I miss the sense of wandering around hoping I find someone who understands/ likes my work. I miss my angwer and my depression and fucking writing more. I miss it all. Does happiness in real life take away from the satisfaction that I have on anonymous websites such as this? I think so.

I went to see lewis black yesterday. He was much bettwe than I thought he'd be but I still beat him to the punchlines of three jokes. For this I claim (in my mind) that I am better, more sophisticated, faster, and more comically adept than black. I am not. This sentence enters the realm of how we render, collect, and identify criticism as well as the effect that criticism of the objective takes. I think that comedians deserve more credit than we have available to give them. I think that this 'truth' people keep taking about, which is supposedly inherent in comedy, becomes stronger than politics, stronger than marketing (which adopts comedy's conventions) and in the end, considered to be it's name. Truth.

This philosophy of life works best when it involves people who think that A) there is a singular, identifiable truth, and B) that this truth or any truth cannot be changed everever ever ever EVER!!!

This is in the wrong, or at least all the claims regarding comedy and truth. People think that if a comedian is the ONLY person who can, in front of a fairly large crowd, say how much he  hates or loves something that doesn't fit with the serious side of politics. But the fact, at the end of the day, is that comedians are limited by what they can get people to laugh at.

Now this may sound like "the success to a sandwich maker depends on their ability to make a sandwich" but comedians are not free, they cannot say anything and the majority of people in this country (rural conservative thinkers) will laugh. That's why blue collar comedy tour memorabilia works so well. Business here = good advertising.

I'm tired. bed. peace ya'll/


Dan =)

These are some more thoughts I've been trying to relive for a couple years now, but some emotional free writing the way I like to do it.

Even on a warm summer night the rain is cold.

 

             I don’t know why running’s made me feel better these past couple weeks, I haven’t gone out running in over a year.  Especially at 2 in the morning. Last week the cops pulled me over to ask what the hell I was doing at three in the morning on a run. Sweaty and panting, I explained myself and they let me go with puzzled glances. It’s beautiful to be 18 and free.

            Besides I love this time of night. To feel like the world has been mopped up in the shadows and I am the sole motion that moves with the revolving planet. I can run down ogden avenue if I want, straight to the city on the busiest of busy suburban roads. One foot after the other with my personal soundtrack drives me through these strange familiar streets. I play anything loud enough to cover the “plop plop” of my feet hitting the pavement. I like to run…but not be constantly reminded of it.

            How could I let this happen to me? How could she pretend...after all? What does that make me? Again.

            My body snycs with the music. My feet are the poignant thumping drum set, my breath, a steady bass guitar. And my heart is doing guitar solos. The streets are alive….with the sound of music.

            The rain has soaked through my sweatshirt and I begin to chill. Such an idiot. A tired, pissed off kid who’s three miles from his house is only more pissed when he’s wet, and a bit more tired. What do your friends think of your exausting nightly runs? What do they think about the painfully short answers and nonexistent conversation? What do they know of your longsleeved springtime?

            I marinate in a combination of my sweat and frustration. It hangs my hair down into my eyes, and I can feel the squish of my wet socks. I get angry at the kid of two steps ago, so angry that I can feel the temperature rise inside my clingy sweatshirt. I build more emotional fuel for my pumping legs to burn, and I continue on.

        Note: Here lies a past story that I am putting into a diary form for the sake of clarity. By using one standard viewpoint and changing literary genres of discourse, I can create a stable atmosphere from which to write out small storie of high school. In short: in order to righteously bathe in my own nostalgia, I need to use first person and a everchanging method (diary, in the moment, internet conversation, etc.) Moreover these points will be elaborated upon as I come back to this particular story as well as others that I like.

 

Oddly nothing has changed. Jon's always said "this girl's gonna split up the group! Tonight we sat in Jon's garage spray painting a cooler for Christine. Tom and I and Andrea and Jon...crafting this "keg" for christine's birthday party. I just can't understand how so many people have ricocheted off some unseen barrier that surrounds our group and Andrea is so quickly assimilated. There are no awkward pauses, everyone is smiles and excitement for winter break. Besides we don't do shit in school, the teachers have long given up thier power to our senior status and chaotic curriculum. No one really knows why they'd put finals after winter break.

Either way life is a relaxing endeavor. Women. Which reminds me that tonight Andrea started talking about some list. Being in a fresh relationships inspires tom and Jon to question thier own curretn status'.

"It's not like anyone's interested in me..."                                         AND SHE BITES

"O I don't quite know about that".

         And the interrrogation begins. After Jon breaking up with Lauren at the begginingof the year and the whole galvin debacle, the two of them are ready to step up to the plate for some major league batting practice.

The paint fumes and questions mire the garage with a congested air. Even trying to escape....and bypass the subject....all come back to "So how bout that list Andrea?" The keg is our conglomerate masterpeice and all leave the garage on a high that is neither completely physical, nor completely emotional.