Fuck Off

Fucking waste.

Pallid

A post from the 9th of May, 2011

Of all my innocuous decisions and silly whims, I think wallowing was my personal and ridiculous favorite. I think forcing myself to feel sad and lay in bed and listen to pretty little songs can convince me enough that there is something going on inside me. Something greater than anger or greed or something more profound, I think. It all makes sense, this nonsense, why I always get myself tangled in some raveled affairs. If it doesn't make me feel nothing, it makes me feel angry. And if not angry, then it makes me feel greedy. And if not greedy, then I feel something more profound, I think. And if not something more profound, then nothing. Nothing at all. All over again. Affairs are the funniest things. They're clever really. They become some unspoken and unknown section in your seemingly complete life. They're affairs after all. Kept hidden is best possible. But you make noises, you know. Buried under blankets and pillows that aren't yours. And noises are sounds that may or may not be heard. But they're still sounds. Which means someone always knows. Always. 

 There's one beaming flaw as a participant in some of my then affairs. I tend to find myself giving in and breaking apart. That one beaming flaw was that same personal favorite. The more I try to make sense of it, of any of it, and the more I try to win, the more I get sucked into these whirling messes. Even the residual taste of it all... sometimes I get wrapped up in that same fantasy. I don't know why. For things that no longer exist inside me or around me, I have quite the knack for transforming it back to its awful tangibility. 

 You are all ghosts to me. Haunting me. Finding me when I'm lost then taking me away into your darkness estranged from whatever I consider my reality. You don't have to be real, or present, or any longer existing. The fainter you are, the more I try to remember and place myself in the same shoes. The same worn out shoes that I should have thrown away, but instead hid under my bed. 

 You are all ghosts to me.

Ravenous

I had been working on this piece sporadically for quite some time now. Actually, ever since I started nursing. I wrote Gil's letter during my first week of pre-req in early October and I complimented it with Scarlet's after. It took me till tonight to finally finish it. I sacrificed my study time for this. But I really felt like finishing something. This is my first epistolary piece and I haven't decided if I'll keep continuing it. Anyway....

Dearest Dr. Gil,

     I painted my room the other day. If you were here, I’m certain it would have been finished. In fact, if you were here, I’m sure you would've actually painted while I boastfully and almost insolently splattered my walls to create my own personal Jackson Pollock. Instead my walls fashion patches of white. I bet you would hate the color. My room is a sunflower. Although right now, it looks like a dying, withering sunflower. Like it’s been left in the waste basket while the family is away on vacation. It really isn't so bad.

     Maybe I’ll visit you. But maybe not. I’m quite the busy person you know. Yesterday, I slept a full eighteen hours while Napoleon licked wet paint off my walls and the left-open lids. His fur was covered with patches of golden yellow and he licked my face awake. Probably hungry for real food. With all that going on, I simply have no time for anything. Therefore, how could I possibly see you? I argued with myself whether you even wanted to see me.

     When I can feel myself miss you, I like to imagine you with your white coat, without looking anyone in the eyes. Do you wear white coats? I would like to hope so. My dreams would otherwise be shattered. I also like to hope that you’ve given up haircuts and shaving. I’m sure you’re doing something to defy that place. I can only imagine the resentment you’re cooking up inside you while you stay awake way passed your bed time to receive your sufficient 2 hours of sleep for the day. You must adore your time of solitude. There’s no way you’d be blending in, cooperating, and making friends there. There’s no way. Am I wrong? I can only see you taking your afternoon walks, staring off into nothing, speaking and interacting with no one. Trapped in the confinement of your stubborn thoughts. I’ll be damned if you tell me you’ve made even one friend. Or found any sort of companion.

     If you were wondering, my room is no longer the wasteland that you hated it for. In fact, due to my impetuous decision to paint my walls, I had emptied my room entirely. No clothes. No pictures. No hoarded miscellaneous junk or furniture from flea markets, thrift stores, or neighbors’ garbage cans. The only thing that’s ever in here with me is my full-sized mattress on the floor and Napoleon. Occasionally I would have one of the books that you gave me or pens and papers here with me, but other than those, I am alone. I’m sure your room there is quite spacious and neat, just like your old room here. Your things meticulously arranged with you sitting on your desk, staring at your walls, probably contemplating your next attempt to get yourself to hate you even more.

     It took me months to finally write this. Suppose I’d been waiting to hear from you first. Hoping you’d beat me to it.

