repose of the sad body in the silent grave

books with inscriptions make fine gifts. Especially when you find it wedged in between baby jesus and baby jesus' manger of the nativity scene on your front porch. 

heater up to 69 but never 70, is this kid a perv

It's alright to outgrow people.

It's alright not to laugh.

Ina Garten is truly comforting.

Lactose intolerance is just further proof that life is full of compromises.

Be altruistic. Be fucking kind. It won't kill you. Hufflepuffs are not lame just because the series made them seem like wimps. Cedric Diggory was a hufflepuff and he was FANTASTIC.

Moreso, don't fuck people up. Don't do it. Cruelty is such a human concept. And it's embarrassing. Don't destroy people. At least try not to.

Understand what you're really tripping about. I mean REALLY.

Coffee makers change lives. I drank decaf last night just because. I know I said death before decaf but people change.

Also, sleep will trump most things in life. The only thing that could win a battle against sleep is hunger. Although, I am a firm believer that the Sleepless Games would make a finer series than the Hunger Games. Imagine a tyrannical dystopia, delirious from exhaustion, and fighting for survival. Jennifer Lawrence will not participate. I'd make sure of it.

It's alright not to finish notebooks cover to cover. A few blank pages are nothing. The measurement of a year doesn't define you. Remember the art of letting go?

Imagine yourself at the airport and impetuously deciding not to go to baggage claim. How important are your belongings that abandonment isn't a problem? Maybe that could also apply for emotional baggage. Fuck it.

Southern California is insanity. Southern Californianians are insane. I want no part of it for as long as I can help it.

Be your own coping mechanism. Friends are just varieties of coping mechanisms. We are each other's goddamn coping mechanism, wouldn't it be a ball to be your own?

Optimism comes in bursts. Pessimism comes in crawls.

Stay sharp.

Do you understand control yet? Is discipline a thing again? Can I manipulate my chaos yet?

"Oh please" is the only phrase I need to speak an entire language. I can reduce my speech and entire diction with "Oh please" and it paints volumes.

Have a laugh. Just have a laugh.

braless and harmless

i have a goal right now and it's to wear pant suits. Back off.

I feel like sophomore year all over again when I blew up so carelessly. I can't live like this????????

uss midway day satch scratch

I took a selfie with some ship because I was in a chill mood at some point today B)

(That is, disregarding the livid rage that consumed me during other points of this trip. S/o to the SoCal population for blowing chunks).

I come home to the bay soon, just in time for ex mass eve. (Not soon enough though). I'll surely survive. Maybe if I hold my breath, Christmas will whiz by me without any sense of realization. I'd like that. I don't hate it, but I certainly can live without this holier-than-human holiday.

Cheers to the rest of you though. Stay happy, ya filthy animals B)

Senti mental

If I've known you enough or at all, be sure that there's already a fictional version of you floating in my mind. There are no exceptions. I've created your stories, every one of you. Any one person I've met could elicit for me at least three characters. I read through these stories and, unaware of it, picture a face I'm acquainted with.

One day, my god. One day.

ditch the dentist

slap on a whitening strip and drool.

I like splitting my lips open and pressuring out the blood because the stinging makes me feel cute.

Hold on to my belly aches. I'm still upside down.

frightened eyes

it's not four am, it's two, but this time zone i know is otherwise.

There's a veritable draining coming out of me. This is it. I've been waiting years for this.

It dried up.

sorry about being such a dick

sorry about being such a weirdo too

and being creepy sometimes

and for all the intended passive aggression

i just don't understand warmth right now.

feather report

Real luv must be the glorious days before my laptop left me. I am now merely a shell of the person I once was. When I sulk sadly, it's a guarantee I'm mourning my lost friend. The thing was my best friend. It was the only computer that I never felt the need to use an incognito window. THAT MUST BE REAL LUV.

I don't think I could even get myself to own another. I'm ruined. Nothing will ever be good enough.

Where's the goddamn remote?

fm radio

I still can't bring myself to listen to that shit.

Hello it's me again.

It's four am and a distant helicopter outside is mimicking the whirr of my stomach. Thanksgiving had just passed and I'm already thinking about next year's feast. If had a choice between having freedom of speech or possessing some high-tech gravy dispenser, guess which acquirement I would choose. I'm in an intimate cahoots with gravy. Leave us be.

Haven't felt like sharing any thoughts lately. I've been sleeping on the foot of my bed for two months now, along with spending an inexcusable amount of time in the living room, melting into my couch. That in itself is an evident indication that I am experiencing a transitional time. The dull buzz of television programming I still find comforting, like some childlike relapse. I think it's the scheduling. Every program had a slot and you can always expect it to be on at that time. At this very moment in my life, I know ABC Family's schedule for when I need to numb my brain. I know the according channel of every late night talk show host. I know to tune into Oxygen when I feel like marathoning some show. Reality programs such as Becoming Nuns is slowly easing itself into my preferences. When I feel calm enough for decency, I watch HGtv.  I wrap myself up with blankets and I fold myself into a vegetable, wasting away on my couch.

Furthermore, I've been having less and less desires to be outside, spending time with my own friends. At most, I'll hang out with jaws because, get fucking real, that's the most comfortable time I spend with anyone. I don't miss company, and I can't even tell if that's unhealthy. Tomorrow. Maybe I'll get out tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just hope that work calls me in. I spend my days off waiting to be at work because at least that way, I'm getting paid to be around anybody.

Speaking of, I have not been getting asshole customers lately. I've been getting a lot of great tippers actually. It might have something to do with the fact that I now pregame before any of my shifts, which means I unavoidably become more convivial and less scrutinizing. I like my job (right now). But I've already got my guard up for the moment I start hating it or being bored by it. Stay tuned.

We're spending the holidays in San Diego. We pleaded not to end up in souther California. We really pleaded.

I'm exhausted now.

