In (?) WeTrust

Trust. It’s an interesting concept. Princeton’s WorldNet says it means to “have confidence or faith in” something. It doesn’t say how much confidence or if that faith is all compassing, or what it is in which we have that confidence and faith. I have faith in you. Some? A lot? Absolute? Faith that you’ll do what? I’m confident that you’ll protect me from physical harm, but that you’ll let my psyche be destroyed. I believe that you'll hurt me if you're able. I have faith that you’ll keep me from danger but only as long as you’re completely safe.

I don’t know that I trust. And yet, I have to trust. We all do. I trust my parents to love and care for me, until they see a part of me they cannot accept. I trust my friends with one of my most important secrets, one that I have not even trusted to this blog, but I don’t trust that they’ll look at me the same way if they read my past journal entries.

Is trust an absolute? Trust, you either have it or you don’t right? How about those little doubts that whisper seductively in the back of your mind, do they negate your trust? We’re human beings, we are by design imperfect fallible creatures. If I trust you implicitly does that make me stupid? Sucker, patsy, chump. There's one of me born every minute.

I waver, I doubt, I fear. My faith, it does flicker. And yet the candle for you is still lit, my vigil for you has not ended. I trust you. I struggle and fight my darker nature, my cynicism and lingering suspicions. I don’t know that I trust you, but I think I do. Try to forgive me this shortcoming, and if you prove unworthy of my trust I shall try to forgive you yours.

Good Enough For Me

But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.


Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.

I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?

Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.

Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.

Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.

I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.

As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.

Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.

My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.

I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.

I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.

Running on Fumes

I have a secret. It’s big bad and tearing me apart. I’ve been living with it for so long and I am so fucking tired of hiding it away. It’s not shame that’s making me hide it; choice was mine I’d shout it from the roof tops. It’s just so powerful; it has the power to ruin everything. I’d rather have it eat away at me than destroy the people I love and the life I’ve built. I wish people wouldn’t give it the power they do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live as myself, no lies no pretence no apologies. What would feel like to just let go, stop clenching my teeth and blurt it out. I love my family, love my people, but sometimes I hate them so fucking much. The anger, the resentment, the fear, it just builds and sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst. I have a secret and it’s tearing me apart.


Insomniac by Sylvia Plath

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

And Now For a Horse of a Different Color

Less dark at least.

I have great affection for words that begin with an S and a consonant. Slick, smack, swift, stark. I like how they sound and what they mean. I like them in fiction, Wolverine’s snickt! and Potter’s snitch. I prefer the single syllable words because they have pizaz, and their counterparts tend to be less pleasant like study, or god forbid, student (if its not self referential). Stars, the fiercely burning heavenly bodies are great, unlike their human namesakes. These words make great weapons, spears, swords, and grammar sporks. They can be interesting verbs, like sneer, spew, steal, and scorn. Without them we couldn’t make our silences stony or Joes sloppy. They are vital to many a genre, whether for the slaying of fantasy’s dragons or the science in our fiction. Our live would be out of shape without spheres and squares and the scalene of triangles. Our children wouldn’t be the same without slides, spills and stickiness. Don’t you think loss of all that is quite a scary concept, even if you really can’t get rid of that stain?

When the Going Gets Tough

The crazy gets going.

Weeks of being uncomplicatedly alright and then things get a little tangled up. I’m not convinced of borderline personalities, they seem like something they stick you with when there isn’t something wrong enough with you for them to want to figure you out. I just react badly to stressful situations.

Not So Standard Disclaimer: Let me explain something about myself. In the Real World I am a puppy; overly enthusiastic, eager to please, annoyingly cheerful and about as subtle as a pile of bricks. Blogging is many things, a catharsis, a place to interact with others without the pressure to be well adjusted, a place to expose the inner working of my mind. Here I can let my cynic out to play. That said, I would love to go for coffee Krispy, if only because your brain, and by extension you, roxxorz like a rocking thing.

