hellovenir dans la face

MewithoutYou - O, Porcupine

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 08:25:00 GMT

a speckled bird humbly inspired
ran across the road when it could have flown
and it made me smile

-MewithoutYou, O,Porcupine

Mr. Stone needs to go to college or some shit.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 20:28:14 GMT

Fuck Mr. Stone. He taught me that ubiquity means everydayness. It means the presence of something everywhere at one time, like omnipresence.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 20:24:13 GMT

i'm updating from my new laptop. it's processor speed is slower than the one whose details i posted. it came with the same amount of ram. it's capacity is less by 60gb. and i paid more than the other cost for it. however, russel, it's ram is upgradable to 4gb. i have 3 in it now. the processor is newer than the other, so it runs faster or something. and it has xp, not vista. i'm back from france. i feel like algernon, only i'm settling back into day-to-day dullness. i just sliced my finger to the bone cutting a piece of bread. i'm typing with one hand -- without the shift keys.

laptop advice

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 22 May 2008 16:43:38 GMT

These are the specifications of the laptop I'm about to get. It's $599.99 and a Toshiba satellite. The only reason I haven't already gotten it is I know nothing about computers and wouldn't know a good one if I saw it. Those who do, take a look and tell me what you think, please.

Specifications
Condition: New

Operating Systems: Windows® Vista™ Home Premium

Platform: Notebook PC

Expansion Ports: 1 - Express Card Slot/54 or 34

PS/2 Keyboard Connectors: N/A

PS/2 Mouse Connectors: N/A

Serial Communication Ports: N/A

Parallel Ports: N/A

USB Ports: 4

FireWire Ports: 1

Fast Infrared Ports (FIR): N/A

LAN Ports: 1

Modem Ports: 1

Audio Out Jacks: 1

Line In Jacks: N/A

Microphone Jacks: 1

VGA Ports: 1

S-Video Connectors: 1

DVI Video: N/A

Port Replicator/Connector: N/A

Processor Brand: Intel

Processor Class: Pentium Dual-Core Processor T2370

Processor Speed: 1.73GHz

Processor FSB: 533MHz

Processor Cache: 1MB

Memory Type: DDR2

Memory Size: 2GB

Memory Speed: PC2-5300

Memory Slots (Total): 2

Memory Slots (Available): N/A

Maximum Memory Supported: 2GB

Capacity: 200GB

Optical Drive Type: DVD Super-Multi Dual Layer (DVD-R/RW, +R/RW, -R DL, +R DL, RAM)

Supplemental Drive Type: Media Reader

Capacity: 5

Media Types: SecureDigital
Memory Stick
xD-Picture Card
Memory Stick PRO
Multi Media Card

Audio Description: Integrated Audio

Graphics Description: Integrated Graphics

GPU/VPU: Intel® Graphics Media Accelerator X3100

Video Memory: 8MB - 256MB Shared

Video Interface: S-Video, VGA

Communications Description: Integrated LAN
Integrated Modem
Integrated Wireless LAN

Interface Type: RJ-11 Phone Connector
RJ-45 Ethernet Connector
Atheros 802.11b/g

Data Transfer Rate: 10/100Mbps NIC
56Kbps Modem
54 Mbps

Protocols: V.92
802.11b
802.11g

Width: 14.3"
363.22 mm

Height: 1.32" - 1.55", 33.53 - 39.37 mm

Depth: 10.6"
269.24 mm

Weight: 6.05 lbs
2.74 kg

Mouse Type: Touch Pad

Buttons: 2

Keyboard Type: 86 Key US Keyboard

Display Type: WXGA with TruBrite™ technology

Viewable Screen Size: 15.4"

Maximum Resolution: 1280 x 800

Battery Type: Lithium-ion

Battery Life: N/A

The Dawn of Our Heads

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 23:47:06 GMT

at the sleepless hour, when light bleeds through cracked lids
bleak thirst mocks mortals expelled from dreamless beds
never is forgotten that definitive epoch until the pendulum stills
cursed is the waking fellow while his tender brain twiddles
more tired and weary than ever before upon the notion of "Once More"
the aged collosus then decides to break through its brittle shell
or bounded by boredom cowers from the loud bellowing bells
ideas of happiness that sedate a soul insult indignant Man
he stirs in illness and despair in spite of cures at hand
dreamt of are quakes and descending machines that crumble humble homes
but when asked for his demise a reply comes forth, the choice of life, and he continues on his own

