If anyone cares...


you can read my shitttty writing at thewindowfacingthestreet.blogspot.com



Otherwise, I'm not gonna update this anymore. Oh, and I'm moving to chicago in august.




















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I got into the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago. Yeah, an art school. It happens to be one of the best art schools in the country, but it's still an art school. The museum has one of the best collections of art in the U.S.; Craner, Manet, Monet, Picasso right through Warhol, Pollock, and just about everyone else. Name an artist and they have some of his work. The list of alumni include O'Keefe, Disney, Wood...

It's still an art school.

I'm not even an artist. I used to be a photographer, but photography is lame. I paint a bit, but I'm quite terrible. I doodle in class, but so does everyone. So instead I sent them a 10 page assembly of crap that I've written over the past few months, including several blogs I posted here.

I feel quite honored to get in. They even gave me a scholarship. Quite a compliment really, an unexpected one indeed.

But it's still an art school.

The school is located in several building in the middle of downtown Chicago, literally smack in the middle of the third largest city in America. Historic buildings. Beautiful buildings, as well as new glass boxes; sterile and ugly. Two blocks from Lake Michigan. The opposite of Boulder, exactly what I was looking for.

Still an art school.

Why am I so hesitant? For one, there's a lot to this world I'd like to study outside of art. Politics, geology, journalism, forregin affairs, spelling... I want to run a business, a publishing company; maybe go to law school. Plus, imagine the kinds of kids that go to this school: it's hard to look down on people who are more talented than you, and if you're not looking down on people then you're being looked down upon. Then there's the weather: horrible. Cold and humid, or hot and humid.






I am completely lost.

The moon wanes,
And you just lie there naked.
A coal train keeps time.
Endless hills of sage painted
The color of forgotten history.
The farmhouse where your father died.
The farmhouse where you learned how to count.
Only a fence defeats the horizon,
pins it to the ground and counts to three.
You say the spaces between the stars
Are bigger than when you were six.

You just lie there naked
And say that someday the spaces
Between the stars will swallow us all.
And thus we reached an apogee.
Turned, and marched home.

I already made the wrong choice once. I'm 0 for 1.

If I had to make the decision in the span of an hour- somebody told me to choose between chicago, toronto, montreal, or colorado springs, and that's where I'd wake up tomorrow; then I'd be okay. Spontaneity is much better than deliberation.

But I'm left with all this time, time to kill essentially. Time with which I'll build skyscrapers of expectations then tear down with hammers of doubt. And yes; I do write the worst metaphors. And I don't know how to spell. Nobody can read my handwriting either. I'm more awkward than anyone i've ever met, unless I'm drunk. I trip on cracks in the sidewalk at least once per day. I look down on everyone, especially myself. I'm addicted to caffein. I don't know how to spell. I never know if I'm repeating myself. I'm constantly scared that everyone around me knows something about me that I don't. I'm constantly scared that I'm going to die. I use too many commas. Every day, I wonder if my heart will stop beating, because it never seems to beat the same twice, and inconsistancy is a killer.

I wrote a sentence once and I like it a lot. Maybe it sucks, I don't know. But here it is- "I know how flammable bridges can be, and we all play with matches."




I'm really tired. I'm ready for bed, ready to shut off my mind, ready to open my eyes to a new "here"

a new anywhere.

"just like that and the deed is done. Drop of a hat and it's already started. What i'd give for that hat to be medicine. Time is now to be on the run..."

Maybe it’s one of the words smeared like ink from my leaky mind.

Maybe it’s a slogan from a 7th grade student body election campaign, lost in a landslide

Maybe it’s just another cliché I can fall into for lack of character

Maybe it’s the people I pass each day that I never stop to talk to because I don’t have anything to say except “how are you?” “how was your break?” “oh, you got trashed and slept on the couch every day? Me TOO!”

Maybe I should stop trying to write everyone else’s songs.

Maybe this is the term paper I left laying in the printer’s tray.

Maybe it’s the roommates and the trash I never took out and their dishes I broke.

Maybe it’s because every inspiration I’ve ever followed I’ve regretted, and every inspiration I’ve ignored I regretted more.

Maybe it’s because I’m scared of my own heartbeat.

