Lover...

Maybe she's eclipsing everything else.


How is it that everything else feels ordinary?

Plain.

Forgettable.


I can't find a song more beautiful

a film more beautiful

a dream more beautiful.

Not a view more beautiful

or words more beautiful.


If I should be in fear

or in panic

should it set in soon?


If this will ever carve me out entirely


If this will ever...

On Wanting Something You Don't Have

Jealous.

After empathy came a wave of envy. A wave smattered with a faint recall of something festive. Something we all once knew before. Lime green. There goes the center seat in the back. No seat belt. I don't think about it often. But when I do, you should see me trying to blink back into clarity. 

After the wave of envy, I just wanted to scream it out. It seems so selfish. Surpassing selfishness even, and teetering a tip-toe to childishness. 

The apparition became a shadow. The apparition danced, but the shadow conversed into itself. For itself. A shattering transformation. Like a manifesting transcendance of something I'd always thought I'd have to use...but has never actually been mine. 

Denial trailed just footsteps behind me. 

Enter...

The Trial.

12 20 2012

"If Death--who was out there all the time, possibly sitting on the hood--if Death stepped miraculously through a glass and came in after you, in all probability you just got up and went along with him, ferociously but quietly."

sell out train

I haven't felt insightful in years. It's like every thought I have slips away so elusively that I can't recall moments at all. 

I'm sitting at my desk with a coffee much too cold to sip right but still much too warm to pretend iced. I'm difficult so I can't just say that the damn thing is lukewarm. See what I mean? The thought process that I am meant to have to even compose that sentence is so far away from me that I wouldn't know it was far from me. I wouldn't even know that the thought process existed because I don't stop to think about things like that anymore. Enter my bone to pick. Enter working for The Man. Enter the corporate sell outs. 

Here I am, coordinating conferences and events and the catering and the room configuration and making sure that the temperatures of every room will not be something anyone complains to me about. Because if I get another floaty attorney asking me to provide a goddamn blanket for their frigid office, I will fucking... eh. Maybe laugh pathetically to myself. It's the numbness of the corporate air. I always thought I'd hate it, but I am so indifferent and checked out. Enter the drone. 

"You'll get a story out of this one day. You'll write about your youth one day. You'll write about your friends one day. And your stupid shit one day. And you'll write about how it all brought you to Anna. One day." I am not at the point where I am telling myself to stop waiting for One day to come. I am at the point where I am waiting to tell myself to stop waiting for One day to come. 

...

25 arrived and I didn't sit on my bench all day, smoking cigarettes or reading books or scribbling on my little notebooks.

Last year was the first time I spent my birthday on my bench with company. And I remember noting how it was a beautiful day. How I loved my birthdays alone on my bench, but I loved it more with fluttery light eyes, squinting at me through long blondes. We hardly even sat on my bench. We sat on the grass across each other. I chased spiders while we played charades. I was falling so madly in love. There was a certainty and clarity there. I had never felt that way before. That I was simultaneously falling in love with someone and with life. Not just life, but living. Doing things. Being things. Wanting and dreaming and imagining something beyond my nows. I love my nows, but it was refreshing wanting more.

Enter delicious dreaminess. 

25 arrived and I didn't sit on my bench all day. Anna surprised me with a trip. She took me to Mammoth Lakes. Just like every trip we have ever taken, it rained that weekend. Stormed that weekend, in fact. She drove and we listened to an audiobook about some girl on some train. She took us to the mountains. Winding roads were steep and incredibly narrow as we trudged up and up. High beams on loud. No reception. She was getting sleepy, so I took the wheel. I refused to have her sleep on me so... enter the temptress. There isn't anything more distracting from sleep than the tug and pull. The temptress laid back on the headrest, tilted at me. Eyes dark. This look cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is. She began to talk, and whenever she talked like that, it sounded like purring to me. The siren; my only siren smiled. It was dark and snowing, we parked by a cliff overlooking something of a view. The temptress, the purring cat, my only siren... "Happy birthday," she whispered to me.  Kissing anywhere she hasn't. My throat felt raw, and my voice was hoarse as I smiled through a thank you.

Best birthday I have ever, ever had. 

...

Maybe I should be more concerned about being a sell out. My youth warned me not to sell out. But really, I'm just more concerned about how the lighting will be when she's walking down the aisle. Or what song will be playing. What her expression will be the moment she sees me standing there. What color our bedsheets will be. How often we'll eat Chinese during the weekday. What her nightmares will sound like. If we'll ever argue about the dogs. Or money. Or the dishes. How it'll feel walking into our home after being away on vacation. As long as I can give us a great life, I can't really be bothered with whatever used to bother me. 

lights out

The last time Ace was home, we went out to the drive-ins and I passed out after 3 shots of tequila. I pass out everywhere all the time now. 

9-5's are no joke. I haven't had a gratefulness for Friday since I was in high school. Thank fucking fuck it's Friday. 