Now, on to the crazy.


Hellfire merrily flickering away, flames licking at my toes. Layers of my soul crack and blacken and peel away. Is new skin revealed? Pure and unblemished and oh so sensitive to the nuances of morality? Quickly marked up with the dirty finger prints of my mind? Again and Again buried under the gray, there is no real cleansing to be had. Only false hope, itchiness, and a slight burning sensation… Do they sell antibiotics for that? Other that those wrapped in little metal jackets? Leaf after new leaf turned only to be sullied with the chicken scratch of my life. Vitriol; it bubbles up and bubbles over, corrosive and where it doesn’t eat away it stains everything with a murky hue. I scrub and scrub but the residue wont disappear so I paint over it to leave everything sparkling new and if only I could keep my Hands Off the white wouldn’t wear away to reveal the dirt beneath. Facades are all good and well for shooting the biopic but they’re a bitch to live in, especial'ly when things aren’t highly fictionalized.

Torn, worn, used and faded, my dysfunctions may no longer be in vogue, but they are my own. Scout’s honor and since I never sold the cookies let alone took the oath, that doesn’t necessarily have to be true. Preparation is for pussies any way. Dry baby, take it like a man until you’re raw and bleeding out the eyes. Isn’t that a symptom of reading something with this little talent? Talent can go eat my shoe anyway, I’d be happy with cohesiveness, or even a sense of coherence for heaven’s sake. Although it may be blasphemous to invoke it while you’re dipping you’re toes in hellfire before you take the plunge. Plunge.

Bits and Pieces

Sometimes contentment is curling up with a dystopian (my favorite kind of literature) graphic novel and a cup of hot apple cider (Second Cup, you rock). Sometimes it’s spending the night with chili cheese fries and a cherry coke from Johnny Rocket’s and season one of Stargate (going awww at the titanium gatesheild).

Sometimes contentment is spending time with your family in full view of a twilight sky that would not have looked out of place in a renascence painting. Sometimes it’s hanging out with your uncles (who you adore) over smoldering coals and talking over everything from Good Will Hunting to the crappy music they used to listen to when they were kids.

Sometimes contentment is someone letting you know that what you do matters (thank you Krispy). Sometimes it is finding your best friend online for the first time in ages and poking fun at her just like you did in high school.

Other times it’s very far away, not at all important, and all you have is 200 words of fiction.

Short? Yes. Sweet? You tell me.

I haven’t gotten rid any of Ari’s stuff. People have dropped a few hints about helping me find some sort of charity to which I could donate some of his things. The truth is, I haven’t even started packing things away. I still pay rent on his place, and when I’m there it seems like I’m there waiting for him to get ready so that we can go already. He's always late, and I'm always impatient. Impatient for what, I'm not really sure. For more opportunities to strike out I guess. A little pool, a few beers, you’d think I’d loosen up some but I just can’t talk to chicks like he can. He’s always been the suave one where as I tend to impress with my amazing powers of stumbling over every word I say. No complaints though, some chicks are into the whole bumbling fool thing, so it’s not like I never hook up.

The thing is, of the two of us, I've always been the more dispensable. I’m the one with no attachments to speak of, no significant academic presence, the one with the transitory lifestyle. If my life had ended that night the ripples that would have been caused would have been very small, infinitesimal. And yet I’m the one left to knock around in my empty life.

That’s why it seemed so much simpler to get rid of my stuff instead.

Tell Me How

Sometimes I am vibrant, a rainforest teeming with life, pleasant and not. Other times I am a dry withered husk, holding ghosts, half-remembered. Between brief moments of being fertile ground full of slowly unfurling ideas, I am sterile and unforgiving terrain.

