My secret.

Somedays I wish I could have a book with every secret ever had, just so I could feel like a human being, and not a monster.

Porcerlin Tar Stuck.

Somedays I miss the vulgar kicking and screaming that rocks my head and scissors my eyes.  When you sick taint green and black onto every touch; bruised blue footsteps on the ground where you step and the avoid is very strong. The hyperbole-perfume saturates the wrapper world and slick trips all trips, those outer-going ventures to sniff the earth's body book. There are melodramaed lives. Feel brink. Topsevey sorts of states that pull-push plummet downward forever until down is topsy, up Sunny Sunny Sunny! There is something cold about a subtle still. Stilling in a turn book. All the pages turn, I stay, sit-stilling right in the middle; page warped around with no pull. Stick pinned to a projector screen with the all up bottom film reeling right over me. Tar stuck.
I am brown in the vivacious only spectrum party. Molasses moper corner stuck. No rainbow disco spotting me.

Being Happy. Being Sad. Being Well.

Your emotions work on a pendulum. Say that there is a pendulum attached to the back of a long picture frame. Outside the frame on both sides there is a bumper; usually, it ticks back and forth without going inside the frame; with a natural tick to it. However, once in a while, something jerks the pendulum, and it goes flying all the way over to the outside bumper. Slamming into the bumper, it immediately get pushed all the way over to the other side.This repeats over and over again until, gradually, the normal tick of things takes back over; the pendulum once again swings at a natural tick. Sometimes the bumpers break; sometimes they hog the pendulum to one side or the other, sometimes the pendulum gets stuck on one end, or maybe in the middle.Some days are good. Some days are bad. Sometimes, life is unbearable. Other times, you can do anything.And you go back and forth between nothing and everything. Stars and the moon and the sky. Nailed to the ground with the flood gates opening soon. And so you cope. You do your best. You try so hard. And once in a long while, you're just walking. Ticking back into the rhythm that is real. Its only once in a long while, but it happens. And eventually, it'll start happening longer, and more often. It just takes a while to get there. But you'll get there.

Things I think.

I think that:
People should be kind to each other.
Pineapple on pizza is really tasty.
There is such thing as bad taste.
I am socially awkward and I'm also not nearly good enough friend.
People don't realize how much they don't know.
People don't care about how much they don't know.
Monks are a really fun class to play in Dungeons and Dragons 3.5.
Sorcerers are really fun to play in Pathfinders, particularly with bloodlines.
I want more people who are willing to play and be silly with me. 
Many people who I want to be around don't want to be around me.
Improvisors are really fun people to be around.
My best friend doesn't want me to join the theater department.
My best friend doesn't really want me to be around him hardly at all.
I've been trying to accept this situation for about a year.
I still don't know what to do about it.
Suicide is not even philosophically justifiable. (Don't believe me, read Camus, or Kierkegaard.)
People have problems.
They should not let these problems rule them.
They should not despair.
You should try to help yourself, but let someone help you, too.
I watch too much TV.
I'm not studious enough.
I need a better work ethic.
While I have a pretty face it is destroyed by the person I am.
The the United states needs to get over their so called democracy and change to a republic. It would work much better, and would no longer be a popularity contest, as is the nature of all democracies.
It is perfectly fine to dislike certain people.
One should never have to stay around someone who is ruining their life. Sometimes, I am that person who everyone needs to leave.
People should do things. Real things.
People are not intrinsically good.
Goodness is something you have to earn.
I need to work harder.
Doing drugs is such a sad thing to do. I feel sad that so many people I know do them. I wish that they would find a better way to live; it seems so painful to have to run away so far.
I am in love, and no one thinks I should be. No one wants to hear that from me. They treat me as though I have let them down immensely. I don't think I am an exception, I may just be blind. I hope I am not.
Eels is a great band.
I should be more grateful.
I think about myself too much.
One day I will be better than I am now.
One day I will not whine as much as I do now.
One day I will figure out how I get page views, even though I haven't told anyone about this blog.
One day one of those page viewers will commit to being a follower. (That means you, person who looked at this page, who ever you are.)
Marshmallow Peeps are not very good.
If I worked harder I would be better.
If I work hard enough I will be good enough.
Keeping my favorite color a secret is a good decision.
Keeping my birthday a secret is also a good decision.
Angry music accomplishes very little to nothing.
Peanut Butter and Chocolate was and awful idea.
That there is thought.
I am not as funny or as helpful as I'd like to be.
That if I ever find Mick Napier I will hug that man and thank him for writing such a good book.
People who create virus are not putting their talent to good use.
My lack of understanding is one thing that will keep me rather forever alone.
I don't deserve most of what I've got.
Good colors are one of the best things to see.
A dead bird is a very sad thing.
Death is a hard thing to deal with, and I'm not sure how to deal with it.
Cats are a good thing to have around.
No one likes everything.

