The Last Day

This, MY Body

(I wrote this back in 2007 in my old DirtyStinkySlipper Friendster blog.  I lost most of my entries there but found this one just now, floating around one of my old hard drives.  Even though I wrote this five years ago, I believe it still rings true now.)

Differently Weighted.  Gravitationally Challenged.  Horizontally Challenged.  Horizontally Gifted.  People or Person of Mass.  Person of Substance.  These are politically correct terms for that something which you’re not supposed to be or do not want to be: according to  the world’s current definition of what kind of woman is beautiful, what is acceptable, being FAT, or being a Person of Substance (my most favorite of those politically correct terms for FAT) is definitely not one of them.  And since I can’t seem to fit in any of my favorite jeans right now, is the world going to tell me that I am no longer acceptable, that I am the total opposite of the standard (or should I say commercialized) definition of beautiful?

I was a skinny kid (some politically correct terms: skeletally prominent, metabolic underachiever).  In high school and college, I was no longer skinny, just your small to medium kind of girl.  After college, weight stayed the same.  I started getting bigger when I reached the age of 29.  One factor was I did not have any exercise anymore since Ritchie (my boyfriend) and I, our daily routine would be wake up – work –eat – work – eat – work – eat – sleep.  We didn’t need to drive or walk to work, no physical exertion at all except during coverages.  I was happiest with my weight when I was 31.  I did not eat meat for almost 8 months, went to the gym regularly and played badminton a lot.  Not eating meat was really not because of a diet plan, it was because of a different reason altogether.  But that merits another blog.  Anyway, going back to our topic, since Ritchie and I were always swamped with work, I stopped going to the gym, stopped playing badminton and went back to eating meat because I couldn’t afford to plan my own meals anymore, I had to eat whatever was served to me.  I know I was getting bigger, but it really did not matter to me most of the time.  One thing is I really hate depriving myself of anything that I feel is my right to do or have or can afford, and I hate depriving my self of good food.  Heck I love to eat.  Sometimes though, admittedly,  I do have those moments of negativity,  especially when you keep getting the “wow, you’ve gained a lot of weight” comments with the over-exerted smiles and condescending tones but you know exactly what’s going on in their minds:  oh she’s letting herself waste away, she’s losing it, or plain and simple, She Looks BAD.  One time, an old client, excited and really happy to see Ritchie and me again, exclaimed real loud in front of all her friends (they were I think eight in the group) “Oh my, wow, you’re pregnant!”  I was at first surprised, then getting over the initial shock, laughed and said “Oh goodness, I’m not, I just like looking like I’m pregnant” and then, thankfully, they all laughed with me.  After that however, there was an awkward silence.  At that particular moment, I remember feeling not at all offended but more of … embarrassed because I didn’t really honestly know what to say.  I knew she thought that she might have offended me and wanted to say something but feared that she might offend me more, and I on the other hand did not know what to say also because if I say it’s okay, I’m not offended, it’ll just make it sound like I’m being defensive and was in fact really offended.  Crazy I know.  

One thing I know about myself right now is this:  I do not want to obsess about my weight.  Sometimes though,  we really can’t help it if other people obsess for us.  Like my mom and dad.  I don’t blame them for worrying about my weight for me, I’m sure they love me and I love them back dearly.  And I know that they are worrying about my weight for health reasons, and not for aesthetic ones.  What really angers and saddens me is the fact that up to now, in this age of “progress and forward thinking”, there are still women who are  starving themselves to death or doing all things detrimental to their health just so they remain or become thin or thinner.  It saddens me that the old patriarchal “standards” of beauty are still perpetuated by TV and print advertisements,  certain magazine articles, some movies --  what’s even more upsetting is that some of the instigators of these stereotypes are women themselves.  They keep telling us that what we look like is not okay, that the shape or color or “smoothness” they are promoting is what we should always attempt to be in order to be “beautiful” and alluring to the male species.   I remember really hating this ad where there was a photographer taking pictures of two sisters:  one had smooth, white, porcelain skin, while  the other had darker skin which is actually the common natural skin color of people living in the tropics, what we in the Philippines call kayumanggi or morena.  The photographer would look at the two women and would smile happily at the sister with porcelain skin, and would have this perplexed-not-so-nice expression whenever he looks at the morena one.  Now we all know how the commercial ends: both of the sisters are porcelain-skinned with the photographer looking really happy at the girl who used to be dark-complexioned, and even cements his approval with the statement “Now you’re beautiful”.  As you may have guessed, the commercial is promoting a whitening product.  A lot of this kind of commercials still exists; wherein our minds are conditioned to think that being black or brown is ugly and we should strive to be white, that having a different kind of body type other than thin is bad.  I applaud efforts to change this kind of thinking,  like Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty.  Yes sure, it’s still not that edgy and as life changing as we dream it to be (it was criticized by some for choosing unrepresentative "real" women—ninety-six year old, described by one marketer as: "the old lady equivalent of a super-model"; a heavily freckled, but enviably cute, twenty-two year old, and so on.) but it’s a START. 

