they're back

Also they never left. My eye is still fucked up. All I did all day was watch Wes Anderson films and nap. I accomplished everything on my to do list for the day, except for taking advil. I didn't want to be vertical long enough to get them. After taking a shit, I ate dinner and looked down the entire time because I kept tearing up. Everyone was already finished eating and my mother already began washing the dishes. I was poking at my plate, covering my face with my hair, and all I could feel was the sturdy weight of my chest caving in on me. Typically, I couldn't breathe and my vision began to blur. This has been me all week. There isn't a single place I go that doesn't make me want to melt or implode. I'm in a bad way again and it's never been this quiet before.

a slow animal

my right eye is experiencing a pinching pain. my thick skull is throbbing. i was blind last night and i began drunk texting. i'm always worried i'd slip and text the wrong person. at least i delete most contacts. get me some water, please. 

to do list: (today edition)

maybe puke some more

find water

take a shit

lay in bed

l a y in b e d 

maybe get an advil or four

i can't move too fast. there are crumbs all over my bed. maybe it's just sand from the beach last weekend. (you never want to get caught writing about sand). i can't remember how i got home, but i do recall fighting with the storm. what a mess (swerve). it might've been five. or six. considering i sicked on the toilet twice this morning and didn't feel fine until two pm. 

i ran around the storm, soaked and i just wanted to be blown away. (you never want to get caught writing about storms). "i can't remember" and "stop talking" are my favorite phrases. i'll be under this, confusing all my dreams and non-dreams into a big hell that i'd always known them to be. hermit permit, i'm not pissed, i'm sad, and sometimes even i can't tell the difference. 

Things I will never insist again

Remember it

OCD

The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how unbearable my OCD is. In fact, I hadn't realized I had OCD until I started spending so much time alone. But OCD is just a fancy acronym for something to be annoyed about. So far, I own piles of journals and notebooks because I have a problem collecting them. You won't believe how many pens I feel the need to constantly carry in my bag just to feel alright. I assign every pen or pencil to a specific journal or sketch book. Things have to be used accordingly or I feel the need to break shit. My room is the epitome of my OCD. All the crap I collect are classified in piles or clusters, but they're all together. Like I've translated that they have separation anxiety from each other. I have two fat piles of beanies that I've set atop two empty alcohol bottles. My shoes are thrown together by my door. My books are huddles together. My scarves are folded neatly together. My sunglasses are lain in a line on top of my book shelf, next to my grouped perfumes and candles. All the quarters I've collected are on top of my amp next to my phones cases. My home pens are neatly standing inside a pail that a friend purchased for me. My pillows are arranged in a way to accommodate my sleeping positions, every night.  My mail are filed inside the very bottom drawer of my desk. My charcoal sketch pad is piled with my charcoal utensils. My party shirts are on the top left-hand side of my closet. My sweaters are on the corner beside them. My long sleeves are to the right next to the party shirts. Next to the long sleeves are my tank tops. Next to my tank tops are my favorites. Next to my favorites are two piles of flannels that I've piled according to the frequency of wear. My ipod is organized by artist and album or ep. If an artist doesn't have their shit together on my ipod, I lose it a little. Even the apps on my phone are arranged to my preference. And I refuse to alter them. 

ALRIGHT, maybe it isn't so bad. But realizing how anal I am about my shit makes me feel a little insane. I've been losing it lately...

this song still hurts my fucking feelings damn

body roll

The most irritating yet equally entertaining thing about life sometimes is excelling at predicting the way people respond or react or just are. With every little thing I throw out or fling out to the world, I simultaneously consider the reactions of everyone around me. This has taught me to know my audience. To know my surrounding. To know the feel of a vicinity. It's both boring and surprising. Boring because I called what the results would be. Surprising because I am still, more than half of the time, correct about someone/everyone/something/everything. I have inklings. I have hunches. Gut punches. It's witchcraft. It's Kraft Easy Mac. "Trust me," I'd say.

