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Wednesday, March 28, 2007


Stream of consciousness whimsical lyrically liberal narration of a morning in the life of me complete with spelling errors

i wrote this after i woke up because my roomate was practicing piano and the internet didnt work. im not emo i swear.

The vector at which his shoulder met his torso ached with pain. He thought to himself about stretching before exiting his warm nest and venturing forth onto the ten steps of icy hardwood that comprised the very genesis of all of his days, but instead chose to roll out of bed like a sloth falling from a fig tree. Stumbling to the bathroom and choosing not to illuminate it via the tiny rectangular console he had grown as familiar with as he had most members of his immediate family over the course of his lifetime, he stripped to the nude and adjusted the faucets so that he would shortly be stationed beneath a warm torrent of water. Washing his face and body with soaps that appealed to him more on basis of color than anything else, he began mumbling a Beatles song quietly and closed his eyes. Washing his hair was a toss-up typically. He would graze his palm across the crown of his head repeatedly until he had decided that it contained either too much or too little of his bodily oils and make his decision accordingly. When the warm porcelain rectangle had inevitably lost its charm for the day being, he turned the faucets once more and began to dry himself off. As he stepped out of the shower, frantically equating the lyrics of the song he had been singing to the circumstances of his own life, he began to realize the behavior he was encouraging and attempted to subdue the unproductive turn of logic before it festered into something more capable of imminently depressing him beyond salvation. He spit the toothpaste out of his mouth and looked his body up and down a few times, making countless judgements of it and himself, coming to the conclusion that he would be happier without one (or at least, without a mirror). "I'm soooo tired, I don't know what to do/ I'm sooo tired, my mind is stuck on you/ I wonder should I call you..." It seems that this tune had wormed its way further into his head that he had thought. Why did it always sound like Lennon was singing about him? Perhaps it was a consequence of his latent egotism, he thought. Believing that every song was relatable to such a mundane existence. Laughable, he reiterated. It was often the case that he would force himself to shed thought patterns he believed unsavory by demeaning himself for ever arriving at them. It was the only discipline that seemed to habituate itself in his behavior. If he found himself in a situation in which he was suddenly or aptly aware of thoughts he considered unproductive, unappealing, or retroactive, he would cease them by silently crucifying himself. "The waay things are going/ They're gonna' crucify me." Fuck.


the beatles are awesome. lots of times i feel like theirs, and lots of other songs, are applicable to whatever i'm up to, as well... even this piece is so familiar, it's like it could be about me. i suppose that part of the point of art is to be connective.. so are we all living the same stories? perhaps.
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