So yes, I am at my heaviest weight now.  But this is for certain:  I want to be healthier because  I want to possess a body that will allow me to be as physically active and adventurous as I want to be.   I will try to achieve that by continuing to still eat the way I want to eat but this time, I will try to eat more of the “healthier” food and less of the “unhealthy” ones.  I will try to exercise again and engage in sweat-inducing sports.  But if after doing all these “healthier” options and my body still persist on adding more bulk, my spirit will not be crushed.  I will refuse to let myself be dragged down into the path of negativity, self-hate, self-pity.  There is so much more to life, so much more to love, so much more to explore, and my body is my biggest ally.  I will never make it my enemy. 

Here’s an excerpt from Eve Ensler’s Preface to her play The Good Body.  Read and be enlightened.

THE GOOD BODY

BY

EVE ENSLER

P r e f a c e

In the midst of a war in Iraq, in a time of escalating global terrorism, when civil liberties are disappearing as fast as the ozone layer, when one out of three women in the world will be beaten or raped in her lifetime, why write a play about my stomach?

Maybe because my stomach is one thing I feel I have control over, or maybe because I have hoped that my stomach is something I could get control over. Maybe because I see how my stomach has come to occupy my attention, I see how other women’s stomachs or butts or thighs or hair or skin have come to occupy their attention, so that we have very little left for the war in Iraq—or much else, for that matter. When a group of ethnically diverse, economically disadvantaged women in the United States was recently asked about the one thing they would change in their lives if they could, the majority of these women said they would lose weight. Maybe I identify with these women because I have bought into the idea that if my stomach were flat, then I would be good, and I would be safe. I would be protected. I would be accepted, admired, important, loved. Maybe because for most of my life I have felt wrong, dirty, guilty, and bad, and my stomach is the carrier, the pouch for all that self-hatred. Maybe because my stomach has become the repository for my sorrow, my childhood scars, my unfulfilled ambition, my unexpressed rage. Like a toxic dump, it is where the explosive trajectories collide—the Judeo- Christian imperative to be good; the patriarchal mandate that women be quiet, be less; the consumer-state imperative to be better, which is based on the assumption that you are born wrong and bad, and that being better always involves spending money, lots of money. Maybe because, as the world rapidly divides into fundamentalist camps, reductive sound bites, and polarizing platitudes, an exploration of my stomach and the life therein has the potential to shatter these dangerous constraints….

The Good Body began with me and my particular obsession with my “imperfect” stomach. I have charted this self-hatred, recorded it, tried to follow it back to its source. Here, unlike the women in The Vagina Monologues, I am my own victim, my own perpetrator. Of course, the tools of my selfvictimization have been made readily available. The pattern of the perfect body has been programmed into me since birth. But whatever the cultural influences and pressures, my preoccupation with my flab, my constant dieting, exercising, worrying, is selfimposed. I pick up the magazines. I buy into the ideal. I believe that blond, flat girls have the secret. What is far more frightening than narcissism is the zeal for self-mutilation that is spreading, infecting the world.

I have been to more than forty countries in the last six years. I have seen the rampant and insidious poisoning: skin-lightening creams sell as fast as tooth paste in Africa and Asia; the mothers of eight-year-olds in America remove their daughters’ ribs so they will not have to worry about dieting; five-year-olds in Manhattan do strict asanas so they won’t embarrass their parents in public by being chubby; girls vomit and starve themselves in China and Fiji and everywhere; Korean women remove Asia from their eyelids . . . the list goes on and on.