I wonder what it would have been like to love you. I would have collected your smiles, hoarded and treasured them. I would have learned you, and recognized the shadows in your eyes. If I couldn’t brush them away I would stroke your brow and we could share our solitude. I would have cherished every bit of you, even the ones you would do without. I would have kissed your hurts away, even those I couldn’t see. I may not have embraced your quirks and differences but I would have accepted you, which is infinitely more important. I would have tried to coax softness into your eyes and done my hardest to paint laugh lines at the corners of your eyes and mouth. I would not have tried to mold you, only let us temper each other. My fingers would have traced intricate patterns on the inside of your wrist. I would have been held captive by the curve of your jaw. I might have become a student of your lines and arches, and loved architecture. My love would not have been a gentle thing; it would burn fiercely in my chest. If the choice were mine I do not know that I would have chosen that fate. When the wind blows from a certain place, I feel sorrow that I was not able.

I read a story. It was about loss and acceptance. It was about survival. It was about leaving behind love and the horrors of grave responsibility all intertwined. It was about holding on and letting go, and staying true to a memory. It was about many things, and it hurt. The ache lies beneath my lower rib, and in the nexus of throat and collar bone. It left me with wet cheeks and a dry mouth. It was beautiful. Its title came from a Janis Joplin song. It lies in sci-fi fandom, but holds so much human truth. Fiction has broken s me apart and put me together so many times, I no longer recognize my starting point. I wish I knew if I was better for it or worse.

On a mostly unrelated note, it wasn’t just endearing children’s books that Kipling wrote.

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss

A new odd turn in my life. Sleep is tumbled over and turned around and molded into new and unusual shapes, my days are stretching out like warm taffy. I’m up for about 36 hours then asleep for awhile. Next day it’s only til dawn. After that it’s until morning. Wonder what the morrow will bring.

I feel so odd. Unbalanced and reeling. My head feels off off off. My heart flutters at the base of my throat then falls down to beat broken wings at my ribcage. It skips and stutters and stumbles around like a drunken fool.

I was in love once. They were a pair of hands. Such elegance lived in them, such beauty. We rode a bus together, three, maybe four times. Slender fingers, wide palms, narrow wrists. Artist’s hands they could have been. They would have been at home curled around a brush, a pen, flying over the piano’s keys. They seemed quick and clever, but capable. No milk and bread hands, these hands could work if they had to. Strong, powerful, these hands were the real deal, despite their beauty. I don’t recall ever seeing his face.

I’m working on something. It’s not anything much, but it could shape up to be a pretty piece. Trying to gentle it and tease it out like a scared and reluctant woodland creature. It could be interesting. I’m thinking some sort of time warp. It’s stuck now, stubborn and unwilling. I hope I make some progress soon.

Titles can be so beautiful. Once I read a story, it was called Your Cowboy Days Are Over (Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys). Like many other things I read it just about broke my heart. It’s cracked all over you see, one more hardly makes a difference. It’s made of the space in between, not itself.

Right now I’m watching Supernatural. I have to say pain makes pretty boy all the prettier. Choked up, eyes suspiciously moist, chins set with stubbornness, these boys hurt for our pleasure so we might as well appreciate it, non?

My interest in androgyny grows. Handsome boyish faces with pretty feminine mouths. Round shoulders, slender waists, skin smooth and hairless. Thick dark fringe of lashes. There's a song by the same name by Garbage you know. I like that too.



If you're curious. Not like that! Pervs.

Maybe I Didn’t Know Him At All

Nine years ago, when Jeff Buckley met his death in a river in Memphis, I was still a child. Years later I was in Paris and bought Live at L’Olympia, for a friend. When I gave it to her I listened and smiled and nodded my head, but walked away unaffected. In my defense, at the time I was somewhat a fool. Not quite as smart as my friend, it took me a while to develop discerning taste. I did however eventually, one could say inevitably, fall in love with that heart wrenching expressive crazy-ass voice. And just like Bowie’s immortalized Ziggy… ‘boy could he play guitar’. And while Hallelujah is good and well, it’s songs like Lover You Should Have Come Over that really tear me to pieces.

