| bangkok. |
[May. 12th, 2008|04:09 pm] |
You know, I was sweeping through this journal, reading the collective shit I've written in what I call tentatively a provocative internet diary. And god, I guess it's okay for me now to maybe clean the slate and come out and say that most, if not all the demeaning things I've said about the opposite sex was just an act if you haven't already assumed this already.
Like, yeah, I may be brash, and in truth I may even despise the gender almost completely (this is only a vague contradiction), but in all honesty, my behavior outside of this, in person, I'd more or less consider myself. . . well, a whole lot nicer. And there are women I thoroughly enjoy just for their wholesome presence.
The things I've said were just for a rise for this strange online audience, and after skimming through everything, I felt a subtle touch of embarassment for myself. I mean, yeah, I guess in some way I thought that if you had some faint piece of intellect you might be able to discern without me even writing this confession that I really was just fooling around, testing boundaries. But when someone approached me the other night, and in all seriousness asked me pretty flatly whether I meant these things, I felt an alien twinge of guilt. But (I guess) it wasn't that obvious. Andy Kaufman must be a distant relative.
Jesus fuck, I must have some sort of unfound social disorder. |
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| FREE |
[May. 10th, 2008|08:19 pm] |
Roughly 90 days later and I'm pounded metal. Jail will do that to you. You'll find three best friends to cope with and one enemy to loathe. The friends? Books, working out, and cigarettes. The enemy? Time. I've never felt such a filthy hate. Regardless, I'm here. Free. Tasting life, even if it is just as seedy and pulpy as I left it, so I just stick it out, swallow it in strides.
It's like I was never gone. Some people didn't even notice. I was met with, 'Holy shit, Jake?! Where have you been?' Mostly I lie, tell them I was just busy. Other times I like to answer with an exaggerrated truth, like I was gone for almost a year, see if I can pull on someones puppet string. I think if there was one thing I ever was truly good at--like if you had to write something for an obituary--my best trait is my knack for fucking with people. Like, I'm just fucking ruthless and relentless all at the same time. It's probably annoying because who likes someone that is constantly and even abrasively sarcastic? Sardonic even? Is that an endearing quality? I wonder.
So yeah, I developed a mild fixation for cigarettes in jail. I'm praying for this phase to end--hopefully the OCD I have about personal smell will override this so called habit. I'm finding it all very obnoxious. And cigarettes you get in jail are purely hand rolled with no filter. They make my brain hum. They make me forget, lay back, roll my eyes back to look at the back of my skull.
I read about 15 books in the time I was locked up (Will Christopher Baer is the end-all be-all of writers). I worked out religiously because it made me sleep better (better is a very relative term here). The lights were always on and I'm like a vampire--I can't even get a glimpse of sleep with a faint sparkle in the black canvas of my room.
Anyway, I'm back. All I wanted to say. A lot has changed. I'm more into fitness, more focused, and I got my eye on something. So get at me. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 31st, 2007|07:39 am] |
I should've ended that last entry with, 'just kidding.'
Sometimes I envision myself happy and then I pen down the illusion to help create a believable situation. Then I can walk away relinquished of all the things that are brainwashing me to give me that temporary artificial moment of what some people might call contentment. This sometimes lasts months, but mostly days. Regardless, it's always temporary. It always fades. It never really was there. I believe in the ghost felicity, just not for me.
game over. press continue. you're on your last credit. |
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| The Brotherhood |
[Oct. 19th, 2007|03:55 am] |
I'm writing this now just to document what I call the beginning of the first attempt I shall make at making a real relationship work. It literally just started, and I'm walking into this one like a man.
