Affection Makes Me Squirm

Affection is icky.
Caring Is Creepy.

Slither away.

Three Bratty Queens and Nameless

Mikal kept saying she looked like a dyke today

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

Sof is sick of us listening to this song. But we can't not play this song at least 4 times a week. It's essential to our well-being. 

Dumb Babies

Personifuckit

I hate because I'm hateful and also because my sketches never stay up on my wall. I guess I have weak ass tape or whatever but I need push pins. They all take turns falling and if I'm gone for the weekend, I eventually find them all on the ground when I return home. I always feel like a child who throws a fit when their toys don't cooperate with them. Ye I feel like an infant.

Mobbed then Robbed

Last night, I thought about burning San Francisco to the ground. It's just a broken window. But my wrath said burn San Francisco to the ground. Maybe I'll do it. I'll think on it some more. 

Beach Fossils

The only picture I could capture. It got too cray.

Greasers

FINNA BE.

IS IT MAY YET

IS IT

Awaiting

the moment I realize that my coffee and cigarettes diet have taken a toll on my teeth.

So far so good. Maybe another year or so I'll cry about it.

Struggle

I awake in the morning struggling to stay awake then go to bed at night struggling to fall asleep.
Every damn day. Every damn night. This is the struggle. This is caffeine and alcohol.

HACHI

This is us, Hachi. All these years.

Fuck

My face is too small for all this hair. It's time. It's really time. But Mikal owns my hair...
And all da boys r lyk nuuuu but hair long n im lyk fk u u fucking idiot. IDIOT.

She often takes snapshots of

me. On the toilet. And I really value it. 

Rainbow Pool

I once jumped off a cliff with my friend. Ill-prepared, I undid the button of my shorts and slid off my shirt, arranged myself in my underwear in front of a gathering of people, and climbed up the rocks in my favorite shoes. I don't quite spend much time jumping or leaping or falling. The nerves had me a few pieces. But I thought, if my friend jumps, I jump. 

So my friend (my endearingly fearless friend with a craving of a defiant bird) jumped. I reached the top and looked down at the dark water. A slew of people tilted their heads up at me, squinting through their sunglasses, and anticipating my springing stint. Artlessly, I leaped into the air. My toes pointed to the bottom and my arms flailing from the unfamiliarity of gravity. My duration in the air lasted long enough for me to ponder of my life and reevaluate my decisions. All my decisions. Like a common flash of everyone's imagination. Then after a year of falling, I knifed through the water and the flash battered into darkness. And the darkness was a muffled quiet. It was a deadened distortion more closely contrasted to an emptying clarity. I fished up to the surface until the blur of a sunny day came back to my consciousness. I gasped for air like the result of my purging. Of a momentary catharsis. Of moments I neglect to be a part of. 

When I got back to the rocks, I looked up at my friend with the assumption that she knew exactly what I was feeling. Then I looked up to the view of where I was just seconds ago. And I contemplated those seconds and how those seconds became a persistence of merely some of my time. 

I sat on the rocks and thought about being a remainder. I understood then that after a leap, you become a fragment of yourself. An excess leftover of what was before. Like reusable waste. Just as action and consequence and even continuity come into play, you lose as much as you gain and what ever you have is what ever is left. And it's tedious and repetitive but, everything to me now is just remains of everything before. 

Lookit these cunts...

Detours. from Makayla Dias on Vimeo.

Beach Bastards. from Makayla Dias on Vimeo.

STOKED FOR SUMMER. STOKED FOR THIS. 

And This is Ange

Untitled from Joyce K on Vimeo.

We're not rushing you, just stand

I'm on my toilet again. Napping again. Na, I'm editing the stories I abandoned months ago. There are things I write that I forget I wrote. Things I string together that I don't realize I've strung together until I take the time to review and regroup and recognize my thoughts in the words. Often times I feel like it wasn't me who produce what ever I produce. Especially when I set it aside for months on. And rereading now what I've done before ...this phase of my life as of late (the over-sleeping, over-drinking, idle misery that I deliberately deluged into after choking in nursing school)... it really feels like another person wrote what I'd written then. And I don't recognize the changes that occur in me until I reread. Because to me, I'm the same every day and have always been the same since the dreariness of my childhood. But I'm never the same. Fuck, I'm feeling my mind clear up. (This is, if you must fucking know [which you must because all my parenthetical statements are the things I kind of...sometimes... hope you'd wonder about me], due to the glorious fact that my parents lovingly ambushed me with yet another talk about my future). And with this, I cleaned my industrial park of a room, fixed my wall that was shedding of my shit, put my clothes away, and am doing laundry. I don't know how long my mind will be this clear for because these moments are only moments after all. And I know they're not rushing me. but fuck, I need to take a step to fucking anywhere. 

