i'm taking home a baby bumblebee...

The rain is coming back. I can hear the thunder. It's in time with the beat of my heart.

Somewhat depressed. Hopefully a good thunderstorm will do that whole turning of the frown thing.

I have to organize my bookshelf--get everything in order. Today might be the day I'm finally killed by a serial murderer, and when the news crews film my room (semi-monotone female newscaster talking about how much of a beloved and talented girl I was at only 16) I want America to see my awesome book collection in it's full glory.

Lightening comes in bold flashes--dancing bodies against Dumbo-gray skies. I hope it pours.

I just reread his entry--mygod, how fucking teen angst can someone cram into one blog? Christ. I'm not that dark.

First rain drops are falling. A heavy drizzle. The thunder's getting closer, and now it's only a matter of time.

Fucking bumblebee--go back under the shed. You're going to drown if you stay out in the open. Please Mr. Bumblebee? Please?

The drops are heavy enough now that they ting against the metal of my air conditioner.

Thunder boom--the floor of my room just shook. I could feel it in my bones. Intimate. The storm is my lover.

It's really pouring now--it's got this town by it's neck. It's suffocating it. Drowning it. And I'm front and center to it all.

But just like any good lover, it'll be gone by morning. Wandering to wherethefuckever for it's next stand. To caress someone with rain, make them tremble with thunder, penetrate them with lightening. So perfect, so good, so wet.

...Shit, where the fuck is my Plan-B? Allergic to latex my ass.

some serious black creek corssing shit went down

I miss the rain.

For the past couple of weeks New York had become the new Seattle. Mornings would start off with cloudless, steel blue skies and end in nights filled with drowning streets.

Everyone just kept complaining about how much the rain fucked up their days. Didn't stop to realize that it made some people smile.

It's pretty much gone now.

I hate everyone. Everything.

Except for Morrissey.

Morrissey is the only one that understands.

fuck off aryan nation, you and texas

The sky is a rain-spat gray, bright over the horizon like the sun didn't go down too long ago. In reality it's ten at night and the sun's probably somewhere close to California right now, wher it's probably still light out with people ordering Chinese food and watching ABC Family.

Stupid timezones.

Feeling close to people I don't know--like empathetic or whatever. Or maybe just obsessive? Wondering what it's like to be in one of those Polygamist cults. People will do some whacky things for God's approval. I kind of find it funny that a group that condemns homosexuality is all for underage marraige and child molestation. Shows that maybe breeding isn't the answer to the world's problems, or to God's.

Happiness, maybe?

But then again--what the fuck do I know?

Silly me and my frowning upon the pedophelia.