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chesterslick
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Name: Chris
Country: United States
State: Texas
Metro: Houston
Birthday: 10/7/1984
Gender: Male
Interests: Music and movies with substance, Chess, Travel, and sleep (when I can get it). Cinnamon Toast Crunch in my boxers is a favored pastime of mine.
Expertise: I know the muffin man. He's a jerk.
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
Member Since:
3/6/2006
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| Mission for today: Museum of Fine Arts. Return Caroline's glasses and hide feelings. Pretend it's O.K. Lt. Beer will brief you... | | |
| yes. yes i know. sloth, envy, possibly a little work make chris go byebye. however, the urge for a fix was too strong today and i caved. girls suck. period. and not anything pleasurable. they just suck. also, kerrville sucks. i guess, deep down, i'm just a city boy. i DO however, prefer the taste and Pace Picante with its chunky, spicy flavors that enrich a dust-stricken hunger on a warm country night. or something like that. | | |
| I'm sitting in my god-forsaken-mess of a room with the afterglow of a closing night playing a messenger boy in one of the greatest fucking theatre shows in all of history having thoughts of someone I haven't let myself think about in a long time. You never truly realize what might happen tomorrow. And what do I do? I torture myself with thoughts of The Chase and thoughts of summer and thoughts of someone else possibly thinking about me. I should be asleep right now. I should be getting straight A's. I should be looking for the start of my life in the real world.
But I am not thinking of such things. I am thinking of people who might read this entry; I'm thinking about people whom I wish would read this entry; I'm thinking about how adicted I am to having someone love me. I wonder what the last thought in my head will be when I die. | | |
| Dear God.
Sarah's child just passed away.
Dear God.
I can't even begin. What happened? Why?
Sarah! Oh my god!
What will she do? What do I do? I don't believe this. I can't deal with this.
I have to try to sleep. It won't work. There's no way I can make it back to Houston in time. What do I do? "I'm sorry"? What the fuck does THAT mean?
Sarah! | | |
| I received several books today by chance: The Turn of the Screw, The Sound and the Fury, Sons and Lovers, a few others I hadn't heard of but sounded interesting; the blinding, buzzed, ambient summer days will soon chant to my mind the words of D.H. Lawrence and Umberto Eco. Woolf's soft pen has enchanted, though not possessed, my hand, my hand, my clunky man-hand, a buffoons' affectionate imitation. As a child bored of the minister's anecdotes, my curious fingers would traverse the veined and scarred skin of my father's hands, all the while wishing for the same pair, the hands of a realist, the cuticals of a provider, the knuckles of pain unacknowledged--the way Midwesterners do, dad's hands. Hands that can swallow whole the illusive words of Samuel Becket with a single page turn--this was my wish, sitting cross-legged among the old feathered hats of the Sunday crowd. | | |
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