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Hannibal

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[18 Feb 2008|04:32am]
I'm getting rid of my LJ, unless anyone has any objections
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[28 Jan 2008|04:31am]
What do you say when he comes home?
How do you tell him that you're there for him, but only slightly better. How do you remain silent, when the question dances in your throat. Maybe he never walks in, and he answers the question with difinitive silence, never calling again after giving me the rushing hope when I heard life in his voice. My greatest fear remains though, the silence, never looking him in the eye again. I know that my role was signifigant enough in his struggle that, regardless of my intentions now, that my presence could be a trigger.
This fear, the detail and precise mental image, is so vivid as I play it out, that I finally recognize how long I've been distilling my fears as I play out the scenerio over and over.
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[09 Dec 2007|02:40am]
Awake, jarred, I reorient myself.
The panic subsides. The dream melts away.
I shake the sleep from my head, rub it from my eyes.
It settles on me like clouds of dust, disperesed enough, short of a whole, but the weight remains.
Pieced back together, still short.
The parts don't add up, but instead, they hint at every possibility, they advertise nothing but how much is missing.
I miss waking up too drunk to remember anything.
I had bliss in knowing how little I knew.
Now I love just enough to know I want more,
till I'm full of Kim and everything I love.
I hate that I know, know I'll fall short, that I am less than what I could be
I have squandered myself and now she sees the potential, but not the condition.
I love that I love, and I hate that I love.
I love the hate to make it less painful, less true.
She loves me. I love her.
I hate that my love will trade for far less,
She loves what I am, bought on margin.
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[08 Aug 2007|04:53am]
i am feeling myself begin to withdraw, the absence of surprise betrays some unconscious awareness that it was happening. I'm not dissolving friendships, in fact some seem more real and grounded, but seeing them less and less. Through everyday exchanges we don't have, I never find myself asking advice, sharing myself and growing with them anymore. We still know each other, but we don't know what the other has become, and we both recognize the bewilderment in each-other's eyes.
I'm pulling myself away, and it's easier than it seems. We all seem to let each other go with a casual wind.
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[18 Jul 2007|04:50am]
I've lost so many, gained so much, but I feel the same.
I know that I've grown, that I'm more mature, that I am in fact a better person than I was a year ago; healthier, more stable and more centered. I still feel diminutive compared to what faces me. I fear, based on the fact that I am sure of my inability to deal with it all, what happens when I am put to the test. I fear for my menu being panned by the press, my friends not understanding that my work taking my time up is nothing against them, and my family not understanding what it takes to be a success in my industry. Moreso, I feel like everyone who tells me they believe in me is wrong, that I will dissappoint, that I will fail. I just want to know that I'm wrong, the it's not luck that got me my position, but skill, that I am that good. I've never felt that. I never think I will.
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[01 Jul 2007|03:57am]
We and you ought not to pull on the ends of a rope. Would you have tied the knots of war? Because the more the two of us pull, the tighter the knot will be tied, and then it will be necessary cut that knot. And what that would mean is not for me to explain to you. I have participated in two wars and know that war ends when it rolled through cities and villages, everywhere sowing death and destruction. For such is the logic of war. If people do not display wisdom, they will clash like blind moles, and then mutual annihilation will commence.

To progress to war would be irrational. What happens when the rational method leads there as well?
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[20 Jun 2007|02:12am]
Got new ink today, pictures to follow soon
adding 2 new dishes hopefully in the next week to the grace menu, which is a feather in my cap, and puts me one step closer to being the youngest chef with their name on a menu in philly.
need to buy shorts tomorrow...shorts and beer.
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[29 May 2007|03:32am]
This morning, while I lay in bed, my parents took Annie to the vet and, after being diagnosed, they decided to euthanize her. I woke up to my dog having been voluntarily put to sleep without a chance for me to say goodbye. I loved that dog more than I love most people, and woke up without her lying asleep at the bottom of the stairs, totally ignoring me until the ambled after me and lay at my feet. There's nothing else to say.
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[18 May 2007|05:06am]
Is it wrong to love the booze as much as I do?
Clarifying brings a few questions instead of one:
1. Is it wrong to love the booze.
2. " to the extent I do. (Is it wrong to demonstrate as I do)
3. Is the booze wrong in itself?
4. Do I really love it?

