Bleeding

Here's a little ditty for the road. Actually, this could very well be a song, except I don't have any music for it. But let's just say it's a song for now, anyway.

My mouth is always bleeding,
From the words you make me say;
I can't believe you still believe,
That I still want to stay.

You've got your hand real firmly
Shoved up through my back;
With all those knife holes that you left,
You're such a puppet hack.

But I'm tired
So tired
And I'm still here
So tired

My hands are always bleeding,
From the things you make me do;
I can't belive you still believe,
That I'm in love with you.

There's nothing left for me here,
In your living room;
I hate your couch, I hate your lights,
I couldn't leave too soon.

And I'm tired
So tired
But I'm still here
Just tired

My heart is always bleeding,
From the things you make me feel;
I can't believe, I can't believe
That all of this is real.

I don't like you very much,
I think your friends are dumb;
I wanna leave, I wanna leave,
I could really use a Coke and rum.

But I'm tired
So tired
And I'm still here

Actually, I think I do have some music for this. I think it would be hilarious if I set this to a G-C chord pattern, and then E minor-A-D for the "so tired" parts. The clash of these over-the-top bitter/angry/angsty lyrics with the relative calm, kind of nostalgic sound of the G-C pattern (used famously by Van Morrison in the nostalgia song, "Brown Eyed Girl") would inspire a very meaningful, profound sense that you can not get by just reading the lyrics sheet. So if you were just thinking to yourself right now, Wow, that song sucks, Dave, it's because it's missing the whole other dimension of the music. With the music, it becomes genius. You know - because I'm a genius and everything.

And on that note, I'm leaving. For China. FOREVER.

By the way, is "forever" still defined as August 14, 2004, or did they change that already?

A Change

I think I'm going to be implementing a slight change in format from now on. I'm going to stop updating on my life for the most part. Everything here will be a work of fiction or poetry, from now on. I need to work on my imagination. I also need to stop looking internally all the time. There's nothing wrong inside. So yeah. This probably also means updates will become fewer; I am not that creative. On the other hand, I am also going to try to maintain a second blog I've created, http://mtvsucks.blogspot.com, because I have realized that I have a very strong sense of what I think good music is. It's all just my opinion of course, and if you absolutely love MTV, that's totally fine (and extremely sad), but it will be a place where I get to indulge myself a little and just talk about music, instead of trying to be artistic or something all the time here in this blog.

Of course, I will be going to China in 3 days, and since I don't see myself coming up with any epic poetry or novel between now and then, this is most likely the last update until after August 14. Maybe I'll write a short story about the trip afterwards. Of course, you won't know what parts are real, what parts were simply inspired by real events, and what parts I completely made up. That's the beauty of partial disclosure!

I realize that this will probably cause the two or three people who have ever commented to stop commenting, because nobody can relate to anything I try to write artistically. That will make me kind of sad for a while. But comments are for whores/Xanga users anyway. So I'm going to try not to care.

just bein Frank

just bein Frank (2:56:31 PM): and what's up with this buddy icon?
quakerchicken (2:56:36 PM): eh?
quakerchicken (2:56:43 PM): it's a robot
just bein Frank (2:56:43 PM): looks like an aborted fetus
just bein Frank (2:56:46 PM): lol
quakerchicken (2:56:50 PM): LOL
quakerchicken (2:56:55 PM): frank
quakerchicken (2:57:02 PM): your FACE looks like an aborted fetus
quakerchicken (2:57:07 PM): the icon is a robot
just bein Frank (2:57:19 PM): oohhh sorry. sometimes i get robots and my face confused

[EDIT]

Also, I would just like to announce right now that Dear Catastrophe Waitress by Belle & Sebastian, released in 2003, is a beautifully melodic, wonderfully endearing, preciously clever, and readily listenable piece of indie pop. I approve of this album without reservation. Everybody should try to get their ears around this CD. "Asleep On A Sunbeam" is quite possibly my favorite summertime song ever.

I Am 19 Years Old

This is stolen from my friend Lea Chu's blog, because I would try to describe this moment in my life with my own words, but her's are better than anything I could try to come up with. Thanks Lea, hope you don't mind.

happy birthday dear self

so it seems i've reached that awkward teenage year. you know, the one no one talks about. no one knows anyone that age. you're not quite 20, but you've passed that golden age of 18. nothing new..you can already drive a piece-o-crap car, see nc-17 movies (if they existed), buy spray paint and cigars, and you still have to journey into the forest to find a nice acid-addict named marty to buy you some beer. this is a state of limbo where you have to think about making decisions, but you don't actually have to make them yet. you aren't fully adjusted to your new life, but you've become seperated from your old. who are you and what are you doing? no one knows, and no one cares because that's the way it's supposed to be when you're 19....

Are They Allowed To Fart In Space?

So I was farting today, when a troubling thought occurred to me. Are they allowed to fart in space? I mean, I was just envisioning a scenario where you had to be in a space ship for a few months... what if you farted in that space ship a few times every day for like 6 months? Wouldn't the build-up of partial pressures eventually overcome the stress quotient of the space craft, and after one too many farts, cause the space ship to explode? It wouldn't take that many more pounds per square inch from a moderately flatulent man (or woman... admit it, gals, you fart too) out in the pressureless vacuum of space to cause an unfortunate and unseemly cosmic accident. So what do they do? Do they fart out the window and into space using a tube or something? Do they spend billions of government dollars researching special space foods that don't cause flatulence? Do they eat fart-supressing pills? Do they just try to hold it in as best they can and hope that whenever they have to rip one out, it doesn't end up being the fart that broke the space ship's back, so to speak? What does NASA DO about our brave astronauts' passing gas???