And it's sad because I've honestly traumatized myself in some way. Not anyone else, but me, myself. I've psychologically fucked my mind up almost irreparably when it comes to relationships. It's when the girl will say something like, 'I don't think I'm coming out tonight, I'm gonna call it a night,' or, 'oh, he is just my friend' that I begin assuming all the wrong things. And I only assume these things because well, it's what I've done in the past. When answers are given to me that may alter pre-ordained plans, I assume the worst, because that's when I did the worst things. I walked into relationships cheating, and I walked out with the ones I used for the cheating, and then I cheated on them. Thus, I'm the persona of paranoia--I'm a makeshift tool wishing to be a full fledged apparatus decorated with quintessential purpose. I want rhyme and reason. I don't want to enter relationships where my mind is a breathy supply of whorish connotations, whispering heavily into my open ears evil plots against me.
And when I go on guesstimating their moves, the result is me responding by fucking someone else (even if I was wrong and my girlfriend's nights really were spent alone, possibly thinking happily about me). If this were the case, I'd merely pat myself on the back and call the sex-capade I just had an insurance plan. You know, 'just in case.' She may pull a fast one one day anyway. And this paranoia I'm speaking of spans off of way more than that. I mean, does anyone else get this? I mean, how can you know for sure? Girls are always on their fucking phones. Who is to know what they're really saying? I know personally that I've done it plenty in the past where I've flirted horribly on text messages right in front of my girlfriend's face. And here I am, this psychological wreck. I'm not calling myself an emotional wreck because I sincerely don't mind it if they're doing it behind my back. I love it in some wild, lively way. Let the games begin, you know? Shit turns me on.
Anyway, I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I'm really giving this one a shot. I'm ignoring my paranoia. Wrapping it up, stashing it away in my pocket. It's time to grow up. When I see my girlfriend, she just means so much to me right now. I'm not in love or anything. Not yet, anyway. But, it's just that she has offered things I've complained about in the past. Knowledge on counter culture--she actually shit talked my movie selection one night and rebutted with references to directors and films that I hadn't a clue about. She doesn't do drugs for stupid reasons like aftermath pictures, the stories to tell her friends the next day, the gossip, the naive way people just want to do drugs to say they've done them, or even for the sole purpose of getting trashed. But she does them seemingly for the special, comrade experience. To share something beautiful. To love it. She can hang. She is the sexiest thing on this planet right now, and a camera could never pause it correctly enough to show that intoxicating vivid, primal sex appeal she has. She's perfect right now, and this part of my life right now is closed. Sign is up, out for lunch. Fuck off.
Oh yeah, plus look out for my band, 'The Brotherhood'!!!!! We fucking own you. Lyrics under construction:
You and I must unite to fight.
If we have to die, it’s our fucking right!
Nuclear warfare, guerrilla tactics
Here we come, just another statistic
Do as I say, I am your king
My army is just like me
Controlled by strings
Weapons of mass destruction
The inherent metaphor, the political seduction
Television, radio, the static nuclear warhead
I’m here for you, my god, propaganda
Waiting to eat, waiting to be fed
We are the brotherhood |
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| Blur |
[Oct. 1st, 2007|02:14 pm] |
The synopsis: I've been getting fucked up. Yesterday morning I puked so much that I blew blood vessels in my eyelids. I woke up in a fit of puke-enduced hysteria, and proceeded to hurl into this American Eagle bag next to my bed. After this, I passed out, and just left the bag there at my side.
My past Saturday night is now codename Rock Star. Welcome to my world. I've discovered that the only true way to my illustrious, multi-faceted heart is to give me alcohol and xanax (X-Men, if you will!). Only then will you see the true face of the Jake (sometimes referred to as the Zion, or Master Splinter). I'm a knife in the dark--I only glint in the night light. I go from a slow, calculating prowl, before I come screeching into a sloppy, disheveled drunk. Party buses, punching strangers near without memorable (or possible plausible) reason, making out with model types, pregame mansion BBQ homemade cookouts,unhinged teeth, and a shotload of alcohol concoctions blended with the helping hand of unprescribed pharmaceutical lovely additions!