We can all be exhausted.

marl lights

the lethal eventuality of a break-up peeks with an unreal velocity. the post-break-up fringe exists more so than just that. it is significantly symbolic enough to be a tangible spectacle. the post-break-up fringe is a newborn lifestyle. it wails and pisses and shits and eats and demands an exhausting amount of attention. it's beyond the impetuousness of a haircut that'll probably hang in front of a newly single face. it's beyond the newly craning neck muscle to acknowledge other birds. they are, in fact, risen anew. they beam or dim a different shade of light. they are forces that insist to be reckoned with. proceed cautiously from here.

i can't stop listening to katy perry

what's happening?

join me on this journey

it won't even hurt

i hate this fucking planet

my parents are racist as shit and it turns my face red. I don't know how many times I have to explain/fight over shit before they understand that they don't have to be robots/slaves to this system. Old world views are so stubborn, it's rough to get my hands around it. My blood is curdling, and I don't think I can change the way they think. Maybe if I got shot dead by some fuckboy cop, maybe they'd understand then. Nothing like cold-blood empathy to shake up comprehension.

I'm getting this dreadful feeling that I'm going to grow my hair out. It feels like betrayal.

inevitable unhappiness

cold, wet parking lot
warm, wet faces

are we choking on this?

customer concern

It's typically the parents who make such asshole customers. Truth be told, I still end up being a passively condescending ass. Customers are not always right. Sometimes customers are just fucking assholes. Eat a fucking dick to all the fucking assholes.

god damnit

my stomach divides and churns and i can feel the sickness rising up to my throat. it's putrid in my mouth, and it's bitter, and it's even sicker that it isn't supposed to make me puke. more like having someone else's puke in my mouth. why would i ever open my fucking mouth to gag on someone else's? it's just selfish of me. i'm dry-heaving fucked up images in my head. i could almost forget, if only my idle memory didn't flash me mercilessly.

dynamic douchebags

i tell a lie, she sucks her teeth.

i tell another lie, she tells me I'm lying.

i grin wide, she says whatever.

i grin wider, she rolls her eyes.

disconnected

reminds me of that twilight zone episode. you know the one.

i have reasons to suspect that my eyeballs are melting. i think they're melting and they're trying to slither away from me in the form of a puddle. sticky, escaping glob. i also have reasons to demand a spare pair of eyeballs, just in case I want to see again. I'll apologize in advance to whom or what I'll demand another pair of eyeballs from. it might occur in the unexpected event of some haze that I'll surely find myself skulking towards. (but hopefully not, fingers crossed). i'll attempt to make demands from none other than my own person. hopefully i won't have to kill anybody in the desperation of acquiring another pair. so. much. hope.

i bet i could whip up a killer eulogy though.

teething, again

a cute face that made me piss myself. pissing myself like there's always a cute face to look at. couldn't tell that i was embarrassed. couldn't tell if i was offensive.

this morning i took a cold shower, and i think i wept as i shaved my legs. i hate watching leg hair sever from me then swirl down the drain. who froze the pipes? who fucking hates me? probably just ex's and their ex's. I wanna make stew out of all of them to find out what it's like to taste their contempt inside my mouth. If I puke them out, I must not find them very convincing. If I keep them in, I'll just shit them out anyway, like everything else I put in my mouth.

It's funny to swallow a lover, isn't it? That's what I consider comedic gold.

what do i call you?

i say awfully hurtful things sometimes in attempt to preserve my pointless pride.

silver water

Read the story, you ninny.

very true

"Luckily no one is patient enough to read all these."
-my sister's writings on one of my notebooks.
That's how I feel about writing. I have all these notebooks. All these scraps of paper. All this media. But seriously, no one is patient enough to read any of them. What's the point?

get real

I occasionally have these moments when I realize that I will never have anyone who is as beautiful, if not more or even nearly, as Shannyn Sossamon. That itself cripples me from everyone else. What is up with that? I don't need that goddamn woman to be that mind-blowingly attractive. My eyes think that it's kind of grotesque how gorgeous she is. And I'm irritated. I compare every single attractive face to hers, and every time, I consistently conclude that all other faces pale next to hers. But I'm irritated because I think she's been haunting me since I first saw that goddamn face. It's lousy but satisfying to go out of my way to look at pictures of her. And forget watching a movie. It makes my palms sweat and I get a little manic. My god, humans can be so ugly. Some genetic make-ups are just ...yikes. But then there are those rare fallen fucking angels. And I swear, she must be the face of the devil. A beauty like that, get real.

This has been a weird rant that kept getting weirder, brought to you by self-consciousness and sheer envy/lust.

shadowed protagonists

anne welles is to neely o'hara as esther greenwood is to doreen as sal paradise is to dean moriarty as nick carraway is to jay gatsby as fred is to holly golightly

if i think too hard for any more examples, i might altogether quit writing anything forever. it's depressing because i can be so aggressively narcissistic. 

but it must be some psychological root as to why I get myself so incredibly partial and attracted to the shining, shitty characters. just because the protagonists are shadowed, doesn't mean they deserve less of my attention. ain't that just the shit. fuck all the gatsbys and all the moriartys and all the golitghtlys and all the rest of characters that the narrator centralizes on.

(I'm just being bitter because as long as i aspire to write, then my personal character gets pushed aside. And I'm the type like all the listed above. It's probably why I can only manage to write well about my friends. [You're lucky to have me]).

