glass of milk

oooh blahblah i can't sleep. get SO fucking sick of hearing people say that. and right now i can't sleep, but i can't complain because i didn't get out of bed till twelve. i also did very little with my day so no wonder i am not tired. so really, i can't say anything because it is entirely my fault. but pity me anyway you judgemental scumbags!

am currently working on a great idea to send to a list of publishers (as well as trying to write short stories and improve my poetry). there is a 100% chance of failure but it's worth it for the *possible* feedback. feedback of course, is very rare. i've had one piece of feedback from all the places i sent poetry to. it was quite good as well- they liked the style, but it lacked discipline. tbh they know what they are talking about much more than i do.

that's another irritating thing. delusions of grandeur. literally the amount of people i've heard go on about how they've started writing some novel or whatever and it's great and this and that and it's gonna get published. FAIL. i much prefer the deadbeat, self deprecating writer. at least then if it happens to them you can be happy for them.

all these things come down to the real deal behind success (other than luck) which is dedication. doesn't matter if you're a great poet, or a great pianist, or a great whatever. if you don't constantly try and improve and spend every free minute pushing and promoting yourself...you know you've got next to know chance at all. so i'm quite fucked.

most people i meet or have met who want to 'make it' in some way or another want it for the wrong reasons. this is good, because here is a secret kid....there are no right reasons. people who do it for artistic growth are just as likely to have a fulfilling career as some cunt who just wants fame or some lazy fail of a human being (ie me and everyone else with sense) who just wants to get paid to do something they love.

kudos to my dad, though. he wrote a novel in his lunch breaks at work and got it published. sure it was at the back end of the top million sellers on amazon, but at least it was in it. so shut the fuck up and write me a story.

me vs maradona vs elvis

i think some people don't honestly understand or will ever experience the sham of love. some people will just be in love, and they will stay in love, then they will fall out of love. it'll happen again and again, blahblah. okay, break ups are always bad, and surely they have got it right...to enjoy being with the person they love whilst they still love each other.

don't really feel like i've had that luxury tbh. when i think about what a sham our love was, i still think it was more vibrant and exciting than loads of other peoples. maybe that is sweepingly innacurate but i think i better believe it's true. last night i sat and thought about drinking myself to high heaven like i did two christmases ago, on my own, lying on the sofa, necking down southern comfort by the glass, hoping it would force me to sleep. amazing how much you need when you feel like ripping your heart out, makes sleep very patchy. but yeah, in the end i drank a ginger beer, smoked a cigarette and watched family guy in bed. felt like a much more measured approach to that sad kind of feeling. slept quite well as well, despite the dreams etc.

but i think it really is true, after the first time...it never really hurts as bad. it feels more numb, and i'm really glad i went through that hell a few years ago, in a weird way. literally being so self absorbed and miserable and abusive with whatever substance is an important grieving process. frankly, people who tell you to dry your eyes, grab a shower and go out and face the world are heartless cunts. they think they mean well, but they don't. holding back tears is like holding back a piss; you're a fucking pressure cooker. if you're gonna cry, goddamn do it, and do it where you want. i've cried in public so much it doesn't really phase me now, so maybe you could go practice it. it makes unexpected heartache a lot easier to deal with! you have to let air out of the tires.

i was pretty concerned about waking up today, but getting a perfectly timed letter through the mail and a txt off joe seeing if i was free tonight just kinda made it better. makes you realise you have your own life, and however much it feels like that person took half your life with them, they really didn't.

i've done all the crying, screaming, going round the house at four in the morning, facebook stalking, myspace stalking (retro), email arguments, rebounding off whoever, drinking to oblivion, packing my nose with MD, smoking weed like cigarettes, comfort eating (mashed potato is the answer), falling out with all my friends at one point or another, writing terribly fogged poetry and generally using Bright Eyes as some kind of guidance meditation tape.

so yeah, probably best i dry my eyes, get up and go outside....

x

guinness makes me cough

i really envy people who can effectively decorate their rooms.

i forgot to do one yesterday. E P I C F A I L Z

Good start eh.

Well, started writing my magnum opus  "A One Week Bender". Obviously I'm joking, it's going to be shit. But time to start trying to get creative writing published as well as poetry. Where's the harm? There isn't any.

