Garden for the ardent,

Show me something new in the fountain,

Baptize Jesus once again,

Call my mind's eye to your reflection.

What I used to see is no more--

No more visits from a friend,

No more embraces end upon end upon end,

All these things I've longed for.

Verdant garden, in your perimeter

Bring to mind my past,

For my present no longer lasts--

But quite a past, bloodsweat,

From better blood than my razor ripped open.

Inundate me with those memories.

I need some closure along with some peace,

And could you have pass understanding along to me?

It's done, and I will hear of this place no more…

My flesh patterns my spirit,
And I'll prove it.
Have you ever had a lingering love?
Like a distrust of divinity, or that mistake you made?
Did you lose sleep over it?
Did you try to solve, but the other won't return your calls for help?
What would you do?
Cause I've lied and lied around
To make this seem better,
Hid from people my feelings,
Expressed interest in unworthy things
Cause I'll leave this place and return home
To deal with both situations staring me in the face.

Why can't you both move on?
Or accept me as I am?
As lukewarm as the water seems,
All you do is ruin my dreams,
And it's unfair to me.
Is this vengeance for my infidelity?
Mistreatment, that I caused you grieve?
What do you pray that I'll change,
Because I'm trying if you give me a chance.
The distance I feel between us
Is 36 minus my age,
I run it so long and collapsed.
These are the words you understand.
My distrust of divinity, my misogyny,
All selfishness and hyperbole.
These are the words you understand.
In or out, I'll leave it to you
Because I can't understand your motives now
Ringing in my head the same old depressing tune.
I made a mistake. I made several mistakes.
These are the words you understand.

---

Seeing as how I'm working on adding friends to the "friend box", I think I deserve a few interpretations of this piece. What do you think?

**Edit**To you I've asked a favor, don't take everything really personally persay, or extremist, just explain your emotions about this piece.  The author of this poem realizes his own fallible nature and bias, even in writing what he writes.  What do you think?

Eye on  the TV

'cause tragedy thrills me

Whatever flavor

It happens to be

Like:

"Killed by the husband"

"Drowned by the ocean"

"Shot by his own son"

"She used the poison in his tea

and kissed him goodbye"

That's my kind of story

It's no fun til someone dies

Don't look at me like

I am a monster

Frown out your one face

But with the other

Stare like a junkie

Into the TV

Stare like a zombie

While the mother, holds her child

Watches him die

Hands to the sky cryin,

"Why, oh why?"

Cause I need to watch things die

From a distance

Vicariously, I

Live while the whole world dies

You all need it too - don't lie

Why can't we just admit it?

Why can't we just admit it?

We won't give pause until the blood is flowin'

Neither the brave nor bold

Will write us the story so

We won't give pause until the blood is flowin'



I need to watch things die

From a good safe distance

Vicariously, I

Live while the whole world dies

You all feel the same so

Why can't we just admit it?

Blood like rain fallin' down

Drown on grave and ground

Part vampire

Part warrior

Carnivore and voyeur

Still have the

Transmitter, sing

to the death rattle

La, la, la, la, la, la, la-lie (x4)

Credulous at best

Your desire to believe in

Angels in the hearts of men.

But pull your head on out

Your head please and give a listen

Shouldn't have to say it all again

The universe is hostile

So impersonal

Devour to survive

So it is, so it's always been ...

We all feed on tragedy

It's like blood to a vampire

Vicariously, I

Live while the whole world dies

Much better you than I

---

Any thoughts?

As of late, I've discovered a program many people use as a relatively simplistic way of writing music for guitars, called Guitar Pro 5.  As the Tech student I am (and the pirate I've become), I used bitlord to download the full program, and so far, I can honestly say I'm impressed.  I'm like my niece in the toy section of Target.  While there are probably more professional programs for this sort of thing, Guitar Pro should provide a large consumer of my time.  I'm really ready to implement my ideas on time signatures and key signatures in actual musical setting.  Also, being not so proficient at all things guitar, I can hear those ideas before I know how to play them.  Should be a lot of fun...

I've taken to exacting measures,
Ruining my reputation step by step,
Stating line for what might be
Shallow without clever, esoteric depth.
Smell of urine, smell of jack,
Both the same in your knowledge,
Having lost you, rebound to memory,

Remind still of the pigshit inside.