SMIRKS

(This has gone way too far).

cavil

it's not poetry, you know. what's happening here or out there. i've adopted that it's syntaxy droppings. funny, empty little prose. funny, empty little clever and deep, deepening voices. a smooth, relatable cadence can't bloom it poetry. even a pretty, attractive cadence can't rot it poetry. peculiar indentations and peculiar spacing and peculiar line breaks, a peculiar poetry they're all meant to be. they're kind of exciting when the thrown up letters are more notably uncommon. they're kind of enlightening when the gurgling voices are suspiciously unfamiliar. syntaxy droppings, syntaxy droppings. excretion of syntax. excretion of excretion. it doesn't count if you've finished reading it and it gave you nothing. and it doesn't count if my rapport with repetition has fooled you into thinking this an exception. 

get out

it was a speckled notebook and an intro to some book

disgusting, sugary swill nudged away the favored, precedent sickness

everyone was asleep by then

i skulked in my bedroom, staggering and soaking wet

i dragged inside the mud

my floors smeared with black out

i must've fallen on a bush near a puddle because why else was i soaked

i must've been in the middle of the street, or the middle of my lawn, there was a rousing discussion about, oh i don't know, probably life?

i woke up in bed with my pants on but without a shirt

now I'm staring at my mud smeared floor, deep deliberation for how to rid of this goddamn mess

i wasn't tanked at the party, i got tanked when i was finally in the quiet of my home

happy hollow scumbag

swalloween

alright ramblers

Let's get ramblin'

Trays of quiche and trays of lasagna: this is how I first dealt with death. My mother's father died sometime in April during my seventh grade year. And my father's father died the following April. There was no grieving period for me. I didn't get to know either of them. They were also bastards. Both with side-families with their mistresses. But all I can remember were the trays of quiche and trays of lasagna that I'd eaten for weeks during those deaths. I remember thinking that I could eat those foods to my life's end. And I still feel that way. Just the other day, I found myself attached by the hip with my tray of lasagna. I ate the entire fucking thing. And when I finished, I wanted more. No doubts, no regrets. My mind has been so distracted lately that all I can manage to write about is how I indulged in trays of quiche and trays of lasagna as a grieving method during the death of both my grandfathers.

What trepidations an idly hysteric mind brings.

pixie stix

being human is so delicate, it's disgusting. being always awake at night until i can hear birds outside makes me sick. my phone makes me sick. the best notification i get is the word of the day from my dictionary app. i get tired at just thinking of anybody so i try not to. i wasn't lying when i said the cure's discography on perpetual slap. (jesus fuck, how many years has it been like this???????????) i can't get myself to listen to anything else so much so that i'm starting to feel faint from it. and that's just the best part of my days. (or nights, i mean). is "whatever" an official adjective yet? i know it's childish, but i think it might be quite a feeling for me. i always tell myself to stop drinking, but if i didn't drink, i'd probably stay pissed at everyone all the time. no one can hold a grudge better than sobriety. 

this has been such fitting melancholia. to think that i can trace back from my very first memory as to why things are the way they are now. why i am the way i am. i chose this. i'm afraid to even say that i fought for this life. this is just the way i wanted it. i wanted this. 

i wanted this. 

why did i want this? 

self-portrait at 0137

in an electric glare

I'm not going to pretend that Robert Smith is ever just a passing thought.

Pornography on perpetual slap.

Sike, discography on perpetual slap.

srsly me

quit drinking so goddamn much

srsly me

SRSLY

sickly sweet like maple syrup

My soulmate is probably someone who would refuses to smile for pictures. My soulmate is probably someone who would never order me to smile. My soulmate is probably someone who wouldn't quiver at my adorable cruelty. My soulmate probably has an irresistible recipe for mashed potatoes. My soulmate, if I know myself at all, is probably myself. Modern romance has never felt so satisfying.

preposterous ghoul

A distant cousin of a panic attack, conveniently located on a couch shitted on by  the same dog over and over again. Comforted close by a body pillow that belongs to that sassy little thing. It wasn't like I was imploding (like how I feel now). It was more like I was being dismembered in this agonizingly slow manner and then tossed aside to dissolve. Scorning at forced kindness but relaxing those chipped shoulders anyway. Stupid, stupid child. The demons will have eaten away at everything, and stupid, stupid child will still probably be grateful for it.

ole buster and a no good time

Poured out earlier. Pardon my weather report, it's just really nice to have a morning like this.

I almost forgot about the fact that this giant retriever with giant paws very insistently tried to hump me last night. I was just having a casual smoke with my friends. And this dog that I kept calling Cody (who was actually named Buster, my b) kept pressing his face on my thigh as we all stood around. Mind that we were informed on the kind of lonely dog that he is. Also mind that I'm not in any way a pet person. I had been taking a drag when the dog got on his hind legs. My very initial thought was, 'Oh this is cute. He wants to dance or something.' What astonishment washed over me when I realized that he wanted so much more than to waltz with me. And as I tried to back away and push him off, the damn bastard kept trying to mound me. I found myself in panic, in such great panic that all I could manage of myself was my helpless back-shuffling away from that goddamned dog. He was insufferable. No matter how forcefully I pushed him off, he kept lunging at me anyway. Eventually my appalled panic became so unbearable that jsmke had to pry the dog away from me. And beyond the prying off of me, he had to hold him down to keep him off for the rest of the night. I'm sad to say that I felt violated. I was supposed to understand. He's a dog after all. A dog locked up inside an empty house all day all the time. But I felt violated anyway. I felt my trust being broken. I thought we became old chaps, the dog and me. I petted him. I was kind to him. I even grabbed his face and told him we were friends. Well, the night went so bad that he had to be closely supervised around me. As in, my buddies had to take shifts watching him because every time the dog had a moment to himself, he would seek for me and try his best shot. I couldn't sit down, and every time I found him near me, I kept a chair between us. I was actually quite mercilessly unforgiving. He's a dog after all, sure. But even dogs should understand acceptable behavior. Neo-feminism has me by the throat, and I can't excuse a damn thing. Not even the poor behavior of a fucking dog. I did feel slightly bad for cutting ties with my quadruped pal. I couldn't even look at his face. But I felt his risen anxiety when he noticed we were all leaving. He knew he'd be alone again in that old, creaking house. My heart ached for him, but I still couldn't look at his face. Not even to say goodbye.

What strange relationships I build with everything.

sour-faced/salty

I talk too much and too fast for someone with a scalded tongue. Does my face always manage to sneer like that? I've been in and out of consciousness all day, and every time I'm awake, I'm be greeted by hot stomach aches.

There is something about a malevolent scorpion spider that resembled a black lobster looming over my thoughts right now. But at least it's keeping me from falling back asleep and then waking up to small puddles of drool.

unsteady

I hadn't seen it coming. I had just been wolfing down the food specifically ordered for me. When i put down the chopsticks, i felt my stomach whine at my speedy gluttony. Then it became too quiet, and i can't remember the rest.

