Irony, I'm outside smoking to get some fresh air.

I'm not jealous, I'm not jealous,
I'm not jealous, I'm not jealous.
Because I don't get jealous.

Am I affirming myself, or stating a truth. I don't know and you
won't know. Maybe a little bit of both? But here I am, sinking
my teeth into my lip, I'm trying not to think.
I have silk screens and things that come in threes. I have a two
AM phone call and a couple of cigarettes left to smoke, or give
away if I choose (which I won't). I have music that makes me
happy and music that makes my fucking body ache with missed
opportunities and sicksicksickness. Oh god.
I'm squeezing my eyes shut as I write this. I am so... unsettled.

Today I read an article about.
Actually, I don't want to talk about it.


But, it felt like a turn of phrase, a vein of vocabulary. One that
mirrors the veins staining your eyes red. The veins that halt all
communication, an impasse.

I am solicitously amenable to everything in that state.
Let's get shitty together, at the dugout.

You can love the dream and hate the reality.
OR
You can hate the dream and love the reality.
OR (if you're really greedy)
You can love the dream and love the reality.

But you can only choose one to be forever, no mixing and matching, would you choose the paradise? Live forever without and shred of negativity or do you need that bit. You can't love everything all of the time.

I can't love everything all of the time.
Take you're pick, make shit quick.

Lately I've been seeing words in the negative space between lines in a paragraph. And it's worse than "reading between the lines", because it truly is so. If I let myself slide out of focus it's like a whole new story beneath my fingers.

Fiction is a lie.
But sometimes it's one of the most beautiful lies in the world.
So, I guess that's okay.

Zines, fuck yes!

I'm thinking of making a ZINE!

I've been reading a lot of them because they've got an entire fucking rack of them at The Co-op which is literally a two minute walk from my bed. I've also got way more access to materials. A xerox machines, tons of paper, printing presses, letter presses, a darkroom. And they're open all the time. So, at 2 AM, when I can't sleep and I'm dicking around on the internet, which I am a fucking pro at, I can actually do something productive and awesome!

But, I'm not sure what I want to put in my zine. I'd like it to be a conglomerate of photos, drawings, collages, and text. I'd also like there to be more than one contributor. So, if you have anything that you may be interested in seeing in print, you should send me an email, or comment on this page, or web reply to me on twitter, or message me on flickr, or call me, or text me. I don't care.
If you're interested, get in contact with me.

You don't get to know who you are,
until you are who you are.
There is no fate though.
There's just knowing, or rather,
not knowing until you just know.

Do you understand me?
Because I only sometimes understand myself.


I only sometimes understand myself. I only sometimes know
what I'm thinking about. Today I'm thinking of lists. Or rather,
I'm thinking in lists, because I always think in lists.

I'm thinking of white sheets and little white toes. I'm thinking
about deer antlers tattooed on a chest and brown coffee cups
that came looking stained when they were new. I'm thinking
about robbing banks and an honest girl standing in a handmade
sequined sweater. I'm thinking of everyone I ever loved, even
just a little bit and those tiny little lady apples that fit perfectly in
a palm. I'm thinking of band aids on scraped fingertips and
clouds that look like animals. And clouds that don't look like
anything but clouds. I'm thinking of crisp crunchy leaves and
bicycles, bicycles, bicycles. Lots of fucking bicycles.
And things that are neither here nor there and ants in the bread basket.
I'm thinking about drinking vodka on a Tuesday afternoon in
the middle of winter and just winter itself. Because it's not
winter yet, and I almost wish that it was. I'm thinking about
people with problems that I've never had and people who
used to have problems that I'll never have. I'm thinking about
privilege and well, I guess I didn't get any further than that.

Goodnight, for this night.

I can't sleep.
I can't sleep because I can't close my eyes.
I can't close my eyes because I'm scared.

I don't know why I'm so afraid.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
No monsters hiding under the bed or lurking in the closet.

I'm so inexplicably terrified right now. I don't know what to do to quell this horrible feeling. I just want to sleep, I'm so tired, I have the mother of all migranes and the light is hurting my eyes, but I can't shut it off because I'm pretty sure I'd die of unexplained fright if I couldn't see. And I'm so nauseous right now because of this migrane and I don't know what to do.

I'm just a scared little fucking kid.
All I need is feetie pjs.

My mind is fucking reeling.
All of my senses are in overdrive.

I can't sleep.
Oh god, I'm freaking out.

I don't have a word for this feeling quite yet.
This unsettled way that I always seem to get when I stay
up too late thinking of things I never did and never will do.

Mostly though, right now, I wish that everyone was awake.
I wish that it was like day time. I wish everyone was walking
around, and driving. I wish stores were open, and mainly, I
wish there was someone that I could talk to.

Someone that I could just sit and chat idly with, over a cigarette.
Or some food, or a glass of wine. Or a beer. Fuck, I don't know.

I'm restless as fuck. I can feel my stomach churning like fucking
butter. I can feel my skin compressing my muscles, my veins, my
organs. I can feel myself shrinking. It's nights like these that the
most I can fucking do is hope that somehow I'll just pass out.


I just fucking hope that when I shut the lights off, when I close my
eyes, I'll be out for the count. I won't wake up till the sun rises.

I just fucking hope I don't lay there and stew.

"Because," she said, "I can dream for
you until you get one of your own."

And it's funny, in the way that time seems a little bit funny when
you dwell on it for too long. It becomes even less of a construct
than it even initially is. Time is theory and theory isn't something
you can hold in your hand. Not something you can grasp onto
with your skinny little fingers. Time is like inane, pointless chatter.
Does the world go from sunrise to sunset? Or sunset to sunrise?
Would it make any difference if we went from sunset to sunrise?

Sunset was the beginning of the day and sunrise the end.
If instead of having night when it's dark, we had it when it was light?
If AM was really PM and the other way around.

If you think to much about something, it makes it obsolete.
I've thought to much about time, so it doesn't exist.

That, however, does not mean that I don't have to make it to
work at exactly 6:00. At least not if I want to keep my job.

The comforts of home are something that I think of more as this part of my life comes to a close and a new part begins.

Dave's keys jingling, the line of plants on his second floor apartment window, Beau's numerous paintings, Drew's bottles of wine, Pedro.
Matt's telescope, his jazz music, the slanted wall of his staircase, extended filter cigarettes.
Max's nails clicking on the kitchen floor, the beaded chandelier on the basement ceiling, a stripped Victoria's Secret dog, Alice.
Air conditioning, incense, Law and Order: SVU, The BeeGees, grapevines.
Greta and Lucas' car seats, Sailor Jerry tattoos, a red Mustang, American Spirit cigarettes.
Six cash registers, Betty Lou's new pair of shoes, Kronos clock, red shopping carts.
A blue minivan, drinks in parks, Metrocards, the TV remote, an elevator with a door that swings out and open, italian ices.

Things that I don't need to forget.
Things that I won't.

"Take care of yourself, kid" he told me as I was leaving.
And at that time, I just laughed.

I laughed because I was young, but not much younger than him.
I laughed because I was drunk and high.
I laughed because I was happy.
I laughed because I was still running on that type of adrenaline that only live music and skin can give.

I laughed because I love laughing.
But he was right. It's important to take care of yourself...
I'm kind of the world's worst shunner of responsibility.
I'm disappointed in my inability to take care of myself.

Out the front door.
The front door.
On the street, feet pitter pattering across the same dry concrete stretch. The world looks like rain. Not the humid type, but the cold type of rain, the kind that reminds you that this season's almost over. It's time to move on. But we're not ready.
Going home.
Off the street and into the car. The car is cool. The windows are closed because of the impending rain, and the air is on. The street lights make shadows like paper cups. Nightime makes the car feels like an enclosed airtight capsle. Nothing can touch us now, but we're not reckless. It's late at night and as a being, we're understandably tired.
Going home. 
In the car, exiting the tunnel. It's pouring on the other side. Thunder and lightning are fighting but we're safe and dry and cool in our little wonder of modern technology, the car. We can't hear the thunder and lightening, we can't hear the usual cacophonic noise of the city. The neon lights make the sky pour colored droplets.
And we're home.

I sometimes wake up from strange vivid dreams like that. Where we're leaving her house and then slipping through the Holland Tunnel on the way back home. Like, I remember all the details, but only when I'm dreaming does it seem like it was once a reality.

And, I'm tired now, so very tired.

Oh god, the snow.
I'd forgotten about the snow.

It's tough to explain on days like these.

My skin feels too small and there's a lump in my
throat the size of a small country. That constant
feeling of needing to puke or cry can get to your
head fast. I'm nervous and upset and happy and
sad and angry and restless. All at once.

It's overwhelming and it's uncomfortable being me.

So I curl up in a strange position in the center of my
bed, I lay flat on my back, I curl up in fetal position
on the floor, I lay on my stomach and rest my head
on my arms, I lay on my left side, and then on my
right, but none of it's right. None.

And I don't know what to do. There's a burning in my
cells that can't be stopped and a myriad of questions in
my fucking head. It kills me to spend ten minutes thinking
about the dead baby bird on the back deck that's been
sitting there for the whole fucking day. It kills me to even
dwell on the fact that I'm angry that other animals don't
bury their fucking dead.

I don't want to be angry anymore. I want to be me again.
I want to be painfully awkward by choice like every other day.

"Give 'em all the slip" she whispers in my ear and then I'm up like a shot.
It's 4:55 AM. I finally laid down to sleep at 3:30 AM and I'm fucking tired,
but the sun is rising and that This Will Destroy You/ Lymbyc Systym song
that I fall asleep to each night and wake up to every morning is playing
so my body thinks it's time to get up but it's not.
No, no, no, it's fucking not time to get up, but I do it anyway.
I go to the bathroom, and then it sets in. Sick. I feel sick. I'm stuck to
squirm, thinking about spring-loaded snakes in a can and birthdays,
for another two and a half hours.


There's a fucking humming in my brain, in my bones, my fingertips.
A humming in the tune of summer that just won't settle because it's not just
yet summer. It's not summer with all of this rain. It's not summer if I'm fucking
shivering at night. It's not summer if my fucking pulse is ripping my neck to
shreds because I'm so restless. Fuck, I wanna go and drive somewhere,
anywhere. I want to set out in the morning and not return till night time,
with a full roll of film.

I'm wondering where the fucking sun is, I'm wondering when the
fuck the pool will be open, and I don't even like the fucking pool.

I'm just going fucking nuts in this tiny town.
On this tiny island. I'm going fucking crazy.
Fuckfuckfuck.

The windshield wipers agree with Conor's father, they
shake their fingers at me, telling me that I can't do it again.

I can't give advice for another moment without taking it
myself. I can't drink so much, can't smoke so often,
but at least I can laugh, you know?

I've watched the sunrise for the last four days.
It feels to me like last summer, when I had so much trouble sleeping at night that I'd just lay in my bed, waiting patiently for the first inkling of morning light to paint my blinds, and then I'd pass out. Only to wake up an hour later, body sore like the early morning sun had burnt the marrow in my bones. Scorched my joints, making me creak like the tin man. Cower in the shade like a lion.

Tonight it felt like early morning, the cool breeze blowin my cigarette ash about. And for a moment I forot where I was, what I was talkin about and with who, and... what season is it again?
I have trouble being tired, but being tired is my trouble. But, trouble seems trivial when you've been awake since 6:00AM yesterday and it's 5:00AM today.
A lot seems trivial when you've been awake for days.

According to Dante, I'd be in the sixth circle of hell.
The heretics.
My punishment, to burn in god's catacombs, a flaming
tomb, for eternity. When judgment day comes and I do
not pass, the lid is closed and I'm stuck, smoldering
...in a tiny pine box.
I'd also be in circle four, the hoarders and the wasters.
I'm a hoarder and a waster of time. I collect bits of time
to squander into oblivion. Sleeping, eating, killing time.

And I wonder, as I search for the reasoning behind the
strange celestial guidance that the strong part of my mind
would never allow me to have, why in all the pictures of
hell that I come across everyone is naked...

But, moving on from classic literature.
Sometimes I just want to get on a plane, a plane to anywhere.
I just want to be in the fucking sky, the clouds, breathing
recycled air. I stopped seeing this as an escape plan, but more
of a traveling plan. Traveling to nowhere. Traveling to "I don't
fucking care anymore". This is because I fell in love with a bassist
smile and kick drum eyes. Chord progressions never sounded
the same ever again. I fell in love with a brand of noise.
I like to think that I never once looked back.


You want to make God laugh, you say?
Well, I suggest that you tell him your plans for life.
That'd get more than a chuckle out of anyone.

This is dawn.
This is cartoons on a television
and streetlight conversations.
This is the dawn of a new era of noise.

I want to record all the tiny noises that you barely even
hear, mundane noises, and put them together.
Loop them to make a life-long track.

The gate in Kel's driveway creaking in the wind with crunching
leaves and a bag of chips to serve as vocals, the soft hum of the
computer and a little sigh, right in your ear is the bass.
The rhythm guitar is laughter echoing in an old parking garage and
the lead is a thousand clicking camera shutters. And then the drums.
The drums are the most important part. It saddens me that no one
seems to realize that the beat is what keeps us moving as a fucking
family. The beat is our blood and sweat: the feelings that we put
into the beautiful genius noise that some call pollution.

Have you ever not been able to feel a thing for one pristine
moment? Have you ever let that go, just stop fucking chasing
it because you accepted that you've been swept up? That this
is out of your control? It's too powerful, a shabby genteel
monster. So, you just go with it, you let it sway you, you let
the world hold you up for one single second before the room
quakes, before everyone's feet land in sync on the floor?

My drum track is a heartbeat. Kill me for the cliche, but it's
perfect and in tune with the feeling of the music. All of our
heartbeats swell as one for a quick moment, before the beautiful
fineness of discordance. And in the very background, a train
racing along the tracks can be heard.

This is my soundtrack. I am not forcing you to listen to it,
in fact, I'm not even offering. You are not worthy of mine
until you compile your very own.

Maybe, if I ignore it, it will go away.

Proverbial change.
A switch, a shift, a change.

What's strange is that I would have never
seen it, if it hadn't came in the form of a
stolen pixel picture.
Boston boys and boston girls, that certain
sound that can't ever be replaced.
The feeling is undeniable and I've never....
I've never.

Sometimes, I wake up from dreams not really knowing what happened
in them, but then later, I'll read someone's blog, and it'll all come rushing
back. It's as if, across all of these state lines, god, sometimes even fucking
oceans, everyone of us shares a slight bit of our subconscious.
My subconscious is so divided that I sometimes forget my hometown,
my name, my age. So divided that sometimes I'll answer a question with
something that is so far from the truth that I'm not even sure that I
made it up. I think, that maybe you did.
And because we operate in a strange pristine harmony, because we
have perfect form, like synchronized swimmers, the line between my
thoughts and your thoughts become fuzzy, indiscernible in my mind.
The warm type.

