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.