The next thing that i do recall was having my head down, talking outloud to myself through such broken sobs. I kept rubbing my eyes with my hands, and I had stared down at them, smearing off the mascara as if i wasnt crying at all.

I always forget that i hadn't quite gotten over it. And i always forget that i end up here sometimes, sobbing and talking to myself about how much my chest hurts because there isn't anyone else that I'd have the courage to even speak to about it.

I wasn't even drunk. I was just really broken up about things.

Wanna know what pisses me off??

(Of course you do, you nosey bastard, why else would you be here?)

I get pissed off when I realize I have a bummed and sad look on my face while watching someone walk out my front door. (Very particular idiots cause such a face from me, I realize). Nobody gets to dictate why I have a bummed face, please see yourself out this page because I bet you're not one of them. If you are in fact one of them satanic bastards, see yourself out also since I want nothing to do with you anymore.

(We all say shit we don't mean)

(Don't excuse me, it's better off that way)

(I can tell that the more you read me, the more you like me)

(But fuck off)

PS if you didn't respond

to my selfie rampage from last night, you fucking fucked up because those will be gold when I'm gone.

Goodnight to all the sensational idiots who fucking get me!!!!!!

It's 8 and everyone is telling me to go back to sleep

There isn't anybody that I'm alright with calling out for. Uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable, constantly.

I remember having to condition myself with names. And how I'd idly call out such a name, in fear. Or such a name, in panic. Or such a name, in boredom. Why the hell did I let that happen?

lobster hands

i do have these moments when i sincerely ask myself and the cosmos if I'm gonna go out amy winehouse style

and the people that knew me would shake their heads in pity at the thought of my exit from existence

and mak would never have another drink ever again

and the eyes of the person who finds that corpse would glaze over for just a second before the cold comes

and I'm taking a spicy shit right now and my ass hole hates me, both for engorging in too many spicies the previous night and for typing out this winehouse absurdity as i take a spicy shit.

the clock struck and i popped a champagne bottle

a list of things that i need in my life

a tuning fork
a lasso
wax seal kit
silicone spray
ribbons
a manifesto handwritten by someone i know
an oar
a handmade coat rack
spackle
jerry curl wig
roller skates
a playdoh sculpture of julius caesar
an apron previously owned by a butcher
meat cleaver
whittling knife

Two new snapbacks and The Cure's Trilogy on dvd: presents from my three boy best friends.

Spoil me bruh.

top 3 greetings

beckon

this originated in bremen, germany. accomodated by a young friend. indulged on such a stifling, quiet night.

list scribbled, insults scratched. counted approximation over fifty, doubt smirking. another list of shuddering shit and a thought that feels trivial:

i kept someone particularly so i can have someone to write letters to. i liked having someone i felt a coward to tell a truth to, in which i turn to composing these enveloped things to hand out so goddamn sweetly. i don't have that now so scratching lists and scribbling insults will do.

bremen, germany? guess of the word i have cutely associated with that little city.

stomach aches in the morning

of the most obvious regurgitations, pierce through the most accessible...

staggering, pointing, slurring at the common workers of laboring indulgence. i was irritable, although i felt bad the next day. i was fatigued at first and was discouraged by the way my mouth hung open at my inability to articulate in accordance to a demanding intention...

it's morning and I'm daydreaming about plates and plates of fish. tried to squirm back into sleep, but then i stressed about restaurants. I've been stressing about restaurants because soon they'll ask me what i want, and I'll panic into a decision that can't ever please everyone. i spent an hour on yelp, but i only ended up downloading brickbreaker and playing for another two. diurnal participants vibrating through a communicational wall that never expects response until late in the afternoon, if there'll be a response at all. i have to go back to dmv today...

outstanding failures pt I&II

It feels like being eaten and dragged at the same time. And no one is recording and no one is laughing and no one is taking eyes off the tv. There are tucked away receipts as acting scripts with no typographical errors and no insincerity and no exclamation marks. Be lucky to find a comma. Be lucky to find the receipts at all, and if so, proceed to being a person and criticize the penmanship.

It feels like murmuring apologizies while being eaten and dragged. But the murmurs are gurgled with shoddy contempt. Contempt worth seven hundred dollars, plus tax, plus service fee, plus a plea on your knees with your hands clasped. Hand over sixteen digits, acquire an entirely different receipt from the ones tucked away. Grab a screet shot, forward an email, put one leg over the other, and pretend there isn't piss dripping down. Wet, hot, and sticky; it feels like relief, when really you just forgot that you're already half eaten and your skin is open and raw from the dragging. It feels like relief anyway, like the way salt foams the snails.

dispossessed

Hey.

green tea raspberry

i get giddy about having two desks in my bedroom. then i get creeped out when i realize i have two desks due to an exponentially gradual and crippling obsessive compulsion that came at me hella outta pocket over this passed year. 

I've been stiff about my shit, and it's weird for it to have such a hold of me. 

old habits die handsome

hey.

still me again.

i don't think i ever crave anything anymore. not even people. not even you. 

("you" is the most commonly romanticized pronoun of all the pronouns. its vagueness rings so relatable for anybody. it gives anonymity to the cowards with sorrows bleeding out their guts. i'm not particularly partial to writing anything [unless i'm addressing a group of people or i'm composing a letter] with the pronoun "you." but if you've gotten anything functioning properly up there, you'd understand that this specific parenthetical paragraph is a scrupulous attempt at a disclaimer as to why i would ever type "not even you" up there. and if you really know how to put things together, you'd understand that after my admission regarding this parenthetical paragraph to be a disclaimer, you'd have already figured out that the next paragraph would be a terse and apathetic declaration of how little i care about your opinion of me. any of this making sense? i fucking doubt it [still arrogant]. check tumblr for romanticism of the "you" pronoun references. the place is crawling with it).

but, whatever. 

post idiot morning

Hey.

It's me again.