I have been in a dialogue with my stomach for the past three years. I have entered my belly—the dark wet underworld—to get at the secrets there. I have talked with women in surgical centers in Beverly Hills; on the sensual beaches of Rio de Janeiro; in the gyms of Mumbai, New York, Moscow; in the hectic and crowded beauty salons of Istanbul, South Africa, and Rome. Except for a rare few, the women I met loathed at least one part of their body. There was almost always one part that they longed to change, that they had a medicine cabinet full of products devoted to transforming or hiding or reducing or straightening or lightening. Just about every woman believed that if she could just get that part right, everything else would work out. Of course, it is an endless heartbreaking campaign.Some of the monologues in The Good Body are based on well-known women like Helen Gurley Brown and Isabella Rossellini. Those monologues, which grew out of a series of conversations with each of these fascinating women, are not recorded interviews, but interpretations of the lives they offered me. Some of the other characters are based on real lives, real stories. Many are invented….

This play is my prayer, my attempt to analyze the mechanisms of our imprisonment, to break free so that we may spend more time running the world than running away from it; so that we may be consumed by the sorrow of the world rather than consuming to avoid that sorrow and suffering. This play is an expression of my hope, my desire, that we will all refuse to be Barbie, that we will say no to the loss of the particular, whether it be to a voluptuous woman in a silk sari, or a woman with defining lines of character in her face, or a distinguishing nose, or olivetoned skin, or wild curly hair.

I am stepping off the capitalist treadmill. I am going to take a deep breath and find a way to survive not being flat or perfect. I am inviting you to join me, to stop trying to be anything, anyone other than who you are. I was moved by women in Africa who lived close to the earth and didn’t understand what it meant to not love their body. I was lifted by older women in India who celebrated their roundness. I was inspired by Marion Woodman, a great Jungian analyst, who gave me confidence to trust what I know. She has said that “instead of transcending ourselves, we must move into ourselves.” Tell the image makers and magazine sellers and the plastic surgeons that you are not afraid. That what you fear the most is the death of imagination and originality and metaphor and passion. Then be bold and LOVE YOUR BODY. STOP FIXING IT. It was never broken.

The Riddle (Part 1 of a long draft)

Part 1: The Riddle

There was a quickening, like when birds land

On a soft branch, and the tree tickled, hastens a blush

Through leaves dancing suffused with the richness of rain

A quickening, my blood feeling as if thunder is

Caught in its current, small explosions of a boiling so

Thick I need to hold on to a post that is not there

My hands catching air, hot, wet, particles from the belly

Of huge machines that huff and puff and blow the clouds away

There was a quickening, like when you stare at

Something so bright for so long, pain shoots up like

A bullet, up through that tender spot in your brain

Causing a bursting forth of colours in psychedelic proportions

As if you’re dead but not really dead

A quickening, a precipitation of tremulous sweat, heart-stops,

Eye-pops, soft mind-booms, rapid fire-breath overlapping

Enfant terrible and sprite, hellion and luminary

A hastening of masks, one after the other

As if I was there, when I was not

As if I was absent, but in truth

I was

I am

Everywhere.

The Return of The Walking Cliche

I'm writing a character whose moniker is The Walking Cliche.  I've written something before about me being a walking cliche but, this one's not me.  (Really.  Erase that smirk on your face.  Read and judge ... or not.  You wanna die?)  Here's a sample of one of her monologues:

I'm craving for the dependability & comfort of a cliché moment. Like biting into a Magnum almond bar. Or drowning in the sweetness of a pastel colored cupcake with an equally sugary name like Vanilla Sunshine. Hmmm hold on there, those are all slightly expensive clichés.  How so cliché bourgeois of me. Apologies.  Okay let’s go down the ‘the-best-things-in-life-are-free’ route:  I want that no-bullshit honesty of a cliché moment.  Like when two young girls promise they will be best friends forever. Or when a dog asks for a belly rub and returns it with adoration & loyalty that knows no bounds. Blue sky, emerald waters, coconut trees white sand, really, who doesn’t want that? Walking barefoot, taking pictures of the sunset,  waking up to see the sun rise and with it the promise of a new day.   When somebody tells me to take a hike out of annoyance, I just smile.  Take a hike? Sure, and while doing it I will still take nothing but pictures.  And I will scream the devils away when I reach the summit (the most cathartic of all clichés). It sure is much better than screaming into a pillow (but that would work too, if you had no other choice). There’s nothing more real than the sturdy fixedness of trees so go on, hug them.  It’s so true what Joyce Kilmer said anyway “I think I shall never see.  A poem as lovely as a tree.” (Did I mention to you I’m blind?) Want to learn how to survive life?  You have two options, you either swim against the currents or go with the natural flow. Feel down?  Eat chocolate! Dance under the rain!  Do all the cliché moments that make you feel good, anything to stop you from pulling your hair, scratching your eyes out or worse of ‘em all, do everything you can to stop you from eating your own shit.  Or making yourself so spiteful you make other people eat your shit.  Ew.  Yes, it’s a cliché moment, but still, try to do it with some class.  Like let’s say a cat that just sits there and looks at you with so much indifference and superiority.  Heck if I had nine lives I’d be all pompous and royal assed too.  And my most favorite cliché of them all, it’s not the cheerleader who will save the world, no not even the caped crusader or that flying man in red briefs – love, love will save the world.  Yes John Lennon, I’m singing with you, ‘all we need is love’.  Yes Bono,  ‘love is a temple love a higher law’ that even though ‘we’re not the same we get to carry each other’.  And yes Bob Marley, ‘as it was in the beginning (one love!) so shall it be in the end (one heart!) …. Let’s get together and feel alright.”  So go ahead. Ride that unicorn, travel on rainbows, be somebody’s sunshine, kiss under the moonlight, hold hands, jump for joy (and make sure to take a picture, that’s the cliché rule), catch all those lemons life throws at you and go shoot tequila, go rock ‘en roll coz really man, punk’s not dead and rock stars live forever and dreamers free your mind and flower children legalized it and they were first to get it right: make love, not war.  Love moves mountains, love saves, love is the one ring that will rule us all, love love love …  Love is, and will always be, the answer.

P.S

I was munching on cheese the entire time I was writing this.   

Coz life's a raw ghetto dream ...

Untitled. Rhyming exercise.

And you’re swaggin’ like a mofo

With all those paint on your torso

Even with all that shit ya still a so-so

Your dipstick hangin’ like a broncho’s

So quit fuckin’ yappin’ at me ya’ bozo

I’d rather catch a sniff & fly with my dodo

Even ride the night train with a hobo

And frenchkiss him under a mistletoe

So ya gotta stop trippin’ me like a yoyo

I ain’t all love & peace & boho

Beat you up & dump ya ass on a rickshaw

You ain’t ever tastin’ my shiznits you junko!

WoohooS & BoohooS

Morrissey is coming.  Here.  In the Philippines.  Morrissey, who in MY list of my favorite, greatest most iconic male lead vocalists, is up there with Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Michael Stipe (REM), Thom Yorke (Radiohead), Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin), John Lennon (Beatles), Roger Daltrey & Pete Townshend (The Who), Jim Morrisson (The Doors), Bradley Nowell (Sublime), Mick Jagger (Rolling Stones), Axl Rose (Guns n' Roses), Steven Tyler (Aerosmith), Joe Strummer (The Clash), Ian Curtis (Joy Division), David Byrne (Talking Heads) and of course Bob Marley (Bob Marley & The Wailers).  There are a lot of others who are of course equally great but for me, these guys are the lead rocketships that propelled everyone into space, the Vostok 1, the Yuri GagarinS of music, elevating their genre into mind-blowing, out-of-this world greatness.  And Morrissey, lead vocals of my most favorite 80's band The Smiths, is coming to town.  And all I can say is ... %$#@!  Because I might not be able to watch him.  Out of all the other shows I've already missed (Whitest Boy Alive, Incubus, Death Cab for Cutie, and tonight, Toe), this will prove to be the most heartbreaking of them all.  Dolores (Cranberries) is coming also, might be as heartbreaking but my love for Ms. O' Riordan merits another post, hailing other female lead vocalists as well.  Oh boohoo how this blows. One of those rare times I really wish I chose the path more travelled, where a steady income is available twice a month ... "I was looking for a job, and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now. In my life, why do I give valuable time, to people who don't care if I live or die?"

Frankie

Coz he is so worth it.

Poets Lie (both literal meanings)

Today's dose of penned drumfire:

Crispin's tirade. After narrating the story of poet Mutya Dimatahimik, who, during a protest rally against Marcos, lay down in front of an oncoming tank. She was 5 months pregnant. The tank only stopped when it was only a few feet from her. The soldiers inside the tank dragged her aside and beat her unconscious. She nearly lost her child.

