photocopierfujiya&miyagi

I flatten your stomach
Like Joseph Pilates
Or scientific discoveries
On lab rats and monkeys
And we were just pretending to be Japanese
Yeah we were just pretending to be Japanese
A grubby little mud with an infant's thesaurus
Je m'appelle David, avez vous fait un photocopier?
You're off your, you're off your
You're off your bleeding rocker
I'm just monkeying around with your furniture
A photocopier hunts your low magic orchestra
I collected a cappellas and I filed them into genres
April's wearing black, sucking July in the kitchen
I got a slow, a slow, a slow metabolism
The singer of Chicago and Electra glide in blue
Legs flapping like the gullwings to heterosexuals
You got me, you got me, barking like a dog yeah

I've been thinking a lot of things lately, and I've come to the conclusion that the world is pretty fucked up. Inherently fucked up. Now what I can do about that is still undecided.

You know you had a good night when all you remember are bright lights, weird music and beautiful colors dancing around you.
Friends, I challenge you to listen to "No You Don't" by the Islands. No, wait. Put on a cute floral crop top that you got for $2.50, ride your bike to a friends house, listen to them rap, get blazingly drunk, then go listen to it. And dance. And repeat.

Envelopes to send letters to my beautiful friends

I've decided

I don't like blogging. Maybe it's because I never have anything interesting to say. I can just creep on my friends so much easier now...

Where children learn to play beer pong and young adults learn to bullshit

The Harbor Bay Club is such a strange place. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. I love friendship bracelets and talking to hot dads and the infinite amount of fruit I get to eat. I love the people I've been able to meet through the Harbor Bay Club. But yet, I find myself going backwards. There is more gossip, more bullshit, more procrastination and more weird dynamics between people than I even experienced. So what's better? Working at a place that ensues hilarity (Frances, you will understand this reference) or a place that actually does some good, in the staff and the children?
I would settle for the first in true Rachael, incredibly lazy fashion.
Real life, get ready to kick my ass.

Even though I really enjoy doing absolutely nothing with my life, it would be nice to start having coherent thoughts again.

---

Wrist to wrist,


arm to arm.


We rise, we fall.

Pilgrims?

They howled and leaped and spun and made horrid faces, but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity- like yours- the thought of your remote kinship with this mild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough, but if you were man enogh you could admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in which you- you so remote from the night of the first ages- could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything- because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valour, rage- who can tell?- but truth- truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the Fool gape and shudder- the man knows and can look on without a wink. But he at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff- with his own inborn strength.

Do you see the story?

Do you see anything? It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream- making a vain attempt because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, the notion of being captured by the incredible which is the very essence of dreams...

No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence- that which makes its truth, its meaning- its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream- alone...

No thank you.

The whole tortured artist crap is such bullshit. You don't need to smoke cigarettes or be (un) clinically depressed to be creative. What the fuck? We create these stereotypes for what we want artists to be: innovative, "edgy," mysterious and it's agreed that they have to have "issues," be introverted, be destructive. Sorry, but this shit isn't healthy.

Just because Van Gogh cut off this own ear, doesn't mean you have to.

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I'm the kind



of mannequin



who cheats



and opens his eyes.

A whole other day dream

But we leave the sound on 'cause silence is
harder. And no one’s the killer and no one’s
the martyr. The world that has made us can
no longer contain us. And profits are silent
then rotting away.