Currently 0745, and these avian things are making sounds at me. I won't mimic (mimicking birds played cool stuff the other night though, glad i saw them).

There was something i wanted to say, but thinking now, i don't want to say them anymore.

I'm at a constant internal battle between wanting to share my thoughts and sentiments versus pushing for an insane level of privacy.

Keep in mind that i will never make up my mind.

Growing up, i thought i wanted to be a temptress. I've aged, and i now know that i would rather be tempted by one instead.

Pro Nouns

When I read it, at first I thought it was about something in the forefront of my mind. But I put my phone away, I tuned into a movie that I've seen three times, and I rolled over in my bed, caught by the blackness I had drawn. Then everything in the movie reminded me of things I only allow in small, accidental doses. There is supposed to be something dying inside me. I can feel my calves twitching still and my feet are cold, as they always are. I am deflated, but the wrong things are dying inside me.

pretty girl

yesterday, i asked mak to touch up my nape since she neglected it for an entire month (yeah she's responsible for my responsibilities). and she decided to leave two rogue-ass little pieces of grown out gross. very pretty girl. 

not mad decent

the other night, ace, mak, and i went to oakland for sick sad decent and inadvertently saw diplo. i guess he was the secret guest dj. ace fan girled tbh. i mean he really was handsome. 

trickles

drunk uploads from my phone

@_@

rejected sentiments, always

how many idiots does it take to change a light bulb?

ONE. ONE IDIOT. I'M THE BEST.

i've been doing this. very exciting video content.

wean

She doesn't listen to Interpol.

A story about a friend

luv u

And the sight of you

undressed

has made a wreck of me

yeah?

this is what I look like lately, I guess

I realize I only take selfies when I've had a drink

Mmmmmmm shit

That was fucking weird

My bad

a holy hand gesture

it was a sunday afternoon. i was home alone, sat on the dinner table, glasses sliding off my face as i hunched over this laptop. 

i was home alone so i decided to watch ...nope, wrong guess. i was not watching porn. it was not porn, but i suppose some prick could argue otherwise. anyway, so i was here, slightly blushing at the viewing pleasure of such a goddamn sexy scene. it felt silly because i came to realize that i had never watched any sexy scene on any dinner table. dinner tables aren't for watching sexy scenes. family dinner tables are not for watching sexy scenes. but frankly, that fact didn't stop me from continuing to watch these goddamn sexy scenes. i kept looking around just to make sure that no one's home because, my god, dinner tables are not for watching sexy scenes. i had been home alone for a few hours. i had been absolutely home alone, but paranoia strikes anyway when the sudden realization of a boner comes stiffening up at me. (un?)fortunately, my nutty boner limped when i turned to my right and saw the statue of baby jesus giving me a vague half peace sign, half middle finger. i closed all the sexy tabs from the show that i couldn't even the recall the title of. minutes later, my parents walk in from the front door, greeting me. 

word count on the use of the word sexy: seven 

rip bay st

I will never be over it.

I'd been escaping coming home, but every time I try and stay out for as long as I can, I run out of places to be.

Tonight, I chose Bean Scene, previously Bay St (RIP, OH GOD). Upon ordering a mediocre ass tuna melt, a mediocre ass salad, and an average ass earl grey, I was informed that the establishment closes at eight pm. Mind that I arrived fifteens minutes before said time. I do recall my mouth actually flying open in reaction to such an absurd closing hour. So, I took my order to-go and again realized that I have no where else to be. Listen--let me divulge my current whereabouts. I'm sitting outside of Bean Scene with my mediocre ass meal, eating on the patio furniture, in the dark. It's relatively uncommon to find people dining alone in public, especially someone of my age and appearance (shout out to that xx chromosome). Already I'm receiving these half-pitying, half-suspicious glances from a number of passersby. Typically, being glanced at with such vague judgment by all these strangers would bother me to the point of muttering my profanities (but not quite enough to be uncomfortable). But I'm sitting here--slouching really--shoveling plants in my mouth and chomping on a sandwich like the smug scoundrel that I am. I'm eating a salad for fuck's sake and I can barely see a thing. This is a good fucking night. But the thing is, I never understand the kind of unease that comes with seeing some stranger eating alone in public. This is, by far, one of my favorite pastimes. I happen to like sitting in solitude without really having to be bothered with conversation. Maybe I'm growing more attracted to the sort of presumptions that come with seeing someone eat alone. I like seeing that look on their faces. Like they can't grasp what the fuck it is I'm doing here, sitting quietly, pouncing on my meal. I really do get smug about it. As if no one else around has a company better than my own company (shout out to Me, Myself, and I by Beyonce).

I miss Bay St. but I'm glad I'm sitting here, squinting down at my salad and sandwich.

PS. I heard through the grapevine that a Starbucks is opening next door. Thoughts? Jesus fucking Christ.

scaramouch

i keep using the word "strive" like i actually ever strive for anything. i don't strive. i don't actually ever strive. if i did, maybe i wouldn't be so often in this loop of a lull. i'm not depressed, i'm quite literally a depressive. you couldn't imagine the sort of brick wall that came flying at my face the moment i realized that. you couldn't imagine much of anybody's life because it's not yours. as far as you are concerned, your own thoughts and observations are fiction. you can't ever actually know somebody's else's life. everything is fiction, and i don't believe a god damn thing. 

if aliens were so highly intelligent and biologically advanced, would they really need light to land their goddamn space ship? wouldn't the moon be enough light source for them to land a goddamn space ship on goddamn planet earth? i think so, i really think so. i think that we expect to see lights when they visit us because we would have lights if we were to visit another planet. but they're not humans. humans are idiots. and idiot is a term coined with a certain sentiment, a certain emotion that only a human could coin. it's so pathetic. we are so very pathetic.

pratfall

Without acknowledgement or certain realization, I had always strived for this existence to be as elusive as it possibly can. I never strived for a sort of greatness. Or success. Or happiness. Or love, or what have you. My idiot self decided to instead shamelessly veer through life. This idiocy I'm so fond of, so proud of. It won't take me anywhere. Even now, I have my own head tilting to the thought of it. I lie still, wrapped in a wet towel, trying to remember how not to elude myself.

calvous

chewing red meat like a junkyard dog, glancing up to catch foreheads floating up the clouds

a smug squirrel had me terrified, I ran passed the sliding doors, clammy

I rubbed it off on my pants

I balled it up and opened to rub off on my pants

are I?