And every time my subconscious splits, it's like a small hiccup in our
routine. Almost like someone's nose descended too far below the water
for a quick moment, and they've breathed in water and it's caught
behind their tonsils and in their throat. Causing that tiny tickle, that
'almost cough', causing them to faltered slightly. And then like military
stepping, a double step the size of an SAT word, and you're back in line.
I can feel the cadence in my bones and since we share the same phalanges
that type and write, I know that you can feel it too.
A thrumming, humming, strumming on nylon strings, stretched taunt
across your ribs. A cage for the sound that you always wanted to make,
made for you by your loving mum and da. And when the car crashes into
the passenger side door, slams into your body, cracking your bones, I will
feel it too. I will feel when your music is set free, when the coroner hears
a tune from deep inside you, loud and clear to the ears. The image of your
face and that tune, stuck in their head for the rest of the week. I will feel
when your music escapes, seeking refuge in the curved, tired ears of the
mortician and his family. Not quite inaudible, but more muffled, murmuring,
muted... muttering.
I will feel where your music settles down, in the fingertips, the tiny
fingertips of the baby at the funeral. I will feel it settle there because
I will hear the child's fleeting elation of the meager music floating from
the casket as it's lowered into the ground, floating in swirling
fall with with leaves and freshly dry cleaned black coats.
Then snuffed out with the first shovel of dirt atop that hardwood finish.

Sometimes dirt is warm, if left out in the summer's sun.
So, please, shovel some dirt on top of my body, as a blanket.
I would like to sleep for a long time.

And all of a sudden, it hit me.
This is serious; you guys, I'm growing up.

But, I'm still the same.
Am I happy about this?
I am unsure.
Am I sad about this?
No.

Although I'm growing up, I'm still not sure I can
answer questions about my feelings accurately. I
thought that growing up meant certainty, but I'm
seeing now it doesn't mean that at all.
Time and age are gaged through numbers and I
still can't make it past college level algebra. Maybe
certainty has nothing to do with numbers? If that's
true, then there's still a chance I'll one day understand it.

In the morning it's tough to regret. I'm not sure if it has something
to do with the fact that we've been working on slowly shaving or
feelings down into nothingness, or it has something to do with the
fact that we've never felt remorse before so we're confused as to
how the feeling truly feels.

Because at night, we don't have much room to live.
And in the morning, we don't have much room to live.
And the afternoon, no, we don't have much room to live.
All the fucking time, there's no fucking room. Goddamn it.

And we start to get scared in this strange small place between
the bed and the wall. We start to feel claustrophobia setting in
and oh god, we can't fucking breathe anymore and we're
screaming and screaming and screaming, but no one can hear us,
because we're suffocating. Panicking prevalence.
And then everything's black, and beautiful. You can hold your breath
until you pass out but no one can hold their breath after they've passed
out. It's involuntary, like blinking. It's one last tick of the suicide clock.
It's one last botched hope that wasn't backed with proper research.

And I can't help what's easy and undeniable. I can't help the noise in the
background and the grain in the photos. I can't help anything because I
lost my faith in all higher control so long ago that I'm not sure I ever even
had faith to begin with. And I'm laughing now on a bedroom floor, for every
naked, cold, scarred look, cause they'll be a hundred more that will never
have to experience that. It all boils down to privilege. I want these fucking
kids that I have to go to school with to understand one day what it's like to
not have everything fucking wrapped in a pretty little package and handed to them.

Why are my entries so fucking long as of late?

There's always going to be something that I wish I had done but never did. Maybe even never got the chance to. And that fleeting moment, that fleeting window of opportunity, will never be opened again like a lockbox with the key lost.
And, I'm warning you now. If you personally know me, in real life, I plan to use names in the next part of this entry. If we spend time together, you will recognize names and you may be able to put faces to them. And since I know that this isn't so hidden anymore, that people do read it, I'm going to warn you that you may even be included in this. Alright, so it's less of a warning, but more of a heads up. This is going to be the least cryptic entry I've ever written.
I think of photography daily. It's actually a constant thing, everything that I see is turned into individual photographs. I am going to type out a list of photos that I wish I had taken. That I wish I had gotten my camera out in time to capture it forever and immaculate on film.


James and Kevin, sitting on each end of a park bench next to their bikes. James with a cigarette in one hand and a black sweatshirt with Wingnut Dishwasher's Union spray painted on the front.

Danny lying on his stomach on my bed, back when it was just the mattress on the floor, with a comic in his hand. Only one light on, casting shadows under my desk.

Pat outside of Catch 22's Winnebago clutching a poster he got from Ed and a pack of Native American cigarettes, the kind you don't have to pay taxes on.

David and Drew in the kitchen with red dye staining their fingers and David's pants, ingredients for a cake visible behind them. Pedro standing on the foremost counter, in the right corner, out of focus.

Brittany sitting by the merch table smiling next to the display of earplugs, water, and tee shirts, with my favorite security guard sitting behind her, eating the peanut butter cups that I bought.

Mike standing right next to that pole on the corner, almost leaning against it, with a cigarette, his glasses slightly crooked, his mouth open in mid-sentence.

From the back seat, Jessie smoking a cigarette out the driver's window, looking straight ahead while Sam talks to him from the passenger's seat, her head turned, looking at him.

Joanna on Halloween, in her detective costume, standing on a stack of wood that's tall enough to let her see over the heads of a great circle of people crowded around a group of street performers.

James at the Hook in Red Hook Brooklyn. In the little enclosed courtyard out the side door, his back facing the gate that the instruments and equipment came through earlier. Slightly overcast day, slipping carefully into night, dusk. A door leaning on hit's side to his right with a perfect number five spray painted on it.

Cody sitting on the washing machine (or maybe it was a dishwasher?) in the corner of his kitchen.

David sitting on my bed, this time the mattress is on the frame, with one of my bras cupped so as to make a circle of sorts, up to his face, pretending that it's a gas mask.

Rob bent over, breaking up a dub on top of a borrowed dollar bill on the little counter next to the sink in the basement of that church on the corner. The one that they somehow found keys to and have a habit of trespassing. A purple pipe, a green bowl, a box of matches, and a half finished cigarette next to him.

Kevin and Mariano (who is wearing a hat with ear flaps) in some park in V.S., Mariano rubbing his hands together for warmth with a smile on his face, Kevin, brow wrinkled in concentration, sparking up.

From the backseat, the well lit sign in front of In & Out lighting up the front on the car. Scott in the driver's seat, head turned towards the window which is mostly open, only allowing you to see the back of his head. PJ's head and shoulders are leaned slightly into the car, the brim of his hat blocking out his eyes. It's clear that they're fighting by the way that PJ's mouth is poised.

Emily and Michelle standing next to the concrete pole in the parking lot near Dunkin, Michelle lighting a cigarette with a barbecue lighter, Emily in a fit of laughter.

Jay Tea leaning against the wood paneled wall of VP South with a half full pint of beer, which is certainly not his first. His mouth is open, he's yelling at the guy in the sound booth because the beginning of the Flaming Tsunami's set is just a phone ringing for five minutes straight.

David's fish tank light on, everything else turned off, casting a warm, orange tinted glow on everything. He's laying partially under the covers, on his side, facing towards the drawers and the heater. A smooth expanse of back is showing, highlighted on it's start near his hip, but faded into shadows.

Taylor sitting on the floor in her room, drunk, playing with her new cat and laughing. Her girlfriend, Shan, Steph, and Katherine are visible in the background, crowded around the computer taking photobooth pictures.

Terri laughing at Kelsey in Union Bagels. Really laughing, not just that little half smile, because what she said was really funny.

Emily in her Daria costume. The black knit ski hat with flaps and tassels, the skirt, the green jacket, and those shiny black lace-up boots.

Kelsey and Joanna in the basement of Five Pointz. It's dark, almost too dark to see, but you can just make out the piles of clothing scraps littering the floor and the creepy as shit cobwebbed sewing machines. It's not posed, their faces are slack in observation, their heads slightly turned away from the camera.

Shan standing outside of Union Bagels waiting for us to finish our cigarettes, disposable camera in hand, talking to Emily about something. The sun is high and bright in the sky.

Matt, in Scott's car, driving down Scranton, smoking a cigarette out the window while playing some skating game on his iPhone. Charlie in the foreground, out of focus, his mouth open, talking to someone in the front seat, the collar of his coat hiding his chin.

Katie in a leather jacket with her nose red from cold and crying, sitting on the floor in the box at the train station. The florescent lights giving her an eerie glow. Safety pin in hand, cleaning out her pipe, a mostly full forty of Olde English to her right. Ryan, from the knees down, wearing jeans, in the left corner.

Meggy sitting at Vince's kitchen table, her skinny arms, skinny wrist, skinny hand holding a cigarette. Denny out of focus on a stool behind her. Smoke clouded around her as she types on her phone. An ashtray as well as two beer cans, a pack of Marlboro Reds, and a cup of orange juice on the table in front of her.

Nick sitting in his computer chair, next to his TV. He's looking forward but he's laughing at the movie on TV.

JP pouring Bacardi into the fire pit at V.S. State Park and then lighting the leaves on fire. His body illuminated against the background of silhouetted trees and somewhere in the distance lights on the highway.

The boy at the Museum of the Moving Image with a too small, dark blue Sonic Youth shirt, skinny jeans, a backpack, and yellow shoe laces.

Dan coming down the stairs from the perspective of someone going up the stairs, at Webster Hall. His face open in a smile and a greeting. His cheeks ruddier than usual in the strange red glow from the light at the top of the staircase that's reflected off the mirror above.

Tom at the Knitting Factory, from outside on the line, with the curtain on one of the windows pulled up. His smile comically large, his hand waving.

Ryan standing outside of In & Out, talking to Kelsey who is sitting on the curb with her coat pulled close around her. Kelly looking uncomfortable in the background. Almost not associating herself with the

Someone's ex-girlfriend, sitting on top an amp outside of a venue in R.V.C., head down. The sun is bright and hot, but she's wearing a black sweatshirt. Connor is visible in the corner of the picture, from chest down. No shirt, no shoes. Green socks and loose jeans.

Emel smoking a cigarette in a blue coat, outside of the school, in the street as not to be smoking on school property, at 9:00AMin the pouring rain.

Evan sitting on a blue rolling chair in front of the door out of the computer lab. The room behind him is lit up but the lab is dark. He has headphones in and is scrolling through his ipod with disinterest.

Britt lying on the table in the printmaking room, her hair splayed out, next to a pile of coats and bags, almost blending in.

Kelsey in Search & Destroy on St. Marks, rifling through a rack of second hand shirts that are organized in color order, wearing a short black dress and tall black boots.

David sitting on a stool in the back of VP South, in the fenced in area, the band's vans and cars are visible through the fence. People that may of may not be Jay Tea and Doug are out of focus in the background, smoking cigarettes.

Johnny's little brother sitting in a chair in Vince's all-white basement, dead asleep, the lights hitting his freshly dyed green hair. People in the background playing a "riveting game" of beer pong.

Brendon in the kitchen of his apartment, arm outstretched toward the fridge door, mouth open in question.

Dave lying in my bed at three in the afternoon, orange sunlight in the winter, all the blankets pulled up around him, bunching in a circle around his face like the mane of a lion.

Joanna standing by the dresser upstairs, the sloping ceiling making her look taller, leaning over to blow out incense on a rainy Sunday.

Vinny in Vince's all-white basement, directly under one of the lights, sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table where a homemade gravbong is sitting. Shot from behind, the blurred figures of Sean, John, and Nicole sitting on the couch in front of him visible through the spikes on his head.

Beau standing in the front doorway, afternoon sun as backlighting. A rust colored scarf tied around his waist and grease from his bike smeared on his nose.

Matt sitting on my wooden chair back when the pile of laundry in the basket used to sit right next to it. Leaned over in jeans with a hole in one knee and a hooded black sweatshirt. Fiddling with a half empty soft, battered, pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes.

Sam and Jenna sitting across from Sam, Jesse, and I at a strange wood panneled, lace curtained diner. Sam leaning forward, hand outstreched towards a plate of french fries that are out of focus in the foreground.

Tom leaning against the wall behind Tofu. Red sweatshirt, black coat, black hat, hood up, that fucking giant earring and a disaffected look on his face. Cigarette in hand.

Shane and Jon is Shane's basement sitting on one of the couches, trying to play some unidentified driving game with a guitar hero controller because the regular controller is broken.

JP under the streelight by the curch, leaning back against the hood of Sean's blue minivan at night. Four kids sitting on the sidewalk in the background. JP's head is titled towards the sky, watching the stars.

Griffin in the underground garage by the Starbucks. Held up by Jesse, in a headlock. Arms blurred with the motion of fighting back. Both boys wear identical broad smiles, betraying the idea that they are really fighting, but instead just rough housing.

Ashley lying on her back in Vinny's backyard on a warm September day. John with the Black Flag tattoo and some other kid that I can't really remember the name of, who my possible be one of Vinny's "cousins" on either side of her. Far enough to almost be out of the frame. The air above and around them is heavy with smoke. Ashley is laughing, sun filtering through the tree branches, casting shadows.

Jimmy leaning over into the crowd at VP South, basically held up by them, in short shorts and a pair of high top hounds tooth Circa's just like the ones I had in low tops. Sweaty strings of hair that have got to be in his face, microphone presses against his halfway open lips. Fucking drunk as hell, and probably singing the wrong words.

Two kids from Staten Island, outside of the Knitting Factory. One of them in a striped sweater, smoking a cigarette, Marlboro Reds, the pack sticking out of his pocket. Both of them staring straight ahead at the camera, the smoking one smiling as he exhales, the other one mid sentence.


I am beyond not done. I promise you that in future entries there will be more descriptions of pictures that I wish I had taken, but never did.

I'm feeling a lot better about my current standing in life than I was when I wrote my last entry. All in all, I realized that the music that I listen to, the things that I read, the classes that I go to, the food that I eat, and the people that I spend time with could make me feel two completely different superlatives, depending on the day or the situation. The trick is that I have to realize that I'm the one controlling these superlatives. It's going to take a long time. That, I do know. In fact, I may not actually ever successfully convince myself of this, but the strongest thing in my mind right now is that this time I'm not lying to myself.

Sure, I still wake up thinking that life sucks, but maybe that's how everyone wakes up?

And lately I've spent less time freaking myself out about my future and more time actually vocalizing it. It makes me feel awkward at first, but I hope it's helping.
BUT, enough of me being blunt about my life. Frankly, that's boring.

Instead of blathering on I'm going to tell you about how happy I felt to wake up to a snow day. This sort of residual happiness that comes with still sort of being a child. Even though I knew that I'd have to shovel the car out and clean the windows and the lights. Even though I knew that I'd have to shovel the walk and the driveway and the steps, it was still this thrilling prospect. I want to tell you about how bright everything is at night, after snowfall. Because god, it's fucking beautiful and deafening. It's so isolating and I always have trouble sleeping because of the bubbling uncertainty in my stomach and what feels like glaring-fucking-sun, even though I know that it's the moon. Smoking a quick cigarette at 3:00AM while the snow was still coming down, right in through my window and soaking through my sleeves where I had my elbows resting on the sill.
Quite, pure white quiet that I can feel suffocating me in the most positive way possible. Clean white sound, saccharine silence to my ears. I know all about the cold snow on my feet the next morning while I walk to get some fucking tea and food, and the way that my fingers will certainly sting as I try to suck down a quick cigarette before class, and the way that the cars and feet are going to make muddy slush puddles in this pristine white, ruining the effect. The way that the sun is going to cause meager clouds of evaporating water to rise from the pavement, unbeknownst to those who aren't looking. (I'm not even sure if that last one should be listed with the other unpleasantries since it can actually be quite beautiful.)
I know about all that shit that makes snow the biggest suck-fest '09 just north of New Jersey, but somehow this strange excited feeling still remains instilled in me since the day we met. A snowday! chant running through, mantra-like for the whole day.
And it goes from freezing my feet off in my black and neon green handmedown snow boots from the fucking 80's so that I can watch you two making asses of yourselves and then napping in a too small bed, in a too hot room, trying so hrd not to focus on my fear of suffocation.

