Shoulder Devil

In this carefully created illusion, the world is my oyster and I strive to be a machine. Indecision is my calling and apathy is my crutch. When it doesn't matter, then I can go on. When my nerves test me, I puff up my chest, hold my breath, exhale an inappropriately insignificant slyness, then return to my metal shoes. This is my stuck world. The immovable, impenetrable, and detrimental. I'm as stubborn as a cat. I laze through the sun, creep through the night, and tell awful things sometimes. She said I'm the shoulder devil and she sounds so right.

Regular Show

I miss the Rigby to my Mordecai.

Screaming SCUM LIFE and losing sleep to endless conversations.

Solitary

I really like it in here. So I'll stay.

"Steal away

you and me to a cave made of sheets."

-Cards and Quarters, Local Natives

It's all I seem to consciously think about.

After Taste

I feel like I have to lock myself in here to find some peace. If I have to stay in here forever I guess I won't mind. Water runs, windows, blinds, the Botwins, naps, Guillermo, Gonzo, ganja, more naps. Shower breaks, walk breaks, snack breaks. And I want to nap forever. I just came home from my friend Sof's house where we spent the night being wasted and all. I realize I have to play smoothie-maker tomorrow morning but that's all right. She said we're going to get a tree tomorrow. A tree to make me recognize my holiday spirits. I hope? Although Christmas never smells like a real Christmas tree to me. I grew up to plastic trees. Fake and lifeless trees that last years and years worth of holiday beating.

A few times a day I wonder to myself how refreshing it would be to just openly share the random string of thoughts in my head. But once I get myself in conversations, I step back and die down. It feels kind of stupid. I have all these things running around my head and I can't even get myself to share. I feel alone in that way. And it really ruins my nights sometimes.

Sobreviviré

"Chasing my damage
I was chased, thrilled and altered
And it raised me

Suele tener
Me suelto
Me suelto en el deshacer
Al puro perder el ganar no compara"

-The Undoing.

Botwin

If I ever become a widow at an age while I'm still young and reasonably attractive (with kids), I will openly consider following the footsteps of Nancy Botwin from Weeds. MILF shit. Dealing dro like a pro. I probably won't be as good at it. And I don't have lusciously irresistible creamy skin that everyone seems to want to fuck her senseless for. But that's alright.

I can't seem to stop watching Weeds. I don't leave my house unless I have work. And I'm ok with that. For now.

Vendredi Noir

I didn't shop because I don't really like to shop much. Instead I worked a very fucking neat 5am shift. I think I have carpal tunnel. Right after work, Mikal and I spent this Black Friday sleeping till the sun went down. And even during my sleep, smoothies followed me. I dreamt of making smoothies, juices, and parfaits. I dreamt of my anxiety and its dizzying level of stress. My dreams had me so wrapped up that every time I'd wake up, the disbelief of not having a blender in my hands sent me to the most relieving spiral down unconsciousness.

I nearly slipped and broke my hip the other day. I pulled my groin instead, caught my fall with an unblended blender. But I'm on that work hype now. Shouldn't complain about shit. I just can't stand the tediousness. And I can't stand people much lately either.

No complaints.

Pork Buns

We picked up two of our drunk friends in San Francisco after having Thanksgiving dinner at the Dias residence. Did you know that you need to pay toll at the bridge even after hours? Yeah we didn't know that. So I had to go to a nearest 711 to get change. I stood patiently in line next to some drugged up cougar-lady tweaker while the cashier took his fucking time ringing up the customers. I had seven sad dollars in my account and I had to buy breath mints to get cash back. I felt scummy. It was nice. Snatchin' best buddies trophies. But somehow at the end of the night, I ended up with 3 pork buns chillin' on my center console and some pissed off attitude. I don't know. I kind of feel like I'm being shoved by everything I encounter lately. It really pisses me off.

For a minute.

Slay

I've been really sad lately about not being able to handle being alone with my thoughts. I feel like a cowardice. I just pout. And pout.

Somehow I don't feel complete anymore if I'm not even slightly miserable. Or lonely. I think I've always been like this though. It's just so quiet nowadays that I'm only clearly acknowledging it now.

Nymph. Oh.

"Quiero lamerte hasta que te vengas en mi boca mil veces."

This Korean d00d I know Ono, Ono, Yohno, Johno... keeps arguing with me that girls can't fap. THAT GIRLS SIMPLY. CANNOT. FAP?! Well I'm here to tell you that HE'S WRONG and NEVER LET ANYONE TELL YOU THAT YOU CAN'T FAP. No one gets to tell me what I can and can't do!

Quiero lamerte hasta que te vengas en mi boca mil veces.

Quiero lamerte hasta que te vengas en mi boca mil veces.

