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The Cautionary Tale of Urban de Zombie St. Croix [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Nick

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(no subject) [Feb. 28th, 2013|03:33 pm]
Nick
Inhale. Exhale.

Time is not a straight line.
Time is not a vector.

Eight years backwards followed by eight years forward.

Close my eyes.
Press rewind.
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By the Power of Xenu [Jul. 25th, 2007|09:50 pm]
Nick
[music |The Twilight Singers - "Strange Fruit"]

According to PeerGuardian, the Church of Scientology is trying to ping my computer.

I'm as (spiritually) confused as you are.
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Friends Only [Jun. 17th, 2004|07:40 pm]
Nick
Yeah, I hate those people who make their journals friends-only, too. Mostly because they usually just leave the Friends Only message (generally on some poorly edited image) and hope that their interests are attractive enough or whatever to garner a readership.

Or something. What the fuck do I know about garnering a readership, anyway?

I tend to be fairly blunt in my writing; I say what's on my mind, and I don't edit it. More often than not, what I write I don't want just anyone reading. But more than that, there are certain people I don't want reading this. If you're not one of them, and you comment below, I'll probably add you.

Like I said, I hate the people who just leave the Friends Only message and nothing else. So, I'm leaving a few of my entries public, just to give you a sample of what my journal's actually like. A few times, I've added people whose journals I hadn't (and couldn't have) read based on the only thing I had to go on -- their profiles. And, more often than not, I usually end up disliking the journals, and inevitably removing them from my friend's list.

So, yeah, fuck all that. Read what's here and if you dig it, comment and I'll friend you. Simple as that.
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I Reveal My Heart to This Beauty Dressed in Dark [May. 4th, 2004|04:39 am]
Nick
[mood |le sigh]
[music |Tristania - "My Lost Lenore"]

To the world: you can go fuck yourself.

To the world: I am tired of all of your bullshit.

To the world: when the fuck are you going to do something with your life?

To the world: I am sorry I ever met you.

To the world: you and your issues.

To the world: ...forget I said anything, baby. We can make it work. Just...just hold me...
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I Know I Need Hardly Say How Much I Love Your Casual Way [Mar. 18th, 2004|10:31 pm]
Nick
[music |The Smiths - "Miserable Lie"]

I'm taken back to an apartment building, a room, and to the wooden stairs that lead to its entrance. Images of the way the fluorescent lighting made the dirty orange bricks look come flooding into my head, barraging me.

I remember lying in a bed, with the window open, the street lamps reflected in the fallen rain. Off in the distance, somewhere that isn't real, a voice is wailing, crooning, letting out its death throes. And I listen, ever-increasingly, waiting for the climax. A siren is heard in the distance.

This is me a year ago.

I remember working at a shitty grocery store, quietly judging the world atop the 22 steps that lead to more fluorescent lighting, that lead to a dead end. I remember feeling above it all. I remember the store at midnight, when no one was around, when I felt an overwhelming feeling of tranquility.

I came home to the apartment every night, after work, and I would open the window and listen to sounds in the darkness. Close my eyes. Press rewind.

When snow's on the ground it's never really dark.

I remember singing in my head "Half a Person" as I listened to the drone of the box crusher and to the girl next to me asking if I thought "Whether or not purple was a particularly good color on lips."

I remember how everything bled together, and work became not-work, and fun became pain, and love became hatred, and how it all began to feel the same.

And suddenly images of a deserted highway at 3 AM in February come into view. There's nothing but infinite, sprawling darkness in sight, and the headlights illuminate the bright yellow road divider, showing us passing it. Showing it maybe running in the opposite direction. The yellow line goes on for miles, and the darkness is ever-eluding, and somewhere in these four to five minutes we begin to speed up.

Close my eyes.

Press rewind.
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He's Got a Lot on His Mind, I Think [Feb. 6th, 2004|09:21 pm]
Nick
[music |The Smiths - Rubber Ring]

I think half the reason I don't write entries so much anymore is because the first sentence is getting to be really tough. I've used pretty much every solid opener I've got. Supply's exhausted. And to boot, I'm running low on witty titles. Usually, this is where I dip into lyric territory, but there's really only so many good Morrissey quotes before the guy becomes less of an artiste and more of a morose son of a bitch.