I don't even want to end this eloquently. We are cutting it off right now. I'm tired.

It's okay, I know:
TOO LONG, DIDN'T READ

I am too tired to go back in and fix my grammar and make this presentable because it's almost 3:30AM and I need a fucking cigarette and probably a beer even though I just had a good amount of alcohol a few hours ago, and I'm just so fucking sick and tired of life. In conclusion, I can't make this entry presentable because I'm fucking depressed. Yeah, I finally said it, I'll elaborate on it further down the page.

And do you know what's really nuts? I loved it the minute that I heard it. Really, I did. But I have got to shut it off, right fucking now, because I'm going to fucking throw up, or cry, or something equally as unpleasant. I don't know what it is, maybe all of this appreciation can't stay inside of me, can't stay there churning my stomach up, each note gnawing at my small intestine, the gang vocals scraping their way up my spine, the smashing piano itching at my palms and everything about his words unsettling me in the best way fucking possible.

I JUST WANT EVERYONE THAT I LOVE OR APPRECIATE TO FUCKING KNOW THAT I DO.

So, tops on my list of things that are totally bumming me out the hardest is the fact that two of cameras broke. I didn't realize that so much of my life was in a little bit of purple plastic. And, you know I wouldn't be so fucking bummed if I didn't keep looking at all these awesome photographs. Because, god, sometimes I feel like I do this to myself. I feel like maybe subconsciously I want to be fucking miserable, that way I have something to legitimately complain about (even though that is why I want to live in NY forever. New York will never disappoint if you're looking for things to be disappointed with.), so I just do things that will prolong my depression. See, fuck, I'm even doing it right fucking now. By writing about it in here, I'm thinking about it and fucking bumming myself out.

So, maybe today feels a little bit like one of those days that I wake up in this awful funk of nerves and everything attached to my bones, and my bones, feel broken and ugh, Idon'tfuckingknow. Maybe it feels a little bit like one of those days that I skip all my classes, throw up a little bit, lay curled up in bed, and smoke a cigarette and feel marginally better by seven at night.
You see, it's like this. It's an unsatisfiable itch in the back of my brain, or weighing down my shoulders, sitting heavy in my brow, or tearing my stomach to fucking shit-shreds. It so messed up, since it's not a need for nicotine, since I've tried that, and it's not that I need to sleep, (well, I probably do, but I know that's not it), and it's not any other problem that I can think of the fucking solution to. It's just a feeling of complete and utter... maybe, helplessness? Or, just, I don't want to fucking say it again, but I am so unsettled. That's really the only way for me to describe it. Okay, that's a fucking lie. Because guess what, I haven't been wanting to bring this up, I haven't wanted to dredge this shit up into the light because I'm trying to not make it a big deal, especially since I don't particularly know how many people really read this, but there's a better word to describe my general discomfort with life. Do you know what that word is? It's depressed. I fucking hate thinking that it's true, it's really fucking true, but.. exactly that: it's really fucking true. Because balanced humans should not be sad and stagnant like this. They just fucking shouldn't. And it's just gonna get worse, I know it is. It's gonna get worse when I move and can't get a job and can't see my boyfriend. It's gonna get worse when I fucking hate my major and want to drop out of school. It's gonna get worse when I don't change my major because I have all these issues with decisions, and by issues I mean I actually can't make my own decisions because clearly I'm a fucking child. It's gonna get worse when I graduate and hate my life because I hate my major, and I can't get a fucking job. It's gonna get worse when I'm not where I want to be, because apparently I'm just learning that people are rarely where they want to be. This new found knowledge clearly professes the fact that I'm a fucking child. It's gonna get worse when I'm not living where I wanna live and doing what I wanna do and making the money that I wanna make and having enough time to myself, enough free time to get my head around the little thing. It's gonna get worse when I have bills I can't pay and a life I don't want. God, I'm so fucking young, what the fuck am I doing.


I was talking to Tommy and Bar-Shaan about moving to Portland and I'm actually really considering it. Like, not for a long time or anything, not a permanent stay, but maybe for a summer or a spring, just like one season. Or, more than one if I really like it there. But, tops a year. You'll understand why I give myself limitations like that when you become me.

Things that are tangible, things that
I can hold in my hand, things that I
can feel or touch, things that I can
measure easily, physically.

Three things that are not tangible:
1. Music
2. Physical pain
3. Emotion

When I was in the hospital, the surgeon
asked me to choose a number, on a scale
from one to ten, of how bad the pain was.
When I asked what constituted a one, he
told me that pain is different for everyone.
That there's no way for someone else to
determine what a one is on my scale of pain.


(...Before you read the next part, I want to
let you know that I don't mean to be angst-y.)

This is what I tried to tell you this morning.
But, godfuckingdamnit, you never fucking listen
to me. You never fucking listen to me and then
I have to start fucking shouting. I have to start
fucking shouting because I translate the fact that
you're ignoring me as you not hearing me. And
because I think you can't hear me, I shout louder,
and then you fucking shout over me, and then
neither of us can hear one another. Fuck it.

You said some really shitty things this morning
and if you think that those were okay things to
say to me, then you were sorely mistaken. I'm not
sure exactly how to deal with it, but I pray you
trust me: I will fucking deal with this as I see fit.

WHO THE FUCK DO YOU
THINK YOU ARE, HUH?
If I ever, ever, witness that again,
I will be slapping some bitches.

I am fucking livid, that's what I am.
Who the fuck brought you up to think
like that? They should be shot and as
should you. In fact, I think I'll do
it myself. Clearly one must take moral
law into their own hands in situations
such as this.
Check it: I'm a fucking vigilante.

I don't like Jimmy Kimmel but I was in too
much pain to actually get up and change the
channel, so when Dov Davidoff came on I was
still watching the TV.
It hit me like a punch in the fucking gut,
(which I really don't need right now).
Because, god, he moves just like him. Like,
well, basically, like he's hyped pretty
hard on drugs. His voice, the content of
his jokes, just like him.
I'm laughing, just like I'd be laughing if
it were him, but it still hurts. Fuck, it does.
God, I miss them.
I'd love to go back, just once.

I guess what I'm trying to convey, to asseverate,
is that I'm always going to miss something, to
miss someone, and I'm always going to hurt.
SOME THINGS MUST BE OVERLOOKED TO KEEP ON LIVING.


Also, I know I never believed in karma, but it's
funny, if I did, I wouldn't now. I don't know
what I did to deserve it but I have some awesome
friends. A friend of mine drove all the way from
his house to mine, after hearing that I didn't
feel good, with some pretty strong pain killers
and a stuffed hedgehog. I'm not sure if the idea
that he did that made me feel better, or if it
was just the awesome pills.

It's funny that I know exactly what to
say at certain times. I know what to say
to create the outcome that I want to see,
but I wonder if I really mean it.

I mean, if it occurred to me at all, then
there must be some truth in it. But, I can't
help but wonder if anything that I think or
say is really true. Is it just a reflection
of what I wish I was. Is there a giant reserve
of true and clean ideas in my head that I have
yet to tap into because society daily helps me
ignore? And if I were to move away. To cut off
contact. To become self-reliant, for everything.

Would my opinions change?
And if they did, (no, when they did, since they
would without a doubt), would it just be the
change in situation, in circumstance? Or, would
it really be that reserve?
That true, clear, pristine opinionated treasure.

Sometimes I forget to mention things.
This happened probably nine days ago.

If it wasn't cold.
If my fingers weren't freezing,
hanging out of the car window
with my cigarette. If I wasn't
hanging out with some kid in
flannel and this swell hat, and
another with a thick handmade
scarf, well, I'd think I was
west coasting it. With all the
Sublime and all the weed...
I was almost feeling sunny.

I want a cigarette so bad that panic is crawling and
scrambling up the inside of my stomach. Digging it's
claws into my stomach lining and my throat. It's
gripping my tonsils and cutting off my airflow,
making me breathless and dizzy.

Fuck! I'm crawling out of my skin and I'm not even
sure if it's just the need to satisfy my addiction.
Although, it shouldn't be more than that. Today was
a pretty good day. So, I'm going to use the fact that I
need a cigarette so bad that I'm flipping as a segue
into a thought that is jumpy and makes no sense:
(Oh, and it took me about two minutes and thirty misspellings of the word
segue to get it right. Fuck, I'm loosing my touch on words here.)

The light from the computer screen illuminates my
hands, my face, my arms, and my shoulders; tapering
off once past there. But, mostly it catches my hands.
They look naturally pale but that's not what I'm so
engrossed in. The light makes every single line in my
hand stand out in relief. This strange stark contrast
that looks like a mix of snake skin and age. Scars, the
scars from age, not just age as an abstract concept.
I've never thought about it, but in this very moment,
in this very light, they're almost beautiful. I guess
I'm thinking about what Dave and I were talking about
today. About life experience. I almost feel like each little
line represents something that I learned in my life that
I've actually used more than once.
I suppose that once I'm grown. Once I've stopped living.
Once I know everything, my hands will appear smooth
because the lines will have covered everything, taking a
full layer off of the top. It's strange that the most
experienced would be the cleanest, least calloused hands.

Oh, and I am totally talking out of my ass, because it is
2:16AM and there is no way anyone can make coherent
sentences, especially not if said person maybe didn't sleep
so well last night, smoked too much weed today and almost
fell asleep standing at work, and is seriously bugging out
because of this lack of nicotine.
No one, and I seriously mean no one, should listen to what I'm saying.
Jesus Christ, I'm going to puke if I don't smoke a cigarette.

BRB, PUKING; LAWLZ.

God, Jesus, fuck.
Shit, fuck, Christ.

WHAT DO YOU WANT
ME TO FUCKING SAY?

Do you want me to tell you that I don't know
what to do? Is that what you want me to tell
you? Because I fucking will if that's what
you need to hear. I'm trying to be honest with
you, but you have to give me direction. I don't
have a fucking solution for this shit. I don't
have help that you're not too fucking proud to
take. I don't have anything to give you is
the bottom line.

Basically, I just wanna fuck shit up. Now.

You know how you see in movies, when someone
knocks everything off of a table with one epic
swipe of an arm? Just like, glass shattering all
over the floor and shit just like exploding up
into the air, cascading down in slow motion.
Pieces of everything integrated with the air;
it's like breathing the most satisfying disaster.

(totally worth particles in your lungs)

And always, always, always: that fucking look of
pure animal-instinct-anger/frustration/desperation.
It's a beautiful and terrifying sweep of emotion.
A display of steel-strong emotion.
The fucking sweetest.

Well, I don't know if sometimes I feel like doing
that or I feel like watching someone do that in real
life. Just totally destroying something like that.
Shit, man.

It's unsettling.
I've forgotten to miss you.

I'm pretty content with watching crappy
TV on Christmas. Crappy TV that I know
for a fact I watched last year.
I'm pretty content with sleeping on Christmas,
in a bed made solely of blankets in a room that
always smells like incense and weed. 
I'm pretty content with smoking a bowl on Christmas
and eating a dinner made of side dishes afterward.
I'm pretty content with spending time on Christmas with
friends in Sam's living room, complaining about music.

I've been pretty content lately.
It's grounding.

I don't know if what I'm getting myself
into is really what I'm interested in.

I'm so scared.
I don't want to ruin you more than
the rest of your fucking life has.

At least we have fun right now.
You're about living in the moment, aren't you?

I don't have much left to give right now.
On Saturday all I could think about
was how I wanted out but now, I'm
not so sure that I really do.

I'll explain, more in depth, at some
point. A point when I'm not completely
fucking miserable all of the time.
All of the time.
Thanks, you fuck.

It makes me upset when I look at all of the people around me who aren't doing what they want to be doing. It makes me wonder exactly what went wrong, where did their plan fail? Which then leads me into the thoughts of "when will my plan fail"? And, for that matter "what the hell is my plan, anyway"?

Because, god, I have like thirty million different stupid plans. One day, will I look back and say to myself "remember that time that I thought I was going to be an illustrator, god what a joke." or "remember that time that I wanted to major in advertising and package design, well, looks like that didn't work out." or "remember that time that I wanted to live in Brooklyn, never got there, now did I?" or "remember that time that I wanted go on tour with some band, as a tech or a merch kid, or something- did I really think that was going to happen?".

And, it's terrifying, because I don't want to get stuck doing something that I do not want to be doing. I see that too often, daily in fact. I see people stuck in places in their lives that they just shouldn't be stuck it. That they just shouldn't have to be stuck in. That they just don't deserve to be stuck in.
And I'm not sure if it's real misfortune or just laziness, but either way, I'm fucking screwed. I'm unlucky and I'm damn lazy.

I'm having an existential crisis. It's pretty fucking lame.

I sometimes wonder if the lady that reads the lottery
numbers ever thinks about who's listening to her. I
wonder if she really ever thinks about lottery at all.
I wonder what her opinion about lottery in general is.

I wonder if she ever imagines all of those
people listening with rapt attention, only to her.


Lottery players make me sad.

And Blake says I should quit, and it's funny because
the first thing out of my mouth is "If you give me a
legitimately good reason to quit, I will.". The thing is
I don't think before I speak and I don't think I can
actually come up with a decent reason to do so.

My legs shake like earthquakes and light looks like
bandages, wrapped around our skin at night. I'm not
scared of the dark, but this coat keeps me warm, sated,
and happy. I miss everything about New York weekends
and I just want to move out of this town. There's so many
other things I'd rather do. But, fuck I'm so lost. I feel like...
sometimes I might be going crazy. This whole routine isn't
working out and I don't have the time or energy to change it.

My elbows itch, this cardigan's too small, and my pants sit
low on my hips because my belt doesn't hold them up any longer.
My shoelaces are tucked in my shoes because sometimes I forget
they're there and I'm afraid I'll trip over them, forget to throw
my hands out to break my fall and smash my nose. It's not
a real fear, or not in the paralyzing sense, but at least I'm truthful.

I wish the world was flat like the old days.
Then I could travel just by folding a map.

It might not be my idea, but it sure is a good one.

That simple line about poisonous leaves and childish bravery opens
up this giant pocket of memories that I had no clue it was even possible
to miss so much. Just to be with them, for one more day, like it used to
be, would be all I needed to heave myself out of this stupid slump.

It puts me in pain to think of the way we laughed at the bottom of his
staircase. My stomach aches thinking of the way her feet pointed in as
she leaned on her knees to draw, his fucking fisherman hat, the couch,
the TV, the dirty pair of Vans by the front door.
Even his hellish dog, I miss it all.