1. Man has distilled and consumed alcohol for thousands of years. 70 years ago, 4 martinis before dinner was normal. Realitivity is often ignored. A standard martini is 4 oz., while a bottle (a fifth) is 25.6 oz. What was socially acceptable in the days of Bogart and Grant, about three quarters of a bottle a night, is now frowned upon as excessive to an extreme now unknown. If I drink 5 beers and a half a bottle a night, that puts me at a normal 1940's consumption rate. Yet, there are many that frown upon my drinking as being socially unacceptable.
2. Granted, if my behavior were an issue, if I were to offend more so than normal, or appear visibly drunk, the criticism would be apt, as it would be based on something besides simple quantity. Not so, though. I am told I don't even seem drunk, speaking and working in lock step and even surpassing the expectations. This I do not get.
3. Booze is a liquid without a mind. Booze wont steal your wallet, car or girlfriend.
4. Some have pitched the idea that I'm using it as a stress reducing method or an escape. Good god, you're right. Nothing is better than 4 shots of jameson back to back and 3 pints of the Harpoon Munich Dark Ale. I love booze more than I love most of the people I know who walk the tightrope in my ranking of friends and acquaintances between "I love you man" in the sarcastic sense, and the rarely said "I love you man" of a deep friendship. Whiskey doesn't ask questions, no does it want excuses. I would trade a thousand bullshit conversations for the same comfortable and supportive silence of a solitary glass, the peace broken only by the re-seating of the ice, melancholy chimes in a silent exchange. I love it more than I love you, shit, even me.
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[16 May 2007|05:41am]
Being is easy, in fact, you can't help it.
Starts and stops, beginnings and ends, progress and passage are unavoidable.
Standing still, looking around, and watching as all things around continue their cycles is much harder. Though even in standing still, time marches on, focusing on all other things besides the self, is almost impossible. The trick is to see one's self in the third person, as one of the surrounding entities, so as to ascertain the progress gained each moment towards the end point. alas, the signs of endings are found in the proximity of the thumb to index fingers in the right hand while reading a book, or the eventual final plot twists of a film, not the moments of life for the self or others.
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[02 May 2007|04:06am]
The cold sweat, I can feel it. Every bead, crawling, meandering down my back, spitting convulsive shivers up my spine, each separated enough only to surprise me each time. I sit and wait for each one. They don't stop, but wait each time till I think they have. They disappoint me almost as much as I do, every time they surprise me running one at a time, and I keep waiting, like the sucker I am. The definition of psychosis is doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result, but just because you change your action, doesn't mean you're not just starting another cycle of expectation and let downs.
I feel the sweat interrupted, every button I fasten, I feel a bead absorbed, interrupted, drawn away and made powerless to taunt me. Here comes the change.

The circle of friends has disapated, only Kirby Dylan and I remain. I could long for the summers long gone, I could pine for all the certainty I had, knowing the departed would never go. No longer. if my psychosis is to continue, it's on my terms. No more being walked on. No more being a doormat. No more being unappreciated. I am in control and I'm gripping the wheel. The breath before slamming on the gas is the longest you'll take all day. The ride will be long, and the turns sharp, but I'll take a concrete wall at 90 plus rather than waiting to hear the engine splutter and choke, the diminuendo of failure without a good fireball wreck. The coward's way out.
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[26 Mar 2007|05:33am]
the jokes aren't funny anymore.
he talked to me, called me out of everyone he knew, and when I hung up, I knew something was wrong. When I went over, and we laughed together, almost breaking decepticon, and the beers foamed over after the turbulence of the kitchen to living room transit, I knew something was wrong.
When he ate 40 percocets two hours after I left, and I got the call, I knew I had been wrong.
It kills me that he was reaching out and I couldn't give him a reason to go on. I couldn't make him laugh enough to reconsider. I wasn't friend enough to make him feel loved. My love isn't the pure kind, valuable enough to keep. I'm not a reason to keep going. I'm not an inspiration. What scares me most is that he was all of that for me. I called him on those bad nights. He saved me and even when I tried to be there, I wasn't enough. I'm not a whole person, or even a complimentary personality.

