The choice has been made. Had to decide with logic, and not emotion. The ball or the sword, right? I still don't know how to accept the choice, but I don't think I'm off base saying it is done.
It looks like these blog entries will go back to what they started out as, with less emotion going into them. Why? I think some people have sincerely misread a lot of things and are often so off base that I can't understand them.
On a not-so-related not, "Inglorious Basterds" looks like a prime movie. Brad Pitt in a Tarantino film? I'm pretty sure that's going to fuckin' rock. I will see a remake in this case.
Coming soon to the CZ: "Spin," racist mayors, and more on the decisions that have been made.
Ta-Da.
Showing posts with label Lone Wolf and Cub. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lone Wolf and Cub. Show all posts
28.2.09
27.1.09
I Could Taste Nothing But Victory
Just when you think you got a handle on the shit, God punches you in the gut and on your way down, does a nice uppercut to your jaw to see if he can loosen a few teeth. That is the way of the world.
A shit night is the best way to sum it up. Sliding deeper into a depression as I put away pieces of my past life. I thought I could make myself feel better by putting on the soundtrack to "The Devil's Rejects." I think it's a perfect movie, and things I consider to be that high of an art (like "Lone Wolf and Cub," "Preacher" and the two "Kill Bill" films) I respect. They also depress me because I don't believe I can ever top them. Here's the kicker, though, for those who haven't seen the film: The movie is violent, but the music is so damn sad (just like the film's ending).
So I slip and I slide, and I try. I try to get back up, and I do, but each time a little further down. I want my old life back. I want my daughter to be happy again. I don't buy the shit that kids get over things. They do, but it sticks. "Things just ain't the same" that song "To Be Treated Right" (also on the soundtrack) goes. They ain't. They never will be.
One foot forward as the rotted limbs of life attempt to pull you back. We all got our battles, our addictions. We either overcome or drown. Worse yet, we just float. How's that go? We all float down here? Yeah, something like that.
I hate feeling this way. I'd rather feel violent. It's a feeling I'm familiar with. Hurt doesn't do well with me. Being closer to forty than thirty and typing with my eyes clouded with tears makes me feel dumb and little. It makes me feel less than what I am. It makes me feel human, and I can't stand that.
So, yeah, listening to that soundtrack was a bummer. Having my girl choose to spend the night elsewhere sucked. Hearing that Voodoo Rhythm Records may go under saddened me. Trying to eat and not being able to keep food down made me think of the money I just wasted.
Here's to all the things I hate. Here's a toast to all those things that make me feel human. Those damned emotions that like to tease and never please. Kind of like that girl in high school. The one who made you so glad you were a guy, but so pissed you couldn't show her. I salute thee. You fucking won tonight. You win nearly every night. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how I get through a day. I don't remember conversations. I think I don't look the same. I know I don't feel the same. I go through the motions. I fake it, but even friends are starting to see the real me peeking through the seams.
I think it scares some of them. Not for their personal safety, but for mine.
A cry for a help in a world gone mad. Wasn't that Agent Orange? God, I bet this is filled with mistakes. I don't care to read over it. This is fueled by emotion. Not communication. I don't care to hear what the world has to say today. I think I've heard all I care to.
One more punch, God? You got it in you? I know I can take it. In fact, I welcome it. One more. Right in the face. As hard as you can. Let's tempt fate, you sick fantasy. Let's dance one more time. Let's see if you can push as hard as I can. Even you got to get tired sometime. How's those knuckles feel? That my blood or yours?
So I smile at you through a mouth full of broken teeth, bloody gums, and one lip hanging off my face like a piece of mozzarella cheese dipped in runny tomato sauce. And you know what? I look damn good. My eyes have swelled shut. They're purple now. By the morning they'll be black. The vessels in my right eye have burst. A doctor says I may never see again. "Got you good," he states. Can't move my jaw right. Not even to smile. It comes out funny. Stroke-like. Something broke in there. Not sure they can fix that. My scalp got cut somewhere along the line. Blood cakes the side of my face and mats my hair. Thick enough you can smell it. I let it go long enough and the flies will find their way to it. If I move my head fast (and I can't because it hurts) a flap of skin will flip over, exposing some skull. Hard to tell under all that blood, though.
I kind of like this look. Reminds me of what it's like to bleed. You ever wonder why all those girls cut themselves? It's to let the pain out, to feel human. Ever wonder why guys hit? The exact opposite.
Ever dread the phone ringing? Ever fear waking up to see what's at your door? That's every fucking minute. "Lord help me/I can't change." "Free Bird" Soundtrack again. Maybe I should turn this off. I kind of like the push, though.
I think I should set up a poll. Who says he needs therapy? Vote now!
