"Why don't you like me?" -- Dinosaur Jr.

Well, I think you finally got back at me. This means I must have killed you when I left you alone in that room and never came back. I didn't think it mattered. I couldn't give you what you gave me, so I figured why bother? I'm sorry that I killed you. I think I was trying to get back at someone else and used you. You were a scapegoat, not a person and I feel rotten about it. You didn't do anything wrong except have faith in me and that's not really your fault either. You can't be responsible for my shortcomings. I do miss you, even if you scared the living shit out of me, but I think that may be one of the things I liked best about you. It kept me honest.

Different parts of myself are at war with one another. There are really two, but the little selves in between are just as passionate and it becomes difficult to ignore them. It can more clearly be defined as a riot.

I feel like I'm on a microphone only I can hear, but oh--if you could hear me . . . I guess it's why I keep talking. This is my message in a bottle. I have lots bottles of course and I'll confess--that yes, I did drink them all. So they're messages and none of them will probably ever be read but I guess you can't help but try and make your mark so that maybe one day someone will realize that you are alive. And maybe they'll realize that they are alive and that you are having a conversation and you don't really know one another but that's alright.

I am in pain. I can see the future, but I cannot see it clearly. I thought that I could see the present, but apparently I don't know shit.

What do I want. I know things that I want, but those things are not the whole. I want to be balanced, but I am not. I am imbalanced. Everyone is imbalanced but I think it then becomes a matter of being conscious of your imbalance.

The baseline burns because she put hot sauce in it.

The law is going to win. Bribing people with six guns and a bad attitude. Imagine my surprise when it actually works and I walk out of the saloon alive.

I have no fantasy world. I thought I had her, but I don't so now, I think I need one. Problem is . . . I've forgotten how to dream. How do I dream? How do I dream without her? Maybe I don't want to dream that way. Maybe it's better that I don't.

So I was milling over the metaphorical "her." How she's some deranged, creative fantasy created by men who are cursed with the gift of expression. She is something akin Dante's Beatrice. She's everywhere creation is. She helped you make the world you are building, but she doesn't exist. She is an impossible composite of what you want in a woman. She has the sad, brown eyes that pierce through your heart and make you wish you could peer into forever because they make you feel like you're not alone--like that's your burden in her eyes she's sharing, but then when I think about the rest of her, she has no body really . . . .she's more like a glow. And when you're tired, beat up, dejected and you want to give up--she lets you collapse in her arms and lets you know it's going to be alright and it feels like heaven to be comforted so . . . and maybe all of this misery makes you feel like fucking . . . and that's alright with her. She doesn't hold it against you--she doesn't make you feel guilty for being a man because she knows that's not all you want. She knows that you want to lay there afterward and just talk. . .and listen. . . maybe learn a few things . . . maybe just reflect on what you just did and make you glad you're on this earth to experience it . . . She knows that its purifying for you and that you hope it is for her--that it makes you feel reborn until the next time you go back into the world and get your ass kicked just for being you. That its a consummation of your love . . . .that your tyring to thank her for not letting you be alone. But maybe you have it all wrong . . . maybe she hates you . . . .for projecting all of your problems on her. For having faith in her the way Mary had faith in you. Maybe it's payback for breaking that poor girls heart when all she wanted to do was love you. The metaphorical her is a complicated woman. She has her good and her bad days, but when the light is looking dim and you don't know where you are--she's there to pull you out of the hole you've put yourself into. She is an imaginary figure inside of you and you have to start realizing that. It's alright to dream with her--it's what you do best, but you have to realize that your true strength comes from you . . . no one else. No one else will treat you better than you . . . and no one in reality will ever treat you the way she does--so start being nice to yourself and stop making me miserable because it's killing me . . .