A song, a poem, a whiny young man

Crimson Underground

It's a friday night, so turn down the lights
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-stained London, brutal claws flashing bright
In the Crimson Underground

Little old boxer got mutilated late last night
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-money, money's funny
In the Crimson Underground

Heh, draw some blood, yeah draw blood
In the Crimson Underground
Contender dreams with matted fur
In the, in the,
In the Crimson Underground
In the Crimson Underground

This is the kind of supermarket that ghosts live in.

This is the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in, bathed in early morning gospel-light
Sunday-morning gospel-light
Or born in Monday-morning rush-hour fights
For supremacy on the highway
First to the job
Or the scene of the crime
The plaza's empty as blue and white
Alike rush to their meaniality
As the age-old masses watch
Mindless unmindful descendents
From the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in

In other news, I think I've met a girl I really like and I hope things work out well with her. I'm very much anxious and excited to meet her sometime soon!

(I'm sure something terrible will happen and she'll hate me, though.).
"They say love is a risk / that you might always get hit out of nowhere / by some wave and end / up on your own."...

Well, still, pretty good year

I feel... so old. So lonely and terrible and worthless.
I feel like one tiny snowflake out in July, somehow. I'm tired of watching all the guys I know meet girls, be happy, and just... be liked. Or loved. Or not alone.
I'm tired of being too weird or too ugly or too fat. I'm tired of the screaming and the names every other night. I'm tired of working far too much and still being treated like a good-for-nothing-slacker. I'm tired of not being wanted or appreciated.

Another year's gone by and not much is better.
Still, pretty good year.