It's dismissable to be cold. It's unacceptable, however, to be cruel.

In light of the grimness that is seemingly my disposition, I'm optimistic to believe that I strive to do no harm. It's the simplest concept I live by. Although, I do believe in justifiable vengeance (i.e. don't cross my fucking path chris wies).

In terse summation, don't fuck anybody up. Fuck yourself up all you want, but leave the rest of them out of it. Because some shit stay with people. Cruelty isn't fucking cool man.

uncool shit

when I turn around to see that the person I'm watching a movie with has fallen asleep. I always end up feeling betrayed bruh.

Jaws is the only person I can watch anything with.

a manic depressive named laughing boy

and you let your bridges burn
with your secretive timing
she was a manic depressive named laughing boy

i take comfort in pretending to be asleep. i get tired of being tired, but i always end up retiring to lie still. my head throbs like a reminder. my head throbs a very unforgetting fuck. i have too many tendencies and i don't ever feel like screaming. groan from one morning to the next. groaning grows quickly but exhausts quicker. it's laughable because this is what alright looks like. this is what fine feels like. this is for treading, because the passed months have been worse. the passed months were vicious. so if this calm is what alright looks like, if this calm is what fine feels like, i can't begin to think about whether this is worse than what i've felt was worse. 

they all died cheerily

nun of my business

cute fam

hey.
it's me again.

i've been in la for the most part of my last few weeks. what's up with that? summer's coming to its end and i'm home again. this is probably the part where i share some stuff from my small ass dome (small dome, smart girl, don't. get it. twisted). 

ace's place is nowhere near furnished. for four nights, we slept on the floor. my back aches the way old age manifests itself into agony. (it's bearable [if you're a grizzly bear]). but her place is still cozy and didn't at all smell like ass hole, which i am entirely grateful for because that was my main concern. one of her friends fucked with my tape recorder though...that got me itchin' for a quick minute. i itched enough to mention it again now. nbd though, i swear. 

fyf was excellent. (as excellent as a festival could get since festivals blow for the most part). interpol, bruh. just. bruh. phoenix was also a cool time. we lost our granolas during earl. because bruh. bruh. and the strokes were average to subpar. average because the strokes aren't all that terrific live. subpar because they headlined the last day. but still, drool and i two-stepped for the entire thing because how else do you deal with below-average live performers with a fat fan base? (we were drunk boys at the festival). bummed that i didn't get to see slowdive. kinda bummed that we missed joyce manor because of the festivals inadequate accommodation. cool about little dragon, which i was surprised by. 

the weekend was mostly excellent because of our cute fam time. very cute fam during cute things like going to museums and having fat family lunches and taking cute pictures. what's with all the cute? we're gay as fuck for all this fam shit, but i mean, go fuck yourself, you know? we keep it in the family. undercover softs, passive-aggressive banter, sarcastic exclusivity, arrogant bastards, shit talk out the shit holes, mean appetites, etc. 

it's cool to have people that you can stand. 

oakland, oakland, oakland

Yeah, I fucking love Oakland.

period blood brothers

tatsu

My mom's babies.

My mouth was sunburned (still is).

Magic Mountain, there's a drought.

cute girl

I like back rubs. Reminds me of being little when my granma or my mom would be busy talking to someone on the phone (or in person) and I'd just be waiting around, listening. And when I get fussy and impatient, I crawl to them and they rub my back, or pat me, or draw circles to calm me down. And almost always, it drifts me to sleep. Like I have a puppy complex (I have a fuck ton of complexes). Anyway, Mak spent an hour on the phone last night and I got a little fussy, so I curled up to her and she did exactly what my granma/mom used to do. Yeah, I fell asleep. Yeah, I drooled on her leg. And yeah, I felt like Yung Baby Ange for the first time since I was yung baby ange. It was so reminiscent, in the most comforting sense, that I wished I was yung baby ange for a quick minute.

Oh well. Cute girl with the glasses aka my granma.

boudin

sux.

it suck.

While everyone was stimulated by casual conversation, I had to shield myself from the intrusive sun. I was the only one in the entire establishment who was getting hit directly in the eyes by the goddamn sun. So of course they took pictures of me, sulking. Artistically of course, because look at me. I'm a masterpiece.

And also, I remember liking the food. But that shit just suck this time around.

le clair stitch projet

I documented this trip on my tape recorder.

All I've ever wanted to be is a cute boy. But if I was a dude with a tiny dick, I'd rather walk through life as a gay ass girl. I can't emphasize that enough.

We saw some turkeys there, so inevitably, I spiraled down an abysmal panic. But I didn't eat shit, not even once. What an accomplishment.

i stay posted with bob ross

i'm tired and

this is it.

this is what i want to occupy my time with.

cheers to that time i tried to fight matt

remember when i drank an entire bottle of bourbon and tried to kill scorca? remember how he physically had to disarm me because i had a fucking knife? 

what a time to be alive (or dead really) (i prefer my friends dead)

tomorrow i'll be driving to la. nobody likes to pack. 

i'd like to confess that i'd been listening to michael cera's album true that. i mean, i'm fuckin into it. 

ps. my secret life is steadily thriving. 

pps. very excited for summer to pass, yes 

"I hate birthdays. Not just mine. Everyone's."

Lifewise.

I confess that every year, I still get surprised that we're still steadily getting on strong. It's not my lack of faith in our friendship. It's just miraculous nowadays to have someone no matter what bull shit comes around.

I take my loyalties very gravely. It's remarkable to know you take us as gravely as I do. Even better that I feel like an exception, considering you easily let everybody go. (Thank you for making my head swell and soften, demon).

We still barely take photos together. But it's kind of nice that way. Having to hunt us down like this.

