When I'm Feelin' Low

I just think about my favorite things.

fiVe minutes

You should see how gay all the pieces I write. So gay that I stuff them in notebooks and journals, folded nicely and crisply. Or the better ones (the considerably better ones), are hidden inside my laptop for no one to read. They're so gay that I feel like I purposely put them in the closet to never come out. They're forever to be closeted homosexuals because it makes me feel better. Sometimes I take the time to reread some shit and become astonished that I wrote them once upon a time. Like I never know who the hell I am. Tight. 

I have to go to work now. 

v loud

(a finished book)
Like any relationship you build, the beginning is at ease, the middle resumes, and the end ends. Then the fullness of an inexplicable hollowing partakes in your night or your afternoon or (rarely, as far as I'm concerned) your morning. You sit motionless or fondle for a single, solid thought in your head. But now, I feel an ache in my head, and it's so quiet and still at this hour that I'm making up things to hear in hopes not to disturb anything.

"Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly."

I get startled when a book knows of my whereabouts.

Glass

For a heartless idiot, I am far too sentimental for my own good. Seamlessly, I am starting to come to terms to the once gory fact that I will never be a writer. I will, as all things that have ever slipped out of my mouth, only aspire and write about it. Don't be sad for me or even convince me otherwise, no matter how much you like me. I know what I am and a writer is not it. It was probably idiotic of me even to think having writing as my profession would satisfy my concerns and aspirations. I will remain religious with my love for it. But this time without preaching or hollering or praying on my knees with my hands clasped in front of me and my eyes shut pathetically. I won't stop doing what this is I do but I also will probably not pursue. This isn't a resignation but simply an acknowledgment. (Besides I can't resign something I hardly committed). But also, as all things that slip out of my mouth, this holds no permanence, and most likely has a lifespan. Until I can write my red, red and purple heart out, then this is what I know. I'm not sad about it or even complaining about it. In fact, I am currently at peace with myself, pertaining to this particular subject. It's better this way.

Dude ow

Whenever either Mak or I have an injury, it is absolutely a given that we inadvertently hit the sweet spot of each other's puppies. "Oh shit I'm sorry.. But it's not my fault!" That's friendship bitch.

Do Right

This is the difference between night and morning.
Night time is for bitching and weeping. Mornings are for bitching about how you keep bitching and weeping at night and how the episodes seem to become sadder and sadder more pathetic. My hours usually consist of bitching...is what I'm getting at here. Or bitching about bitching too much. Fucking bitch.
I'll try a little harder...mmm no. I'll try a little better next time.

Lefty's Duties

My left hand is currently disabled from doing the following:
-toilet paper wiping
-fapping
-assist with tying hair up
-assist with washing face
-assist with typing
*updaaate*
-STOGING IN THE CAR
**UPDATE**
-Unhooking my bra

It's only been several hours so I'm sure I'll find out throughout the day more things I currently cannot do properly. But these have so far been my struggle.

Big Fucking Baby

I miss my parents so much.

THROAT

I am getting sick and am dreading that I have to call in this week. I cannot afford that but I also cannot afford getting the kids sick. I'm just dreading everything because all I wanna do is stack. Also all I talk about is gay shit but I also am not sorry because this isn't tumblr and I like complaining. Whatever let me be soft serve here.

*-*

My life is a joke that's getting less and less funny, but I'm pretty sure God is still laughing his ass off anyway. 

IT'S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE, GOD. 

The Sad Truth

Woke Up Nude

Around 6 this morning, I realized I passed out on my bed in the middle of changing. I left my boy shorts on though. That's usually commendable. I drove myself home drunkenly last night--in some sort of a panic that I was TOO drunk? It's true though. I don't know how I got home but I probably shouldn't have done that. But also I probably don't give a shit since I simply do not give a fucking shit. Ever? It bothers me that people who don't want to die are unlucky enough to just drop dead one day but people like me (people who practically BEG for death to come sooner [lol @ referrence to my friends]) are still alive, wasting space. No matter how careless, I never drop dead. And knowing that I am far too pussy to kill myself (growing up to a stable family and all), I'll just always be on my toes, waiting for the glorious moment it comes for me. I am most in anticipation for it when I am driving or when I feel my chest tighten and I struggle to breathe (since it feels like a heart attack from the amount of nicotine I inhale). But as you know, considering I am typing this now at 7 in the morning, after passing out from my gin shots w/beer chase, it never comes for me. My sensible readers probably think I am a fucking idiot, but I never gave a shit about that. I don't question you for your will to live, but I know you question me for my will to die. Maybe I just get a kick out of it. Maybe I get a kick out of the shit you stray away from. The things you caution. The things you fear. The things you permanently marked idiotic. I beg to differ. I always beg to differ. Mostly because I get a kick out of it.

Please Stop Bothering Anyone

I don't care who it is.

You're alone. Don't you know that yet?

Swallow me whole

Fill yourself up
Smile about it
Tell me what it's like
And I'll drink the rest of it.

745

Home then grumpy and exhausted then wolf then down the rest then pass out////repeat.

I want that button

I don't even know what to do with myself.

I'm A Boy

"One Day More" 
written by alyssacorpuz

He would wake up every morning, either earlier or later than the rest of his house. On the earlier days, he would promise himself that this would become a habit, something positive in his grumpy lifestyle. On the later days, he would lay and feel sorry for himself and regret the bottles he smashed into his face while he poured a morning glass. He would sit at his desk and stare at his notebook while sipping his late night sorrows. Whilst tapping his pen, looking out his window, and listening to sad songs on days bright like this one, he oftentimes tipped his chair in defeat and cocked his head back for that last gulp of consciousness. Then he would drag his feat to the john where he would piss away the blackout from the night before while simultaneously brushing his teeth, which might I mention, are one of his best characteristics. On some days, he would walk to and from his desk, scribbling a few lines here and there, popping his head into the fridge when he became restless and unsatisfied with what his words were creating in him. Other days, he would pile his utensils up and mumble fuck this as he would leave to spend the day out perhaps feasting on goods that would contribute to his temporary gut, or to the local thrift where he enjoyed purchasing party shirts and grandpa pants. He usually found himself at the book store, blowing away the month's rent on pages that reminded him of why he chose to write. He would walk out the store like he usually does, holding his stack like winnings, knowing that the collection would make a fine piece to his growing treasure. The doors of his bedroom would swing open, and he would not realize how late it was or how long he stayed at the bookstore until his body voluntarily followed its nightly routine. A couple of cock backs of the head until his vision was blurred but his mind finally clear. From then on, it is just a couple of swigs and he is back at his desk. He turns on his side lamp the way he usually does. It never matters if there is a woman sleeping in his bed or not, he always turns on his side lamp when he knows that his day is just getting started. A few lines here, a mountain of ideas everywhere, swigs there, until finally he has either created a piece he is content with, or he once again states the phrase fuck this and calls it quits just when the moon starts to disappear. On the early mornings where he has a woman in his bed, he crawls into the sheets and starts to breath heavily. She is either unresponsive, or she falls into the echo if his call and pulls in close. Other nights, he creeps into his sheets and curls up with his booze as he curses under his breath all the things that pisses him off in this fuck of a life he has got going on. Then from there it is lights out as he blacks out and pisses on his floor.

Blacked out last night but not hungover today

That's a good day. But I think I'd lost my glasses, and there's no point in being on my computer if I have to squint to see. I guess I should have other pairs of glasses just in case this type of shit happens. 

I love blacking out. 

TOO PUSSY TO KILL MYSELF

TOO PUSSY TO LIVE.

Separation Anxiety Ultimately Equals Murder Suicide

MIKAL