
the pseudo punk
the pseudo romantic
the pseudo comedian

GET OVER YOURSELF FAGGOT!!!!

im so alternative....

im so alternative....

that i started a new band and got signed within twenty minutes of thinking of the name (FUCK YEAH TWITTER),

it's a post-pop punk lo-fi shoegaze neo mccarthyism indie nu-folk techno-breakbeak-grindcore dub, power trio!

its like 80s hardcore had a threesome with tom waits and devandra banhart during the early 2000 pop explosion and then had an abortion at a hospital in silverlake where sonic youth played on tour with built to spill, and then that aborted fetus survived, because it was saved by the members of blind melon,

but then when it was walkin the streets of hollywood, it got finger banged by bon jovi while robert smith watched and jacked off while he talking on the phone to dolly parton who was at that very moment de-virginizing morrissey while listening to the Cars,

and then afterwords, the aborted fetus got married to devo and black sabbath attended the wedding, and then devo and the aborted baby had a baby that looked like a deformed lady gaga but had the voice of george harrison and the fingers of joni mitchell....

but before the baby got to the age of three it was eaten by a pack of black metal hypnotized wolves in norway, who then ate synthasizers and puked them up onto wu tang clan.

and thats what it sounds like

yeah, the records coming out soon, but it only comes out of 5" vinyl and vhs tape, better get it quick, its limited to 3.


tweet you later, brosef

romantic drunks drunk on drunken romance

it only takes three drinks
for me to fall in love
but it takes
months and months of winter
sweating underneath a mountain of sheets
with a bottle of something heavy
against my lips
to recover
from love

and so i cling to the gutters
and the alley ways
on that side of the tracks
where love aint found
a deadbeat whose dead beat
i hide beneath the dirt
and find comfort in the dead

uptown, downtown, underground via metro
looking for something to snack on
complex, dirty, untamable
deadbeats who are dead beat
the type
that doesn't want to know your name
and wont whisper
baby
in your ear

up, down, and sloshed on drink
looking for something to hold onto
instinct drops as we fall from the barstool
intuition becomes a lost puppy
and splashes with loud expression
against the bottom
of the wishing well

and so i let go
of that fear
and whisper
baby
in a sirens ear

drunk on it
for that sweaty moment
only to be revived
between dawn and the tick of the clock where cars start piling up on the freeway
then its
pants, socks, shoes and shirt
peck on the cheek
soft enough not to wake

and so i let go
of whatever feeling it was
and its
uptown, downtown, underground via metro
clinging to the gutters
and the alley ways
on that side of the tracks
making my way
back to that mountain of sheets

boy, you're going to carry that weight, carry that weight for a long time

when i was 14
i crippled my father
i still carry that weight
every day

life isnt simple, but atleast i can write simple

wounded dog
hardly making it
wobbling on three legs
playing defense
out of fear

got a steak
wants it
makes him salivate
makes him warm
but knows dog food
is safe

counter intuitive
trying to be a man
afraid and hungry
not ready
to hurt again
or be hurt
he's only got so many legs
and he can hardly stand

trying to convince himself
that its best to be an asshole
he wants to be a man
boast about football
and leave her bed in the morning

he bites and barks
cause he wants to bury the real one inside
the wounded dog
hardly making it
wobbling on three legs
the weak one
the sap
the romantic
the poet
the bitch

counter intuitive
he wants to be a man
playing defense
out of fear

but this steak
makes him salivate
makes him warm
and so
even though
he knows dog food
is safe
he's going to eat the steak
stop playing defense
stop trying to be a man
and be himself
the three legged dog

and he'll wobble on those three legs
no matter how much pain there is
to curl up next to that steak
and use those words
that scare him so

collecting regrets like the empty bottles filling up my room

so heres a bunch of unfinished ramblings from my journal, this was all i could decipher from my sloppy intoxicated handwriting, i dont like any of them, i'm never going to finish any of them, and dont really know why im posting them, i guess its for andrew, the only one who reads this bullshit


dear god
hey there, old friend, just checkin in, wanted to tell you some things,
i dunno,
i just wish you were there to hold back my hair when i puke in the bathroom sink,
and i wish that you were there when i put needles in my skin, or poison in my nose.
you know, sometimes, i think i do it just for you,
maybe just to see if you'll come around.

god, you know i need you, dont you?
for when i do good deeds,
so you can help me feel like i'm a saint,
because everyone knows theres no fun in giving charity when nobodies lookin,

but, oh, old friend, please tell me,
if you're there for me, and im one of your beautiful creatures,
then why do i feel so ugly?
if we're supposed to be such perfect little creations,
then why do we find so much to hate about ourselves?
did you let us have mirrors just to screw with us,
did you give us makeup just to make up for it?

