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Some lyrics I wrote at the beginning of 2011. Somewhat germane to the topics I’ve been working on lately. Unrequited love, infatuation, reality smacking me in the face.
There’s only two verses and a chorus to the song but I’m saving it here for posterity because I’m afraid I’ll lose it. I wrote it for another band but they never used it. They snooze, they lose. I’m taking it back for myself. I got a good chord progression for the song, but I have to go work it out. I always have to work it out if I want it to go a certain way. That is not a metaphor for life.
I didn’t know she didn’t love me I didn’t know she didn’t love me I didn’t know I didn’t know No, no, no 1st verse:
I was so sure about how she felt I wanted her so bad I was so sure her heart would melt When I told her ’bout the love I had I just knew she loved me too And then my world would be complete But I was wrong, now what do I do With the aftertaste of defeat
Don’t want to answer the phone or e-mail I’m gonna stay off line My friends ask me if I’m okay I lie and tell them I’m just fine Deep down, I’m in misery I’m so ashamed of myself I’m red-faced, how dumb could I be? I want to cry out for help
I probably think about being dead too much. Not suicide, mind you but the wanting of death. I probably think about it three or four times a day. Alarming, isn’t it? I’m not going to kill myself. I’m too defeated and I don’t have the dignity or courage to kill myself. If I knew what was good for me, I would have done myself off in Los Angeles. I hate every waking day and try to skip it as much as possible.
There’s a severe undercurrent of frustration which has ran through my life. Almost the entirety of my life, I’ve been frustrated. It never ends. But fortunately there will be a new episode of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia. Then it will end a half-hour later and then it begins again. I was crying at five in the morning today. Why? Don’t ask. It’s stupid. It has something to do with the previous blog I wrote, called “Projection”. I was crying because I knew that a girl I was crying over was not crying over me. Not at the slightest. I think about this girl a lot and I know she barely considers me. Why would she? She rarely sees me, I see her every so often. I’ll see her Saturday and that’s when I’m gonna finally gonna say goodbye to all of this nonsense.
I’m not going to announce derby anymore. I got into it because I liked a girl on the team and wanted to be closer to her. This was disastrous. I was/am infatuated with her. And I need to divorce myself from that situation. I love to be around her so much that I’m embarrassed about it. All my friends know about my crush on her. My crush is about ten pounds larger than I am. That’s how big my crush is on this girl.
Let’s be totally honest. This crush/infatuation is not going to manifest into any type of relationship. Nothing. Nothing at all. I am being a fucking idiot. I have announced derby for two years just because I wanted to be near this girl like a puppy lovin’ idiot boy. I am thirty-three years old. I don’t want to live like this. I’m too old to be acting like this. I have done this more times than I care to, with different women. At least four times in my life I’ve gone through this cycle. Initial crush that blossoms into one-side affection blooming into full-blown infatuation. It’s not blossoming like a flower. It’s more like a boil that has to be lanced. And I lance it by confessing to the girl and getting pus all over the both of us. It’s disgusting. Then there’s a scar at the end, and I’m the one who will end up carrying it.
In summation, I suck and I need to be taken behind the barn and shot in the back of the head. That’s another thing I say several times a day. I should be shot in the back of the head. Positive affirmations.
I am mentally ill. When I finally pass on, my gravestone should read “Here lies Kentucky Prophet, one crazy fucker.” I remind myself about eight time a day that I am a crazy person. Is this bad?
I have an infatuation problem. It hurts to even type this. Bitter medicine. I can’t even be sure that I have ever actually been in love. Just a bunch of infatuations over and over again. What a drag. I’m like a little boy too stupid to grow up. This is the kind of stuff that kids do because they don’t know what love is. They don’t know the reality of love between two people. What a drag, indeed. Am I frozen in time? An overgrown adult child.
I just wanted to put that Bad Company song right there because I like it. Don’t like it? Eh, I gives you zero fucks.
