Deal with the devil?

Been listening to this compulsively

And also this

What scares me most about romantic relationships is thinking I don’t have it together enough to be able to give the other person everything they deserve. I can just see myself becoming Gatsby. Having all these great parties and then getting shot in a pool. No, that’s not really what I’m getting at, but you know.

I’m going to a place where someone was shot a few days ago.

In case you haven’t had enough of this torture: 

I was going to read Jane Eyre as my pre-20th century novel for AP Lit, but I can’t find it, so I’m reading Pride and Prejudice instead. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe I’ll get penalized for losing my copy of Jane Eyre.

It’s a nice feeling to know people have painted me and written songs about me. It’s nice to know I could have been somebody’s muse. At least I’d have that going for me if I died now or something.

I’m trying to learn my lines. I’ve never had to memorize so much Shakespeare. I want to get it down, so I can focus on the acting already, but I have to do it in all these layers like: 1) know what’s happening in the play/ the scene I’m in 2) know my blocking 3) know my lines 4) know what my lines mean 5) act the part how I really want to act the part 6) add in some cool over-the-top things that were completely unscripted so we can all have a laugh.

So I’m making a deal with the devil. Tomorrow, I’ll let him read my poetry and he’ll let me read his songs. Like the song he said he wrote about me. Before we started talking.

I feel like the devil. I’m scared out of my mind.

I started watching this show called Black Mirror. The second episode was set in this slave society where people have to spend their days cycling away on indoor bikes to generate power. They make money from cycling, but they can’t really buy anything but new hats and etc. for their virtual avatars. There’s this guy named Bing who has all this money left over from his dead brother, and he uses it all to buy a ticket for this girl to enter a singing competition and try to escape her cycling existence. She sings for the judges but is told she’s more desired for the pornography channel, and she’s forced to agree because she drank something called Cuppliance that’s supposed to make her comply. When he sees a commercial of the girl on the erotica channel, he loses his shit and started smashing the walls. Then he spends a long time cycling away to earn enough money to enter the same singing competition and he goes on this whole rant about how fucked up the system is and he holds a glass shard from the time he smashed his walls/screens to his neck and threatens to kill himself. The judges seem to love this intense and passionate act of fire  and they offer him his own show on one of their channels where he can rant like that all he wants for 30 minutes twice a week. His act becomes that he holds the glass up to this vein on his neck for the whole time he’s on air and he ends it all like “Goodbye forever…until the same time next week.”

It’s kind of fucked up, but now he can drink orange juice all he wants and look out his gigantic window at a bunch of trees and he never sees the girl again.

I went to Roxbury. The lady running the exhibit asked me if I was one of the writers and I said I was and she gave me one of the books with my poem in it to take home, because it was a version that was still being proofread. She shoots and she scores. I spent forever looking at all the art. The ceiling was all exposed with the pipes and everything. I thought it was neat. Some of the writers had their writing printed onto these glass rectangles in the windows. I thought that was neat, but I wasn’t one of them.



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