you really really meant it didnt you,
when you said
"in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life"
well i am

god, i really hope you know i need you
honestly, i wanna be your pillar of salt,
i wanna be your mary magdellion,
i want to wash your feet and give all of my herd to you,
because everyone knows theres no fun without sacrafice

but, oh, old friend, please wont you tell me,
does it make you hard, when everyone gets on their knees for you,
to worship and pray,
even after youve taken their babies away?

old friend, please tell me, i'd really like to know
how could you take such a young boy,
he was only sixteen.
and why let me keep being, tell me why,
why didnt you take me?
did you do it just to make me miserable?

Well I'll never question your word again,
like when you said
"Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones."
I swear to you, i am no longer a victim to the lust of doubt,
for
"THE VOICE OF THY BROTHERS BLOOD CRIETH UNTO ME FROM THE GROUND"
and i hear him cry

god, you must know, i need you,
i need you when i need someone to blame, when i need someone to praise, someone to cry to, someone to yell at,
because theres no fun in being alone,

dear god,
take me
take me away from here
take me away from me
wash us all away, like you have before, i'm ready for your flood

oh, old friend, i wanted to tell you some things,
i dunno,
i wish that you were there when i put these bruises and scars onto me,
and i wish that you were there when i buried my friends,
you know, sometimes i think i did it all, just for you,
maybe just to see if you'll come around.

god, you've got to know,
i need you,
i need you for when i do bad deeds,
so you can help me feel like i'm a sinner
because self pity is no fun when no one cares,

old friend, please tell me, i'd really like to know
when you made this lovely garden,
why'd you have to make snakes?
and i cant help but wonder
did it get you off, when you tricked her,
or did it make you laugh?
it was only just a nibble.
well, i hope your laughing,
at all the boys with bible names,
who curse you again, and again, your little comedians,

oh, tell me, old friend
do i make you laugh?

god, i really hope you know i need you,
i really need you

monsters
id read some r.l. stein here and there and laughed it off as fiction,
been told familiar fables and all the basic playground raps,
eventually, i gave up on looking under my bed for that monster waiting for his snack,
but i was told a lie, monsters do exist, and there is proof in mirrors
theres enough inside of me to put kids faces on the back of milk cartons
and for you, my tramp, i want to bring out all of them and push them up against your bones,
stick myself against your skeletons and embrace you and your throne,
the logic in it is parrallel to the insanity of
how we go out of our way to swat flies but
get bashful about ladybugs,
i submit and give up for im sick death of trying to interpret the "why?"

witch trial
its easy to cast a sleight of hand blame on our fingers for,
finding their way through the forest to our center,
but it cant be as easy as your skin and its smooth terrain
or
maybe instead, we could vote to have lust hung,
and make it out to be a crime of chemical imbalance,
have it all boil down to the taste of,
the drink of passion we press to our lips, so eager to take every last sip,
but
for now we'll leave it up to fate, because theres only so much air to fall through before you hit the bricks,
i dont want to bother to get choked up on defining how,
but its done and you're got your talons sunk into my neck,
i fear so much of what will happen when you tear them out,
but
for now i shut up as you told me and we kiss on the mouth,

john mayer go suck a dick
oh your carnival tricks, how you swallow that sword,
and those eyes you give me, you make me curl
with satin sheets, we set up tent and i think i'll start your fire
i begin my journey at the top,
grasing through the weaves of brown, grabbing those leaves,
taking my time, down to the branches, above your eyes,
slide my way east, take a nibble at your ear,
and work my way down, to that swallower of sin, stick my tongue in and dance it across yours,
and im off down south,
passed the waves of your ribs to the desert,
and i make hills of sand into solid mountains, with selected kisses,
working my way to the top, with the tip of my lips,
and its onward, as i map my way down to my destination
across the barren wasteland of smooth skin,
down to the mystical garden where i find myself at home, to set up camp again,
and i once was given advice
by a preschool teacher
to practice my abcs,
and so i do,
could you tell what i spelt for you?
keep me here darling, inbetween the two worlds, that i call your legs.