I'm now convinced no one will ever read this (maybe until a few years down the line when I'm fuuuuucking everywhere) so I can just use this to remind me to do shit. (ie get a fucking job)

More and more are the lyrics of the old weezer albums fitting in with my current life. But sadly I haven't gone to harvard, or gone on even one tour, or had sex with a load of japanese girls.

At least we got a dressing room at the gig last night. Shame we played to about 15 people. Better than no people though. Is it? Yes.

I wish i could get my head out of this sand....

Existence Without Purpose?

all my heroes had "it", and yet few of them seemed happy and content throughout their careers (and ongoing). i have been wearing the same t-shirt for two days, and already the excitement of a new look and desperation to feel american ( an american rock star, an american writer, an american drinker, just a fucking american, whatever!) has dissolved. the t-shirt will shrink and i'll have stop wearing it because I really have to curb my habit for wearing my jeans so low, as i've started to notice it's probably not as cool or attractive to any girl as i might have thought. this may seem irrelevant but it's a short sleeved metaphor for the reasons behind my fear of holding no purpose forever and a day.

i am a fad junkie, and i can see it in nearly every area of my life. it's got to be full on and swimming with false promises of success, and all those things i really want so badly, no matter how tragic other people may think it to be. i got an acoustic guitar, then decided i needed to be the next bright eyes. i got a bass, wanted to be the next pete wentz. i wrote one half conscious poem, got it published in an almost invisible magazine, and decided i wanted to be the next...well the next whoever. despite my usual attempts at discussing poety, i really don't know half as much as most people i studied with did. not that knowledge of poetry will make you a good poet, of course not. you can tell a poem has been written by someone with next to no knowledge, because it's shit. despite what a cunt i think ted hughes to be, and how mind numbingly soulless and boring his poetry appears to me...i can't really say he's shit. but i did call him a cunt, and that's probably worse.

but yeah, i thought "maybe, because i seem to be drunk quite a lot, i'll indulge this pasttime and maybe upgrade it to a full blown hobby". blahblah, i'm so badass because i always have a drink. it's not really that badass to hit on every single girl in my phone or on my facebook when totally fucked, or to basically fail in the real world, propping myself up with my past and somewhat fading girl glories. you gotta stay fresh, and that's the beef. maybe that's why fads are okay then, but i'll come back to that. too many people rely on the past. everyone knows someone who did something mad once. come on, everyone has done something a bit mad. and if they haven't, and they are kind of boring, someone they loved probably died or something like that. that's not mad, but it's hard to deny it makes them more interesting. hardly a worthy trade for a human life is it, but you know what i'm saying. i'm not being a cunt about the dead.

stop fucking bringing up that one time you got wasted and...i don't know started a mass party in the street, or told your science teacher to shut the fuck up in front of everyone. the problem with youthful stories is we cheapen and ruin them by bringing them up all the time. perhaps it is age, a classic sign of ageing. the reason they were messed up or exciting is cause we probably didn't really think about it, or give a shit at the time. these days i'm more likely to hear myself saying "oh this will make a great story one day", when what i should be saying is "shut the fuck up, jak". no longer being a teenager means you can't really do all that crazy shit without proper, grown up consequences. so maybe that's the problem, there's always two sides to this stuff, eh? how fair and reasoned i am.

but yeah, fuckit, i got a lot out of fads. when i first saw muse on some VHS tape, i saw matt bellamy's hair and was like shiiit, i'm having jet black hair. that was like, 8 years ago. it's been nothing but good times. it sounds like a shallow argument, make no mistake i agree with you. i would list how my fads for well dressed musicians has probably influenced my entire wardrobe, but literally not even i want to hear about that.

music fads are great, especially when you play music. and i guess now , and by now i mean this very second..i guess now it is clear to me why it's so fucking important to dive into fads and tear them apart, and embarrass yourself a bit by being a noob. get into a band, imitate the hell out of them, then get a bit bored, but some of that style, some of that new way of thinking, it sticks with you. there's just stuff like that that doesn't go away. it's just occurred to me this paragraph is definitely the worst paragraph i may have ever written. it could do with a rounded conclusion, but i'm afraid there isn't one, and has rendered this pointless. you could say on the surface, this paragraph exists without a purpose. apart from ironically that does round it all off, not nicely, but definitely off. i guess i haven't found the answer on this screen today.