I guess my love is the kind that spurs the thighs in a mad dash for the edge.
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[18 Mar 2007|07:43am]
what's confusing isn't that I woke up in a strange place, no idea how I got there, that I don't remember last night nor even that I'm wearing things that don't belong to me. 500 bucks in my pocket along with poker chips, a copy of the dvd Closer, and a columbian cookbook in my car, these are the surprises. I will spend today calling people to fill in the gap between 9pm and 6am last night, and probably apologizing for acts commited but not remembered. Looks like a good st. patty's day, but who knows? (really, if you saw me last night, lemme know where and when)
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[09 Mar 2007|12:59am]
I'm dragged across jagged rocks, pulled over beds of glass, keel hauled on ships crewed by my enemies. The passage of time pushes me through a fog of dull pain, lacking the satisfaction of a single point of agony or focus.
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[18 Feb 2007|08:10am]
I feel really alone.
She loves me too much. It blinds her to my degeneration.
Since the quitting of drugs, I've lost my cushion. I can't block out that part of me, the one that is tearing me apart.
I have friends that I understand, but so few who understand me. I don't have the poximity that I should with the friends who can read me before I can. Without that, every destructive path comes to a head before I comprehend the situation.
i try to do what I should, quitting drugs, cutting down the drinking, and I remember why I did them in the first place. They silenced the part of me that destroys everything, the rage I lock away. I've been told I'm a mean drunk, but sober is so much worse.
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[25 Jan 2007|06:30am]
There's this panic, every moment is aprehension and wishing either time would speed up or that my ride just pulled up.
The best friends cause panic before a visit. I'm panicking because it's unreal how much I'm looking forward to tomorrow night. My favorite people in my favorite place, right next to me.
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[16 Jan 2007|06:22am]
I'm just disgusted with myself, the people around me, the people I don't know, and inanimate objects along with animals, plants and anything or anyone I left out.
No one should listen to anything I say, ask me for advice, invest any time or base any sort of notion using me as any sort of accepted truth or frame to a theory. I'm done having any effect on anyone and wish I could live out my days either under a pile of coats or in a giant plexiglass gerbil exercise ball...a soundproof one painted black.
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[23 Dec 2006|08:32am]
Imagine the sum of all parts.
I walked into the bar, and there sits frank. The joy came skirted with aprehension, the questions "How you been?" (are you on dope) "How's life treating you" (Dope?) and "So you're doing well?" (Dope?), soon fell away. We played pool, hugged, tried to put another episode of hanging out between drama and now. He left and I smiled for the first time in weeks. He's doing better.
Grandma died, the baby, everything bad was muted in my head as I saw my best friend again.
Tonight, dylan riding shotgun, I learned: He can still lie through his teeth and I'll believe it every time. His parents caught him last week shooting dope.
Back to hell at full volume. The circle of friends is done. Julia, Kirby, Frank, all gone. All that remains is the sting, the regret of letting anyone so close, and the motivation to never let it happen again.

I've never wanted it all to stop so much.
They say "Things are bad, but they get better." and my favorite "Would you rather feel nothing?"
dear god yes
There is no love left in my life, no courage in my veins or hope in my heart.
If only I had the motivation to do something about it.
I can't even bring myself to take action to end it.
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[14 Nov 2006|06:07am]
It has often been said that whiskey can turn a man into a beast.
Whiskey is blamed for the brawls and broken furnature.
It can bring the fire and rage hidden deep inside a peaceful man.
It brings tears to the eyes of the weathered and insanity to the deacon.
And they denounce it.
Who condemns such a medicine?
Few people willingly sit next to a tanner, his hands and aroma stained by his work.
None share a glass with an executioner, shunning such a horrid person.
Morticians find few ready to offer more conversation than his normal company.
Such is whiskey. Hated on principal. Essential in function.
Without it, our hands stay soft with knuckles never knowing a blow.
Without it, our vile criminalities live undiscovered and unreleaved.
Without it, our murdered selves and dead hearts are never displayed for our friends.
Let it be a wake every night, and a resurrection every day.
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[06 Nov 2006|07:49pm]
Got me a job.
Title: Sous Chef
Pay: More than I deserve.
Hours: They open at 5pm weekdays, dinner only.
Shift Drinks: Many
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