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a cutting may now grow a new, healthy shoot

Wrong reasons to cark it.
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Yup, I wish I was dead.

So I can play this at my funeral:

I disaprove of the MGMT-esque "hippie feral raver" thing that's going on, but I adore the song. Makes me think of Souixie, which is enough to like it.

File under: confused priorities.

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Two very great figures from my pre-teen and early teen days have passed away.

RIP Patrick McGoohan (most famously playing Number 6 in his auteur-ish the Prisoner) and Ricardo Montalbán ("Kaaaaaaahhhhn!!"), you were awesome friends when I actually didn't have any.

Eurgh. Liberal supporters be damned.
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Tonight I discovered some horrible, scary things about my sister.

1. She dislikes Kevin Rudd. Public policy? Fiscal policy? Nope: "his voice is whiney."
2. "I miss John Howard." "Why?" "Kevin Rudd has a whiney voice."
3. "Well - what policies do you support of Howards..."
"Immigration? Civil unions? Work Choices?"

Ultimately she bought into the interest rates lie. A homeowner of a few years, she really didn't want Labor to waltz in and raise her rates. Which is of course what happened - just like Johnny said. Right? Riiiight.

The saddest thing is there was no acknowledgment at the end of the debate we had that she had no basis to support him. In fact, all the points I made she agreed with. But still no substance to support for Howard.

Watching "The Howard Years" on ABC and it really confirms all of ones darkest thoughts about the Howard government. And the complete lack of critical insight held by the key players, just a slight sadness that his divisive, wedge politiking didn't earn him a seat to gracefully exit.

Obama is the next president elect of the US
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Relieved, happy and glad we're the longest possible moment from the next US Election.
What a draining two years!

Suicidal Ideation and other stuff not worth reading
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(no subject)
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You wonder why I carry such a weight on my shoulders
And why would I tttts such a load
Cos someday you'll see
Next time I'll try it another way
Why would you try to make me friends with them soldiers
When you know that I've never been familiar with orders
When you know that my heart is in a pretty disorder
And you should know that in my heart you fill every corner
And someday you'll see that all I want is to please
Next time I'll try it another way
How long will I sit and wait like a soldier
How many summers will it take
How many summers will I wait
How many shoulders will I break

I'm infatuated with this track by "The Do", which evokes a particularly feminine (well, female) Neil Young. It's called "On my shoulders" should you be interested.

Everything else: well, I've unplugged the mains power, now. I don't have the energy or positivity to carry myself through... anything. But I know I will, and I know who might push me through and it terrifies me that they may no longer be there. When we both really fucking need to be.

I'm looking to make a deal...
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... if any of you cunts are feeling the urge to top yourself, call me.

Not that Darcy didn't call me, but I was in bed. And hit silence. And reminded myself to call her back. And didn't. And she killed herself. Not because I didn't call her back - we hadn't talked in months, she'd been in and out of Glenside. We'd just reconnected, only just. When we last talked, on my birthday, she sounded vague and sort of confused (as she often did), but not without hope. There was no suggestion that any of this was too much for her, no more than usual anyway.

I'm angry at her, but I'm also relieved for her. At least now (most probably) she isn't sufering from the pain of just being, and not being comfortable or able to find happiness without drugs or alcohol. I feel for her family, who will never really experience the lack of discomfort she now has the luxury of, for eternity. Or whatever. I keep thinking "if only she had called me"... but she did. She even told her boyfriend we were catching up Satuday night. That's why the cops called me, that's the only reason I know.

I don't know why or what or who, I don't even possess the full questions anymore. Not sure if I ever did, and if they made it easier or just invited more unanswerable questions. Again, about what I have no idea. And why... well, that I most probably will never know. I wish I had some sort of faith that told me I will know, when my time comes. But I don't. Best I think i'll get i whatever story I manage to shape around this life, before it slips away to be replaced by more and more and more.

I hope you have the questions, if not the answers, that are going to make this night or this day pass easily, without discomfort. With ease. I hope that you are happy enough, if not simply happy. And if you're not don't just call me once, call me twice. Text me. Please.

"As intelligence goes up, happiness goes down. See, I made a graph. I make lots of graphs."
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 Why, though, as my intelligence clearly decreases am I not getting more happy?

I like the sound and motion of typing. taptaptap. Lots of words.
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Man oh man. What the hell is going on in my life, my mind and my something else to make it a trifecta of stuff and things? It's like a flashback to being seventeen - younger, actually, if you take into account all the sex I'm not having. Insecurities, self-depreciation, anxiety. Anxiety. Shit man, I forgot what it was like.