For fear in and of itself,
Tells the tale of submissive spirits,
But fear created in the wake
Of somber situations—a worse fate, indeed.
Look baby, he's not your type,
And never was the type to take the lead,
As your patience, a blanket of his irresponsible
Behavior in others' lifestyles,
Covers a multitude of the bastard's mistakes.
Was it not gossip passed over
From radical parental control
(On both ends I might add),
To aforementioned shit of turmoil?
What do we know from the bitch's mouth?
Have these things been passed on in stead,
Or in instability, a life shaken by overkill,
Animal words, anachronistic attraction?
We are still nubile, ready for slaughter!
I won't bury the hatchet for fear:
I may take his soul to hell with me,
But you are so afraid of your shadow.
Moving along, a further turn of events,
From grief to other sorrows:
Shall the rekindled flame blossom
Where you are removed a year's time?
Alas, he could have written the Vagina
Monologues in three languages, had he made the time.
Work, work, work—a territory less
Discovered than embraced in boredom.
I've sacrificed God for mammon
Before, but not as he.
You will not understand my words.
Your masochism misunderstood,
Your life an open book,
Your presence an awkward soul,
I've had worse circumstances to found destinies.
Perhaps, I've misplaced you for desiring
Stronger companions; I'd almost rather
The unknown be my vexation!
But those of relationships quandaries—ludicrous!
And unyielding as you are,
From the influence of extremists,
In the presence of your unwieldy life's decisions,
You return like an addict.
Psychotic people, love and forget,
As I've forgotten—you're still impervious
(I didn't hear this)—my manners.
Perhaps, I'm still angry:
You are far from me, your friendship,
A distant past you'd seemingly like to forget.
You don't care about me,
So what's the point of writing?
My art is my life and my death (soon coming)!
No vengeance could enlighten my soul,
Lift my spirit from the guttural noise,
In a world of melody and dissonance.
So I'll fuck myself in darkness,
Until another folly (mindless as men are soulless)
Returns to replace your friendship.
We'll forget I ever happened, otherwise,
If the casket reveal my flesh torn and tattered,
From an "accident" or such.
Just to say these things to remind me
Of what I have become, not your heart,
But a shell of a God-fearer,
A shell of a mature individual--
These things, reminiscent, I wait in darkness,
Fucking myself for all the mistakes I've made,
Crying out to a holy God, asking why,
And how, and what the fuck are You doing.
I don't understand people dissociating
From me.  Am I that grotesque?
I am too open.  I have said too much.
You'd pick anyone with God
On a first-name basis, wouldn't you?
That's funny, and all of life is funny.

**I don't mean to be hurtful or offensive in this post; I'm just expressing  part of my pain in a way that's easy for me.  If you do happen to understand what I'm talking about, and think I'm inappropriately speaking of such people, places, and things, keep in mind that this is my venting site, whether you read it or not.  It's through transparency than situations can dealt with, not through obscurity where problems can fester in darkness.

