Brain Food

2011-12-13T10:43:00.000-08:00

I just tried to write
about why we write,
but concluded that we write
when there's something to say,

and there's something to say
when there's something to change,

and when there's nothing to change,
well,
we just don't write.

...as you can see,
I'm pretty good these days.

Drunken Paper Airplane

2011-09-04T11:41:00.000-07:00

Self-loathing outpouring into nothingness.

Intimacy
Intimacy
Intellectual...
intimacy.

Craving.
Craving, but never satisfied.
I...craving.
(s)He...retreating
I craving and (s)He refusing
to satisfy.

I see two standing,
talking, no
really,
talking;
being...satisfied.

I've nothing to offer now but
some shallow self-hate,
and not many are in the market
for that
these days.

I'm eating away at myself from the inside out.
I'm hungry...starving...for myself.

2011-08-19T21:02:00.001-07:00

We crave the melancholy.
It pays the bills,
or at least allows us to do the thing
that bolsters our egos.

We create madness,
because our views of the world are so narrow
that we think that beauty exists only in
chaos.

Our heads hung over toilets,
or rain pouring down our backs
and soaking our cigarettes--
those things are
ALL THAT THERE IS,
we scream at the haunting
nothingness.

"This...
is...
what...
it...
means...
to...
exist..."
we slowly chant in the backs of our heads
as we rip ourselves apart.

We.
We?
Or maybe I'm alone here.

Match Made in Heaven

2011-07-11T01:52:00.000-07:00

I was walking on 10th looking for a good one, carrying my knives in a briefcase rather than a satchel so as not to look suspicious. I just looked like a businessman when I carried a briefcase; a businessman with a wife and a lot of money but lonely and looking for a good piece of ass.

I saw fat ones with ripped tights and too much lipstick. Too much work for me, I thought, and walked on past as they gazed greedily after me. They thought I had money and lots of it. I needed a hot one this time, though—not a fat one.

A few minutes later, I saw her. A beautiful woman who looked vampy enough naturally that she didn’t need the red lips or dark eyes. She was stacked and had an ass that peeked out from under her miniskirt. I wouldn’t have known that a woman so good could be one of them if it weren’t for the shoes. Heeled, strappy, black boots so high that you’d think she was hiding something in them. Dark hair, dark skin…she wasn’t Caucasian, and that was the best part. The bags under her eyes gave her away the most—she was perfect for me. I walked up to her, put my lips to her ear.

“How much?” I asked quietly.

She gave me the quick look-over. “For you, bigshot, a lot; and you’d better get the fuck away from me and meet me up the street in five minutes. Get me in your car.”

“I’m sorry…it’s just that you don’t look like one, you know? I figured it’s safe here.”

“I don’t look like one, huh? Yeah, that’s what they all say. You’re not safe with me though, hah. So get the fuck away. Corner of 10th and Eastern in five.”

And so I did what she said. I walked back to my car and drove on up to the corner, which took about 10 minutes. She was waiting on a bench outside a bar. She had a large purse that she wasn’t carrying before. I bet she had some surprises in there for me…the nasty whore. Yeah. I had some surprises for her, too. She got in.

“Where to?” I asked shyly. I thought that I should make myself seem nervous with her. She was a smart one, and I didn’t need her onto me.

“You’re gonna drive for a bit. We’re gonna have to go far, to a warehouse I know. You weren’t very careful.”

“That’s fine,” I said. It was more than fine. It was perfect.

We arrived about twenty minutes later. She wasn’t kidding when she said far. I thought it was odd, but I didn’t care. It was a good place for me. We got out and she led the way; I looked at her body as I followed. God, was she a good one. It was almost a shame that I was going to do it to her, but not quite. Her looks really made it perfect. The others hadn’t quite met my standards. I really wanted a good one. She turned toward me and said, “Don’t get too excited until you’ve paid me, man.” I caught her eyes again. Those bags…I imagined what brought her here. Probably a drunk stepdad who fucked her one time too many; she’d had enough and run out, but she needed money. She’d been doing this since she was fifteen fucking years old. Damaged goods. Good, good.

We went inside and it was dim and smelled like wood. She took me back into a large room, probably an office once. She’d done this before. I looked around. A table, good. I didn’t like being there too long, though. I’d have to get right to it. She sat on the table, swinging her legs with those goddamned boots…

“What, you’ve got your money in that briefcase there?” she asked me coolly.

“Yeah, yeah. You’ve got some toys for me in that purse, baby?”

“Nah, pervert, I’ve got my money in here, too.”

“Well…now, listen, baby. Let’s get right to this. How much is it gonna be?” I reached into my briefcase and felt around. My fingers grasped a syringe.

She fingered the inside of her boot. “Well, honey, what’s a safe price for a rich guy like you?”

“Safe, huh? Hah, that reminds me. You told me earlier I’m not safe with you,” I said as I neared her. “I found that ironic, baby…” I pulled out the syringe and jabbed it into her. M99. “…because…you’re not…”

Something had stung my neck when I was mid-sentence. I started feeling dizzy. She was already on the ground, out. I felt at my throat. A needle stuck out of it. She drugged me.

Bitch…

~*~

When I came to, she was still out. Her boot was undone. She must have kept needle in there. Fuck. Fuck my ass.

I stood up, still dizzy and barely able to move. I had to work quickly. She’d likely wake up soon.

I grabbed the twine out of my briefcase and tied her hands behind her back. I tied her legs, too, because I’d seen enough movies to know that you never leave their legs untied. I picked her up and put her on the table. God, was she heavy. Probably all those tits and ass.

It only then occurred to me to wonder what she drugged me for. I decided to take some chances and lose some time looking in her purse. I pulled out a black case and opened it. Knives.

“What the fuck?” The words were barely out of my mouth when I was knocked down by something from behind. I saw her tied hands reach for the knife, but I was up and on her before she could pull one out.

We were on the ground, rolling. She tried to knee me in the gut and the nuts a few times, but I had free hands and legs. I pinned her down. I was going to kill the whore. She writhed around and a tit popped out of her shirt. Her ass was hanging out of her skirt. I looked at her, and my mouth fell open. I couldn’t kill her. I couldn’t kill someone I wanted to fuck so badly. I thought for a second while she struggled beneath me.

“Wait. Why the hell were you trying to kill me?” I asked, still holding her down.

“I hate men who pick up prostitutes. What the fuck did you think you were doing drugging me, you fucking pervert?” She spat on me. “Wanted to knock me out so you could have me how you wanted?” She stopped struggling.

So that’s what she thought this was about. “Oh, darling, not hardly. I was trying to kill you, too. I hate prostitutes.”

Suddenly she reached her mouth up to mine and kissed me, hard. We began rolling on the ground violently, and I unzipped her mini and unleashed that glorious, monstrous ass. That was it. A free fuck with a killer prostitute, and it was the best goddamn fuck of my life.

~*~

We got married a month later, and joining us on our honeymoon were 10 slaughtered prostitutes and the men who picked them up.

The End.

2011-06-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

Spend just a small amount of time in solitude,
and you'll forget that anyone else exists.
You start doing things you don't normally do,
like making weird mouth-noises
and having conversations with yourself.

Spend enough time alone and you'll feel
like you'll never see another face again.
Maybe your heart will race, or
your legs will get restless,
but you'll definitely be afraid.

Spend time with yourself--lots of it--
and you'll have three paintings
laying across your floor.
You'll have a notebook full of music,
and you'll have knit five scarves.

Spend too much time with nobody around,
and everything you see will be
some sort of weapon.
Every sharp edge or corner
stands out unmistakably.

