foxinsnow's Diaryland Diary

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the youth of amerikkka (if this is hell, I'm not afraid)

So Iím conscious of the fact that this is the 40th anniversary of the Beatles coming to America. There are men hammering away at the kitchen in my house and I keep thinking someone is running up the stairs to barge in my room and tell me something they think is really fucking important, like that I should get out of bed and go to school. I did go to school, and I went to the registrar and dropped out. Iím so fucking sick of people telling me what art is or what society is or culture or literature or even rockíníroll. Rockíníroll is like this stain in my brain that wonít let meÖ no itís not that, Iím just so sick of everything. I walked through that school looking like the mentally ill chain-smoker that I am with two-day old eyeliner smeared all over my cheeks and greasy lanky hair and heroin-chic anemia and pimples. Anyway I guess this has nothing to do with the Beatles but I have to ask my mom one question: why do you hover over me and tell me to get dressed and then get all upset when I start to do it? Getting dressed entails getting naked, does it not? She wonít believe Iíll get dressed until I say fuck-it to modesty and actually do it. What am I supposed to do? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, IN THIS FUCKING SITUATION THAT I ABHORRENTLY CALL MY BRAIN? Everything seems to be for my own good. But, I think Iím getting better now because I can sleep even if I just have nightmares and I can get angry. If I were a rock star, Iíd always be smashing my guitar in anger. But then again, I donít smash my word processor or my camera. I feel so fucking free and Iím so scared at the same time. Anyway, happy anniversary, Beatles fans. Things havenít changedÖ the youth of Amerikkka who refuse to conform are just as fucked up and over as ever, and Iím listening to the Fakes right now because theyíre so raw and angry and bleeding just like me, but no one ever did anything to me, itís all in my fucking head. But, you know, THIS IS HOW I FEEL, and I wonít die because someday the mental institutions in my head will be turned into roller skating pavilions and we will all skate to ďI wanna hold your handĒ and the Fakes and ďfeels blindĒ by bikini Kill because thatís how it feels it feels fucking blind and I feel a quick moment of triumph over death when I hear anyone say about the most powerful photograph or spoken word piece, ĎTHIS IS NOT ART, THIS IS MY LIFE.ĒSometimes the greatest art is the biggest, most fucking honest lie youíve ever told in your life.

5:19 p.m. - 2004-02-09

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