the archer &the beast
My body, the hand grenade.

Despicable, deplorable, dense. Done. Im a waste. I was born to be compost. Death. Death to me.

I amount to nothing.

Can’t break a wild horse.

No, I won’t turn the laptop down.

I would kill for some white bitch and dope right now. Maybe not kill. Maybe.

I fake it so real, I am beyond fake. Someday you will ache like I ache.

Is she pretty on the jnside? Is she ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly?


There is no more appropriate title for this blog than “holy fuck”.

I’m not familiar with the true depth and realism of dreams, but I feel like I just woke up from a dream that could set the standard for such. I’m still not entirely sure that I’m 100th percent awake. I’m light headed, dizzy, and confused. I just had to go outside of this house we’re crashing at to smoke a cigarette to try and calm my nerves, but I feel like I could smoke an entire pack right now and still be as unsettled as I was when I walked outside. Perhaps more. Fuck. I… really think sleeping is going to be scarce or quite difficult for me for the rest of this tour and we’re barely two days in.

Auto-pilot mode, engage.

I do can’t help but wonder… heroin, was that you rearing your ugly head after all this time?


Fuck it all to hell.


I miss the burn. I miss the elation. I miss the pain. I miss the emptiness.

Barren. Barren. Barren. BARREN. b a r r e n. B A RR EN. B. barren.



Backwoods. Hmm.

Backwoods. I have nothing else to say.