My sea monkeys died. The only thing hard about ti is that they died in their sleep….even though sea monkeys don’t sleep. I guess I’m upset but not because they are gone. I am upset because something as gentle as brisk wind coming through a window could create the apocalypse of a sea monkey colony. Just with the gentle breath from Mother Nature, they don’t exist anymore and they never existed. All my imaginary children have died, and no one exists to maintain the sutras and shrines of my godliness. Those shrines are gone now and my secret reign over the sea monkeys is over. I get over it quickly, only after I finally admit that I just wanted to be idolized.

Cowboy Gear and Bongos
Screw the ignorance. People never listen to what you have to say. The majority of the world is always against, always skeptical. They never think that you are trying to be on their fucking side. They don't realize that you think everyone is equal.

Fuck you Spike. Obviously you wouldn't take anything I said into account but make everything offensive. Everyone likes to be offended. People just llook for reasons to be mad, and then they act mad, so that they can feel like they are alive. That's all that politics are. For some, it is just people developing a personality based on their political stance. Fuck politics and fuck praying.

Go to www.godhatesfags.com
see how some ignorant people are protesting my school
cause we are "a cesspool of aids"
and then come back here
and tell me that i'm lame
because i write in a blog
cause im boerd
because I AM STRANDED AT BOARDING SCHOOL

spike, dude, understand.
don't reprimand.

it's misunderstanding
that gets everyone all pissed off.
try to understand.
don't get angry.
don't be ignorant.
understand.

ritz crackers instead of pineapple pizza
tom and i strolled down the snow covered path to go to Pizza Bill's, after all we have nothing better to do anyway. We get there, and as usual, it's closed. We always stoll down these snow covered paths, psh in the spring, get that, on these weekdays expecting one day for pizza bill's to be open. It usually never it except on weekends, when we all have time to think.


So instead we went to the old tathered gas station next door that sold packages of old cookies for thirty cents, fishing tackle, and the only soda that it has in it's large glass refrigorator doors in this room that smells like gasoline and fish bait, is TAB, a coca-cola company soda that i think had been discontinued years before.


on the way back tom told me he was going to stop talking forever.


whatever.



I study extensively in the library, the one on the third floor in the cubical in the corner of the staley qyuet part of the library. One the cubical I have written one of my favorite modest mouse lyrics, "Dig Hard, or don't try at all." I hammer my studies into my head under florescent lights.


harder.



HARDER.


From behinde me I can hear a guy and a girl rustling around the forest floor of the library under the treetop shades of fiction and poetry books. They whisper thinking no one can hear them, but I can. Tenderly kissing silently, as their annoying loud issonances of pang staking electrifyinh discords of their saliva exchange keeps making me read the same words over and over and over and over again on the white piece of paper, and in a breif moment I decide to go to India one day, and I know that paper cranes will not pay my way there, but that I will have to make money selling toys to children at some corporation store like Toys R' Us or KayBee Toy Store.


I read some of these blogs and is it just me, or are they really lame. People talk about whether or not they went to the gym to work out this week, if they got into a fight with their boyfriend, and that they got made fun of that day. I don't even want a boyfriend, none the less talk about him online. I love people when I get boerd, when life in a school zone. When you are alive, there is no need to fall in love. When I am doing ...whatever...with someone, it is all for the rush, the show, the fucking musical finale in my head, and the satisfaction of playing pretend. Maybe if I am lucky, I can find someone to play pretend with until I die.


Are we all really that shallow that we need to post what we ate for lunch online? I guess so, after all, even I'm writing. The whole reason people ever write diaries is because they secretly want people to read them. I guess all of us want to prove that we exsist, even if our exsistence is buried under piles of electrical wires and hopefully holds a spot somewhere in the ancient archives of the future.

making out with acrylic paint.
I like that idea that someone out there might be listening, far the fuck away from here, away from boarding school, where the girls are all dying to get laid and the hormonal imbalance is so fucking thick you can smell it in the air. All I want I guess is someone to listen to me. Moving back and forth in between this school and home, back and forth, really makes one think. One minute, im here at boarding school, and everyone around me is bound for Skidmore, Yale, Cornell, whatever the hell college that's suppose to get you brilliant. The only thing I have in my hand, is an F in chemistry and a passion to write that only gets me this stupid subsription to angelfire. Does anyone listen to anything out there?
I'd like to say that I have something to say, but I know that I don't. There are too many themes already, built on fucking theme parks. Too many knows and nos. Whys and hows... and then in the end all you can ever remember is that one time you thought you were in love, the jarring emotional turmoil of mind vs. body, that war that you set up through academics, sports, and whatever else you might embelish your life into, seems to fade... and then all you have is that one lonely moment when you were driving your mail truck threw the vast desert tundra of new mexico...just waiting to run someone down with your car, fucking roadkill.

i want to make love to roadkill.