Drunk something

2011-06-17T22:36:00.000-07:00

being drunk alone
feels no different from
being sober alone

every time I see your face
I cringe
it does something to me
every time I feel those eyes
looking at me
I want to vomit
into this bush beside me

each drag teaches me something new
about myself
like the fact that the inside of my throat
can feel burnt

you reached out to me
when I was alone
and I turned you away
because I'm a badass motherfucker

now I'm lonely
and it's 1:38 AM
on a friday
I've sat here for hours
trying to kill time
but nothing's working
not even the booze

my arms and legs tingle,
but that doesn't mean a damn thing
I'm still here
on my bed
under my covers
with a brain that hates its owner

Hello, dear,
why don't you go fuck yourself?

Autosexuality, yeah...

that's what I need.

From the back inside cover

2011-06-15T12:29:00.001-07:00

The world's gone mad but it calls me the mad one
People put shit in their mouths and spit it out,
but I'm insane for defacing a book or two.
Strangers stare at strangers as they dine
in the same room, yet
everyone pretends that his privacy is
important.
Somewhere someone sings a line
from his favourite song, and
someone somewhere else sings the same line
at the same time,
and neither of them are unique.
I ask the world to be different,
but I don't know how that would
make anything better.
I want people to stop being so goddamned stupid,
but would life be much better if everyone were smart?
We, the mad ones,
the "conscious" ones...
we sit in our cars and
talk about things that matter just as little
as the things that
the dopeheads
the gangsters
the rednecks
the hipsters
talk about
but we're convinced that the universe
balances upon them.
I'm sure everyone else feels the same.

-6/3/2011

Anthropocentrism

2011-06-14T22:23:00.001-07:00

Birds and bees fuck
like humans
but for us it's "beautiful"
or dirty
or reckless
or casual
or harmful.
Birds and bees eat
and shit
like we do
but our food is tasty
and our shit smells great
because WE ARE HUMANS
we are:
developed
cognizant
powerful
We are not animals
or
so
we
think.

2011-05-30T15:15:00.000-07:00

I am a shape-shifter
my face changes
in form, in color, in elasticity
my face sags
my neck sags
my eyes sag
my eyelids are heavy
there are lines around my mouth
my blemishes are red
red-hot
and I am ugly
when I'm alone.

When I'm with them
I am young
I have bright eyes
a nice mouth
radiant skin
I never see it, but I feel it
at times
when they tell me that I look good

My face when I am alone
is that of a woman aged 50 years
aged by bitterness,
by apathy,
and I am ugly.

2011-05-24T20:05:00.000-07:00

Seeing people fills me with some kind of wretched anxiety—
no, terror—
and I get dizzy,
and my breathing becomes sharp,
and I watch the woman engulfed in blubber
sitting on the bench with her five children,
playing paddy-cake or
bitching.

The fat disgusts me; why?
The swollen neck,
and the stomach that falls over the thighs
like a sack,
like a fanny-pack:
it makes me vomit.
I think about the fact that humans shit,
and I vomit twice.

I see an old man walking not two feet in front of me,
and my heart races,
and my muscle stiffen.
I blink five times and my eyes start to roll back into my head.
He has a hole in his back pocket,
and I think of all the things that may have fallen out.
He turns around,
and I think that he is going to speak to me,
but he simply bends down to pick up a half-smoked cigarette;
he finishes it.

The couple holds hands and a baby.
The man has a mullet.
The woman has a butterfly tattoo.
The baby is naked, save a diaper.
I want to murder them.
I want to drown them in a river.
I want to carve out the woman's tattoo.
I want to drag the man by his hair and
scrape his face across the asphalt.

I know what is going to happen.
It's only a matter of time.

2011-05-22T10:35:00.001-07:00

I...fucking hate everything about myself.

I'm stuck.

2011-05-19T03:41:00.000-07:00

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

Purge every anxiety, every moment of overwhelming sadness, every betrayal, every disgusting thing I've ever done and seen done, every short-lived depression, every day without affection, every shitty thing they've said about me, every shitty thing I've said about everyone, every time they've touched me, every humoring comment, every text message, every hit of that, every fucked up dirty thought, every sob, every sense of extreme guilt, every shameful act, every thoughtless word, every fight.

I want to take a scalding hot shower and burn it all off of me.

I want to go to the river and throw it all in with a thousand-pound weight attached.

I want to pour gasoline over it and set it on fire.

I want to chop it up and make soup out of it.

I want to wrap it up in garbage bags and send it out to sea.

I want to bury it twelve-thousand feet deep.

I want it out of me and away from me and I want to be able to go more than a day without it rising to the top of my throat and being swallowed back down. I'm metabolizing it, slowly; it's going to run through my veins. It's going to be an inextricable part of me and I'm going to become the shit that I hate.

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

I want to taste the good again.

2011-05-18T18:50:00.001-07:00

you're gonna take everything away from me I just know it

2011-05-17T22:08:00.000-07:00

I need a gyro.

I wrote this while high, Okay?

2011-05-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

There was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

He cried, because he thought that his idea was so brilliant yet unwritable,
and while he was crying, a bird flew into his room through a window.

"Birds have to be in stories; they're really cool and stuff," the bird said.

"No, silly bird. Birds are often in stories, but they don't HAVE to be in stories. I could name at least 100 stories in which there aren't birds," said the story-writer.

"Go ahead, then, do it," challenged the bird.

The story-writer couldn't think of a single story without a bird.
In fact, the only stories he could think of were stories that specifically mentioned birds:
Cinderella...well, okay, Cinderella was the only story he could think of at all.

The story-writer ignored the bird and continued brainstorming ideas for a story.

"I know!" exclaimed the story-writer. "I will write about a girl who has a wicked step-mother and wicked step-sisters and has to clean the house all day long!"

The bird chimed in, "Oh, no, that story has already been written. It's called Cinderella."

"Shit," said the story-writer. He couldn't get Cinderella off the brain.

He sat, and he thought.
He watched the clock for thirteen hours straight.
He sipped on some whiskey.
He read books and watched films and drew pictures and went fishing.
He did everything EXCEPT write stories.

"Say, now, why exactly do you call yourself a story-writer?" asked the bird, snarkily. "Have you ever even written a book?"

"I believe you meant to ask, 'Have you ever even written a story?' dear bird. And the answer is 'no,'" replied the story-writer.

"Then how do you get off calling yourself a story-writer?" demanded the bird.

"Well, I certainly am in the process of story-writing. Therefore, I am a story writer."

"I see."

The story-writer decided that his original story idea could be plausible with a bit of modification.
He would write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story...and it would end there.
Then, there could be some realization of plot and perhaps even a climax.
Maybe the innermost story-writer would realize that he was part of a story being written by a story-writer, and his universe would implode.
In fact, a resolution to the problem of the infinite story-within-a-story could be that you have to begin with the infinitely innermost story and work your way backward, to infinity, of course.
The idea was a little scattered, but he decided that he would run with it and see where it went.

Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, a woman entered the room.

"Now, woman, what on earth are you doing in my room?" chastised the story-writer.

"I was written into this room by the story-writer who is writing a story about us.
In fact, I am here to deliver that very news to you: you are part of a story being written by a story-writer who is part of a story being written by a story writer who is...well, I think you get the idea.
To infinity, and stuff."

"Well, I'll be."

"Yeah."

The story-writer realized that the reason his ideas were scattered was because they were fragments of the ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him, and the ideas of that story-writer were fragments of ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him...and so on, to infinity, and stuff.

"Your universe will implode when I shut the door on my way out," the woman warned.

"Yes, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing my story will implode after that, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing his story will implode after that...and so on, to infinity, and stuff. Right?"

"Wrong," said the woman, just before slamming the door.

As she did, an infinite number of universes simultaneously imploded. The timing of the women's entries in each of the universes was so perfect as to cause a simultaneous implosion so impressive that the result was an explosion which birthed an infinite number of universes.

And in the innermost of those universes...

...there was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

So, instead, he wrote about a baboon that danced to "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole to earn money for his dying owner's chemotherapy.

