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. 

Jerk Tale

"What happened to your friend's hand? I tried to ask. He grimaced at me."

"Oh. He, my friend, had--or still has--a detrimental addiction to masturbation." I tried to suppress a smile. "At least, that's how the doctor had worded it. We found him in his bedroom, screaming his head off about how he can't feel his hand." 

"Jesus. I pardon the grimace," he shook his head facing the tiled floors. 

"It's really just a sprain. A very severe sprain, but still a sprain," I stared at my left hand, palm up and palm down. "Maybe it was dislocation. Couldn't tell ya." 

"You'd think twenty years of stroking, you'd get sick of yourself enough not to break anything." He just kept shaking his head, as if it easily could've been him. "At least it wasn't his dick." 

"The worst he's done to his dick was burn it with dry friction. Skin raw and all. Or neglect it for more than several hours. Until now, that is." 

We both shook our heads in silence for a while, facing down on the tiled floors. He was thinking about the cast around the injured arm. And then he was thinking about a cast around his own dick. I knew because I momentarily thought about the cast around my friend's arm. But immediately, I was distracted by the thought of compulsion and misfortune grabbing my dick and having to get a cast around it. You don't listen to a story about a dick without your dick digging into the agony of empathy. 

This is compassionate camaraderie in retrospect, ignited by the horror of wearing the other person's shoes. 

still a baby

still a baby baby

wriggling

having nightmares about a life that isn't mine.
having nightmares.

:/

been on this person's channel for a minute

hating, liking, and being indifferent. good range.

supine

It's like I've never seen my ceiling before. The thing is suddenly enormous and unfamiliar. In every bedroom I've had, I remember memorizing characteristic patterns and trying to find them again and again every time I looked up. This time it's different. I looked up tonight and was convinced I'd never looked up before. I spend so much time in here that noticing something this small makes my mind race. In the lull of everything, I realize I never just stare up to contemplate anything. I constantly bury my face into my pillows, like I'm constantly embarrassed. More likely than not, I probably am. The shame in my eyes is disturbingly prominent. Like I can see its reflection on other people's faces, which to me bounces back as pity. Or something sadder. A pathetic little expression masked by appropriated responses in context.

My mom asked me tonight, "Are you losing hope?" I swallowed and answered honestly. She was surprised because you're not supposed to lose hope at 22. You're not supposed to give up. I just looked down, strumming idly a guitar I never really bothered with. She sighed a lot and I didn't say much. I never say much. All I can manage was an exhausted phrase, as if a mantra, of "I don't know..."

My dad pretty much said I look like shit. Which is a bitter truth I needed to hear. He just said I look like I don't care. A truth that shows. He told me you're suppose to invest in yourself. That's the whole point. I have no investments, shouldn't that be terrifying? I wasn't terrified about it until it was said aloud. Not once did I look up at either of them. I just strummed broken notes, the shame clawing into me.

bloody knuckles

My favorite game as a kid.

"I hate seeing you like that."

"I don't like to see you like this."

"I don't want to see you doing that to yourself."

Bloody knuckles.

I don't want to know

My heart is beating so fast I can't think.

a dollar and something

this is where I exhaust my one-sided conversations. welcome my thoughts and unintended feelings. this is the first and last thing I speak to.

I think I love you, it's terrifying.

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind sucks get real

what else can i hate on?

nevermind, i'm spent tonight.

hello,

it's me again.

i'm building a relationship with a tape recorder i found at the thrift store. instead of checking my phone first thing in the morning, i now hit record and document my inane thoughts. that's right, inane. i get all hot and bothered when people tell me that's a typo. it's not, trust me. i filled up an entire cassette so far, and after a quick review of what i had recorded, i realized it began to conclude like a suicide tape would. yeah, those are my morning's first thoughts; how my existence is the bane of my existence. endless, endless existential crises. yeah, that's right, crises. i got em all. 

i try my very best not to make sweeping declarations because it always fucks me anyway. can't promise myself shit. can't promise anyone shit. no promises, that's my life's tag line. yeah right. my life's tag line would probably be more along the lines of "don't bother" or "are you fucking kidding me?" that sounds about right. 

fun fact: i'm listening to my own voice as i compose this now. i sound darling, just darling. gravelly, semi-dramatic voice with ill-prepared undertones of confessional and sarcastic sternness. i can feel my skin crawling and my ass twitching at the thought of my own thoughts. i hate my thoughts, i don't know why i feel the need to ever document them in all the ways that i do. suppose i find comfort in all the things i hate. like myself. no one comforts me like i comfort me. i'm that idiot whose so stubbornly inconsolable that no other existence could cheer me up but myself. it's unbearable really. if i ever meet someone who has the skill (or luck) to shake my wild mood swings, i'll...well i don't know what i'd do. i really don't. i'm just an altogether unbearable human being, with hopes of still being charming. (stupid, demanding girl). 

i'd never before patted myself on the back for not being a comforting person until now. listen, call me up at three in the morning because you need somebody to talk to. i'll drive to you if you need me to. i'm there for you, you fucking idiot. (thinking about opening up a hotline). now tell me all your gripes and sorrows and miseries and agonies. i'll listen till you realize you're not talking to yourself or till your mouth runs dry. that's the point. sometimes, a bitch just gotta run their mouth. it's like vomiting. i'm pro-puke. i most likely won't rub your back or put my hand on your shoulder. i'll find something to laugh of it. but i'll be listening. now if you catch me sweating wasted as fuck at three in the morning, i'm still there for you. it just means i'll be more verbal. i patted myself on the back tonight, because aye, you can talk to me. 1-800-EAT-SHIT 

i made a salmon burrito tonight. unbelievable. 

maksauce

I don't love you anymore.

How dare.

not happy not upset

it's not a lull either.

i was driving on the san mateo bridge, speedily. ash got in my eye and i had to drive with one eye (my bad eye). when i wake up, i'll make it a get well card. and also a thank you card. and also give it a good rub. who doesn't love a good rub? it's six am and the delirium is setting in again. 

everything feels unfamiliar and i just want to be quiet for a little while. everyone is swell so i wish you well. fortunately, the kitchen is finally stocked with all the right things, thank heaven. 

don't forget, it's chindependence day. when you wake up, make your chin a thank you card. and also give it a good rub. also place it lovingly on top of the head of somebody you adore. nuzzle a while, you sweet dumpling. 

airports always make me feel funny. a silly little romance i share with myself in my head. i drove in a circle three times before i realized i was driving in a circle at the departures terminals. 

this is not a lull. 

it's just early in the morning. 

i still really like foxing.

scratchy and dreamy

my punishment for trying to sleep before midnight last night was sleep paralysis. drenched and cramped, i rose in the dark, panting. a demon sat on me, twisted my arms, and pulled me till taut. the demon was mak. a smiling mak, grazing me like a piggyback ride. at one point, i had to convince myself that it was paralysis. that she wasn't really on me staring down. i didn't convince myself though. i surrendered to the demon and that's when she turned into the mother of my nightmares. short story short, don't try to fix anything including your sleeping schedule. 

i'd been out for some time. reuniting with my bed has been more comforting than it is deflating, which is what i had expected. twain harte darkened my entire person, but my legs are still color toned. i did spend a lot of time swimming, after telling my self prior to twain harte that i probably won't swim at all. 

the other day, we all spent too much money on tickets for the boardwalk. the heartless woman working the ticket booth had failed to inform us that rides were one ticket each. i was wondering why she kept laughing during our purchase, the cunt. 

i have no thoughts that i feel like sharing. or feelings that i'd think to share. 

it's been mellow. 

eat a duck.