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шанна

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[08 Aug 2007|03:30pm]
I live in a studio in the desirable end of this city, and I am falling in love with the perfect man who lives down the street.

I do believe this has been the best summer I've yet experienced.
powder your nose, love.

[07 Aug 2006|05:49pm]
Yesterday, for the first time in a very long time, I spent an embarrassing number of hours on the Internet. So much Internet led me to only one conclusion, and a very familiar one at that: the human race is not worth saving.





really, it isn't
powder your nose, love.

[30 Jul 2004|04:56pm]
A few nights ago, I was walking through New Auburn and I encountered the footbridge that connects to Lewiston.

It was late. Past midnight. As I approached the footbridge, I noticed a figure attempting to make his way across it. The figure's slow, stilted movements resembled that of a zombie; he was obviously either dead drunk or on some type of opiate. As I neared the bridge, he drew in closer, and I could see his face.

It was not a pretty sight, to say the least. His eyes were heavily glazed; fixed, red, and staring ... dead weights in their sunken sockets. In classic drunkard fashion, he had an unlit cigarette dangling from his semi-open mouth. His thin face was unshaven and rough, his ashy hair disheveled and sticking out in points in all directions, like a child's after a rough day of playing outside. Aside from his physical state, he was nondescript, clad in a sullied gray sweatshirt and dark, colorless pants. Nondescript, indeed ... it wasn't immediately apparent as to whether he was a bum, a Lewiston resident or simply a bar fly. He lurched to a stop, his 100-proof breath a foul musk perfuming the air between us. He gruffly asked me: "You gotta light?"

I knew I had absently shoved the red Zig Zag lighter somewhere after the picnic in the graveyard, but, at that precise moment, I couldn't locate it. Awkward and calflike under the stark bridge lights overhead as the drunk slowly ambled toward me, I bent over and rummaged inside my boots, then in the pockets of my purse. No lighter.

"I'm sorry, man," I heard myself say. "I can't find it right now."

By then, he was leaning against the rusted antique rail of the bridge, staring into the impenetrable black that loomed just below. "I'm gonna jump," he mumbled. Slurred.

"I'm gonna jump."

I've had severe clinical depression for most of my relatively young life. I'm also an artist. Because of these traits, I have a certain level of empathy toward the downtrodden, and I usually wish to help others who are hurting, even though I cannot help myself. Though I am a self-proclaimed misanthrope, I cannot stand to see--or hear--others in pain. Even if I do not actually know the person who's hurting, I am usually the first to extend a hand and offer an unclouded ear.

... But when you accidentally encounter someone in such a dire state, stumbling across a decrepit footbridge in the early morning hours, piss-drunk and slurring that he's going to jump, you find that there are no more words. You find yourself unwittingly silent and staring, your usually inquisitive and empathetic mind blank and white. You want to say something to him, but the cold truth is there is simply nothing you can say to relate. Within seconds, you mentally rush through any possible slightly related experiences you could share with him, to help make him sense he's not completely, utterly alone ... but he is. And so are you, helpless and slack-jawed in the face of such a pink and sensitive personal catharsis.

"I don't like nothing," he blubbered. I froze. I couldn't speak and I couldn't move. Right then, under the filthy dim orange lights alive with buzzing insects and moths, canopied by blackened metal rife with sinewy webs and spiders encircling, I had the power to change a life.

I walked away, unable to offer any warmth or even the last sarcastic retort he'd possibly ever hear.

I don't like nothing, either.
1 overdosepowder your nose, love.

If Barbie and Ken can't make it, what makes us think we have any hope? [30 Jul 2004|02:40am]
I love going for walks around 5:00 PM. I love to walk through suburban neighborhoods in particular around that time because that is when everyone who dwells in the area is either arriving home from work or is preparing/eating dinner. I can hear bits of conversation filter out into the dissipating evening air, the fragmented soliloquys of one-dimensional characters whose faces I'll rarely, if ever, see ... the innocuous musical machinery of a garage door opening and closing, a nondescript man in a suit staring out at me from inside the garage of his two-story, vinyl-sided home. I love the inner peace of such a mundane activity ... I love the almost sacred privacy which practically shields me from the well-lit, gilded and tinctured lives of the voices floating into the streets from within the inside walls of homes I'll never visit, names I'll never learn. Personalized checks and health insurance. The metallic clinking and scraping of silverware and forced conversations. My name is Bob, and I'm an alcoholic. In the tranquility of a 5:00 walk in suburbia, I unwittingly become what every person inside the garages and kitchens and dining rooms fears: an observer into their manicured lives. In such seeming serenity, I am abhorrent, a violator; the storybook stranger picking up the pieces of words that trickle from the half-open, screened-in windows. The simplicity of such an innocent pasttime gives me a personal freedom which extends over invisible limits. I am the eyes and ears of the streets the creatures inside these homes take advantage of and never truly observe and ponder. I am the discriminating black mark upon the freshly-scrubbed plate; I am the purveying bubble of soap drifting and whorling so close to the center of light these people gather so desperately around; still, I am so fucking close.
1 overdosepowder your nose, love.

[29 Jul 2004|02:11am]
[ mood | emasculated! ]

Don't even ask to add me if you've absolutely nothing to say. However, I dislike most people by default; if by some cosmic coincidence I happen to add you, clearly you have issues that I am very interested in.

My turn-ons include long walks on the beach and genocide.

S

powder your nose, love.

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