It was a best-seller, especially in the cancer-having, baboon-owning demographic, and the story-writer lived extravagantly until the day that he died.

2011-05-16T19:20:00.001-07:00

"The End" is a really sad bunch of words to hear, no matter the context.

It can make you cry even when it's "happy."

2011-05-15T19:34:00.000-07:00

I am bland and stupid.

to be continued indefinitely

2011-05-13T20:24:00.000-07:00

I can finally write my masterpiece.

Words are spewing out of my mouth and it doesn't make sense and I can't stop them I'm in a haze. My head is buzzing the words are echoing but I can't stop they just keep coming. 'You know, you know, you know, you know, you know, you know...' I see that face from the corner of my eye just stop it just stop talking why can't I and bullshit seeps between my lips and i'm talking in circles with too many 'um's.

the slide is the boat and you're on top and you're holding my arm and i'm hanging. i don't think that i will really die but i do and i don't want you to let go. you do and my heart jumps into my throat but it lasts less than two seconds and i'm in the grass and you say 'let's do it again.'

the bed is bigger than mine and the tv is in front of me and everything makes me think of sex. the bed post is a giant phallus and i rub myself up against it. i kiss it now it's a man and we're kissing; the tv is on and he has just flung a meatball down her dress. the bedpost has my bite marks in it. a statue of mary sits on the end table. mary watches me rub myself against the phallic bedpost and my grandparents are in the living room.

the crows are on the fence and i run back and forth along it with my dogs and i think of 'the raven' and edgar allen poe even though i don't know what or who that is but i've heard it. the crows scare me as i think that they are going to peck my eyes out and i hope that they do. i look at the sun for too long and i want to go blind because i want to know what it's like.

my baby brother sits on me and i hate myself but i'm only a child
the guilt and the shame ruins me

we sit on the bed and i'm scared because you tell me that you want to go to hell because you know that your mom will be there. you don't want to be without your mom and i write you a song as if i know so much. my grandma hates me and she always has but she loves you and so does my mom and that is why i have my scar on my knee.

that boy kissed that girl and i'm angry and i hide in the tunnel and throw rocks at the inside and it makes such a nice clang but i know that i'm making a fool of myself but i don't care.

french fries taste good when you're eight and find out that your best friend got killed by his dad. but he wasn't your best friend but you tell everyone that he was and you've convinced yourself that he was too. the play place isn't good on a day like this because you always hole yourself up in there and don't come out and your mom worries so much and today you would really hole yourself up in there. the second half of this memory is a lie.

squeeze my hand baby, please, squeeze it quit being so unresponsive quit being so stiff i see that look in your eyes please squeeze it don't take it away before you squeeze it because i'm going to have to do it if you do because i promised myself this is the test just squeeze I feel you flinch please.

the pillow feels good between my thighs and i don't ever want to look another person in the eyes again and I want to sink into the bed and never leave

we race on stick horses around derby time and i can't think about anything but sex even though i don't know what it is but it's all that i've thought about since we watched fly away home and you knew what i was doing there in the sleeping bag

but i hated that blue puppet and it scared me so much that i wished that you would have left it at the church but i didn't want to take it off of my bed because i felt bad for it. i hid under the blankets while you were in my room and played with myself and i knew that you knew but i fell asleep before i could care and i dreamed about the giant blue puppet and it terrified me but i told it that i loved it when i told my bears and dolls because i thought that it would kill me if i didn't

dad took me to see a man all the time and he traded baseball cards and had a big white beard but i don't know his name and dad doesn't remember doing this and i wonder why I do. i remember the castle and the bag of chips that i ate there but i will never know what it was or who that man was or why my dad never made me do schoolwork.

the babysitter called me a pig and i sobbed as i shoveled down my cottage cheese and choked on the curds and felt myself balloon and heard myself oink.

you wrote me a note 'if i'm dead tomorrow it's all your fault' and i didn't know what to do so i told on you. we're not friends anymore and i'm sorry but i think that you're a bitch.

'times of sex 1000000000000' 'kassandra what is this?' 'micah wrote it i don't know what sex is'

the commercial is anti-abortion and I say 'that's terrible' and you reprimand me for knowing what sex is and you get mad at me when i talk about gay week at disney because i'm not supposed to know what that is either because i'm in third grade

surfin' USA on my swing and so many times we sat in the chair swing and talked about nothing i miss the sun and i miss my back yard and i miss lauren and britney and michael and chad sams and feeding britney feces on a stick because she thought it was chocolate. her house smelled like ramen noodles and i hear that she has a baby now. the roly polies were so fun to play with after a game of tornado.

you sat on my bed and we wrote in my diary together and i write something but you scribble it out, laughing. i remember it but i won't tell because i know that you wouldn't want me to. you can still see it underneath the scribble marks.

i've always hated my ga-ga and she has always hated me but i don't know why but she did something to me and i know this because of how much i hate her and never want to see her evil face again.

"she's helped me more than you ever could hope to, and in ways that you could never comprehend."
"thanks."

this isn't over just wait it will last forever it cannot end.

2011-05-07T21:14:00.000-07:00

Depression is especially debilitating when you know that no one wants to hear about it.

Either that, or they'll secretly think that you're being dramatic.

2011-04-29T03:39:00.000-07:00

I wrote a very, very long poem.

Once the burst of impulse wore off, I realized how fucking self-indulgent it was.

Now I'm just pissed off.

So here's this:

A dead bird lay in the street.
Look at its neck,
thrown back as if in
defeat.

Curly-headed children make you cry,
not unlike the way you did
when you saw your own child
die.

Most old people die alone.
Their children left them years ago
when they were fully
grown.

Gays and Atheists just try to rebel.
They're the scum of the earth,
and they'll burn in
hell.

2011-04-27T19:25:00.001-07:00

If you want everyone to love you,
then you need to be mysterious.

The trick is making people believe that you're showing yourself to them and ONLY them...

They want to feel special, as though they've found a secret treasure-

-but they can never know your face.

If they're allowed to know your face at all, then it can only be a silhouette,
or a hand-covered profile,
or a shot with red highlights and blue shadows and no green
and no face.

(for no one is as beautiful when fully exposed)

Your name might be an alias,
but it has to be interesting.

vee
lux
bella
alabaster.
(but probably not alabaster; it's a bit too overt)

You should speak in riddles,
and you should make them try to
figure you out,
all the while laughing at the fact that
you never actually say anything.

You should be separated from them by a glass screen.

They should never hear your voice; if they do, then it should be low,
and distorted by eerie tones
and music box melodies.

Because the truth of the matter is this:
the more you know of someone, the less you can love them.

This is because we are all
just
shit.

2011-04-20T21:01:00.001-07:00

Everything is all up inside me
If bloodletting were an option for the psyche,
then I'd run with it.

I think thousands of things that I never say.
I may mean to,
but they won't come out.

...there's just so much that you don't know.

2011-04-20T14:08:00.000-07:00

"Hi, my name is Stacie."

"Hi, Stacie."

"I've been sober eighteen years now, and man, is it a bitch.
I crave the bottle every day.
I'm irritable, and it's hard to be around the people I love.
I can't stand being sober anymore.
My thoughts consume me;
see, I'm left to face all the uncertainties of life,
all the messed up shit in the world,
all the things I hate about myself,
and I've nothing to lessen the blow.
I want to better myself,
and I want to have meaningful relationships,
but all I can think about is how much I fucking hate sobriety.
I hate being 'of sound mind,'
because for me that means insanity.
I don't know what to do anymore.
My choices become more and more evident every day.
Do I drink myself into a daily stupor,
or do I choose to end it now?"

"How old are you, Stacie?"

"Eighteen."

Self-Defense

2011-04-19T20:47:00.000-07:00

I'm surrounded by a wall
with an electric field, and
so many barbs,
and lots of nasty prickly things.

The littlest things make me scared.
I run to the corner like a child,
and I shudder.

