• I finally got the book I've been waiting to arrive. It's not the book I wanted, but it's a book of poems by Bukowski, I can't complain. The book is: The People Look Like Flowers at Last; new poems. Today people kept asking what it was about, I'd say a lot of things. It was a book of poems. Then they'd read the title and assume it was some girlie book. If they knew the poem that title was derived from, they might not think so. Let me show you a few lines. [a girl had just told him to love her, and left. the streets are flooded with people singing about love] but after she leaves I feel odd I lock the door go to the desk and take the pistol from the drawer. it has it's own sense of love. LOVE!LOVE!LOVE! the crowd sings in the streets. I fire through the window glass cutting my face and arms. I get a 12-year-old boy an old man with a beard and a lovely young girl something like a lilac [theres more, that will do for now] Later he kills the girl that told him to love her, and the frog she brings home. Real girlie. haha. I borrowed a book from a friend, it was okay. I finished it in a day. I haven't given it back, it took her a week to finish it, I don't want to come off as a jackass. I'm letting her borrow Alice in Wonderland & Through the Looking Glass. I'm a bit scared she'll make a massacre out of simple meanings, she's one of those people who will read something on the internet and automatically start believing it instead of forming her own opinions. At the same time, she claims she's 100% originality... oh yeah. People call her a hippie, but fuck, she brings it on herself. She buys shirts that say 'hippie' and such on them. She says it bothers her that they call her that, but I know it's for attention. I really dislike her sometimes, but she's okay. This is Ali by the way. So, today was one of those days when I just kind of float through, pretending like none of this is happening. That's what I've come to love about routine, it becomes second nature, so there is no need to think. You just do it. I wish I could tell you all that I feel so much better now. That I had some sort of epiphany and feel like my old self again, but I can't. Because I don't, and there's no use in lying to a bunch of strangers. I was trying to read some more a little while ago. I think with poetry you have to be in the mood to read it. Earlier Bukowski's harsh words and mean undertones sounded like butterflies and rainbows to me. I think I'll read before I go to sleep. That seems to put me in a relaxing mood. A friend read this journal yesterday, she told me she was always there for me to vent to. Even if it be via email. She said she knew exactly how I felt, and that she could tell I was an intelligent person. She has no idea how much that meant to me. That's all for now. Quote of the Day: ~"Don't try"~ -written on Bukowski's tombstone.

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