Hip shakin and face breakin.
I was half in love with her by the time we sat down. That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, even if they're not much to look at, or even if they're sort of stupid, you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are. Girls. Jesus Christ. They can drive you crazy. They really can.
People
Who aren't souless.
Who are not slaves to their looks.
Whose lives don't revolve around drinking or their next high.
Who don't depend on alcohol.
Who live for the weekends to party like the rockstars they will never be.
Who have a purpose beyond getting wasted.
Who have bigger accomplishments than how much they drank.
Who won't say I said all that because I am straight edge.
Who get it.
Who have a "fuck you" attitude. But not always.
Who aren't assholes because they are dead inside.
Who don't talk shit about my beliefs.
Who can handle hardcore.
Who understand the scene.
Who aren't assholes because they think it will impress someone.
Who say that they hate drama but can't function without it.
Who won't/don't try to fuck me AND my friends.
Who won't makeout when they have a shattered heart.
Who aren't jealous.
Who don't think I am leading them on when I am kind, talkative, or flirtatious.
Who accept those who are in my life, no matter who, how, or why.
Who believe.
Who have beliefs.
Who have passion.
Who are passionate.
Who aren't afraid to be themselves, no matter who that is inside.
Who have hope.
Who help others.
Who dare to dream and take risks.
Who look up at the sky and wonder
Who want to change lives.
Who live.
WHO CAN SPELL (*ahem* Jeromy.)
LOVE LIFE.
For the loveless and the risks we take
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."-Jack Kerouac
Family Guy. The Simpsons. Nova. Iron Chef.
...But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque
and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night.
A universe
of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the
clock ticked on the wash-stand and the moon soaked with wet
light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the
pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid
scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an
outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the
unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded
securely on a fairy's wing...
...There must have been moments even that afternoon when (she) tumbled short of his dreams--not through her own fault, but because of the colossal vitality of his illusion. It had gone beyond
her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative
passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright
feather that drifted his way.
No amount of fire or freshness can
challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.
All my heroes are dead.
Except him.