I only half meant it, Moz, babe. Put that silver little slasher back in the cupboard. I'm, like, totally your biggest fan. Anyway, once I get through the first paragraph, I'm usually pretty good. Arguably, from there on I'm a fucking bullet train of literary insanity that just doesn't quit.

There are events that have happened in my life, and it seems only proper to dictate them to you. That has been our relationship up till now and I think it's worked out pretty good if you ask me.

I guess someone forgot to send me the memo or whatever, but there are, apparently, venture capital meetings held monthly in some hotel downtown. Incidentally, there was one this past Wednesday, and yours truly was there in full fucking form.

And by full fucking form, I mean I was half-asleep in my chair, reticent portions of arguably-undercooked salmon still on my plate, and arms dangerously close to reaching out for the support of my burly compadres' shoulders. It's times like these that I think that the high-octane enterprise of business may not be for me. Bobby, who you will of course remember from this jaw-dropping, tour de force of an entry, who is literally so in love with the whole scene that his very pants are given animation, was about two seconds away from falling face-first into what may or may not have been raspberry cake.

It was an ordeal, dudes, I'm not even joking.

Thursday was like, "Whatever, dude, I'm Thursday. What the hell were you expecting?" I then told him he was cruisin' for a bruisin' and he hightailed it out of town. Friday shows up, and his very presence gives me a tingling vigor that just makes me giddy all over (and I am talking all over). You might've noticed that I'm not out doing something on Friday night, and that I am instead writing this entry. Personally, I think that's intrinsically depressing, but there's this whole lack of job issue that you might have read about it. It's something of a social cockblock, but really, I'm just reaching for some type of defense here.

But, yeah, Friday's here. So I'm upstairs, right? You know, in my room. It's a pretty sweet room, you know, you should totally see it some time. Anyway, I hear my sister scream from downstairs (she's 8 (I, um, think (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's right (god, I hope she isn't reading this))) and it turns out that some friend of my brothers was ratta-tat-tatting on the kitchen window. Surprisingly, my brother goes apeshit. He runs out the door, screaming how he's gonna tear this "prick"'s "fucking head off" and my dad reigns him back in. It bears mentioning that his girlfriend was here at the time. It also bears mentioning that this kid's wearing fucking eyeliner and painting his nails black.

It's like the skater punk image didn't work out for him, and now he's trying his hand at the whole goth thing. Kid's in eighth grade, by the way. Also, his existential sustenance is literally contingent upon listening to HIM on the way to school. Oh yeah, nearly forgot, kid's going apeshit. Back to that, Tom. Popular theory for me is that he was just trying to impress his girlfriend, because the friend of his in question is, more or less, his only really good friend.

I was talking with him afterward, mostly due to my mom's request, partly because I'm seriously becoming unhip. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here. I used to be a total dick. This isn't a wavy-lines, flashback moment or anything, so keep cool. Long story short, I felt that everyone was out to get me, that the world revolved around shitting on me. Naturally, any attempts by the world to prove otherwise were ignored. I think I may have even told the world to go drink bleach at one point or another, I don't really remember. I kinda tried to block all this shit out.

Anyway, I think that's kinda what he's going through at the moment. In any event, he's made a good impression on me that he "doesn't care" what I think, and I'm nowhere near old enough to be surprised. It's cool, though. I didn't care what anyone else thought either, still sorta don't. Things like these, you've either got to work it out yourself, or you just stew with it at the back of your mind forever. Not a whole lot of middle ground on the issue, as far as I'm concerned.

And, uh, let's just clear the air right fucking now. I never wore eyeliner or painted my nails black. That's just too low, even for me.
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The Drones Work Hard Before They Die [Dec. 27th, 2003|01:42 am]
Nick
[music |The Faint - "Agenda Suicide"]

In as much as it is possible, Christmas was good. Not that what I got wasn't good, but I usually enjoy Christmas regardless of what I get. That said, I hate the holidays to some degree. After weeks of people telling me how stressed out they are, and to some extent, being stressed out, there is a gigantic release from it all, and a blissful calm overwhelms the senses. It's kind of like an orgasm. A big, miraculous, Christmasy orgasm.

