indoor hats and outdoor hats

casualties of the day:

eventfulness
sustenance
recreational involvement
personal hygiene
my auxiliary cord
the aux input on my record player
my entire day + night
some self-respect
"time"

ok well

more pthtc

the only commitment i respect is the one i have with my room. it takes a magnificent amount of energy and willingness to leave my small space. i'm very boring and despondent and unappealingly lifeless. i went out last night. stared at myself in the mirror in the bathroom. for some reason, i tried to recognize a face that i forget no longer associates with me. my face widened and stretched to find the same lines it had before. i tried to make my eyes the way they were before. but for the inappropriate amount of time that i molded and sculped my face in the bathroom, i couldn't find the expressions i was looking for. then i remembered i'm different. i remembered i don't know how to be what ever it was i was looking for. devoided of my own reflection (the one i thought i had), i exited without pissing. 

i bet i'll die with my head down. i used to joke that if i die in a car accident, i'll be found dead with my chin dug into my chest, focused on my ipod, or something.

brightside: at least i'm not addicted to heroin.

here, watch this.

deadbeat winter

deadbeat spring
deadbeat you get it

I'm just such a hard worker

*bodyroll*
*flesh rots*

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.

slowly killing myself

slowly being less sad
slowly being more pissed off

slowly fuck you.

death requests

When I die, I want to be buried with my headphones on, my ipod fully charged, with the album Disintegration playing on loop. Charge my ipod during the viewing and touch my cold, dead hand. I won't hear a eulogy because I'd be slappin so damn hard also I'd be dead so. If it's not open casket, stick me in a fucking laundry bin then. Before I get incinerated, make sure my ipod is still alive. Or if I change my mind and decide to be buried, make sure my ipod is still alive. Put charger in my pocket just in case. Make sure the volume is on max. If you say your goodbye to my corpse and I'm not slappin hard, rest assured I'll haunt your ass. Fuck a rest in peace.

Much thanks to Mikal. That demon.

RUN, slowly

My fear pertaining to sleep is dreaming about my friends encouraging me to be in a turkey farm, reassuring that things will be alright, then being attacked by the said malicious fucking turkeys. I'd wake up shaking and sweating, clenching my teeth cold.

My primary fear pertaining to waking up is pissing all over myself and also having to pretend to be alive that day. My secondary fear is not being in my own bed and also failing to fake it enough through the day.

A turkey can run on an average of 25 mph. An average human averages on 10 mph. 6 mph if distance/endurance are expected. I average one crawl per mile. The fucking things could eat me alive. Imagine being chased by a turkey. Occasionally, I imagine being chased by a turkey, and I'm typically snacking on a turkey leg (specifically from Disneyland) while taunting the fucking thing. But that's probably on a good day. Most days I drown in my own imaginary and inane irrational fears.

Maybe my fear of turkeys is the best exemplary metaphor to describe my being's relationship with existing. My person vs my life. I always just have to take this fucking turn. I don't know. I can't get this shit out of my head.

RUN, slowly

My fear pertaining to sleep is dreaming about my friends encouraging me to be in a turkey farm, reassuring that things will be alright, then being attacked by the said malicious fucking turkeys. I'd wake up shaking and sweatig, clenching my teeth cold.

My primary fear pertaining to waking up is pissing all over myself and also having to pretend to be alive that day. My secondary fear is not being in my own bed and also failing to fake it enough through the day.

A turkey can run on an average of 25 mph. An average human averages on 10 mph. 6 mph if distance/endurance is expected. I average one crawl per mile. The fucking things could eat me alive. Imagine being chased by a turkey. Occasionally, I imagine being chased by a turkey, and I'm typically snacking on a turkey leg (specifically from Disneyland) while taunting the fucking thing. But that's probably on a good day. Most days I drown in my own imaginary and inane irrational fears.

Maybe my fear of turkeys is the best exemplary metaphor to describe my being's relationship with existing. My person vs my life. I always just have to take this fucking turn. I don't know. I can't get this shit out of my head.