In addition to missing that, I also miss Jon and Shane's attempt to play
a racing game with a guitar hero controller,  prom night in the rain, the
heat of the subway and getting lost on the way to Kew Gardens. I miss
the time we went to 5 Pointz, Gries Park in the wintertime, the advent
calenders and smoking in Shane's car, drinking red label and watching Logo,
and all of those stupid stupid ideas that we had and carried out.

It's not even that I really spent all that much time in any of these
situations, it's the fact that I know I was happier back then. That
mindset seems unattainable now, and if I knew what I could do
to change that, I'd do it in an increment less than a heartbeat.
The only problem is that the root of all this seems to be
growing up, which is irreversible and inevitable.

What it all boils down to is the fact that I miss having free time
to do what I want to do with the people that I really love.

I always read in books, see in movies, hear in songs, about that
horrible, desolate period of nothingness and wasting after breaking
up with someone. I've never hurt so much I couldn't eat. I've never
cried over someone like that. Which, I can only logically deduce,
must mean that I've never been in love. The thing is, love's not logical
like that (although, quite apparently, it's filled with silly cliches.).I don't
mind chilling out alone for the rest of my short life, just as long as I've
still got friends. And now I'm laughing because I've never been in love.

I'm not sure if my hilarious laughter is just a touch too close to panic,
or if I seriously think this situation is funny. I've been fucked up lately,
(and I earnestly hope that I'm fucked up tomorrow too), so I'm not so
sure of what I'm really feeling.
But if laughter's the best medicine, then I'm fucking cured!

Kelsey says they're like cattle, the kids in our school.
They travel in droves, herded from class to class.
She says that sometimes, over the roar of their voices,
she hears animal noises, like the cafeteria is a barn.

I think that she's right, but not for the same reasons.

The way that words are.

That's all I feel like writing. Because any more
would be a bad idea, just like it was a bad idea
to go drunk and high to work on Tuesday.

It's nights like these that are the problem. The nights where all I can think
about is this one totally unattainable dream of mine. and I watch all these
fucking videos and look at these photos, and look at how they live and I
want it so hard that it hurts, and all I can do is just smoke a fucking cigarette
and then like, procrastinate on the papers I have to write, and take some
fucking pills to finally go to sleep.
But I still fucking wake up in this horrible funk, like I was dreaming about
being one of them and then when my alarm went off, I realized that it was
just a fucking dream and I was so fucking devastated. I have no idea what
I should really think about this shit, but fuck, I don't know.

Because it's like, shit, I could be painting, or fucking writing or something
but I can't get everything into words fast enough for any of it make sense
at all, in the fucking least, and I just wanna grow up.
There's this thing that Jason Dill said about New York in an Epicly Later'd
show and he was like "New York, when I first came here was like if you
were nine years old and fucking hated school and you wanted to eat
whatever fucking shit you wanted to eat and you didn't want to do a
goddamn thing and your parents were just dope addicts and they didn't
give a fucking shit and you'd just go outside and it was as if your whole
neighborhood was like kids filled with that same deal, like their parents
didn't give a fuck, you'd go play and do whatever the fuck you want and
the streets were lined with candy and fucking like slides and like rope
swings into pools and that's what it felt like when I first got to New York.
Like, I don't have to do fucking shit, this is awesome, I can fucking smoke
weed and do all these fucking drugs just like whoo! You just like step
outside and you just like get conveyed into the fucking clubs and
bars and phyconess, and..."

And I don't know if it's because I've always lived here, or whatever, but
I don't feel that. I want to fucking feel that, but I'm so fucking attached
to this stupid-ass dirty place that I don't want to move but I think that
the only way that I'll ever feel that is if I move. It's like, when I go to
visit someone else for a few days and everything's so chill, and I can do
whatever the fuck I want and everything's so fucking novel and there
are all these new people to meet and make fun of and like totally fucking
fall in love with because they're so damn awesome, but I don't think I'll
be able to feel that for my whole time living somewhere, so I guess I'll
just have to keep traveling all over the place, and not have some grounded
place to go back to. But the problem is that I have to much fucking shit to
carry with me from place to place, and I would consolidate if I fucking could,
but like everything's so important and familiar that I can't. And, I don't know
where I'm going with this, because I really have to write that fucking paper,
and whatever, but I'm so fucking stuck in this ridiculous mindset where I'm
like a couple of years older and just like fucking having the time of my life
and the sad thing is that I just can't realistically see that ever happening.
Life feels like such a giant waste if I can't do exactly what I want to do and
get fucking paid for it, but there's nothing that I like to do that I'd ever
actually get paid for, and like.... I don't fucking know.

And, I'm really sorry if you read this and it makes no sense to you, because
I just kept typing up the shit that I was feeling and I didn't really go over it
to see what I fucked up on, or whatever, and I've been going crazy because
I've been working so damn much and I haven't been sleeping and I just had
my first proper meal in a few days, so do, please excuse me, but I sincerely
hope there's someone, anyone, out there who reads this and is like "fuck,
that's what I've been feel lately- like I'm crawling out of my skin because
my mind is growing through years, but my fucking body is the same age."
because then maybe we could split the cost of one of those fucking storage
spaces and throw all our extraneous shit in it and take all this fucking saved
money and just go. Just fucking go, and just fucking be.

The morning cigarette is the killer of all. Anyone who has ever been a
smoker knows that. It has you grasping, riding on a nicotine bliss-out,
and then it's dead. However, it seems, it's still lingering in your finger,
your hair, your sweatshirt sleeves- remnants floating in your lungs,
reminding you that your next cigarette is much too far away.


Today I woke up way too late for that morning cigarette; energy drinks
are a piss-poor substitute. They leave a crave that claws at my insides
worse than usual. It gets hard to breathe, just thinking about the first drag.

I'm dying cause I can't smoke, but I'm killing myself when I do.
What a fucking conundrum.

I'll think, if winter comes, no wait, when winter comes,
because it will, (the rotation of the seasons hasn't failed
me yet) I'll be back in control. It'll be free time, cold hands,
cold kisses. It'll be my safewarmandsecure coat in the woods
in Queens with a beer in my hand (drinks never get warm in
the winter like they do in the summer, because every thing's
so cold, which is awesome cause I hate warm beer!). It'll be
crystal breath and red high in everyone's cheeks.
People are more beautiful in wintertime.

Matt tells me this winter it won't snow. I haven't wrapped
my head around why I'm so despondent. (to sit down and
think about it requires time that I don't have). He tells me,
while we sit on the back porch smoking cigarettes, waiting
for the methadone to kick in, that the snow insulates us-
quiet and serene.
It makes me scared to think that winter may be different.
It makes me scared to think hat while winter usually grounds
me- the cold like slap in the face (stunning for a moment, and
then subduing)- this winter may not be the same. Witout my
seasonal grounding, I'm afraid of that well-learned downward spiral .

In winter I'm invincible. Paralyzed by cold instead of fear.

It's hard to sleep when everything in my
mind is spinning. It's not the drugs, since
I'm not on a thing. (I'm sober, aside from
nicotine.) All I want is undisturbed sleep
for a few good hours.

That, and, dreams of liberation.

When it comes down to it, home and
house are not the same words. At all.

Honestly, the worst part is that I just don't know when
you're kidding. Sometimes, you seem so serious that the
after-laugh is just a few octaves too high to be true.


I haven't slept for real in days.
That mostly explains why I keep slipping in and out. My
ears are like the radio tuner in my brothers car. Unless
you've got it just right, on the spot, it sounds fuzzy.
Some days I act fairly normally. I conform to society, and
interact in a normal way. But, other days, I just go crazy.
I just make up these giant spun webs of bullshit. When I
close my eyes I can see a beautiful and intricate web of ideas,
with little drops of dew glistening on some strands. It might be
visually appealing, but the fact that it is all lies, lies, lies, fails to
be overlooked. They may be hilarious, awesome lies-
but lies all the same.

Some days I wake up from a small nap and it feels like I've
climbed a few flights of stairs. But, then it all rushes back to me.
Three or four hours have gone by, and I have been walking up stairs.
I've also been actively participating in class.
Holy shit, I feel like the walking dead.

I fear for the day that my head gets the best of me. The day that
I finally thin out after years of eating less and less until I become
emaciated, and I can fold my spindly arms and legs into my body.
I can curl up into a tiny ball and perish, because I no longer desire
to live in this half world.
And, it's happening again, right as we fucking speak. The exhaustion's
so intense that I can't even think about sleep. I'm so fucking awake.
I haven't slept for real in days.

During the day, things are good. Mostly. Really
good, in fact. I feel warm, relaxed, heavy, and
high. In the shade of his backyard, with drug
dealers, addicts, and old friends, I am content
to lay on my back in the grass with my eyes closed.

The air is smoky and their peaceful chatter
intertwines with the smoke tendrils. The words drip
steadily into my ears: jail, rehab, prohibition, psych
wards. The sun is low, flashing in my eyes when I hand
my baby bowl over to the kid with the black flag tattoo.

I listen to an offer. Vin says he'll take gold for some
coke, but I'm too settled, sated, to even laugh at the
strangeness of me being in such an environment.
I grin, and everything is good.

It's at night that things are bad. Well, not night, really.
According to the circadian rhythm of most people, it's early
morning. I feel lonely. I can never get as comfortable lying
in my bed as I am on his lawn, or the floor, or the train
platform. It's too cold, or too warm, or too empty.
Mostly, too empty.
I lay awake, stiff as a board, arms, legs, and back straight.
Streamlined.
I'm empty and lonely and angry that I can't fall asleep.
I love the drugs, for the most part, but sometimes they're shit.

Life is crippling.

Real feelings have always seemed like a shitty topic with you,
so I avoided them, but this is unavoidable. It either stems from
annoyance and avoidance, complete neglect, or maybe even
lack of conversational topics. Most things have stopped mattering
lately, disappointingly enough, this doesn't happen one of them.

Hey, look, this doesn't mean that I'm not appreciative of everyone
else, it just means I was hoping that you would not forget. You did.
(I'm a needy, expectant, person. I don't know when it happened,
but at least I'm coming to terms with it. I'm seriously accepting it.)

I now know the real meaning of growing pains.
HA.

For an enemy, I'm a
pretty awesome friend.

Light blinks heavy in my eyes. My pupils dilate and
my eyes prickle. They sting. They're dry and they
almost feel sandy because I'm so accustom to this dark.
Ouch, and my body is laden. I'm creaking with age that
I physically shouldn't have. There are bruises that aren't
visible, as well as some that are, but in the strange
florescent light everything seems bruised. When the lights
go out I am but whole, but when they're on, I'm damaged
goods. They tell me at work "write off anything that you
wouldn't buy" and honestly I wouldn't buy me. I'm not
even good enough for donated spoils, I'm a few days stale
already, so just scan me and X me off with a permanent marker.
Throw me in a trash bag, wheel me out.
My warm breath fogging the bag;
I'm fucking suffocating.
The end is near and the smell is rank.

Right now, I'd like a very large cardboard box. I would stuff it with
blankets and pillows, like I used to do when I was youngyoungyoung
(younger than I am now, because I'm certainly not old at the moment.).
I would lay in there until I fell asleep.

Comfort now comes corrugated, boys and girls.
Step right up, it's free if you ask nicely.

I went to they shoe store and I bought the ugliest pair
of shoes that I could find. I'm not sure people understand
the concept really, but I keep using car accidents as an
example. People slow down, or even stop to stare at a
horrible bloody mess. People are addicted to shit like that.
These were so ugly that I needed to have them.

But, honestly it's more than that. I couldn't get them off
of my mind. It was like a sick fascination. They were
burned into my brain. A bowling shoe shaped scar in the
soft, delicate, tissue of my brain. The damage was worth it.

The shoes cause blisters. They match nothing. They look like shit.
I'm so glad I bought them.

I wonder what I think about, just after I wake up for
the first time in the morning. Right before I close my
eyes and go back to sleep, I wonder, what I think about.

I tried this morning, when I woke up at nine, but by the
time it was eleven, I couldn't recall.
I think it was about hamsters. Which, is not what I thought
it would be.I figured it might be something enlightening, not
that I'm trying to say something grandiose about my thoughts,
I just wonder:
Am I really that uninteresting?

Small fluffy rodents aren't enlightening.

"I don't even know why you're looking at the towns,
basing your decision upon them. From what it sounds,
all of your time is going to be spent in the studio."
She says, voice muffled from the sound of the air.

God, fuck, no. If I want out,
I will find a way, trust me.

I just need an escape route.

I guess the best part about missing a season is
that I forget all of it's less redeeming qualities.
The same way I forget the deathly heat of a show
after I've left the venue.

One day, I'll leave everything, all of my worldly
possessions and I'll reinvent myself. I'll miss them,
just like I'll miss the breathy winter whisper in my
ear. I'll think "one day they'll resurface" I just
have to wait another quarter of a year for them.

They're worth it.

I'll miss my friends and their voices like I miss the
sweaters of fall and the sunburned necks of summer. I'll
miss those places and the memories that we thought would
kill us at the moment, but we ended up laughing about in
the end. I'll laugh in futures face because I know that
one day future will laugh along with me.

I'll realize that 500 miles isn't a measure of distance
or time but rather a measure of my perseverance, my drive.

And we'll all breathe the same heavy humid party air,
saturated with smoke and beer, white powder in my nose
and pills in my stomach. I'll never again be jealous of
the young and in love because I'll have seen it from all
angles. I'll know it's flaws and they'll be no reason to
be reacquainted because we'll already still know each other,
inside and out. It'll be the same motions in the night and

I'll think "If winter ends..."
No, wait! When winter ends, because I'm sure it will, all
I'll miss is frosty lashes and shaking hands. Which isn't
much to miss. I guess I just want to know- are you listening
to the differences of what this season means to you and I?

I'm having trouble writing, like really writing pen and
paper, because I can type so much faster. The words come
out, and I wish I had a tape recorder, it'd make everything
twenty times easier. I could just talk and record and then
play back, write down, edit, and then BAM! produce.
I don't want to think so fast, write so fast, talk so fast.
If I just slowed down my thoughts and my movements. If I
just slowed down my breathing, to a stand still. I'd be
proclaimed legally dead for a moment. Fuck the brain cells
I'll loose, I can afford them
(or at least, I'd like to think that I can)
and I just want to die, be removed for a short second. (I
promise you, that although that sounds like a suicidal
ideation, it's not.) And, I'm not even thinking in terms
of what I would see for those shut down moments. I don't
think I'll see light, god, the future, a tunnel: no, nothing like that.
I'll see what I think stability is.
And, I can't even describe that to you, because I just
don't know at all. I want to.... be tied to a life like
that. And, by tied, I don't mean tied down. I mean, working,
college, even high school- not my thing. I want to be different
every time I wake up. I want to feel lost for a moment, because
I've become so self assured lately that I've forgotten what it
feels like to be lost. That ache for familiarity in my stomach,
tingling on my fingertips, with the smell of cigarette smoke
and... hand sanitizer. Sharpies, flowers, bread, and paint.
I want to be lost again.