In talking to Randy as of late, he warned me of the dangers of opening myself up on such a wide scale as the internet, that my reputation may remained stained and such and such; however, I find it quite funny that people relent in providing any help with my depressive states, yet they'll flock to pry into Rebecca Jensen's business at the drop of a hat.  Coincidence? Eh...But these things are in no way to criticize Rebecca's motives or anyone else's in particular.  I suppose that's the way my life has crumbled down the hatch to the regrouping cellar.  If this cathardic session offends you in anyway, you should probably stop reading it.  After all, what good is it to listen if not stretch the contents of your mind.  I think, generally speaking, a lot of Christians countermand the ideas of knowing why you know what you know, and I think it's a problem.  If I just accept what I, a flawed being, believe is true, then I've gained nothing except to just repeat back like a parrot, but know the meaning and the principles and to explore for oneself is a better gain in the end.  Does that mean try everything?  No...but it does mean that if someone produces a good argument that disagrees with your point of view, you should reconsider your view, consider theirs, and determine the best course of action.  To simply say, "Well I believe this regardless," is stupid.
Now, many of you at this point are probably shrieking over my saying these things, for how can I justify my own life by the standard of this advice?  It's true, regardless of my character, however flawed.  Besides, most people didn't listen to my advice when I was "good" (and I can give examples so that it doesn't appear to a fanciful delusion of misery); why should your opinions change?  No, I say these things in the hope one day someone will be helped, despite my stupidity and foolishness, not to make the mistakes or at least to come out of life with a better understanding of it.
I don't understand God, but I'll bet you a million bucks you don't either so that you can't judge.  I don't think in this life we were ever meant to understand God totally, but to have some semblance of Him set in our minds as a goal for why we live.  I realize that, without a God, life is pointless.  There is no point without God, even in helping our species because the law of entropy will eventually consume everything until nothing else exists, but God exists outside this law, if He exists, and controls the aspects of it.  If our end is death, we are simply wasting time; but if our end is life, we have something to hope for.
I figure that I believe in God, but that I'm at odds with Him so that, while I tell people I don't believe in God, I simply do so as a means of relinquishing some small amount of responsibility or judgment by not hypocritically claiming to be Christian, as so many in this age do.  I am working things out.  Am I suicidal?  Yes, at times, and no, at times...I vacillate like nothing else.  These are my problems, though, and if you knew me, you would communicate with me on regular basis, not simply with empty conversation, but with words of importance to life.  I realize it's difficult with my situation, but if you care to judge, you must also care to try.  If you don't try, you can't judge.  You have no vested interest in my life, so why judge me?  I only say these things on judgment to address Randy's fears, not to express paranoia, as some supposed "reprobates" do.
If you view my site, you have the right to remain silent; but if you do speak, speak these words to me as well, as I evaluate my own life.  Who knows?  You might have something good to say, something that may help.
You, the reader, may not understand all these things I've written and will write.  Perhaps, you will remember and realize later, perhaps not.  I don't know.  I find I know very little of important things anymore.
So, here's my catharsis, my way of expression, and my ventilation that you make take as you like.  This is my disclaimer: that I have, and will continue to, stretch your point of view as I stretch my own.

I've been thinking a lot lately--namely about my purpose in life.  I guess you could say part of my obsession with suicide is concomitant with my lack of motivation for any clear direction or understanding of such.  Don't get me wrong as you might usually do: your conversation's always welcome.  Just be aware that all conversations from my end will never be entirely submissive and may be anger-filled on occasion depending on the mood.  It was funny, as depression goes, to notice that, at one point, I intended on suicide and even journey to the Skiles Building to evaluate a suitable jump.  (I think the car idea's a bit better.)  At the next moment, I contented myself with newspaper reading then guitar playing.  It makes no sense to be at odds with myself half, and then half be at peace.  There's no logic in this.  If I didn't think differently, I'd say I've become a little mad from all this thinking and such.  So what is the purpose of the proposed suicide?  That's a good question.  I guess it's that I feel God hasn't answered my normal cries for help so that I feel the need to do something more extreme, but then again, after dismissing most godly principles and such, the feeling generalized and grafted itself onto the people I knew.  For a long time, I've had trouble trusting people because I used to be naive and paid the price for it.  Also, I easily attached myself like a leech to the most hideous of creatures at times and, even when not, brooded like a parasite over the troubles of the attention-starved, the normal, and the arrogant. 

As my mother says, I sometimes strike intimidation with my voice.  I doubt my affability in most things, especially with the pessimistic, somewhat crass attitude I have with daily happenings, especially religion and its tenants.  Where I'm unknown or unsure, I'm shy; and where I'm comfortable, the opposite takes hold.  Then again, the question of change comes back onto the table like an unforseen bet or challenge to the regulars.  After hearing of my drunken vomit episode, my mom quickly posed the question: "Why can't you go back to being the old Chris, the Chris I know?"  She even described my current behavior as the Mr. Hyde to Dr. Jekyll, to awakening displeasure. 

While it's true most of you won't understand all these things I am writing, and, if I write a suicide note, will not understand those things in its grim persona, I will have you understand one thing.  I am what I think myself to be and say likewise.  I am what I am, dying inside, and threatened by an odd world with odd people and odd truth.  If you feel these things to all be jokes, sarcastic or otherwise, you're incorrect.  Even jokes have truth, even more so is truth known when jokes are not told.  If you want to talk, I will hear anything at this point in time...

If any of you watch South Park, Comedy Central refused to let them depict Mohammed in their cartoon, despite their having done it before (not being as publicly announced however).  So in a statement for free speech, I've found all of the Danish cartoons the Muslim world raged over a couple of months ago and posted them in my photo box.  Enjoy...

(where I found them http://furtheradventuresofindigored.blogspot.com/2006/01/sometimes-
cartoon-is-just-cartoon.html)

Here's my fav...