Oh, and happy 4th, everyone!

Golf, The World According To Garp, and Fahrenheit 9/11

Today, I played my second preppy white-boy sport of the summer. The first one was tennis with Eric. And today, for the first time ever in my life, I played... golf! Well, not really. Actually I just went with my dad to the Twin Creeks driving range in Allen and laid some 7 iron into the plastic (and grass, when I messed up). I felt very preppy in my white polo shirt and Polo Sport shoes. This must be what it's like to be retired. I'm enjoying retirement before I've even started a career. That can not be good for my future work ethic. This also will not bode well for my upcoming mid-life crisis. I will probably start to have my mid-life crisis around 30 and won't stop crisis-ing until I'm 60. I really don't like... doing things. Can a career be made out of illegally downloading and listening to music, watching movies, reading books, and writing in a blog? If so, I'd be a pro by now.

I finished reading a book last night that I started on my last day in Philadelphia before flying here, meaning I read this book in exactly one week. This achievement was due in large part to the goodness of the book, and in much less part to my own scholarly skillz, kind of reminiscent of that time I read an entire book in one evening (Flowers For Algernon by Daniel Keyes). This time it was The World According To Garp by John Irving, a gift from Frank. I guess the book had a lot to it, but to me, the most important and most riveting thing about it was that it was about writing. It was about T. S. Garp, the novelist, trying to write, and struggling to write. I wish I could finish novels. I wish I had vision, but my writing tends to wander about aimlessly. I need vision, and unification, and, well, I probably need a damn good story, too. Imagination... that's what Garp had. That's what I need. But everything I write just seems to always end up being autobiographical in at least some tangential way... Perhaps it's the effect of writing about myself in blogs all the time for the last couple years. I need to get away from that habit. I must know more than just what I live...

Oh, and golf, incidentally, is not my game. As for mini-golf, however, I OWN. So don't mess.

[EDIT]

Everyone must go watch Fahrenheit 9/11 immediately. It is guaranteed to make you angry. Whether you get angry at Michael Moore or at George W. Bush probably depends a lot on your own personal political leanings, but it will definitely make you angry either way. Which is good. That's what movies should do. And that is my review. Fahrenheit 9/11 does what it should do. So go. Now!

Random Summer Thoughts

- Walking through the mall with my mom today, I realized that Texas girls are pretty hot. However, they also look like they would be mind-meltingly boring to talk to. But who cares, whatever. They are still hot.

- I hate going into a fitting room whose door doesn't lock, or whose lock is broken. What if somebody barges in? I don't want people to know that I wear underwear with chili peppers on them. I also remind people enough of a chicken without showing them chicken legs.

- You'd have to be a really confident, unself-conscious, arrogant douchebag to wear some of those stylish long-sleeve button-down wannabe-retro stripey/designer shirts they sell in department stores these days. Some of them look cool, I guess, but there were a few I saw that just screamed "FASHION WHORE!!!" like the type of guy who would go to a concert but wouldn't dare dance because he'd mess up his perfectly tousled hair. I'm thinking in particular of the LIGHT PINK and WHITE striped one I saw... Most embarassing part of this story: my mom took it off the rack and wanted to buy it for me. Seriously.

- Riding my bike makes me want to fart. And when I do, it ends up being really loud, since it's forced to push its way through an extremely tight squeeze between my butt and the bicycle seat. It's fortunate that whenever this happens, I'm simultaneously speeding away from the scene of the crime, so that nobody really catches a good glimpse of my guilty face.

- After spending almost a year away from radio while in college, I've finally been able to tune in again, while driving. Conclusion: radio sucks. Good god, radio sucks! Outside of the classic rock station the Eagle, there is simply a wasteland of teenage trash. Each track of bone-crunching guitars on the modern rock station the Edge is indistinguishable from the others. In fact, when I tune in to modern rock and hear more generic macho Post-Grunge crap like Creed, I actually change the radio station to Top 40 pop radio like KISS FM. I'd rather listen to Usher take that and rewind it back than hear from Linkin Park again about how in the end, it doesn't even matter...

- BRASH PREDICTION TO BE REALIZED IN THE NEXT 6 MONTHS - 1 YEAR: Emo will transmorphasisatize into mainstream, corporate, commercial Emo-Pop or Post-Emo or some such thing, just as American underground/garage alternative transformed into mainstream Grunge in the early 90's (which synthesized into the even more despicable form of extremely commercial Post-Grunge after the death of Kurt Cobain), or as the legitimately motivated bands of the Punk Revival that reacted against the heavy seriousness of Post-Grunge also sold-out to corporate corporations, changing Punk Revival heroes like Green Day and The Offspring into Punk-Pop radio-hit machines (leaving only bands like Rancid and Pennywise to carry on the torch of hardcore Punk that was free of MTV). In fact, it's already happening to emo with the MTV-ization of Dashboard Confessional, and soon, the other emo indie pop/rock outfits will find themselves choosing fame and fortune over the actual music as well. Having said all that, however, I would do the same thing. I wouldn't want to become some outsider weirdo freak like Ani DiFranco.

- Spider-Man 2 was a smidge-and-a-half below the first Spider-Man on my scale, but that really depends on what size you define your smidges to be.

- Most of this post is of a facetious nature. Ani DiFranco is not that bad. I do, however, own a pair of boxers with chili peppers on them, so please knock before entering fitting rooms. Thanks.