I saved the frame, in case you’d been wondering. I took out your drawings and stashed them away. Or threw them away. I can’t remember now. Either way, I didn’t want to see the last picture you’d drawn and left me with. So instead I hung the empty frame in front of my door.

Sincerely,

Scarlet

Dear Scarlet,

     I used to enjoy the defiance of my internal clock. Four in the morning was the hour that God granted me to possess. It was gracious of him, really. I figured it was probably why I’d turned out so goddamned queer. Why words come out of my mouth unlike the way they do of those around me. Apart from you of course. I believe you took a class on me. Which is strange because it never even seemed like you had the interest or patience to take a class on anything. Anyway, it’s four in the afternoon and I’m leisurely taking my two hour break before I must attend a night lecture.  It’s all so dull. Watching my professors push up their glasses and fold their hands together. Oftentimes I find myself making tight, straining fists until my palms turn blotchy white and I watch them return to their normal pink. I knew I’d been foolish doing something like this. Foolish for doing something for the sole purpose of having the satisfaction that I could. I loathe it all, Scarlet. My vocabulary has been translated to the medical Latin that every person in this university pretentiously speaks. Consequent to this, I have the tendency of declining group invitations and I relish in watching their faces semi-understandingly scrutinize me.

Not even a single hour belongs to me to write down something I’ve created or thought of myself. My days are clinical, anatomical, and severe. Every day I come to class, my craving for bone marrow flourishes. Not even the delicacy of animal bone marrow. I see pictures of these opened bone marrows printed on my textbooks; brighter than blood red. Thicker and frothy. And all my ponderings now belong to concocting my own personal recipes for cooking and preparing a dinner for one in my puny room. Drinking red wine. Taking bites of the marrow as if it’d been caviar in another life. Without chewing or swallowing. Merely tasting for a while till I’m ready to begin digesting and absorbing it as my own. This delicate craving serves another reason why I avoid fitting in with everyone here. I much rather imagine them cut up, and I, fishing for their bone marrow. Searching for the froth of red. I imagine each of them tasting different from the next and I wallow in the curious thoughts of knowing the differences in tastes.

In the afternoons, in between classes, while walking around the campus with my books tightly pressed in my hands beside me, I watch familiar and unfamiliar faces and I carefully create a recipe out of each of them. Those whom I could plausibly be fond of always turn out to be the successful recipes in my head. But without fail, even those whom I dislike from distant observations turn out to be an imaginarily decent meal. Sometimes I wish I knew where I’d gone. The hollowness I found when I’d first arrived here mutated into what I should considerably recognize as a disturbing anomaly. But unapologetically, as long as I’m here, I don’t give a damn.   

My God, Scarlet, I used to know the tiny particles that swam in my head. But now my appetite has changed and I miss walking into the bold color of your room while you’re tangled by washed and unwashed clothes. I can only imagine being with the paramount of your piles now. I still loved it anyway. Unlike my puny room which is tidy and white. Inside my closet you’ll find where I’ve stored my mountains of washed and unwashed garments, hats of every kind (no longer classified from order of my most favorite to least). I should have taken with me that picture frame you loved so much, even though I wouldn’t have had pictures to place and replace in it bi-weekly. I know you think I hated the messes you made and never cleaned, but the only picture I want to draw and frame are your piles and that  crimson color red. Maybe I’ll try to find another frame that you might like. And maybe I’ll draw your shoulder blade the next time I can breathe.

But for now I’m out of time.

With love,

Gil.

the color brown

My friend Andrey once told me to never stop writing. No matter how awful and how shitty and how terribly ridiculous or fucking stupid or poorly-written, Never stop writing. He told me it'll all make sense one day. He told me it all matters. Blindly and profoundly, he believed in my art the way I did with his. I think about it when I'm sitting staring at the wall. I tell myself, "I have to write. God it'll be shitty, but I have to write."

Bukowski once told me, "if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it." That's when I'd sit staring at the wall. 

These are the two few that made any sense to me. These two vulgar and insane people. You can easily loathe the people they want you to see. But they know some hideous truth that lets me find exactly what I'm looking for. 

I am either to fear or not fear death. But I am to never fear anything I must write. Death will come for me, along with the words I've chosen. 