I figured a more intelligible entry was past due for a while, and so here it is.  I never told my mom, but on her way home, because my dad was unaware of that fact, he managed to somehow engage in a cellphone conversation with her about it.  So she calls me later and freaks out, as I knew she would.  I think it still hurts her, but she seems to be making an effort to hide her emotions about the situation, while I am unphased by it.  Besides, it was months ago...the fee involved is the only matter to me.

In a conversation with Chris Morgan (very) early this morning, I realized that my current belief system (or possibly lack thereof) lacks the needed reasons why and explanations behind it, but it is, however, a very hard thing to explain, seeing as I have trouble explaining it to myself.  I guess I'm more a deist than anything.  I figure God created the world and let it be, and then somewhere along the line, humanity tried to fill in where they thought it ought to be.  Although the general of manking might be to "glorify God", I highly doubt if someone missing from that group will be cared about.  You see, I think, when people say God helped me through it, really they just got over it, and God really had nothing to do with it.  I don't think God really answers prayer; at least, He hasn't answered my own.  Those cases did have lack of belief or anything so come with me with your reasons for why God didn't answer me or why I seem to have no purpose in life.  You don't know my life, and most of you because you simply didn't bother.  That's what I love about people: they're really good at passing judgment without being involved in the situation at all.  I guess I'm one of the most guilty.  So the current plan for suicide, if and when it happens, looks to be driving my car into concrete without killing anyone else.  I chose this because it seems to be easy.  The van has no real value, and if all goes well, it should be over quickly.  Still, the issue is doing it cleanly.  So I was wondering whether I should wear a seatbelt or not if and when it happens.  The only thing that makes me hesitate is my parents because I think it'd be a burden to hold a funeral and all that.  I'm sure the a lot of the people I thought were my friends won't show up, yet a bunch of old retards with nothing better in their lives than to pry into lives of others will show up.  That would suck.  I wonder what people would say.  I mean really.  God, he was dumb, and he's in hell, so let's go eat!  What a world...it's quite depressing...

Writing off the wall, on some sheet of sorts, splatter of nothingness, paint chips sands of time (hail from beneficence?) but I've read in between these lines (not!) just memorized splattered out nothingness for my own sake, shaken by destitute times, dire straits, frightened of what I may become, disappointed at what I haven't already is a time these decisions should have broken ground in this miry clay (What shall I do with Jesus?) no one listens noone (has passed) hears silent cries I'mpertinent, audacious, inTimidate, caustic in my own embirthed (bittered) acid, siphoned out just ciphers, can't figure this gravity pull (pushing back against tide, jumping that waterfall, salmon) but what if reality were all it were cracked up life is just a vapor but, for a vapor, it's pressure belies its time, dpdepression sits in on my chair, highest calling lowest times, dark times, I feel turgid from inhaling the pompous smoke of fool's talk yet I reach for angel's whispers...what has happened will not be always...

For lack thereof, I marked it well,

A hit or miss does kiss and tell,

Or telling and missing that kiss

On the cheeks of even fortune.

Balance is the key

To an invisible door.

Incomprehensible, fine,

But do you have to yell so loud?

Mirrored my empty personality,

Vampires, less than hemophiliacs,

Need replacement from endless supplement,

As the real maniacs pass us by,

No soapbox, no difficult stead;

Just position and shot

For perfection to head.

He's dead, he's dead,

And our mouths are sewn shut...

It's okay if you have no musical tastes becuase I'm always here to provide the better alternative--music improvement.  But on why your music probably sucks...

1.  You listen to it because it's in a certain genre.  This reason is irritating; even being a fan of metal, I am nevertheless shocked at the amount of metalheads who will listen to anything that labels itself as alternative or metal.  Remember: just because it looks good doesn't mean it is good.

2.  You listen to pop punk.  Back in the day, punk meant something, something like anarchy and rebellion.  Now it means hot topic and complaining about your life as a junior high kid.  The Clash is punk, NOT Green Day, Good Charlotte, Yellowcard, My Chemical Romance, and certainly not Simple Plan.  Punk wasn't even that good of a genre to begin with, but the populace had to go and make it crappy.

3.  You listen to it because it's in TRL's Top Ten.  I think this is self-explanatory.

4.  You listen to it because it's indie.  I also think this is self-explanatory, but, then again, a lot of people are retarded.  Indie music, as touted by those bitches on Pitchfork.com or elsewhere, has problematic tendencies.  First, as seeming nonconformity to the auto-tuner pop "singers", indie music has the incorrigible fetish for lauding terrible vocalists.  Don't excuse it: you know they're trying but can't.  They're bad.  Second, if I wanted to hear music produced by eight-graders, I'd tell my little sister to make a band in a garage and save fourteen dollars on the compact disc members of the "elite" think is so amazing and innovative.

