'The Strawberry Milk and the Kitchen Floor'

Here it is, my first proper blog. I usually hate doing this, putting down in words all that you feel or have felt or will feel or will never feel. The urge to relate to a song, the temptation of supposedly being in love, the desire to sit down in front of a computer screen and type endlessly hoping that someone might just read how eloquent you've been while you smoke stacks of cigarettes thinking of smart words and long sentences just like this one. But they never seem to think so, they leave cute, snide little comments making you feel just a little worse about yourself, making you feel that just when you thought you could show off your sleek, carefully chosen words to someone you care about and find that look of recognition or make your mother proud of you, you fail. Makes no sense, does it? Its words strung together, one after the other, just like they do in them books. Beautiful writing, Flawless expression and an empty soul. I want to have it all, emotions that would sell, a story that would bring tears to your eyes, a family that believes in you and a matcbox with a beautiful womans number on its back. And then someday you could hope to wake up beside her, look at her and think you made a mistake, and on others you wont wake up at all cause the bullets too deep inside your mind. Then you'll have a funeral, and they'll all be there, and she'll be talking to your neighbour and before you know it they'll be arguing about what color curtains would go with the new couch. Strange isn't it? I'm not even married, she's not even pregnant, yet I'm walking down the tube station with a friend figuring out a way to take the buggy down the escalator. Clean up your room, wash the dishes, watch your friend take pictures of clocktowers in the middle of the night, wipe the strawberry milk off the kitchen floor before your brother gets home, call your best friend and tell him you made out with his girlfriend, find a job and go jack off...

So here you go, my first blog, its not perfect, its not entirely deluded, not ramblings coming from a persons mind who was felt up by his teacher in eighth grade. Someday I hope to be a writer, someday i hope to be a friend and just one day I'll hope to be a failure...just so I can write again..

Here you go guys, let the name-calling begin...