this should be one of those entries that should be hand-written into my personal journal, and not in a weblog for all to see. but, what the fuck.

the party starts horribly. sausage fest and suicide becomes the mantra of the less than a dozen who show up. shots of crown royal and hennesy and guitaring in e minor cannot uplift situation. this is not the saturday night any of us envisioned. we thought we were going to have fun. there is a gun upstairs, and some of us are tempted to get it. and then i see not only the rising action of my story, the most dangerous part of the situation. everything seems funny when you're drunk, and so i assume that i am seeing things, but the night goes on, and it really is her. i get enveloped in feelings and sensations that i thought were lost and forgot - a big bang of sensory overkill.

he says she is just playing with me, and that i should just enjoy the night, because it is the most i'll ever get. others say i should pursue it, to farther extents. i have nothing to lose, i suppose, except for my head.

oh sweet jesus, her skin is so warm and soft, and she smells so good.

i've found out why even rockstars aren't always happy.

she's a drug. physically, last night was not analogous to a binge, but the confusion in trying to figure out what was going on, equated to an overload.

she has a boyfriend, and i am not it. so why must she play with me like this?

these are one of those moments that i wish i could write poetic questions to that wise old sage up top the high-rises, sitting right under god's feet, to ask him for peace of mind. or for the alchemy to bring me back to a fetal stage. but that is not the case, and i doomed to long being a teenage boy. curses.

OH MY FUCKING GOD, i have turned into the self-pitying cretan, that for almost two years i worked so hard to fucking kill.

someone, go fetch the gun. i need to be shot in the mouth.