5.  You listen to it because it's a classic.  Listen, I know a greater portion of the world thinks the Beatles are good, but the world also thinks abortion is not murder.  (And we all know better than that, do we not?)  In all seriousness, though, older artists did make some very innovative original music, but a ton of it is very overrated as well.  In other words, you got to have balance.  Plus, production value has skyrocketed since the sixties, so chances are newer music on compact discs will usually sound better overall.

6.  You listen to modern country.  Bluegrass was beautiful type of music, but then came shit, and it covered all of Nashville.  Enough said...

7.  You listen to most Christian music.  When the lake's smaller, the chances of getting a better fish is equally smaller.  Same with music.  I've never been entirely sure where the majority of Christian music is going.  Lately, it's been creating (or "writing") as many three-chord, "next big thing" worship songs.  Come on, seriously, for God's sake, branch out a little!  I'm sure people can be a little more creative than they've been.  DC Talk had some good songs when they weren't covering someone else's (and same with Audio Adrenaline).

8.  You listen to "whatever's on the radio".  Enough said...

9.  You listen to bad pop.  There is good pop, if you look for it.  Michael Jackson's Thriller (not referring in any way to his deviant behavior) was a very good album.  Justin Timberlake's Justified is also a good album.  So good pop exists.  Ashlee Simpson doesn't count.  Lindsay Lohan/Hillary Duff doesn't count, and someone please kill the Click Five and Black Eyed Peas.

10.  You worship the band.  No one band is the all-encompassing peak of perfection, and chances are yours is not even close.  So stop the groupie fellatio.

11.  You listen to bands that capitalize on wartime.  Now, I'm not one to be too judgmental, but come on, you're not adding anything new to the "We don't like Bush" table by releasing a "controversial" album.  I don't care for Bush much either, but the trend past the point of simple vexation.

I may add some more later...

Life is stagnant.
I feel alone most of the time, and before a couple of people say, "Well, you're not alone: Jesus is a friend closer than a brother," keep quiet long enough for me to tell you that, unless God changes His mind, He has not shown up physically lately.  For the most part, however, life has just slipped me boredom along with my elixir of events, yet the effects don't seem that drastic, I guess.  I don't know.
Actually, I'm lucky to be on the internet today because I think a short in the wiring in my room causing me not to be able to get on most of the time.  I was almost too nervous to peer into my inbox.  (We get a lot of junk email at GaTech.)
So, anyway, besides Beatles fad of Paul and Doughty, and the accompanying venture capitalism of weed and Halo 2, nothing much sparks interest (or contempt for the Beatles) in my soul.  All weed has been free for me for a while now, although I don't like mooching off of the rest of the gang; as Trotter said, though, such distribution of goods tends to be communal nonetheless.  But worries abide as to the supply of their dearly beloved and my nerve calmer.  So maybe it's venture communism.  I don't know.  Maybe I just word-dropped spontaneously.
Again, as I said, I'm alone (right now literally), but if you compelled to call, you can.  I don't really want to post my number for everyone to see though.  Rebecca knows it, though; so get it from her I guess.  (I almost can't believe I'm saying this.)  A lot of times, I feel as if people can move on easily without my existence, a fact which obviously hinders recovery from bouts with depression.  Ah, venting...
Well, this weekend, my mom's coming down to Atlanta: this "confession" ought to be good.  Although she told me she was no priest and therefore wanted to stall any future confession to her, I feel that, since I'm spending a good portion of funds (125 dollars) on this penalty, she deserves to know.  Personally, though, I really am still debating telling her because I know her reaction will entail an enormous argument and subsequent awkward silence between us.  Oh well...
Musically, I've been checking the quality of the band Isis.  So far, they're proven all right.  They require further inspection though.

