Whine.

I’m tired of the rain.
I’m tired of my shoes squeaking.
I’m tired of bad cult movies.
I’m tired of girls tucking their ugly jeans into their ugly boots.
I’m tired of fat girls in skinny jeans.
I’m tired of having to wear sweatshirts.
I’m tired of those ugly girls hitting on me at the gym.
I’m tired of men looking at my chest when I do flys.
I’m tired of my mom’s snide remarks.
I’m tired of being scared to drive.
I’m tired of some of my friends.
I’m tired of babysitting said friends.
I’m tired of having trouble sleeping at night.
I’m tired of not being able to write.
I’m tired of feeling indequate.
I’m tired of worrying.
I’m tired of not being able to be spontaneous.
I’m tired of feeling fat.
I’m tired of ignorance.
I’m tired of not feeling in control.
I’m tired of feeling so young.
I’m tired of having to respond to my real name in class.
I’m tired of random people calling me by that name.
I’m tired of my exes. Thank god they’re not all that local. Thank god they don’t like my scene, and thank god they don’t go to my school.

I’m not tired of pointless roadtrips.
I’m not tired of school.
I’m not tired of my ring.
I’m not tired of my dreams.
I’m not tired of making plans.
I’m not tired of making people laugh. I’ll never be tired of making people laugh.
I’m not tired of listening.
I’m not tired of stories. I’ll never be tired of stories.
I’m not tired of meeting new people.
I’m not tired of making movies.
I’m not tired of learing how to play guitar.
I’m not tired of the way straight girls eye me up, see my chest, then get awkward.
I’m not tired of red hair. I’ll never be tired of red hair.
I’m not tired of going to conventions.
I’m not tired of seeing Mallory even if it is only once a year.
I’m not tired of that new M name in my life.
I’m not tired of the way she makes me keep guessing.
I’m not tired of the prospect of spring.
I’m not tired of making fun of ugly people. Even if it is shallow and immature.
I’m not tired of my dad.
I’m not tired of getting compliments. Even if I don’t believe them.
I’m not tired of learning.
I’m not tired of the never ending task of fixing my body.
I’m not tired of working out.
I’m not tired of girls telling me I’m strong.
I’m not tired of the outdoors.
I’m not tired of cuddling.
I’m not tired of hugs.
I’m not tired of making everyone hold my hand. Even if they roll their eyes at me.
I’m not tired of being a jerk. Jokingly.
I’m not tired of being sarcastic. I’ll never be tired of being sarcastic.
I’m not tired of quick witted people.
I’m not tired of unique people. Even if they think they’re plain.
I’m not tired of making my mom uncomfortable.
I’m not tired of being creative.
I’m not tired of being told I’m weird or unconventional.

I’ll add more as I think of them. Or take them out as I see fit.

Wow.

So…
Watch this masterpiece on loop.

Muhgod.

After this one, I swear I’ll go to bed.

UGH.

As an extended bonus to that last rant I posted, I wanted to discuss my mental retardation.

Mkay?

So recently I’ve made the connection that consciousness and nervousness do not make for…anything.

Plain and simple. I’m a SHITTY writer when I think. Shit-ty. Shitty. Smells like doodie. Crap. Etc.

Anything premeditated and written for its structure is like. Garbage. Not like. Is. IS GARBAGE.
Because, ladies and gentleman. I am only able to successfully sound like a good writer when I type how I’m seeing. This means: straight out of the gutter. Rambling and missing punctuation is GOOD when it comes to me.

Note: I only miss punctuation because I’m sleepy. And it just so happens that the times my brain analyzes the least are in the wee hours of the morning. Go figure.

But god! I was writing something two days ago, right? And I was thinking to myself, HEY. Want to sound stuffy and retarded?
HELL YEAH YOU DO.

And I was all hunky-dory about it, not really thinking much of it.

Until I woke up.
And wanted to puke on my keyboard.
So it would short out.
And never allow me to take a literary dump like that ever again.

Note to self: NO, I wont show you. This is not a good idea.

Writing Style?

Ahahaha…

Funny, real funny.
I don’t know what the fuck that means.
I don’t know how to pigeonhole myself under that title.



What kind of writer are you, Oli?
Well.
Sarcastic, cynical, blunt, vague, unstructured, vulgar, tacky, and metaphorical.

There’s no blanket term for that garbage.
NO TERM.