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 03:49:07 GMT

Annotated Bibliographies are the lose.
Old English foties for $1.29 are the win.
2 legitimate classes left of high school means "fuck high school."
Paralyzing pain that finds your soul better than your self can .......fuck if I know.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 19:22:23 GMT

I finished Grendel for the second time last night. I might as well not have read it the first time. Then, none of it registered or stuck if it did register. I've discussed similar themes and issues with people before and read philosophy that the book was undoubtedly based on, but never before did I sit still and listen, consider the actuality. Or if I had, I quickly took off again to flourish my mind, revelate some ill emotion or content. I sing walls, I orbit the earth and cannot reenter. Alas! Woe! I type through severed hands dangling by one last thread of fleshy hope. I've never changed, but I continue to search for some conceptual sanctuary at the edge of this desert. I do not know, but I am draped in truth like it's my own naked body. Must I be led to the future, restrained from a path to wretchedness by rhetorical walls, or must I clear my head and rub away the blur? Maybe will can keep me quiet.

Replacement post

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 27 Dec 2007 22:11:11 GMT

Last post had a few embarassing mistakes. Thanks, Joey.

I am talking through my depression, not necessarily myself.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Sat, 15 Dec 2007 08:08:28 GMT

I've given up eating for her. I've given up happiness, friends, and myself because I want her instead. She is the first and last thing on my mind in a day. My sleep is about her, but every dream is a nightmare. Nothing but another can make a feeling resembeling this much importance. I knew that a loss with pain comparable to that of dealing with death was dependable entirely on me. I flexed my mind and creativity to make us work. It wouldn't happen by itself. It wouldn't just be if it were ment to be, and it could be if it weren't ment to be. It wasn't, but what good for lonliness is a soul mate? Someone unknown, unfamiliar, and disconnected, someone who doesn't even get along with you giving her attention to you out of sheer will can let you know you are not alone better than love can.

Looking back, it is as if the outcome couldn't have been anything else. With human need for seduction and affection entirely against me, my character and will were all I could rely on. And at times, all worked beautifully. I was in love, and I was almost loved back, or at least that was easy to believe. But the paranoid dreams, and vengeful gut of mine acted. I decided how to make love, how to properly work two feeling individuals. I was entirely wrong, and my decisions led to the destruction of any significance between us. I made the wrong. I brought about my nightmares. It is amazing how shocked I was to realize that horrible pain and horrible sittuations can actually exist.

I was trapped with the one whom I agreed with others in hating. I was beyond defence. I was amazed at how much I could bend my thoughts to help myself before.

So here I am, at the bottom of this all. It is over, and I suffer alone. It disgusts me to say that I've been replaced by another who is more enjoyable. How fucking soon. I am physicaly ill from this. Although, I am not approaching death. The illness is from over-exposer to life. I am enslaved by merciless life.

There is nothing left for me in Ocean Springs, my home. I found one last surviving crop to care after for care in return, but my own long, long winter did her only harm. This place does nothing but remind me of self-inflicted pains. I can't finish the job here, for I am leaving to abandon it. The departure is too far off.

But my depression is wittier than I. It tells me that I do not change, a man is a child, and I am who I was when my heart was broken before. I know that in a new place my memory will be healed, but it will recall the path it took before. I cannot truely learn. I cannot be who I once wasn't. I will not change, and I will corrupt another town before I even know it.

