in
Heh... back to the single thing... I've come to realize that I'm not meant to spend my life with someone... heh... I'm serious... like everytime I find some chick I even have the slightest possibilitie of being with I horribly fuck it up somehow... and it usually results in them hating me or being very afraid of me... I hate that shit... oh well *shrugs* whatever... "the wheel spins and weaves as it will"

(no subject)

in
Heh... back to the single thing... I've come to realize that I'm not meant to spend my life with someone... heh... I'm serious... like everytime I find some chick I even have the slightest possibilitie of being with I horribly fuck it up somehow... and it usually results in them hating me or being very afraid of me... I hate that shit... oh well *shrugs* whatever... "the wheel spins and weaves as it will"
in
Maybe the American Flag should have a mall on it with a bunch of fat people waddling towards the mall's pearly gates.

Maybe someone should have told Cosby that Malcom X and Martin Luther King didn't die for him to sell Jello. That he wouldn't get away with making manifold millions selling a sitcom that sells landfill dross-while the world convulsedd to violent spasms. The spasms that came for his son.

Maybe someone should have told the pop rock star that he wouldn't, couldn't, get away with being one of the richest men in the world, hiding out in a security-fortified 100-room mansion that his neighbor's and friends called Fort Knox. That his own fear would penetrate his defenses and put a knife in his chest.

Maybe someone should have told the Americans that they wouldn't get away with their shallow, their hollow pursuits of gold watches, murder movies and wrestling, while thuosands of children lay still on the earth, starving every day. That this, and other unntold suffering would penetrate their steel and glass towers of commercee and crash them down as disease attacks a body weakend by years of indulgence.

(no subject)

in
Maybe the American Flag should have a mall on it with a bunch of fat people waddling towards the mall's pearly gates.
Maybe someone should have told Cosby that Malcom X and Martin Luther King didn't die for him to sell Jello. That he wouldn't get away with making manifold millions selling a sitcom that sells landfill dross-while the world convulsedd to violent spasms. The spasms that came for his son.
Maybe someone should have told the pop rock star that he wouldn't, couldn't, get away with being one of the richest men in the world, hiding out in a security-fortified 100-room mansion that his neighbor's and friends called Fort Knox. That his own fear would penetrate his defenses and put a knife in his chest.
Maybe someone should have told the Americans that they wouldn't get away with their shallow, their hollow pursuits of gold watches, murder movies and wrestling, while thuosands of children lay still on the earth, starving every day. That this, and other unntold suffering would penetrate their steel and glass towers of commercee and crash them down as disease attacks a body weakend by years of indulgence.