I guess the hardest part of telling my parents of times I've drank alcohol is the knowledge that I've hurt them.  Regardless of whether my dad seemed distraught or perfectly fine (I really couldn't tell over the phone), having to explain what I've done and the $125 fee involved with it never comes softly.  At least I was able to tell my dad.  My mother's brother has had issues with alcoholism in his life so that every "violation", every perceived crossing of the line with respect to alcohol, follows many days back to issues of the past.  I've only seen my uncle once that I remember in my lifetime for a week (I think) my sophomore year.  You know, and my time with alcohol really wasn't worth it; I probably would've drank alcohol again after the fact if I could've stood the taste.  I don't know.  I just hurts me every time I hurt my parents.  I don't intend: I just fail...

So today, the GT chamber choir had a "gig" at the Emory Presbyterian Church, a small but quaint little building, with a seemingly sincere woman pastor.  (I say woman because I don't meet very many women pastors.)  The overall service was quite formal, but it was nice for a change of pace.  We even got to wear these pinkish robes, which actually happened to be tight in the chest.  What was weird is that no one ever clapped, a fact which for church music strikes me as odd (but it's cool), but I had a lot of fun singing in a lent service.  Plus, we ate Mexican food afterwards, so I can't ask for much more than that.  Since then, I've slept a lot, but it's cool.

Lately, I've been getting into Meshuggah, a Swedish "mathcore" band.  Whereas the guitars on the whole aren't written to be very complex, the drums substitute for that complexity with a jawdropping oddity of their own.  The drummer has ultra-syncopated the music, by not only playing syncopated music, but also playing a normal 4/4 beat at the same time.  Weird but fun stuff.

I had a whole bunch more to post about this week, but until recently I didn't realize I could actually post, at least through Firefox.  Apparently, Firefox has decided not to load the text editor in my blog manager anymore, but 64-bit Internet Explorer will, which is weird, but whatever until Nathan can figure out what the deal is.

That said, now, it seems almost as if all that (if not everything now) can be neglected on this thing, or I don't remember it, or I realized it wasn't that important, as most things I say on here aren't.  I guess, the primary purpose for any journal I continue is a means of retrospection and ventilation (venting).  What have I done in these past fews days, and what will I do?

I even thought of impartially describing the social effects of weed in my little group or rambling on about music and its genres, but no, something someone else said grabbed my attention.  While this person has hardly seen me since before college, they nevertheless relented in saying one thing: that I've changed.  But I guess, I don't see it as a dramatic change, and so far, I've found most change isn't dramatic but gradual.  So, I guess my question is how have I changed?  And was it as dramatic as it appears to be?

Read Only If You Are Willing To Understand...

Hail to nonconformity!  For that which proves my innocence in life, the very fibers being blessed upon with grave yet glorious cause, has proven most excellent the very death and destruction of my stead.  In
the stead of truth, derelict words, harsh words at that, nature of my flesh, precluded all sense in the words much better spoken at times untold, and my dreams lie all the same, providing no apartheid from reality to fantasy.  I am my own prophet, yet having died and
risen many times, just to shame my heritage, prophesying only a fool's destiny!  While unrequited love abhors my hormonal imbalance, surging blood to the unintelligent head of all decisions, I forgot my teachings even to others in advice, while regarding my selfishness as worthy
gain.  Am I psychotic?  Would even Freud himself shun the analyses
behind the piercing eyes of such a lunatic?  On that night, nothing halted the exigency behind saving the good ship ego from eternal darkness in its righteous depths.  Reducing myself to layman's terms, I brutishly meted out injustice to undeserving parties, only managing to copulate
the bitter ecstasy of hatred.  Now, on to the question lying ahead, should apologetics for man's nature form the further nature of communication in this regard?  But what should one say in this black hole?  Furthermore, words preceding, precedents, have impacted none—well, no propitiation for heinous crimes--while the truth I
do speak lacks an audience, cacophonous or other; yet I can state none other facts than my regret; and contrition dwells in a humbler, far more placid place because of these events.  If your wish is discourse, let it be known, for on my own end, the matter is settled.  I send my love and best wishes, if you choose to understand my meanings in this penance. 
Would people have cared for a more unknown victim of circumstances  I question in pride; but in truth, I have given up the ghost of my misgivings and allotted time for you to answer, whether forgiveness and mercy be the priority of your palette.  In God's art, may I find peace, despite my misfortune to fleshly desires.  As an individual must determine his course in the hail to nonconformity, I have forsaken my conformity in narcissistic ruins and have progressed in self by courage, by love, and by virtue of the past as guidance for my incredible future. 
Evidence relies on the facts, as its law condemns, and I have my
condemnation in your hands even with this apology, but more importantly, in God's hands, in His wisdom and Spirit.  So this decision is yours, whether your beliefs belie my wishes for peace or otherwise.  I have commended my spirit to higher court.  Your testimony to these facts have not been forsaken.  Poetically, and fervently, I ask for forgiveness.

