"No one likes to read emo shit"

I have been trying to blog for the past few days but couldn't ejaculate all these overcrowding thoughts into words. Somewhere 50000 miles up in the sky, a girl is on her way to Vancouver to meet her lover. No one knows when she's coming back, if she ever will come back. No one knows anything about her, really. Everyone thinks they know her well, but really, they don't have a fucking clue. She's just a mysterious girl with a complicated mind trying to find true love. True love in various forms: Country, city, time frame, nature, smell, or a person. Concurrently, 50000 miles down on the ground, in the 8th floor office on 33rd street and 6th ave, people are literally going nuts and talking ape shit. Thoughts of resignation circulated the office. But everyone has to suck it up, because no one can afford to be unemployed in this economic crisis where middle aged 30, 40 year old unemployed loafers are trying to get a job at American Apparel or worse, Duane Reade.

Andrew Fuckface said "no one likes to read emo shit Jenny. No one cares. People like to read about .....fun things!"

If I ever have the intelligence to take up writing as a professional, my style of writing will take up much of Bukowski's. And if no one likes to read my writings then fuck ya'll, I'll just be a truck driver and drink more whiskey. Bukowski style.


Since I haven't been able to formulate my thoughts, I started browsing online for films that I would be interested in seeing. Films that somehow can identify with these thoughts in my head, and capable of expressing them for me, verbally and visually. I eventually stumbled upon one, that I think can serve as a discharger of my thoughts.





"Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I'm so angry and the truth is I'm so fucking sad, and the truth is I've been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen."

yea...that's about it.

And, at last. Let's all be a dishwasher, truck driver and loader, mail carrier, guard, gas station attendant, stock boy, warehouse worker, shipping clerk, post office clerk, parking lot attendant, Red Cross orderly, and elevator operator. Let's all play a Bukowski role. Let's fail at life together. Let's smoke and drink and watch......Factotum.