A Fresh Beginning

So it was brought to my attention today that I probably shouldn't keep all of my writings on Facebook, even if they are disjointed, and I have no editing process whatsoever, and I overuse my metaphors, and I only ever write about boys and feelings, and I use way too many in-jokes that no one gets, and really they are all just kind of a bunch of crap.

I mean, the dude didn't tell me they were crap, just that they probably shouldn't be on Facebook.  He merely implied they were crap.  But being drunk, I slapped him on the ass and promptly forgot about it.  Until now!

So I made this here blog.  And eventually I'll transfer over all of my little bundles of lovingly made crap.  And eventually I'll try to make this blog not look so awful, aesthetically.  If there are pretty pictures you'll be less likely to tell me that everything I write is crap.

Also since Livejournal is a graveyard of furries and pro-ana pages, I'll probably be doing some regular old blogging about things and boys and feelings.  Or maybe just tacos.  I didn't really think most of this through.

So!  I'll leave you, gentle reader (why am I quoting King now?) with one of my pieces that I wrote last November after a particularly shitty trip back home.  Besides just resonating with my current situation, I chose this bottle to break against my maiden voyage because it's a good example of pretty much everything.  It sort of sums up my overuse of metaphor, my tendency towards the pornographic, and the little hints of serial killer inherent in everything I do.  But I'll stop making you hate it and just post it already.

Burnin' Bridges (OR, bullshit that came to me on the drive home) 

Scorch the land and salt the earth, cause we ain't ever coming back here.  And I can't take looking back to see all those little blades that pierce my body, and remind me how goddamn green it was over there.  My nostrils fill with the stench of kerosene and the terrified aura of nonchalance that we're both trying so hard to keep up.  And as the flames start to lick the bottom of my boots, I turn my back to the shrieks and wails and meaningful glances in the dark.  I wrap my hands around the whole goddamn place and squeeze, feeling the flesh tense up under my fingers as the muscles bulge, until the struggle finally stops, and the cold skin turns limp.  Nowhere to go now but on, to the next silly little place that will try its damnedest to keep my mind from turning back to you.