Threes.

If good things happen in threes, then I guess bad things happen in threes as well?  Fuck.

Individuality.

You're no more unique than someone with a Black Flag tattoo or a Joy Division shirt.

Single Bed.

"Having a single bed is like telling the world that you've given up on trying to get laid." James Humphrey.

What do you do?

Not much.

Migration.

Fifth home in the past five years.  At least this one isn't a shithole.

Fired.

Andrew Pham was let go from the TIFF Bell Lightbox cinema for stealing a bag of rubber bands and a Sharpie permanent marker.  When asked why he stole them, he replied, "I wanted to draw a beard on my face and make a rubber band ball."

One Year Closer.

I'm one year closer to death.

Last Words.

With my last dying breath, I will say something damning to the friends and family that will survive me.  Perhaps, something like, 'Curse ye wretched foes, your children will suffer and endure unending misfortune.'  Most will probably know that I was joking, depending on how well they knew me.  They'll probably be quite upset that I wasted my last words making some stupid joke that is really quite negative and inconsiderate, considering the rather emotional climate of my premature death.

Fathers.

Mine scares the shit out of me.

6:30 am.

Don't know if I should try to sleep or just stay up and go to work.

Lost Beat.

Feeling the rhythm through the back of my chair.  This person, tapping along to the film's score.  Feeling a familiar sense of comfort but something is wrong, something is missing.  That one integral beat is not to be found, ending this short lived friendship, like the many others lost to the sea.

Are You There?

Fading from existence like an actor slipping from hollywood to b-movie status.

The Pains of Being Pure At Heart.

Woke up in a panic.  Awoke my laptop from sleep mode and saw that it was 8:47.  Didn't know or remember how I fell asleep.  It wasn't too late to make it.  Got up and felt light headed and emaciated.  Didn't have time to eat.  Might buy a slice of pizza on the way there.  Get up, stumble around in dizziness and manage to button up a shirt.  Walk out of the house.  See a guy and girl walking in front of me and can't tell if she has matching tattoos on both of her legs or if they are just tacky 'leggings.'  Caught up to them at the intersection, they were just tacky 'leggings.'  Went down the other street to Pizza Gigi's to buy a slice.  Looked at slices, felt disgusted and left.  Continued on my way to Sonic Boom.  Went inside to a very packed basement.  Tried to weasel my way up.  Got to a somewhat decent spot.  Looked around to see if I knew anyone.  Didn't see anyone.  Stood around for a while, the band was delayed.  Felt hungry, sick and a bit dizzy.  The band finally started, filling the basement with their unoriginal and rehashed blend of catchy shoegaze.  Thought to myself, there are a lot of asians here.

Today.

Today is going to be a fucking good day.

If you name your child.

If you name your child, Jessica.
She will be manipulative in some way.
If you name your child, David.
He will be different or unique.
If you name your child, Lucy.
She will be popular and attractive.
If you name your child, James.
He will have sex with more people than average.
If you name your child, Jesus.
He will die for people's sins.
If you name your child, Lucifer.
He will listen to rock 'n' roll.

Self-Awareness.

Self-Aware.
self-aware.
Self-aware.
self-Aware.

Lost Thought.

I came up with a new idea for a Thought Catalog article when I couldn't sleep last night.  I eventually fell asleep and can't remember the idea anymore.  Damn.

Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts.

Lying face down on my bed, listening to M83's Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts and thinking that it would be awesome to hook up while listening to this album.

Black Swan.

Black Swan was a kafkaesque film.

Blogging.

I've been lurking around the blogosphere and have found many intriguing blogs.  I can't help but notice that my writing style is very dry, stale and impersonable.  I feel like my undergraduate studies have drained the life and soul from my written expression.  "Clear and concise," is what they ingrained into us all those years, essay after essay, reading after reading.  Well it seems to have fucked many of us over, what is academic writing good for anyways?  Perhaps, perpetual intellectual masturbation of one another, justifying their choices to pursue academia rather than engaging life in the real world.  Whatever, maybe I'm just reading too many 'hipster' blogs.

Vampires.

It seems that I have returned to my irregular sleeping schedule.  It's 7am in the morning and I still have yet to fall asleep. I've woken up in the afternoon the past several days, which conclusively ends my "normal sleep schedule" streak.  I achieved three successful weeks of having a normal sleep schedule.  Life was good, productive and full of opportunities.  It seems that I am once again damned to tossing and turning endlessly every night and killing time with unproductive fixations and musings.  Fuck.

15 Minutes.

Someone told me last night, that his uncle, a Norse mythologist and writer, once said that getting just 15 minutes of productivity done every day is an accomplishment.

I suppose I should start trying to at least be productive for 15 minutes everyday and work from there ...

Also, a Norse mythologist.  Awesome.

Desk.

I found a desk on the street today.  I went home, picked up my skateboard and went back for the desk.  I tried flipping it upside down and placing it on the skateboard, it scratched the desktop surface, and it did not work.  I ended up propping one side of the desk on the skateboard, lifting the other side and walked it home.  It was quite the treacherous journey amidst the hot July afternoon soon.  I made it home.  I now have a desk.  Productivity potential has increased 25%.

Money.

For some reason I feel entitled to having lots of money because I would spend it on guitars and guitar gear rather than squander it on fancy cars, clothes and drugs. 

Ok, maybe I'd spend some of it on drugs.

Things I hate. #1.

I hate when talented friends want to charge you money for a small favour.  If I had talents, I would share it with all my friends.

Moments where I felt cool. #1.

I was at a concert to write a review for the magazine I write for.  The concert was comprised of three bands and there was only one that I was excited for.  After the concert, the drummer of the band that I liked came up to me.  He told me that he liked my shirt and noticed me wearing it during their set.  He asked me if I saw that band at a show I was at.  I said yeah and that I really liked the band on my shirt.  He told me that he was friends with the band on my shirt through his last band.  I asked him what band he was in.  He told me the name of another band that I liked a lot.  I didn't know that he used to be in that band.

You know you're cool ...

... if you have a drum kit in your bedroom.

Tonka Trucks.

The construction site drew him into a gaze.  The preliminary stages were under way, the earth was being removed and the site began to resemble a dinosaur-eradicating crater.  Adorned in his expensive business attire with leather shoes and pleated suit, he couldn’t help but watch the monstrous yellow machinery pummel and tear through the earth.  Nostalgic for his childhood years in the sandbox, a time ripe with potential, he slowly began to remember his long forgotten dreams of wearing big rugged boots and a bright yellow hard hat.  Endless hours were spent with his beloved yellow Tonka trucks and his young self was most certain that he would one day be driving the real thing.  He continued to watch, immersed in the mechanical movements of the crane as it dug in deep and clawed through the rubble and earth.  The thundering growls and groans roaring from the machines, painful for most, were soothing and tranquil for him.  He couldn’t help but smile as his fellow financial district comrades rushed by him, drinking their coffees and talking on their blackberries.  Breaking his trance, his blackberry began to buzz in his pocket.  He took it out slowly, still staring intently at his industrial sand box as he pulled the phone to his ear.  “Peter … Peter!  Where are you!” said the digitally toned voice.  He seemed to not notice the urgency in the caller’s voice and casually responded, “Hey --- Steve, have you checked out the construction site across the way?  It’s so awesome.”  The voice in the phone was quiet for a moment, then a sudden burst of anger was released, “What the fuck are you talking about Peter!  The partners are already here, Jason is fluff talking them so you can get here!”  He slowly took a step back, took a breath in and sighed ever so slightly.  “Ok, ok … I’ll be right there.”