Mythical Kings by Dory Previn

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 14:41:07 GMT

i have flown
to star-stained heights
on bent and battered wings
in search of
mythical kings
mythical kings
sure that everything of worth
is in the sky and not the earth
and i never learned
to make my way
down
down
down
where the iguanas play

i have ridden
comet tails
in search of magic rings
to conjure
mythical kings
mythical kings
singing scraps of angel-song
high is right and low is wrong
i never taught
myself to give
down
down
down
where the iguanas live

astral walks i try to take
i sit and throw i ching
aesthetic bards
and tarot cards
are the cords to which i cling
don't break my strings
(i wish you would)
or i will fall
(i wish i could
i wish i could
i wish i could)

curse the mind
that mounts the clouds
in search of mythical kings
and only
mystical things
mystical things
cry for the soul
that will not face
the body as an equal place
and i never learned
to touch for real
or feel the things
iguanas feel
down
down
down
where they play
teach me
teach me
teach me
reach me

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 17:04:00 GMT

my dreams are the same
as this taunted, upset health
denial proceeds

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 03:07:01 GMT

To me, the beginning of human life was a catastrophe. Misery is prevalent and absolutely inescapable. Somehow, as if proof evolution is more of devolution, a being is able to witness horror, hope for more, and is unable to be fulfilled in life. Life is all we know, and therefore, being unable to fulfill ourselves with what life offers, man IS, by reason of logic, without purpose. I feel unfit for life. I know not what I want, and if I had it, I would be so skeptical of it being right that it would not fulfill the purpose of being wanted. Therefore, nothing I want exists. I stand in a void tortured by reminders of this very issue. Life is not good for me. I cannot say with confidence in the least that I am merely and exception and know fulfillment by transcending human life. I am not a saint, I do not have godly values, and I do not disgrace life because I know an alternative.

I know others who disagree. They know of no catastrophe and know life as good. Earthly pleasure and being completes them. Happiness is within their grasp, for they have not declared war on their own existence. What sheer sanity that entitles. I can confidently say that they are better humans than I. In this sense, my misery can be the result of me being an invalid in life. I am dysfunctional in life.

I don't claim these ideas on behalf of my intelligence or upbringing. I did not decide to believe in catastrophe. I am not ignorant enough to believe in truth. I naturally, without will, am unable to be content with life. Like I said, I do not disgrace life because I know an alternative. I do not chose something beyond life that is unknown, rather life chooses to be unknown to me.

So, lively ones, though I love the entity of your souls, I must depart from you, for the excruciating grip that we share holds me not in place.

This, I must admit, is a drunkenly ambiguous post.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Wed, 10 Oct 2007 17:28:55 GMT

Once again I face a polished, metal screen and see a "man" whose face mixes with law and memories. I know not what right comes from integrity nor do I savor hybrid mentality. I, unlike poets whom delve in romance, know a core deprived of circumstance. Love is a force not unlike gravity or relativity, but I am a man with the power of will. I absorb every morsal of shock and pass momentum to yet another rock. All wells of fuel will burn, and entropy follow through, unearthed. What chaos, what evil has churned it's return, and the flesh of molded fruit has fullfilled cranial serpant. Through both right and wrong, existence precedes essence, and as I chose hell my knowledge yeilded will. A cycle persists, and no fig is forgotten. But a snake's skull sits in my belly, rotten. A spine crushed can ask for more, for a man's hell has become a single gorge.

A philosophy of philosophy

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 13 Sep 2007 02:49:21 GMT

Please excuse the simplicity of this post. I do not feel articulate right now but am okay with expressing only the sheer idea of this post.

There are three types of mentalities: the living mentality, the observing mentality and the rational mentality. Most often, life comes first. There is only experience in living. Nothing is known or comprehended. It does nothing but exist. Then, what is experienced is observed. It is comprehended. It is no longer lived. It exists seperate from the observation. The observation is disconected. From that, the observation is then tangible. It becomes a notion and rationalization ensues. Thus, the notion then exists seperately from the experience and, in most cases, tramples the observation. The observation is converted back into what can be experienced, and the cycle continues. Life leads to observation or realization, observation leads to manifestation, and what is manifested is then able to be lived.

Life can be exemplified by art, the spontaneous, unpredictability that exists.
Observation can be exemplified by philosophy, the unaswered realization of something over nothing.
Rationalization can be exemplified by science, the proof of existence that leads to only more existence.