I’m pretty depressed about this development. Not the development, but the realization of what’s going on. I know the lay of the land and I know I’m fucked. I have projected my ideals onto various women and I can’t do that anymore. More importantly, I don’t want to do that anymore. L—. T—. G—. J—. I’m so sorry for being a fucko, ladies. I don’t know what love is.
I’d put that Foreigner song here at the end but I hate it. It’s no Bad Company.
I am a lot of sound of fury signifying nothing. I suck. I whined like a puppy about the new Facebook last week, and I’m still there. It’s my Crackbook. I oughta be punched in the arm very hard by a lady with pointy knuckles. I am Facebook’s bitch.
I hate myself for not trying harder to give up Facebook. I mean, there’s still time. There’s always Google+ but I won’t get into that until nearly everyone else has. I feel like the last guest at the party. I should be shot.
Intimacy scares me. That has nothing to do with the other stuff I wrote.
Type II diabetes is a self-inflicted bitch. I did it to myself. As much as I would enjoy putting the blame for my condition, the buck stops with me. I would like to say the life I have is a hell that was created for me by external circumstances. But that isn’t how life is. I have more free will than most people in the world and I have squandered it.
For example, as I type this I’m eating a chocolate-covered graham cookie. Do you see how counterproductive I can be? They were a gift and how can you refuse a gift? Look for me in “Grey Gardens 2: The Fool In His Trailer” coming next year.
Right now, there’s a new hot singer making the circles of the indie blogosphere by the name of Lana Del Rey. She looks like a darling who’s getting ready to release a double-A single “Blue Jeans” b/w “Video Games”. Turns out her real name is Lizzy and she had collagen put in her lips. This and some other stuff means that she’s being seen as inauthentic.
I don’t really care one whit about Lana Del Rey except for what she represents in terms of being marketed as indie rock. There is a very real thing happening where financiers and agents and other fixers are getting into the indie rock game because they think it’s good business. Investing in a new band or creating one out of whole cloth, using their influence and money to promote these acts and then reaping any potential rewards. It’s big business in the musical arena and that’s no surprise.
The only surprise is that some of this stuff is being marketed as “indie rock”. You can find bands that have been bought up by an investor, groomed and stylized for maximum sellability, bands that have session players doing their basic tracks for them, and sold to the general public as “indie” and “alt” or “hipster”.
Me, I have this thing about “indie” meaning something. Like a group of people doing their own thing. Actual independence. Pavement had a manager and an agent but they didn’t have some investor bankrolling their early EPs. At least I think they didn’t. Or am I being completely naive?
The main point is that there aint no more “indie”, especially in the marketplace. Sad, but true as the man said. The man being James Hetfield of Metallica.
Right now it’s Day 2 of Facebook’s new design and I hate it. It’s like they like to sit around and find ways to make guys like me spend less time on their site. I want to love Facebook because it’s given me something I didn’t know I want, which is to communicate with people anywhere in a marginally smoother way than MySpace did. Now they go and fuck it up and as a consumer of FB, I find it frustrating.
What I find even more frustrating is the backlash against the backlash. I seriously deleted two idiots yesterday because of their bitching about guys like me bitching about the new Facebook. One of them posted a link to that Louis CK video “Everything’s Amazing and Nobody’s Happy”, where Louis is talking about being on a plane with someone who bitches about the lack of available wi-fi. Well, that’s a good bit, guy who posted it to shut me up but there’s a problem. On Louis’ flight, the free wi-fi is an incidental perk provided by the airline. The main jist of their service is the fucking flight. And Facebook isn’t messing with the incidentals or fringe stuff, they’re hitting me where I live. I want to hit Mark Zuckerberg in the kidneys until he pisses blood.
Some of you might say I lack perspective. And then one of you might say something like “Here’s what I think about the new Facebook changes: People are starving in Africa”.
You know who says that? A douchebag. A complete and utter fucking idiot douchebag says something like that in order to gain perspective and win an argument. What, if anything, has this guy done for the starving people of anywhere let alone Africa? He’s telling me to shut up and be happy for what I got, which is communism as far as I can see.