I thought I'd never say this. I thought
I'd never look down and see this.
So, I guess I'm just another dumb fuck,
swept up in some fucking craze. I'm just
another asshole in a pair of fucking Nikes.

And, it's not as horrible as I make it out
to be, because they're comfortable (albeit
the new shoe discomfort) it's not like I paid
some obscene price for them.
Kid's shoes go for a lot less than adult
shoes do, and for the first time in my life
I'm not embarrassed by these tiny little feet
of mine, in fact they came in handy.

But, I am embarrassed to look down. All those
times that I've laughed at shoes brands to the
likes of Nikes. Shit, I just feel like I'm double
crossing myself, going back on my word; I'm a...
fucking hypocrite.
I'm disgusted by this new shit, but I can't go
back to wearing the old pair of shoes, because
I wore them for two years and they've more than
begun to separate from the soles.
There's no turning back. I'm a different type of
asshole than I used to be, but at least I'm semi-
constant in the asshole department.

Today you asked me if I trusted him, and I
want to let you know that I did, I honestly
did trust him, until you said it.

Some things are ruined when you talk about them.
Some things are ruined when you acknowledge them.
Some things start out ruined.
It's vital that you learn the difference.

If you tell me where you've been, I'll tell
you who you are. Because, being right is overrated,
and my impressions of your travels aren't exact but
at least they're hard, fast, and true.
You are as elusive as today's events were. I do not
know what to make of you but I know, that if you fold,
if you give in, I can make you something. Not something
different than you already are, but... I can make you
a stronger version of yourself.
I'm no prophet, just a drunk girl with some ridiculous
ideals, singing along to some bad indie songs.

But, in my mind I might.
(That's a fragment. I should consider revising.)

The rounded edges of an old photograph, like the
rounded surface of your coffee cup, or his face.
Seeing is believing, but touching (purely, or
impurely platonic touching) is knowing.
Or, at least as close to knowing as I'll be able
to find at such short notice.

Over the years I've learned something that I'd
like to share with you (and I mean: just you.).
So, here goes nothing: You don't need to be able
to sing to make music. You don't even need to know
how to play an instrument. I can only tell you one
more thing about this, punk rock didn't teach me
this, no fucking way. I hope I'm not letting you
down by saying that.
I guess I can share one more thing, death taught me
this. I don't mean the Grim Reaper, or some other
depiction of death, I mean the act of death and dying.
It sounds unreal, but get intimate with a cadaver.
I do not mean necrophilia, you sick fuck.
I'm not quite sure what I mean by that, but we are
louder than any foreign language you will never learn.
That might hurt, but it changes nothing.

My embittered tongue seems to have calmed down
lately. I can't be hostile in the workplace, so
I'm having trouble being hostile outside of it.
I can't even summon up a good insult, which is
strange since they used to be on the tip of my
tongue at all times.

I make it sound like I'm downgrading from being
mean to being nice, because, despite what most
people would think, I am. It's not enjoyable for
me to be like this. But, I succumb to the pressure
because I get 10% employee discount and I'm paid
more than minimum wage.

I always thought that time was a concept that we, as humans,
searching for some type of control in our everyday lives, made up.

Today, I realized that, although time usually directly correlates
with it, age, along with time, is something that we humans made up.

If you really want to gauge your age properly? Determine how much
and your rate of deterioration. Because that's what getting old is, isn't it?
Getting old is when you start falling apart piece by piece. Each bit ailing
a bit more daily until you just cease to function.
If you're lucky, that process won't take too long.

A lot of things are unfair, and a lot of
things really suck. A lot of times you'll
feel like life drew you the short straw,
or a bad hand, but you'll learn to cope.
Each person has different coping mechanisms,
and mine include obsessive compulsions.

The sooner you realize it, the more
miserably enlightened you are.

The air was so thick, like cotton
or some synthetic fiber, that I
was convinced it would in up in
flames when I lit a cigarette.

In the swarming haze of powdery lines and comedy
movies that were never funny, he fell asleep.
Dead asleep, and he dreamt of flying over a vast
ocean, toes skimming salty waves teeming with life
that I'll never even have the capacity to store
half the names of. (Make that 1/23rd of)

I keep forgetting that dreamt isn't a word.

Sleep starts when the night forgets we're here.
The night's been keeping a tight watch on me as
if I'm a matter of homeland security.
Sleep evades me. Sleep was never fond of cops.

I have to stop smoking so much weed.

How badly I take criticism disappoints me.
And, it's not like I haven't thought about
this before, but it's fresh dissatisfaction
each time. I'm having trouble defining it.

When you asked me if I trusted you to
count me in at work, I hesitated because I
was calculating margin of error in my head.

You see, the real problem with those fucking people who think
they're ever so charming is that they usually fucking are.

The way that you flick your hair out of your eyes, that smirk,
and your casual demeanor: they're all killer. I just want to
punch you. I want to punch your perfect fucking nose; I want
to break it. Because, guess what? Perfection isn't sexy because
it's all too false.
If your nose was crooked, and your haircut was a little awkward, and
your smile was a lopsided smirk, then maybe I'd consider you. But, as
you are now, in all your perfect fucking glory, you are boring.

Fuck you. Grow some balls. Get different.

"You're choosing your food choice on what you
want to puke up tonight?" I ask, laughing.
She sighs. "Basically" she says quietly.

And all of a sudden, it's not as funny.
I mean, it still is, but it's sort of not.

The feeling of knowing it's too late.

I find that whole scene so condescending,
useless, and utterly fucking appealing.

I want to be that & there's nothing
either of us can do to change it.

Today, I came to a shocking realization, while
lost, attempting to pick up drugs. There's all
these fucking people in the world that I interact
with, a ridiculous amount, that know something
about me or that I know something about.
No matter how big or little this piece of
information is, it's still an onslaught of
facts that I think maybe I should remember.

There's a woman on line at work with an adopted kid,
a guy with questions about my Psychology final, and
a woman who just had foot surgery.
There's the kid at the show that I bummed a cigarette
from who told me about his mother, and the guy on the
train who laughed at my joke about the people next to
us. And, these are just people in passing.

What about the people at work like Pedro and his plans
for the night, or Jaroi's sick kid, or Semaj's dumb
jokes about my hair, or Steve's obsession with xkcd, or
Chad's hugs, or Ian's non-stop talking? They matter to me:
Warren matters to me, Alex, Tim, Billy, Anna, Nicole and
Estefanie: and I know things about them, and they're
important to me, but when I quit my job, they'll disappear.

What about those kids at school? The ones that I
associate with in class. We talk and we plan a scheme
and study, but we'll never... I don't know where I'm
going with this, so I'm going to wrap it up now, with this:


How about my friends? I wonder if the friends that I
consider my best now, will ever turn out like these people.
Passing bits of information, noted and cataloged like in a
fucking library, but... yeah, one day I'll start making sense.

The saddest thing is that moving on seems
so much easier than just asking you if
you'd come visit if I pay your expenses.

I honestly hate myself sometimes.

It all started with those stupid fucking socks.
The picture is in black and white, but I've seen
them enough times to know that they're white tube
socks with two black stripes on top.
Why do you do this to me?

With your dumb cutoff Dickie's shorts that end
right where those fucking socks start, and that
fucking hat...and your canine teeth.
There's always been something about your canine
teeth, that even if you gave me endless days to
write I'd never be able to explain why I dwell
on them.
Your ridiculous glasses, and those dumb fucking
converse. You afflict me in the worst way possible.
I am irrational and mentally unsound when I'm with
you. It's a good thing I don't see you too often.

The walls are in distress and the floor is
beginning to crumble. Each chip away leaves
tangled webs of steal barbs that make up the
foundation of the floor. These crisscrossing
metal spears serve better than any thousand
dollar window pane, because they let you see
what's inside, what's down on the ground below,
rather than what's outside.


Yet, through this mess is a claim made by a
boy. A claim to a throne of decrepit stairwells.
A gloating story of quests and great heights,
surrounded by marvels that were never meant to
be described as so.

Early fall exits with a tiny curtsy. The
aftertaste of seclusion and cold tobacco.
Hooves make deep prints in newly fallen
snow; possibly elks.
Every detail is remembered and committed as
a light, an afterglow, in a closed case file.

White dresses, black tights,
white socks, black shoes.


(Contrary to popular belief, this is not just a
nonsensical jamble of words; it makes sense to me.)

Leave your hariolations at the door.
We don't need or want them here.

It wouldn't kill you to fucking make it look nice; just
take a few more seconds of your precious fucking time.

I drive myself crazy with these compulsions.

He's a symphony for demanding and
his voice is always wrecked.

But, the people call for emotion;
we want sharp, we want private,
and we want perfect, so rip those
vocal chords raw.

One day, I'll give up cigarettes.
One day, I'll give up smoking all together.
But, that day is not today.

Today I crossed the street without looking
and I made someone have to stop short.
I couldn't meet their eyes when I waved.

Guilt is an interesting and crippling thing.

You be me for a few concise
moments, and I'll be you.

I'll slip into the uneasy stammer of sleep.
(That was almost an alliteration.)

It's not that you insult my intelligence, at
least not the way the expression truly means.

I do not desire to sound pretentious but you
insult the fact that I am intelligent. This
makes me more angry than it will ever make me
sad, which is sad in itself.
How dare you mock for using a word that sounds
funny to you, because you're unfamiliar with it.
How dare you mock me for sharing a fact that you
never even bothered to learn because you thought
the topic was ludicrous or unnecessary.
How dare you, how dare you, how dare you.
It's rude, and it only serves to cause me to
think of you as a completely ignorant asshole.

So, bury your head in the sand; surely if you
can't see me, then I can't see you, and you'll
sucessfully avoid the tangible fury of my fist.

Right now, your popularity is determined by
how fast I can find your track, downloadable,
free, on the internet.

Life is sad, isn't it?

Heres the difference, I am capable of more
than half the damage I would like to do.

I really don't think that living without morals is an issue.

I wish you could shop for places in time.
They'd come in labled cans, like soup, fruit
or vegetables do. I'd buy the most uneventful
day ever. I'd buy a whole pallet of them.

I'm scared when I watch footage of
civil rights protests. I don't even
mean just the anti- segregation ones,
I mean any of them.
We don't have that drive any longer;
I wonder where exactly it's hidden.

I'll check under the rug, you
get the couch cushions. We'll
reconvene in fifteen minutes.

If there's one thing I can't wait for it's to be
able to get up late and go to the movies in the
early afternoon, on my own accord, in the middle
of the fall, with a cigarette, light like feathers,
between my cold fingers, which are sheltered slightly
by the sleeves of my sweatshirt, with my slightly runny
nose, cherry cough drops on my breath and a fresh pack
of tissues in my pocket, maybe even a hat pulled over my
unruly hair differing the wind from the crown of my head,
and a smile, a small self-assured smile flirting with my
lips in between drags, because that's what happiness is.
That is what happiness is.

What a run on sentence, chock full of memories I've
never had, but hope to create.

(entries for the last seven days will be
up in some untimely fashion, eventually.)

When I think of you in my head, I
see a celebrity waltz and a mask of
mosquito born diseases. Possibly a
walking display of distributive justice.

And it is strange that I desire to be the
beautiful mess that Cory Kennedy once was.
In fact, strange doesn't suffice, because
this yearning is sort of sordid or nauseating.

Because she was so young, and so caught
up in this shit. But, this AWESOME shit.
(The thing is, I'm not sure which part of
me really agrees with the idea that her
situation was breathtaking in the least.)

Just think of all those times she could've
died. It's morbid, I know, but my interests
often lie in morbidity, rather than material
fame. Because I'm not interested in the people
she met and knew, and went to clubs with.
I'm interested in her dangerous life style.

Most basically, danger is alluring and if I
could have a brush with death every night,
then I would, in a single, solitary heartbeat.

I can think of many reasons this is unattainable,
and I'm going to have to use up all of my shallowness
in one go by saying: it's because I don't look like her.

Just because you are not speaking English,
doesnt mean that I can't understand you.

What he said was true. Hardships come in twos,
which means this is going to happen again and
again. It might seem different on the outside,
but deep down, in the giant V that is life, it’s
going to be the same until it’s solved.......... or
annihilated.

I wonder if this goes for anything else. Are we
doomed to repetition, everything over and over,
things getting stale and losing their thrill.
But maybe that’s what growing is:
part discovering, part trial and error
(learning what things not to repeat).

Epic is two directional.

It is back and forth, and forth and back.
It is ebb and flow, and high and low.


It is right and it is wrong, and you
are sliding dangerously close to the
negative side of epic.

Let's stay in touch at least.

How time flies. They say.

In the haziest haze of drunkenness, I'd like to
tell you a story about two people who would knife-
fight for your evening meal. Now, I don't mean that
in a negative way, because they are priceless, each
biting tongues, spitting words, and making blood.

I love to know where I am. I love waking up
with my eyes completely closed, still able
to navigate without seeing, still able to
know where everything in the room is.

And, to know that as soon as I open my eyes,
the things will be in the exact same places.

They call this predictability.
I call it "what home should feel like".

When I'm overwhelmed, I shut off,
much like a computer does. Which is
why nothing's been up in a timely
fashion lately. I've been writing,
I just can't bring myself to post
any of it on time.

I DISGUST MYSELF.

I want to share life with a complete
stranger, while at the same time, I
long for one person to tell everything.

I'm successful at confusing myself.

That giant glass building in my eyes,
Death Cab for Cutie's "We Looked Like
Giants" sounding in my ears, and the
wind disheveling my hair. It's Sunday
morning, and I didn't die last night.

I'm not sure what this unsettling
feeling is trying to tell me....

More than you impress and inspire me,
you scare the shit out of me. I think
you're so beautiful that I'm horrified
by your plethora of problems. It makes
me sick to my stomach. But, I know that
without them this wouldn't be as moving.

The classic "glug, glug, glug!" of milk
spilling out of a container and onto the
floor is louder than any sound in the world.

There's a lot more milk in a quart than you realize.

But that's not the first instance of clumsiness,
for I've been all wrong with my depth perception
for weeks now, and I forget I'm holding things.
It's ruining everything.

I'm the first one I deceive.

I've made a list, and mapped it out in my
head. It's titled "High Risk Areas at Work."
and each section is rated from one being the
least, to ten being the most.......
on the contamination scale.

It's one of the sickest things
I've done in a really long time.

I am suffocating in this land of trees,
and guess what? I don't give a shit,
because it's amazing in this building.
There is an explosion of amazing &
wonderful talent all over the walls.

I won't ever get in.

It's your obvious unattractiveness
that makes me so attracted to you.

I'm not even sure if I mean that in
a sexual or non sexual way. You are
nothing like the cute boy that fills
up my inbox, so why am I interested?

Fuck this, I'm done.

Sometimes, when I look out and see
how big everything is, and how far
we've come, I can't help feel an
insufferable amount of pride.

This usually occurs when I'm
under the influence of Marijuana.

Your shoe was still in the same place,
on the floor by the coffee table, from
when you kicked it off four hours ago.

You don't know how bothered I was by it.
You never will, but I moved it when you
got up to go to the bathroom.
I wanted to throw it out.