[scratches of paper from a cigar box]

demongirl and a strange arrangement

at the dinner table, 
i sat in front of the centerpiece
that faced me in size.
two candles 
and an unidentifiable plant,
i bared my teeth 
and inhaled the soup.
i fidgeted, 
waiting
for demongirl.

soon, i knew
my toes would curl 
while on my 
knees,
catching the drips from demongirl's 
mouth
into my own. 

but strangely,
demongirl 
was nowhere.

my teeth ground
and thought about 
the filthy things she'd
do without the only entrails
she trailed around.
consequently
i remembered the demands
of a demongirl
then collectedly,
temperately,
and solemnly
watched the cranberry sauce 
splash around the table
for the rest of the night.

Dro's Monologue (it's not though)

I didn't chase anything that summer. I ran. I couldn't sit but when I did it was the perfect time to. We lit. We passed. Like dragons. The friendly kind. The kind with color. Haircuts, uncut, I wore it long and I glistened. Like a fucking angel. We hadn't seen it all yet. We haven't tasted it all yet. The sounds were only getting better and we were only learning new dance moves. Squirming. Prancing. Like a dance to the gods of non-believers. We prayed to the day and to the drugs and I can say now, it made us laugh. Effortless and comfortable laughs. The sun would rise high but we rose higher. I told you, we glistened and the sun squinted at the sight of us. Golden brown, roasted. We were probably better than your wet dream's perfectly roasted marshmallow. Sandwiched queers, oozing white. It looked queer and we were queer alright. But at least the dickless devils didn't choke us...that bad. The chase only began at the end. The means to a meaningless end, when all the trains have whipped passed us, that's when the chase found us. I remember thinking how badly I would trip over my own feet and eat shit if we kept running backwards like hell. Like this is hell. 

Held A Cannibal

In the morning my head bobbed at the ceiling,
the screen dulled and colorless
like the film of gray playing
behind my lids.

Then I drank down something green.

Slimed.

In front of the same damn screen,
I saw her hanging
just the way I did in my sleep.

Head tilted to the left,
limp arms,
toes pointed
to hell.

She melted into my can,
green slime,
and I drank it down
till the bottom of the can tipped
to the ceiling I was bobbing at.

I knew her name once,
before I swallowed her.

What Day Is It?

I am officially one of life's bitches. Who the fuck did I think I was? I couldn't escape this shit even if I wanted to.

Nursing school has proven itself very difficult for me to keep up with. I don't know what I expected out of myself. I'd been a scum for two years and I go ahead and elope with a nursing program. I will never not be a fucking idiot. I don't like to think about the days of the week. I don't like to think about anything really. Occasionally I think about how regretful I will be for choosing this for myself. And by occasionally I mean, that's all that I ever really think about. How fucking regretful I am for never pursuing the things I've always wanted to do in life. What did I do during my youth? Sometimes I try to tell myself that I just think about all of this bullshit too much. Or maybe I'm just a bratty bitch who expects the unattainable out of life. I watched too many movies and goddamned TV shows and read too many books and listened to too many things that led me to believe life could more than the mediocre. But when I look around, it's all quite mediocre everywhere. IDIOT 2012

Also, I had been thinking of changing my name to Gin. My body is made up of 70% gin as of late. Gin is water. Gin is air. Gin is my friend and my liver will fail. Eventually. 

To lovers who blow

TO LOVERS WHO FUCKING BLOW

To friends who blow

TO FRIENDS WHO FUCKING BLOW

And then there's Vaggy

In the event that shit falls through, this dumbass little badger still exists. We've been neighbors for years and all of a sudden we're not. I now wake up in the morning to my brother's dumbass music and no longer to the alikeness of waking up with Vaggy's ipod because she's always awake before me. This brat is my limb and things are always going to be alright.

Gilly

I can actually fucking feel it. Even now. When it gets really late and I start to get sad about everyone. It's like an overcast day when I sort of feel like sobbing but I'm too happy to. It's like rereading things that should have lost its taste. It's like riding a bike and squinting your eyes through the wind but you're only really thinking about this one thing. It's like all the things I'm too embarrassed to say or admit but I wouldn't ever deny. It's like being naked at all times and I enjoy nudity which is probably why I am so in love with this. It's like it can never actually fail me or forget me. It even feels more than I could ever deserve. Everything and everyone is going to suck eventually but I could recognize pretty days this way. I could remember them. I could appreciate them and even when she's sometimes gone for a little while, I can feel alright again because I wear her everyday just to fucking smile about something. And when I'm too grumpy, something stupid will make me smile. Like "I'm the funniest person alive" and shit's true. Sometimes everyone and everything else is death but this fucking thing that I've known for so goddamn long that it feels like it's the only thing I will always know. This fucking thing. This inescapable and inexplicable thing is life.

