lyrical commentary #1

i'm really tight-assed when it comes to letting people read my lyrics.
it's not because i don't have confidence in them, but because (10
times out of 10) people can never read them off in the way that i put
them together. i'd much rather have you listen to the song (or me
reciting them live), and THEN reading the lyrics, so that you know how
i flow my words together, and so that certain rhyme schemes make more
sense.
now, in case that came off as such, that wasn't an arrogance thing.
i'm just saying that everybody's flow is (supposed to be) unique, and
just reading shit on paper will never be as incredible as hearing that
person perform those words with all intended passion, precision, and
prowess.
this is why i don't really post lyrics up too much, though i'd really
like to. i'd much rather put songs up, but that too is still a bit
outside of my means (i was only in the studio recording a guest spot
for my cousin's track. kind of a one-off).

this song i wrote to Donell Jones's Where I Wanna Be instrumental is
gonna be crack.
last saturday i went back into the booth for the first time all year
and fucking TANKED, so i'm currently on the road to personal
redemption by writing really great shit.

missing peace.

how do you re-introduce yourself into someone's life? i'm really
ashamed to have lost touch with a person so thoroughly. i'm almost in
disbelief. this is an odd kind of desparation. it feels...dire,
almost. like without her in my life, there's a sizeable chunk missing
and it's hindering me.
lol, bummer...

comparison.

in the last three months i've spent at job corps, i've smoked about
seven blunts full of shit weed that cost me enough money to
effectively lead people to believe that i should wear a helmet when
outdoors.

since i've been home (last wednesday, 4am), i've smoked eight blunts
full of quality weed that cost me absolutely nothing because i have
friends and acquaintances that actually like me and/or are generally
generous decent human beings. so, at the risk of sounding like the
spunky, "too cool for school" teenager with the sunglasses, backwards
hat, and righteously rebellious attitude that screenwriters refuse to
let be a dying archetype:

Home: 1
Job Corps: 0

…totally rad, dude.

The BumFuck Chronicles #4 - "Homecoming"

so, i'll be home tomorrow. sick leave. asthma. up to six months. probably coming back after thanksgiving, though.

i'm happy as shit.

by the time this posts to facebook, i'll probably be home. still, i'm coming home.

church.

The BumFuck Chronicles #3 - "Death by a Thousand Cuts"

As of late, I seem to be quite incapable of maintaining mental composure. Though wholly unnoticed at first, more and more often I am being interrogated by random strangers about the condition of my overall well-being. I’m not well. There’s a noticeable fracture somewhere. Either some synapses have spaced themselves out significantly, or they’ve shorted out in some sense. The stony pillars upon which my morals, self-control, and self-restraint stand are rapidly being eroded by my environment. My good moods seem few and far-between, and they’re fairly feeble in the sense that it takes little to cause them to falter and fail altogether.

I just found out that, as of two weeks ago, I’m eligible for personal leave, but I need $168 for a roundtrip Greyhound ticket home. I need to take a week off…reclaim my sanity a little.

Yesterday I took my roommate’s mp3 player out of his drawer, walked across the campus, and dropped it in a trash can. I can’t beat him to death with the 2x4 stashed in my locker, or slit his throat with the shank in my mattress. I figured taking away the man’s music was the next best thing. I figure if I can’t just hit him and take out all my aggression toward him all at once (at the risk of both expulsion and federal imprisonment), I’ll go the “death by a thousand cuts” route and fuck with him a little bit every day. Now, there’s no need to tell me that what I’m doing is wrong, I’m well aware of that. But, does it make me happy? Immeasurably so. I have a low tolerance for bitchassness, of which he has an abundant supply. One cut down, 999 to go.

"The sound of the tune precipitated in him a sort of ecstasy and it was with that ecstasy he viewed what happened to him now..."

"It was a mood of intense appreciation, a sense that, for once, he was magnificently attuned to life and that everything about him was radiating a brightness and glamour he might never know again."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

tolerance...or a lack, thereof.

someday soon, i am going to murder someone.

no one will take this seriously until the day someone's blood is all over my clothes.

on that day, i will direct them to this post.

i am not lying. i am pissed off, and i grow more and more irrational by the second.

they say no one man should have all of that shit?

well i go, "but i'm not just one man, baby. i'm SCHIZO"

i find it ironic that every site under the sun (including WordPress) is blocked, yet blogspot isn't. maybe it's because blogspot fell off? i'm not sure. i could care less, though. i've found another creative outlet. the fuckery here runs rampant and i need a way to relieve the tension i amass every day from the massively collective group of fuckery-producing masses.......it's a lot of shit going on out here.

and just like that, my mind is blank.

now it isn't.

a few months ago (on another site), i wrote :

"The girl you love will never love you. She’s too busy waiting on the guy she loves to love her, but he never will. We’re all lined up single file, pining for the one in front of us, and imploring them to turn around.

I’m at the back of the line. "

well...now there's someone behind me (which is, in itself, beyond weird), and it's giving me a whole new sense of perspective. i'm literally not used to being the object of anyone's affections like this. sure i've had little moments and occurrences here and there, but it's different now. this girl really likes me, and i just kind of...well, plain and simple, i only like talking to her when i'm horny. quite fucked up, i know. that's where the insight comes in. like, what the fuck am i doing using this girl like i am? is this what it was like when i'd play do-boy to whatever girl had my heart (and my balls, it seems) in her palm?

i'm fuckin up.

The BumFuck Chronicles #2 (Blogger Redux) 8.22.10

The first version of this entry was erased due to the shitty nature of the Earle C. Clements Job Corps Academy's computer. The entry was long, detailed, and probably a very entertaining/informational read. This, the re-write, will not be.

I'll keep it short and sweet: FUCK THIS PLACE AND EVERYBODY IN HERE. I'm here to advance myself, get that check, and move the fuck on with my life. Fuck the fact that ignorance and caveman-like intelligence is the dominant trait, fuck the stuck-up fat bitches that think they're the shit (not knowing that it's only because there are so few of them here that aren't gay), fuck the shifty-ass thieves here, fuck the food, fuck the slow-ass healthcare, fuck the rules, FUCK ALL OF IT. I fucking hate this place, I really do. If it weren't for me fixing my mp3 and going to the movie room all the time, I truly believe I'd snap and kill somebody.

Fuck that loneliness too. I miss my people.

With all that said, I still refuse to leave here without my certification.

Period.