TRP. Recycle Bin. Next year? Hmmm.

***

I feel disappointed. In me, really. I feel like...a stale brownie. Wha? Haha. I don't think I make sense here. Why is it that when I do ordinary things I come up with crazy but really (trust me) interesting ideas. But when my ISP doesn't fail me and I type type type away, I get stuck. Piss off.

***


Why is it that I can't? I want to. I feel I do. But I can't. I can. I want to. But I can't. And nothing good will come out of it. I'll just end up where I started. Or even way back. But I can't. I do. But I can't. But I'm at least happy. Two things. One, you do. Two, there's actually a clear direction.

***

The star is the sponge. But the sponge is left out. Stored under the sink until it is needed. Again. But the star still shines. And it will until all the hydrogen fuel is all used up. Supernova? No. Blackhole. Yuck.

***

I miss my friends. I want to go home. And I feel tired. But your face is tattooed on my eyelids. The inner part. It doesn't matter if there's no light to reflect the image for my brain to be able to see you. I know it's there so it's there.

***

Why is it that I can't do this? Everytime this happens, everything goes wrong. But if only a small part is altered, which is actually a big part, then everything is right again. In an unwelcome and wrong way. I want it to be right and right, but it just can't. For ever. Until. But then, I know it's for ever. Even if something changes. It will still.

***

What is the noun form of evil? If you are the best evil person, does it mean that you are the good-est evil or the evil-est evil? Eenie, Minnie, Whinnie the Pohgers.

Labels: Making Perfect Sense