This is another one of those entries where I find
this fleeting moment of remembrance and I write about
my childhood, or something I ordinarily wouldn't
remember, something of little consequence, that a
random event triggered inside of me.

Well, on second thought, this had a pretty large
affect on my younger self... In this post I'm going
for the unattainable: describing the paralyzing fear,
embarrassment, and self-pity that violin lessons,
in school, brought onto me.

I was never very good at determining between an on-
key note and a flat note, since I'm basically tone
deaf, but somewhere in the back of my mind I did know
how to play that poor, abused, school provided, wooden
instrument. I scored the highest possible on a third
level piece during my first competition, so unless the
judges were giving this poor little redheaded girl, in
her little black shoes with the silver embroidery flowers
on them (that still fit, from elementary school. (An
unnecessary detail about my baby feet.)), sympathy or
something, I did know how to play deep down.

But, it was never really playing that was the problem,
it was the on-the-spot play-this-score-of-music playing
that brought me this anxiety. It was knowing that at any
moment the teacher could call you out on a bad note, since
it wasn't a full integrated orchestra, it was just three
or four students. And, it wasn't the tender type calling
out. It certainly wasn't "Sweetie, I think you've got a note
wrong, let me help you fix it.". It was simply degrading.
Which, is not something that a child should be made to experience.

During those lessons, I've never felt smaller. And, there
have been times were I've gotten into an argument with someone
that I thought they would loose in a moment because I was convinced
that the sheer vastness of my knowledge, in comparison to their's
of course, was so superior that they would fall under my facts,
but then all of a sudden they're spitting out facts like an
encyclopedia, and my pride's been trodden on. But, even the
worst of my history of unsuccessful arguments will never belittle
me as much as my orchestra teacher managed to.

I've never been proud with that instrument in my hand, which
makes me shy to pick up any other instrument, ever again.
I'll never feel comfortable with anything musical because the
moment the first note spills from my fingers into the air, I
will expect that nervousness, the heat pooling in my cheeks
and ears, and the degradation to begin.
Even if it doesn't, Ill forever be afraid.
One single word: conditioning.

And, as Dave said: "The violin is one of the most
unpleasant instruments when played incorrectly."
(Of course, that fails to be verbatim, because most
teenagers don't speak with the formality that I do.)

My appreciation of life directly
correlates with my hatred of life.

All in all, that pretty much means
that if I didn't hate everything
about life then I wouldn't love it
nearly as much as I do.

It only makes sense if your sole
existence is filled entirely with
complaining, much like mine.

I often wonder if I'm capable.

And, although this could be interpreted
in thousands of different ways, I mean:
Am I capable of acting out on what I
think, am I capable of saying my thoughts
out loud, and am I capable of thinking?

I can't pass judgement on myself.

I'd like to be the most horrible, ugly, destructive,
bruised, damaged, beautiful mess that they have
ever seen, because I'm certain that I can't do better.

And again, not conventional beauty.
I want the timeless kind.

In some sort of foreign post-clarity, I
found a pair of hands willing to stop mine.
But, willing is different than succeeding,
and you will always be testmate to the truth
of that statement.

Let your angry words turn to steam.
Turn to the steam that will fuel this
train for my trip, farfar away.

I may have wrote that there, above,
but for the first time in a long while,
I'm content where I am. I want to be here.
I want to be high. I love life today.

There's a graveyard in the city, so
tightly packed that the dead must be
buried on top of one another, like
the mass graves of the war, with a
more personal spin.

The bigger tombstones are for those
who believe in death. When I die,
I don't even want a stone.

I haven't died, nor have I given
up. I've been writing, snippets
mostly, but just not posting.

I'm sad and lazy. It's not
a winning combination.

I sometimes forget that sleeping
for a few hours is necessary for
me to function the next morning.

I can't even make my way through
normal activities today. I cried
while washing the dishes.

Something is terribly wrong, and
I'm trying, but I have no clue
what it could possibly be.

This is not a lowercase problem.
This is most definitely an uppercase
PROBLEM.

Sometimes, I see guns in the white streaks on
the chalkboard. Sometimes, I see knives in the
whites of your eyes. Sometimes, I'm so angry
that my muscles clench and I make myself sore.

And, all I can think of lately are those
extended filter Parliament cigarettes, hot
tar, and summer. But, whenever I reach out
and pull towards those days, all I seem to
be doing is scratching at my eyes.
One day, I'll make myself blind.

So, take another hit & drink another
glass. QUICK! Before morality settles
in on your stomach; it's morality or...
You'd best take your pick.

MORALITY, DON'T FUCKING PLAY WITH ME.
I'll fuck you up.


(This entry was written for a day
a few months ago, but it seemed semi
appropriate for this very day.)

You can sound sore but careless all you want.
I don't care at all. I just can't have you
curving around particular words and deflating
across syllables like you used to. It scares me.

The moment your voice sinks into that sound,
I can see the nebulous quality in your pupils.
The last time I saw that, it didn't end in good news.

A plane ride, even just across the water,
is much too far away from this place that
I'm stupidly attached to. I don't feel like
figuring out my future today, but I know I
don't want to go there, so quit trying to force it.

I guess it's strange that when I grow up,
I want to be utterly nothing. And, I'm not
talking about career choices, because I've
already got that down, I'm talking about my
effect on everything.

When I cease to breathe, there will be no ripple.
There will be nothing, and it will be monumental.

This post is about not doing something that
needs to be done. This post is about the fact
that I was convinced that I didn't care, until
I realized that I did all along. This post is
about how caring is totally not worth it. This
post is about sentences that I refuse to finish
because I'll never know who'll read them and
immediately know that they're about them. This
post is about the sinus headache that plagues
me each time the sky's floodgates open up. This
post is about lemon sorbet and handshakes. This
post is about tax on unnecessary food items,
and melting soft service frozen yogurt. This
post is about salad dressing and awkward smiles.
This post is about unfinished collabs and batteries.

This post is certainly not about making lists.

If I don't calm the fuck down,
there's a high possibility that
I'm going to unintentionally
cause some serious harm to
myself, increasingly soon.

And, I'm wondering if this happens
to other people? Have you ever been
in a stressful situation and you
look down and see that you've been
unconsciously running your nails
over the top of your arm, and if you
don't stop soon, you're going to bleed?
Or you've been unconsciously biting
the inside of your lip, and you are
actually bleeding? Or you've been
unconsciously digging your nails into
your legs and the crescent shaped
indents have accents of red pooling
in them? Or you've been unconsciously
tapping your collar bone with your
fist, hard enough for there to be a
distinct bruise there the next morning?

Because, all of those things happen
to me on a regular basis. I'm not into
masochism. In fact, I'll do anything to
avoid physical pain and the sight of
blood, but I can't stop myself.

Priority #1: Practice self-control.
Priority #2: Get Xanax.
Priority #3: Be a happy well-adjusted human being.
Potential Success Rate: 13%

I know that I'm a mess. A physical mess, mostly,
but mental isn't something I really shy too far
away from. And this whole confession thing that
I had planned to do, or well, what I have been
doing and what I'm doing right now, could be
easily avoided or disguised with the obsolete
word choice that I usually use, but for the first
time, I'm going to try not to. This is plain
English, or as close as I'm going to get to it,
so I hope you understand.

Today, I realized what I need, and by today I
mean, while I was watching the seventeenth
consecutive episode of Cold Case Files, on my
computer. (See also: five minutes ago.)
I realized that I need....
UGHHHHH, I FUCKING GIVE UP.




I have an interview on Tuesday, for a job. I might
be getting a job. This is stupid, and I feel sick.
I would like nothing more than to get high now.

Because, sometimes you're so
immature that I cringe.

But, in the best way possible.
A cheerful flinch.

I want to reach out and touch, grasp, stroke.
No, not stroke, thats too intimate, sexual,
and this is solely platonic.
This isn't me starved for physical contact;
that's only a half lie, I'm proud of myself.
I just want to be back in that loop. I want
to touch, but no one likes cold hands.


I lost circulation three weeks ago.

I am a static presence, causing malfunctions
in electronics wherever I go. I am morally
bankrupt, and it's working out just fine. I
am the fascinated disgust that dragoons you
to garner the mental strength to open up this door.

You think I need to be disciplined, cause I
can't seem to hold my tongue? Well, I'm not
a child any longer. I can save, I'm convinced.

But, as always, my lies are pretty convincing.

It won't hurt to give this salvation nonsense
a fleeting chance, and if it does, you'd better
just suck it up. I won't have people crying
anymore, I won't cry anymore.
I don't cry anymore.

NOW, JUST SIT THE FUCK DOWN,
and listen, because I've got
a lot to fucking say and you
can't avoid me for much longer.

I'm lightheaded with a heavy hand,
and I would like nothing else but
to sleep for days on end.
I hate people who hide. You fucking
hide. I hate the way you walk, all
hunched. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER and
buy a motherfucking spine, would you?
I hate your curtain of hair, and
your pathetic eyes. I hate people who
fucking hide, so quit it.

I'm struggling and scrambling up a sharp pile
of words today. I want to be "King of the Hill".
It's childish, I know, but my mouth can't seem
to grasp, to catch hold, on one single articulate
word today. It's like biting your tongue and having
to swallow the blood because there's no where to
spit in this wall of people.

And, well, actually spitting on
someone is ruder than I can bear.

This is the point where I make an analogy.
A silly, modern, cryptic, analogy... about my
life, and the relationships I deal with everyday.

Because, sometimes, that's easier.
So, I'll clean out my inbox, cause God knows,
I've been cleaning out my outbox since day one.
I'll get rid of old messages, and make room
for the new ones, with unknown authors.
Because, today I'm saying goodbye to all of
those silly read messages. I'm sick of them.
I'm sick of lamenting. I'm just sick, in general.

I'm sick of the fact that it look me this long.
I'm sick of being acquiescent to my own
mindfuck. But, otherwise, I'm in perfect health...

And, I'm a liar, since I've been coughing up
my lungs for the last hour. I need a cigarette.

Pure, unadulterated, happiness is
hoping not to regret, or forget.

But, sometimes, hysterical laughter
is the opposite of joy; I've been
laughing, non-stop, since this afternoon.

And, to me, this is not a joke...
So don't fucking treat it like one.
Because I have a motherfucking litany
of complaints and compliant failures.
It's awesome.

I will never admit to this.
The feeling is parallel to the way it
makes me uncomfortable to watch people
make fools of themselves on Youtube.

It's completely outside the realm of
possibility that I would even consider
voicing something like that.
Not unless... ACTUALLY, JUST NO.
So, hey- forget about it.

Sometimes I wonder if when seagulls glide
through the air, and begin the decent down,
they feel that jump and swell in their
stomachs like humans do when they fall.

That feeling is the greatest example,
the epitome, of a love/hate relationship.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose,
by any other name would smell as sweet."

Don't lie to me, just don't tell me the truth.
I lift my feet on this balance beam, and I slip.
I fall, graceful. Watch my hands splay, grasping
air, but never giving. Watch me imagine what it
would be like to not know anyone who's dead now.

So, names don't matter. If they didn't then, well,
they sure don't now. But I'm still not sweet.
I WOULDN'T LIE TO YOU.

I fucking give up on this shit. I try,
and get nothing back. And, right when
I'm settled, ready to let the fuck go,
you come back with some ridiculous shit,
and I can't turn you away.

But, next time, I WILL.
I've promised myself.

I said you were special-
you said you were lonely.

So I turn my eyes to the ceiling:
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
(But, I will. This is for you.)

I barely want to talk about anything
anymore, and I know that doesn't
qualify as redeeming, at all.
But, words, spoken words, not typed,
or even written, are the only ones
that make any sense, again.
Without them, I might as well be
tonelessly squinting into the wind,
or fluttering by light, moth-like.

One day, I was sure, if offered, I'd go back.
This is clinomorphism, without any scent, with-
out even a hint, of a simplified medical condition.

The very second I was convinced that I
was riding in the back of that taxi, to
the airport, was a falsehood. I could run
over a dissertation of them, but I won't-
BECAUSE I DON'T WANNA TALK ABOUT IT.

I will answer comments tomorrow.
I just, can't today...

Talk me down off this high horse.
I'm caught up in a whirlwind of remorse,
a lost cause in words,
and my vision seems blurred.
Empty, angry, pitiful, & hollow.
There's a lump in my throat that I can't swallow.
I'm three days late,
I won't take the bait-
so watch me cleverly explain why.




Honestly, what is this nonsense.
I don't post for three days and now
I'm fucking rhyming? Stop me, now.

Quirk an eyebrow and flirt with a grin.
An indiscriminate mixture of colors filter
through my eyelids like a kaleidescope.

And, finally, I'm happy.
I'm a happy, in a dream, under the covers, at one in
the afternoon. Fuck school for the second half of the
day, fuck the company I could have, fuck the mail I
should send, fuck the shower I could take, fuck the
cigarette I could smoke, fuck the places I could go,
and just sink into my crooked mattress that lies
halfway on the bed frame, and halfway on the floor.


I want to mouth words into your skin, until they
permeate & become a mantra in your mind. I want you
to experience the type of happiness that I felt this
afternoon. It was good news. I am good news today.
I want to know what it feels like to be that happy
everyday. That happy, all by myself, no drugs.

"Go ahead." I say, opening
the door and stepping back.
He pauses. "Ladies first."
he says. I grin and I go.
I meet no eyes, nonverbal
communication is overrated.

As are out of tune musings,
yet I avidly continue them.

I can't remember when it began. I can't
remember life without it. Some days, it
feels like it's always been there, like
second nature, a maladroit type of routine.

Three steps has always been the right
size for sidewalks, and two ice cubes
has always been the right number for a
drink. Walking up the stairs has always
involved putting my entire foot on the
step, and cracking my knuckles is a three
part system starting with my left pointer
finger. Evenly spacing out my words is a
well thought out system, too.

I can't remember when this began. I can't
remember, don't want to remember, (couldn't
remember, if I tried), life without it.

"I don't talk to him anymore,
He hit me."
she says, looking down.

And, HOLY FUCK, my heart fucking stops.
I've read that people block out emotional
trauma sometimes, but I never met someone
who could hide things so well.
On occasion, I do think uncharitable thoughts
about her, but how could someone possibly hit
her? She's not even close to one of my favorite
people, but if I was to, by chance, meet this
fucking kid, I'd beat the shit out of him.
Every fighting tactic that I've ever learned,
from movies, books, people, and boxing lessons,
would suddenly flood into my mind, and I'd
fucking make sure that kid couldn't ever hit
anyone again.
I'd fucking kill him, I'm telling the truth.

I feel sick.

One of the scariest things is realizing
that I can't make my music any louder.
I cant block out your waste of words.
I can't cover up your garbage with my
shitty taste in music.

Oh, unachievable saccharine silence.
You're terrifying.


Lately all I am is fucking scared.
If I met myself, I'd knock me out.
"FUCKING COWARDLY SHIT!"

"I only recognize one of them,
so they don't have ears."

Well, that may not make a single
ounce of sense, but I really wish
that I didn't have a mouth, most
days. I always say that politics
make me throw up. Well, guess what?
They really did this time.