you are so disgusting and dirty, that i want to eat you up and shit you out
i like that you never asked me why i drink,
and never told me how blatantly i wear my demons on my sleeve.
ive been finding more in common with your blood and puke,
than every female that was ever daring enough to have bellowed in my musk.
i cant help but kiss your cuts and hold you tight,
you're the queen of making me feel empty.
and so i open the doors to my asylum,
and let you scale the walls,
for today i give up fear of failure.
i want to swallow your disgustingness, take it as my own.
i want to seperate you from your dope sickness with little supple sucks.
i will swallow all your luggage,
and bury it in my stomaches chambers,
if it means you get to sleep soundly,
and i get to catch the hidden whispers of your breath against my chest,

opera operator operation

dial the digits that beep to the tune that gets me through,
to my ever so expensive, cell phone service provider,
those bastards that keep me confined to being nothing more than a minute man
hello operator, i heard you're here to service me,
and please do,
could you direct me to,
your supervisor, the one whose in charge,
listen to me, when i speak, i must apologize in advance,
for the anger in my tone and the alcohol in my annouciation,
but ive got some bones to break
give me back the part of me you stole from me, you bitch!
all i am is in this spit and i'll drown this phone receiver if i must,
four years old or not, its not up to you,
i'd saved those messages for a reason
and i'll kill you if it means that i'll never get them back
how can you take from me that
which is all i have left
for the taking, that wasnt taken,
by her

kill it at the source

oh dont you dare
make me out to be a monument
i aint no god
im hardly a man

IM DOING GREAT, HOW BOUT YOURSELF? WOW, THE WEATHER SURE IS NICE. truth is i wanna see the secretary naked and i think about jumping off the roof

collared shirt buttoned up to the top, fashioned to perfection with a skinny tie of the opposite color,
enter the hallway, catch eyes, give a smile and a nod,
hold the door open for someone, the soft spoken thanks
wait in the punch card line, get lost in the meaningless robotics of
hey hows it going, its going good, how bout yourself, doing good thanks, good to hear it
office space, secretary smiles and little non abrasive compliments,
phone calls, hello there operator this is daniel copeland calling from so and so, how are you doing this morning, oh, great, thats good to hear,
timed breaks, smokers circle, how bout this weather eh? sure is nice aint it!
he was a good employee, kept to himself, seemed real nice,
put in his input in meetings but otherwise quite quiet,
they'd never think
that when i put out that cigarette butt and step back into the office,
i fantasize about bullet holes and buckets of blood,
phones off the hook and suits and dresses laying limp on bodies on the floor,
chain smoke on breaks, clock out,

unfinished buisness with ex's from many years passed

my heroine
i want to squeeze yr brittle bones until you leak black tar
and toss up our calloused tongues in a wicked waltz
my slender sleek seductress, black eyed ice queen,
you're the weary storm my heart needs,
leave me empty, once again,
only to crawl back in, four years later
and so it seems even the broken lips of a beat man can enjoy giddy teenage giggles at all hours of the night

get real (2/22/10)

last nights liquids kick my ass
burning their way back into the world, through my nasal cavitiy, inbetween my teeth,
falling heavy and loud with expression into the the public restroom shitter,
i let it all out, trying my best not to damage my buisness attire,
a public stall, my morning confession booth, i let out all my sin,
only to have it stare back at me, floating in agony, nasty, dirty, grimy,
its my bodies argument against how i treat it,
flush it down, adjust my tie, look around frantically in investigation,
hoping i wasnt caught by a co worker,
i stumble back into place, making my way to the office chair
finger through my workshop of paperwork to that fine felt tip pen
use the flesh of my hand as a canvas and scratch down the words that are choking to get out,
"get real"
simple but a meaning so important it deserves to be written no where else but in plain sight on my hand, catching my eye with every use of my mitts,
if only it could call some action,
"get real"
get real, dan

i quit

FUCKM3INTH3FAC3

LETS
PUT SALT
ON
EVERYTHING

LETS ONLY
SMILE
WHEN WE'RE
TALKING TO CUSTOMERS

LETS ONLY
TALK
ON
FACEBOOK

LETS PRESENT
OURSELVES
AS THINGS
WE'RE NOT

LETS FEEL
SORRY
FOR
OURSELVES

LETS ACT
LIKE
WE
CARE

LETS SELL
OUR SELF PITY
FOR
OTHER PEOPLES ATTENTION

LETS DRESS
OURSELVES UP
TO
GET LAID

LETS LIE
TO EACHOTHER
TO GET
WHAT WE WANT

LETS SELL
OUR SELVES
FOR
EXPENSIVE THINGS
FUCKM3INTH3FAC3
FUCKM3INTH3FAC3
FUCKM3INTH3FAC3
FUCKM3INTH3FAC3
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING
BLOW UP EVERYTHING

we argued that i could change, but we both knew i couldnt

so...im out of fucking cleaver things to say. i got nothing left. i got nothing worth writing. i am used. its too late.