I fucking see all of you.

eating sausages

I'm in this strange point of my life where I realize I'm not Gatsby. I'm not Daisy. I'm not even fucking Jordan fucking Baker. I'm Nick Carraway, and I wish I wasn't but I absolutely am. It's really depressing. I could be the voice of something fantastic. But I'm not myself at all fantastic. I can't tell you how sad I am about this.

unemployment page

California's population is approximately thirty-eight million. That's hella heads for one state. One fat state. One fat state that should never be divided. (I read some article today that fired up my damn appreciation for CA). California's population is approcimately thirty-eight million, making us the first most populous state in the whole of the nation. Texas comes second. Then New York for a stubborn third. I can't imagine growing to die anywhere but California. In the bay area. Spread my fuckin' ashes here. Damn, I digress. 

I've had a lot of time for myself. A lot of time that I spend alone in my room, frontin' a lot of things. The microphone in my room really changed my late night activities. Not only do I get wasted in my room whilsssssttttt talking to myself, but now I have a microphone to amplify my loud thoughts. I have an audience, believe it or not. I have a voice, believe it or not. This is the only place I feel like being in, believe it or not. Still torn up about not knowing how to be a person and how I'm really quite terrible at life. Astoundingly terrible, if you ask me. Class A horrific. I always feel a nervous breakdown coming on, but it never comes because I'm too busy being the host of my goddamn talk show while trying to remember all the names of my entire audience. If I don't have a monumental breakdown anytime soon, I got ten on it that you'll find me dead or vanished. 

(It saddens me thinking about how money saddens me). 

shout out to all my lovers

and also myself with spikey fucking mullet.

I used to be so goddamn sentimental.

dem foos

american psycho face mask

I'm waiting to peel it off. 

It's 3:27am and I am now contemplating how often I mention the time no matter how useless it is to mention. On Sunday, I placed a pan of crinkled fries in the oven. After I turned it off to let the tots cool, I got out of bed (I spent all day in bed that day) and dressed myself because my buddy showed up. It's Wednesday now and I am remembering that there are fries in the oven. Should I eat them? Should I heat them then eat them? Should I even heat them? Should I? Will I? After I peel off this mask? I'm torn. There's a frozen bag in the freezer that I could make fresh. But it's three in the morning after all, and I'm still waiting on this damn mask to dry. I'll keep you updated (probably) because I know how riveting it is to read about the shit I do (maybe). 

PS. I hate rum I think (maybe) (parenthetical lifestyle in full swing, by the way) (goodnight) (shit, I'm sorry [probably]) 

What a mess

All of a sudden,  I couldn't relax. I had these snake shakes crawling under me, slithering and vibrating through my fingers and out my face. They were slimy and anxious, and the whole time I needed to piss.  Fucking buck up, I thought. In intervals, I reminded myself to calm down every storm of blind hate. Pursed my lips from cursing. New hell, new hell, I hummed. It's just a new job. It's just a new place. I'm not a little bitch, I just needed to say something.

(winks then naps)

very fun gal

TBH

I don't believe I'd ever met anyone brilliant. Whom I thought was brilliant. Ever. It might be best that way.

woke up face down ass up

I hate leaving my candles lit when I pass out.

I've been fly as hell lately with my dad's baroque as fuck shirt and my fly as fuck hat. It's like a uniform for being home.  (My god I have a headache).

only leather......can make me feel this way

romantic as hell ma

Royals OG left for their road trip to Napa. I dragged my amp to the living room and slapped shit with my annoying ass energy. (I even slapped Lost in the Woods just to test the capacity of the bass). We kissed them goodbye and told them to drive safe.

I was slappin again in my room while pairing up a mountain of socks when I received a romantic as hell text from my mother. That's stinking cute.

have a swell day as swollen as my nips

*-*

sulfuric methane

This morning I thought how The New reminds me of Moonlight Sonata. It reminded me to poach an egg, make a cream sauce, and boil pasta al dente (unlike my usual carby mush). Coffee Black--Tori Black's annoying and high-strung cousin. Everything I make gives me a stomach ache. In the middle of a home-cooked meal, I deliberate as to how sick and queasy my food is making me. Rate me an average of 7/10 on the grotesque scale. As I was choking back vomit, I read through Nietzsche's goddamn arrogant and pompous WHY I AM SO WISE. Thought about how I could never feel that way towards my work (mostly because I don't have any work to feel that way towards). ZARATHUSTRA, stay away from him. 

