posted on November 06, 2002 @ 7:03 pm
"scabs, guns, and peanut butter," marilyn manson
this song was twiggy's first contribution to the band. even though he was pictured on portrait of an american familiy, he didn't actually do anything on it. he wrote this song, though, all by his lonesome. i love twiggy, even if he has had sex with half the population of america and has genital herpes.
anyway, i registered for classes on monday. i'm taking english grammar, history of the english language, chaucer (hopefully still taught in middle english; it's simple enough), introduction to ancient greece, and physical anthropology. since i'm taking greek next fall, i figured i'd learn about them a little first. my english grammar class was closed under english, so i had to register for it in linguistics. that's cool, though, because i'm going to end up with a billion classes in one area of english, the language section. i'm just going to take my last semester of french during the summer; i've become very uninterested with it, quite possibly because there are still people around who speak it natively.
i absolutely adore the first page of ferdydurke by witold gombrowicz. i'm going to put it in here in the hopes someone will pick it up. cheersies.
Tuesday morning I awoke at that pale and lifeless hour when night is almost gone but dawn has not yet come into its own. Awakened suddenly, I wanted to take a taxi and dash to the railroad station, thinking I was due to leave, when, in the next minute, I realized to my chagrin that no train was waitng for me at the station, that no hour had struck. I lay in the murky light while my body, unbearably frightened, crushed my spirit with fear, and my spirit crushed my body, whose tiniest fibers cringed in apprehension that nothing would ever happen, nothing ever change, that nothing would ever come to pass, and whatever I undertook, nothing, but nothing, would ever come of it. It was the dread of nonexistence, the terror of extinction, it was the angst of nonlife, the fear of unreality, a biological scream of all my cells in the face of an inner disintegration when all would be blown to pieces and scattered to the winds. It was the fear of unseemly pettiness and mediocrity, the fright of distracion, panic at fragmentation, the dread of rape from within and of rape that was threatening me from without�but most important, there was something on my heels at all times, something that I would call a sense of inner, intermolecular mockery and derision, an inbred superlaugh of my bodily parts and the analogous parts of my spirit, all running wild.
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