There's a Receipt on My Wall ("This is Just Ridiculous" is Scrawled Across the Back)

My life has always been categorized by destruction.

Er, well- not really. More like by disintegration.

Oh hell, maybe both.



I end up sinking in increments, my mind stretching thinner and thinner like someone pulling taffy- an endless, repetitive movement that, after a while, forces the material to weaken.


I start to fray at edges and drink too much caffeine and after a while my room starts to overflow with crap and my desktop becomes flooded with files that I can't bring myself to sort through. I descend into entropy, and everything around me proves it.

And then, sometimes, after days/weeks/months, I snap back. Suddenly, I'm back, as if nothing ever happened, and I'm fine and productive and I don't need 3 bottles of soda a day to function.
It's not depression, not really. It's just destruction. Just chaos, that builds and builds and builds and can't be stopped, can't be tamed by myself or my family or friends, until I reach the dead-end and zap right back to the center of the maze.

It's weird, and more than a little annoying at times, and I could really go for a good zapping right about now. I could seriously rock an ozone-and-rain perfume, right about now.

The house is quiet and it's 2 AM and I don't even know why I'm writing this. Insomnia is fuel for words, I've always known that- I think someone said creative people don't sleep? Or intelligent people? Or sad people? Or maybe all of the above. I can't remember, and see, this is it. This is why, no matter how wonderfully the words come flowing from my fingertips, cracking these black-and-white keys I know so well- no matter. They always end up nonsense: rambling sentences with no end, confusing metaphors and no actual logic anywhere in sight.

It's weird, and it makes me want to figure out how to type a sigh.

(Maybe "haa"? The sound you make when you blow out air, long and slow and tired.)

I want lightning and caffeine shots and buzzing fingertips and sticky-uppy hair that can only be tamed by the trickling-dribble of my crappy shower head. I want alligator asphalt, bright and unending, and I want wheels beneath my feet and sunlight behind my eyelids. I want

ugh I'm doing it again

I always feel so selfish, so childish when I say things like that.

I want

I want, I want, Iwantiwantiwant

Words always sound weird and loose their meaning, if you say them enough times.

And right about now, "want" has lost it's own.

Haa.