Feelings wrench your gut,
but you can't distinguish between
legitimacy and
paranoia.

The more often those feelings
prove themselves to be valid,
the harder it gets to
shake them off.

A constant state of heart-in-throat
is likely quite unhealthy.

An incessant tingling of nerves
probably means something bad.

2011-04-18T20:41:00.001-07:00

The music swam through the room;
we were in a fishbowl,
and everyone gurgled
and everyone “bloop bloop bloop”-ed.
The strumming fucked the plucking
and the drumming fucked the plinking
and it was one giant orgy
that moaned
into my ears.

Is this 250-word sentence grammatically correct?

2011-04-18T19:50:00.000-07:00

The single most important reason Miss Katherine Shallot was, at the incredibly unstable and defensless age of twenty-one, decidedly emotionally unavailable at all times to everyone she encountered and desired a relationship with, she realized, was not merely because she was desperately insecure and unsure of herself, her abilities, her looks, her smell, her voice, her walk, her poise, and her brains, but was also a combination of the many hurts and insensitivities that had been thrown at her by the various people that she had trusted throughout her life who, it stands to reason after the examination of all available and objective evidence, cared less about the permanent (or, in better terms, irrevocable and unforgivable) damages that they may have been doing to her psyche and to her soul, but more about the benefit that they would gain from treating her as—to be ever-so-sincerely cliché—a doormat or a rug or whatever you may like to call it; they treated her on most occasions as someone who is a mere rung on that ladder toward success (which anti-capitalists very much like to attack in their motivational speeches) in a world that not only promotes self-assurance and self-motivation, but also encourages the use of any available, vulnerable human being (quite resembling the work of a puppet master) to gain prominence and success in various abhorrent societal constructs including, but not limited to: careers, education, politics, and general relationships in which a person has in mind something material to gain.

2011-04-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

the only word I am able to think is

FUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK

being in a perpetual state of screaming FUCK would be really satisfying.

2011-04-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

I'm really, really, really, really, really, really, really FUCKING depressed.

and I have been for awhile.

and fuck everyone in my life who gives less than two shits about me.

which is all of you.

goddamnit.

fuck.

2011-04-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

Fuck you, Kassandra
Bitch
Brat,
spoiled brat
You're fucking stupid
You're a piece of shit

Thanks, Daddy.
I love you too.

2011-04-15T21:55:00.001-07:00

I haven’t let you in on what’s going on in here in a while
I keep to myself mostly
My thoughts,
my feelings,
my hurt,
my anger,
my changed opinions,
my lack of belief,
and all of those other important things.
I find communication unnecessary, lately.
If I think or feel a way that’s different
from yesterday’s thoughts or feelings,
then am I obligated to keep you up-to-date?
I’ve been thinking a lot, you see;
I’m just a private kind of girl,
but you’re not inside my head,
so how could you know?
I’m a dwindling being,
becoming day by day little more than
a "wild child."
If you had a record of all my thoughts,
would it make a difference anyway?

The Best Minds?

2011-03-30T16:17:00.001-07:00

So take all of your self-sufficiency
your malice,
your greed,
your pseudo-intellectualism,
and your pseudo-fucking.
You’ve no idea what it really means to fuck
or think
or believe,
and especially not what it means to
dream.

You sip your bottles of wine
in a bookstore
around a table
surrounded by books
and books, and
books.
You feel a beast as you ramble about
“The consummation of the proletariat’s revenge on
the erudite Bourgeoisie,”
but you feel quite erudite as well,
and the fact that there’s a book written about you and
a movie on the subject of “you” and
countless children named after you
means that you’re one of those nasty Bourgeois as well.

How can you speak of Capitalism
when you make enough to blow on
all the alcohol in the world?

How can you call yourself a human
when you live for things as if they’re the end goals
rather than the pleasurable consequences
of living well?

Fuck the elitist self-proclaimed communist dead beat dope headed Buddhist bitches.
Fuck them all.

2011-03-23T06:03:00.000-07:00

All of our good souls whizzed before my eyes
in hedonistic splendor.
They were having orgies on acid trips
and creating, and
creating, and
creating
with help from their friends;
never remembering any of it when they were of
sound enough mind
to write it down
or sketch it out
or hum its tune
or whatever else artists do.
They were afraid of reality--
they couldn't get a foot in it--
and they saw stars and
colors and
shapes and
she that was not there.
They were in a Blue Dream Haze
and knew of only one way out:
that final blow.
But they were too scared
of what lay on the other side of the solution
to actively seek it out.
No, they just dreamed of it as they flipped all sorts of
candies:
bubblegum, jawbreakers, caramels and peppermints;
dreaming of Sheba
and her carpet ride to a place called Sanity
and on to Adulthood
and Responsibility.
They hated Sheba, so they broke her up,
wrapped her in leaves
and smoked her;
turned her to liquid,
filled the syringe
and shot her up;
crushed her remains,
whipped out a straw
and snorted her;
or whichever way Sheba is best taken.
They gave her magic carpet bad directions,
so they ended up back in Candyland,
where tomorrow doesn't matter.
All that matters is how full you can stuff your face
before puking.

They had both their feet outside Reality,
so they were unaware of the burning books
and smashed instruments
and broken pictures
and spilled fuel
and mass genocide.
They heard about gallons upon gallons of water
and turned to their friends, asking,
"Do you know anything about that?"
and no one did.

She reminds me of you, in a good way.

2011-03-13T10:55:00.001-07:00

She's a cute little thing. Snarky, feisty, whatever. I like her.

Thursday night, everything's fine, except you've got that look in your eye
when I'm tellin' a story and you find it boring,
you're thinking of something to say.
You'll go along with it then drop it and humiliate me in front of our friends.

Then I'll use that voice that you find annoyin' and say something like
"yeah, intelligent input, darlin', why don't you just have another beer then?"

Then you'll call me a bitch
and everyone we're with will be embarrassed,
and I wont give a shit.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.

You said I must eat so many lemons
'cause I am so bitter.
I said
"I'd rather be with your friends mate 'cause they are much fitter."

Yes, it was childish and you got aggressive,
and I must admit that I was a bit scared,
but it gives me thrills to wind you up.

My fingertips are holding on to the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
Find More lyrics at www.sweetslyrics.com
I know I should forget, but I can't.

Your face is pasty 'cause you've gone and got so wasted, what a surprise.
Don't want to look at your face 'cause it's makin' me sick.
You've gone and got sick on my trainers,
I only got these yesterday.
Oh, my gosh, I cannot be bothered with this.

Well, I'll leave you there 'till the mornin',
and I purposely wont turn the heating on
and dear God, I hope I'm not stuck with this one.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.

And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.

Obsessed

2011-03-13T09:59:00.001-07:00

Black eyes are a mark of it.
The kind of eyes that are focused on something behind you;
they reach beyond your head and
they don’t look very kind.

The way your soul gets chipped away at
with every touch; every shove;
every cold nudge to the left as he
storms on toward the unreachable.

Irony

2011-03-12T20:44:00.001-08:00

You’re describing yourself and you don’t even know it.
Every word can be turned around;
they’re each of the three fingers
pointing back at you.

Every time I look out at the highway and see all of the cars,
and think about all of the people in all of the cars,
handling giant machines and thinking they’re so special,
I smile.
We’re silly things.

2011-03-12T20:01:00.001-08:00

asldkfjaksdf

I cannot fucking do this anymore.

2011-03-12T08:53:00.000-08:00

Why is responsibility something people feel that I owe them when they are lacking it?

Why should I lose sleep and sanity for the sake of "being a good friend," when the other party couldn't give a damn about me?

I've been in trouble, and I've needed your help. Just once, of course.
But I was left to my own devices,
because you've only ever loved me in an "eros" sort of way.
Hello, there, what can I do for you?

I've been needed, and I've been expected to "bail you out" so many times; I've always done it.

But not this time.