So I post this, in tribute, in memorandum, for love, of the beautiful Jeff. I shed a tear for all of the fucking potential lost in that river. Whether by accident or his own design, the entertainment industry is missing something I believe could have been truly worthwhile. My heart truly aches as I bid him a sincere if not last goodbye.

By the way, I’d like to upload a few mp3s for anyone who’s interested, but I’m not going to go through the hassle and then have it be for naught. If I see any expression of interest I will, otherwise, there isn’t a point.

To match the melancholy, I give you this.

Beloved temptress
Your sweet seductions
Give rise to my bile
You are my breath
And the blade by which I die
My devotion to you
Is equaled only
By my revulsion
Love and loathing live
In a land with no lines

Men of Wealth and Taste

So have you guessed the nature of their game? Nice to meet you Messieurs Major Players, but I have no sympathy for your plight. The power given to you by the people’s apathy and reluctance to speak has absolutely corrupted you. No more. No more will we stand idly by as you steamroll the voices of dissent in your race to milk the moment for all it has. That moment’s overlong life has ended.

Of course right now, the whole thing is less a movement and more of a stirring, but the peoples slumber has been disturbed. Let us hope that this is the herald of an awakening, and not again the dragon turning over before it goes back to sleep. To be sure, we don’t want the bag of tricks that’s been recently entertaining European parlors, more show than substance.

We have no desire for overturnings and new slates. We’re not gunning for a second verse because that usually winds up sounding same as the first. Our needs are very simple, though many will protest difficult to achieve. That’s fine, as we prefer long hauls to quick rides anyway. After all, government is a process and we understand that. But through said process, the Powers That Be should operate with transparency, accountability, and efficiency to name a few. Really, is that too much to ask?

So let these gentlemen obfuscate and drag their feet. They can hem and haw and paint big pictures with grandiose words. They just shouldn’t expect us to grin and bear it any more. I hope.

Note: Three guesses as to the inspiration behind the lead in, and the first two don’t count.

And completely unrelated, I give you this.

You brush your hand against my shoulder
Guiding me as you point my way
Of the touch I sure you’re unaware
Yet it lingers there for days
Ghosts of fingers haunt my mind
Every time I meet your gaze
In your eyes I see bemusement
Over my blush and stumbling words
Weren’t we friends just yesterday?
I want to tell but do not dare
The truth burns a hole in me
As does the skin right there

We Sang Dirges in the Dark

Aren’t we all glad music isn’t dead? There is nothing quite like rock music for digging at your soul and burying itself inside you. Haunting guitar riffs that wrap themselves around you and lyrics that tease out every bit of pain you have until all you know is melancholy. Show me a person who listens to music, especially rock, and I’ll show you a person who caries with them at least half a dozen phrases and melodies at any given moment. You know what I’m talking about, as you’re reading this how many words, how much music has floated to the surface of your consciousness? So what’s playing on your internal mp3 player right this instant?

For me it’s Nirvana’s cover of Bowie’s Man Who Sold the World. The riff in the beginning just about slays me, and then the lyrics are just… sigh.

We passed upon the stair, we spoke of was and when
Although I wasn’t there, he said I was his friend
Which came as some surprise I spoke into his eyes
I thought you died alone, a long long time ago

Oh no, not me
I never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

I laughed and shook his hand, and made my way back home
I searched for form and land, for years and years I roamed
I gazed a gazely stare at all the millions here
We must have died along, a long long time ago

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

Who knows? not me
We never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world

And now I’m in the mood to live Bowie’s glam rock era, which is odd since that isn’t about that in my mind. I don’t know why but for me Bowie will always be about Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. So much for his whole musical chameleon thing.

