My Thoughts Are Pollution

Coming-of-age ramblings that don't mean much in the long run

Month: March, 2015

Sick, Sick, Sick

I’m still sick.

It’s six in the morning where I live, and while it’s not unusual for me to be up at this hour to get ready for work, it is unusual for me to be up at this hour on one of my days off. I was awoken by my own fucking coughing fit about a half-hour ago and have been coughing too much since to fall back asleep.

Poor me.

I did just check the internet to find out if Dayquil actively keeps you awake, and (thank god) it doesn’t! So there’s potential there for me to take something that might maybe possibly get me back to bed. Because I can’t really take any other cough medicine because I don’t have any of it in pill form. And believe me, I tried. I downed the tiniest bit of Robitussin a little while ago and threw it up after about seven seconds of trying to keep it down and rinsing my mouth and throat out with water. I just can’t do it. It’s fucking disgusting and not meant for humans to ingest and I have a history with it that makes it even more impossible to drink and holy fuck they need to change the formula or something goddammit.

Yeah, when I was in high school I used to get high as fuck off of cough medicine. Pro tip: Don’t fucking do that! It makes you vomit profusely, you feel like you’re literally going to die multiple times in a night, and the hangover lasts three days. It’s a bad one, too! The first day of the hangover is just waiting until you don’t have double vision anymore. The second day of the hangover is hoping you can take a shower without the sensation of the water hitting your skin causing you to pass out. The third day is just a fucking shitty hangover.

But yeah, any hope of being able to take Robitussin for what it’s actually meant to be used for has been dashed by my repeated abuse of the product in the past. Because now my body knows that that particular mix of chemicals leads to vomiting, and I can’t have any amount without that happening.

Not that I wouldn’t fucking vomit if I didn’t have that association. Robitussin is fucking horrific tasting.

Anyways, if my writing is a bit off, it’s because I’m incredibly tired, sick, and bitter about both of those things! Thanks for slogging through my wonderful post about puke. I really wrote a blog post about puke. Gross.

Earlier in this post I said the words “high school” in a sentence that also talked about me getting high. I have to make a joke about it, right? …High school? More like… more like “high-all-the-time school”! Oh god. Please kill me.


The Fallacy of Putting the Past Behind You

She told me all about it
how it’s so much better
a burden lifted off her shoulders
a spell of sunny weather

although I saw clouds
on the horizon
but I think she knows
because the wind, it blows
she’s been here before
she can feel it in her bones

I swear I will listen
that’s all I can really do
but nobody else will listen
until you’ve already broke through

because there’s no ending
you just keep enduring

There will never be a
happily ever after
there never was a
once upon a time
I know your life is not a story
because I am living mine
so maybe I won’t be there
when you need me the most
but know that when I’m scared at night
I’m talking to your ghost

so do you have closure?
Is your recovery “complete”?
Is everything inside of you
stacked up nice and neat?

I know there’s no ending
you just keep enduring
so I will listen
as long as it’s hurting

even if that’s forever.

Random Bits and Pieces Written By Medicine

I am quite sick today.

But I haven’t posted anything in a little while, so I thought I’d try to piece some words together through the haze of medicine and nausea I feel at the moment.

The bookstore I work at now has a small section in the self-improvement area specifically for “twenty-somethings”. I’m flattered that I’m considered to be part of an important demographic, now. I love being marketed to.

I have been ridiculously on edge lately. I think it might be the medication changes. I have, however, been much more talkative and less depressed, so there is that. I have to decide if being constantly moderately-freaked-out all the time is worth going through, though. I really don’t know at this point.

I’ve been wasting an obscene amount of time watching Youtube videos lately. Just thought that was worth mentioning. I don’t know why. Did I mention that I’m sick?

I am currently attracted to exactly zero people right now. It’s kind of depressing.

I finished reading my book on 70’s punk rock. I may have mentioned that somewhere already. Either way, it is worth mentioning that people are total shitbags, both the musicians and the people who tried to attach themselves at the hip to them. Seriously, the number of people who made it into that book by doing nothing but fucking as many famous people as they possibly could is astounding. And there’s no shame there, either, no regret towards any of the people they dumped or cheated on in order to make that number higher. Not that I’m in the business of like, slut-shaming anyone, but if you’re hurting people, you fucking suck, period. You can fuck as many people as you want and I won’t judge you as long as you behave like a goddamn adult about it and not some terrible child who gets emotionally attached to every single one of them while simultaneously fucking as many people as possible while telling every single bedmate that they’re the only one for you. Holy fuck, I have no idea what I’m even typing right now. My head is really cloudy. I wonder if any of that made sense. I wonder If I sounded like a total dick. I probably did.

And it’s not like the musicians themselves were any better. They plowed through genitalia at inhuman rates, not giving a fuck about any of it once they were through with it. Short of maybe one or two people in the book, everyone was being as nightmarishly terrible as they possibly could in regards to relationships.

Though I have to acknowledge that the book obviously had it’s own agenda: selling copies of itself. So it would be in their best interest to make everything seem as fucked-up as possible in order to be more interesting in order sell more copies. So I should take all of that with a grain of salt. But I’m not. I’m just upset.

Aaaaaand that’s about all that my sick, medicine-clouded head can spew out today. I’m not even proofreading this, because reading is hard right now. There don’t seem to be any red squiggly lines under anything, so I should be at least mostly good.