Not in a thousand years would I have imagined myself working for a corporate law firm. Didn't I insist on bartending just 6 months ago? Marriott was a joke. I got so bored that I drank myself out of there. Now I can barely drink. 

It's 25 this year. 

It's 25 in less than a month. 

My days consist of sitting in traffic for a total of 3 hours a day. Then sitting in front of a computer and internalizing the dreadful stresses of reception for a total of 8 hours. Coming home to 7 wiggly pups and their piss and their shit and their stinkinly beautiful faces. Having dinner with Abb and having fights with Abb and spending money with Abb and making love to Abb. By 10pm, my eyes are fighting to stay open. By 10:30, lights are out. Repeat. 

I'd say that this is tedious and stiff. But I don't have so much of a complain. The structure feels nice for once. I'd always thought that I'd hate doing this. Working for the man. Doing 9-5, TGIF. But I have my weekends back. And I can afford giving myself, my girlfriend, and my dogs a life. And even if the drudgery of mundane weekdays kind of poke at me sometimes, life feels better now than it has in the last decade. Or even  the last 2 decades and then some. 

25 so soon. 

I heard that 25 is when you're supposed to be at your most beautiful. I don't know who said that shit, but I hear it all the time. I can't say whether I agree or not. Because I'm stuffed with 15 pounds of happyfat and my ass out here for the world to finally see. All I know is that I find myself saying that I have reached a point in my life where I am confident to a fault. In all honesty, in comparison to how I used to polish myself before, I kind of look like shit now. I care less and less about the little details of my appearance and more about my exact state of mind. My self-esteem has risen taller than I thought I could reach. And maybe that's what it means to be at your most beautiful. Because at this very moment, I feel untouchable. I'm my own goddamn hypeman and I'm my own goddamn heaven. 

Abb

and the pups

and the perks 

and the pisses of life have all found an equilibrium. 

I used to tell people to watch ya girl shine cause i'ma shine one day. 

Bruh. 

k i t the goat

little lights of my life

I've been busy

jfcjfk

I absolutely abhor being around some fuckfaces that I went to high school with or had known during that time of my life. I don't know what it is about them, but they make me wanna black out into a black hole and never return. I can't even stand being connected through social media. I almost can't believe I used to fuck with that many people. I don't know. They're not bad people. They just compel me to be as foolish as possible. Anything to stir them. Anything to stir their frigidity.

Shout out to myself for being the smug asshole that I'd come to embrace.

stringing or dreaming

i wept.

i clicked and laid still on my couch. i remember thinking that i'd stick to the cushions if i don't move any sooner. i didn't move any sooner. i thought about baseball gloves and sitting in the backseat. sitting right at the center. sitting bitch seat. bush seat. it was my seat. 

"and i never feel somewhere, don't you know?" 

i think i was in between realizing that i have a constant fight with this addiction to sadness versus reminiscing about something sad. i can't tell which found a grip onto me. 

goosebumps on fleshy, unshaven legs. maybe my arms too but i felt it more on my legs and the back of my neck. or moreso the back of my throat. like i was rolling. i figured, damn this is good. i figured less when it took me elsewhere, idly. 

it dropped. 

or moreso trickled.

i could get trapped here, i thought. 

goosebumpy flesh of unshaven legs sticking on the cushions due to failure of moving any sooner. it kept dropping. silently. caught like a lurch in my pipes. there might've been somebody else in the living room with me. or i might've been alone. but i was hiding it. like my thoughts sucking microphones, and i didn't want them to know it made me sad. 

if i get trapped here, i thought, i won't be able to look at her right. we had plans to sit under our tree and take naps, like we had been all summer. but there i was, goosefleshed and sinking into the sads. PHYSICALLY...i had to physically eject myself from the silence of listening to the end of it. PHYSICALLY remove myself from the memories that will remain mine with, however, a sadness that was not mine. i was just in between fighting my addiction to the sads. fuck, DO I love the sads. but i can't choose the sads over anna. i can choose anna and i'll choose anna every time. every single time, twice over. 

i clicked off and shifted around the couch pillows and cushion seat. i watched squirrel trap. i had a laugh. i thought about anna. i thought about how she'll be outside picking me up in half an hour. i thought about how i'll tell her about the sads. how i wept because of this part of the song. and another part of the song. and how the lyrics say "i never had enough...to keep you stringing along" but it sounds like he's saying "...dreaming along" instead. i pet my dogs. i checked the time. 

i moved soon enough. put on worn socks. put on pants. packed my backpack. she called and was outside. i sat beside her in her hot car. shotgun. shotty no swoops. NO SWOOPS infinity. it was my seat in Big Red. i kissed her. she drove. she parked. we laid out our blankets under our tree on top of our hill. we talked and kissed and wished we didn't forget the pillows. i told her about the weeping. about the sadness. about the lyrics. she looked at me with the exact look i knew she'd give me. she kissed me and we listened to the song again together. she picked out the words that she thought would have a grip onto me. she picked the right words. 

nothing dropped.

nothing trickled. 

i didn't get trapped anywhere. 

the goosebumps came back when the cold gusts of dusk rolled in. we had Big Red the Blanket. she told me all the things she loved about me. she said my heart was big. 

i chose anna. 

i'll choose anna every time. 

every single time,

twice over. 

halves

I didn't realize I'd been writing my wedding vow ever since.