I've come to call life beautiful the more blurry and indistinguishable it is. Some people delight in the intricate subtilties--the ongoing plethora of detail and design--of life, when I find my inherent focus to be untrained and marooned. For a while, this bothered me. This nudged at the ideas of me lacking ambition, desire, or motivation. But I was merely lying to myself. There is greatness in the wake of debris.
So yeah, I've been seeing girls on and off in Jane's absence. I mean, this was allowable. I'm not even sure if her and I were exclusive, otherwise I wouldn't even be writing this more or less because she knows of my livejournal, and I'm not ashamed to say anything here. But anyway, yeah. She's had a big impact on me. It's been a while since I've thought of somebody so much from day to day. She is a thought ritual. I wake up to her face, I fall asleep to her face--and I love it. None of the girls after Staci that I had a small thing for (Andrea, Ashley, Alegra, Nikki, Amanda, a different Ashley, among some others) have ever struck such a reverberating chord with me. And so this is me counting down the days until Friday. None of these women I've been seeing lately even compare. |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 10th, 2007|04:43 am] |
This next chapter of my life will be called, ‘All I have left is my phone, and it’s a hand-me-down.”
Start over. Begin anew. I’m dragging along a big bag of shut the fuck up, get the fuck out. It’s heavy, and shaded a tasteful cornflower blue. I wanted to assign a color I enjoy to something I tentatively, but habitually loathe--to maybe insinuate some sympathy in my person. I pick the metaphor bag because that’s what I feel has been pulling me down--baggage. It’s a variable for an immeasurable sum of shit; fucking shit.
My birthday is coming up this week. I guess being 23 is hardly significant because that is all I have to say about that.
One of my all-time favorite things in the world is to go out of my way to talk as much shit as I can about whatever specific girl I used to hook up with, and then follow up with a lackadaisical effort into piecing the relationship back together. I’ve learned that no matter how bad you wreck a relationship (whether you cheated on her, videotaped yourself fucking the shit out of her without her expressed opinion, fucked her friends, said she sucked in the sack, said you didn’t even find her attractive to begin with, or fuck it, said her pussy stinks) that it is ALWAYS 100% possible to get back into the habit of fucking that same girl. This has literally happened for me countless times over the years, and exactly three times in this past month alone. I find myself only wanting to fuck these girls merely for the satisfaction of being able to brag about saying nonchalantly thereafter, ‘oh yeah, of course I can still fuck her.’ I can’t think of anything more satisfying than subliminal ownership of some bitchwhore’s cooter. It even makes the other guy’s that she is hooking up with on the side look stupid.
Incidentally, this past month, I took out the trash, so to speak. I pissed on my metaphorical bag of shit.
I can’t wait for Jane to come home. Can’t. Fucking. Wait. |
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| <3 |
[Jun. 13th, 2007|09:16 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  cranky | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Confrontation - Jump Off A Building | ] |
I was thinking about how I said I don't trust anyone. It was an accidental lie. Approximately every day or every other day I hop into a car with someone that is drunk (potentially drunker) or I drive drunk. And all our conversations ever really consist of maybe 2 seconds before we even reach the vicinity of the car are, 'Dude, are you okay enough to drive?' If he (I say 'he' because never let a drunk girl drive. Girls can't even drive sober.) says yes, then that is that. One question, one answer, and all my worries are washed away. I don't give it a second thought. I guess then in all actuality, even trusting myself is out of the question. Why have faith in anyone, even yourself? How would I make it to work every day if my car was also left at the final scene of my drinking crime? Possible fatalities are a necessary sacrifice. With one drunk dead, there'll just be another one standing in an everlasting line, waiting to take his place night after night.
I don't even know why I try and pull off the facade where I act like I actually have friends that are women. I'm fake. I'm unreal. Plutonic relationships are obsolete. When Harry Met Sally. Sometimes I have difficulty seperating unreal from surreal. Sometimes I have difficulty seperating stupid bitch from predictable whore. Probably because I have a temporary lapse in judgment and realize they're one and the same.