Well, my attempts at being heard prove futile...no remarks, but tons of regrets.  I'm quite bored and depressed, even at the chance of marijuana later on this night (which I doubt, and quite frankly is temporary anyway).  I've no one to call and no one to talk to back home.  Here, the chances are pretty slim too.

You know, I try to be happy and social, but for real, it doesn't work out too well for me.  Of course, all that's overshadowed by mistakes I've made.

And so...I'll probably fail again this semester these classes, and then run away from everything...again.  I thought about going to Lee next semester, but who'd want me there either after all this?  Ah, this venting ain't a cathardic session...I don't feel any better...

If you feel like I'm depressed (or depressing, whichever suits you best), you're correct.  This site's original intention was for me to actually keep some form of journal in private (b/c I won't if it's not in this form...I tried notebooks) as some sort of vent mechanism.  Now, it feels like just a confluence of humiliation.

You know the funny thing about depression?  There's really no point, no reason behind it.  It's like this semi-controllable (often seems totally uncontrollable) monster that creeps up on you to beat the crap out of you and then go away for a while.  This, of course, repeats a lot.  But there's no real point of grief behind all of it.  No one close to me died; I'm not poor; and things for the most part, on the outside, seem fairly good; yet that's not true.  Everyone seems a potential enemy to an ever vulnerable self-esteem.  Every success seems the beginning of what one doesn't have.  The lack of a significant other and the emotions entangled in such become a major "weakness"...

So...Life goes on at a crawl...

The Beatles Are A Terribly Overrated Band...

Good, now that you're here, you can remark on that statement as you like; not that I don't believe that statement, but I needed something to get your attention also to read the post below and remark on that one as well.  Please feel free however to post on both.

I read this and laughed today...
"With no ground to hold on to,
[the band] Meshuggah demands of you to walk along a path of unequaled rhythms and
to dive head first into a sea of pulsing human corpses while the beat
pounds your nerves in Hell."
Fun Stuff...

I really suppose I could tell you all about my spring break, and you may understand what has transpired or not.  These thoughts are for my future self to discern, and probably (as well) God.  Although Rebecca Jensen states that complete honesty does not equal complete candor, I do believe that pertinent information, especially that which would change the behavior of someone close to her, should not be withheld from that person, but should be intimated in a cautious manner.  However, this act for which I've berated her on her Phusebox really did not consume my thoughts in my attacks on her person.  There are (quite obviously, I think) other reasons involved.

I've said, many times, that people really don't understand me.  Whether this opinion rehashes "teen angst" or not, I believe, at least to an extent, that it is true.  The better question, as Chris Morgan astutely speculated, is whether that misunderstanding comes from my own intention to be "unique" and misunderstood or from actual misunderstanding: the answer, likewise, is murky at best--both are involved.  So the question becomes which came first--nature or intention; and I can answer that.  First came my being understood, or better yet, my perception of such misunderstanding.  Because of this misunderstanding, angst set in, causing a desire for simultaneous conformity and "uniqueness".  That developed uniqueness causes misunderstanding, but it's not always intentional...As I said, the solution to Mr. Morgan's question is complicated at best...

Really, all of this is to say that, despite your thinking you understand the one side of any story you may have heard, a need ALWAYS exists to discern the truth from all sides--to read between the lines.

That being said, I can't really delve into the more difficult parts of the subsequent story, because I haven't the permission; otherwise, I would.  For those of you just expecting a description of my spring break, I had fun meeting with my grandparents and other family members from that side for at least a little while at Village Creek State Park in Arkansas.