Today is my last day being a nanny for the Law boys. Fuckin' Clair De Lune kind of sleep, kind of clarity, kind of morning. Kind of incessant in the morning, that third movement of Suite bergamasque. The fuck? I just feel so annoying today. Haven't heard myself talk in days. I might be getting the flu. Maybe I'll be dreadfully ill on my first day Monday. But already I'm daydreaming about how I'll get fired for misbehaving worse than what I heard the runts behave there. I will miss Matthew Law so damn much. 

DAILY TIP (no pun intended because I am celibate): BE A CRIMINAL. 

it's my birthday tomorrow

you're past, past prime

my grandmother thinks i'm gay

my grandmother is suspicious of me. it's not really a secret. i just don't want to talk about it. what's there to talk about anyway? my grandmother thinks we're all gay, probably. (gay).

auntie virus

Immediately upon arriving home, I locked my bedroom door and spread on my floor. I sketched a sum on a blanket that smells like cockroaches. For five darling hours now, I'd been holing away, downloading a sad pile of sad songs, and glacially eating cold ramen. I'm wearing a hoodie for fuck's sake. It's high school all over again. My record player is struggling to blare music preeminently. I want it superlative. I want it paramount. That's how young I feel right now. The only difference between me then and me right now is the fact that every few minutes, I now massage my back in attempt to obliterate these malicious knots. My apprehensions lie on the fact that my computer might get a virus and how the ramen will keep me bloated all night. 

I will date myself whether I like it or not. I will pursue me. I will court me. I will swoon over me. 

(Maybe)

(I'm hopeful)

(I'm a lot more fun when I have only myself to impress)

(parenthetical bull shit is my shit)

wordpress, i barely know her

I spent a good amount of time on blogger, just clicking the 'Next Blog' link on the top of the page. But every damn blog took me to a runner's blog; guide to a runner's life. Or some family's blog. Or media reviews on the worst shows on tv. So finally I took into wordpress to find something...more. I just wanted to read people's thoughts. Personal thoughts. I found this guy. I'd only read that one entry of his, but even that was enough for me. Now I'm late for work, as I always am. But ye. Alright. 

Click this link to see whose blog entry I thoroughly enjoyed

ctchr in th ry

I'm listening to the National Public Radio on Remembering JD Salinger. 

As obvious as Hemingway, Salinger, to me, is on the other side of the spectrum. Same damn spectrum. Same damn spectrum that I now deem guilty pleasures. 

A sixteen year old just read the last few lines of Catcher in the Rye, and I found myself annoyed by his affectation. If Holden heard the way he'd read it out exaggeratedly, he would've called him a phony. 

But anyway, I finished Catcher in the Rye again last night. Since I'd read it the first time as a younger cub, I'd grown to really detest that specific book (which is why I was always so surprised when I found myself enjoying Salinger's other works of literature). But I gave it another shot, and I'm biting my tongue. Endlessly, I vilified how unlikable and downright annoying Holden Caulfield's character was. I hated the way he talked. The way he shat on everything. The way he moaned and denounced everything he encountered. All his observations (I felt) were a denigration to appease his bitterness. I hated him. Mind that I was in high school when I first read this. I'm now twenty-two years old, and after last night, I regret to admit this, but I hold this book very close. Still a guilty pleasure but finally, the book spoke to me. I even found myself near tears. As far as I'm concerned, we read books and watch movies and listen to music in hopes to find ourselves in it. To connect with the ideas and characters and experiences and the poetry. But we are also too hopeful to want to see ourselves in all likable characters. In characters who possess exceptional traits or experience exceptional things. But Caulfield is the exact opposite. He's everything we don't admire in ourselves. When I began to read it again the second time, I felt the same irritation I felt when I first read it. And I realized that it's really just a reminiscence of how I felt before. But when I started to pay attention and read unbiased and open-mindedly, that's when I wove a connection. That's when I related. The things he said about people and felt about people were all things that I know I've claimed before. He was as sardonic as I am now. Refer to every single one of my little entries here and that'll give you enough evidence as to how I find Caulfield so fucking relatable. He was a lonely guy looking for someone to talk to, but everyone he encountered was too preoccupied with being tedious and self-involved. The self-involvement about people that he explicitly enunciated was an exact reflection on himself. His denouncement of them didn't take away from the fact that he was also self-involved. In the same way that I'm so arrogant and reserved and judgmental, I am also just as much of a narcissist as anybody else whom I've disparaged. Take the selfies and the tweets of the people I follow and how I so openly belittle them. After my slander, I go on here and type out my own issues. Everything about me, no matter how evident the self-loathing, is entirely self-absorbed. Narcissist at heart. Crying about not knowing how to be a person. I'm not a tree. I'm not a squirrel. I'm not a dog or a cat or spider. I'm a person, and I don't know how to be. That's my fucking problem. (And also bad bitches). 