A grumpy gilligan.

Screaming

I was sitting at a bar the other night, staring at the ceiling and screaming, "You're not better than me God!" I was with bruhs toasting to my life because I hydroplaned a full 180° facing oncoming traffic. I said, "I guess..." and forgot all the common topic starters. I reeked, that's all I knew.

So...Good...

Too old to scold.

Lost track of the years. Lost track of the fights. Lost track of the make-ups. The break-ups. Lost track of the gay. Lost track of the haircuts. Lost track of the movies. Lost track of the flattery. Lost track of every little detail about and between us. For the feeding and the force-feeding. For the pep talks and the shit talking. For the Sundays and the fun days. For the grumpy gills and the grumpier gills. For my foulmouth and your gasping. Soft spots and gay spots and favorite spots and sun spots and parking spots. Tickets on my windshield; the letter kind of tickets to tell me everything is going to be ok, and the parking kind of tickets from not moving my car from a No Parking zone because your comforter was mine in another lifetime. Ye, lifetime and shit. We feel like an entire lifetime and through all the now seemingly ridiculous moments when we were supposed to master the arts of letting go, we are here and we are queer and I love you, still. 

This is the longest I have ever felt so strongly for anyone. And I'm ok with being gay about that. 

Happy 7 or maybe 8 years to the first person to ever set me on fire.

FROGGY BLOW MY FACE

Stranger In My House

She turned to me to say something
I hadn't known,
I just assumed.

Politely, she asked if it was
alright
to shit in my bathroom.

I was displeased.

Why hasn't she shat in my bathroom before?

We've Both Got Better Things To Do

This won't last.

Being Gay

Someone tell me to shut the fuck up or something ya goddamn pussies.

I always refuse to wear my ID when I'm in school because no matter how much I like the crazy look on my face on the damn picture, it looks better hanging off of a rosary in my car. My picture ends up staring at me while I'm out driving around to get lunch. Or when I'm rushing to get to class. Or when I'm cruising home after an expected shitty day. I seriously considered bailing on this whole program the other day. It got me so down that I was about to throw in the goddamn towel (as my instructor had said). But I didn't because $30,000 keep ringing through my ears. Which causes me to cringe and shake. This whole goddamn shit really isn't that bad. It's just not for me. My class seems to like me. I figure it was only because I try my hardest to set myself apart. That this isn't what I want and that I hate goddamn near everyone and I make sarcastic remarks that pokes at their wits. I can see the way they look at me. Kind of like a foreign kid. Kind of like Fez. KIND OF. That doesn't even make sense... I don't even think that's actually true. I just know I feel different when I'm in there. The only thing I truly appreciate about the class is my lack of need to fit in with them (or even join them) but still get along rather well. I can manage to laugh with them and they can manage to tolerate (and be amused by) my cynicism. 

Fuck. I have more to study for. 

Social Networkings...

...bum me out. Bum me the fuck out. I hate caring about who knows me or who I know. I hate caring about the shit people say and do. I hate caring about the way I look. Or the way they look. I fucking hate it all and I am an idiot for getting a smart phone. I liked being under the rock. I liked focusing my attention on this one specific blog and not give a damn on who is viewing it or what any other idiot had to say about it. Now I constantly check stuff and I now like the sound or the blinking or the vibration of a motherfucking notification. I know I'm supposed to move forward with the world but it's really making me hate myself. It's really bumming me out and I just miss the way things used to be. Back when I would lug around my laptop struggling to find connection just to submit this one post. But nah. Now I am laying in bed with my phone on my face, typing this bullshit on this bullshit screen. Actually...I guess ultimately...and more honestly...I just miss my friends. And that's truly bumming me the fuck out. I didn't realize this would take a toll on me this much but it is now and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm just supposed to move fucking forward with the rest of the world and keep up with the people I used to be tight with through this bullshit screen.
Can I fucking sulk or what?

No Friend

This week has been a lose faith in shit week. I am getting too old already. I'll just accept the fact that things will be shitty from here. My friends are gone because we all outgrew eachother and there's nothing I can do about it. Even if it feels like I'll never find better company. Just clenching asscheeks, it's tough shit now. Who needs friends?

$30,000 worth of failure

Panic routine results in panic attacks. I need to pretend to be someone else for the next year if I want to accomplish this shit........................

Why couldn't I have existed as a squirrel?