Aforementioned:

Your hair was a sweet and sugary syrup on the blank canvas of your afterthoughts

After the monster in your mouth grappled with the incense dimly lighting your tonsils,

He ended each fingertip with a salvaging dance along your cuticles

And this is the story behind the poison you injected into your pitying phrases

This is the story between the decision you made and the numbness you experienced afterwards,

While glowing glory out behind the bends of your elbows

Hey. So, uh...

Attaching the words: "God-given" to a statement does not automatically make it the pure and holy Truth above all truths.

For example:

"Preserve the Constitution's God-given right to keep and bear arms."

Hey, I'm a mentally retarded convict named Sasquatch. God gave me the right to own a gun. NO.

These unalienable rights are not meant for everyone. This is why controversy exists over this particular topic. Guns allow anyone to kill anyone, and it's really freaking easy for people to get a hold of them. That is...anyone.

No, I'm not like completely opposed to people owning guns. I know a lot of very responsible and loyal citizens that would never be casual with their firearms. I just think that people need to stop thinking just about themselves, and start remembering that there are a whole lot of other people out there - a unique and diverse array of them, and their opinions count just as much as yours...going by the whole "equality" thing we sometimes take heed of.

Stop throwing God's name around, too. Being republican, being a patriotic American, being in the military, being whatever is looked highly upon by the USA these days - does not allow you to make blasphemous statements. Don't act like you and Jesus have late-night conversations about all the right answers to American policies.

And freaking be respectful of Obama. I'm very disappointed that several God-fearing people I know think it's OK to talk crap about our president. Here's a little reason why I feel this way:

1 Peter 2:13-17.

"Therefore submit yourselves to every ordinance of man for the Lord's sake, whether to the king as supreme, or to governors, as to those who are sent by him for the punishment of evildoers and for the praise of those who do good. For this is the will of God, that by doing good you may put to silence the ignorance of foolish men-- as free, yet not using liberty as a cloak for vice, but as bondservants of God. Honor all people. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honor the king."

Politics are crappy enough without having to drag God down with everything else.

There's just no way around it.

There's no way I'm ready to do this, or selfless enough to go through with this. But all the same... I'm doing it.

I don't really know what to expect, so I can't say that I'm excited. But I kind of do know what to expect. I know I'm going to be listening to God, or as much as possible. But the weird thing is, I haven't been close to Him at all lately. Really weird distance. It's like not being sure if your best friend is upset with you. That kind of a feeling, I guess, if you don't know God. I don't like it at all. But I'm doing it to myself. It's always my fault, never His. That part kind of sucks, because you know you can never ever be blameless. It's sort of something I haven't entirely let go of yet.

Blameless as a baby stomping on ants.

I just looked over some of my journals from my freshman and sophomore year of high school. I was so cocky, and so stuck and stubborn, and about five hundred other negative adjectives. God, I was such the epitome of teenage girl. Sucks. It's weird that my handwriting was so much better when I was younger. Isn't that supposed to be reversed? Oh, and note this: "Aiichiwawah!" I wanted my journal to experience that sound.

Does anyone else have a problem with completing tasks?

It's weird that certain things bring us such satisfaction. We can't uphold our marital vows, but we can surely gain some frightening momentum for our worst and smallest habits.

My written journal is leagues more valuable to me than this thing. I don't like that this entry is such a journal entry. Sorry about that, by the way. I'm trying to remedy it, but I'm falling pretty quickly and steeply here. Whatever. Sometimes I wonder if I'm holding myself back too much, and then I remember some things that I promised this Guy and next I wonder if it's brainwashing.

It's not.

p

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Questions seem to arise like brain cells exist and we're dancing together as if we weren't locked between legs and arms and necks, and the blood flow shortens - comparable to the restriction of your tonsils when a smooth and sour toxin sludges down your esophagus, funny plays, funny plays, experimental plays, dramas and dramas - comparable to nose bleeds, insistent twitching of the eyes, and the way that they don't notice for once that small defect that you really don't care so much yourself about, And then 'tis steered directly under a bridge: very, very small, short, round - round? rounded, and soft - soft? malleable; as malleable as the mind of the creator and as fixed as the mind of the Creator.

A very special event!

Please go: It pains me when she tries to be authoritative. It's worse than when she's being passive, because then I can withstand what normally greets my lips everyday - if not, it's discomfort and squares in circles, jelly in sand.

So I hold her hand and bring her to the places she otherwise would not go. And I look at myself and she's so sweet inside my eyes, and in my chest, behind my knees. It's a cushion, and a design on top of it; dainty, directive, and daunting.

Because it's wrong, it's all all Wrong, wrong. If you say it enough...it won't make any more sense. And I can't make sense of it, although I try, and I reason with myself, forgetting her. And then,

Oh, how he makes my day: It's always embarrassing and uncomfortable when you rub their open facing tummies in broad daylight like this. He doesn't want it, and it's worse than when he's being miserable. It's, I guess it's normal.

