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Giraffes are cool, please listen, I need you to know this, the grapes are alive.

He looks at her lips and remembers when he saw her smile and felt like he could retroactively justify every decision he ever made because it led to this moment where he got to see her smile. He likes driving fast at night because the noise of the engine cancels out the cacophony of monkeys dancing in his head.

He tries to remember the smell of her hair. He wants to smell her hair, not for a particular reason, just to have the smell in his head as a point of reference. He doesn’t know how to accomplish this. He thinks it would be weird to, apropos of nothing, lean in and smell her hair. He thinks it would be exhausting to engage back into a relationship for the purpose of getting physically close enough to her for a long enough time to be able to smell her hair. He thinks maybe he should just ask her, genuinely explaining his motivations, if he could smell her hair, but he thinks that would be a weird thing to bring up in the middle of a conversation trying to resolve her quarter life existential dread.

“I want to be happy now, because I can be.”

“But there’s so much more than happiness. There’s depth, there’s knowledge, there’s ecstasy, there’s joy, there’s dread. None of these things is conducive to happiness.”

“I don’t want to think. I want to learn to enjoy the mundane. I have a pet rat crawling on my crotch. That’s all there is to happiness.”

“Happiness is the middle of a good meal, the middle of a hot shower, the middle of a long conversation. Reality leaves when you begin something and doesn’t have to come back until it ends. Happiness is the middle of things. Happiness is not having to think until I finish this sentence, the point of everything right now is this sentence, there’s no reality while I’m saying this sentence, there’s no reality while you’re listening to this sentence, we can be happy until one of us starts thinking about what comes next.”

obscure infinities take over my head

all I can do is lie in bed

let it come and let it go

learn to love the way the universe says no

conscious dreaming of clear skied meadow

your idea of joy is death’s memento

cosmic zebras won’t let me sleep

a black and white cacophony making my mind weep

white light flows into my eyes

simple perception of constant lies

the fear of time will make you blind

nothing real but the inside of your own mind 

thinking backwards is your enemy

it is effortless to let your eyes be happy

A piece of toast, a plastic butt, a frozen pizza with hair glued to it. These are my new lovers. They will never leave. Give me love in a form I can eat, I want to consume your feelings and shit them out into a bowl and mix them with noodles and go to a school and feed it to children and appropriate their reactions into my assembled personality as a future point of reference. 

"Programmed cell death."

"I’m going to bake a lasagne."

"Programmed cell death. I’m an amalgamation of thirty trillion cells designed to commit suicide when they’re alone."

"I’ll throw a party, invite friends, we’ll eat lasagne."

“I can’t wake up alone anymore. It’s too much. To have to wake up alone every day, day after day after day, again and again and again, wake up alone, wake up alone, wake up alone. It’s horrible. You sleep, you wake up, and the first thing you feel is aloneness. And then I have to carry that with me all day. I hate it. And then when I’m about to sleep all I feel is dread because I know if I sleep I’m going to have to feel the feeling of waking up alone again. And I can’t do it. Sometimes I just can’t do it. And so I don’t sleep. If I don’t sleep I never have to wake up.”

“I’m going to bake a lasagne. I’m going to make it and eat it. I’ll invite friends over and feed them lasagne. They’ll eat it and say ‘Hey you make great lasagne. Thank you.’ They’ll say that even if they didn’t like the lasagne. They’ll say it to make me feel good. And I’ll feel good. We’ll all feel good, eating lasagne, briefly forgetting that we’re all going to die.”

“I don’t want to chase life anymore. I’m happy. I don’t think I can be any happier than this, and that’s fine. Why should I be any more happy? The more I try to chase happiness the less happy I am. This is it. I know it’s a cliché but we think clichés are clichéd and so we don’t listen to them and miss the easy lessons they give us that made them clichéd. I’m accepting death, genuinely, internally. I know that none of this is going to kill me and I’m going to die anyway. Now I just want to flow.”

“I used to eat worms as a kid, not for any particular reason, I just liked the attention I got from eating worms. People knew me, they knew I ate worms, I had identity. I don’t know how many worms I killed but they died for my validation. I didn’t like the taste. I knew I didn’t like doing it, and I felt bad thinking about doing it, knowing I would continue doing it. When I got older I started doing magic tricks, I played guitar, I developed a loud verbal tick so people would notice me. I would yell and people would look at me and I knew I existed.”

“Suicide. Abject satisfaction of physical pleasure, then suicide. In the meantime try to be a good person and build up as much good karma as you can and hope you’re reborn as someone more useful. Then try it all again.”

“I killed so many worms. I’m going to bake a lasagne. I’ll feed it to people. They’ll say they like it, it doesn’t matter if they did, I just need them to say something. Then I know they saw the lasagne, smelled it, tasted it, reacted to it. Then I know they saw me, reacted to me, thought about me. Then I know I’m inside other minds, I’m in someone else’s thoughts. Then I know I exist.”

“I don’t sleep. I lie in bed saying ‘programmed cell death’ to myself, over and over and over.”

“They don’t need to like it, they just need to confirm that it’s real.”

“Programmed cell death.”

“I’m going to bake a lasagne.”

Standing under the black sky he looks up at the little white lights and pulls out his eyeballs, throwing them into space, watching the world get smaller and smaller, and he sees the trees and he sees the clouds and he sees the surface of the moon and he winks at the sun and he sees the end of the galaxy and he sees the nothing of empty space and he watches the elves dance at the edge of the universe, mocking his weak eyes that can only see what’s real. He stands on the wet grass, blood dripping out of the two black holes in his head, content knowing the pettiness of everything his body feels, relative to the infinity streaming inside his head. 

waiting for the bus to take us to nirvana

there’s no enlightenment forever trapped in this samsara

wake into the dream your mind is only paranoia 

brain lost in infinity, trapped in reality

never sleep and you will see

there’s no liberty from sanity’s depravity

Staring at a wall in his bedroom, a voice tells him that he sees a television, a voice tells him he is holding a remote. He sits staring at the television, constantly switching channels, never watching anything, obsessed with the idea that he’s so close to finding something better.

He watches the giraffe bend its neck over and around and make a loop with its neck and put its neck through the loop and knot its neck and the giraffe laughs and he feels happy, safe inside his head, alone with his friend.

I don’t want to die I just want to find a bird and take its beak and glue it to my forehead and run around the park and this is how I will find love

white light drips around your eyes and I would see you again but that would take effort and I just want to sleep because I am very afraid

watch me while I high five the sun and regret telling me I’m draining because maybe then you could be best friends with the sun too I would’ve introduced you

open the sky and learn to float and realise you are just a boy, always getting closer, never going anywhere, trying your best to make sure no one ever notices, how much you think giraffes are cool 

take the black sky and wrap it around you and suffocate until you learn how to look someone in the eye

touch our foreheads together and we explode, melting in the river, inhaled by fish, eaten by sharks, we are shark blood, together, we will never stop moving

when you can’t sleep sleep can’t you I write at night when sleep can’t and in the morning burn the pages and put the ashes in a coffee and make you drink the coffee

smelling your hair while you sleep is the only way I can make a pattern out of my bad decisions to justify the accumulated regret to help me sleep when I’m alone

too afraid to sleep when all the grapes haunt my dreams

I’ve killed so many grapes

why didn’t anyone tell me they were alive?

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy