Neck

Camus

"I was obsessed by thoughts of this woman or that, of all the ones I'd had, all the circumstances under which I'd loved them; so much so that the cell grew crowded with their faces, ghosts of my old passions. That unsettled me, no doubt; but, at least, it served to kill time."

251

If you look up futility, you'll see my name in reference (all self-deprecating shit intended). My emotions are hungry and I want to be alone. Maybe I'm confusing emotions from hormones. My life is made up of distractions after all. 

Tits and Trees

Dumb Sluts

When I'm Feelin' Low

I just think about my favorite things.

fiVe minutes

You should see how gay all the pieces I write. So gay that I stuff them in notebooks and journals, folded nicely and crisply. Or the better ones (the considerably better ones), are hidden inside my laptop for no one to read. They're so gay that I feel like I purposely put them in the closet to never come out. They're forever to be closeted homosexuals because it makes me feel better. Sometimes I take the time to reread some shit and become astonished that I wrote them once upon a time. Like I never know who the hell I am. Tight. 

I have to go to work now. 

v loud

(a finished book)
Like any relationship you build, the beginning is at ease, the middle resumes, and the end ends. Then the fullness of an inexplicable hollowing partakes in your night or your afternoon or (rarely, as far as I'm concerned) your morning. You sit motionless or fondle for a single, solid thought in your head. But now, I feel an ache in my head, and it's so quiet and still at this hour that I'm making up things to hear in hopes not to disturb anything.

"Just go to bed, now. Quickly. Quickly and slowly."

I get startled when a book knows of my whereabouts.

Glass

For a heartless idiot, I am far too sentimental for my own good. Seamlessly, I am starting to come to terms to the once gory fact that I will never be a writer. I will, as all things that have ever slipped out of my mouth, only aspire and write about it. Don't be sad for me or even convince me otherwise, no matter how much you like me. I know what I am and a writer is not it. It was probably idiotic of me even to think having writing as my profession would satisfy my concerns and aspirations. I will remain religious with my love for it. But this time without preaching or hollering or praying on my knees with my hands clasped in front of me and my eyes shut pathetically. I won't stop doing what this is I do but I also will probably not pursue. This isn't a resignation but simply an acknowledgment. (Besides I can't resign something I hardly committed). But also, as all things that slip out of my mouth, this holds no permanence, and most likely has a lifespan. Until I can write my red, red and purple heart out, then this is what I know. I'm not sad about it or even complaining about it. In fact, I am currently at peace with myself, pertaining to this particular subject. It's better this way.

Dude ow

Whenever either Mak or I have an injury, it is absolutely a given that we inadvertently hit the sweet spot of each other's puppies. "Oh shit I'm sorry.. But it's not my fault!" That's friendship bitch.

Do Right

This is the difference between night and morning.
Night time is for bitching and weeping. Mornings are for bitching about how you keep bitching and weeping at night and how the episodes seem to become sadder and sadder more pathetic. My hours usually consist of bitching...is what I'm getting at here. Or bitching about bitching too much. Fucking bitch.
I'll try a little harder...mmm no. I'll try a little better next time.

Lefty's Duties

My left hand is currently disabled from doing the following:
-toilet paper wiping
-fapping
-assist with tying hair up
-assist with washing face
-assist with typing
*updaaate*
-STOGING IN THE CAR
**UPDATE**
-Unhooking my bra

It's only been several hours so I'm sure I'll find out throughout the day more things I currently cannot do properly. But these have so far been my struggle.

Big Fucking Baby

I miss my parents so much.

THROAT

I am getting sick and am dreading that I have to call in this week. I cannot afford that but I also cannot afford getting the kids sick. I'm just dreading everything because all I wanna do is stack. Also all I talk about is gay shit but I also am not sorry because this isn't tumblr and I like complaining. Whatever let me be soft serve here.

*-*

My life is a joke that's getting less and less funny, but I'm pretty sure God is still laughing his ass off anyway. 

IT'S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE, GOD. 

The Sad Truth

Woke Up Nude

Around 6 this morning, I realized I passed out on my bed in the middle of changing. I left my boy shorts on though. That's usually commendable. I drove myself home drunkenly last night--in some sort of a panic that I was TOO drunk? It's true though. I don't know how I got home but I probably shouldn't have done that. But also I probably don't give a shit since I simply do not give a fucking shit. Ever? It bothers me that people who don't want to die are unlucky enough to just drop dead one day but people like me (people who practically BEG for death to come sooner [lol @ referrence to my friends]) are still alive, wasting space. No matter how careless, I never drop dead. And knowing that I am far too pussy to kill myself (growing up to a stable family and all), I'll just always be on my toes, waiting for the glorious moment it comes for me. I am most in anticipation for it when I am driving or when I feel my chest tighten and I struggle to breathe (since it feels like a heart attack from the amount of nicotine I inhale). But as you know, considering I am typing this now at 7 in the morning, after passing out from my gin shots w/beer chase, it never comes for me. My sensible readers probably think I am a fucking idiot, but I never gave a shit about that. I don't question you for your will to live, but I know you question me for my will to die. Maybe I just get a kick out of it. Maybe I get a kick out of the shit you stray away from. The things you caution. The things you fear. The things you permanently marked idiotic. I beg to differ. I always beg to differ. Mostly because I get a kick out of it.

Please Stop Bothering Anyone

I don't care who it is.

You're alone. Don't you know that yet?

Swallow me whole

Fill yourself up
Smile about it
Tell me what it's like
And I'll drink the rest of it.

745

Home then grumpy and exhausted then wolf then down the rest then pass out////repeat.

I want that button

I don't even know what to do with myself.

I'm A Boy

"One Day More" 
written by alyssacorpuz

He would wake up every morning, either earlier or later than the rest of his house. On the earlier days, he would promise himself that this would become a habit, something positive in his grumpy lifestyle. On the later days, he would lay and feel sorry for himself and regret the bottles he smashed into his face while he poured a morning glass. He would sit at his desk and stare at his notebook while sipping his late night sorrows. Whilst tapping his pen, looking out his window, and listening to sad songs on days bright like this one, he oftentimes tipped his chair in defeat and cocked his head back for that last gulp of consciousness. Then he would drag his feat to the john where he would piss away the blackout from the night before while simultaneously brushing his teeth, which might I mention, are one of his best characteristics. On some days, he would walk to and from his desk, scribbling a few lines here and there, popping his head into the fridge when he became restless and unsatisfied with what his words were creating in him. Other days, he would pile his utensils up and mumble fuck this as he would leave to spend the day out perhaps feasting on goods that would contribute to his temporary gut, or to the local thrift where he enjoyed purchasing party shirts and grandpa pants. He usually found himself at the book store, blowing away the month's rent on pages that reminded him of why he chose to write. He would walk out the store like he usually does, holding his stack like winnings, knowing that the collection would make a fine piece to his growing treasure. The doors of his bedroom would swing open, and he would not realize how late it was or how long he stayed at the bookstore until his body voluntarily followed its nightly routine. A couple of cock backs of the head until his vision was blurred but his mind finally clear. From then on, it is just a couple of swigs and he is back at his desk. He turns on his side lamp the way he usually does. It never matters if there is a woman sleeping in his bed or not, he always turns on his side lamp when he knows that his day is just getting started. A few lines here, a mountain of ideas everywhere, swigs there, until finally he has either created a piece he is content with, or he once again states the phrase fuck this and calls it quits just when the moon starts to disappear. On the early mornings where he has a woman in his bed, he crawls into the sheets and starts to breath heavily. She is either unresponsive, or she falls into the echo if his call and pulls in close. Other nights, he creeps into his sheets and curls up with his booze as he curses under his breath all the things that pisses him off in this fuck of a life he has got going on. Then from there it is lights out as he blacks out and pisses on his floor.

Blacked out last night but not hungover today

That's a good day. But I think I'd lost my glasses, and there's no point in being on my computer if I have to squint to see. I guess I should have other pairs of glasses just in case this type of shit happens. 

I love blacking out. 

TOO PUSSY TO KILL MYSELF

TOO PUSSY TO LIVE.

Separation Anxiety Ultimately Equals Murder Suicide

MIKAL

Affection Makes Me Squirm

Affection is icky.
Caring Is Creepy.

Slither away.

Three Bratty Queens and Nameless

Mikal kept saying she looked like a dyke today

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

Sof is sick of us listening to this song. But we can't not play this song at least 4 times a week. It's essential to our well-being. 

Dumb Babies

Personifuckit

I hate because I'm hateful and also because my sketches never stay up on my wall. I guess I have weak ass tape or whatever but I need push pins. They all take turns falling and if I'm gone for the weekend, I eventually find them all on the ground when I return home. I always feel like a child who throws a fit when their toys don't cooperate with them. Ye I feel like an infant.

Mobbed then Robbed

Last night, I thought about burning San Francisco to the ground. It's just a broken window. But my wrath said burn San Francisco to the ground. Maybe I'll do it. I'll think on it some more. 

Beach Fossils

The only picture I could capture. It got too cray.

Greasers

FINNA BE.

IS IT MAY YET

IS IT

Awaiting

the moment I realize that my coffee and cigarettes diet have taken a toll on my teeth.

So far so good. Maybe another year or so I'll cry about it.

Struggle

I awake in the morning struggling to stay awake then go to bed at night struggling to fall asleep.
Every damn day. Every damn night. This is the struggle. This is caffeine and alcohol.

HACHI

This is us, Hachi. All these years.

Fuck

My face is too small for all this hair. It's time. It's really time. But Mikal owns my hair...
And all da boys r lyk nuuuu but hair long n im lyk fk u u fucking idiot. IDIOT.

She often takes snapshots of

me. On the toilet. And I really value it. 

Rainbow Pool

I once jumped off a cliff with my friend. Ill-prepared, I undid the button of my shorts and slid off my shirt, arranged myself in my underwear in front of a gathering of people, and climbed up the rocks in my favorite shoes. I don't quite spend much time jumping or leaping or falling. The nerves had me a few pieces. But I thought, if my friend jumps, I jump. 

So my friend (my endearingly fearless friend with a craving of a defiant bird) jumped. I reached the top and looked down at the dark water. A slew of people tilted their heads up at me, squinting through their sunglasses, and anticipating my springing stint. Artlessly, I leaped into the air. My toes pointed to the bottom and my arms flailing from the unfamiliarity of gravity. My duration in the air lasted long enough for me to ponder of my life and reevaluate my decisions. All my decisions. Like a common flash of everyone's imagination. Then after a year of falling, I knifed through the water and the flash battered into darkness. And the darkness was a muffled quiet. It was a deadened distortion more closely contrasted to an emptying clarity. I fished up to the surface until the blur of a sunny day came back to my consciousness. I gasped for air like the result of my purging. Of a momentary catharsis. Of moments I neglect to be a part of. 

When I got back to the rocks, I looked up at my friend with the assumption that she knew exactly what I was feeling. Then I looked up to the view of where I was just seconds ago. And I contemplated those seconds and how those seconds became a persistence of merely some of my time. 

I sat on the rocks and thought about being a remainder. I understood then that after a leap, you become a fragment of yourself. An excess leftover of what was before. Like reusable waste. Just as action and consequence and even continuity come into play, you lose as much as you gain and what ever you have is what ever is left. And it's tedious and repetitive but, everything to me now is just remains of everything before. 

Lookit these cunts...

Detours. from Makayla Dias on Vimeo.

Beach Bastards. from Makayla Dias on Vimeo.

STOKED FOR SUMMER. STOKED FOR THIS. 

And This is Ange

Untitled from Joyce K on Vimeo.

We're not rushing you, just stand

I'm on my toilet again. Napping again. Na, I'm editing the stories I abandoned months ago. There are things I write that I forget I wrote. Things I string together that I don't realize I've strung together until I take the time to review and regroup and recognize my thoughts in the words. Often times I feel like it wasn't me who produce what ever I produce. Especially when I set it aside for months on. And rereading now what I've done before ...this phase of my life as of late (the over-sleeping, over-drinking, idle misery that I deliberately deluged into after choking in nursing school)... it really feels like another person wrote what I'd written then. And I don't recognize the changes that occur in me until I reread. Because to me, I'm the same every day and have always been the same since the dreariness of my childhood. But I'm never the same. Fuck, I'm feeling my mind clear up. (This is, if you must fucking know [which you must because all my parenthetical statements are the things I kind of...sometimes... hope you'd wonder about me], due to the glorious fact that my parents lovingly ambushed me with yet another talk about my future). And with this, I cleaned my industrial park of a room, fixed my wall that was shedding of my shit, put my clothes away, and am doing laundry. I don't know how long my mind will be this clear for because these moments are only moments after all. And I know they're not rushing me. but fuck, I need to take a step to fucking anywhere. 