oh "this sucks" oh i "wish i", oh how i "should of", oh "society", oh my "insecurities" oh "people", oh my "feelings", oh my "drinking", oh my "loneliness", oh my "horniness"

i never liked your poetry, i dont care about your expression, im sick of you talking about your feelings, your manifesto, you self propagandist of your theories, i dont want to hear about your suffering, professional failure, i dont give a fuck about your whining, your incapability to grow up or live like a normal human being, weak, feable, complainer, shitting on yourself even now, are you looking for pity?

self expression? whats the worth? repetitive, uninteresting, wrapping up metaphors to make our lives out to be some important fable, trying to expand our meaningless existence.

fuck writers, i dont even like em, how did fate hit me with such a bore, writing down drunk notes on napkins, lookin at em later thinking "hey thats really something!"

its really nothing

wheres the hanging jury when i'm feeling like a criminal

paper baggin it in LA

when i am stuck with 20-45 minutes at a bus stop waiting for the 105, i often find myself in a nearby alley hidden behind dumpsters with a couple cold tall boys wrapped in brown plastic bags, chain smoking and making odd conversation with local junkies and bums.

ive somehow become familiar with a black crackhead who makes his money panhandling and disguising his strange antics for post traumatic stress syndrome and parkinsons disease. he sucks in people with lies about being a vet.

during our last conversation he made a race oriented joke i thought id share

during a plane flight, there is a pressure leak and all the luggage is discarded for safety. after the effort proves to be pointless the captain comes on over the speaker and makes an announcement

"i apologize for the drastic measures but unfortunately we are going to have to sacrifice some people on board in order to save the rest of the passengers. to avoid discrimination we will go in alphabetical order.

is there anyone on board who is African?"

a black boy looked over at his mother and said "arent we african?"
she looked back at him, told him to be quiet and said "today, we are blacks!"

after no response the captain said "okay, no Africans, are there any Blacks?"

the black boy looked over at his mother and said "arent we black?"
she looked back at him, told him to be quiet and said "today, we are niggers!"

the black boy then looked over at the mexican boy across the aisle. "i'm sorry my friend, but you re before us." making note of M coming before N

the mexican boy spoke softly to his mother and then responded back to the black boy, "sorry, today we are wetbacks!"

.....................


yeah...what the fuck

flicksNtits

office boredom leads to excessive use of youtube

my favorite of richard kerns shorts





lets spoon (good luck gettin through this one)



as per sonnys request, i picked up a warpaint cd a couple weeks ago, really dig the sound



here's some oldies but goodies, it just doesnt get old for me

washed up poetry mops and videos bout burbank cops

so i guess there is a burbank based web show thats a parody of typical "confessional" shows, this is the kind of stupid mindless shit i end up finding when killing time at work. i put everything off until the last hour and then crank it out real quick, that gives me 8 hours of nothing to do.......sitting on my computer, my facebook on idle, hidden under ten screens somewhere. my life is so fucking boring at work, social networking is actually starting to be entertaining. hey, maybe i can use it to get laid.

anyway, here's a little video, its fucking dumb


Find more videos like this on Artists In Exile


and heres a little poetry ive written here and there in the last couple weeks, ive already posted it on facebook, but whatever...

excite me (2010) ©

its as simple as cigarettes,
you can change em up all you want, but they all taste like shit.
bodies are bodies, sex aint nothing but sex,
different authors with the same content.
funny how when you get what you want,
you just want more.
i dare you to give me something new, or atleast try,
cause nothing really excites me anymore.
even my obsessions, my fantasies,
they are only picture perfect because i havent been given the chance to fuck it up.
like that girl who got away,
once i'll get inside i'll find that it was nothing but another comfortable crevice of flesh.


