Tales of Doom & Bromance

mi amor.

respect.

hello again my fickle, whorish readers.
I'll try to take up as little of your time as possible today by doing exactly what i just said i wouldn't do; and if you didn't understand that, then kindly stop reading- now.
This whole thing started as a minute personal flickering of emotion that spawned deep within my gut as I rode along in my roommate's tiny mini cooper to a party store for a David Bowie wig. This seemingly random feeling eventually grew into a strong nostalgic yearning for old friends. true friends. As I have found that the more valuable human assets of my life seem distanced from me during my time away at a higher learning facility of the arts.
My brain and heart thusly decided, unanimously, that some sort of action should be taken, which brings us to now. here.
you.
---
As you are undoubtedly aware, you are currently engrossed in the "private" literary works of one David Andrew Carmo. the word "Private" being in italics because things that are written on such a vast, complex series of super fast data-tubes, accessible by virtually anyone, is hardly private. Leading to the irony that indeed, an online diary could and does exist, and- to further that irony- that Mr. Carmo knowingly writes in it.
The purpose of this entry in particular though, escapes me, and probably escapes him as well. As most of David's attempts to share with people in effective and genuine ways seem to fail horribly or are misinterpreted completely, as he most likely is aware. However, it is of his own belief that such failures and shortcomings are nothing in light of the attempts made, and that people will see his meanings within the act of trying. So, for his sake, let's hope that he is right.

The subject matter of Mr. Carmo's "journal" usually pertains to personal feelings written in a cryptic, poorly developed style of free verse. Switching sometimes to fictional story-telling or outright nonsense. In these stories he communicates his personal thoughts vicariously through the words and actions of a faceless, nameless narrator who interacts with loose women, sex addicts, suicidals, and the like. These characters may also be projections of Mr. Carmo's own self, Although there is no real way to be certain due to the nonsensical, immature quality that dominates his work.

Mr. Carmo, in addition to being a lousy author, is an artist. Although, when asked he would never admit to it despite all the obvious evidence pointing to this fact, as he is a very stubborn individual. Which, in and of itself, could be considered an artistic trait as far as one N.C. Wyeth or even Norman Rockwell, who during a television interview in the year of 1943 stated, "I always paint the world as I would like it to be." After which he proceeded to paint a serene, idealized landscape of the American Midwest for the remainder of the program.
However, whether or not anyone was aware. A second world war was currently being fought at the exact time of this statement between a portly, handicapped alcoholic and a very loud, nasty man with a mustache and Parkinson's. Both of whom had ridiculous accents and equally ridiculous solutions to their problems.
Regardless, this second world war had made Mr. Rockwell's previously mentioned statement also seem quite ridiculous at the time. But no matter how stubborn or naive it may have been, a statement by such a renowned and talented artist would hardly be frowned upon. Especially in comparison to the daily ineptitudes and ignorances of a young college student who knew absolutely shit about nothing.

So it was, thanks to stubborn ignorance and a slightly advanced drawing ability, that Mr. Carmo was one day destined- or doomed- to arrive at the Ringling College of Art and Design in Sarasota Florida. A town which he lovingly and childishly nicknamed "sarascrotum" because of its lack of quality entertainment and abundance of senior citizens. Whom he openly ridiculed with a megaphone from his car window as a way to get back at them for being wiser, more experienced, and causing slow traffic flow.

However, before we delve deeper into Mr. Carmo's future, I think he would prefer that we take a look at his past. As the majority of his thoughts seem to always be located there for whatever reason. So it shall be.
Until next time.

When panic grips your body,
and your hearts a hummingbird.
Raven thoughts blacken your mind,
till you're breathing in reverse.
and all your friends and sedatives,
mean well, but make it worse...

...and every reassurance, just magnifies the doubt.
better find yourself a place to level out.

Getting over to Rumor's place was not easy.
I had trouble just walking out the door. Even reaching for the doorknob made me feel sick to my stomach. Things are definatley deteriorating. I even experienced this awful tightening across my chest, a rise in pulse, shaky hands. The whole affair was one big paradox. On the one hand, I was laughing at myself, mocking the irrational nature of my anxiety, which I still look back and view as completley absurd. While on the other hand, at the same time, I was terrified. I wish I was terrified of something in particular, but there was nothing as far as I could tell, which made me feel even worse.
I know it makes no sense, but there you have it.
Eventually I accepted the risk of cardiac arrest, muttered a flurry of fucks, and charged through the door into the sunlight, or what would have been sunlight had those grey clouds not been blotting it out for the past 3 days. I was determined to meet Rumor again.
In my head I was running through the scene I had made three nights earlier with Rumor, wondering if my drunkeness coupled with sleep deprivation could have caused me to have those monstrous hallucinations, or if it was something else..
I told myself I'm fine. theres nothing wrong with me.
of course, I'm fine.
Except as I started walking down the sidewalk, I watched a truck veer from it's lane as it rounded a corner down the street, flattening a stop sign while desperatley trying to slow down and redirect itself. Then, in spite of all the breaks on this monster of a vehicle, it still flipped and began barrel rolling on its side towards me, with smoke now gushing from its innards. Ear splitting shrieks and metal crunches shot into the air each time it rebounded off of the pavement into another roll, until finally, the machine and myself made contact.
Suddenly, I understood what it meant to be weightless.
I was flying through the air, no longer a slave to the whims of gravity and mass. That is, until I was, landing on the roof of a parked car, which turned out to be my car, a good fifteen feet away, hearing the thud of my body crashing onto the hood, but not feeling it. I think I even blacked out, but I came back to reality just in time to wish I hadn't, as the truck was still barrelling towards me until finally, it got me again. All that twisted steel was grinding into me, instantly destroying my legs, pelvis and stomach. The metal from the grill wedging itself forward like a grid of large kitchen knives, severing me from the waist down.
people started screaming.
Though not about me. Something to do with the truck.
It was leaking. Gas.
It had caught fire, I was going to burn.
Only there was no gas. No leak either. There weren't even any people, no one screaming. And there sure as hell wasn't any goddamn truck. I was alone. My street was empty.
I was laying on the sidewalk like a discarded fetus. My chest stretching out again, pain jolting me back to reality.
This has got to stop.
I have to go.
I did go.