So let us hold a candlelight vigil for my missing motivation, for all those “reasons why” that we all knew would never manifest but I followed anyway.

Grass stains and blue balls (a day in the life of a fuckin rockstar)

Today's highlight reel

8:00 am - 10:00 tell several kids, in the nicest words i can, that their papers are complete shit. They return the favor. It was fun.

10:00 - 12:00 - Poli Sci class with fucking know-it-all pundits who think they know everything. Did I mention they know everything? If I didn't, let me reiterate- they know EVERYTHING.

12:00 - 4:00 - run my ass off around campus and boulder; hit up the bank, paid bills, dropped off/picked up letters and transcripts

4:00 - 5:30 READ THIS PART fly a kite wich proceeded to not only lift me 10 feet in the air, but it also drug me 60 yards across farand field. This sounds like exageration, but it's not. this was a kite-boarding kite and it's huge and poswerful and fun/awesome.

5:30 ride a bit of BMX, and try to bunny hope over a (tiny) boulder and fuck it up and rack myself soooooo hard, i can't believe i didn't vomit my testicles

6:30 romantic valentines dinner with my friend kai, who informed he's dropping out of school. so now pretty much all my good friends either dropped out of college, or never went. this is really encouraging for someone like me who is .0001 inch away from dropping out.

9:24 typing blog instead of homework.

College applications are bullshit, especially when you don't feel like going to college anymore.

The funny thing about all this is, if I fuck up and get kicked out of school, nobody can really blame me for leaving college. But if I just drop out, by choice, then I look like a true loser.

I'm applying to schools I know I wont get into and telling myself that if I don't get into any of them then I'm done with school. Seems like a good plan to me.

The only words I know how to spell are those that have struck me down: home, youth, lifetime, leaving, gone. The only sentences I ever write are streams of regret, rivers of “what could have been” or floods of maudlin uncertainty. The only paragraphs I ever put to paper are those with brilliant introductions and blurry conclusions. My essays do not rise above a moan.

All I can do is write. Write about the places I’ve known, the people and their faces, and the places that have known me. All I can do is write and I’m not even good at it.

Heuhuehfpaewt aweiteh a I’m just typing because I don’t know what to write and mayube if I sit here and press these keys enoguht imes something will pop out. I’m not evne looking at the keys in fac.t in reality I’m looking at the girls walking by. I’m not even sure I’f I’m pressiong the right keys. Who knows. Mu mind isn’t really hweew qirh mw rosdY. MY MINDE IS REALLY SOMEWHERE ELSE. GOD DAMN I’M ELOQUENT. I THINK THAT I’LL POST THIS ON MY BLOD. I DON’T HAVE MISH ELSE TO POST THERE ANYHOPW/ OISN’T IN AMAZING THAT I KNOW WHERE ALL OF THE KEYS ARE ? I’M IMPRESSED WITH MYSELF. I OFTEN AM. W WWWWW WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW SOME GUYS IS TALKIUNG ABOUT 20 PERCENT OF PREGNAENCIES. I DON’T KNOW HOW TO SPLELL THAT OWRD AND IT’S EVEN HARDER SINCE I CAN’T SEE IT. PREGGARS IS A BETTER WORD ANYHOW. OH SHIT THERE’S THAT KID I HATE FROM THE DORMS LAST YEAR. WAIT. I HATE A LOT OF KIDS FROM THE DORMS LAST YEAR. MAYBE I SHOULDN’T BE SO HATEFYUL NOPE NOTIHNG IS COMING TO ME YET. I STILL CAN’T THINK OF WHAT TO WRITE. I HAVE TO WRITE A SIX TO TEN PAGE STORY BY THURSDAY. MAYBE I SHOULD TRY LOOOJKING AT THE SCREEN. Okay wow. This is why so many people link to me.

vrrrrrrrrrrooooom vvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmm vrrrm vrrrm vvvvvvvvvrrrrrrrrrrroom vrroom ereerrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeghhhhhhhscchreeeeeeeeeeeeeeechhhhh vrooooooooooom vrooooooooooom wwwwhhhoooooonk(beep) wwwwwhhhooooooooooooonk(beep) vroooooooooooom vrhrhrhrhrhrhrhm screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech chrashboomboom

He's even creepier in real life. The fucker's German too. (My theory- he's only bitter because he's 20 and hasn't kissed a girl).

