"Thank God I'm an atheist." - Luis Buñuel

"There is a way of going to the movies as others go to church and I think that, from a certain angle, quite independently of what is playing, it is there that the only absolutely modern mystery is celebrated."
-André Breton
un chien andalou

Walking through a cold rain of sharp-edged leaves

Yesterday a boy pointed out that the way everyone in my family calls our dog our own different names only signifies the schismic issues in our overall communication.
Another boy I talk to has wormed his way twice into the ugly composition notebook that I am forced to write in for film class. I promised myself that I wouldn't use it as a journal, the way I sometimes use my preferred moleskin notebooks. Didn't want myself getting all personal for class, but I guess I've been having an overspill of emotions lately - I keep finding traces of them on those wide-ruled pages, even where they're not supposed to be. Those damn splotchy composition notebooks. Everything I write in them ends up looking like fifth-grade homework.

I'm at home right now, and it's really painful to be here. All the unhappiness from previous years living with these people has flooded back, whipping my migraine into a frenzy. I hate when people ask about my family. I'll give them all the conversational basics - I have a mother, father, two little sisters, and a dog. My dad's a professor. I like my mom's cooking. I don't actually like them. Please, don't delve further. It's really difficult having people trying to get to know me better. "Tell me about yourself," they ask. And I know what they want to hear. Each person wants something different, a new side of me. And I could give it to them, but I would rather have someone stare at my naked body than hear my naked mind. It's really hard for me to share myself. I have a clamshell instead of a skull and even I seem incapable of opening it except maybe to filter out the occasional thought or two. Naturally, this seems impairing and god do I know it. Help, I need to change.

slashing ink in the shade of the blinds

I'm scared.I just watched Nightmare on Elm Street with our neighbors across the hall. I was worried that Heather wouldn't be here when I got back - I didn't want to sleep in the room alone tonight. I suggested we put in another scary movie to cancel out the first - my tried and true remedy for scaring away the frights - and they put in Saw III. (It's a room of boys). Now, I lie back here in bed - not alone - listening to Heather's sleep noises. She moans, her bed creaks, I cringe. Maybe I should have wished her to sleep over at Pauls. It's funny - I always say I've never had a nightmare - but watching Nightmare on Elm Street for the first time tonight, I realized that I had a dream as a child, almost exactly replicating one of the scenes from the movie. I don't remember being frightened however. In my dream, I was on the couch, and all of a sudden long claw-like fingernails came up from beneath and pulled me under the cushions. I didn't die. Instead, when I opened my eyes I was lying on an examination table, with bright lights in my face surrounded by alien-looking creatures with Nosferatu-like fingers. Then I opened my eyes again and I was awake, or maybe I continued dreaming, but don't remember the rest. There are a few standout dreams I have had in my life, and that is one of them. Right now I cannot sleep with these violent images flashing through my mind in the montage style of Saw III. Although I have not slept for days, sleep eludes me still. I feel like the guy from Fight Club. I'm afraid everytime I think of that movie that boy in my Rhetoric class will cross my mind, although a week has gone by since I last saw him and I've forgotten that I'm supposed to have a crush on him. Ah, enough insomniac ramblings. This is not supposed to be a diary entry.
P.S. The pile of textbooks on the pillow next to me is poking my back.

edit- P.P.S. I slept on a pencil last night. RAWRGHHHRRRR newkucfniwEB SJK BVK the sharpened fingernail was real, only i didn't dream about it.

Losing Argument (With Myself)

I smell like smoke. I was hungover this morning. Well, it is so late now, I suppose I should say yesterday morning. All the great writers drink and smoke. Why am I not churning out any good writing?

I've been thinking - Handsome Boy Modeling School (feat. Cat Power)

In the course of the past months or weeks, I have realized two things.

1. Home isn't a definite place. It is created when I'm surrounded by my belongings. (I am a materialistic person)
2. I am not a person who can be defined by their actions.
(I've been doing things that don't match up with who I thought I am/wanted to be)

Menthol Cigarretes

college is a play-ground, this quasi world i feel i'm not really living in. i don't know what i'm doing here - just living day-to-day. sometimes, i wander around at night and it feels like home, like the city is mine. then the sun rises, and the people come out and the city is lost in the crowd although i'm still walking the same sidewalks.

times have changed to the point where i can't stand being alone with myself anymore.
is this a sign of actual loneliness or self-hatred?