Okay, it was probably the cheap
vodka, the vicodin, and the weed.
But pretending's okay.

There's a snake in the grass. He has a mustache/beard
combo, and thinks he's pretty cute. He likes the idea
of unforgivable things and he's never thought any of
his body parts were useless, cause they're not.

He'd apologize, but he doesn't feel much like lying.

Sometimes, I think way too much.
I THINK WE JUST DON'T DREAM ENOUGH.

I am the prologue.

Sometimes I'm sentimental. Which, must seem
like a giant lie to most who know me, but I
promise it's true. It's just, sometimes,
unfeeling is less embarrassing and tedious.

But black ink on a bar napkin, with a bumpy ring from a
bottle, a can, a glass, isn't poetry. Black, synthetic,
eyelashes, and clicking computer keyboards aren't poetry.
Bubbles in paint, dirty shoe prints on the kitchen floor,
and broken cameras aren't poetry. Dead batteries, shopping
carts, squeaky hinges, and exposed electrical wires aren't
poetry. Headlights, paper clips, burnt wood in an old fire
place, the phone ringing incessantly, and
bad hair cuts aren't poetry.

I'm not poetry, and neither are you.

Let's go get lost. Please, please, please, let's
go. I want to be lost. I want to drive somewhere,
with you. I want to drive from morning to morning,
no stopping. I want to drive until the only places
open are Chinese takeout and gas stations.

Then, maybe, tomorrow, I'll drown.
I AM SO SCARED.

I'm not falling fast enough.
I can see rock bottom from where I am, and although
it looks sharp and uninviting, those two are sometimes
synonomus with "realizing that life's still here".

At least, I'm still here. I've got no one to blame
except myself, and it's strange. Let's take eye for
an eye, until we're all blinded; I've always wanted
to be blind for a little bit.

Give back what you take, and I'll do
the same... in due time.

I had qualms about posting this one too:
I've had a good life, in fact I have a good life,
so why do I feel like this? Why now? Why
this? Why- just... shitfuckshit.

I've since realized that curses cheapen everything.
Without them, I would've sat in this chair, for an
entire half an hour, trying to find the perfect word
to complete the above sentence. Without them, this
post would've been much longer. It would've been
easier for others to grasp what I was feeling, because
it would be further explained. But, I am terrible at
explaining, and pretty well versed in curses, so
you'll have to settle with this.

This one time, I wanted to write a letter
to the world, defining the ridiculous word
love, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.
I'm controversial and unconventional, but
if I was to write it, this is kind of what
it might look a little bit like:

Love means dyed hair and cereal boxes.
It means scraped knees, and oxygen tanks.
It means itchy skin and bees, swarms of
them. It means cold hands, and broken wine
glasses. It means questionable word choices
and crowded hallways. It means tired eyes
and delusional fevers.

It means close to nothing, since we've
filed it down a a dull little point.

(For the record, I hate myself for posting
this entry. Just wanted you to know.)

Sometimes I am monomaniac.
I realized, last night, that all of my
career choices aren't going to get me
anywhere. I realized how I hate money
and calf-like crushes. I realized that
I'm not fair with my explanations.

I just want to be found, not profound.

I'm not decent, and I'm not too good at
tactical evasion. Most days, I'm dour
and brusque. I'm phlegmatic, except when
it comes to anger. Plus, I still don't
understand this expression: "What price
the milk of human kindness?".

The true bottom line seems to be:
I'm not as intelligent as I wish I was.

last night was so cold that all i could think
about were stray cats. all i could think about
was walking up the next morning and seeing dead
cats everywhere. frozen to death in the night,
frozen in place. who would pick them up? who
would dispose of their lifeless bodies, and how?

i realized then, that's i'd freeze to death if
it would save those cats. never for a human i
value, but for cats... fucking cats,
i don't even have a cat.

that scared me so badly,
that i could barely sleep.

somewhere someone's finding happiness,
and i almost hate them for it, because,
when i look at you closely, i see all
the dirt and grime i otherwise would've
missed. when i look at you closely, i see
the reason we can't be friends; i'm much
to clean for your liking.

and, you can never fit all the paper clips
back in the box, after it's been spilled.
the same way you can never fit this guilt
back into me, after it's been exposed.

last night, i dreamt the moon
light melted the snow while i
was sleeping. i've never been
less lucid, or more happy.

sometimes, in the moments before
sleep encompasses my being, i close
my eyes. i imagine everyone with
different proportions.
i guess that it's a weird hobby,
but you sure do look swell with
long legs, a huge smile, and hands
the size of dinner plates.
oh man, we should date. haha.

there are kids living in the dust.
their dirty faces are camouflage,
they melt into the soil, leeching
nutrients. so watch where you plant
your silly flowers, and i'll watch
where i flick my ashes, cause it
could be someone's home.

these cigarettes taste like
blood, sweat, and peppermint.

CAPS LOCK DOES NOT FULLY EXPRESS MY
DISTASTE FOR LIFE RIGHT NOW, so i'll
go back to using lowercase letters.

i just want to scream, i'm dying.
everything is so fucking wrong.
i'm not homesick, i'm sick of home.
i need a car, a plane, a train, and
a pair of open arms waiting for me
on the other side of here.

running away is lame, but that doesn't
mean that i don't want to.

can.i.stay.with.you?

where were you the time we took all those
happy photos, only to loose the camera the
next day? where were you the time it rained
so hard that our skin was numb from so many
raindrops hitting us? where were you that
time she was in the hospital for four day?
where were you the time the mouse ran across
the basement floor of the old house? where
were you the time the pot boiled over and
burnt the tiled floor? where were you the
time we climbed the scaffolding up nine
floors? where were you the time his brother
got his nose broken in a fight? where were
you the time we watched that kid bounce on
the wooden plank covering the third rail?
where were you that time she was so mad, she
poured her soda over my head? where were you
that time that his dog bit my ankle?

where were you that time we all lived?
where were you that time i made this list?

you give new meaning to biting
the hand that feeds you, since
you pretty much just spit in my face.

i wish i could write about one
person, always. i wish there was
one human that meant that much to
me, but there's not. each time that
i say "you", its a different person.

and, guess what?
it pains me to write sometimes.

lately, i've been so off balance.
it could be this week-long bender,
but i know my life could be better.

the only way to make that happen
is to do that for myself.

i hate your infantile stare and the way you
dubiously display that status. my ridicule is
justified. you may not think so, but it is.
my anger is justified, i know you agree. but,
this burn, this tiny, circular, cigarette burn,
is most definitely not justified. doing something
for reaction is not enough justification, for it
was quick, and nearly painless, but the inflamed
skin smelt like tobacco long after we cleaned it.
i hate that you make me wait. i hate that i'm
sitting on the edge of my fucking seat, waiting.
i hate that you can do that to me.

have you ever been in love?
i want to know. i'm dying to know... because, i
don't know if i've ever been. i'm inept in the
feelings department. it's too hard to decide
what i feel, so i give up.

...and now i've forgotten the words that you said,
but for once words don't matter. i'm letting them go.
it's scary, the scariest thing i've ever done, but
enough is enough. live me, take what you can get.

it's funny; one day, you think that
i'll be patient. well, i won't because
i'll always be reckless & angry, and
my favorite conversations won't ever
be the life-altering ones.

cannibalism is in this season.

so, lets start the dining with some fresh celebrities;
they always seem to be the first to have everything.
then next, we'll cut up, broil, and serve people who
read celebrity gossip. no, i lied: people who spend
money, (money that, in our economy, has a GOLD base),
on flimsy, add filled, rags, covered in useless stories,
photo-shopped pictures, ridiculous tips, and fucking
MINDLESS entertainment. then after that, we'll tackle
the population of politicians, and government officials
(that means you too, pigs). and, if you're still hungry,
then i suppose we can eat a couple of radical religious
fuckers... but, i doubt they taste much like ice cream with gummy bears.

mastication's never been cuter.

when i woke up, there was sand on the
bottom of my pants, and leaves stuck to
my coat. i've never sleepwalked in my
life, but i guess things change.

all i can remember is her saying "is that
a group of kids?" no, that's not. those
are trees. crooked, crooked trees, wearing
black sweatshirts, hoods pulled up. they're
looking at us too, i think they might know. i
think they know that we hopped that spiky
fence, they know we walked out onto their
dock. we walked into the water, their lake,
and we swam to the bottom. there we started
a brand new colony. we invited everyone we
missed, and warned them to watch the fence.
you never want to hurt the people you love.
all we ate were cookies, and all we drank
were milkshakes. i don't even like cookies.
we had a grand time, a party if you may,
until the cops came.

good thing it was only a dream. i have no
desire to be anywhere in the vicinity of
cops. charged with possession and intent to
sell. there might be enough to sell, but i
didn't plan on it. the more i take the closer
i get to my colony on the bottom of the sea.
the closer i get to the day i overdose,
or something equally as...
i've lost my words.

I hate what photography became.
I don't want to sound pretentious but, the
whole institution of photography is ruined.
It's those fucking digital cameras,
now ANYONE can be a photographer.
It stopped being about how you could set up
a shot (as in singular: ONE SHOT). And how it
came out, undoctored and maybe not so perfect.
It's now about what the end result looks like.
Its about what you can do on photoshop, and
about what effects you've used. None of it is
real, first-shot beauty; it's all in pixel
form, and mutilated by some "photographer".

Frankly, its not fair.

All these fuckers take thousands of shots,
deleting the ones that are ugly. "Oh, get
rid of that one. My nose looks so big in it!"
Well, I have only one shot. I can't go back and
see if it looks bad, it's already imprinted on
the film. All I can do is cross my fingers and
hope it turns out at least semi-decent.

....and guess what?
Your nose looks big, because it fucking is, okay?

"the closer the food comes from earth
the better it is for your body" she says

well, maybe i'll drink a nice tall glass
of boiling magma, that's straight from
the core of the earth.
ILL LIVE FOREVER.
or, at least longer than
you, you hippie fuck.

the moment between the screech of the
feedback in the amp and the first chord
doesn't last long at all, it never seems
to. coincidentally, that's the only noise
that's really ever made me feel alive. it
could be the anticipation of the upcoming
song that makes the extremities on my body
tingle, or it could just be a nerve wracking noise.

today, i find my strange indifference
over this holiday really unsettling.

i've never experienced less feelings
than i did today. i shock myself.

last night wasn't as cold as i thought it
would be. so, my three o'clock window of
escape wasn't so terrible. except for this
antsy feeling that i can't shake. last night,
i heard planes and i wanted to go. i wanted,
like i've never wanted before, to get on a
plane, a red-eye flight, straight to somewhere
... no transfers.
i don't have the money, the time, the
responsibility, the anything, to do this.
but, i swear to god you'll see the last of
me, if i don't get the fuck out of here soon.
honestly, this is the best i can hope for.

IM CRAWLING IN MY FUCKING SKIN, OKAY?

i am unsettled.
i'm uncertain what it is,
but somethings not right.

i need a fix;
any type works.

imagine if you woke up one day, and you were back
in fourth or fifth grade, and everything that had
happened in your life was really just a giant dream
from the overactive imagination of a ten year old.

i'd live my life out, making all the same choices
as i dreamt, because if i didn't i wouldn't be here
right now. i might not be standing on this roof with
three of my best friends, and i might not have the
thought of the packs i have yet to send out, dwelling
in the back of my head. i might not have kissed him,
and i might not have kissed her. i might not have
met you, i might not have broken my arm, i might not
have mourned (ever), i might not have learned these
words, i might not have spoken this language, i might
not have turned out to be me.

so, what would you do? but, hey, listen, don't focus
on what i'm saying. just focus on conquering the moment.

you're out of my clutches,
so go, go, go! go on, and
dadadance. it's the right
thing to do. i will admit
that i'm jealous but...

please, i'm bad news and we know it.

your car smells like the liquorishy, sea
colored, foam blocks that i had when i was
small. the ones that i would play with on
the enclosed front porch that we used to
have. it also smells like playdough. the
red playdough that i used to mold into
shapes, in the sweltering heat, in a queens
public school. the same red playdough that
i once discovered rat droppings in.
your mother's spanish accent sounds just
like the one that the girl who lived in
the apartments across from had. the girl
who, for my birthday, bought me a barbie
doll that i already had. a barbie doll i
pretended to like, then returned the very next day.

everything about your car should comfort
me, since my childhood was good, but it
just doesn't. all it does is make me miss
baldwin. all it does is make me want to
see everyone that i miss, before i die.
i want one good night, before i'm gone.
i want a drunk, a angry, i want a fuckfuckfuck.
i want too much. i am so selfish.

i want to be beautiful like your mother.
it's not conventional beauty, but you've
got to be some type of beauty to deal with you.

i was put on this earth sixteen years ago,
now im gonna pollute it in every way humanly
possible. don't ask me why, i just feel like
it's my duty. i'm sick of giving reasons for
fucking everything. when global warming hits,
we'll all have waterfront property. my mom
always wanted waterfront property, maybe
she'll finally quit bitching.

yesterday i woke up from a dream where
my hair was bleeding. i know that it's
not possible, but i still ran, fast,
to the mirror behind the door, causing
a dizzying head rush, like none i've
ever experienced before. and, i nearly
screamed, after seeing all of the red,
until i realized that was just my hair color.

i wish humans didn't have to sleep.

Lifetime, no see.
"A guide on how to make a first
impression; Don't do what I do."
Written by Me.

one day i'll write that. you'll see.
it'll be my autobiography.

there's no such thing as a harmless joke.
everything that i joke about is rude, and
hurtful. but, that's just the way i am.

i'm rude. i like being rude.
that's how i make friends.
it's fucking sick; in the
dichotomy of the word.

i collect words, expressions, photographs, and
phrases like a homeless man collects cans. my
equivalent of a giant black garbage bag is my
brain, and my equivalent of a broken shopping
cart is my body. it's too bad verbs, adjectives,
film negatives, and popular culture can't be
exchanged & recycled for nickels at the supermarket.

i hate nickels so fucking much.

we can jump from the third floor window,
i have a built in parachute of words; it
hasn't failed me quite yet. or, if you'd
like, we can take the elevator.

but, where's the fun in that?

until i see you for real, until i can touch the
skin on the inside of your wrist, until my head
fits soundly in the crook of your neck, you'll
reside in my mental purgatory. sure, you can go
to work, and even school if you choose, but you're
hidden up there. you aren't mine, i don't want
you to be, but i think i miss you.

i secretly cross my barbwire fingers, hoping that
every bone in my body will liquefy and i can just
slide my way over to you. we can be coltish and
pull fire alarms. we can ache, or rather i can ache,
until the i feel the rushing of blue veins under
my sensitive finger pads. until then, goodbye.

saying goodbye is an important part
of interactions. so important to me,
that when the time comes, i'll probably
ruin my plans with it.

i'm not chickening out, i am just trying
to condition myself to quit caring already
so it won't be an issue.

THE HARDEST THING THAT YOU WILL
EVER BE IN YOUR LIFE IS VULNERABLE.

