Tuesday, August 26, 2008
damn i was a messed up teenager
While moving my old geocities (shudder..) site to my new domain name, I was reminded that it contains poetry written back at the very beginning of the 1990s, dating back to the bbs days and even before.
Literally more than half my life pass passed since I wrote this stuff. I'm surprised I still had it on the web; I put it on my first website when I was in college (at the urging of, yes, my mother!), and moved it from there to my first post-college ISP, and eventually dumped it onto geocities.
And holy fuck, is it pretentious. There's one where I use the word "mum" instead of "mom", because if you can make people think you're British they'll also think you're smart.
And weepy. Oh, the self-justified whine of it all.
The dishonesty. The moans of unrequited love, when I can damn well remember it was nothing but lust. But if you're going to write a poem about a girl and still be able to turn it in as homework for English class, it better be about love.
Somewhere around 1992, the Ayn Rand influence sets in.
But, occasionally, surprisingly close to the way I feel about stuff now. On a particularly rainy morning, at a time when I am tempted to spend all my waking hours thinking about the non-glory of my college years, I really needed to see this:
NOSTALGIA
Look at the old pictures,
remember where you were.
Sing the old songs,
remember who you were with.
Think the old thoughts.
You can't go back.
Does it hurt?
It always will.
And all the while,
the rain keeps falling outside.
Literally more than half my life pass passed since I wrote this stuff. I'm surprised I still had it on the web; I put it on my first website when I was in college (at the urging of, yes, my mother!), and moved it from there to my first post-college ISP, and eventually dumped it onto geocities.
And holy fuck, is it pretentious. There's one where I use the word "mum" instead of "mom", because if you can make people think you're British they'll also think you're smart.
And weepy. Oh, the self-justified whine of it all.
The dishonesty. The moans of unrequited love, when I can damn well remember it was nothing but lust. But if you're going to write a poem about a girl and still be able to turn it in as homework for English class, it better be about love.
Somewhere around 1992, the Ayn Rand influence sets in.
But, occasionally, surprisingly close to the way I feel about stuff now. On a particularly rainy morning, at a time when I am tempted to spend all my waking hours thinking about the non-glory of my college years, I really needed to see this:
NOSTALGIA
Look at the old pictures,
remember where you were.
Sing the old songs,
remember who you were with.
Think the old thoughts.
You can't go back.
Does it hurt?
It always will.
And all the while,
the rain keeps falling outside.