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.