There was something awesome about that constant cloud of anxiety dropping, and not really coming back. It's like the world kept getting crapper and I kept getting better at not worrying too much about it. Well, most of it. I suppose when I say "something awesome" that something was akin to being handed a more full life. A head space where I could stop questioning things - stupid, unchangeable things, some of my creation, others just fragments of the outside world I decided to care about. Things that resulted in answers I didn't like, conclusions I didn't want to draw because, well, I actually want to go out there and engage an do all that. It's great to be able to see injustices and call bullshit on some things (just as it's great to be oblivious to a whoooole lot more) and not have the answers I give myself make me not happy to hear them so, well, it mjust be my fault so i'll just doubt every litle fucking thing I do, see, hear, thing, say and slowly grind my esteem and confidence into the ground.

Alright. Punctuation break.

For a long time I was incredibly inadequate to myself. I'd look at people, and just fill with envy. At the great things, people, brains, ambition, drive, discipline, cool shit - whatever, really - they possessed and were surrounded by. What they were able and willing to do.

What bugged me about that is that I knew no-one would ever look at me like that. With respect, envy, uncertainty... whatever. That in itself is a shallow and banal confession, but I think it's a very base, "pure", "raw" response I have in my ut. And it's still there. Envy and longing and not belonging are very much the undercurrent of my worst dreams (literally REM sleep, not the lah-di-da variety of dreams) to this day.

Now, a long time ago this was countered by the realisation that
1) Everyone is insecure. Surprise!
2) That I was, really, fucking rad
3) My world was made of people of equal or greater radness, and
4) they liked me. Circle complete.

So, besides running the past decade of my life like a mutant popularity / coolness contest, well, that was the biggest fucking issue I ever worked out, really. Is there any surprise that I am on an epic hamster wheel of fail? When I sit down and discover my priorities in life and feeling like I'm cool and, as time ticks on, waiting for the old body to fall apart.

More so than ever I've been thinking about what is going to come of me, and it's not really pretty. In fact what i see for most people isn't pretty. I know it's as much a product of me being a bit depressive and negative most of the time, but it's also... well, what else do you expect when you start to navel gaze intensely with the sole purpose of deliberately seeing anything but what is actually there.

None of this makes sense, and like all he longest, self-indulgent journal writings i post here ... hah, I just lost that sentence. I've become very lazy. Being sorta happy for the better part of the past 7 or 8 years has made me very, very lazy. And dumber. And unable to hurl myself over this adversity (*waves at big difficult-shaped shit in general fronty direction*) without feeling weally, weally swad. And hard done by. Even though, simultaneously, I'm past that.

I'm clearly about to hit a sleep-dep'd stride, as hour 40 of being awake slides into place. It's crazy fuel, not being able to sleep, and it gets crazier when night two grinds by and despite utter exhaustion, sleep just doesn't want to come until about 30 minutes before you have to get up to go to work / school / whatever. I had so very, very much fun at school... 4 days being the longest without sleep before English class had no option but to knock me out. It's the most tangible feeling of mania I know and it is... a not-so-great, great propellant. If you know what I mean.

I mean, mean mean mean like mean .... look at all this shitty text I can spill out. Quality? NEIN! But it's.... something. And I'm more than aware that something will no longer cut it, but it all goes back to that lazy part. So, something.

Damn! I loved filling up LJ with a good, solid something.

Dead. Death. You & Me, we're going to die.
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Not together, as ace as that would be. That'd be really ace.

I'd love to embrace my friends, best mates, acquaintances - whoever - as the fireball hits, as the Earth crumbles beneath our feet, as the missiles are launched, as the water rises, as the plane dives, as my heart fails or as my kidneys kick out their last breath. But I won't.

I'd love to be there, watching your eyes empty, knowing It has to happen, that there is no choice. I'd love the prior warning as much as I am looking forward to the surprise. That it is necessity. It is the way we are built, and it is the way that everything (can you comprehend, for a minute, everything) has to go.

I've never thought about Death, beyond my own and the odd over indulged suicidal... dalliances (heh). But I suppose I know a bit more about it, what it is, and what it'll do...not so much to me, but those around me, when it finally comes.

Sure... i've seen those fingers, green and rotten, waiting to drop from a hand. What happens to the body, how the blood drops from your face, your nose, your eyes. How it pools, and stops. Turns solid and ages like... anything else. Paint. Jam. Mud. Blood. It's all the same. Inside or out, it just stops and means nothing. Before that, fuck knows what it means. Google hemoglobin for fucks' sake.

But what and why? Where and what and fucking why. I can't pretend to be too angry about it, because I finally have an understanding. What does that mean... that it'll happen.
And we'll be sad.
All together.
And it'll pass.
And everything will resume.

With or without you.


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