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| Aug 15-18 Fucking Like Angels with Mixtapes by mark 08/18/2005, 9:07pm PDT | ||||
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| i will hear no word against her
[15 Aug 2005|01:00pm] [ mood | my princess ] [ music | neko case- if you knew what i knew ] I can no longer use this journal to talk about my personal life. It's just become something that is no longer healthy. When the whole journal was humming with her name & nothing else. When it was a garden for her that I simply walked everyone else through. When I was busy building her a palace & giving guided tours in the afternoon. When it was a hymn to her & to her alone. Then this was a place of comfort for us both. But now? Whenever there's a problem between Rachael & me? I talk about it here. Instead of talking about it with her. The worst part about doing so is that only one side- the incredibly distorted Russel is an angel of light side- is made visible. Because Rachael isn't here to explain or defend. Because pain is neither accurate nor true. She ends up looking like the girl who killed the puppies. & she is never that girl. Our love isn't simple. We're the perfect couple. We fight like cats & dogs. & fuck like angels. But the beauty of the love we share gets lost in the drama that I create here. Again. It's unfair to the woman I love & far from accurate. Anyone that knows me? Knows that I am almost impossible to be around- much less be in a relationship with. If there are problems in our relationship? They are our problems. Not hers. & certainly no one else's concern. The long short of this is: from now on we've agreed to keep our little horrors in house. We're going to live a life behind the scenes- a life where the only judgment that matters is our own. From now on the only time this journal will pop out of deletion will be to post a photograph or perhaps a poem... The rest of the story? Is in another castle. I am leaving this up for about a day. So that it will be understood that I have gracefully left the dance floor. As opposed to being gunned down in broad daylight. This isn't a sad thing at all- the demise of Scribble. It's just my goodbye to cruel. 10 comments whisper doll [18 Aug 2005|07:47pm] [ mood | 1972 ] [ music | dug dug's- eclipse ] As I said before, this journal will occasionally wander into the light of day (guns blazing) but only for a day & only with specific intent. I.e.. to post a poem. To fingerpaint with words. Or to advertise the darling of my darkening heart- mypetelegy (read first to last, please). But this entry's specific little raison d'etre (that always sounds like a snack to me! seriously. the french & their fucking trail mix contribution to language) is this: who wants to trade mix cd's with me? I am so SICK of choosing everything I listen to. Russel wants random. & If you send me something gorgeous I promise to send you the musical equivalent of my index finger in an envelope. Trust me. I give good mix. I have unstoppable stasi technique. I was taught to kill in the Catskills. & learned to you know. Not kill. In Los Angeles. & though I'm willing to go toes with anyone I'd of course prefer something from one of this journal's preferred customers. Also even if you're not inclined to start carving me something out of say distortion & juke box lullabies. Gas station ballerinas & murder-fuck bounce to this. It is my birthday on the 23. Five fucking days. All I want is more time. But no one can send me that. So send weapons. Or at least cards with sharp edges. Email if you need directions. This entry will self destruct in exactly 24 hours. Or less. Yes. Almost undoubtedly less. |
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