Quiero lamerte hasta que te vengas en mi boca mil veces.

I was watching the L Word when I heard this fanciful sentence uttered by some beautiful woman on TV. Had she said it in English and the power of its sensuality would've dissipated a little.

Gonzo

There's this girl. She's my girl. And she called me one night the very second before I reached unconsciousness, asked if I was home, then showed up at my door with an elephant nearly as big as me. A fat Pillow Chum (Pillow Pets' competitive brand) 5x the size of Guillermo. I first considered naming him Fap... But after spending two sleepy nights with it, I decided that Hunter Gonzo is the only name that can avail for such a large and lovely gift.

Influence of the name Hunter Gonzo:

Considering that I spent the first two nights with my pillow chum watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I knew that it was the only way to go. I thought about blatantly naming him Hunter S. Thompson, the author of the book it's based on. It's strong and distinguished but it still didn't seem enough. I thought maybe just Hunter--BORE! Then maybe just Gonzo. Until finally I knew that Hunter Gonzo was the perfect blend of ridiculousness. And the name absolutely needed to be ridiculous. Hunter S. Thompson is known for his use of LSD and coke and Cannabis and other psychoactive recreational drugs. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is berry-filled with psychoactive trip scenes and outrageous ridiculousness that break all social norms with drugs, drugs, drugs. Good explanation.

I love this gift so much that I just spent an entire entry full of miscellaneous information regarding this pillow chum...

PS. I love you, Mikal.

Leaving Unemployment

After the first 20 years of my life, I finally decided to stop being a slack and get working. You know, a job. The very few times that I've ever asked a few loving and caring people around me: What do you think I'll be in 5 years? The first response that I get is (typically): I can't even imagine you working lololol. And I laugh as I always do at their slight attempt at humor and their slight attempt at honesty. It's never bothered me, but hey guys, I guess I'm finally catching up to the work HYPE.

What do I do?

I make yummy drinks, pretty much. My manager keeps making me read the handbook and all this dull stuff, getting me exposed to all these things that I have to memorize that I know I won't memorize until given enough time with experience. All I want to do is make the damn drinks for the customers and get on with my day. Mango A. GO. GO. Mango lovers really do enjoy their A Go Go's.

What do I want?

I want to...not be working. Because I was born a slack. Unfortunately, I can no longer afford living like a slack. Living gets more expensive as we get older and I'm definitely getting older. THEREFORE I... surrender my Slack Lyf and I... start stackin'! So far I am... one parking ticket and probably a shit ton of holiday expenses away from being not so broke anymore.

Me: Yeh I work at Jamba.
Most of you: AYEE HOOK IT UP wid a free drink/job!
Me: No bruh

WORKIN' ON LEAVIN' THE LIVIN'

I think I might've lost my mind

And I can't seem to find it.

I want to be Maxine Dias.

"What I wouldn't give to have tired of you"

du film Last Night.

I happen to like unfulfilled romance and infidelity-based, conversational movies. I don't know why, my mind just thrives on it. It's one of my guiltiest pleasures and I can't even deny. This movie reminded me of Closer except... not nearly as well thought-out. It even reminded me of Conversations With Other Women--another movie in which the looooove is doomed in the end. Idk man. When you're down in the dumps, sometimes you just watch movies like this. Movies that make you feel like shit for no good reason. Sometimes you just run out of words to write or think and it's nice to lay around mindlessly watching movies like this. Fuck man.

I can't even deny it. I'm a sad, sad guy.

Nightly

When I finish containers of water, when I brush my teeth late at night, when I roll around in bed, when I tire of the internet, when I make waffles, when I sit on my couch, when I'm lampside on my desk, when I'm on the road, when I see my bike, when I start writing, when I remember the best compliments I've ever received, when I wiggle my toes, when I dance outrageously in the middle of changing my clothes, when I run around my house, when I walk out of doors, when I rap, when I'm being a brat, when I hear the saxophone, when there are sunflowers, when I was in Vegas, when it's cold, when it's hot, when I pout, when it's morning, when I don't sleep, when I can't sleep, when it's afternoon, when it's night...

Roseville

I spent last Friday driving to the far reaches of Roseville just so my sister can hang out with her boothang. Mikal--my girl, my little bumble bee, my north star in the night sky sat shotgun with me through and through. After dropping my sister off at her boothang's humble abode and after le boothang offered us a mango joint as a token of his gratitude, Mikal and I set off to adventure every seemingly interesting corner of Roseville... but not really. You see, Roseville is like the median for Fremont and Pleasanton. Just like Pleasanton, the city is nicer, cleaner. White people crawling everywhere with diversity left to be desired. But it's just like Fremont in the sense that...it felt like Fremont. The way the stores held their places and the way everyone just went about and the way you didn't seem to know what to do. We remained mostly in the area that resembled the Hub. A nicer Hub. They even had a Barnes and Noble, where Mikal and I spent most of our time browsing, sitting, drinking our coffees, smoking her reds, and talking about the little details of our night. We miss bookstores. We really, really miss bookstores. The smell of unread pages and the slow pace of an aimless browse. At the end of the night, I reunited with the solid fact that all I really need during the pass times is my girl. My girl and some books and our talks...and the meaningless substances that tag along with us.