Yeah, well, tomorrow is another day. Another way to rip your body over the broken glass and call it good. That sun comes up and just burns. Hell awaits your next meal. Here's to the good guys winning one for once. Here's to old friends and fuck buddies. Here's to fast cars and hand guns. Here's to woman who look good no matter what they weigh and to arsonists. Here's to a thousand points of light to denote burning souls. Here's to one last go before the police send us home. Here's to faded memories of that first kiss and to poison stars. Here's to the one that got away and the one that never was. Here's to dead parents and the words you never got out. Here's to life's funny little moments that leave you dying in the street as onlookers dial 911. Here's to hoping the ambulance is stuck in traffic.
Here's too good times. May you always return. May you always bear gifts.
This machine eats souls. It's empty. Good night.
A shit night is the best way to sum it up. Sliding deeper into a depression as I put away pieces of my past life. I thought I could make myself feel better by putting on the soundtrack to "The Devil's Rejects." I think it's a perfect movie, and things I consider to be that high of an art (like "Lone Wolf and Cub," "Preacher" and the two "Kill Bill" films) I respect. They also depress me because I don't believe I can ever top them. Here's the kicker, though, for those who haven't seen the film: The movie is violent, but the music is so damn sad (just like the film's ending).
So I slip and I slide, and I try. I try to get back up, and I do, but each time a little further down. I want my old life back. I want my daughter to be happy again. I don't buy the shit that kids get over things. They do, but it sticks. "Things just ain't the same" that song "To Be Treated Right" (also on the soundtrack) goes. They ain't. They never will be.
One foot forward as the rotted limbs of life attempt to pull you back. We all got our battles, our addictions. We either overcome or drown. Worse yet, we just float. How's that go? We all float down here? Yeah, something like that.
I hate feeling this way. I'd rather feel violent. It's a feeling I'm familiar with. Hurt doesn't do well with me. Being closer to forty than thirty and typing with my eyes clouded with tears makes me feel dumb and little. It makes me feel less than what I am. It makes me feel human, and I can't stand that.
So, yeah, listening to that soundtrack was a bummer. Having my girl choose to spend the night elsewhere sucked. Hearing that Voodoo Rhythm Records may go under saddened me. Trying to eat and not being able to keep food down made me think of the money I just wasted.
Here's to all the things I hate. Here's a toast to all those things that make me feel human. Those damned emotions that like to tease and never please. Kind of like that girl in high school. The one who made you so glad you were a guy, but so pissed you couldn't show her. I salute thee. You fucking won tonight. You win nearly every night. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how I get through a day. I don't remember conversations. I think I don't look the same. I know I don't feel the same. I go through the motions. I fake it, but even friends are starting to see the real me peeking through the seams.
I think it scares some of them. Not for their personal safety, but for mine.
A cry for a help in a world gone mad. Wasn't that Agent Orange? God, I bet this is filled with mistakes. I don't care to read over it. This is fueled by emotion. Not communication. I don't care to hear what the world has to say today. I think I've heard all I care to.
One more punch, God? You got it in you? I know I can take it. In fact, I welcome it. One more. Right in the face. As hard as you can. Let's tempt fate, you sick fantasy. Let's dance one more time. Let's see if you can push as hard as I can. Even you got to get tired sometime. How's those knuckles feel? That my blood or yours?
So I smile at you through a mouth full of broken teeth, bloody gums, and one lip hanging off my face like a piece of mozzarella cheese dipped in runny tomato sauce. And you know what? I look damn good. My eyes have swelled shut. They're purple now. By the morning they'll be black. The vessels in my right eye have burst. A doctor says I may never see again. "Got you good," he states. Can't move my jaw right. Not even to smile. It comes out funny. Stroke-like. Something broke in there. Not sure they can fix that. My scalp got cut somewhere along the line. Blood cakes the side of my face and mats my hair. Thick enough you can smell it. I let it go long enough and the flies will find their way to it. If I move my head fast (and I can't because it hurts) a flap of skin will flip over, exposing some skull. Hard to tell under all that blood, though.
I kind of like this look. Reminds me of what it's like to bleed. You ever wonder why all those girls cut themselves? It's to let the pain out, to feel human. Ever wonder why guys hit? The exact opposite.
Ever dread the phone ringing? Ever fear waking up to see what's at your door? That's every fucking minute. "Lord help me/I can't change." "Free Bird" Soundtrack again. Maybe I should turn this off. I kind of like the push, though.
I think I should set up a poll. Who says he needs therapy? Vote now!
Yeah, well, tomorrow is another day. Another way to rip your body over the broken glass and call it good. That sun comes up and just burns. Hell awaits your next meal. Here's to the good guys winning one for once. Here's to old friends and fuck buddies. Here's to fast cars and hand guns. Here's to woman who look good no matter what they weigh and to arsonists. Here's to a thousand points of light to denote burning souls. Here's to one last go before the police send us home. Here's to faded memories of that first kiss and to poison stars. Here's to the one that got away and the one that never was. Here's to dead parents and the words you never got out. Here's to life's funny little moments that leave you dying in the street as onlookers dial 911. Here's to hoping the ambulance is stuck in traffic.
Here's too good times. May you always return. May you always bear gifts.
This machine eats souls. It's empty. Good night.
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