I’m so annoyed with trying to figure this shit out.
Am I classical?
Do I write fiction?
Am I a poet?
DO I WRITE SLAM?
Is this prose?
Is this bad?
I’m not a writer.
Yes you are.
No.
Are you new-age or some bullshit?
Are you a symbolistic hippie?

—I’m autobiographicallyinspiredfictionandnonfictionwriterwithnostructure.
Motherfuckers.

Okay, so I don’t update often. Sheesh.

When I reach the river, she tells me this water is fake.
I nod sagely, understanding my reflection is also fraud.
Everything produced here is for show.



Everything.



I come twice a week, to check its validity.
Each time turned away
Each time feeling this same weight
Each time hoping I can shake it



I feel so horrified. I feel mutilated. I feel misunderstood.
And cheap for knowing those words.
And tacky for using them.



I’m not sure I was ever there at all.



This cage is becoming so comfortable.
When my bones need to grow, these bars press tightly against my flesh, stifling development.
This cold steel presses hard against my circulation.



Blackouts never seemed so appealing.
God, I want to black out.



Every time I try.
Every goddamn time I try.
I smell her.
I feel her.
I want her.



Never have I felt so incomplete. So inadequate. So touch-hungry.
I want this affection, this attention.



I want inside her head.
What the fuck are you thinking?



Beautiful woman, gorgeous woman.
Tell me.
I want to know your sins.



What do the corners of your eyes know?
What stories do the pads of your fingers hold?
I can see them laden with ink and magma.
Trace them across my lips, scar me with this knowledge



Prize of soul, educate me
Cover me in your inadequacies, your insecurities.
I want to know those too.
Let me taste their bitterness.



You say this water is fake, yeah I know.
But I can’t help wonder





What lies beneath its surface.

Okay, faggots.

What do faggots do? They write poetry.

Before I got into “expressing” myself by means of poetry~

I was completely and totally con-fucking-vinced that I could be the next great American novelist. Which, my attention span finally concluded–was impossible. Fair enough. Besides, it should have been an indication from the very get-go that it wasn’t meant to be. I had [literally] a hundred brilliant paragraphs, all waiting to father the perfect story.


Which, of course, never happened. Not a single one of them. Even though I refused to give up on the idea for years.




My inspiration comes in little gasps, quick gulps of air, it fades faster than my mom on a treadmill. HOW ANNOYING. But seriously. When I feel like I need to write? I need to do just that. So obviously the only outlet that makes any sense would be poetry.

I also find it incredibly interesting now that I used to HATE the thought of writing a poem. I thought the idea tacky, hallmark, without necessity for any semblance of literary talent.




…Kind of like how I feel about modern art.

BANANA WITH MONKEY. ON TOTEM POLE.

I don’t care who the fuck you are, how many degrees you got from wherever. No. Just, no.

Anyway, I digress…

Poems are interesting little devices. They can take on any shape you want, do whatever you want them to, go anywhere you want them to go, and the best part? They can be short, and still be complete and make absolute sense. Thank whoeverisupstairs.





Bajkhfjkhjkghdjfkgh. However…there’s still a problem.




I love being expressive through words, sure. But, there’s also a huge downside which I have yet to fully conquer. I’m very criticism-conscious. It absolutely terrifies me to put myself out there for judgement.




Which is silly. HEL-LO. Everyone subjects themselves to judgement at some point or another. D: I’m just ridiculous.

So. In the spirit of being ridiculous. I’ll go ahead and post the most recent poem I managed to choke out. I’m only kind of nervous. I was reassured by my bestest friend Ty that it’s decent.



So. Here goes.

The Storm


The dirt clings to my fingers like remnants do
The particles swirl off the digits like memories from a mind
History so fresh, so refined
New dust, born out of the mundane, the planed, the ancient
It catches in the light just /so/
To reveal splendors never beheld
Pictures from the storm.

Hello, me.

OHMAI.



Christ, okay. So I’ve decided [again] that I need to keep a journal. Somebody needs to know exactly how insane I really am, even if it’s just myself serving as witness.



So.



Dear Oli,

It’s 2008, and you’re still doing nothing, and have way too much time on your hands. So, because of this, you’re now obligated to yourself to keep your ass in check by chronicling your tomfoolery. No, there’s no specific point in doing this. Maybe you could share some of the things you write?



Yeah, that sounds good.

Maybe throw in some highly under-researched opinion.

Deep dark secrets.

What’s in your fridge.



This blog is going to be filled with all kinds of amazing delicious facts about you, your life, and your surroundings.





Sincerely,

Yourself.



P.S- Good luck, kiddo.