"I'd like to make a toast..."

You'd soak your toast in your drink then raise your glass to whatever was to be toasted for. That's what they used to do. Trillions of years ago. Tonight I made toasts to the mundane shit of my day, in pretense to their commemorative factors. 

I'd like to make a toast for the beer and the wine and the cigarettes I purchased. And to the few week old left over beverages in my room to finish the job. 

Cheers. 

Is this about the coffee I stopped drinking?

I used to be the nicest person I know. I used to be the friendliest bitch I know. Charm through pleasantries and kindness. Making friends because I liked them all.

Sometimes you get burned, though, and your eyebrows get caught up. I got myself some bitch brows and the ghosts of a few bitches that fucked me. Then I sought vengeance to the stupid because it was that easy. It was more seamless than I anticipated so I ate it all up. Fattened me up.

I don't know when I stopped being the nicest bitch I know.  I don't know when I started shitting on my life and everyone in it. It's pretty sad to think about the decline of my being. But I was also just a kid. Is this what happens when you take up drinking coffee then try to quit all of a sudden? I got burned so I wanna burn them all too. Caught in my own quieted frenzy, I clutch on to these baleful regrets and grudges, and I swear I'll choose them every time. Like I'm hungry for hell.

semi-clever writer with no voice

So give me a massage.

buck up

now that I got that out of my system, I can finally quit being a little bitch.
no soft serve
no soft serve

I dont like sunlight or warm weather. hot weather is the worst. i melt but I dont evaporate. i just solidify again. that's really irritating.

i feel as if i am physically enslaved by this. i will never let this happen again. i will never do this again. i will never. i will never. 

wouldnt it be nice

not to be reliant on anything including oxygen?
I might live underwater. I could get over my fear of drowning. And my fear of not being able to swim. I know how to swim. Why would I fear that? But I could live underwater
and never have to breathe in any of you ever again. No matter how much I might adore you.

xoxo

passed the doorway stabbed burnt scales or burnt shells, condensed and defiant and free. i gambled silence with emptiness but found them asleep and busy. where im alone, the ceiling-high closet door mirrors marked black curved lines on my face. intently marked, to be frank, the lines weren't lectures. the lines were suggestions. the lines werent even lines. the lines were traces of my unnerved disposition, annoyed and disappointed, like the shape of my brows. 'steady,' id whisper, 'it wont be too long.' i grimaced anyway. im sad to say i wont change a thing. dirty birds were calling for me.

raw me

i'm usually a liar, but not right now

i never much dealt with it. like the sort of splinter i stare at in the lull of things. the sort i gave up on because the pinching and the squeezing didn't make too much sense, and i'd been so ashamed of having it. i don't know why i should be ashamed, but i have always been. like denial to my humility. like cruelty eases me better. loves me better. i couldn't even say your name aloud. not like the pain was so overwhelming, nor was it pain at all. it just didn't taste right in my mouth. i salivated it without actually uttering anything. without enunciating anything. no sound, no lisp, no inhale, and no exhale. i felt incapacitated at the thought of it. the few letters that i believed were so awkward together. so odd and almost silly. something i didn't much take pride in at the time, but i'd said innumerably anyway. it was the safest name i knew, but how tragically troublesome it was. to me at least, your name is set on a podium in the corner in the dark. i set it there, marked my place, and walked away. oftentimes, it feels like a mistake having swallowed you. ingesting what i have of you just so i could relieve myself of you in the end. i'm trying. at least i think i'm trying. i write about you furtively inside pages i cower under. i never finish my thought in every entry because i don't know how. i begin with the beginning, just a simple reminiscence, without actually getting to the lurch i have in my throat. the animal i silenced. in a petting zoo at best. everything i have of you, i'd turned into metaphors. i'd turned them into things so not to make them seem as they actually are. i manipulated them. disguised them. doused them in such charming cynicism. but that's mostly because i couldn't bare plainly saying them. plainly looking at them. or thinking of them. that very well includes the letters of your name. it's almost as if i'm using them for my own benefit. so i can write something. so i have something to write about. and i feel i've concealed enough not to have to give credit. i'm using you as a flint. it's easier when the sun's out because the translation seems relatable. it seems easier not to stutter. but in the dark i fumble with myself. i blubber and i end up having to shake it. probably because i mostly saw you in the dark. i had you in the dark. you and me and the grasp we had on each other. it's most when i whispered your name and you immediately responded. immediately, every time. you really had me. it seems stupid to need a flint when the sun's out but everything i do that has to do with you is very stupid to me. i'm stupid to me for doing what i did with you. and i know they all think i'm passed you, or maybe i'm the only who makes myself believe i'm passed you just because i refuse terribly to speak of you. but my god, i just want them to know you really had me. i need it to be known that i really held on. and it's awful this way sometimes. but i just can't keep straining my neck to see if it's really your car that i'm passing on the streets. i can't keep at it right now. 

helter shmelter

I think this thing makes me seem dumber than I am. Like a little girl. A stupid little girl. Fearful and narcissistic. Maybe it's fitting. I haven't said or done anything tasteful in ages. I get angry a lot nowadays. Or I get really smart. Or insensitive. Class A asshole. And I also get very amused with my lousy behavior. I think those gargoyles got me now. The ones I found staring down at me that one night I wailed in the dark, on the floor, singing in between sobs a pathetic song I couldn't even hit the note of. That night I swore they'd never have me on my knees again. Or at the very least, see me on my knees. The difficulty level ranged, soared and sank. Now I feel like I might've plateaued to this dreary and desperate deception. The kind they might be whispering about. The kind that fools no one, but I've convinced myself anyway. I'm embarrassed anyway. Embarrassing myself anyway. Unapologetically graceless anyway.

:(

Thinking about how much I hate everyone and why I hate everyone and how I can stop hating everyone. Should I though? But also half the shit I say to people are lies. The other night a buddy of mine classified me a liar. Slime and cold blood liar. Euthanize me. Put me down. Shut me the fuck up. I should be a ghostwriter for your favorite emo band.

"If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddamn closet."

All my words and all, I want us in the closet. And you'll never get us out unless my body was dragged out and you realize none of them mean anything but the means to be clever and a phony.
I always kind of felt like a phony. To put it dully.

Last night

I sat in my bathroom for an hour because there was literally no where for me to sleep. My room has been occupied. The couch was already crashed with Julian. The sunroom has my now second set of parents. I sat in my fucking bathroom and thought about how tired I was. Five in the morning, I stared at the enormous pile of clothes on my floor, literally the biggest pile I've ever piled, and considered sleeping on it.
My insides are withering.

mouthful tales ii

[concrete evidence for mouthful tales]

antsy shit

she swiped my wine from me, my sister. i hadn't been drinking much lately because i decided so. i don't know why, something about my well-being or something. i just wanted some space from my habit. however, tonight, i wanted my wine but my sister swiped it from me. she's been getting well acquainted with my booze, while i'd been getting reacquainted with being stoned. it's just that i've been writing stories lately because i'm too busy not blacking out every single night of the week. i even considered a stack of stories i abandoned all year. really have a handful of potentially great stories. i'm still just getting my hand back. i'm always so determined at the end of the year, it's almost sad. i feel a whole lot better than i did several weeks ago. but i also feel more alone. not that i mind so much. it's inspiring really, being so emotional. but i prefer it over that sort of sloppy depression i so endearingly submerge under. that one is exhausting. this is just idle, 'with flashes of brilliance,' i so confidently said. 

keep your fly down

I realize that I spent most of this week in my car. Those eight grueling hours while we were in dead ass Fairfield changed the game for me. I still don't have my bed to myself. I stay awake till five, or until I find a place to sleep. This, by far, feels like the most exhausting few weeks of my year. I don't want to be bothered. The flies are stalking me again. I'm lifeless and unappealing, but I'm still flyer than you. There's probably something you should know about me, but this way pleases me more.

Phoebe

"Do you find most things depressing?" 