Most of my presents were DVDs, horror being the main theme. I haven't watched them all yet, but I feel it is my duty as a citizen of the world to tell you that, holy shit, Ichi the Killer, man. Ichi the Killer. It's like a gore fan's wet dream, metamorphosed into some type of baking good, cooked in a preheated oven, and then topped with warm, sticky things. I cannot convey to you how delightfully and criminally insane the thing is. It's over the top, and it's bloody, and it's hilarious, and holy fuck is it something that you need to see.

As far as the rest of my life goes, I don't know what's next on the agenda. I am in desperate need of work, and as soon as I turn 18 in January, I'm going to be job hunting again. I don't know where else I can go, but I'll find somewhere. It's like, and this is a little complex, it's like I want to have the satisfaction of putting forth the effort to find employment, but I don't want to work. I want to call, and I want to be refused. I want an excuse.

I just want to be out somewhere, doesn't so much matter where. I romanticize the idea of drinking alone in a bar, watching a bunch of miserable people and being miserable myself. Just internally reveling in my lonesome, rejoicing selfishly in the idea of being some kind of social martyr. And I feel like driving around late at night, when the streets are dead. You know, those kind of nights when the rainfall covers the streets and the traffic lights are reflected on the windshield and on the road and if you let your eyes go out of focus it almost looks like you're crying.
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You Let it Loose Without a Thought [Dec. 20th, 2003|01:19 am]
Nick
[music |The Faint - "Let the Poison Spill from Your Throat"]

So, like, I've got this journal, right? OK, stay with me here on this, because I think this will be of personal interest to you. Yeah, that kind. But like I was saying; there's this journal, see. Now, I was going pretty strong with her for a while; real hot and heavy, if you will. We're talking, like, at least an entry a day. Now, I don't know WHAT happened, but all of a sudden -- like fucking BAM -- I'm just completely oblivious to its existence.

It is if there existed in some mysterious land a bank of black holes, and through some cosmic fuck-up (I hear these happen a lot) one of those black holes had a type of escape and devoured my journal without a thought. And I am not trying to relegate to you any of that hyperbole that Joe Penmanship down on Xanga Street would; that just ain't my game, baby.

Obviously, none of this happened on your material plane as it were, because well, yeah. But I have it on good authority that if such a thing were to transpire, my journal would go down smooth and leave a refreshing, minty aftertaste.

But this is all conjecture, of course.

And if somehow you hadn't noticed, I'm here now. And, oh man, get ready for this, or sit down, or put your hands on your knees, or whatever it is you do to fucking PREP yourself, because here come today's events, and I am not sure that you are ready.

OK, I will admit to you that I have not been to the videostore in months. Being a pseudo-film geek and a much bigger horror/gore geek, it was like I had been transported to the mecca of some religion whose principal interests consisted solely of being amazing, and whose holy host was in fact candy. I explored the aisles like I was Indiana fucking Jones, amazed by what I saw, yet still wary of huge-ass boulders, the kind that have the tendency to spring up out of nowhere.

It took everything I had within me to keep from grabbing everything in sight, limiting myself to what I had come for (Manhunt - PS2), and just one (1) horror DVD - Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (Starring Dennis Hopper!).

I took my stuff up to the clerk, who had this placid look, like this sort of shit just happened everyday. And oh god, I hate to break up the prose format here, but we were having this conversation and these things just don't translate well to the artform:

Him (I didn't catch his name!): Oh, heh, Manhunt. There was this guy who came in here last night to return this because he said it was too bloody.
Me: Haha, that's great. Yeah, I really wasn't too interested in the game until recently.
Him: I was playing it and then stopped. I was, like, "Whoa, this is too much!" There are some pretty freaky things in this game.
Me: Sounds like it's right up my alley.
Him: Yeah, you can strangle people to death with a plastic bag. I was like "Whoa, this game'll send me straight to hell for playing it."
Me: Maybe they should've put a warning like that on it, or something.

That does sound like it's right up my alley, doesn't it? Well, let me just give you forewarning before you gorehounds go out and find your own copy of Manhunt:

IT FUCKING SUCKS.

I will tell you why, no seriously, I will! I just ran a little long here, and the juice (the creative juice) is all gone now. And by gone, I mean a monster fucking drank it.

You'll have to excuse me. There is a black hole that needs its ASS kicked.
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