give me the fuckin pill

does anyone here feels that you are to blessed to feel this depressed and yet you are?

and whenever you came up with theories and medical bull (that may sound absurd but what else could you use to explain it? blame me for being a psych graduate) to justify such phenomena,people nudge their head or roll their eyeballs as if you’re trying to sound intelligent and all they can answer is "aaa ok" or not even dare to return a text reply?

you feel like a phony ’cause you can’t define it nor comprehend the demolition happenning on the squatter area in your mind called the hypothalamus but you feel it, ’cause it’s so fuckin real? it’s just so fuckin real.

and maybe someday you will this funny urge to drop the ball?

if you do, call me.

ben gibbard hushed me to sleep last night and before the bittersweet taste of liqour in my mouth fell dry, i heard him mused a prayer " love is watching someone die.."

i hope music can save our soul.

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the wallflower forgot to bloom

everything is so emo nowadays.the radio isn’t helping too.how many more whiny kids with sideway gel hairstyle gonna bleed their hearts out over crunching fuzz out guitars and stacatto drumbeats. but then again i would want to add that someday in my resume.no not the sideway gel wearing whiny kid part.just crunching guitars amassed in my emotional wrenching. *crunch crunch crunch - chug chug chug*. and who knows radioshit too.

or maybe bleeding heart? but enough. i have been a poster boy of such cruelty. and people don’t seem to get it.but bleeding sometimes could be fun. just to know how red is red. *bleed bleed bleed*

another day is dawning.and the only way i can fake a public image worth wearing is by adding smiley emoticons on every electronic messages i send then voila i’m a fucking happy mascot.

guess i’m made for this shit.

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testimonial of a wallflower

I constantly find myself talking to walls. Walls that appear to be breathing but don’t have a red light indicator to assure me I am getting across. Maybe a sudden nudge or even lame pyrotechnics would do. Maybe a simple beep that this electricity surging on every fall of syllables is not lost through your hardened surface. It seems that I am just another static, a muffling sound of authority that was never meant to be taken seriously.

Now I wear this smile like a strait jacket.

Now I wear this life like a shotgun to my paper heart.

Everything today feels like a funeral march.

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