The Future is Bright

Bright and shiny, plastic and bland, it seems to me the older these books of the future are, the more accurate they seem. Heralds of dead men's fears coming true. As humanity turns away from spirituality into materialism what will become of us? Less people do any real thinking, and more regurgitate the facts they've been spoon-fed. In our lecture halls discussion is giving away to repetition. Mindlessly we look to others for behavioral cues, until we become lemmings. Books gather dust on shelves as imaginations are stunted my bright sounds and loud colors. My friends, we as a people stand as at a crossroad. These are the days that will set our course as a nation. We have three paths ahead of us, one (the less likely of the three I'm afraid) is of a revolutionary type, where a flawed system will be uprooted and one of fairness is implemented, the second is less steep, it is of dialogue and compromise, where we sit at tables with those we disagree with and come to middle grounds and transitional solutions, the third is slippery slope into an abyss of totalitarianism and suppression of the people's will. So let your voice be heard. Believe in something. Care. Be an active member of this society. Know this, you are a citizen, and your rights are also responsibilities. Love this country.

And away from the current situation, make a human connection today; find out something new about your coworker. Look at something from a different point of view; give a chance to the other opinion. Touch someone's life with kindness, allow nature to touch you. Embrace diversity. Step away from the faceless masses, and make some waves; your boat might be better for rocking. I want to do something that scares me, on a personal level. I want to make a new friend. I want to get someone to read a book. I want, I want, I want so many things. I want my being in this world to make a difference, if only to one person. I don't mean that I think I don't matter, I mean I want to help someone grow. Just a thought. Done being preachy. Here's a little something. Somewhat off topic, but still... future.

I look within its murky depths
The scrying glass is broke I think
I will not give credence to the thought
Of a future full of shadow and smoke
I do not plan for a career in the law
I have no interest in politics
I will not give the news reports
No thoughts of being a businessman
I pause and give it a second thought
Maybe the soothsayer does not lie
I know I do all the time

Summer Lovin' Had me a Blast

As a child, I cherished the beginning of summer. Those were the days that saw school going out with a bang of trips to water parks and end of the year parties, playing heads up seven up despite our faces being feverish with sunburn. Looking forward to months of freedom stretched out before us until they appear seemingly endless. Our eyes bright with excitement and our faces already tan from numerous weekends at the beach, nothing was more beautiful. This is a little something for those lost days.

Rosy cheeks and sticky fingers
Squinting under the afternoon sun
Relief bought from the bicycle man
As my rescue arrives, not on time
Burning fingertips on the window glass
Fighting over gold-wrapped vanilla
And flavored water like a traffic light
In this cone lives my childhood

But gone are those days of joyful innocence. Instead I fall to pieces as I watch the house of cards I’ve been carelessly building all semester tremble under the heralding breeze of due dates. With nothing to look forward to but the paltry days before summer term begins, I have no patience for the oppressive weather.

The heat is a clumsy seductress
Unwanted, she clings to my body
Pours herself into every crack
Saturating my pores
Suffocating my breath
Her affections trickle
Down the length of my back
Then pool
At the base of my spine
Vestiges of her cling to me still
As I am embraced by the cool indoors

I for Irony

In an attempt to push from my mind the current state of affairs in Kuwait, namely the constant murmurs of discontent, a government time and again turning deaf ears to its people’s calls for change, and the oppressive atmosphere of frustrating decisions made under the guise of Religion I… go see a movie about a man trying to bring down a totalitarian government operating in the name of Religion and robbing its apathetic people of their liberty. I wonder how long it takes the censors to figure out the (and I use the term loosely) subtleties and yank the movie out of theatres a la Memoirs of a Geisha. So what’s my take on the Wachowski Brothers’ V for Vendetta? I’m glad you asked faceless void. The movie itself was good enough, and I found myself very engaged. Natalie ‘Disturbingly Hot Chrome Dome’ Portman gave a performance that ranged from passable to brilliant. I especially like her after the head shaving. Truth be told I expected a graphic novel adaptation to be darker, grittier and more morally ambiguous, but I suppose I’ve been spoiled by Sin City. I truly loved that movie despite the occasional obvious misogyny. I’m considering getting V for Vendetta the graphic novel, as it promises to be more satisfying fare. The movie however, was definitely worth watching.