The artist, philosopher, and scientist.

This is from a book by Neil Turnbull that I just finished.
"So real life philosophical thought derives from an opening, the "still center" of human existence, the point where freedom meets responsibility, rationality meets imagination, and self meets other. This point is the source of all that is humanly significant. Thus one can make an even stronger claim about the significance of philosophy than Socrates did: the unexamined life is not only not worth living, it isn't even a life. It is the way of nonlife: an ossified fossil of existence that only philosophy can cure."

EDIT:
Feedback would be nice just for egotistical purposes, I guess. If this makes sense I'd like to know. I have a tendency to fall in love with ideas. Am I just love-drunk?

Euphoria

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 08:29:58 GMT

I could not possibly have a better life. I cry at times but wouldn't have it any other way. I come home and hear the word love come from others, and thank God, it's said with a thought of me in mind. I love my parents more than what seems possible, for at times such as now, I can't even comprehend the extremity of it. I am blessed with all fortunes. I'm alive and know beauty. Right now is real. No reason can define the now, the emotion and real existence of me among pure blessing.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 05:06:11 GMT

I am changing. Thank God. However, thoughts of what I'll become are haunting. Since the end of last school year, it could be said that I've been happy. I've never been as social in my life. With that on my mind, I've been both the observer and the observed. I stand between my old non-social self and my new social self as an outsider. I've witnessed both sides and am now the mediator or judge. It is common that shy indiviuals or just plain loners are self centered, be the self centeredness self consciousness, social ineptitude, egomania, or insecurity. Constent attention is paid to the shy one's or loner's self. The inability to forget the obvious, the essence, and the condition or position of oneself provides unbreakable awareness, pure experience, according to Descartes, the only truthful knowledge. And, thoughts I've had lead me to believe that sensation, happiness, and sometimes activity are forgetfulness, distraction from truth. The summer for me was day after day of interacting with others. I spent little time alone. As I spent every day with others for my own pleasure, I became comfortable with it, forgetting why I was once insecure, forgetting what I once covered from others' view. It is possible to change. People rose not from the rock but from the fluxuating water and mud. A fear of mine is losing mindfulness, becoming a statistic, a thoughtless product of society which is the easiest path to take. Most who don't take that path fight a battle for individuality, or the right to be a lone self. I very well may lose or have lost the battle. Like I said, I'm happy for a time longer than ever so it seems. Am I asking to be depressed? I'd say that I'm more trying to take on the responsibility. Life without change is too long and ignorant. Should I truely be learning from the past? Should I know what to do? I have authority above nature and seemingly above God to decide and create. It is torture if considered factually.

My dad printed out some qoutes from Kiekegaard for me. After I thought through much of what I just wrote before I wrote it, I came into my room to write it but picked up the quotes for the first time instead. The first qoute on the first page was "My depression is the most faithful mistress I have known - no wonder, then, that I return the love."

Poetry post

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Tue, 31 Jul 2007 04:22:13 GMT

Tonight, I came home early, so I'm just listening to Modest Mouse and looking up their lyrics. I decided to post the lyrics to the song "Custom Concern" because of how relative they seem with people I know, for the first time, NEEDING jobs, school approaching, and college on everyone's minds. Then, I decided to go ahead and post a few other poems that seem relative as well.

Custom Concern
by Modest Mouse
Their custom concern for the people
Build up the monuments and steeples
To wear out our eyes
I get up just about noon
My head sends a message for me
to reach for my shoes then walk
Gotta go to work, gotta go to work, gotta get a job
Goes through the parking lot fields
Doesn't see no signs that they will yield
And then thought, this'll never end
This'll never end, this'll never stop
Message read on the bathroom wall
Says, "I don't feel at all like I fall."
And we're losing all touch, losing all touch
Building a desert

Mutability
by Percy Shelly
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon:
How relentlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!-- yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mod or modulation like the last.

We rest.-- A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise.-- One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!-- For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutability.