1/12/10 3:16 PM Ronald Reagan Hospital / one of the downfalls of working next to a hospital © (2010)

bickering beneath my breath about the bosses argument
sickened by the mess, told to straighten up my desk.
it brought memories of mother knockin' at my teenage door,
and its windex, towels, dividers, oh, what a fucking chore.
thought i'd cleansed myself of cleaning by quitting my last get,
so i validate a little break and go to where the smokers met.
giving dirty looks to the shining sun, i joined the doctors maids,
lit up a smoke and got close to them hospital ash trays.
held out a handkerchief for a hiccupping young lady,
she told inbetween her tears about how she'd lost her baby.
felt so bruised that i had to go and bought myself a coffee,
the heavy hearted cashier's hours had clearly gone by awfully.
oh how we felt like simple slaves to industrial clocks,
as we timed our breaks and counted through the weary hour blocks.
but i couldn't help but fall in love with the ticking highs and lows,
for i'd seen six different sides of things in such a simple prose.

im not looking to get my dick sucked right now, but thanks © 2010

judging by your appearance
i'm nothing like your father
so greet another slob
i'm hardly worth the bother
i'm here because the drinks are cheap
not for sloppy sexual relation
so theres not too much for you to reap
but shity conversation

yeah, your room mate seems like a douchebag © 2010

the echoes of morning dan against the paper thin walls of your apartment;

the monotonous blare of cell phone alarm clocks and the snoozes in between
jingy jangies shakin' with each step --- an orchestrated dance tune of keys bumping nasty
the visceral howl of my morning cough --- kicking out the mucus demons of my smoke consumption
the slamming of the door behind me as routine takes me into the morning cold.
you best get used to it
and yeah...i left the door unlocked

you wanna feel good, I wanna feel good, lets fuck (C) 2010, this writing blows

everybody's talking bout the good old days
back in highschool, when every thing was great,
when we were around so many people,
so many different types of boys and girls, it was easy to meet people, connect, network,
I knew her cause I knew this guy who knew another gal, and now we're all together
but the "now" is my problem, and life aint like a michael cera flick,

I hit the bar or go to parties in an attempt to be social,
and its always the same, a sweaty cramped up mess of horny lonely people and their radiant insecurities,
everyone wants to get fucked
everyone is hoping to meet someone, but we're all so reserved and nervous,
we all get too hung up on the language of attraction and the silly game of you work for this to get that
I use alcohol as a crutch for my awkwardness and then get too drunk to talk, then I'm stuck with the end of the stick, the last of the leftovers,
Might even score big and get to fuck a nameless girl in the bathroom,
but right when I think I've dragged her in and sealed the deal, she's on another's arm,

she was just testing out the space,
getting different tastes,
and I wasn't for her,
at that time,
for someone else looked a little better
at that time
even when I think I'm last resort, she's off to greener pastures,
and then he tosses her away because she's too engaging,
but I respect her more than anyone else, and do not deem her a slut, but simply an outrageously honest person
she was the only one strong enough to show off her emotions, not afraid to tell everyone what everyone's thinking
"please god, one of you fuck me, I want to feel good and so do you"

and I'm out on the street, oh los angeles,
every person I look at looks the other way and when they look at me I do the same,
we catch eyes for just a little second and then you're gone, you coulda been my soul mate,
If I manage to sneak in a little smile in that beautiful moment of our eyes connecting, you'll probably take it the wrong way,
"look at this creep checking me out, giving me those eyes, gross bastard"
the only people that stop to talk to me are crack heads and the homeless
I feel bad for them, all their social interaction is in monetary exchange,
but I don't feel too bad because my situation is becoming more and more similar,
when my life is nothing but buses and offices, old people and their discrimination,
I'm so disconnected from any relevant connection of like minded people in my age group, I almost give up on meeting people all together,

so I sit in my room
where I spin records all day,
fantasizing that there might be one gal who would be content getting drunk and bickering about our bitterness, while we spin records and fuck,
it's nobody I know, and I don't know how or where to find em
what do I do, go to a record store and try to pick up chicks?
try to engange in conversation at that exact moment that i give you that look and that smile when we've accidently locked eyes
only to have you look the other way and stare down at your records, or pull out your phone and pretend to text message,
I cant blame you, I do it too, but I wonder, are you a little bit as curious as I am but just too afraid to make a move?
are we all just that weak or is it just myself and my insecurity I need to conquer?

for now I give up
I just sit in my room,
where I spin records all day,
having arguments with mirrors, staring long enough at myself to find something new to hate,
where I'll drink and bicker about my bitterness and complain out of boredom about how I should go out and be social
maybe I'll even get up and go out, and repeat the cycle,
sit at the end of a bar by myself or go to a party and get so drunk I cant talk,
hoping there might be some outrageously honest person who might be vulnerable enough to try something new,
fuck it,

11/17

after scribbling some math, i've come to the conclusion that 35% of my day i am actually myself and the other 65% i am playing the role of an employee/bus rider

tired of losing count of all these benders

you've got a problem

crawl into a hole with me

...

you can take all the drugs you want to change your mind, but no drug can change your heart