We're all feeling too old for all this shit. 

Jul's first time

Nursing Gave Me Girlfriends

Third Wheel

He was third wheeling...

Sweat

I've been waking drenched every morning for...I don't even know how long. I awake from high-anxiety dreams ranging from mundane worries to intolerable nightmares. It's been like this for a while. Like my body is giving in on me. Like it's giving up just as I wish to.

I just want to feel alright for a moment.

But even in my sleep, my mind gives me misery.

Rowing without oars

Mornings

A list of things I need to function for a morning:
-arctic rohto eyedrops
-a caffeine pill
-a glass of water
-DailyGrace
-some dignity
-adequate apathy
-something for my lungs

The faucet is running

I'm sitting on my toilet. Taking a little nap. Letting the water run because it's a properly terrible sound. I haven't written anything in weeks. I mean weeks of tired complaints about how I can't write. Not even that. But sitting here on my toilet, I'm feeling a momentary grace of inspiration. Shit is always inspiring. Shit and having my pants down. My internal struggles, if I may, are deep-throating me whole. And if you must know (and I tell you, you must) my internal struggles have the swallowing skills of a very impressive whore. Not even a whore. Just your ordinary neighborhood slut with an unusually unignorable talent. The kind she'd propose to showcase if you ever invite her inside your living room for a Coke. Shit. But about my internal struggles. Yes. My precious internal struggles that I dearly fondle when I want to feel. (Soft serve, bitch.) Well I'm feeling and I'm struggling and I don't know where to go from here. But truthfully, these very entries are the evident consistence of all I must share. Of all I desire to share and choose to share. I am consistent after all. It is my only consistence. This is. 

By now I should assume that these entries are tired and beat. As in dead horse beat. As in you could probably assume what this chunk of text will be about while scrolling down my page. That goes for all the chunks of paragraphs I publish on this here blog. It's me whining and then writing about whining so I can fill the white space while mumbling to myself and getting drunker as the chunk enlarges. I am the face of a pathetic, aspiring writer with nothing to write about. I should just take off right now. Right now. Now that I have nothing for me but empty time. I could leave and struggle. Fucking 'find myself' or what-have-you. But this isn't the post-war. And I know I won't do. I am bound by my empty time. Bound to be idle for as long as I possibly could until I lose my mind entirely. If I am even fortunate enough to lose my mind. My mind is here with me, rotting with me. My only aspiration is to fill white spaces with my chunks of texts and I'm too uninspired (better known as lazy) to commit to it. I can't even classify myself as a pathetic, aspiring writer because I'm not really writing. I'm scratching paper and the shit I scratch bodes no truth. My scratches hold nothing. They mean nothing. I mean nothing. And here I am with my cowardice ways, filling the spaces, and partially telling a truth. And the truth is I like the struggle. But you already know that, don't you? Oh fuck you, no you don't. 

I Melt With You

A sewer of misogynists.
Soon to be reunited.

Ma girl

REM

Dat shit ma shit.
1035am
I'm not hungover, I just crush a lot. What is it with waking up early when I black out cold the night before? It's irritating because my room spins. Or your room spins. Or whose ever room or where ever I am spins. And if I were to kill, fuck, marry: spins, puke, or blacking out...I'd kill spins, marry puke, and fuck blacking out. I fucking hate the spins. But on a high note, I only spun momentarily this morning until I was crushed by a very persistent headache. A very bearable headache but fuck what its mother taught it. I'm simply trying to go back to sleep. Sleep till the bad dies. Sleep till three.

Stupid friends

Stupid buddies
Wow quin aww cmon charlie cukaloo

Girlies

GROTESQUE

I get sick of everything,
eventually.