PS. We constantly look dumb as fuck in photos together. Either one of us looks like an idiot, or both of us. Most of the time me, but I'm not trippin. Is this why we don't take pictures? 

hachi

This weekend was my frowning housewife's birthday.

What a babe.

god fucking damnit

i looked back on entries from three to four years ago and realized what a fool i'd been. why would i upload my pictures on tinypic? now it's all gone. very foolish girl. 

soup

this might be one of the most terribly awkward portions of my life. i can't even really comprehend what i'm laying on. an egg maybe? i just know i spend a lot of time waiting. i think that's what makes this portion so awkward. waiting is always awkward. i hate that word, awkward. even the spelling is odd. the K is sandwiched by two W's which are also sandwiched by two A's. Then given by a rushed R and D finale. pronounced aloud and my brain immediately uses the inflection of a stunted, idiot teenager. So considering all that, i'll instead describe this portion of my life as one of the most terribly stiff. 

fuck that, i digress. 

who makes you laugh the most? and not out of humor or any sort of sheer comedic brilliance. who makes you laugh the most out of plain personal joy and amusement? is it your lover? your favorite person? isn't it usually? i can't tell who makes me laugh the most. (apart from myself considering it's a concrete fact that i have never once fake-laughed myself). i keep thinking about this lately. maybe i'm afraid to acknowledge the answer. 

fuck that. i digress again. 

i'm completely out of sync with everyone right now. i spend so much time with myself that i can't seem to flow normally with anyone i spend time with. it's like that moment of suddenly being too aware of your hands and then struggling to decide what to do with them or where to put them. my relationships with people feel like that right now. it's stiff. 

fuck it. 

i'm going to wash my hands of these irritatingly mundane thoughts. 

pride daily parade

i don't ask questions

and i try carefully

not to raise my eyebrows


chipped shoulders

and an entire freezing torso


steady legs

buckled by bad knees

and weak ankles


feigned tight-lipped

like open-eyed dead girls

and it's fact

that dead girls can't inquire at all

six slashes and it's wrong

Yesterday I thought about those dead sunflowers that I never got to see. I think I would've liked them more. But it was so exact, everything that happened. To me, I was robbed of a moment I would've glorified in the gruesome way I'd always insisted. But otherwise, dead flowers simply weren't good enough to be seen by me. It was excusable to me as sweet, but I was disappointed either way. I was always so disappointed.

There are so many fucking things I refuse to talk about. It's terribly overwhelming in the long run.

tequila bar

We liked it because they didn't card my prepubescent sister. She was a crotchety elder before she had her first drink. I liked it because the ceviche was excellent and because I knocked over that goddamn outdoor heater behind me. I forgot that shots are expensive when you pay for them yourself. Few weeks of straight sobriety and I dove head first into a goddamn tequila bar. It was a good night, but I'm already tired.

The only hours I ever walk are six, seven, or eight. AM or PM, I don't care. I'm just trying to avoid the sun. I don't mean to under appreciate it, I just get so grouchy under that fucking heat. Also, my wardrobe no longer provides for summerwear. Everything I wear is too goddamn warm. I can't stand sweating when I don't insist it.

It's already August and I'm still steadily estivating. If I have tomatoes for lunch again today, I won't complain.

Yesterday as we sat outside waiting for our table, I watched some tall blonde standing by the street. She eventually walked away with her average-looking, wealthy boyfriend (or dad, maybe suitor?), but my mind was stunned by the envy of her length. Never before had I been brought sadness by my very typical height. In heels, she peeked at six feet, nearly towering her pal. And I stared on at her legs and her arms with a sickly burning in my chest and in my fists, cursing very quietly in my head. Is this how it feels to wish your dick was bigger? As much as I'd always wished to be a guy, I couldn't risk being the one with a small dick. My pride couldn't handle it. And if I did luck out and was endowed largely, my pride still wouldn't be able to handle it. In summation, I'd be a shitty fucking person if I was a dude.

There's a cool, constant breeze on my naked nape. I pet myself incessantly. I enjoy it.

Low tables are a joy. 

fortress

Schizophrenic tendencies have had a hold of me since the weeks worth of ostracizing myself from social situations. Blame my swollen face, my aching mouth and head, but mostly the wilting of my well-being. It's like I've signed myself in for rehab. Surely, I'm feeling better. Sobriety takes me back to some childlike state. Look at my fucking fortress for fuck's sake. I consecutively ate six goddamn popsicles. 

I miss No. 27 the most though. Maybe when I decide to be social again. 

An Aroused

It was faint but I heard his slow, wet footsteps in the bathroom. I imagined it immediately, his smileless, laughing shrug as he turned off the faucet. He appeared at the door while my gaze followed his wet prints on the wooden floors. 

"You left the faucet running," he said in curt amusement. 

"Did I?" 

"There's a drought you know," he  leaned against a wall, examining the changes of the room. 

"Is there? I've only heard of rumors."

I slouched into my chair, staring at his shoes. The numbness of sitting for hours discouraged any movement but the swiveling of my neck and the darting of my eyes. I waited for his shoes to squeak when he strode across the room and sprawled on my bed. Nothing but three taps. He laid with his left arm under his head and looked out the door at the trail of water he created. Irritated, I found myself cursing quietly. If he was going to lie down, he could have at least looked up at the ceiling instead.

"I heard they fired you," he said finally. 

"I thought I quit."

"They would accept any resignation but yours." He stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit it. 

"I didn't realize they found me so valuable."

"They loathe you."

I turned myself around to face him, simmering a scorn that I had always been too quickly accustomed to wear. "Do you have to smoke in here?"

He looked at the expression on my face, froze for a moment, then laughed a full and joyous laugh. My scorn returned. His hands held down his stomach as his high time grew thunderous. 

"Put the thing out, will you?"

He wiped tears from his eyes. "Since when did you quit?"

"I don't smoke."

"There are cigarette butts all over the floor. In fact, I bet I'll find a pack under this pillow." Just as he waged, he slipped his hand underneath himself and pulled out a box. He bent over the edge of the bed now, joyous again. 