Lastly, one day, I will be funny. And people will laugh, and feel better. One day I will find a way to make someone feel better.

I'm far too simple.

I just want to have friends that care about me. I want friends to say things to my face. To ask questions about me once in a while. I feel like a really good wall. Perfect for leaning on. Anytime. All the time. I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to at least let me help you. I wish you didn't keep secrets. I wish you didn't say bad things about me behind my back. I wish you didn't give up on me. I wish I could help you feel better. I want to be good enough. I want to be useful, at the very least. I don't want to be left here. Its very hard here. I can't move.

Illality

Reality is sick. Coughing, hacking its way around. Vision becomes blurry and with each blink the clock ticks away one more time. Five, ten, elven. And then three. The lamp begins to melt and the music starts to whisper in you ear. "Liar...liar...failure... eat a hot dog...." There is little sense left.
I begin to walk along a street. In each window there is something reminiscent of something I've already seen. First there is a stage. He is covered in gaudy lipstick, and has a crowd of people on and surrounding him. Each person is smiling very enthusiastically; some with staples to keep their miles stretched so wide, other have nails, some even are hammering the nails deeper in right as I walk by. The canned laughter is loud; the laugh track playing over and over and over again. I blink and the lipstick, violent stuff, melts off and the stage screams. We bleed together. It hurts. I walk toward the door. An apparition appears, only a little taller than me, darker skin, a monochromatic thin brown build . "You would be happier somewhere else." He says. "I don't think you really belong here." He looks. As I turn and continue down the sidewalk he thinks "I don't want you here." The music once again whispers, this time with an echo that spins into a cacophony "Don't want you here....don't want you here...don't want you here..." The emphasis changes every time. The stage and I continue to bleed together. I walk to the next window.
There is nothing but colors. Brushed by a Persian cat dipped in paint that rubbed up against the wall in delight, contentment and pride fill the wall with the reds and the perfect compliments further stroke the dignity with a soft green. Then a sublime yellow appears, and grins. A lovely grin. Brown ineptitude spins on madly with the lipstick, and a splash of yellow grin goes into the mix. I have a brown yellow red tail following me down the sidewalk. "Falter...you...don't want you here....grinning." And the world spins madly on.
Lastly I come to a turtle shell. I go in, it has nothing but mirrors. All warping in some way or another. Brown, red, and yellow. It begins to meld, and pushes me out of the millions of perspectives. I am staring at a turtle. A big, brown, red and yellow turtle. I am staring at a mirror.
I have too many ways to look at things, inside this shell. If I pull away from the world everything I've ever seen reflects back at me, all with me somewhere in it. None of it looks like it should. I can't decide which one is real. I can't decide what I should do.
Reality sneezes right onto a turtle with a sidewalk-long tail. I'm tired of getting that guys germs. I pull back inside myself, and all the mirrors have reality snot on them. I keep walking down the street.
The snail on my back says "Weee!"