And the smiles, they come and what he wants - it isn't as if you care, but it's just okay because it's making you a little bit happier, you're actually becoming more comfortable. He smiles for comfort sake, and so do you, and we're very comfortable with each other.

Congratulations to all, myself included.

Un titulo

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

Just don't force it.

,Unsuccess?

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Among other things:

I've discovered that Ozark folklore is some of the most amusing stuff you will ever hear or read.

Don't let them things creep up on ya and gitcha down.

"Ponder the path of your feet, and let all your ways be established."

I feel like this week is eating me up, and bottling me up, and washing and wishing me along, down to the place where I don't do my laundry, up to the full breadth of my stomach, across, against, against.

Back and forth as I sing along, wear my happy face, my insensitivity up my shirt - it always tingles up my neck and makes my face uncomfortable; it throws me into battles where I conquer conversations and throw my body onto each person I know better than "hello."

The days they remind me of everything missing, and I'm anxious about things never to be, soon approaching discomfort to be; I shriek and submit, claw and submit, and sink soothingly, I've convinced myself.

The tables, the chairs they hold me captive, comfortably for an hour each while I relax my tense shoulders from the days of preparing them for all things efficient, and I hate this fulfillment that I love, and it's stupid that the world rotates around pain, until it slows to a stop at achievement, the days should adjust to an opposition.

And I wrack and they wrack and spurt out all over, spill out onto the floor, all over me - all over myself, and I'm helpless, they don't see it; I feel the force of books and I feel the waves of the conversations lap right, below, my mouth, near my chin. Right below.

The days make me force, they are all that I have, and I discontinue as much as I can, as it all feels too unnatural, the way that anyone dresses and mingles and cooperates, while the days bring them some stricken satisfaction, or in some cases, unfound satisfaction, and I'm still stuck in the middle.

This week is every week, and every measurement that paces each step, each determined step, each faltering, they are convoluted with the concept of the mouth, in every person I meet and know for a unit of time, and feel united with; I sleep, and I'm haunted, by the week.

Proverbs 4:26

Unlike a Short, Stark Gratification

There is a pleasantry in waiting always

It is a kindness of being basic

And a sigh, but it is so long

And it is a kindness like the kind

That makes the most of a difference

And a difference that’s meant

To be something

Not like a bleeding of humility

Not like a short, stark gratification

Not like those things

That compensate

That resolve

Indeed, they abhor the notion

Of Patience

It is a mold

And it is

Time

And it plunges again.

I can't even begin to explain the feeling. If loving a human could be this wonderful, what is being with God like? I already know some of it, and it's surely greater than anything else I've ever felt. But what is it like after I die? I can only imagine that it's the most miraculous experience a being could experience. My religion - our relationship - is gorgeous and beautiful. It's sanctified. It baffles me that so many artists are atheistic in ritual. Which is an incredible understatement as to my feelings on the matter, by the way. What I have with God is probably the most abstract concept, most untouched by science, most unconditionally beautiful thing that's capable of being 'contained' by a person, or brought to our animalistic planet.

I guess it's just that people kind of ruined it, defiled it - you know, made it ordinary and started crafting all these mundane, obscene associations with it. With 'loving God,' 'being Christlike,' using the vicious tool of written and spoken word to spread hate...simply. And seeing as those artists are a separate faction from these people, and they can only really be outsiders looking in, it won't change. It's static. It will change, but not by my hand, or anyone else's. It's sad that He has to see all this. Sometimes I wonder why He made us all - just so that a small percentage would actually care. I mean, He knows that the majority of us aren't ever truly going to be with Him, so sometimes I wonder why it's worth it - I mean, for Him.

But then I go and I love the human being I love more than any other, and then I remember. Because loving God is about a billion times stronger and better, and it's just absolutely inconceivable. And He gets to have that relationship with so many people. Is He selfish for it? Am I selfish for wanting this person to love me more than they love any other person? God is so dauntingly witty, it scares me. How could he create a better mirror? I never thought it would be so obvious.

But I think I have a pretty heavy understanding of why some artists look down on God (as if He were some non-artistic 'concept,') and sometimes I wish they'd shut up and stop calling themselves artists for a minute so they could focus on something other than themselves. And so it goes.

Us; In the Valley of Hinnom

Help me take my hands from my hips some time

And let my flowered fingertips breathe

Because they carry a lot of weight

Like ‘you’re my baby.’

And that’s the shirt that you kind of like, that I always like and

You can’t wear it - or them – partiality always screws things up

But we can wear our modesty and our pride:

All buried in the valley of Hinnom.

A lot of the time, we’re hearers only

Deceiving ourselves

And hearers we are.

And tasters. And the cold, Shallow Dip.

To Us:

Lament!

And stop fortune-telling.

And be meek.

Things that make me sad:

1. When funny-looking boys only leave their addresses on comment cards at restaurants.

2. When the girlfriend gets mad at the boyfriend’s accidents.

3. When old women let their dogs eat off the table with them.

4. When dads yell at people in front of their sons.

5. When parents buy transportable televisions for their children.