The number (2^30402457)-1 has more than 9 million digits.!!!!!!! and the craziest part? The number is PRIME! That means it can't be divided by any two numbers! (I bet you knew that smarty panst)

Here, click this link and let it download for a minute or two (it's 11 mb), then to get a good grasp of how big it is, use the scroll (the down arrow)... oh ma gaw wow damn that's a big number! It takes about an hour I estimate to scroll through it!

A moment of respite as his rafter beam shoulders and his tissue paper skin eclipse the sun and his shadow blurs with yours.

You’ve never once said hello to the man. You have passed him on the street nine-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty-six times, and you will do so seven more times.

You point your eyes down: the August light is glaring. You do not think about much except Friday night and algebra and Tiffany and Britney and (loneliness) and football. You are (probably) just another (almost) average eighteen-year-old and you are (practically) sure of this. You misplace or misfile any doubt that your mind comes across.

You wonder where you will go from here (this ‘here’ that was once an exclamation point but has turned to a question mark). A graduation ceremony, moving vans in driveways you knew well, a summer job that you didn’t quit; this is where your mind is when you pass the man. You will pass him seven more times.

Buildings burst in this town. They spew carpet and sinew and mortgage papers and filing cabinets and air-conditioned-air all over the street. Such steady structures, the ones you imagine will stand forever. But now the rubble is sprinkled about- rafter beams and electrical conduits, ceiling panels and elevator shafts; those tissue-paper-cubicle walls that held so much weight.

It saddens you to see them go, after all the years of living in their shadows. It’s too bright here without them.

I'm in College. And I'm in a creative writing course. A creative writing course in college, if that wasn't clear by now. (see, rnt i a goood righter? jus look @ taht introductory sintence! Your hooked and you wanna keep reading, right?)

So what do we spend an entire day learning?

1st person and 3rd person perspectives. That's right. I tutored 4th graders last semester, and one of their lessons was 1st person and 3rd person perspective. HE. SHE. I. Which one is first person perspective?

I could understand if we were going to analyze which one was more effective for portraying this sort of feeling... blah blah. But no. We literally read a story then the teacher asked us what perspective it was written from.

Is it okay to think that I'm smarter than everyone, if I really am smarter than everyone? And keep in mind, I'm not very smart...

I just want to sit here all night long and draw pictures of dinosaurs and robots and palm trees with Vs for birds and stars and then maybe fold a couple paper airplanes with messages in them and throw them at the people below me. I just want to stay up long enough to feel like it's past my bedtime and then hide from my parents when they look for me to give me a bath.


I am six years old and nobody will tell me otherwise.


I've got my favorite green hoody on with the hood up and headphones underneath playing twee pop songs and I'm drinking really warm coffee with a ton of cream and sugar in it instead of black like I normally drink it and I bet it tastes a little bit like the girl at the table next to me tastes.


We are all six years old and I don't think I'm going to talk to that girl because girls have cooties.

All Harm Ends Here

This right here is the best news I've heard all week.

Early Day Miners pretty much just kick ass, but in slow motion. I'm not sure I would recoment their music to many people, but I'd have to say they're one of my favorite bands right now. If you took one part Dirty Three, and one part Pelican, then added smart lyrics, you'd have EDM.

It's funny how I don't have anything to say when I'm happy. It's not a good sign when I only feel inspired when I'm angry or bitter or lonely or etc...

I'm filling out college applications, and under academic achievements I think I'll put down that time in 6th grade when I was accused of plaigerism becuase the teacher didn't believe a 6th grader could write as well as I did. That's one of the best compliments I've ever gotten.

There's this sad girl sitting right in front of me and I think I'm in love. I want to take a picture of her with my camera phone but I'm afraid the shutter sound will be too loud and I don't know how to turn it off.



Now some assprick sat down at my table and he's blocking my view of sad girl and his food smells like shit and he's a chad or brad and he's texting tiffiny or britney and he's wearing some stupid shirt and reading about CU basketball and I hate him and I and I and and...

Hero.