THIS IS ME NOW
THIS IS ME NOW
romanticise the fuck out of your identity. build a shining palace around your identity and decorate it with sparkles and shit if you want. it’s yours. no one else gets a say
I know it’s not how it use to be, but I’m not good at being me anymore.
Im overcompensating. It’s like I have to make up for all the sex Scott and I stopped having in the last few months of our relationship. Maybe it’s because I am still in love with him or maybe it’s because I am the most depressed I have been in years, but all I want to do is come. In three months I have slept with a handful of people, a few repeats, one who disappeared, and one who I would very much so like to sleep with more. I guess it’s a crush or something, or maybe it’s because he can make me laugh and seems to not be able to keep his hands from being up my skirt.
Either way, I am a depressed slut.
This is where Yellow Bird comes in, this is where he always comes in. The king of the repeats. Two years ago this would have been a big deal. Two years ago when I was depressed and the Giants were in the post season just like they are now, I met Yellow Bird. I met him in October, he was gone by December. Yellow Bird never made it to 2013, he only likes me in my even years. Two years ago this would have been a big deal because we were more or less obsessed with each other. He was my muse, I was the only person he felt close to. I realize now that he was seeing other people when he was seeing me, but it doesn’t matter because I was who he always fell asleep next to. Let’s face it, he likes older women and I am just that younger girl that makes him feel like a kid again.
Two years ago this would have been a big deal but either way, I am a depressed slut.
"Do you want me to make you come? I hate knowing that you haven’t had good head in so long." and the next thing I know I am giggling and naked and his perfect face is in between my thighs. With all the paintings I ever did of him, he looked best framed this way. At this point I am just begging him to fuck me, but that’s mostly because I am afraid to let anyone make me weak in that way.
"If I fuck you are you just going to feel like complete shit in the morning?"
"I am going to feel like complete shit either way"
"Oh great. In that case, lie back down"
I know this isn’t what gets him hard. He was hard before he even started kissing me. He was hard when he was curled up in my arms, listening to me talk about what a rough summer I’ve had. He was hard when I told him the secret about making myself come somewhere where I might get caught. He’d ask if I was bored or horny, both I would say but mostly depressed. But at this point he’s fucking me, and I find myself laughing because I swear he didn’t use to fuck me like this. If his cock wasn’t inside me, his head was between my thighs. Round and round like this until I finally come, until he finally comes.
"I feel bad, you were afraid this might happen"
"Why? I knew this is exactly what would happen"
Two years ago this would have been a big deal, round and round like this, but either way, I am a depressed slut.
Instantly I feel closer to him and its not because I haven’t come like this in months. It’s because this means nothing. Meaningful meaningless sex with my muse, try saying that five times fast. He fucks me and he listens to me talk about how I am still in love with someone else. He let’s me tell him about Wembly, Seattle, AGS and Kansas City. We fall asleep like we use to, him taking up too much of the bed for being so fucking skinny. We wake up the same as we use to. I am sleep deprived and already wet, but instead of fucking me he just kisses my forehead and tells me to feel better. We should do this again sometime. I appreciate you. You deserve real love. Thanks for always being my friend.
Two years ago this would have been a big deal, round and round like this, thinking we deserve real love, but either way, I am a depressed slut.
The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot - Brand New
You know, one of the best things about being a jerk is that you don’t need an excuse.
Anyway, this is gonna be a long one.
I think, as human beings, we have a sort of genetic or built-in concept that we must immortalize ourselves. A lot of this shows up in that we have kids and perpetuate the species — as long as our genes are out there, and something we had something to do with (most people interact with two generations of themselves, I guess, so you get to doubly influence) we can see it as an involved attempt to both be involved with our species and leave a lasting impression.
However, most people are scum, and even more people are far worse than scum, and they’re the people who are boring. That’s why I think art is the only thing that matters — art in all forms is an attempt to say “I was here and this was what I saw”, which I think takes more effort and courage than fucking somebody and then teaching a half-you when to poop and how to pay taxes and what team you root for or whatever the fuck it is people with kids do.
Art means literally separating an idea from yourself and projecting it for other people to see and interpret, which can be cathartic or catastrophic to process, or the most exhilarating or debilitating rush of your life. I’m sure some people would argue having a kid takes effort and courage and I’m sure it does, but art is more important. The ideas of art can last forever. As human beings, part of what’s built into our stupid little skulls is storytelling, which is how we pass on lessons our ancestors learned but also the imaginations of people long, long dead. We pass on the myths and stories and ideas of those who came before us through art. We process our imaginations and how we perceive the world through art. We heal our wounds and entertain our friends and loved ones with art. Art, as I see it, is the only way to truly validate an existence as a human being.
And one of the greatest things about art is how subjective and personal it can be. You can watch a great tv show and see so many layers in it and your friend will be like “ugh, it’s just fat mobsters cursing at each other”. And then they’ll make you read a dumb book about idiot sad people with cancer falling in love and you’ll be like “was this written for teenagers who have never read a book” and that’s how it is. And that’s great. Different art touches entirely different people in entirely different way. If everyone liked the same art, we wouldn’t have wacky Tarantino movies or gross JG Ballard books or Gilbert & George paintings because it would all be the same mush day in day out. Art is, and always will be, not what makes up civilization, but how a civilization perceives itself, and how a culture wishes it was, with entirely exclusive and internalized ways to analyze or enjoy for everyone. Art is all the dreams that can be.
That’s why I think it’s the most important thing. Because if you can create, on any level, you can not just bring meaning to yourself, but you have a chance to tell a story, through any medium be it cinema literature paintings music whatever, that can bring a small part of that meaning to other people. And in the end, in a micro and macro sense, that’s probably all you can ever have.
The last one.