soul coughing - super bon bon

i found them in my paper journal. how's this for some dish dog material?

friday, may 21, 2004. 1:51 am.
not all the people you see out at all hours of the night have something to say. not all of them have a story. not all of them are interesting. some of them are just lonely. some don't have anyone, anything, anywhere to go. some are just bored, hoping something will happen to them. some wouldn't know what to do if it did.
maybe the happy people really are the normal ones. they have things to do during the day, people who want to be with them and things that they'll enjoy doing together. they can fall asleep at night because they can afford to miss out on what "might" happen. for them, there will be other chances and other opportunities.
the people shying out of the spotlight think they're the ones really living. but maybe it's just jealousy. if they were given the chance to belong, to fit in, to love and be loved, they would take it. in a heartbeat. honestly, everyone really does want to be part of that happy crowd. it's only when they can't manage it that they start denying it. after all, criticizing something is the best way to deny its power over you. so maybe that's all there is to it. maybe the people who smoke and drink alone, who walk the streets because they can't sleep, aren't the enlightened independants they imagine themselves to be. maybe they're just alone, with nothing to do and nothing to look forward to when the sun comes up again.

of course, i see how full of shit i was now. there are probably lonely old hags running around, but most people who are up all night are doing something with their time.

friday, july 2, 2004. 11:46 pm.
north of seattle seems to have a huge difference from south of seattle. up north, we get emo, pretty and melancholy bands like deathcab. south, hopeless dirty grunge like nirvana. up north is the golden child land, the kids who have it all and don't know what to do with it, so they get back to their roots with nature. south, it's industrial and planned, middle class trying vainly to stay there, with kids who have grown up with less and don't see any way for it to change. even my past is like that. bothell was like a dream. i had and did everything, so mostly i played outside, in the greenbelts and islands in the coul de sacs. down here, the authentic nature's been stripped away. (like i said to cole, it's pretty to look at, but meaningless to be in.)
even compare the party atmospheres. bonfire down on the beach, sand and waves and fire, shining moon and endless sky. versus someone's apartment, loud music and loud conversations, screaming and laughing in a closed area. then again, it's weed versus alcohol, strangers versus friends. whatever, i'd rather drink with my crowd and meet new faces at terry's than smoke weed with cole's friends and be intimidated by their expanded state of mind and complete confidance in their meaning in life, their immortality. drinking in an apartment is crude and harsh, impersonal and meaningless, where you can float along and never get lost. drugs on the beach impress you to think, contemplate, come up with explanations for everything. drinking just dulls the senses so you don't have to. mabe that reflects my personality better than anything else - that i'd rather be numb so i don't have to think, instead of expanding my mind and capacity for individual thought. who would've guessed? pot isn't for the slacker after all. it's for the independant, who does things for themself.