Give it a read, if you haven't. Or don't. Just don't be a phony about it. 

my excellence:

being pathetic
complaining
bitching
whining
not talking
not making eye contact
talking mad shit about self
straight dissin' self
lost in the sauce with self
internal monologues
internal war
holding in piss

corner temper

For alone, I don't feel too cold. I'd been perspiring more, in fact. A year ago, my body craved the heat of the seasons. The warmth of almost nudity. The fucked up sweat in fucked up places and the fucked up breathing of the fucks around me. It's a new year now and I have promised nothing. I will further promise nothing, and I'll lay around with the blankets pulled off. This is me sulking for a year and some. This is me idle at the bottom. This is me bad. This is me at refusal. Me at contempt. I wake up bored and uncomfortable. Then proceed to my days bored and uncomfortable. Better days I think things will fall into place, but I'm the most terrific liar I know and denial is my sidekick. I surround myself to three of the same faces and I cycle through three of the same emotions.
I'm not happy and I haven't been in a while.
I'm really fucking pissed off and I will be for a while. I wish to be sad, but I have on my devilish ways now and I got ten on me that I'll destroy everything I have left. 

spectacular weight gain

it's not the binge eating

it's the binge drinking crampin' me up

what's good with all that 40 I had last summer?
or the reds I inhaled the past autumn?

thick keeping me warm
thick keeping me too warm

toasted

im a firm believer in lying, and im a firm believer in truth.
no matter how idiotic, i don't believe in excuses. either lie or tell the whole damn thing. i refuse space for anything other.

aka

determine how truthful or deceptive i am.

ps
you're exactly like me.
who ever the fuck you are.
i guarantee.

melted prongs rusty tug

yesterday I woke up sad and talkative. I talked till all my words dwindled. I talked till my throat gave in.

I went home with my head face down on my lap. My wrists were faulty and gelatinous.  Seven sorry hours, then crawl to claim space I simply forgot was mine. I sprawled shyly, stiffly. I had my dinner vertically and choked on my water vertically. My dim lighting all of a sudden felt too bright, so I darkened it entirely, locked the doors, and chose to sleep. When I rubbed my face down on my pillow, I didn't recognize the smell. I ran my hands by habit and didn't recognize the lumps under my pillow. Crumbs crawled all over me. My feet were clammy. With my stomach flat down, I recalled a terribly ill memory. 'This is my bed,' I thought. This is my bed, but my mind associated it rudely.

I slept early and semi-deeply. I didn't dream anything bothersome. But I woke up today morose and still rudely associated. I don't want to talk. I don't want to leave. I don't want to think about the next ten minutes or few hours or days or weeks and certainly not years. I don't want to think about dreary ole time. I was never meant to be bothered. My door's already locked, but you're still bothering me.

:(

never going to meet anyone as cool as this punk.

"When I'm a teenager and you're forty, I bet we'd still be friends."

melodramatic strikes again

I've decided to read the bible. If I pick it up and it burns my flesh, I suppose I wouldn't need to read it. Devilish, devilish.