Mirror

Chaos

is a saturday night fucked up party in the mind. the wallet is sad and empty, obscuring all visions of gallivanting. porn and masturbating have become overrated. the fridge is empty of food, and weekend primetime television is worse than rotten McDonalds fries. i hate this sickness, said the boyfriend over the phone, attempting to do a litmus paper test on your love. then turn off the TV and sleep, you replied, thinking of another day that went down the drain. on the other tab, behind the blogger page, there is a news about a boy who stabbed his teacher for being asked to get a haircut. shocking, you thought with cliche, popping out a plan to compose an affective poem on it. there are, however, so many pages about hot guys and sex, and the seed of creative longing shrunk in no time. facebook has turned into another fridge. you keep on opening it every minute, wishing that there's a tupperware of food somewhere that you didn't notice before. then the words disappear. the air hints at the imminent december, invoking how your 24th year was spent with nothingness. the rat race is on, and you're not aware if you're on the tracks or sitting on the bleachers. the metaphysics of it all sucks, especially when you only hope to get laid with someone with a nice grin and some abs. or to get laid with the boyfriend once he develops a nicer grin and gain some abs. beside you is slap of the moral self: how dare you, shallow slut, it said, unleashing another slap on the other side.

Material Boy

Maybe a new pair of prescription eyeglasses

Maybe a jump into the DSLR bandwagon

Maybe some shirts

Some shoes

A Beanie

Maybe A Gym Comeback

A Vacation Leave

Some Pampering

Some Pressing
Some Mind Sex

Maybe Some Reason To Go On and Kick Ass,

A Few Challenges Here, Some Rewards There

'Til The Third World Looks Nothing Like

Squalor At All

UP Fight

The festival of stunts and pyramids will take place in a few hours.

I'm seeing it live this year. Whoopee.