The Truth

The truth is...

I shouldn't be heard talking about how much you mean to me. I'm a broken record player and we will never be listening to the same song again anyway.

Broken Jane, New Mary.

Doesn't really matter. You never had it in you just to talk to me, to just have me, to break some silence with me and be alright, sobriety a factor or not. I rush to you. I run to you. I find you. I'm the one who gathers enough words to say anything to you. So it doesn't matter. Who do you think we even are? You gave me up, I gave you up. I don't have to mean anything to you anymore and I long ago accepted that.

What has to happen to us for us to accept that we are not part of each other's lives anymore? Not in the slightest. Not at all...

We're just memories. Just ghosts. Just scenes we replay in the most silent moments between the days.

And now I feel it. The gravity of the next few days, weeks, months that we will be most silent again.

Salinger

“She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”

A short story, A Girl I Knew

The inexplicable.

A Vague and Curious One

I know that if I even heard your sigh, I'll run right back. To the easy and the comfortable and the brief and blissful. To the long days apart and the late nights we've molded ourselves to. The places where it's just you and me and the spaces and time in between and our journey back to each other through the days. So instead I'm sifting through the cluttering sounds of everything and everyone, picking you out, and feeding off where my memory last left us.

AM

I even ate breakfast. And once I had breakfast, I knew I'd want always want this. The mornings. The relieving smell of a new day rising; clear, naked, and untouched. It's the most personal time of day. To begin by yourself only to let everyone else sprinkle in as the hours pass to the high noon and the low dusk. I will be a morning person by practice and coercion until my body naturally knows to be. I crave for the mornings.

• Mornings
• Music
  
• My bike
  
• My words
• And someone else's words.
  

As Miserable and Salty as the Sea

"Hey, c-come on back, g-good god I was good enough. Oh, where are you? Hey, come back, goddammit I was good enough. I'm good enough but I can't do this anymore."

Sleepless.

Syzurp? Anyone?

I might have taken more Nyquil than needed. I spent last night stumbling around my room, fucking with my broken closet, trippin' on my clutter, and wishing I would just pass out. But I didn't and I felt an elephant's asscheeks pressed against my face. I woke up and the room spun. My door was bouncing up and down and I was cursing the gods. Today won't be like yesterday. And I thought I was consistent.

Sick

I told myself I'll clean it all up today. It felt nice, laying around in the cold, thinking of better things and better days. The number 20 has been intimidating me all year. Which is why I spent the entire summer forcing myself not to care about a single fuck until nothing really mattered anymore. And I've been trying to shake myself out of that but this is the first day that it's all been really clear to me. How ironic that I found it laying in bed, not intending to smoke it off and forget it all by 5pm, passed out by 2am, dark circles around my eyes by the next day, then doing it all over again. Not that. Not again. I can't anymore. Today I decided to be honest. And as honesty gets, I took comfort in the things that used to keep me awake. Strangely enough to me, I decided to reach out to my close friends in the past. And it was comforting, having small talks and small smiles and the ease that kept me together for so long.

I just needed something more than my own perpetually bitter inclination.

If I have to, I'll eat the cranberry plant in the bathroom

Pissing radioactive again. They're not contagious but we catch them anyway. It's always that last drop of pee that really makes you curl your toes and suffer. I remember the first time I've ever had this. I couldn't understand all the moments I wanted to die. Literally the physicality of my death. I don't feel like sipping on yucky cranberry juice. I could always just chug a can of young coconut milk. Fuck..

BAD SEED

It's giving in to the temptation of the day. It's a reminiscent head shake. It's a bad idea. It's you. Or it's me.

Alright it's me.

Life times ago, on an exceedingly windy and cold late afternoon, I stood outside with you, shivering and chattering, breathing you in and the violent wind against us. I felt your tears on my chest and I knew this will never leave me. I remember fighting for warmth and convincing myself that this will be good someday and we will be alright someday. You made me optimistic and you branded me with every last bit of your hope. But the sun kept sinking, our bodies were convulsing, and the day was ending. You pulled away gradually and I found a reason to turn my back. It's a reminiscent head shake. It's a bad idea. It's you. It's me. And our scarring and short side story. Nothing more.