Sometimes my perceptions, the things I understand, the people I see. Sometimes they make sense. I try not to judge others for the weaknesses that they exhibit, but some lack or over abundances for perceived humanity certainly don't aid in the selection process.
I look back, try to turn my head and remember what I was like at 22. 23. Francis says I was beautiful then. Took her head in my arms and taught her how to live. To love. We spent endless hours pounding coffee in the back of my omni, praying for the car to just go on in between puffs of camel lights. The cigarettes littered the floor of my car along with styrofoam, soaked papers, pictures tickets. I had more than one notebook foresaken in the girth of the slop. I think I am constantly in the learning process; broken and bleeding, waiting for the coagulation to summon the synopsis. I tend to judge myself at an accelerated level, far above and beyond any semblence of steady.
My boy is amazing. I rarely feel any iota of satisfaction for the idea behind another person breathing and teaching; existing. He said something to me last night about not wanting ...
hmmm.. Another productive day in slacker land, where the hair gets left mussed, unbrushed, the teeth the same, and your pants stick to your legs like wet paper because you slept in them last night..
I was telling Francis today I just don't give a fuck what I look like, what I am perceived as. She remarked that we must be like neighborhood mysteries: she in the same pants and shoes and jacket everyday, and me, half the time going out like a slick dignified fashion icon, and the other times wrinkled, covered in dog hair, hair sticking up at whatever angle it comes out, shades perched precariously on the tip of my nose. These days I smile with satisfaction at the apparent oxymoron that is my existence. I really don't give too much of a fuck anymore what I look like. Today is my day off. I haven't changed my clothes from what I wore to work yesterday. Tomorrow is my day off as well and I actually might put forth the effort to change into what I feel comfortable in; that being something from the army of mass that is my wardrobe.
I wonder about this whole perception or process ...
It's interesting I have realized lately how much of me is so uncommunity-minded, how little of me there is to be categorized.
I joined this community some 4 years ago and have made many friends, however most of my contacts with very few exceptions (and you know who you are) are aquaintances who have been in and out and as transient as the weather. I have never felt too ostracized and most of this is due to my ability to move in and out of circles without much effort, and I find that in all honesty, the person closest to me, at least in physicality, has a few tattoos and not much else. I have walked the line of the super pierced super freaky, but I think I am beyond the whole I must shock my fellow man phase and I have moved into the I want to have a fucking good time and fuck anyone, freak or whoever who tries to stop me.
I know I have been criticized at points for opinions I have voiced about situations, people things. I retract nothing. I regret nothing. It isn't in my nature to reject a lesson learned and actually regret something.
I want ...
