// strike another match, go start anew.//

i’ve begun the process of self-publishing my stories.
it started as a present for Hope- which i truly hope she enjoys, as she’s sort of my prototype tester for all things creatively linked to my brain- until i realized that i can do it. a lot. if i can do a single story, i can self-publish anything i fucking want.
and so i am. i’m in the process of doing the next piece, which is the longest piece i’ve ever written- not necessarily the best, but unquestionably the longest- and which i’m still awaiting to hear back from playboy, as it was submitted to their fiction contest. not so much to see if it won, which is irrational and illogical, it most certainly didn’t, but because i signed something saying i wouldn’t publish the story anywhere else until i got word that they did or did not use it- in this case, the latter.
anyway. i’m really stoked on that. it’s incredible, seeing my name on the binding of a story. not that it means anything, as i’m obviously the one who put it there. but the image is one i’ve yearned toward for so very long, all but given up on. it’s nice to see.
i am jack’s excitement for the future.

// what a drag it is, getting old.//

if you don’t kill yourself,
you’re a liar.
a hypocrite.
it’s been coming for so long.
let’s think about the things you hate.
compare them with the things you love.
one of the lists is full.
the other is non-existant.
kerouac died on a tuesday.
just wait till tuesday.

it’s selfish. i’m aware that it is selfish. but so is the act of pouring yourself into someone.
it’s selfish of me to be angered by this, but i cannot simply crush something that exists because it is not admirable. it does not cease to exist when i realize that it makes me an inconsiderate asshole.

you shared something with me. i listened. it was intimate, and personal, and i felt for you, wanted to take it on myself, wished so badly such could happen, so that you would not have to feel it.
you shared this with me, and i listened, because i knew it was important, that it was intimate, that it was something you may never have shared with anyone before, and would share with very few people in your lifetime.
that made me special. it was selfish to feel something positive out of your despair, but i did. i felt that you shared it, and i listened, we were close.

you sent me something i found intimate. you sent me something i took solace in. you sent me something because i listened, because i cared, you took time out of your day to send me something.

but that’s not how it was, that’s never how it is, that’s never how it will be, and i cannot grasp why i hold so fastly to ideas and possibilities and optimism that i have seen proven so very wrong so very often for so very long.

fuck the bullshit, it’s still summer somewhere.

so,

i just read this essay an old friend wrote as a sort of why-do-i-deserve-to-be-in-your-school thing. and it was wonderful.
i’ve known her for a while, and have always known how great she is, but it was a side of her i’d completely gone without knowing for years that was endearing to a point that one cannot describe.
i suppose i was more surprised that i’d forgotten how wonderful she is.
not forgotten, really, but haven’t focused on in a while.
i think i take amazing people for granted too often.
i don’t want to do that.

they told me i was worth something! when i was younger.
they lied.
they told me i could be whatever i wanted! 
i wish i would have considered this a bit longer before choosing
junkie.
starving artist.
drug addled freak.
they told me the future would be something i could not have imagined.
they were right.

your blog knows more about you than i do.
which is great.
i’m glad you have it.
but i’m not fourteen anymore.
and i don’t need to tell an anonymous and ambiguous group of followers my thoughts because i’m afraid to tell my closest friends.
i’m not much afraid to say anything to anyone anymore.
the problem is not caring to.
and a url and adorbz layout doesn’t really change that.

this is ironic, i suppose.