In a Disused Graveyard
by Robert Frost
The living come with grassy tread
To read the gravestones on the hill;
The graveyard draws the living still,
But never anymore the dead.
The verses in it say and say:
"The ones who living come today
To read the stones and go away
Tomorrow dead will come to stay."
So sure of death the marbles rhyme,
Yet can't help marking all the time
How no one dead will seem to come.
What is it men are shrinking from?
It would be easy to be clever
And tell the stones: Men hate to die
And have stopped dying now forever.
I think they would believe the lie.

"God forgive them for they know not what they've done"

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Fri, 13 Jul 2007 01:29:34 GMT

I'm sitting here on the verge of tears. My heart is broken, and I'm straining to keep my soul from collapsing. I'm alive, and I love God. I only wish others would worry less of the truths in front of them and do the same. Oh, this populated planet knows nothing but turmoil and confusion; the world's foot is cleft. How fortunate I am, and nearly all of you are too. This one life to live and I'm too afraid to grasp the ones dearest to me, put these emotions to use rather than hiding and ignoring them, and wail and yelp with God.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 12 Jul 2007 18:30:46 GMT

The God damn eggs are hatching! We're no longer scared to wander from beneath our mother's legs. We yell obsenities at what walks in front of us. We trust ourselves to gather our own food. Our parents appluade as we fuck our mates. Each of us will get our turn. Is it a choice? It can be, right? Can we trust it? Being pushed along only makes me want to push back. I'm not just a step in the plan, so I watch and wander planless. What responsibility it entitles. Too much. I cannot bear it all. I suffer. My attempt is hardly valid. I'm driven mad. I hate myself at times. And what a waste of breath that is to say. Like I matter. I'm empty conscern.
The magnetism of the earth has switched poles, so it seems. Friends have betrayed who they were only days ago. They are what their whim displays. The lives they built and protected were discarded as though they were discovered to be conterfeit bills. Now, at last, an improvement. It can finally be seen that what they sculpted to establish what they were (how horrible would it be to not know?) was merely an idea used as a veil to hide behind, a figment of their imaginations that they converted to reality. Once their desires were tempted or once their minds shifted, the thing they believed they were was abandoned. It no longer fit. It mustn't have been a match. If only this could be learned from. "Ain't it strange how a man who lives for nothin' can change 'Cause if he stays the same he'll die a million days" -Dr. Dog
Friends are not the only guilty ones. Selves, such as my own, are too. I watch myself and disapprove of it. Maybe it is that I've abandoned my shaped idea's and no longer have the safety-net of a personality to consult. Isn't that a thought one would like to have? There inlies the problem, wants, truths, and the lack their of. I drank the majority of a bottle of brandy the other night with some of my favorite friends. I squeezed every bit of a good time that I could out of myself. Forcing happiness supplies a lie. I crumbled at the thought of what I want to be, why I want to be it, and the fact that I want to be it. I broke down like a child on his first day of school. The anticipation and excitment replaced by fear at the instant his mother trades him to a teacher. He awoke from his dream world of himself as a student. Only I am not a child; I'm nearly an adult. I can stay decent while I share the ground with others. But alcohol puts me in a world that I only have a child's knowledge of. In a split second I turned senial and violent. I acted to make a something, anything happen and broke my fist's flesh on a brick wall. If only I was a baby that could wail and scream for his mother.

Another Myspace Blog

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Sun, 01 Jul 2007 04:03:18 GMT

Summer is here and the ice has begun to boil. Water has turned to cesspools, and it turns in the bowels of living creatures. All, so digestion can fuel the cycle again and again. Again for the old that cling to their last moments. Again for the generation that will follow this one. All, so that generation can be made. All, to prevent the placid nothing. How violent it is to pin a thing down, expose its and the pinner's guts in a tangle of mucins, muscle, and magic, and bear a soul. How cruel it is to participate in the giving of life and the theft of it as well. The strength to pusue it all is unnatrual as if caused by the will of God. To watch it all and still add to the mechanical loop is a lie, a sin but still inescapable. Every conscious being is bound to it, nailed down and held captive. They must observe from the cages, look outward towards THINGS, the unconscious ones, the rational ones, and witness how they are backed into their corner. No place or way to exit sin but to deny it, forget that it exists. Impossible due to memeory and inteligence. To truely clear a conscience and aproach the life of God, act as the beasts. Rape, murder, steal, and flaunt the bloodiest falice for God. A foolsih suggestion for monsters chained to awareness, sinners, banished from eden. Banished from the beautiful, perfect body and precise, efficient movement of God.

