a note of acknowledgement

helsinki dream, 1+1=1


this is for the ho-bags and the strippers. for the let's be friendsers and the don't wanna be just friendsers. this is for people who walk ahead and ignore their friends and are totally rude. for people who walk behind and prefer to walk their own pace. this is for people who's exes got remarried and for people who had a first kiss. for people who can't count past one and people who sing in cars. last night i yelled at my girlfriend mid-nightmare god dammit why are you always crowding my side i'm falling off the bed! (which i don't remember, but i'm sorry for anyway) - this is for me. this is for people who understand where i'm coming from, and people who don't. for people who are overweight and don't care, and for people who are underweight and do. this is for BMW drivers and bus takers, for rather-ride-a-bikers and for mapless travellers. this is for Tori Amos fans. for people who read Adorno. for Kafka-dreamers and fairytale-dreamers. for self-indulgers and self-loathers, for insomniacs and people who just don't want to sleep. these things, these things i write i write for masturbaters and muffin bakers and lovemakers. (why won't you kiss me? she says i open my lips but keep my mouth away from her kissssss me she says: this is for girls that need to be kissed. guys that need to be hugged. this is for amphetamine addicts and manic-depressives. for those champions who are happy all the time and make us happy and for the losers no one wants to be around because they bitch and whine about everything incessantly. this is for the guy who sings songs outside the train station. the guy serving you at the mall. this is for public transport takers, for the elderly taking 5am walks. this is for sunset joggers and sunrise just-got-home party-goers. this is for the funky hipsters with the gorgeous long-brown hair, and for their boyfriends who are always cooler than i am. this is for teenage bloggers and our mothers using facebook. for the sensitive and the macho. the douchbag jackasses who hound the pretty blonde at the bar on thursday i say to her Shannon, you're great i love you but don't talk to me when we're out, you attract too many douchbags i can't take it. she laughs are you serious? i'm not kidding i'm dead serious dude. it's really too hectic for me, not worth the trouble, these guys are sweating testosterone right now (and she laughs again and gives me a kiss as i walk away and two of the f*ckers bump me as i walk past). this is for the hometown lovers and the homeless drifters. this is for all our generation stuck in small towns and small times we can't creep out of. this is for people living at home and wishing they had independence, and the independent wishing they had rent money. wishing they had someone to say good morning to. this is for our dads who've lived alone soo long now they're acting like desert-island castaways or single-cell-penitentiary crazies.

this is for anyone who has something to say but doesn't know what it is. for voices that aren't genius enough to leave a mark. for the ordinary and the sub-par. for the limitless potential and the impossible circumstances holding us back. for the isms and the schisms we never outgrew. this is for the rum we drink when we hate ourselves, and the pills we take to chill ourselves and the drives we take thinking one day we won't turn around. this is for those of us who freeze everynight because our girlfriends like us to sleep naked, for those of us who sleep, for those of us who fall asleep in front of television screens with popcorn kernels scattered in our laps. this is for hiphop singers and guitar-hero-time-wasters. this is for the motivated. the driven. the kid with good grades. the confident. the idealistic. the heroic. this is for the unashamed. the responsible. the good guys who hold doors open.

this is for everytime i had nothing to say, no idea how to say it... mostly:
this is for all the times we had no one to say it to.

now grab your satchels and your prayer books. grab your tea mugs and your moleskins. grab your social-clique-shaman and your harddrive full of porno. grab your carkeys and your peacoats. grab your extasy tablets and your bootlegged ray-bans. empty your bookshelves into your backpacks and fill your pockets with mints and condoms:

let's go. f*ck knows where, i have no idea. let's just f*cking bail.