"Truly romantic bullshit, in retrospect ... And yet 'No lyric has ever stopped a tank,' so said Seamus Heaney. Auden said that 'poetry makes nothing happen.' Bullshit! I reject all that wholeheartedly! What do they know about the mechanics of tanks! How can anyone estimate the ballistic quality of words? Invisible things happen in intangible moments. What should keep us writing is precisely that possibility of explosions. If not, what then?" - Crispin Salvador, from Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, page 205.

KABOOM! Right through the heart.

Liquid Sunshine

A scene straight-out-of-a-movie -- walking the dogs on an empty street, tall lush trees swaying, cold wind making dead leaves rush by our feet, then a softness to the rain, a freshness to everything, a cool mist rolling in over the vibrant green grass as we slowly jog & laugh for cover, the dogs stubbornly holding their ground, not wanting to go anywhere else but there, right in that moment of rain & play, and we give in, relishing the freedom, the magic of that moment, that sweet fleeting moment, the world crisp and sparkling, free of bullshit, fuck-ups, vanity & ghosts … raindrops and me and him and our dogs who we know will always always love us no matter how destitute or pathetic or idiotic we might seem to other people. It started to rain harder, & we started to laugh louder, & the dogs’ ears started to sway higher as we jumped & splashed over puddles … & the horizon, radiant in its aqueousness, bringing to the senses a calmness, a serenity, but also bringing forth a distinct feeling of strange buoyancy, a lightness pregnant with possibilities of flight. A scene straight-out-of-a-movie … but it was real, and it was beautiful. And it is enough. Enough to keep us walking, enough to make us get up stand tall & dance after a slight stumble or a hard fall, enough to make us thankful for every vision of hope the universe sends our way.

Be happy for this moment; this moment is your life….”_-Omar Khayyam

Facades

Today I feel like this:




This art work's title is The Great War on Façades (La Grande Guerre Façades), by Rene Magritte. You might be more familiar with his The Son of Man, which was referenced/featured in films like The Thomas Crown Affair, Stranger Than Fiction and 500 Days of Summer:



Various interpretations of Magritte's art works are available online. If you want to read more on him, click on the following:

http://nomad0307.blogspot.com/2009/01/ceci-nest-pas-une-vie.html
http://www.brain-juice.com/cgi-bin/show_bio.cgi?p_id=22
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/M/magritte.html
http://www.dropbears.com/a/art/biography/Rene_Magritte.html

Today, I feel like the woman on the The Great War of Facades painting. Although I'm thankful I don't ever have to wear that silly frilly dress in real life, today it symbolizes all the preconceived notions of people about me. That flower is my f--- you to those who have boxed me in their labels.

And enough of the bitch-fit. I love Rene Magritte's work. Actually, I love almost all surrealist artists. They are such brave inventors of each of their own unique universes. As Magritte said:

To be a surrealist means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.

She Just Wants To Be ...

These past few months I've been dedicating songs to other people, through text or a call or a facebook note. Today I'm going to be selfish and dedicate a song to ME.

She Just Wants To Be - R.E.M

It's not that she walked away,
her world got smaller.
All the usual places, the same destinations,
only something's changed.

It's not that she wasn't rewarded
with pomegranate afternoons
and Mingus, Chet Baker and chess.

It's not the stampede and fortune
of prim affectations
she's off on her own and she knows now
it's greater than the whole
of the past
it's greater
and now she knows.

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

It's not that the transparency
of her earlier incarnations
now looked back on, weren't rich
and loaded
with beautiful vulnerability
and now she knows.

Now is greater
and she knows that.

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

Now is greater
now is greater
and she knows that

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

It's not like if angels
could truly look down
stir up the trappings
and light on the ground.
Remind us of what, when,
why or who?
The how's up to us, me and you
and now is greater than the whole
of the past
is greater and now she knows that.

Now she knows.

Another version 1 of something ...

I, Ariadne, You, Minotaur

Attempting to read you, and I’m in a minefield
my teeth chattering against the pin of a hand grenade
you placed in my mouth
you said “I wonder, I wonder how beautiful
it would be to see you explode,
explode like a star, every little bit of you sparkling,
stunning, one last spark, shining so fiercely
weaving one last desperate flight for light
dancing your one last arabesque for the night
and finally fading, fading loudly
violently, until you’ve spent all your fire
all that exquisite pitiful thread of life
until a whimper, a whisper,
fading into nothing.”