Around my ninth grade, I met Rebecca Jensen and her brother Chris in Kenny Pyatt's Sunday School class.  Quite frankly, I was reluctant to meet with them (they didn't look that "cool" at the time), but I realized neither was I and that I needed to be kind to visitors as one longstanding member of FWC (to an extent).  Nothing really struck me about her then.  I really didn't get involved with her until Teen Bible Quiz the next year: I had heard she was a threat.  When I was lazy, she was, but other than that, I realized both Josh and I surpassed her.  The year went well enough.  During that time, I think I engaged in a considerably awkward conversation with her where I semi-propositioned...Don't worry, just kissing...during a Friday night cookout at the Lewis's property.  I think she admired Josh at the time, but for the most part, other than hormonal outbursts such as that, I remained largely uninterested in her in anything other than friendship.  Both the older Morgans thought she was attractive: I didn't really care.  Honestly, I didn't care for her mother very much, even though my family had started to become acquainted with theirs via invites to dinners and such.  The funnier thing was her age.  On the outset, she seemed older than she actually was--a year and a half younger than I and thus much younger than Josh (he was always weird about these kinds of things).  She claims I never noticed.  That's not true: I did.  I just debated it for several reasons.  At the time (my ninth and tenth grades), I was interested in the nonconformist way of life (e.g. Paige Crockett), and Rebecca was hardly that at all.  She seemed too set...too down-pat...too what everyone wanted.  We still seemed to manage a well-developed friendship though.  Eventually, I realized Rebecca admired me.  I knew this for a long time, but she seemed indifferent whenever I tried to ask her about it.  Later, I discovered that most of my signals were misinterpreted as attempts to exploit her "fault" for liking me.  It wasn't until she stayed in Washington with her sick mother that I began to really become interested: this would prove to be one of the initial problems I had with initiating a relationship with her.  Because she developed problems from the situation with her, I began to interested in her.  Read that sentence a few times, and you'll see the problems.  I began to see her issues as part of her kindof, a revelation to her personality and emotions.  Still, she represses those ideas.  But whatever the case, I was there and heard everything.  Later on, I entertained the idea of a relationship and followed through on the tail end of my senior year in high school (last summer)...next dumb idea.  We'd barely enough time to solidify any sort of relationship in addition to the temporal grief and concomitant issues.  I kept telling her the distance wouldn't phase me, but it did.  Georgia proved a much more depressive state than originally anticipated.  (I'm skipping a considerable bit here.)  I slowly began breaking it off, but my selfishness impeded my viewing her perspective.  I didn't answer my phone period--not just when she called, and she called often.  So it ended very awkwardly with apologies with some aspirations to the future, but nothing clear enough.  I talked to her a little, but was under the impression things weren't going too well.  Whenever I did talk to her, usually, I'd draw her into some fucked up argument usually dealing with my depression.  Other than that, we discussed her problems. 

Shortly speaking....I probably gave her more grief than reprieve.  Then as of late...

I began rekindling feelings for Rebecca lately, but she was either too retarded to notice or forced herself not to notice.  That sounds mean, but come on.  I became more awkward around her when I met with her last weekend.  She seemed indifferent and foolish, carried as much away with imaginary social problems she conjoured up with the Lewis/Morgan group as she could.  You can argue with me about that.  I do think they got too involved, but she always gives off this sort of passive aggression that simply doesn't solve anything.  Again, I could explain more thoroughly, but it would just serve to anger me more.  I don't want to be angry.

So I asked her in private if she still loved me, and boy the hell I opened in my soul.  She said yes, but not in the way I was thinking.  I was thinking...heh, yeah right, you mean no.  So I ended that conversation in about the most inept way I could and drove off to meet my parents for dinner.  Later on, Phusebox happened.  I attacked, and she didn't get mad.  That's her for ya, never could defend herself.  I still don't know if she got why it all happened or not, although I assume that she knows why.  Whether she wants anything to do with me is anybody's guess or I guess whoever wants to convince her that I'm evil and shouldn't be talked to.  Haha...what a weird thought...but I guess I'm the bad guy.  You know, maybe after all this, I don't really love her after all.  Would love attack that person loved?  Nah...at least in my mind.  Maybe no one will read all this shit.  Maybe you all will just all stare and say, "Hey, there's someone drowning: isn't that nice?"  Stupid fucks...never could get anything, but why I stopped attacking...

I've been asking to God to speak to me in my dreams.  Part of my dream on Wednesday night was a group of people including me were on a black beach.  On this beach, I followed Rebecca and ridiculed her, but she seemed phased only a bit.  Eventually, [a girl I know named] Kendall asked me why I did what I did.  I told her that I hated not having what I wanted, and wanting what I couldn't have.  She told me that I was doing no good, and ultimately was just hurting myself.  So I cried and cleaned up my section of the beach.

As for whether I'm sorry...I know I'm sorry, but am I contrite and penitent.  I don't know...But I know you, and you guys will go on with your lives whatever I put on here anyway...

So, whatever...remark, bitches...