JBunforgettable's journal

Perfection:
Kurt's bachelor pad in the rain [read: monsoon]. Frugal's burgers and my [new] black sweatshirt. Wet hair and that chair that hugs you. Driving home with Billy Joel and more rain. Drowning through your pores there's so much rain. Drunk on rain... There's so much of it...

*****

Went to the Devil's Punchbowl for Emily's birthday. Fate seems to be splitting Ryan and I up. I haven't seen him the last widespread times I've seen Emily. It's a sign.

*****

... And... Band camp continues tomorrow... Something I'm not looking forward to. In fact... something I'm dreading. Damn those inexact 22.5 inch steps of mine [shakes fist].

*****

I haven't been here in ages (obviously). I'll try to be a little more frequent now that school is starting again.

Sorry, this is a bit long...

I'm back from being away for awhile. Life is busy I guess... Excuses excuse, I know.
**********

Something Corporate:: "Forget December"

on christmas morning
outside it was pouring
all was hopeless in this home
and no one speaking
no one creeping
to see if she was on the phone
and you were quiet
this routine riot is all but practical to me
and if we see it why can't we be it?
can we let eachother be?

forget december
it won't be better than i remember it before
and this month only
would be so lonely
and not so homely anymore

new years eve came
but nothing had changed
all the problems just got worse
we sat in silence
the routine science could heal the sickness we reherse
and if im talking
my words are mocking
the deaf ears they have fallen on
these words are tainted
with years of jaded
in a sense thats all but gone

forget december
it won't be better than i remember it before
and this month only
would be so lonely
and not so homely anymore..
anymore...anymore...anymore...

forget december
it won't be better than i remember it before
and this month only
would be so lonely
and not so homely anymore

forget december
it won't be better than i remember it before
a silent night won't feel quite right
its not so silent anymore..
anymore...anymore...anymore...

on christmas morning
outside it was pouring
all was hopeless in this home
**********

That was last year. That song summed it up. Although the desperado and such lasted throughout the whole chaotic year. Now our little fake christmas tree glimmers in the corner of my eye, and the eleven o'clock news is faint in the background with my mom asleep on the couch...
Maybe, as I open my eyes for a minute on this trip abandon, leaving everything we once knew was real. Or unreal. Either way it was reassuring. So, anyway. Maybe, as I open my eyes, I think to myself that this hell is over. That the tears are gone. Maybe, just maybe, even though family is forgotten, and we are an island of four, we realize we don't need a rescue boat. Maybe.
But we remembered. The sensitive, not quite healed scars that held back the flood... Well, they were torn again and this daughter is unable to quell the fears and soothe the tears.
It's hard to swallow as a cold threatens my chest, and as I take a harsh swig of water, I wish I could just blare my Elvis Costello again. Open the doors, run outside in the rain. Spin like a crazy little kid until I slip and fall, then revel in the shameless release of all things remembered and forgotten.
~*~*~

Funny, maybe. Ironic?... Harsh. Raw. Driving home on some lone road [[one we've been driving on all my life. Foss or Bond or something of the like]], it's late, and I'm tired. Fog and such. All things eerie and beautiful. Here comes the turn to come onto Treefarm [[the connecting road to Rachel's Lane...]]
Hey, mom, you'd better slow down, I think to myself. You won't make the turn going this fast. I look over at mom. Her eyes are busy. She's watching the road but she's so far away. No, she hasn't forgotten... I have. My throat tightens and my heart pounds.

How the hell do you forget something like that?

Sitting in computer apps., I'm trying to think of what I want to do when I "grow up." Nothing seems to come to mind. Looking at other people's computer screens, they don't seem to have a clue, either... I know why they're making us do this now. Because if we don't, we'll still be sitting at our computers when we're thirty, trying to think of what we want to be.
Hand us a packet, give us a test. "You should be this," or, "You would do well in this field..." But there isn't any thinking involved. I scored this much on this test and so I'm going to be a freelance writer.
I'd protest the results of my test but that's a stupid idea. [I hate you, damn interest survey. I'm going to be a dentist instead...]
Let a piece of paper choose my future.

Dangerous tomorrows and the haunting shadow of yesterday... One look down the road to the End and what do you see? The words are gone. The hopeless facad of a never more cherished smile... Broken smile.

[Break the rules... Let your heart succeed... Hold your breath...]

"Tear down the bearing wall... Put up a picture window. Something to look through at the bastard colors. Burnt sienna...
Put down the wrecking ball... Who has a friend, who needs one? I've got a way to work in almost any city... Doesn't matter where. Take a needle I will be there. Priviledges fosaken there... Liberties I've taken take me nowhere..." "Wrecking Ball" Harvey Danger

Autumn's conspiracy-theorist mother is moving to Canada and taking her family with her if Bush wins... Which he did. I've threatened to chain myself to her leg if she leaves. Joe has threatened to kill himself and I wouldn't put it past him.

I don't want to be here right now and nobody really cares.

Frozen fingers tap nervously on the edge of the book. Mr. Number 28 is playing "Stairway To Heaven" through the open door. "Why is your door open?" I want to ask him. Why is mine?

Nearly thirty degrees outside and still the sun shines. It seems as if it's just barely fighting to hold on. Even standing in the sunlight doesn't warm me right now. My toes freeze to the cement.

Broken bridges, shattered sidewalks, trees are fallen. It's a brand new, clear-cut paradise for your Houses of the Holy.

This morning the sky was black, almost 7 a.m. and still the night was alive. No moon, though.

Jonah traced an anonymous message to an annonymous receiver on his knee. His fingers looked like they were frozen like mine.