Update post

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 17:08:06 GMT

Summer seems to have just started, and it seems to be ending as well. I don't feel like I have done much and certainly don't feel like I've had much fun. Just about everything I had planned for the summer is over.

Bonnaroo was almost difficult. I have been telling everyone just how much I enjoyed it, and certain memories I have of it are unreal, but while I was there, I wanted out, and a depression started there that hasn't left. The music festival might as well have been a drug festival. What a surprise. I knew that going up there. Even though, that seems most likely to be the source of the anxiety that I remember from Bonnaroo. I didn't do any drugs besides alcohol, which I did do alot of. Particularly in the first 2 days. The second 2 days I couldn't. I had to deal with the after effects of the first two. On day one I opened my half gallon of Black Velvet Whiskey. Day two, it was gone. The mixture of intoxication, dehydration, and heat made me feel like I was tripping. I lost my concept of time and, like tripping, my touch with reality. I automaticly assumed I had been tricked into smoking or doing some drug(opium since that was most spoken of.) I started running from the people I went to Bonnaroo with because I didn't trust them, and as a result, became more dehydrated and lost. I finally made it home and Australia came about. Australia is basilly the name I was given for getting out of hand when I drank back in the day(out of hand as in violent and destructive.) The hang-over started before I even fell asleep that night, the night of Tool's, Aesop Rock's, and El-p's performance. That hang-over, which lasted well into the next night of sleep, made me miss all of those perfomances plus Damien Rice's and most of Regina Spektor's. During all of this, I just watched as every person there with me, even the ones I cared about the most and already felt frieghtened about for similar reasons, did drug after drug. Sure, it was Bonnaroo, but it was all done so comfortably, and I witness how it travelled home with them now.
The community of Bonnaroo was that of a utopia. No one caused trouble. There was no security because it was not needed. People looked for ways they could help each other. Everyone lied beneath the trees and fed each other grapes and misted each other with water when it got too hot.
Also, as amazing as every performance I saw was, I never became excited or felt good as a result of one of them. I felt more like it was important to watch the shows because I'd regret it later if I didn't. I don't give a shit that I saw the poeple in person, and it was a pain in the ass standing in a crowd in the blazing sun feeling obligated to enjoy something.
My mixed feelings are probably based on all of those reasons. The drugs, even though I didn't even do them, fucked with my head and made me feel uncomfortable. The utopia of a social gathering was like nothing else I've experianced. But besides that, I couldn't just blend in and become a part of it. I watched it like I watch the kids in a cafeteria. I studied the people trying to learn how they acted individualy and became such consistent group, what drove them to do what they were doing, and if they knew they were doing it. It made no difference if I was getting pissed of at them like I would at the crowd in a McDonalds or if I was in awe of them like I was at Bonnaroo. I can't abandon myself even if I choose to. The music gave me a reason to leave my house and do something other than lie in bed. I'm back and I feel seperated from everything, my friends, civilization, my fucking home. It's all intra-personal so no one can do anything but listen, and actually a few people have done well with that. After seeing how well people voluntarily got along at Bonnaroo, the problems of civilization here seem petty and immature. I guess I feel changed so the home that was similar to me no longer is. Not to mention I'm pretty sure that I'm chemicaly depressed.

I'm taking Composition 1 at JC. It's a summer, night class, so I'm mainly in it with adults trying to get a degree so that they can keep their job or move on to a higher paying one. Naturaly, southerners suck at using the English language, so with the addition of years to forget what was learned in high school, my class mates are linguistically inept. By default, I am the best student in the class. I took the class to become familiar with a college class. I feel like I'm stuck in an 8th grade level class. I don't know why I'm still in it. I'm thinking that the students won't keep the teacher from teaching what she needs to, but I'm afraid what she needs to teach is based on the students.