So I unfriended the guy. Untweeted the guy, too. I’ve never met him. Fuck him in his ear. He runs a website that seems to be doing well, and all it is is a glorfied tumblr that just aggregates pictures of hot chicks and stupid gifs. And this guy gets thousands of fresh hits every month. So maybe he sucks but s does everyone else. What’s the point of writing anymore when all people want to do is look at stupid pictures like a bunch of children?
“People are starving in Africa” only works as an argument to a child who doesn’t like what’s on their plate. Also, go fuck yourself.
I did a stupid thing very early this morning. I watched Mulholland Drive on HBO. I was cleaning my room and it was on so I thought I’d keep it on and watch it. This was a stupid idea because by the end of the film I was scared to go to sleep. David Lynch scares me.
I know that on straight up fucked-up-ness, Mulholland Drive may not be one of Lynch’s crazier films. You have to understand that the only Lynch films I’ve seen prior to this were Blue Velvet and The Straight Story. It took me ten years to watch this movie. What little I knew about the film was that there were some lesbian love scenes and the movie gets weirder and weirder at the end.
This reminds me: Laura Harring is gorgeous in this movie. There’s a scene where Naomi Watts’ character is furiously fingerblasting herself while crying and thinking about Laura Harring’s character. And I couldn’t blame her, because Naomi Watts seemed to be the stand-in for the audience. Instead of being aroused by Watts, I felt sympathy for her. It was angry masturbation. Who hasn’t done that? Who hasn’t hate-jerked about someone they’re conflicted over?
I’ve spent a lot of time going over the fringe stuff and not even talking about the core of the story. Why should I, though? The movie is ten years old. But I’ll try. Naomi Watts plays a would-be actress from Ontario who moved into an L.A. apartment owned by her aunt back home. Laura Harring plays a woman who has amnesia from an auto accident and takes solace in the same apartment.
What happens afterward is a meditation on need, on ambition, the Hollywood illusion and scaring Ky Prophet so badly he can’t sleep. The night before, HBO played Beverly Hills Cop 3, a terrible movie. But I could sleep afterwards, dammit.
I guess I’m saying that Mulholland Drive haunts me in a way I can’t even describe. I’m still thinking about it, about the characters and the relationship they build, about how Lynch pulled the rug out from under the viewer mid-way through and the consequences of that and what they mean to each individual who sees it. The dream state, the amnesia state, the ways in which we prop ourselves up with delusions of forthcoming grandeur.
My grandfather is up about 2:30 in the morning. He went to bed about 9pm, which doesn’t make for a lot of time asleep. He used to get up about 4:30am, then 4, then 3:30, then 3, and now around 2:30 or even earlier. Is my grandfather the lead character in that Stephen King book “Insomnia”? Is he going into the Court of the Crimson King?
But he will sit and nap. He’ll put on his clothes, take his cup of coffee. Then he goes out for the paper and comes back home for a nap in his favorite chair. He’ll stay in that chair until after 6am, then head out to face the day. A long morning constitution, if that’s what you call them.
My grandfather is eighty years old. That amazes me. My heart sinks on the rare times I remember that he has more years behind him than ahead of him and not even that many left. Some men are tough. I’m not, my grandfather is. I don’t want to think about this anymore.
I wasn’t crazy busy. I just didn’t want to write. I wanted to live my life instead of talk about it. Is that alright?
I hate to be in a vulnerable position. I hate to feel embarrassed in front of another person because of them. This romance. Who am I kidding? I aimed for a romance and failed miserably. That’s why I felt/feel embarrassment. What a drag. I tried hard and crashed where anyone around could see me. That didn’t feel good at all.
To be fair, nobody tried to rub it in my face. There was a certain amount of class about it. Thank goodness. I appreciate that.
So I didn’t write. I was doing things. I was also not doing a lot of things. Maybe I’ll get into it at some point. Or maybe I’ll stop writing about things I’m promoting and actually man up and write about what’s going on inside. The inner Prophet.