This is the time to learn to be big boys and girls. If you can always rely on me, then you'll never learn.

Besides, it's your fault for choosing to do the
risky business.

So fuck you.

and FUCK EVERYONE

2011-03-10T20:30:00.000-08:00

My breath wasn’t just warm; it was sticky.
It felt good against my cold tongue, but bad on my lips.
I got the strangest urge to scream a word,
but I couldn’t.
I stood frozen; not a muscle in my body would move.

Loneliness is only debilitating when you fear for your life,
and at that moment, the beating of my heart—
not like the “thud, thud, thud” of a drum,
but like the “pitter-pitter-patter-pat” of a quick mouse
across wooden floors—
told me that I was very, very afraid.

The fear was irrational, but it had something to do with
a man in a coat (not a trench coat; a normal overcoat)
and a little girl with a dollar sticking out of her pocket.

That dollar was a goner, and I wanted to yell at the girl—
tell her, “Little girl! A man is a coat is going to steal your dollar!”
but I couldn’t,
because my brain told me that men in overcoats don’t steal dollar bills
from little girls.

When I was a few blocks away, I heard a shriek,
and an anguished little voice yelled,
“My dollar! My dollar! He stole from me.”

The pitter-patter stopped.

I remembered the first time someone stole from me.
He stole my
pink bicycle
from the end of my driveway.

Exposure to evil at a young age, and
learning that you’re a victim, and
realizing that nothing of yours is safe:
It ruins you.

That little girl is a goner.

2011-03-07T19:25:00.000-08:00

Every secret I've never told...

every wrongdoing I've never confessed...

is hidden in each of these poems.

And I will never, ever tell them in any other way.

It's Called an Extended Metaphor, Fuckass. Read-Along

2011-02-27T12:22:00.000-08:00

Original Video - More videos at TinyPic

A little girl took a walk
to see her new neighborhood
for the first time.
She immediately noticed that everything was ugly.
No matter how newly-painted the houses were,
or how clean the cars were,
they were ugly underneath their fixings.

A little boy saw her walking
and decided to scare her silly.
He got some mud on his hands
and walked up behind her with it.
He rubbed and rubbed her hair with it;
he waved his muddy fingers through it.
The girl was not scared at all,
but she faked surprise
and faked her scared screams,
and this happened every day
again and again,
and she got tired of it.

Well

She walked out of her neighborhood,
and down to the lake,
where there were flowers everywhere:
pretty flowers, gorgeous flowers,
and they whispered, "Darling, you're beautiful.
You deserve flowers as beautiful as we
to fashion into a necklace
and drape over your shoulders."
She remembered her dandelion
sitting in her cup at home,
and these flowers did seem much prettier.
She did agree that maybe she needed
these flowers
to complement her beauty.

The little girl saw an old, log house
and it looked so interesting.
She saw a window that she could peek through,
and she knew that she shouldn't spy,
but she was too curious not to.
She looked through that window
and saw nothing worth looking at,
but she returned every day,
assuming that there must be something
neat in there
if she looked at just the right time.

She went to her best friend's house
(she loved her best friend very much)
and they sat and played with bugs
for a little while,
not doing much,
when a pretty girl with a rich daddy
and a big house with lots of toys
asked her to go to her house and play.
The little girl told her best friend
that her mom called her home,
but it was a lie.
She went to the rich girl's house
and played with so many toys,
but it wasn't fun anyway.

The little girl had a diary,
and she named it Janie.
She wanted to tell Janie everything in the world,
but she was afraid that Janie would be mad,
so the little girl only told Janie what she wanted to hear
and kept everything else locked up inside her head-box,
which was the little girl's way of saying "self."

2011-02-19T23:03:00.001-08:00

I feel inferior

and I'm confused

because it seems strange to be jealous of someone who is basically you.

I fucking suck at writing.

Invent

2011-02-18T21:57:00.000-08:00

A mind reels with nowhere to go.
It winds and winds and
accelerates,
but produces nothing.
A problem.
I see it, but I will never know
how to fix it.

I’ve always wanted to invent something.

Tangle

2011-02-17T19:56:00.000-08:00

My fingers tear through a snag and all I can think about is the fact that my face may be pretty, but it is framed by a torn-up bird's nest. After that, all I can think about is how insignificant hair is. I want it gone.
My lips are dry and flaky, my skin is rough and red and bumpy, and my eyes are chocolate-rimmed and smudgy. Nothing about today feels good, and by “feels good” I mean “looks good.”
My mood is set, and based on what?
Nothing too important.

Oneword; wool

2011-02-16T14:47:00.001-08:00

wool blanket draped over shoulders
coffee in one hand; a pen in the other
notebook on lap
you feel a cliche
but you do it anyway
because you like it.

sometimes we stray from conformity
when "conforming" can make us happy too
do we really need to be all that
different?

2011-02-15T20:41:00.000-08:00

I hope someone writes a song about me someday
I hope I can be a pervasive thought
that nags and nags all day.
Maybe I am.
I hope to hear that line that
speaks to me,
tells me, "you know what this one is about,"
when I'm sipping tea in my room or
gripping my steering wheel too tight.

I am selfish, but I want to have to tell someone
that I'm not everything, that it's unhealthy to feel that way,
all the while cherishing the sentiment
in the dark corner of my bed,
where I grip my pillow as tight as the steering wheel,
and sip dopamine
and lavender extract
from my teddy's hands

ugh

2011-02-10T22:08:00.000-08:00

I fucking hate myself.

Bitch.

one word; 60 seconds

2011-02-02T20:51:00.001-08:00

sitting alone in a darkroom
is much different from sitting alone in a dark room.
darkrooms aren’t that dark;
they’re very red
very sensual
i would touch myself in a darkroom,
but not a dark room.
i would eat a crimson apple in a darkroom and feel evil,
but in a dark room i would only feel
alone.

2011-01-25T21:23:00.001-08:00

Be as cryptic as can be,
because you have no privacy;
there is no room for the honesty
of a bound book of secrets
locked and stashed beneath your mattress.

The honesty to the self is healthy
and necessary,
but your brain is not a tablet and
its storage space is only room enough for bits and
pieces of your whole.

You are trapped inside of y-o-u,
and everything is a blur,
and everything is falsified,
and you don't remember the last time you
had a conversation with yourself.

You cannot trust yourself.
You cannot spill your secrets to y-o-u,
because she never keeps them,
and she would judge you for them anyway.

Lie, lie, lie,
and forget that you want to be "good"
forget that y-o-u stifles you and
forget that you haven't spoken
in a while.

The Flaws of Relating

2011-01-24T21:35:00.000-08:00

Words won’t ever fully get at what I’m getting at here:
a casually-tossed opinion mistaken for judgment,
an observation interpreted as vanity,
a spectacular theory on the whole of life,
never to be quite understood.

I know
you think
I mean
that thing
you hear,

But the pictures in my brain are nothing like
the words I spew in half-assed explanation.

You don’t get me;
that doesn’t mean that I’m special.

I am like you are like he is like she is like they are like we.

Not one of us gets the other,
because our minds are transcendent,
but communication isn't.

2011-01-13T04:11:00.001-08:00

Nothing

is

working

The Truth About Sylvia

2010-12-27T08:34:00.000-08:00

When I said that my wonky penmanship drove me crazy, I wasn't speaking literally.

I just meant that it really fucking got on my nerves.

No. What really drove me crazy was my inability to orgasm.

It was a bitch, yaknow. You have three kids and

you've never once achieved the big "O."

When I stuck my head in the oven that night, a miracle happened.

Ya see, I took the silver whisks out of my eggbeater

and turned it on "low..."

Just after my moment of climax, I decided I wanted to live.

Just before I tried to pull my face out, I lost

consciousness.

Tantalus

2010-12-21T23:26:00.000-08:00

I want to hang above you.
Breasts out.
Shoulders back.
You reach out and a rope pulls me away,
pulled by an invisible
rope-puller.