On the dashboard

Bruised.

I can be a really shitty person sometimes. I don't mean to suck you dry.

I don't mean to suck you dry.

I'd be in a damn ditch if your hand didn't constantly fish for mine while they're balled in tight fists.

yung boy

jerome david

every time i come across the term "guilty pleasure," i end up thinking about reality television circa 2006 and jd salinger. 

i find myself craving to watch laguna beach or the hills, or anything of the like. i always search for it on netflix or hulu or even amazon prime. i don't know why, it's comforting to watch for me. 

whenever i need my words to manifest, i think about salinger. or re-read salinger. i take myself back to when i first read him. how i hated reading him. how irritated ctchr n th ry made me. but then i remember when i ran into him one day. blindsided and disconcerted. then i binged on him. i immersed myself in the entirety of his bibliography. 

i'm cleaning out my bedroom again. this always happens when i find myself unemployed after my 6 month itches. and the itch always comes, like fucking clockwork. the longest i stay employed for was working with matthew and justin. and that's only because i fell in love with the boys. they were my best friends. i don't know where i'll be next... but my closet is emptier than ever and my notebooks are stacked inside a box. i'm looking to a stack a new one. this past year, however, has been the most quiet my stack has ever been. closet emptier, contacts even shorter. 

standing desks are kind of great. maybe it's because my bloodflow is better and maybe my circulation has been shit when i'm immovable. but i'm standing now as i type, and i've never felt better. my teeth and tongue thick with coffee and sugar. i've skipped the past two meals. the wind is blowing down my blinds and my pups keep looking up at me asking for a treat. i have lightened my load. 

Maternity shorts

Her baby fever so bad she spent her day chillin in maternity shorts in Vegas.

Babbyabba vs Babyabba

This game is both strengthening and weakening our relationship.

"You thought you had a friend."

get bent

I have 4,097 published entries, and this is my 4,098th.

It's precisely 0159 but who gives a shit what time it is? By the time I typed the question mark, it was already 2 anyway. Fuck it, I'm just filling space because strangely enough, I feel quite nervous. I just feel strange. Nah, I just feel like a stranger. Like this blog doesn't have a voice because no one's ever talking anymore. I'd say I'm busy, but I'm not. Shit is just shit. and I've got other shit with nothing to say. Spending a near hour on Facebook probably didn't help my state of being here. That made me feel even stranger. Like it had pictures of this person, and these people, but I couldn't recognize them all too well. Facebook and Blogspot are my old media. My older platforms, which I do try to give my attention whenever I open the apps, but it's never quite as successful as when I'm on a laptop (which I'm on now, hence how I'd gotten myself to even begin an entry to publish at all). 

...So this is where I used to babble. This is where I used to vent and share all my romanticized mundane activities. Or my melodramatic, over-exaggerated mush of sentiments. I'm not hating on my former self or anything. But I just feel like I'm hanging out with old friends that I no longer have anything in common with. So I'm nostalgic but I'm also uncomfortable that I don't know what to fucking say to these people. Maybe I'm being too big to even use "former self" as a reference. And maybe I'm fucking corny for documenting how much I'm over-thinking writing a simple entry (that no one is forcing me to do, btw [I just constantly seem like in protest]).  

...So this is where I laid down my bullshit. (Lemme reminisce right quick). This is where I used to type paragraphs of how much I love my current boyfriends. Or how torn up I was about my unrequited loves. It's funny because I don't think I'd ever felt all the realest and rawest emotions that I used to write about then...until this very moment in my life. Until I found the right person for me. And now that I have this love, it doesn't seem worth it to even brag about. In retrospect, I guess it was always like I was trying to prove to the world that my love were real. Or trying to convince myself that my love were real. Even now, my thoughts are being consumed so damn much that I can't get myself to finish. Not that I ever had an objective when I began to compose anyway. 

...So this is where I drop this and dip. Like old friends with nothing in common. Like I've said my hello's and we've asked the how are you's and nothing's more to that. 

To Kit, to Anna, and to my unending unsteadiness. 

Get. Bent. 

hotel sheets

so fucking happy

fucking happy

If Kit was in this...

lev ef m lef

us and the dogs

Like this, always

We get to swap fits whenever, forever, for always, and still flex fuckin right.

new boy

Lowe's

When Abba refuses to decide where we should eat, I vacate my vehicle and sit elsewhere until she decides.

ro's

This is what home looks like with a puppy filter

baby

love of my life.

Don't think I've ever seen myself this happy before. Don't think I'd ever imagined myself this happy with somebody before.

Everything else is needless to say.

This is us annoying. Us in the comfort of each other's direct snaps. Us privately attached in the comfort of public places. 

kit n fox