I feel vulnerable when i am like a crab
and when i am walking in the grass with
socks on. i feel vulnerable when i'm
cutting out pictures and when i realize
that i think you are something else. i
feel vulnerable when watching b- quality
movies and when i'm in the same room with
two turtles (one dying, slowly). i feel
vulnerable when i think of how i miss the
time spent crouching low by the tracks,
and when my gum runs out of flavor. i feel
vulnerable when i say i miss you (and you
don't fucking say it back)and when i
jump at silly sounds.

the day i grow my little crab claws, i
won't feel vulnerable anymore.
I'LL MISS YOU, VULNERABILITY.

i actually had a lot of qualms about posting these, because
it's obvious this blog isn't nearly as private as it was
when it began (not that i'm complaining). it's just hard
to say shit sometimes, without giving all of the wrong
impressions, but i guess ... i'm trying.

every single morning is a struggle.
everyday it becomes harder to actually
get up out of bed. It's not that i can't
wake up, because i can, it's that, daily,
my desired to start the day diminishes
... tenfold.
most days, i find it hard to see the point.
it's too much work to deal with people and
issues; i can't cope with petty conversations,
assholes, ingesting nutrients & hydrating,
getting dressed, producing regular facial
expressions, and meeting useless deadlines.
i used to take pride in my problem solving
skills, but now i can't, because i can't even
fucking solve this bullshit.
to put it plainly, i'm scared of this lack of
effort i put forth, with everything (even
things that i like doing.). honestly, every
single day, at increasingly frequent intervals,
i think of how great it would be to never have
to wake up, ever again.
i suppose that could be construed as an issue.

"i'm sorry." he says; he almost sounds genuine.
"we're all sorry." i say, "for example, i'm sorry
that i woke up this morning."
his shy smile twists until it resembles something
that could be considered a frown, or even a grimace.
i guess i feel guilty; i also guess i'm pretty good
at sounding almost genuine.

has anyone ever told you, that i'm a
sucker for cute boys? but, not in real
life, only in photographs. i don't like
them in real life, because in real life
they talk. in real life they shift in
wrinkled shirts and their shoes get scuffed
up. in real life, they eat your food and
break your heart (thankfully, not mine though).
in real life, the drink in their cup sloshes
onto the floor and their glasses get smudged.
in real life, they say all of the right things
and get cigarette ash on their pants. in real
life, they have jobs that take up time and
families that take up more- timeless attachments.

and all of this happens the moment after the
flash goes off, because for that split second
of light, time obviously doesn't happen.

in real life, people are just not as pleasant.

sometimes, i don't know how to deal with
myself around people. i don't know how to
act, don't know how to treat them, don't
know what to say (or what's acceptable to
say). sometimes, it's only because we've
just met and i haven't had time to get used
to it. but other times, it doesn't matter
how long i've known them, i'll always feel
that unease. it's characterized by that
awkward feeling in the pit of my stomach,
like snakes are weaving in and out my
ribcage. the one that makes me nervous.

i'm glad that i had a point in time where
i didn't have to feel that with you. i'm not
so glad that this new found apprehension
seems to be bringing it back.

i refuse to be small and pink.
i refuse to follow orders.

I AM NOT A LITTLE KID ANYMORE.
I AM NOT SCARED OF ANYTHING.
...but i am. i can write you a
lengthy list of things that i am
deathly afraid of, but i won't.

i'm certainly not afraid of cake,
babies, and axe murderers. surely
i can't be in fear of the way your
cat used to look at me, domestic
violence, terminal velocity and
drowning. nor am i afraid of letter
bombs, lead poisoning, and shades.

she doesn't think of smoke the way that
everyone else does. for her, there are
no tendrils, there is no beauty in all
of it... only great balls of smoke.

throat shaped, coming out of pipes and
cigarettes and i wonder why she looks at
it this way, but i wouldn't ever ask. she
probably wouldn't understand.

i'm overoverover it. no more
thumb experts for me. i haven't
found anyone new, my family's
still alive, and i still hope
one day to achieve selflessness.

my predictions were all wrong,
but i'd still like to go to space.
do you still wanna come with me?

I WILL ONE DAY BE A SPACE CADET.

everything is so loudloudloud
in my ears. everything is so
coldcoldcold on my hands.
i am a shitstorm of salt on
your wounds today, i believe.

i exhuast myself by thinking
too fucking much.

today, i am glad for:
the arrogant sons of bitches.

i want a cigarette and a song.
i want a day off and a big bed.
i want a skateboarder and an ipod.
i want a refund on wasted time.
i want a free ride and new hands.
i want a tripod and a grenade.
i want a disease and an apartment.
i want a new friend and pasta.

i want a portrait of my life.

i don't know if it's right for
me to take it. i'm afraid self
image will color it all wrong.
so, i want someone else to take
it. the problem is, no one
i know is a photographer.

sometimes i feel like the internet is
the predator. it sucks in lonely high
school students, lures curious kids,
presents it self to bored housewives,
is sought out by desperate perverts,
and hounded by knowledge-thirsty scholars.

...but then i realize, that the
internet is no predator, but i sure
am. i prey on a completely different
category of kids, however.

somehow, a rickety wooden desk fails to translate
into a rickety wooden casket. and, somehow, the
water that filled up the freshly dug grave, that
you had the desire to drown yourself in, fails to
translate into a much needed rainstorm.

so, write a song, or a book.
so, paint a canvas, or a mural.

but, make sure it's about how i only find it in
myself to appreciate broken, soft-edged, theorizing
boys, with ridiculous panning statements that take
the edge off of the natural chill. make it about
how it's so loud in here, that i can barely hear
my own breathing. make it about saying the wrong
name, synonym to guilt. make it about quiet nodding
(as if nodding could be loud) and poorly aligned prints.

and, i guess, if you want, you could make it about
teeth, cause i think yours are perfect, and is
unimportant as that may seem, it's really big.

everyone wants to be eye catching.
but, if everyone were, in fact, eye
catching, it'd be too confusing. you'd
never know where to look and there'd
probably be lots of car accidents.

so what? i'm like that sometimes;
randomly overwhelming. so what? i
felt important for five months and
no i don't. so what? yes, it fucking
hurts. so what? i guess i'm human
after all, goddamn it.

the thing is, diplomacy, is nothing
like throwing up. nope, neither is it
like a shitstorm of mispronounced words,
the compromising amount of pain i'm in
daily, the categorical way you denied
any guilt, or the words she said (just
to say). it's also nothing like the great
ideas that you paint in capital letters,
the warm blanket around your shoulders,
the sand on the beach, or twisting-tearing-
breaking of ligaments-tendons-bones.

diplomacy is more like a strawberry milkshake,
or a talltall tree. more like a cast covered
in writing, a song that makes you feel amazing,
or a "so long" that doesn't last that long.

today, i was going to start the ABC's of
why i don't mind life, but i realized:
i am way too sober for this.

there is so much tingling in the fleshy cells that
create these five pointed hands. it's not what's in
them though, it's what they do, create, feel, & symbolize.

your balled fists, clenched at your sides, shaking.
his sweaty palms, facing down, resting on his legs.
her fingertips on your skin, creating heated lines.
our hands intertwined, hands cupped, fingers locked.
his shaky fingers, casting shadows, while he paints.
my short little fingers, clicking as i nervously bite my nails.

those two hands, on me, on you, on her, on him, on
them, on us. those two hands create and crumple up.
soft hands, dry hands, cold hand, warm hands, strong
hands, weak hand, dirty hands, clean hands.

i always thought that i didn't like to be alone, but
now i realize that i don't mind it at all. i don't
need other hands to be okay with life.

you see, i had this whole entry planned.
it was all about hands: placement, meaning,
weight, feel of hands. i thought about it
on the way home, walking by myself. but then,
i discovered, for what seems like the
91284000248939948485034968th time in this
month alone, that life is a giant malignant
tumor, so you'll just have to settle with this:

Would you rather be a fish or a bird?
bird, i'd shit on all of your heads.
and then, i'd peck your eyes out.

hands are for tomorrow; hand or diplomacy,
i haven't quite decided yet.

when i look at myself in the mirror,
after taking out my contact lenses,
i'm blurry and a ghost print of what
i should look like. what i find strange,
is the concept that i am the only person
who does, and will ever see, myself like
this.... and if i don't count the distance
that is a mountain range high, we look like
giants. there's no force behind these little
gestures, i just want you to know:

i want to want you here, right now, so
badly, that my stomach sort of hurts.

but it won't be possible until i get over you.

i waited; i waited today, yesterday,
the day before that, and the day before
that. have i ever told you waiting kills
me? well, it does. it reminds me why i
hate the rain, why i can't remember a
fucking thing, and why my back always
hurts. it triggers my extreme misanthropy,
it makes me unconsciously rub my wrists
raw, and it causes me and my phone to have
a incongruous relationship.

this is not a dress rehearsal, but how
i wish it was. i can't seem to remember
what you said, and i really wanted to
write it down. it was so prefect, honestly,
i'm so upset that i cant remember these
lines. i'm embarrassed cause this is the
real thing and i cant remember jack-fucking-shit.

i just met you, but you're unintentionally
humorous and that makes me smile, a lot.
i think we should be friends.

your writing is prodigious, really
honestly, stupefying. you're better
than i could evereverever dream of
being. your incredible detail drives
me crazy, sucks me in. i'm falling
in love with the fictional characters
that you attentively engender.

and i hate saying this, because frankly
it's fangirl-ish, but each paragraph that
you procreate makes me squirm. i think
you're amazing; i am avariciously envious.

only you could evulse caffeine
from decaffeinated coffee and tea

i am convenient solace.
you are convenient solace.
she is convenient solace.
he is convenient solace.
they are convenient solace.

...and, my ever present frown
isn't from being depressed, it's
just how my face happens to fall.

you have dark narrow eyes, adorned with
little black flags, waving in your pupils.

you're defined in my mind by the way your
short fingernails tap on the desk, the way
you prey on nervous people, and the way
you've trained dirty water to sluice right
off of your belongings.

if we listen closely, he just might
let us in on the secret that causes
his cheeks to burn red when he see
her. the secret that causes little
tiny tendrils of neon colors to come
from their bodies and collide in the
air, like fireworks. the very secret
that saves us from perdition.

i sat shot gun, with a set of
crossed fingers that i hoped
would translate to you shutting
the fuck up. my wish was granted,
and all was good. nice, beatific,
little mental notes inside of my
poor cluttered head.

time zones have always slipped my mind. the little
chronometer in the back of my head never seems to s
yncronize when i'm talking to people from different
places. three cheers for friendly kids who are, sadly,
farther away then my little arms can reach. far enough
for the hush in the room to be broken by my farcical
laugh. i like new people who are on the same tempo as
i am. no wolves, no barrier reefs, and no gods.

oh, yes, i'd like to use this opportune moment, while i've
still got your attention to use the word wang in a sentence.
thank you.

i guess it's weird that i think petty
theft is cute, right? i guess if you
squint a little, prestidigitation is
nearly alluring, in an obtuse sort of way.

i will make lists until my fingers bleed;
they're, in fact, my very favorite things.

forgotten children sitting on bus stop
benches, itchy scalps, old fat men in
wheelchairs, yawning cats, burnt rice,
blown out speakers, key scratches in the
form of the word "motherfucker" on the
side of a red car, an urn falling from
wobbly shelf in the living room, soft skin,
quiet piano music, the brown rug in your
garage, an orange futon, an angry red scar
on his stomach, broken blinds, typos in a
college essay, colorful mail, tapped phone
lines, a young business woman knitting a
purple hat on the subway, a chorus of twenty
seven voices in a chapel, an off beat tempo,
sixteen empty rusted spray paint cans, a
sexually transmitted disease, a horrible side
project from an otherwise amazing artist, a
history book soaked with vomit, makeup smudged
on air plane pillows, golden pigtails, greasy
chicken, and two hands locked in a death grip.

sometimes when i think about humans
i don't think of them in an entirely
complete way. i don't think of the
things that actually make them human
but, more or less, the things that
let me distinguish them from one another.

the stubble on his face, the perfect
set of teeth in her mouth, the two tiny
dimples just centimeters away from her
mouth, the smooth skin flat on his palm,
the little bump in the exact middle of
the bridge of his nose, the black/brown
hair that sticks up unaided all over his
head, the blonde-ish roots that show when
she wears her hair like that, her wispy
brown hair, the bright blue eyes in the
middle of her face, the strange way that
he chews, his defiant grin, her set of
crooked bottom teeth, his weak arms, her
little ears, the way his face completely
changes when he wears glasses, the heavy
makeup on her face, his cheekbones, her
cheekbones, his knobbly elbows, the fancy
way he gestures, how his lips move when he
exhales smoke, and the way your face looked
when i slapped you that one time.

i am 100% behind idle minds. i'm 100%
behind kids who spend their time doing
things and stuff, that end up amounting
to nothing. but, that doesn't mean i'm
one of them. i'm not afraid of commitment
to something, i just think it's worthless.

...and, without a healthy prosody to your
speech, you are hard to listen to and easy
to ignore by sinking slowly into thoughts
of bad childhood memories, awkward teen
pregnancies, obtuse conspiracies, and
parades in honor of the upcoming apocalypse.

i'm not diabolic or coquettish.
i am translucent. i am here for you.

you're too old to be alive.
you're too young to be alive.

what happens if you're right
in the middle? does they goldy
locks rule apply here or not?

i was once a waterfall. like the
waterfall of alcohol that drips
out of the open bottle in your
sleeping hand.
i was once a burning fuse. like
the burning fuse at the end of
the cigarette that careless dangles
out of your forgetful hand.

cause its always three in the morning
and there's always a chorus of two
voices, singing to me about trivial
things: boxes full of soggy cereal,
board games with extra pieces, blood
seeping through "skin colored" bandaids,
single mothers cleaning dishes that are
already clean, and the blinking orange
light on the cable modem.

there are so many things* that i wish i
knew about. but, the only thing i know
right now, is that you make me laugh.
that's extraordinary. in juxtapose of
how i've been doing lately, this is a
transcendent improvement, if there ever
was one. wait, emendation, the only thing
i know right now, is that you make me
laugh, and i really would like to go get high.

*things that can't be learned off of wikipedia.

the cigarettes and sleeping
stopped being a cure-all last
weekend. but $5.25 is an awful
lot cheaper than a therapist.
a stick of tobacco can answer
all of these ridiculous questions
that i have just as well as
some fucking shrink can.

it's too bad you can't overdose on nicotine.

yesterday, i decided i wanted to grow up.
so, i filled my bed with top soil, and
fertilizer and crawled in. i burrowed
deep, and then grabbed the watering can
and washed all the anger off. i stayed
in bed for hours, sleeping, and when i
awoke, i discovered that i shrunk.

well, looking the way i looked, i just
wasn't allowed. and, being that the air
was thin, i just held my breath. like a
sea turtle, a whale, or a scared little
child would. because there are just no
phone bills in heaven but you can only
call the dead. you cannot call the living.
not that it would matter, since i really
don't call you anymore, or something.

now, i've got some ribald words that will
cancel out all the fucking blandishment
that i've evereverever sent your way.

i'm not quite sure if it even hurts that
we aren't whatever we were, anymor