I want you to watch as others touch me.
Bare neck.
Smooth thighs.
The jealousy and desire unbearable,
you writhe in eternal
torture.

Wrongs needn't be righted,
shouldn't need to be righted.
It's in my head,
but it's no use.
I want vengeance.

No matter how much I love you,

I want to hurt you

so badly

just once

to even

the score.

Thanks, Elly.

2010-12-20T22:21:00.000-08:00

My teeth had been grinding furiously for the past who-knows-how-long?
Minutes?
Hours?
I became absolutely still and focused on feeling my body, but everything was numb and buzzing slightly.
I was vaguely aware that my left leg was crossed over my right, but I felt as if I were suspended in a vat of jello or floating in a dark pool of water at exactly my body temperature.
Something felt so wrong.
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I thought about a lot of things in that who-knows-how-long?, like,
“How can other people even exist?”
and,
“Can anyone ever get me but myself?”
I felt crazy.
My mind was racing, but my body and face were calm. Anyone who looked at me would think I was simply tired or uninterested.
What went on inside my head was a milling factory or a crowd rushing toward the last scrap of food on the earth; it switched between the two, as the first was structured and productive, and the latter was maniacal and primitive.
I thought about how I simply did not care about anyone else. I thought about how I hated everyone else.
I spent thirty minutes trying to think of a word.
I read a book and decided that people just let themselves think that they’re crazy when they’re really not, all the while doing that very thing myself.
I remembered all the times I’ve tried to get across the point that the limits of language make it impossible to really get a point across.
I thought about how I’d never express anything exactly as I meant to.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but thoughts of death and forever crept in through my nostrils and eye-slits and traveled up to my brain which sent messengers carrying feelings of fear and desperation to my heart and my fingertips, who received them gladly and made me a writhing nutcase in my bed.

I wrote about it all before all of it even happened, and I mixed up the order so I could pretend that none of it was real.

2010-12-14T19:51:00.000-08:00

I know that lovers always lie, no matter how hard they try, and no matter how convinced they are that their words are truths.
You can't please someone always, and you will always sometimes hurt them in theory or in your head. That's where the fibs come in.

I thought that I heard a hijacked aeroplane headed straight for my skull.
It crashed through my eyeball and into the office room where my brain stores my truths and my lies and this song and that scene and his sentence and her face when she cried;
it stores them all in neat little files in neat little cabinets in neat little ways
so it can neatly pull them out and give them to me on demand.
The plane crashed in through the window and into those cabinets,
and the files went flying.
And the filers also went flying, down down to the gravel below, where their own
brain-files smashed and flew and the world was a mess of floating information for awhile.
When everyone picked up the papers and folders and put them back neatly into their slots in the cabinet drawers, a few things happened.
1) Some of the truths were filed in the lies files, and some of the lies were filed into the truths files.
2) A song with 6 billion copies was filed into the file of every person on the planet, and we all hummed the same tune.
3) His memories got mixed up with her memories, and soon everyone had some memories that weren't their own, they belonged to someone else, and we all felt connected in a strange way that seemed real but wasn't at all.

I look at you and you think you see a glimmer in my eye; remind yourself that you're wrong.

We're all just victims of disorganization.

2010-10-27T20:42:00.000-07:00

Why do I feel so fucking...wrong?

It's boredom.

I'm sick of the fucking boredom.

Everything is the same, every day. Since when did I let myself be okay with that again?
I miss my friends.
I'm sorry. I don't know the solution.

(not being with you for any extended amount of time when I know that I can feels like shit, so...)

2010-10-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

"Dude, did you see that banana just walk by?"

"No, there isn't one. Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, haha, right. I'm just way too stoned."

"You're on weed, not LSD. Quit being a faggot."

"Hey, don't use that word. Gay people are cool."

"I'm not talking about homosexuals; I'm talking about you. You're being a faggot. I'm never smoking with you again."

"Sorry..."

"Yeah, you'd better be. You're acting like an eighth grade girl on cough syrup."

"Really?"

"Yeah...just stop talking. Try to move with time. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, time's like, breathing. It's so cool."

"No, time is not fucking breathing. Stop with your fake tripping. Weed is chill."

"Okay..."

"Do you feel giddy?"

"YEAH!"

"No, you don't. Shut the fuck up. I was testing you. You're a goddamn phony."

"I'm sorry."

2010-10-23T08:38:00.000-07:00

When there are things that are going to hurt you forever

and can't be fixed

what the HELL are you supposed to do?

_______________________________________________

Midas' touch was cold,
but you're a piece, dear,
aren't you now?
Lustrous...
lustre...
lusty...
lust.
I run my fingertips
over your smooth breast,
then knock with my four knuckles
and it hurts.
Don't mind it, dear;
you look good, anyway.
It only matters how you appear
from far away.
As long as no one touches, it's okay.
You'll be my
trophy love.

2010-09-08T21:35:00.000-07:00

Literally everything has been going my way lately.

Like...what the fuck kind of lottery-winning-streak is this?

I couldn't ask for anything more.

...that scares me.

Take It Upon Yourself

2010-09-07T20:23:00.000-07:00

Trees don't have mouths, and
ten seconds is much less than an hour.
The more you take in, the more you lose
(of yourself, in this case, anyway).
One million pieces, not shattered but
torn and squished by malicious fingers.
You can put them back into a pressure-mold
but nothing will ever
be
the
same.
Boys become men belatedly,
so maybe you ought to figure it all out
instead of twiddling your thumbs
while you wait.

2010-09-06T18:33:00.000-07:00

Last night...was amazing.

I can't even talk about it to my best friend. Why? Because the entire night revolved around a huge lie I told her.

When he looked at me while playing that guitar...damn. Such an intense look, I could literally have orgasmed if I hadn't looked away.

I should have stayed the night with him. I was scared. Not of being with him, no, no. That part is so unbelievably not scary. I was scared of the lie. The entire night was a lie, and lies get me into trouble. This lie would have been monstrous.

The music was so amazing. I never thought I would actually sit in on a practice and thoroughly enjoy the music. But wow...he nearly brought me to tears. SO good...so fucking good. Words cannot express the tingly sensation I got when he shredded that solo, staring at me.

I want to tell someone, anyone, because thinking about it is just so intangible. Writing things down feels better because the thoughts are now something material that will always be there. That applies to everything; I love writing.

I'm a little high right now, this all sounds so jumbled.

My mind is a mess lately.

Still, She Haunts Me

2010-09-04T09:51:00.001-07:00

Death sleeps by greenish glow of hazy nights.
A mist lay over finely chiseled stone.
The howling of the dogs at soft moonlight
could never leave my mem'ry on its own.
A simple whisper cut through droning sound;
a tale of lovers torn apart by sea.
The girl who retches, grasping at the ground;
the boy who waves goodbye on his right knee.
I never heard a sound so sad as this.
Wind-whispered stories masked for death's cold kiss.

2010-08-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

I fucking hate the way I am right now.

I mean...god, I just HATE it.

The ditzy bubbly slutty drunken godfuckingdamnme dumb fucking WHORE of a shell of a person.

It's disgusting.

Here's my day:

Wake up
Make myself look desirable
Throw myself at those who desire me
Hang out with someone who doesn't know what the word "bias" means
Work out to make myself look even more desirable
Go to bed

So. Fucking. Shallow.
So. Fucking. Suffocating.

I'm smarter than this.

2010-08-18T20:31:00.000-07:00

My psychology class feels so incredibly pointless for me.

When I know every concept being discussed from simply a bit of curious googling throughout the past few years, I know that it is a very, very basic course.

The teacher is very flamboyant; it's sad that he has to hide the fact that he's gay in order to keep his job.

