Dear drunk diary,

Why do I only get the urge to Tumbl after too much Jack Daniels?

Fuck it, might as well put you to good use.

Remind me that when everyone starts talking about my ex (partially because of me), that I shouldn’t miss her, because missing someone two years after the fact can only be missing them for the wrong reasons. Nobody ever actually wins in a conversation where the phrase, “I know you want to sleep with her,” makes them proud and slightly nostalgic.

Remind me that when a girl from Spain named Sophia tells me that she’s not interested in talking with me or dancing with me while we’re both at Dance Cave, it’s fine, because sober-me would be turned off. I couldn’t speak Spanish to save my life, despite the fact that both my parents can. A cute girl in a modest dress with her brunette hair tied back isn’t going to change that, even if it’s her first language.

Remind me that, if after getting off the bus home my first instinct is to sit in the neighbouring back yard and break down, it’s okay. Because it has to be.

Right?

I wanted to write something profound. I wanted to write something that was all-encompassing of my thoughts; my stance on issues; my beliefs. I wanted to write something that could, maybe, move someone.

Instead, I updated my Facebook status.

Recently I’ve been sending haikus to a favourite band of mine. It’s part of this little project they have. The poems the fans send are dark and/or childish, so they’re always offensive. I think my drumming idol has read some of mine. He called them pretty. I’m school-girl giddy.

I wrote this one in response to the guitarist’s cereal haiku:

      “Snap, crackle, and pop
      Hold the bowl up to my ear
      And hear them planning”

“I’ve seen and done things you’ve only Googled.”

      She said this, defiantly, proudly, then walked away.

      He stood there with his mouth agape. He’d never seen her act this way. She was fierce. She was in control. She had something to prove, and by God was she going to prove it. What she said was, basically, bad-ass.

      He then remembered his recent web search history and threw up in his mouth a little.

Things to do in Toronto

Turn nineteen. That’s the first thing you have to do.
Then:

Get invited to a bar by your best friend. Question your friend’s sense of humour when she tells you the bar is Hispanic. When the bouncer asks for your ID, resist the urge to excitedly tell him it’s your birthday. Try to get in the bar from the patio. You may try to open two different wrong doors. A bar patron will point you towards the right one because people in Toronto are nice - except for the employees at coat check. They’ll ask for what you think is a high price for cover. Give them your money. Walk into the bar.

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Morning Subway Rides

      Let’s play eye-tag. You’re it.

      I lose almost instantly. I try to tag you back, but you’re good at this. You know how to avoid my gaze. Even when I think you might look at me, I look away. You win through intimidation. I think you’re cheating.

      Do you play this game often? I hope we can play again. I hope that day I win, or we both lose.

We’re human error.

I’m trying to study for a quiz I have tomorrow, and I found this line in my notes.
Beside it I wrote, “He said ‘where’, but ‘we’re’ sounds cool”. “He” is the professor.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re starved of literary stimulation.

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thehantucollective:

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Nice.

(Source: hantustore)

A Chemist’s Reply

      Sometimes it’s hard to believe that natural processes are entropic.

      Sometimes it’s hard to believe that I contribute to the universe’s chaos when I hold you.

Question: Do bands ever consciously make the switch from writing music that simply sounds good, to writing music that people can really feel?