Every girl I fucking know turns into a fucking whore when they live alone. Just put a sign on your door and make sure the font is bold when it says 'swiss cheese pussy, make it melt.' Maybe dab some pussy stain under it with a lipsticked kiss planted in the goo. And then go out and buy another pair of binocular brand named sunglasses to cover your bulbous face, stuff one of those ugly, shit for brains mini teacup Yorkie (Yorkie just an indirect example) bitch dogs into your armpit canal (where you probably don't know jack shit enough about caring for the poor mut), increase your tit size to help increase your whore status, bleach blonde or jet black hair doesn't matter much once your sucking dick but maybe suck out some of the fat from your ass and inject it into your chicken lips for a more smooth ride, put on your tasteless jungle monkey music, and fuck yourself retarded in a square plastic room to make sure the outer scenery matches your own inner body scenery--fake; fucking fake all over that shit. Wear it, act it, live it, but you're already dead.
This basic paragraph has ran through my mind for about 2 years now, resounding and reverberating in one way or another. That's how it sounded today. I put it in words because incidentally I met someone that doesn't pertain to any of it really. And that really is a relief. I hope this isn't a temporary lapse of judgment. I hope she isn't one and the same.
But fuck it, who am I kidding? |
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| How couldn't you love me? |
[Jun. 11th, 2007|01:02 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  calm | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Peter, Bjorn, and John - Young Folks | ] |
I have a lot of friends. Maybe I should replace the word friends with acquaintences. A lot of people know me, or maybe it's just that a lot of people know about me. And it's always either that they really hate me, or they love me. This probably goes for a lot of people. I don't feel special, but somewhere, somehow deep inside me I feel something pulling at the idea. Maybe I could be special. Then again, retards are special.
I think it's just that I (in my opinion) possess qualities that are unmatched. I'm not ugly. I'm an excellent socialite, although a few too many drinks deep I become a social disaster. A forgiveable quality if you like to go bat crazy and don't give a fuck about the aftermath. I'm intellectual when the scenario beckons, otherwise I'm a relentless jokester. It's rare for me to gossip, but when I shit talk, I'm full of great shit. I'm awful in that regard. I'm always ready for the party. I'm not creepy and contrary to popular belief, I'm extremelly prude and tentative with the opposite sex. Luckily I believe this might make me endearing, more or less because this has never really caused much of an obstruction to my sex life. I'm a strategist in every sense of the word. I always have a plan, but that is usually stopped by me getting completely shitfaced in one way or another. I'm a neat freak with everyone elses things but my own.
I have deja vu all the fucking time, thus I'm convinced of a "supernatural," although I have no affiliation with religion. My religion is me, and God can lick my balls if he sends me to a Hell merely because I ignore him. A definite flaw in me is that I make horrible judgements on religious people.
I have a knack for finding girl's their new favorite bands/music, and I find this to be because girls can be categorized so easily and they lack complexity. There is hardly a single person in this world that wields a vagina and at the same time able to be deemed 'interesting' in the slightest bit. If there are feminists, can I be a masculinist? Or would that be chauvinist? I doubt the latter only because I appreciate them for what they are, and I would never doubt their limits. I just have to generalize. Generalizing is an important part of life--it's a fragment of common sense.
I don't believe anything you say. Nothing out of a person's mouth has any credibility without cold, hard, authentic evidence. The best advice in life is believe nothing or find out for yourself. Incidentally, I'm one of the most accident prone people this world has to offer. I'm always in a tough jam. I stick my neck out. I always have a story to tell. They're endless and seamless, and I almost never use transitions. I stress almost because I'm a liar.
Why wouldn't you love me? I'm a multi-faceted flavor. I'm a fucking gem. And I'm fucking quotable.