It gives me room to play a few manipulation games in there. Let's consider my behaviour a hands-on psychology experiment...I'll probably get more out of that than if I were to actually focus all my efforts into the busywork worksheets we do in class.

I wish I had a philosophy class. I feel like I'm not working out my brain, much. I feel like my brain has turned to absolute mush. I want to feel challenged. I'm breezing through life and it feels so empty. Everything is effortless, and I'm not growing as a person whatsoever.

L.A.
L.A.
L.A.
the angels.

You've Sat Yourself Upon My Shelf

2010-08-17T18:56:00.000-07:00

I miss you. I really miss you. Why do I still fucking miss you?

Ashes to ashes to
dust
makes me sneeze
makes me feel...things

like the memories
in your memory
cells
on the cells in my
nose

sniffing your finger
nails
snorting your eye
lashes

sprinkle your ashes to ashes
on top of my
cereal.
mix up the oats
and the strawberries;
bananas and
lips;
yes, your lips.

you may be gone,
but this way
you are inside of me

...for the first
time

2010-08-13T21:32:00.000-07:00

It was like a bizarre dream; you wish you could tell it to someone, but no words or descriptions could ever coherently translate what you saw. Your mind cannot grasp in your waking moments that which it can see when you're asleep.

Why?

2010-08-12T17:09:00.001-07:00

Wisdom is a woman, to the classics. Personified in Athena, wisdom is the disheveled war-goddess. She is the Proverbial virgin bride, more precious than jewels. I don't feel the same about wisdom as Solomon or Homer seem to. I don't envision wisdom a gentle, earthy goddess. I don't see a quiet, nurturing woman. I see the old, wrinkled man with long, frizzy white hair and a lengthy beard. His forehead is furrowed; he wobbles on a wooden stick. He is Gandalf the Gray; he is Dumbledore. He is Merlin in his forest cabin, with thousands of books lining his shelves, readily available to be pulled out when an eager pupil seeks the knowledge he possesses. He is The Giver, who holds every truth, every memory, and with the pressing of his fingertips to my temples he can share it all with me. It's a whimsical view of wisdom, a sort of magical, maybe childish view. but while the idea of this wise man evokes warm, hearty feelings, the idea of a wise woman makes me cringe.

I feel...excited

2010-08-09T18:37:00.000-07:00

I finally found someone I've a mutual attraction with.

Unfortunately, it's my best friend's ex...and I have no desire to tell her about it.

the attraction is purely sexual. he's not my type...personality-wise.
But I don't want a relationship. Not at all.

2010-08-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

I want to feel full.

To feel whole, like I used to.

There's an emptiness, fear and anxiety there...even the best possible future I could dream up scares the shit out of me. Nothing feels right; no matter what hypothetical scenario I place myself in, it feels foreign and useless. "What's the point?"

I hate being so lifeless when I have the potential for so much passion and energy. My soul needs a little dose of spiritual B12.

Or, it would...y'know, if I believed I had a "soul."

2010-08-05T20:23:00.000-07:00

It's so much easier to play the part that gets you what you want.

It's really easy to be manipulative.

It isn't so easy feeling like shit over it, though.

2010-08-04T22:04:00.001-07:00

A mess of thoughts and emotions consumes me. For an hour, this thought; for another, the next one. Cyclic. My stomach is sick. I feel enslaved to something that is not me, as if I'm curled up in a little ball in the top of my head but something else controls my body and the rest of my mind.

Nothing I say makes much sense.

I know what I want but I've no way to get there.

This...is a Story. Finish it.

2010-07-26T22:26:00.000-07:00

That motherfucker is staring at me.

There he was. An ogre. Sitting across the room, alone in a booth. What sort of creepy fuck eats at restaurant alone...in a goddamn booth? And he's staring at me; he has been staring at me for the last five minutes. Every time I look up...those eyes. Those fucking disgusting furrowing bushy whacked out eyebrows. That fucking mustache looks like someone shit and smeared it in splotchy patches above his lip. He's so fucking fat, too. God. I know I'm attractive or whatever, but does he have to be so goddamn obvious?

A friend joins him. Equally as creepy-looking. Thin, frail, glasses, a goatee. Fatass nudges Skins and they both look at me. They're smiling. Oh, god, I cannot even look at them. I can't make eye contact. They're fucking raping me in their minds right now. Thinking the most horridly vulgar, nasty things about me. I know I'm hot, but can't they control themselves? I give them the finger. They raise their eyebrows but continue looking. God, the nerve...

More people are staring, Kass.

Nearly every man in the room is staring. I'm not used to so much attention, yet. They should give me a break. Ease me into this whole, "every-man-who-looks-at-you-wants-to-ravage-you" thing. It makes me so uncomfortable, damn. My skin is crawling; I feel so fucking invaded. Why are men such creepy fucks? Why are they such assholes--such dogs?

Something flashes behind me. What the FUCK? Is someone taking a goddamn picture of me? I turn to tell off the motherfucker who thinks he can get off taking a picture of me without my consent.

A football player is sitting at a table in the court. A famous football player...I've seen him before...he's signing photographs, footballs, and jerseys at a table in the court. Dads are bringing their kids; everyone is crowded around. Guys in the mall from every direction are staring. Guys in this restaurant are staring out the window directly behind me...at a football player.

2010-07-26T15:18:00.001-07:00

I don't like what/who/where I am right now.

I'm having fun, sure.

But when I'm -not- out having "fun" (read: drunk/high and hooking up with the next tool) and can't sleep at night all I can do is repress the vomit that comes up when I think about the things I'm doing and saying and pretending I care about.

I think about any possible alternatives, though, and realize there really are none.

I'm stuck.

I'm vile.

My life has become recycling one superficial excitement after another.
Lately, I've thrived off of the words, "You're so pretty."
What is that?
Who gives a shit?
Not anyone who matters.

I've thrown away what semblance of "self" I once had. I didn't live for myself then, but I'm sure as hell not doing it now.

"I sincerely believe that everyone has need for such a respite."
"I sincerely believe that everyone has need for such a respite."
"I sincerely believe that everyone has need for such a respite."
"I sincerely believe that everyone has need for such a respite."
"I sincerely believe that everyone has need for such a respite."

fuck.

The Bachelorette

2010-07-26T00:13:00.000-07:00

WHOM to choose? They've lined up and they're putting the pressure on! Perhaps I should ELIMINATE them one by one.
(I suppose that means recognizing their deal-breaking faults)

Contestants
(* denotes one I've yet to meet):

1. "Hindu" - Young. Listens to terrible music (aka metal). Has a bad haircut. Gets totally awkward around me. Analyzes and falsely interprets everything I do or say.

2. "Sirhc" - Young. Foreign. Obscenely sexual. Unattractive. Constantly suggests dirty things then says "just kidding" when I don't reciprocate.

*3. "Chub" - Fat. Dumb. Douche. Schmucky

*4. "Sir" - Fat. Tool. Forward.

*5. "MHDIFB" - Sexually inexperienced (has never touched a girl). Ugly as shit.

6. "Agassi" - Not at all aesthetically pleasing.

7. "Karem" - Smokes weed at least 12 hours every day. Slightly dumb. Total tool (though so incredibly sexually appealing...mmmm I'm glad I've gotten me some-o-dat)

8. "Baby" - A baby. A small, small child.

*9. "Wrong" - "i dnt kno u but tex me sometime k babygirl?"

10. "Schpaceman" - Hairy fool. ]

Fuck. I don't want anyone. I want to be alone. Forever. Please, can't you just let me?

And then I got to thinkin'

2010-07-25T21:52:00.000-07:00

Am I the paradigm of perfection for any single person in the world?

no...and if I were, I'd have to vomit

(am I tragic enough for you?)

Oh, Really?

2010-07-25T19:11:00.000-07:00

2010-07-24T19:56:00.000-07:00

We sat there in silence; you stroked my fingers with your fingertips.
You pulled my hand up to your mouth and kissed it softly once, twice, three times.

