foxinsnow's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- the youth of amerikkka (if this is hell, I'm not afraid) So I�m 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. I�m so fucking sick of people telling me what art is or what society is or culture or literature or even rock�n�roll. Rock�n�roll is like this stain in my brain that won�t let me� no it�s not that, I�m 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 won�t believe I�ll 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 I�m getting better now because I can sleep even if I just have nightmares and I can get angry. If I were a rock star, I�d always be smashing my guitar in anger. But then again, I don�t smash my word processor or my camera. I feel so fucking free and I�m so scared at the same time. Anyway, happy anniversary, Beatles fans. Things haven�t changed� the youth of Amerikkka who refuse to conform are just as fucked up and over as ever, and I�m listening to the Fakes right now because they�re so raw and angry and bleeding just like me, but no one ever did anything to me, it�s all in my fucking head. But, you know, THIS IS HOW I FEEL, and I won�t die because someday the mental institutions in my head will be turned into roller skating pavilions and we will all skate to �I wanna hold your hand� and the Fakes and �feels blind� by bikini Kill because that�s 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, �THIS IS NOT ART, THIS IS MY LIFE.�Sometimes the greatest art is the biggest, most fucking honest lie you�ve ever told in your life. 5:19 p.m. - 2004-02-09 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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