And mannnnn. If you are reading ANYTHING right now, put it the fuck ASIDE. STOP READING IT. Then pick up a copy of KISS ME, JUDAS by Will Christopher Baer IMMEDIATELY. It is out-fucking-standing. I'm not finished with it yet, and it's already the best book I've ever read, and it's the fucking first of a trilogy! |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 14th, 2007|11:39 pm] |
I sit back, flip through my thought files, pick out the vanilla folder labeled 'memories,' and attempt to sort through all the ones I would consider 'good times.' And man, I have some really great memories. I have some that I'd never trade for anybody elses. But I guess the sad part is that I can't pick out for the life of me one teensy good memory that I really hold dearly where I am in any way sober. I ask myself, 'should I rectify this?' And I say, fuck that. I just want to throw my whole sober file in the fucking trash, and then go have a drink to celebrate.
Life doesn't start until a tentative 10 o' clock shrouded in a starry darkness. What's better than fucking? Fucking drunk. Fucking on whatever. I put my life in a jewelry box, cover it with a crimson silk cloth, close it, leave it (this is vital) unlocked, and hope that someone, somehow tampers with it. That way it can come out screaming like a new born baby, spitting corruption in a radial direction. "I'm too weird to live, too rare to die."
I'm reading Craig Clevenger's other book right now, 'Dermaphoria.'
That's all for now. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 19th, 2007|03:16 am] |
It's 3:15 in the morning. The reason I'm so coherent is pretty obvious, depending on what type of person you are. Just take an educated guess. It's pretty pathetic. These last few weeks of my life have been pretty shitty and unpredictable. I know that I promised something pretty awesome a little bit ago and well, some complications arose that delayed the happenings. Basically, I just wasn't happy with a result, and right now it's getting fixed by a better, more understanding individual. I hate promising things and not following through. Not that any of you are important enough to keep a promise to, but it was as if I promised it to myself.
I haven't written in this thing in a month or so only because I just haven't had much to say. I've been trying to screw my head on straight. It took my stepmom and her sister to sit down with me and tell me straight up that something is chemically imbalanced with me in my head and more than likely I may need professional help and/or medication. I didn't disagree. This last month I got in two violent brawls, wrote just under ten personalized letters to Oprah (don't even seriously bother asking why), spent most of the money I have saved (which was a shitload) on drugs/booze, and switched between 3 jobs and about to finally find a staple (I'm assuming) tomorrow at a bar/club(merely through a friend, thank god). I got coerced out of joining the armed forces--and when I say the armed forces, I'm talking about either the Army or the Marines because I want anything that involves a sniping rifle. And what got me interested is that they're literally looking for recruits that are good at shooter-type video games between the ages of 18-25 to join, and well, I was ranked top 5 in Gears of War for a while, and I've won Halo 2 tournaments. Yes, tournaments, it's plural. I have proof. I'm a monster when it comes to shit like this. If you would like me to even play with you if you want to test this, play me on QuickTerr0r on XBox Live. Thats a zero in Terr0r. I'd shred you.
Someone asked me how I could possibly like Every Time I Die because they can't understand a word he is saying. One thing I've always told people about my music is that I can not understand even for myself how I could possibly enjoy music that involves a guy screaming maniacally. For the longest time through my youth, even through my peers pressuring me to listen to this shit, (because they all loved it) I hated it. And one day, it just clicked. It was indescribable. It's an understanding of the harsh mechanics of the intense sound. It's not for everyone. Never will be. But Every Time I Die, even though their music is incredible (starting easily with their earlier albums) are the best lyricists (Keith Buckley ironically) known today, IN MY OPINION. I have never seen better written and sang songs in my life. Denying his skill with the english language is just fucking stupid. Alas, they're going downhill right now even though they're still tolerable. Last Night in Town was their best CD by far.
I'm not sorry about anything I've ever done. I look at the news, musing over people like this Virginia Tech shooter bastard, and I just begin to loathe people that are incapable of grasping the ongoing game that is reality. We live in a fucking redundant, unstoppable game. I blame women for these horrible outcomes. For the men that go insane. You need to be more whorish. Fuck more dudes. Give brothers a reason to live. Hoe that pussy, bitch. Hahahagagahgasfdkhjjd |
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jakeismebro's journal