The video is less than a minute long, WATCH IT.


There’s a scrawl
written on the doorframe
in red
a mix of letters and numbers
and words better off
And I cursed
somewhere underneath
my breath
as something clawed
her way out of
my head
and she read
the writing on the wall
and she said
something subtle, smooth
and small

and she slid
her pointed fingertip across my chest
and drew blood

and I drew circles
on a little slip of paper
in a skylit room
filled with all these cardboard cut-out strangers
and I drew breath
all across the page
but it looked like lines
shaped as an edge, formed like a blade

so I held it
because no one
it takes something
I can’t see
to have
symmetry with me

but they erased
all the verses I had penciled
along the walls
the patterned lines
and geometric shapes
they found with luminol
and doused in bleach
made so clean
its poison breath
like gasoline
stings my throat
and with it brings
a million painful

but I’m writing them again.
I will write you again.

This is a Good Song

I realize I’m about 48 years late to party on this one, but this is a fan-fucking-tastic song.


You Are, In Fact, Alone

Peel off your skin
and I will count your bleeding organs
I will wrap them all in paper
and preserve them
so that maybe you can come back for them later
oh, it will only hurt
for as long as you’re alive
if you wish the pain would stop
it’s just like wishing that you’d died

and they say that’s selfish
so selfish

Take off your clothes
and I will cover you in comfort
I will never take you home
I will wrap myself around you
So you can feel much less alone

but you are, in fact,

and I can’t change your life
the way you want me to
but you will be alright
because I’m not in love with you
and we don’t have to try
there’s nothing we must do
so you will be alright
even if I’m not alright, too.

and you are, in fact,

The Scene

I think one of the reasons I’ve always wanted to be a musician on some sort of “professional” level – not like, a studio musician or anything, I just didn’t want to say “rock star” – is to be a part of “the scene”, whatever that means. I always fantasized about going to parties and hanging out with cool people even though I kind of hate parties and am no good at talking with people. I just thought that if I was a part of this mythical “scene” that everything would suddenly come easily to me. Like, just by having a record out I’d somehow transform into the cool guy smoking a cigarette alone who people have a hard time approaching because he’s so aloof.

Bahaha. What a bunch of self-indulgent bullshit.

Not that I don’t still dream about it. I’m just trying to be a little more realistic now. Being a part of a scene wouldn’t cause me to suddenly fit into it. I know myself, at least sort of, and I think I’m incapable of changing quite that much. So unless the scene was predicated entirely on, you know, me… I wouldn’t fit in at all. I’d still feel awkward at parties. People I interpret as “cool” would behave the exact same way towards me. Which isn’t to say that they’d be mean or that I’d be ignored; in fact, throughout my life, people who I labelled as “cool” were always incredibly nice to me. They’d pile drunken compliments on me all night and it felt great. But I wasn’t exactly one of them. I was just someone they liked being around when they were fucked up. And you know what? Maybe what I was looking for doesn’t actually exist. Maybe being someone that people like being around is as far as you get with people who you aren’t incredibly close to. I don’t really know what I wanted out of these relationships. But I wasn’t really getting it out of what I had, and I don’t think being a part of the music scene would really fix that. But I used to think that.

I’ve also been reading this book about the punk scene in the 70’s, and holy shit, those guys were dicks. Even the people who I’ve come to admire after reading it were generally pretty mean to people. And then there’s the whole sexual promiscuity thing… I wouldn’t be able to handle that, man. For a number of reasons. The first being that I am pretty sensitive to infidelity, and get hurt really easily by that sort of thing. The second being that I just don’t put sex all that high on my list of priorities, so it’s not like the added benefit of “I could fuck whoever I wanted” would really mean anything to me. I mean, yeah, sex is great and all, but it’s not the end of the world. Drugs are so much better. Seriously. I don’t even do them anymore, but just knowing that the feeling you get from sex is pretty minimal when compared to having an extremely heavy substance abuse problem is enough to make me not give that much of a shit about it.

I’m sure that the scene is different now, but I’m still doubtful of my ability to fit in. Regardless, I still want to be a part of it. Desperately. I’m just not as optimistic about it as I used to be, so if I ever do manage to break through, I won’t be all that disappointed when I’m doing the inevitable: standing alone at a party with my back to a wall, a beer in my hand, and a pill under my tongue.

There Is (Acoustic Cover)

I played There Is by Box Car Racer in front of my webcam today. Check it out, and the rest of my channel, if you’re up for it. There’s more covers along with a few original songs.


Shallow Water

There’s mud
polluting shallow water
I guess that’s
all I really am
Just mud
polluting shallow water
I swear
I did everything I can
There’s blood
leading out the doorway
In the end
that’s all you really were
Just a cut
dripping off my fingers
It’s more the mess
that bothers than the hurt

I’m miserable, and you’re happy
guess I expected that from you
used to say I loved you,
now I don’t have to.

now there’s pills
I take every morning
I guess thats
all you really were
Just pills
I took every morning
I’m still
scared of the very worst

Yeah, I’m miserable and you’re happy
that’s what this song suggests
I loved you so much
I’ll try to love you less.

There was Elena, before you
with those dark brown eyes
and another, before her
who used to tell me lies
and I’d smile, and she’d smile
cause we were happy together, it was almost forever

I hate you.