my bedroom wall will win every single fistfight. just like it always has. there is no trojan horse to this matter. my bruised knuckles are my world right now. though it's the things that mean the world times over times under to me, that really get me going. or atleast. keep me from ripping my initials into the window screen. 2 mechanics. 1 cable TV man. 1 mounted police. really. now isn't that pathetic. all the creepy middle aged men seem to think i get flattered when they call me pretty. good grief. veera was a good dog. i hope she is in good hands. she was so much more than a human being could ever be. call me misanthropic but it's true. like her. she was true blue. the way she looked at me. true fucking blue.

read this excerpt from peter wentz's journal:

"The new uncool. And im leaning my head against some window in sometown. It doesn't even really matter. My head feels heavy. Tissue stuffed in my nose caked with dried blood, stuck like glue (the way I am to you). Ive got bad luck fists and every single joint in them is dyed a deep bruised violet. The blood is thick coating my throat, I heave towards my feet. December fights mean the most. Your face hurts before you even get into it. In Chicago if you hit somebody in the winter, you really mean it. it hurt my fist everytime I hit this kid's cheek and teeth. And lets not even talk about how the concrete feels skidding against your face below zero. It's the only time I don't skip out on myself. I stand in there for every shot. The first fist in my stomach felt like it turned my guts inside out. I fell onto the curb and heard my keys clink down the angle of the street. I licked my bloody spit on my hand and slapped the kid that just punched me in the gut then walked off to find my keys. This kid spun me around and for the second before he hit me, I laughed cause my spit and blood on his face looked like warpaint, then he hit me right dead center in the face. Like a hiccup in time, it all slows down after you get hit in the face- you cant feel another fucking thing on your body. Like the cartoon stars, this is what they are referring to. Only all I had was every single tear duct on my head working overtime to get enough buckets out. the tears freezing on my cheeks, the blood, salty and quickly working into a paste when mixed with the dirt I had sucked up when I hit the ground. I hear converse pounding the cement in the distance, the sound is absolutely gorgeous. All I can do is smile back at this stupid kid like the worst kind of dare- the kind of smile that says 'too late'. Sound the cannons. The cavalry has arrived. This is why he will always be my bestfriend in my mind. us chasing these kids home. And him catching one on the front porch of the kids own home and pulling him off of it, the skin on this kids hand tearing as he is wrenched from the safety of the doorknob he has anchored himself on. this kid was screaming like he was being murdered. We're panting in the cold air. Kissing off 'maybe we shouldn't's like they were nothing. He is holding the kid and I am laying into him again and again. Right hand only. I want this kid to feel every hit. Its like green/silver on the screen, our glory days, his mom coming out of the front porch and my bestfriend telling her to 'get back in the fucking house'. This kid defiant until the end, I gotta give that to him, no white flags- 'fuck you's between every hit. Me spitting my blood into his mouth. I get into a rhythm until this kid goes limp. For every single time I couldn't sleep at night cause I knew what kids like this were gonna say to me in the morning. We wash the blood off of our faces and hands in the snow on the kids front lawn and walk home. Stopping when I see the glimmer of my keys in the sewer. He's got longer arms then me so he reaches in and takes them back. There's no other reason to remember this than- no one deserves the title bestfriend if they don't sound like the cavalries cannons or aren't willing to bleed next to you."

ahh. i wish certain things. like a goodnight. instead of a goodbye. a good luck instead of a goodnight. a good job in exchange for a good luck. a great in return for a good. a love instead of a like. a like instead of a hate. a hate instead of an infatuation. me and you. setting in a honeymoon.

ifiwokeupnexttoyou if i woke up next to you

As you try to find some source of light
Try to name one thing you like
You used to have such a longer list
And light, you never had to look for it
But now it's so easy to second guess everything you do
Until all you want is to finish this half empty glass
Before the ice melts away
This feeling always used to pass
But seems like it's every day
Seems like it's every night now
by bright eyes

before i deleted my old journal. the one with more than 80 entries. all my entries used to be perfectly choreographed. they are okay now. justokay. stupidthough. i used to have perfect grammar. fuckfuckfuck that. i used to be a perfect shopkeeper who sold you sweet compositions. who dusted off all the mistakes. and kept the store clean. who shut the store down unexpectedly and erected a broken-down hut in its place. it even has a thatched roof. just like in all those fisherman stories. but no, there isn't any fish because. its just like in that nirvana song, fish have no feelings. wreck. it explains all. wrecked decoration. stop the party assholes. codered vs trueblue. pick a side. then maybe i'll know where to go. because i'm a fool. fools follow fools. ahaha. but if you're wise. maybe i'll ignore you.