By Jeff Walsh
With his acoustic album "Motorcycle Childhood," Tyson Meade uses spare arrangement and raw vocals to share details of his life. It's very different from his other role as the openly gay lead singer of the Chainsaw Kittens, where he used to take to the stage in lipstick, tights and mini-skirts.
By Janis Ian
In a small town somewhere at the foot of the Appalachian Mountains, teachers prepare for the coming semester. Professors grimly consult lesson plans, breaking in new Dockers ("I still wear the same size I wore when I graduated," they brag, bellies hanging over their straining waistlines like blubber off Ahab's whaler). Dormitories are surrounded by troops of exterminators bent on eradicating last year's mess before the health department shows up for a final check. The grounds are infested with newly arrived victims, ready to give the university their all and terrified that anything beyond the boundaries of the parents' homes will eat them alive. If they only knew.
By Janis Ian
I am standing with my tit caught in a wringer while a mall-haired technician tells me to relax. I am thinking that if men had to put their testicles in a vise as part of a yearly physical, we would have a cure for the common cold by now. I am very frightened.
The pink slip came as we were leaving on vacation: "We have found what appears to be a routine abnormality..." What's routine about an abnormality? I decide to put on a brave front and joke that in all my life no one has ever called me routine; then I burst into tears. Later on I do the grown-up thing and panic, furtively examining my breasts in the mirror for changes. I'm afraid that if I touch them to check for lumps, I will set something off. I wish they were smaller. I wish they were removable. I wish they were on anyone but me.
You know, I had everything planned out . . . Somehow, in the course of a month I've quit my job, my grades have nose-dived, the musical ended, college looms over me like a scary looming thing, and I'm dating this GUY.
so yeah. so, maybe im psychotic. maybe thats it. it could be it. probably it. FUCK IT! alright. so yeah, he's ONLY my friend.
I wrote this in my philosophy class the other day. Just pondering life and it's meaning. Dealing with my depression and such. Psychotic kind of thoughts and shit.
Caffeine, Nicotine, and Caffeine.
Black shirt, White shirt, Black shirt.
Everyday is the same.
Like the sun rising and falling.
Hotwired like my Volvo;
I've forgotten how to feel.
I've forgotten how to peel,
The layers back.
I am a 19 year old female going to college in Utah. For the past couple of years I have been having feelings for other women. Especially a basketball coach I once had who is 4 years older then me. I thought these feelings would go away and that it was just a phase. But my feelings haven't gone away and the feelings are even stronger now. I have moved away from her thinking that it would help me but it hasn't.
I wonder if Bush will put a spin on St. Patricks day. If you go out and get drunk and celebrate your Irish heritage, you're supporting the terrorists.
Did I get your attention? Hehehehe. Well good, thats what I meant to do. So I got three voicemails from my ex, and an email. Fun fun fun. She doesn't want to let go. ::frowns:: I would like to move on. Yah, the world hates me more often than not. I think my chemistry teacher is possessed by the devil AND his family. Heres part of the conversation:
Some girl in class: Mr. Virzi, do you want this? (holds up worksheet)
The power of mitts on a sting.