• I don't know anymore. I just don't know. I give out advice to all these people. In fact, a girl I met via here asked me for advice today. On two separate things, and I gave her advice. She said it was good advice, and that I always give good advice. That I help her out. Which is great, I'm not bitching about that. I'm stoked I help her out. It's just, why can't I take my own damn advice? Why am I so indecisive when it comes to my problems. If you were to right now, add me on msn, and ask me for advice on whatever problem you had, I could almost, if not immediately give you advice. But when it comes to my problems, I can't make up my damn mind on anything. Of course not, that would make life easy. I can't explain what type of mood I'm in. Because I can't explain anything. ever. I am screwing everything up right now. I can't get one thing right. I can't even paint. I was sketching a tree, that I planned to paint. I didn't have that great of a day, so I was going to paint. So I sketch up this tree, it looks fucking awful. I love drawing trees, it's great fun, I draw them up in class a lot lately. But the one time I need to draw a tree, of course not. Life just gave me the finger. Yesterday I painted this killer painting, I was in love with it. So I lay it on my drawing board to dry, 20 minutes later I go to lift it up, it tears completely in half. Are the painting gods pissed at me? I just bought a bunch of new paints too. I was so excited to use them. Now I just feel it was a waste of money. This not even what I'm mad about. I can't even write in a damn journal anymore. I'm so very sick of myself. I'm sitting here listening to Vivaldi, performed by Fabio Biondi. Trying to calm down, trying to relax, sketching a tree. The only think I end up getting was failure. I wish Hank Chinaski were still alive. He could write up some more poems, and publish them, and I could read them. I finished his book. In case your wondering, Hank Chinaski is Bukowski's autobiographical character. He is called that by various people in some of the poems I've read. I'm getting off subject as usual. What was my subject? Oh yes, I'm pissed off, and I can't portray why. Oh fuck, none of you care. Why are you still reading? Stop Reading This It's Nonsense. Work? I didn't think it would. Hello. How are you today? Terrible, I'm sorry to hear that. Would you like a stick of gum? No? Too many calories, or what? Oh, watching you're figure, I see. Well, summer is coming up soon. We wouldn't want to have any chub for bathing suit season, now would we? You porky bastard. This is entertainment.. I wish I had more Bukowski to read. His poems are so very honest and blunt. They don't feel like some fairy tale world, where a princess is rescued, and they live happily ever after. His sad poems aren't written in metaphors and smilies, they are written exactly how one would talk about something sad. He makes you feel like he is sitting in front of you, having a casual conversation. In one poem, he even talks about if this poem will be published, and if you are reading it. How he may be dead and gone. How he is talking to you, and how he is alive for that moment. I fiercely love that poem. Surprisingly, I am not so angry anymore. Vivaldi is still pumping through my speakers. In case you were wondering. I downloaded some Jefferson Airplane today, I still haven't gotten around to listening to it. Right now, I'm just eating up my Vivaldi. If I were to throw a party and be able to invite anyone I could this is who I'd invite; Bukowski, Hemingway (Bukowski wrote a poem about the hatred of Hemingway, its about a girl who hates him, I love it), Vivaldi, Carl Czerny, Prokofiev, (we would be having a concert, I'm guessing) River Phoenix, Gandhi, and John Lennon. Okay, this became my 'people who are deceased party' Who would you invite if you had one? Okay, I'm done. I hope you enjoyed all that. Quote of the Day: ~“If you're losing your soul and you know it, then you've still got a soul left to lose”~ ---Charles Bukowski

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