Knock Knock Knocking on a Different Door

In the core of my being there is a longing, nay, a need, to be a writer. This desire is one of my psyche’s defining qualities. My attempts have been exclusively in prose since we shall never speak of my being sixteen and the emo doggerel through which I chose to share my ‘suffering’ with the world. Now even though these musings, stream of consciousness bits, and pieces of fiction are admittedly mediocre, I do have a lot of affection for them. So when a lost and annoyingly insistent poet's muse attached herself to me I was little thrown. Despite my initial resistance I soon gave in, and since it’s in my nature to overshare I’d though I’d let you sample a little of the result.

every time she opens her mouth
pretty baubles fall from her lips
people around her coo with delight
follow her and hoard the words
this is no indicator of value
some people collect snow globes

And on a slightly less obsessive note…

My eyes have had their fill of you
Sight on whole is unsatisfying fare
I would draw a map of you with my fingers
Paint your portrait, my tongue for a brush
My lips long for the insides of your wrists
The backs of your knees call to me
As does that dip between your shoulder blades
Do not deny me the curve of your jaw
Or the juxtaposition of neck and collarbone

Insert appropriate song title...

Are you ever driving and turn on the radio to fill the silence and/or drown out the noise in your head, and some song comes on the hits the nail right on the head? I hate that. Odd, since usually the irony is the only thing that keeps me going. Then again I find irony where other people don't so maybe that explains it. My life is a work of satire, full of dramatic irony, odd sad little situations, shoes, and me.

My day started out with trauma that was resolved but I'm still feeling off off off. Then again it may be that I'm a drama queen. Meh, trauma, drama, what's the diff. I envy goths sometimes I need black for my eyes, I need something to make me look fierce. Problem is, in Kuwait that's not the statement black makes. People, when I'm feeling goth it in no way means that I've turned into those girls that use a trowel to slather their make up on. So I don't. Maybe I will later tonight. Gah, I need release.

Dark images in my head and I can't shake them off. Inside this skull ain't pretty, don't be fooled by the lights. In other news I can't keep going over things pick pick picking at them, pulling at the threads until they're even more frayed. If I pick the right one maybe the whole thing will come unraveled. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Song, not the one on the radio, this is one that been on repeat in the iPod of my head for the last couple of days. Pardon me, Incubus. The lyrics in case you're not familiar with them go something like:

Pardon me while I burst
Pardon me while I burst
A decade ago, I never thought I would be.
At twenty three on the verge of spontaneous combustion woe is me
But I guess that it comes with the territory.
An ominous landscape of never-ending calamity.
I need you to hear.
I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Not, two days ago I was having a look in a book
And I saw a picture of a guy fried up above his knees
I said I can relate
Cause lately I've been thinking of combustication as a welcome vacation from.
The burdens of the planet earth, like gravity, hypocrisy, and the perils of being in 3-D...
And thinking so much differently.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me.
I'll never be the same.
Never be the same...yeah.
Pardon me while I burst into flames.
Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me.
So pardon me while I burst into flames.
I've had enough of the world, and its people's mindless games
So pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I'll never be the same.
Pardon me, never be the same. Yeah

If it comes across as corny or stupid, it doesn't when you're listening to it. I remember first time I heard it, on the radio. I was in 11th grade and depressed, actually when I make a reference to anything that takes place during high school assume I was depressed unless told otherwise. So some guy calls in and request this song by then unheard of band (in Kuwait anyway). It hit me like no song had before. So... yeah. Definitely contemplating combustication, implosion, explosion, something. One day my dears, all they'll find of me is the shard. Remind me to put up the doggrel I had written when I was in high school. Pathetic emo shite, but it was good for a laugh. I know this can be defined as the same but, well, I need to let off steam somehow, right?