We're all feeling too old for all this shit. 

Jul's first time

Nursing Gave Me Girlfriends

Third Wheel

He was third wheeling...

Sweat

I've been waking drenched every morning for...I don't even know how long. I awake from high-anxiety dreams ranging from mundane worries to intolerable nightmares. It's been like this for a while. Like my body is giving in on me. Like it's giving up just as I wish to.

I just want to feel alright for a moment.

But even in my sleep, my mind gives me misery.

Rowing without oars

Mornings

A list of things I need to function for a morning:
-arctic rohto eyedrops
-a caffeine pill
-a glass of water
-DailyGrace
-some dignity
-adequate apathy
-something for my lungs

The faucet is running

I'm sitting on my toilet. Taking a little nap. Letting the water run because it's a properly terrible sound. I haven't written anything in weeks. I mean weeks of tired complaints about how I can't write. Not even that. But sitting here on my toilet, I'm feeling a momentary grace of inspiration. Shit is always inspiring. Shit and having my pants down. My internal struggles, if I may, are deep-throating me whole. And if you must know (and I tell you, you must) my internal struggles have the swallowing skills of a very impressive whore. Not even a whore. Just your ordinary neighborhood slut with an unusually unignorable talent. The kind she'd propose to showcase if you ever invite her inside your living room for a Coke. Shit. But about my internal struggles. Yes. My precious internal struggles that I dearly fondle when I want to feel. (Soft serve, bitch.) Well I'm feeling and I'm struggling and I don't know where to go from here. But truthfully, these very entries are the evident consistence of all I must share. Of all I desire to share and choose to share. I am consistent after all. It is my only consistence. This is. 

By now I should assume that these entries are tired and beat. As in dead horse beat. As in you could probably assume what this chunk of text will be about while scrolling down my page. That goes for all the chunks of paragraphs I publish on this here blog. It's me whining and then writing about whining so I can fill the white space while mumbling to myself and getting drunker as the chunk enlarges. I am the face of a pathetic, aspiring writer with nothing to write about. I should just take off right now. Right now. Now that I have nothing for me but empty time. I could leave and struggle. Fucking 'find myself' or what-have-you. But this isn't the post-war. And I know I won't do. I am bound by my empty time. Bound to be idle for as long as I possibly could until I lose my mind entirely. If I am even fortunate enough to lose my mind. My mind is here with me, rotting with me. My only aspiration is to fill white spaces with my chunks of texts and I'm too uninspired (better known as lazy) to commit to it. I can't even classify myself as a pathetic, aspiring writer because I'm not really writing. I'm scratching paper and the shit I scratch bodes no truth. My scratches hold nothing. They mean nothing. I mean nothing. And here I am with my cowardice ways, filling the spaces, and partially telling a truth. And the truth is I like the struggle. But you already know that, don't you? Oh fuck you, no you don't. 

I Melt With You

A sewer of misogynists.
Soon to be reunited.

Ma girl

REM

Dat shit ma shit.
1035am
I'm not hungover, I just crush a lot. What is it with waking up early when I black out cold the night before? It's irritating because my room spins. Or your room spins. Or whose ever room or where ever I am spins. And if I were to kill, fuck, marry: spins, puke, or blacking out...I'd kill spins, marry puke, and fuck blacking out. I fucking hate the spins. But on a high note, I only spun momentarily this morning until I was crushed by a very persistent headache. A very bearable headache but fuck what its mother taught it. I'm simply trying to go back to sleep. Sleep till the bad dies. Sleep till three.

Stupid friends

Stupid buddies
Wow quin aww cmon charlie cukaloo

Girlies

GROTESQUE

I get sick of everything,
eventually.