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ravenI look (and feel) grungey.
I didn't want to get dressed at all, then thought I ought to. So I am now wearing old, frayed/tattered/ripped/battered baggies, that were once indigo denim and are now pale blue, and nondescript white top with ratty old scorched orange hooded thingit. I am cold. My hair is a complete mess of tangles, that I do not want to comb through because I do not see the point. I hate my hair. It's boring and straight and tangles so easily and there is really no point in my trying to untangle it when it will only be a mess again soon.
So I look and feel grungey. I can say I look grungey, because I added a couple of small pocket chains and a pendant to the ensemble, to make it look like I was going for an effect, rather than just laziness and ickiness.
I am still cold.
And I'm bored and tired and cold. And also lonely.
And I wish I were somewhere else. There are so many other places to be. I could be actually doing some work, but I don't want to do that either. I haven't said a word since eleven o'clock this morning. That is, unless you count my laughing out loud at Hawkeye being hit over the head with a kettle, which was funny.
I know I am here just to make a point. But that does not mean I don't have the right to be cold and bored and lonely.
And it also does not mean I don't have the right not to put spaces in between paragraphs. I don't want to. Not now. It's too much effort. And besides, it would imply that my thoughts had some sort of structure right at this moment, when clearly they don't. They are wending their own way to wherever it is they're going.
I hope it's somewhere different. And I hope they bring my muses home. My muses are somewhere far away, and that seems to be a permanent state of affairs.
I'm bored. I have been collecting lyrics. The only ones I have found that match my mood are:
"Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."
and
"I open my veins onto the page,
Do you see the pictures in my words?"
I thought about going to find something to eat, but I'm not hungry. There is lots of food, I know - plenty of things to eat, including all the things I love, like strawberry laces and choclate doughtnuts and those little pizza pastry twists and croissants and jam and even a punnet of fresh raspberries.
But I'm not hungry. I'm cold. And tired. And lonely. And bored.
I didn't want to get dressed at all, then thought I ought to. So I am now wearing old, frayed/tattered/ripped/battered baggies, that were once indigo denim and are now pale blue, and nondescript white top with ratty old scorched orange hooded thingit. I am cold. My hair is a complete mess of tangles, that I do not want to comb through because I do not see the point. I hate my hair. It's boring and straight and tangles so easily and there is really no point in my trying to untangle it when it will only be a mess again soon.
So I look and feel grungey. I can say I look grungey, because I added a couple of small pocket chains and a pendant to the ensemble, to make it look like I was going for an effect, rather than just laziness and ickiness.
I am still cold.
And I'm bored and tired and cold. And also lonely.
And I wish I were somewhere else. There are so many other places to be. I could be actually doing some work, but I don't want to do that either. I haven't said a word since eleven o'clock this morning. That is, unless you count my laughing out loud at Hawkeye being hit over the head with a kettle, which was funny.
I know I am here just to make a point. But that does not mean I don't have the right to be cold and bored and lonely.
And it also does not mean I don't have the right not to put spaces in between paragraphs. I don't want to. Not now. It's too much effort. And besides, it would imply that my thoughts had some sort of structure right at this moment, when clearly they don't. They are wending their own way to wherever it is they're going.
I hope it's somewhere different. And I hope they bring my muses home. My muses are somewhere far away, and that seems to be a permanent state of affairs.
I'm bored. I have been collecting lyrics. The only ones I have found that match my mood are:
"Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."
and
"I open my veins onto the page,
Do you see the pictures in my words?"
I thought about going to find something to eat, but I'm not hungry. There is lots of food, I know - plenty of things to eat, including all the things I love, like strawberry laces and choclate doughtnuts and those little pizza pastry twists and croissants and jam and even a punnet of fresh raspberries.
But I'm not hungry. I'm cold. And tired. And lonely. And bored.
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no subject
on 2002-12-07 09:48 am (UTC)Re:
on 2002-12-07 10:17 am (UTC)That's just fine. Nice to meet you.
no subject
on 2002-12-07 10:56 am (UTC)She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the hallelujah '
What do you think that song is about?
no subject
on 2002-12-07 04:18 pm (UTC)Beyond that... nothingness.
Enlighten me!
Re:
on 2002-12-08 10:33 am (UTC)idontknow
no subject
on 2002-12-07 12:50 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2002-12-07 04:17 pm (UTC)Can you recommend any of his other songs? I like this one so much...
Re:
on 2002-12-08 06:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2002-12-08 06:44 pm (UTC)Hallelujah was a cover of a Leonard Cohen song. It's gorgeous, but it seems a shame that everyone loves Jeff Buckley for a song that wasn't really his.