porn, super porn
lonely rolling star
2005-04-06 | 11:28 a.m.


in japan there are vending machines and in these vending machines is a drink called real gold. delighted, I looked closely and noted the price: 160 yen. about $1.60. I felt a flood of relief engulf my weary limbs. REAL GOLD, at my fingertips, for $1.60? I was going to be so rich. occasionally I would observe others, hurried, grabbing some green tea from a vending machine, or some hot boss coffee. I was incredulous. did they not see the real gold?!

my trip was nearly at its end and I thought it would be prudent to finally buy some real gold. I found a vending machine, my pulpy heart palpitating as I clutched some coins, damp, in my hot little hand. the transaction transpired and, with a clatter, the real gold tumbled to the bottom of its resident vending machine. I eagerly plucked it out. I examined it. no golden flakes, suspended in rich, sparkling syrup. no honeyed tones. not like I had expected. I tasted it. it wasn't real gold at all! it tasted like ginger ale. WHAT THE FUCK GOD.

hopelessness, helplessness. I remember when words meant things -- when words could shatter me. when I would thoughtfully consider how I felt when someone asked me. I was a child and every word that snaked its way out was supported by a definite meaning in my mind. pedanticism. christian is being pedantic now.

in austin, off of 15th street, is a gas station with a sign that proudly proclaims JESSICA SIMPSON IS HERE. mumble mumble. look closely and you will see that it simply mentions something about an abysmal cd that you can buy. and... jessica simpson isn't actually inside. but, it doesn't matter. you knew that, right?

feigning, flattering... nothing is real. fine, thank you. I listen to the clattering chatter of others, words unthought, unconsidered, and something is dying inside of me. the more I casually chomp through my words with strangers, as a necessity, the more I forget how to weave something together that is actually beautiful. often, while sitting in a restaurant, while I listen to cameron tell madison why sherry has her shit fucked up... how I wish they were saying something sincere, substantial. I would slide in next to them and make myself at home. words mean things -- they can be whipped into a beautiful pinning of the mind, a pining, something within touching you within. inside, in this stony 2005, people are frozen and iced, and they move in melted ways, and when they open their mouths nothing comes out but words, just words made of letters, words that mean nothing. whining. blabbering. but I feel this way.

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