Dead at 19

Michael Keaveney died at 2AM this morning. He leaves behind a body and a persona known as "guy". His death was the end of a long and unsucessfull battle with faulty wiring, paranoia, and expectations. He'd never been quite right. Always confused and scared as he lay awake. Wondering why no one was ever ever ever there. Phantoms of himself arose to point and prod at every mistake he's ever made. Many, many phantoms. Meanwhile, Ann Coulter pukes up her dinner. Meanwhile, Bush sleeps soundly. Meanwhile, someone's really dieing, never to see the rising of this sun. Meanwhile, the bar across the way dance to stupidly loud dance music and inhale death.

All this time, he couldn't chase away what he's done. His beliefs, his hopes, his faith in humanity and the goodness/unselfishness of people died. He was 19 years old. He leaves behind a shell named guy, who continues on to work a 9-5 and never hope or dream or trust again.

Set fire to flames

I used to think that only anarchists and revolutionaries liked burning things. That theory, however, was just proven wrong in the bathroom. The conservatives of the world once again showed their poor judgment and burned an informational sign. [maybe the sign was too blunt and vulgar, put perhaps it got it's point across] In an enclosed bathroom. In a tinderbox full of drunk kids who may or may not wake up with the fire alarm. Very wise choice. I suppose, though, he was keeping in line with the practice of not negotiating with terrorists. [by terrorist, they mean everyone who isn't a flag waving republican]

There's nothing I like more than smelling something horrid burning. I'm going to say something. I have to say something. I've got too much anger, lately, to not say anything. Everything has been grating, in one way or another. Everything has been wrong. It's horrible. I'll report back after the mission is complete, maybe.

Mission completeness status: It was a candle. That candle smelled like crap. It wasn't just his candle, I think. He'd his beer on his desk. Terse words for someone caught in the middle of everything.

No Surprises.

Can't find the words. Perhaps other people write nicer ones. Like Thom Yorke, who wrote the song of the same title as this entry. It talks about work slowly killing you. And bringing down the government that doesn't speak for us. And other things that are paining me.

"I'll take a quiet life, a handshake with carbon monoxide, with no alarms and no surprises, please"

The Consumation of an Empire.

Three Thirty in the afternoon. Two little girls.
"Oh, wait, this isn't the 8th floor! {no shit} Haha, shit, I have to go to class like this." [insert noticing the poland spring bottle. insert the heavy smell of alcohol and giggliness] "Look, he's shaking his head in disgust" {damn right I am}

Is this what we've come to? I dunno. I've had a chat or two about it today. And now that I think about it, it's what life is around here, to some. The eternal question looms heavy, "Are you going out tonight?"

But, what does it matter? Just a different circle? Is it more noble to stay in?

These hands could've moved mountains

What keeps us ticking? Keeps us moving forward into this perceived gloom? Does the gloom exist? Around us, death destruction and violence are common. In us, we've got so many stupid internal conflicts going on it's a mess to deal with it all. What are we doing? Saving our own skins? Can we do anything but save ourselves? If we can't do anything besides saving ourselves, then I think that, perhaps, we are already here in the gloom.

They put up smoke machines to keep us blind. Give us a lollipop to suck on. Big screen TVs = happiness here, next to the model child and white picket fence. Hire the illegals to do our dirty work while wasting our breath saying they should leave. They're immigrants after all, not humans. Romney is the animal among us. The pig among us.

So. What do we do? How do we keep going?

Happy Happy Joy Joy

This honey mustard chicken sandwhich from the cafeteria is good. It's rare that such fine cuisine so graces my presence. The experience is topped off with insessant christmas music reverberating from the speakers next door. Such a great place to sit and do work. Truly 5 star.

Metro Mile End

This is it. No more jester. No more being around just for entertainment of others while I'm stuck trying to balance doing the right thing with my innards. So, as the great Hank Williams said, "Now you-ah gonna change, or Im-ma gonna leave."

So, I suppose this is the danger of posting on consecutive days. Yesterdays thoughts are still fresh. I felt like that this day was, though, a little better. But, on the other hand, my decision to start burying things should probably stand. I don't think I've been hurt. But I don't know if I want to go down these roads. It's disconcerting, really, to look at reality. My future as a person who is thought of as having a smart head on his shoulders rests on 50 multiple choice questions on the obscure topics of chemistry. I don't want my happiness to be affected by it. There's more important things. But it can't be stopped.

This subway has gone off the rails.