As far as friends go, I guess I've shifted in the speed dating of them. I'll still keep them all of course, but the amount of time I spend with certain people is changing to be with other people. I enjoy change though.

Onto more complicated relationships. As everyone who reads my lj knows, there is one girl in particular that I've been practically captured by. The main problem with that is that I have had thousands of hours of thought and decision go through my head about her, and she hardly knows any of it. It's the cliche story. I've felt the closest thing to love I've ever felt dealing with her, and if she knows, she isn't aknowledging it. I've decided before that I was going to mention it to her, that I was going to not mention it but act on it, and that I was going to accept the failure of our potential relationship and treat her like a friend. I'd say the last one is the closest to what happened. That is only from cowardice though. Even if, by some chance, she would be interested enough to be my girlfriend, I wouldn't be able to make it happen. It's like what I said above. I can't seperate from myself, an observer, a thinker of what is, and become something like a boyfriend or a member of a social utopia or a flirt in a cafeteria. The problem has been that I thought of her as the perfect girl, beautiful, smart, interesting, thoughtful, kind-hearted, anything else you can imagine, and that the perfect girl isn't interested in me, but rather some other guy who can talk to her without needing to vomit. How selfish of me.

I've picked up smoking again.

Bonnaroo Ticket 4 Sale

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Mon, 11 Jun 2007 17:06:31 GMT

I have a ticket to Bonnaroo that I need to sell for a friend, Annie.

The ticket is $200 or best offer.

Please send me a messege if you are interested.

Yes, it is the same ticket mentioned by both Annie and Kelsey. However, Annie will not be able to respond to any messeges because she will be temporarily unavailable. Therefore, if a true interest is held towards the ticket, I would be the one to contact.

Bonnaroo.com
Go here for the line-up. It's huge.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:49:10 GMT

words developed in some abstract form
disposing of emotion like shelves have been stocked
with homely outcomes ridden of mourn
like a savior nailed down and locked
to memory as justification of death
kept alive through dye and dried, weaved grass
our thoughts are savage, but we recall that we're blessed
for our whisper lingers above the luke-warm ballast
of swarming, slobering, horny mongrels
our legs are lengthened, and our vocal chords are tuned
The language of God replaced inspection of scents from bowels
and through this sculpture of tongue my feral depression is groomed
havens of the heavens trikled among us loons

I just wrote this and posted it as a blog on myspace. I like it; I think. I figured I'd put it somewhere that someone might actually look at it.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 10 May 2007 22:00:07 GMT

Tom Morrello's talent is limited.
http://www.nightwatchmanmusic.com/

My computer or livejournal or a combination of the two is preventing me from making lj posts. A new computer/laptop is looking pretty good right now. What would I do without Daddy's plastic?

I don't feel compelled to share thoughts as much as I used to. It could be absolutely anything doing that to me. I'm sick of theorizing.

Possibilities for this summer are as follows:
A job
Bonnarroo
France
English class at JC
Long time in Baton Rouge

To the one who will not read this.

johnsuskrust@hotmail.com — Thu, 12 Apr 2007 02:50:52 GMT

I've found a girl, and I've tried to complete eternity's puzzle with the linking of our souls. My soul no more mine than her's and vise versa. I tried to complete the universe, tried to do "it," the answer to myself, tried to finish. I dug this hole thinking I could find the bottom. I denied myself. I denied her, or what I had of her. I never once thought that a caress could raise the same chilled bumps that a whisper could. I refused to believe it. Why should a gorrila be able to please my love the way I can. I would never give her something she can confuse with another's gift. I gave her myself. But I didn't. I couldn't because I was nothing she could have. I had no slots in my soul that she could anchor herself into. But the shrine of herself she presents to me daily does. And I am actualy able to complete that. Why did I tell myself that this was less? Why did I think the very same vision that told me her name was to be discarded because of its impotence? I study the shrine and get only my own feelings in return. She shall do the same. The shrines must be studied! Why do these thoughts make the shrine burn when I touch it?