day 1 w/ pimped myspace layout (not so good)

(to note- I post these posts on myspace- because why not? And I made my myspace space all pertty yesterday.....and so....)

...still feel kind of dirty. It's that pull between innocence and experience that Mr. Blake spake and drew about.

I like the glitter of the page, and the arrangement of my projected personality, don't get me wrong. But in general, I want to huddle against my knees- fetal, and cry.

I want to hold myself so tightly, and hold it so long that a thin layer of dust becomes crust and I'm encased on my kitchen floor- a shell to rehatch from.

I've counted my fingers five times today. They're all still there. My toes- not so good. I have a blister and infection of the Big Right. I've performed open toe surgery to drain it. I'm telling you this because it is true- not because you want to hear it.

At least I haven't pimped everything about myself. I'm still dirty dingus McGabriel- in some ways. Or have I just hit rock bottom and am confusing my repulsiveness for the last remnants of dignity? I'm that clear, cool liquid in my Big Right, my writing the result of the infection, the infection a result of environment, the environment a result of will power, the will power a result of the conditions of humanity, the conditions of humanity the result of G-d, the G-d the result of the conditions of humanity- and so forth and so on.

Last night I did see a nightingale from my stoop. He crouched over a branch and spit worm parts into a hollowed hole. I was wearing night vision goggles; I saw it all- in an infrared kind of way. I may have been imagining things in my techno-delirium, come to think of it, but I'm pretty sure the bird turned its pertty head clockwise to me and said, "you're next." I ran, as I am apt to do in these blogs. I ran, goggles in hand, and handed them to the local restaurant owner, Bruno, on his corner. He had customers and paid me no heed, which was smart- because my hair was flying after me, chasing me in delayed, wind-gushed grasps at my scalp.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid that the hair has taken over. I'm afraid I pimped myself with style and little Gabriel is gone, the way that all dodos go: into cliché.

*send help.