Annie got Wood

Is this it? Take my oxygen and my pride but don’t dare to say this is it. Is this it? Somewhere beneath those pretty clothes there’s a heart of stone. This isn’t it. Only a foolish son will let this be it.

You’re a social security number. You’re a name to those who know you, a face to those you meet. To the rest you’re a number, a bloody fucking number. That’s it. That’s the realistic unbarring ignorant truth. They don’t sell you magazines about it do they? Fucking Morons. They sell you everything from computers to sperm but they never sell you that.

I give you this for free. I am one of those kind people who gives you something free of charge. Nothing is free in this world. You pay a dollar to use the bathroom. Some fucking expensive pee. You don’t pay to use the bathroom and they charge you a thousand times more for being stingy.

This is not a rehearsal, this is real life. Go ahead and pay for your pee. What’s your number? No not you’re phone number you delusional hobbit. You’re a number to them. When you die, you’re just a number. What’s your number son?

See, people like me are many things but not foolish. I will wear many labels but I will never be just a number. Pinch me, tease me, suffocate me. I will never be your number. Mark the day I will leave a mark on this earth. All of those who ignored me will think twice. Change is not chance, change is choice.

Everyone is born a number, a brick in the wall. Some people die a name. Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein, Simone de Beauvoir, Kurt Cobain, John Lennon, James Dean.  I hear names not numbers.

Is this it? It doesn’t have to be. Are you 1511876578 or are you SOMEONE. You chose. You change. 

When someone tries to strip you off that one good thing that you got you say no. You try again even when you’re tired. There is always a second way, your way and it’s a detour but you will get there eventually when all those less pleasing things are over.

Dreams do come true, without that possibility nature wouldn’t incite us to have them.

There’s a  reason why artists stick together. We view life a different way, not better, not worse, just different. We are constantly searching for something. Every day is an excuse to create and every creation is an excuse to be. Then someone tries to strip you off that one good thing that you got and you say no. Two letters, one word.

One day, some day you get there, to where you’re supposed to be.

It’s 3 am on a Saturday night. I’m perfectly sober enjoying a bottle of water in my penguin hat.  It hits you like the first grain of light in the spring: I am particularly happy right now.  It’s like; you never thought you’d reach this moment, so peaceful and sure.

There are still days when I wake up and I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t function, but that’s just a little part of me. You have a tiny bit of poison and a lot of potential. Life’s not about being the best or proving somebody right or wrong. It’s about living up to your own potential.

“You’re tired of being someone you do not admire.”. God, Charlie you’re such a poet. Noah and his wonderful whale.

You’re not going to get anywhere by being mad at the world. I used to think I was special because I hated people. I don’t live my life in regret but sometimes I wish I could go back and enjoy it; high school, friends, a mindless town. I wouldn’t go back though, because it has carved me into the person that I am.

This year has honestly been the greatest year of my life. It is true that sometimes you have to get away from a place to be all that you can be. To enjoy is such a simple act, but for some people it needs to be taught.

I did nothing today. Tomorrow I will write. I was sitting on the plane to LA a couple of weeks ago when I started creating science fiction again. I’ve been stuck. Anger locks you out of the world of imagination. It feels amazing to be inside those doors again.

When somebody tells you that it’s going to get better, listen to them.  You don’t know shit when you’re a teenage girl in high school. I thought I would keep those friends forever and we have nothing in common anymore. I used to admire people who are still stuck there today and I’m thinking wtf. I think you’re not supposed to figure those things out till later.

So when somebody tells you that it’s going to get better, listen to them.

You can take what’s given to you as an excuse to fuck up or an excuse to succeed.

In the process of throwing away your life you ask yourself: was I always like this? No, you changed in to this, an individual seeking an identity and burning the roots as you go.

There are good and bad parents. The bad parents are the ones who don’t care. The good parents are the ones who bring their children up in a loving home and send their children out in the world with tools to do well and strings that bind them to their home.

The great parents are the ones you don’t realize are great until you finish being angry. They care deeply, but say and do the wrong things with the intention to help and send the child out on a self-discovery journey.

My dad, god I spent many years trying to hate my dad. We were friends. Then we disagreed. I went on a journey, trying to discover where I belong on this planet.

I always envied those well-functioning families. Now I don’t. I remember one girl in particular. Wonderful family. We’re extremely different her and I. She will always have a string attached to that place. She has no urge to go on a journey.

I, I have no sense of origin. I am suitcase bound. I am fearless. I need to constantly create something. I am independent. I am strong. Being who I am today made me realize that my parents must have done something right.

The child grew up and stopped being angry. The parents were in fact great. Being a good parent is not about continuing your own life story but giving birth to a new idea.

For the first time in a long time I feel at ease with myself. I found the passion that I once had, the smile I once wore. It’s amazing how anger consumes you.

You can take what’s given to you as an excuse to fuck up or an excuse to succeed.

Sometimes I wish that i was someone else. In a world consumed by plastic surgery and diet pills, pretty is a an adjective anyone can buy. Change your appearance and change your name. In the end of the day the only thing you cannot buy is a brand new soul.

Then comes the question to be or not to be. You’ve been dying your hair for so long you’ve forgotten which color you were born with. Nobody is born with a declared identity, but time works its magic like a box of bleach.

To be or not to be. Some days your hands reaches close to the not to be. Other days you want to breathe and exist in every shape and form that you can.

To be or not to be. I believe everyone faces this question at least once in their lifetime. Some people face it everyday. To some, death is an unspeakable subject and to others it’s as natural as a bagel with cream cheese before a morning class.

To those who drink their black coffee with a two packs of equals debating the words on their tombstone while reading the newest issue of Nylon, it is what it is. To be or not to be. We know our sunny days are even brighter. Our laughter’s are even louder. We feel more. We exist in every shape and form.

From one soldier to whomever is reading. Greatness comes from within. You need to learn to be bad in order to be good. You need to learn to fall flat, be horrible and horrifying in order to be great.

Jimmie didn’t want to be good. With a cigarette in his mouth and a raging temper he definitely wasn’t good. My walls are covered with his presence for many more reasons than pure admiration. He didn’t want to be just good, he wanted to be great.

Therefore while writing this post debating whether to be or not to be I translate my rage in to words and I breathe. One of these days I too will be great.

And to all of you motherfuckers who walk on daisies and bathe in glitter, you will just be good.