I thought, "Why the hell be so nice when you're doing the shittiest thing in the world?"

You thought, "I want to cushion the hurt just a little..."

A whole mess of things ran through my head. Maybe this wouldn't last long; maybe I could hate you. Maybe we really could be the best of friends; maybe our friendship really could be stronger.

Perhaps I'd find someone to make me feel good about myself.

I bawled into your shoulder a bit and you kissed my neck; probably the most sensitive kiss I have ever experienced in my life (funny, coming from you).

I wish I could have known what you were thinking.

I suddenly felt as though I was in the presence of a stranger. The feeling hasn't gone away.

I never cried after that.

...until right now.

Zombies

2010-07-24T04:32:00.000-07:00

It was a movie...somehow. None of us were watching it--we lived it. I remembered a scene from the "trailer" that I avoided later. Shit like that.

They were malicious. If they sensed panic, they'd turn on you. A normal person riding a bicycle one minute could be a vile attacker the next if you didn't keep your cool.

I knew it was a movie. Basically, that means that I knew it wasn't real and nothing would really hurt me. I asked dad if I could go back to the house because I didn't want to watch it and though none of it was real, I wanted to be in control; because even though they couldn't hurt me 'in real life,' it was scary as fuck in the meantime.

I said 'freaky as fuck' a few times and my parents got pissed. But they can't look at one of those things and say that it isn't freaky as fuck.

I needed to get out of there; to go somewhere. The Graceland library seemed like a good place; funny enough, it wasn't Graceland and looked nothing like Graceland at all(...and I'm not talking Elvis's Graceland, for those of you who don't live near me). The real Graceland doesn't even have a library.

The whole place was blocked by a huge chain-link fence. I climbed it (like a spider-monkey, I might add) and went in. Before I got to the library, I heard a noise within. I thought it was a zombie, which would have been a terrible position for me to be in. Instead, it was whatever motherfucker organized the whole deal; the whole "movies-actually-are-fucking-real-lol" shabam. He was sexy, though. I wanted him to get me out of there; I offered to sleep with him. He agreed to it, but it ended up not working out. Damn.

Michael stopped to ask me for a lighter.

I lay on the couch with Brandon and held his hand, but a person came up from behind us and mistook me for Hilary. Brandon got up and left me there.

...then I woke up.

Lies

2010-07-22T07:03:00.000-07:00

Why does my subconscious feel the need to shatter my wee little heart

every
single
night?

I even asked him if it was a dream this time. I'm so used to it; I had to ask him to make sure.

He said no, no, it's real.

It was beautiful...

until I woke up.

2010-07-18T21:04:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt of a little girl...she was sad and I couldn't tell whether it was melodrama or true Plath-esque bipolarity. She talked of harming herself and I would have called her bluff had she not been around eight-years-old and seemingly perceptive and honest.

Her mothers came and told her to stop talking; they hit her and they made me so, so angry. I tried to stand up to her, she was thin but muscular with short, spiked hair. She was stronger than me and grabbed me and groped me.
Part of me liked it; I forgot about the little girl and playfully hit the mother and walked past.

I went to the trampoline and there were bottles and bottles of vodka and whiskey and rum; I begged them to leave, because I had been in enough trouble, but they wouldn't.

They said, "We don't really care, Kassandra; we just don't."

confession

2010-07-16T21:42:00.001-07:00

I have unknowingly helped two 20+ year-old guys cheat on their long-term girlfriends/fiances.

I'm a fucking toy people think they can play with as they so desire.

And I feel like such a piece of shit.

True Story

2010-07-14T16:14:00.000-07:00

I haven't been able to get off since he broke up with me...

...much to the dismay of my "partners."

2010-07-13T20:38:00.001-07:00

Nobody wants to know me.

Everyone is interested in "getting with" me and I just want someone I can connect to and talk about things that are below the surface and open up to and be friends with.

So far, all the new people in my life are viewing me as nothing more that a person whose pants they want to get into (and, no, I'm not imagining it...they make sure to let me know).

I guess I still miss Gabe. I love him, more than anything, and my love for him goes beyond romantic feelings. The romantic feelings can actually be eliminated; it's something else. I'm glad that I've been able to live for myself, but I wish I had a friend like him again.

That's it.

I want his friendship back.

2010-07-10T23:04:00.000-07:00

Why don't I get any say in what happens in my life?

Why is everything allowed to drastically change and affect every aspect of my life but I can't do a damned thing about it?

It doesn't make sense...something is so wrong, I can feel it but I don't know what it is and I don't know what I can do about it but this. is. not. right.

I am so not in control.

I can't stand this.

2010-07-07T21:09:00.001-07:00

I'm finally okay with everything.

Damn.

It feels like a load off my back. I was thinking about him all. the. time.

I've started seeing someone verrrrry casually...unbeknown to, well, everyone. I want to keep it that way. I don't want to tell people about it because, 1) they wouldn't approve of what I do with this fellow, and 2) it's not going to turn into anything serious, so the last thing I need is people on my case about it.

I don't know why I never thought to have a private blog before...I mean, one that I didn't tell anyone about. I can't exactly keep up with a written journal (why? not sure...maybe because it makes my hand cramp like a motherfucker), so this suffices, really.

blech.

I never want to give myself to anyone again. I'm kinda making a vow to it.

2010-07-05T14:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a bad one.

Today, I feel great. I'm going to make sure that it stays that way; whether or not I feel shitty is entirely up to me. Any mood is...granted, sometimes being angry or sad is healthy, but if I'm aware that I ought not feel that way, I am in control of my mood.

If only more people could figure that out, eh?

Today is a day of searching...I need to find out what I want to do. It's terribly hard, you know, when there are a million things that seem to interest you equally.

Acting always stands out above the rest, though. It's so...effortless.

Then again, I always get really interested in science or history and tell myself that I'd be better servicing my brain by doing something in those fields.

My answer (usually)? Look at the Self-Taught Man, the Autodidact. Just because I want to learn about something in depth, does that mean I have to go to school for it or make a career out of it? Certainly not...

Why do we all think that someone else has to teach us? At one point, they were no different than we.

Right?

I'm pretty much equal to Einstein.

It took me over a minute.

2010-07-03T22:21:00.000-07:00

2010-07-03T14:19:00.000-07:00

God, I cannot get over this.

I feel as though I must be worth absolutely nothing.

I wasn't good enough; in fact, I was so far from good enough that...whatever. Anyway.

Piece of shit.
Piece of shit, but still, I was never enough.

Still, I can't trust anyone to care about me, or not hurt me.

Still, I...am worthless.

Just One Question...

2010-07-03T12:11:00.001-07:00

was she any good?

_________________________________________

Trompe L'oeil

One day it was brought to your attention that
your head is hollow;
you didn't like that,
so you found a pretty thing and
tossed her in.
Then you realized that pretty things tend
to talk your ears off,
so you grabbed some newspaper, tore it up, and
shoved it in.
You soon discovered that your head
was instead
filled with useless head-lines,
like:
"Boy with black banana becomes blind!"
and,
"Research shows that people are unhappy."
You needed something to drown out the
bad news,
so you popped the cap off a couple of
bottles
and poured them in.
Sure,
your head was,
of course,
still hollow;
but you forgot about it.
That's good enough for you.

2010-07-03T07:12:00.000-07:00

I was so stupid.

So incredibly...foolish.

How can someone be so disgusting and still be able to live?
Do you REALIZE how shitty you are?

You're vomit-worthy.
And I don't feel bad,
because you've chosen it.

Kevin Costner

2010-07-02T05:38:00.000-07:00

Running water terrifies me;
can't sleep,
can't think long enough
to be worthwhile.
Not a drip, but a flow
rushing
like
the white-water
with leeches
sucking at my leg.

I am scared
of open water
but in awe of
its apparent infinity;
reminds me of
something...