I finally see you
Minotaur of my dark dreams
savage beast, monster, eater of flesh
and yet you seek not to devour me
only wishing for my death to shower you with
light and beauty, things that are forbidden to you
because they say, you must remain
the horrible legend that you are.
But I, Ariadne, is nobody’s goddess bride nor prize
I, Ariadne, slayer of might and false light, will rise
Towering with you, a mammoth monstrous swelling
shaking the truth out of their sham fables,
destroying, dismantling, the vulnerable I, the savage you.

Come, it’s time to weave our own labyrinth.
A labyrinth both forgiving and unforgiving
merciful and merciless, terrible and beguiling
soothing and horrid, a mirror of everything and nothing.
I, Ariadne, You, Minotaur.
In our own terms, In our own time.

WTF Is A Glocky Kanurd?

*For my crazy-beautiful lulubelles/boozelab/alak pa friends*

A Drunken Musing peppered with bits of Victorian Slang

oh my bonny winkles, my sweet toffs!
off your cribs and on your gallies
no time to cagg, come be lush
raise your toosh off the doss
hasten to the bubbling night, no time to blush
pocket a finny to buy us some scran,
some mecks or some shandy gaff
no room for square-rigged moochers
but plenty of laughs for a slang cove in whistle and flute
glocky kanurds, chaunting and ran-tan
so hearken hearken
oh my bonny winkles, my sweet toffs!
no hush, oh slush,
Out-dance the sunlight blithe!

----------

Here's a line by line translation:
oh my beautiful girls and boys
get out of your house, put on your boots
no time to abstain from alcohol, come be the spirit of alcohol
get your ass off its resting place
hasten to the bubbling night, no time to blush *(i didn't need to translate that right?)*
pocket some money to buy us some food
some wine, some beer & gin
no room for square/proper behavior
but plenty of laughs for funny showmen in suits,
half-witted drunks, loudly singing, roaring drunks
so hear me hear me,
oh my beautiful girls and boys,
no to silence, oh icy silence
Let's out-dance even the cheerful sun!

Lithium

This song is my ME in the 90s. Every time I hear it, the opening riff alone sends my gut in a whirlpool of emotions. It sends me back to the time when every meaningless/meaningful thing that happened to me affected me like being stabbed with a glowing hot knife – burning, searing, maddening- all the while pretending I-Don’t-Fucking-Care “I’m not gonna crack.” It was that time when I experienced a lot of things for the first time – first love/first heartbreak, first encounter with powerful women who would profoundly change my life forever, first kiss, first mind-blowing journeys into feminism and philosophy and literature ... Ahhhhh everything was just delicious and fresh and romantic and creative and yet also melancholic, rebellious, raw and wildly confusing. I loved madly and I hated intensely, and I was bouncing off walls “yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.” My mind was a crazy mess full of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Kant, Simone de Beauvoir, Julia Kristeva, Luce Irigaray, Erica Jong ... until I finally found my home in Said, Spivak, Krishnamurti. “Light my candles, in a daze ‘Cause I’ve found God.” But my mind and emotions, at that point in my life, were like stereotypical binary opposites struggling for power (such is the case with every teenager riddled with both good intentions and raging hormones). “I love you I’m not gonna crack I killed you I’m not gonna crack.” ... Oh the 90s. Oh Kurt Cobain, one of my personal saviours. Oh how this song makes me so damn nostalgic, and at the same time so inflamed and provoked and insanely ALIVE.

I'm so horny, that's okay

My will is good



Yeah yeah yeah yeah
 yeah yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
 yeah yeah

I like it I'm not gonna crack

I miss you I'm not gonna crack

I love you I'm not gonna crack

I killed you I'm not gonna crack

I like it I'm not gonna crack
I miss you I'm not gonna crack

I love you I'm not gonna crack

I killed you I'm not gonna crack



I'm so happy 'cause today

I found my friends

They're in my head

I'm so ugly, but that's okay

'Cause so are you

Broke our mirrors

Sunday morning is everyday

For all I care

And I'm not scared

Light my candles in a daze

'Cause I've found god



Yeah yeah yeah yeah
 yeah yeah

*In a parallel universe, that dude dancing in the middle, that’s me. *