Went to Build-A-Bear Workshop today. My therapist said it’d be good for me, to get me out of the rut I’m in, called it an “exercise in creation.” I held the limp carcass of the bear in my hands for what felt like hours. What was I doing? Who was this bear? Why was it here? Not here, not yet, not quite. Did it want to be? What right did I have to thrust this bear into the cacophony of being without first giving it a purpose? I couldn’t move. Then this kid asked what I was talking about, and I realized I’d been soliloquizing in a sea of children.
“I can’t even think of a name,” I said, staring down at the bear I couldn’t bring myself to make, its black, plastic eyes like currants in a semolina loaf that no one ordered but had shown up anyway.
“How old are you?” the kid asked. I looked at his bear. It was bursting at the seams.
“I think I’m having an existential crisis.”
“You should name it Trojan.” I was stunned. This kid knew Homer? Then he said, “After the condom your dad should have worn.” He took the bear out of my hands and threw it at me, like that had been its purpose all along.
Whoever said kids are wise is a liar. Kids are dumb as shit.
by Christopher W. Pine
Objectify me once: shame on you
Objectify me twice: shame on you
Objectify me thrice:
It’s a vanity fair, and the air is stale.
My mask doesn’t come off, but recedes
Line, line, what’s my line? I’ve forgotten
them like I’ve forgotten
you like I’ve forgotten
It’s on the house.
I wish I was a real boy. Then I’d show them.
I’d kill them all.
This life: so many roads, so many POSSIBILITIES. The intersection of you and me, like the collar of a crisp, white v-neck. Where does it go from here? The metaphor is flawed, there’s nothing beyond the junction but a hemmed expanse that ends somewhere around your waist. Your waist-length hair is A LIE I SAW YOU BUY, extensions of a kind of abstract truth rooted in PHYSIOLOGY. They meet somewhere, the lie and the truth, hidden in waves of auburn
au - burn
aw - burn
But hair goes gray. THE BURN’S ON YOU.
Happy birthday to who^ever. I wish you nothing
but the best.
Anonymous asked: Finally heard back from Mr. Carrabino. That would be Joe Carrabino, Chris's agent. I wrote to him and let him know about your little dog and pony show here. He says it's horse shit, hon. Chris disavows any knowledge of losing a journal or writing any of the tripe you're posting as truth. So tell your lies and enjoy your fifteen minutes. The truth has been disseminated. I'll make sure to blog it, with a screen shot. ;)
Anonymous asked: TOO ALL ANONS WHO ARE WORRIED ABOUT BREACHING MY PRIVACY- NEVER FEAR, FOR CHRIS PINE IS HERE AND I APPROVE THIS BLOG. JUST PROMISE YOU WON'T SHOW ZACH THE EYEBROWS POEM, THAT HIPSTER MIGHT JUST TAKE OFFENSE.
chris, you used the wrong to/too/two.
go back to berkeley.
Your eyebrows suck. I hope they eat your face
like Zeus devouring his child.
You inspire feelings in me
A last name that means “five,”
and a last name that means “tree.”
If five trees fall in a forest and no one
is around to hear them,
will you still not hear me?
You’re an asshole.
Use capital letters, asshole.
Anonymous asked: If someone found your journal and posted excerpts from it, how would you feel? Take this page down. I know his fans want to know more about him, but exploiting his personal thoughts is wrong.
yes. good. i will post another soon. happy trails.
Anonymous asked: He didn't respond yet, but the fact that his privacy has been compromised, which is a very fragile thing for celebrities, I don't think he's going to be happy.
Anonymous asked: I just thought I should ask because I told him about it....
what did he think?