A Collection of Spectacles


this time i’ve managed to make it to the computer before sobriety kicks in (the state to which i always wake. always return to. the one that’s becoming all too unwelcome).

my head is spinning. 

i’m thinking about re-titling this blog “a thousand love letters, dedicated to a few unfortunate souls” or, at the very least, having that as a subtitle. or something.

again. again. another night during which i scraped what’s left of my innermost feelings and smeared them on claire’s bedroom floor. am i a burden? i feel like i can be sometimes. with all the things i say that don’t add up to much. with all the things i say that contradict one another.  why is my inner self always marked with such unmistakeable sadness? 

what did i say this time? yes. 

“i love i love [blah blah blah].” this is the truth but i’m not reprinting it here. it’s our secret. correct? 

i’m (admittedly) an unfair biased journalist.

oh yes but here’s the point. the reason why i’m here. 

i’m stubborn and hate appearing weak so i’m never going to be the one to initiate anything. i want to feel wanted. no, i deserve to feel wanted. does this mean anything? if not, try singing it again with a bottle by your side. capture my current state of mind and then (please oh please) forgive this. dismiss this. if it still doesn’t make sense.

tell me things that no one else knows. let me stroke far away distant long ago forgotten memories. pieces of your being that you threw away …this is devolving into the bullshit ex-romantics live off of. 


i was originally going to simply say fuck off but i realized that i can’t. i have more to say.

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