I was stricken stiff with contempt. 

"Those aren't mine."

"The pack is fucking empty," his laugh began to slow and he tossed the box on the floor next to the butts. 

"Is it?"

He sat upright on the edge, straightening himself and relighting his smoke. 

"I can't believe they would fire you. God damn." He tossed his pack and lighter to me, both landing by the legs of my chair with a flap and a small thud. His eyebrows quirked. "Shy today, are we?"

I turned back around on my chair and reclaimed my slouch. He smoked on and we settled for silence. I couldn't help but stare again at the trail of wet that he scattered all over the hallway and the room. 

"Do you mind cleaning the mess that your shoes made in here? Everywhere is soaked."

He stood up and walked towards the door then turned to face me. "You flooded the bathroom," he smiled, dropping his cigarette on a puddle underneath his shoes. The sizzle of it eased me into my chair so I looked up at him.

"Did I?"

Immediately, his mouth opened and his voice ascended to a sound cavernously melodious. "Strangers in the night... exchanging glances..." He turned around and walked away. "...wond'ring in the night... what were the chances..."

He sang until he was out the door, his voice carrying deep and deadening from outside through my windows. The silence of him cut by an engine, then silence again. 

Faithful to my slouch, I should've returned. Instead, I bent down by my feet and picked up the box and the light. I stuck one between my teeth then lit. Momentously, I dragged and walked through the wet, passed the hallway, and into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and shrugged. 

As I slowly walked out of the bathroom, striding across the bedroom, and sprawling on the bed, I smoked and stared at the new trails I created, lazily humming the tune. 

felt pens

charmed

I sat like this for hours, anticipating for the anesthesia to wear off. Like some hazy daydream, my mind wound at the thought of storing all my bloody gauze inside my bulge pocket. It's been a fucking weekend without pain killers.

i sketched california and now i'm sitting here bleeding

i feel like learning something.

i sketched california and now i'm sitting here bleeding

i feel like learning something.

my trouble

my trouble with people is that there are certain instances when i cannot tell  apart someone from someone else. i confuse the purpose and cause of occurred/occurring relations. (i can't even continue this thought because i can't grasp what point i'm trying to get across. i just know there's something i want to get across). my trouble is that beyond the levels of connection, everybody begins to mesh with each other. that's my trouble. there's a hierarchy of importance/significance, isn't there? whether unsaid or declared. my priorities regarding everyone had been before solid and certain. but as years pass and drifting comes more naturally, everyone becomes everyone. yet i'm still uncomfortable with the idea that everyone is everyone. you should always be able to set apart where your heart lies from where it doesn't. but lately, time has been silly and i'm beginning to claw at how dispensable anybody is. i'm as dispensable as the next. passed significance and inevitable heart breaks, passed disappointments and so-called broken promises, there'll come a point when anything and anybody is no longer necessary. to quote somebody i share the same genetics with (my sister, if you just can't figure), "When you're having a good day, just remember, there's only one to a coffin." That's not cynicism. I won't classify that into cynicism. It's an imminence that shouldn't necessarily string along contempt. in attempt to word this more simply, anybody can and may or may not be anybody. 

(this is poorly thought out and i don't think i was able to express what i wanted to. but it's in there, in the ether of my dome, my thoughts and suspicions about life and people. i just can't quite get it out yet. i gabbed on because i wanted to get the idea out. i'm undergoing my personal transitions regarding all my relationships because i let everybody drive me fucking mad. i'll finish what my trouble is another time, perhaps once i've reached a sort of revelation with myself [pff].)

startled at the sound of my own amusement

There's something terribly therapeutic about scrubbing my entire bathroom clean and then showering in it right after. It's therapeutic in a humble sense, less self-serving or if at all indulgent. I come out of the shower feeling like it's cleaner than I am. (That might be a result of my own pride towards an excellence in scrubbing and bleaching it). A shower glimmering at me while I'm naked and glistening, it almost makes me self-conscious. Like it's met it's maker, when all along, the maker was under the water, scrubbing herself of the filth she absorbed from said shower. A swelling head my shower has. The taunting is stunting my shit at this very moment. I can't sit on the goddamn toilet without feeling guilty for what I'm dropping in it. The gall of this damn room.

Still I can't tell if I'd rather stride in here chin up, with the fresh smell of piss harassing my senses while prudently sitting on the toilet, hoping the film of scum won't volunteer me as a host for new bacteria. Or if I'd rather feel inferior to the cleanliness that is my shimmering bathroom.

PS. That bowel movement was spectacular despite the internal war I stewed in whilst duration.

axel rex

"...and his itch to make fools of his fellow men amounted almost to genius. Perhaps the only real thing about him was his innate conviction that everything that had ever been created in the domain of art, science or sentiment, was only a more or less clever trick. No matter how important the subject under discussion, he could always find something witty or trite to say about it, supplying exactly what his listener's mind or mood demanded, though, at the same time, he could be impossibly rude and overbearing when his interlocutor annoyed him. Even when he was talking quite seriously about a book or a picture, Rex had a pleasant feeling that he was a partner in a conspiracy, the partner of some ingenious quack--namely, the author of the book or the painter of the picture."

Currently my favorite fictional character.

Laughter in the Dark, Nabokov.

a piece of paper in my bedroom reads "try not to crave listening to your own voice"

my mouth smells like sour mangoes. the best kind.  there are scabs on my knuckles that seem to get pinker and deeper and more eager to sting than when i first awoke with them, wet and forgettable. i'm missing my knife. i keep cinnamon in my mouth for the burn and aching of my jaws. crooked glasses on my face, readjusting and fiddling and twitching. i realized today i read poetry aloud terribly. i enunciate without cadence and stutter into an abrupt strain from one word to the next. anxious for a period, or a comma, or any punctuation to alleviate lines of dribbling. line break, pause, sputter nervously, and never catch a breath. i'm working on it. not that i anticipate anytime soon to read poetry in front of anybody. it just bothers me about myself.