Well yes, I'm depressed. 

cringes

• my family from the Philippines are staying with us indefinitely. 
• i've been sharing my room with my cousin. and by sharing i mean, the first night they arrived, i drank enough to black out and we both ended up sleeping in my room. the rest of the nights, i leave my house to sleep elsewhere because i literally feel like puking having to share my room like that. 
• my house is a ten person household right now, including jsmke. 
• i hope this doesn't last too long. 
• really feel homeless. 

bathroom blackout

not my birthday, not my bathroom blackout.

mouthful tales

One afternoon, Ace and I went to Le Petit Cafe and ate illegal amounts of crepes. After we finished one, we ordered another. And another. And the voids--the black ravenous voids within us could not be satiated.  I think we were meant to be eternally hungry.
One night, we were stoned and driving around. Brilliantly, we thought we should have some pizza. So we went to Little Caesars, ordered our pizza, drove to some unidentified parking lot and ate in the car, in the dark, in silence (apart from our grotesque chewing).
When we were much younger (Ace, Vagger, and I), we used to stay up watching stupid shit on my television, then make an enormous amount of top ramen, add everything in the world as toppings, and slurp peacefully through the night. Those were merely week nights. We called those nights Thanksgiving.
One evening, Ace and Drodan came to my house with clam chowder, bread bowls, and sparkling cider. We watched a movie except we didn't because we all fell asleep.
One late afternoon, Ace and I went to get burritos at some food truck. We sat on some bench and ate happily. Plot twist: we were wearing practically the same outfit that late afternoon, and we looked embarrassingly gay.
This passed summer, Ace and I would attend some party any party, get wasted, she'd drive drunk home, and we'd always drive thru either Taco Bell or Jack in the box. One night, we were guzzling crunchy tacos in the car in the parking lot, had a four hour conversation which involved a lot of drunken idiocy, chewtalking, choketalking, salivating, and crunching. When we finally decided to go home, we blinked back to reality, realized we'd been entranced in yet another vulgar session of eating, and drove away belly-bloated.
Once in San Francisco, we split a burrito. I'm almost certain we both wished we each had our own once we finished our half. Bet my money on it.
In Portland, the first thing we did (Ace, Mak, and I) was get in line for breakfast burritos. We ate peacefully by some building under the sun. It may have been the quietest we'd ever eaten, but after a twelve hour drive from our homeland, a breakfast burrito was the only way to glorify in the moment.

Shit I'm starving.

no one

I hope you never take it out of your wallet. I hope you haven't taken it out of your wallet. I dont know why I'm hoping because really I'm just a sorry ass.

bet it stung

it must've stung.

hallospleen

For Halloween, my buddies and I attended a party in some storage unit. I dressed up as Duke from Fear and Loathing. Aiz was Black Eyed Peas. Jaws was Marshall Lee from Adventure Time. Jacon was a cowboy (whose hat was eaten by his horse). Jul was the masked bandit. And Vagger was Tom Cruise in Risky Business. All our costumes were quite simple and were easily executed. Except for Vag. She went out of her way to buy tube socks. And when she came home, her first instinct was to place something inside the socks (ie flats, flip flops) to give the effect that she's only wearing socks without making her feet filthy. Mind the aforementioned fact that we were at some storage unit. It was a dark and sweaty and certainly filthy party, but my pals and I arrived whiskey-wasted when the lights were still on and people were sitting around. It was the kind of douchebagginess that only a killed bottle could manage. The bar there (it was hardly a bar, more like a pouring table) was serving shots for two dollars all night. Now when drunk, the taste in your mouth clouds to an unidentifiable recklessness. The six of us took turns screaming "shots in five minutes!" after we'd just taken a shot less than three minutes ago. This part I state without exaggeration. It's almost as if we were chanting "shots in five minutes!" The blur hit all us at different times, but it certainly all hit us. It began with the bathroom breaks. The girls would gather and crawl towards the restroom where we always found ourselves taking shameless pictures. I, for one, have such a collection of piss pictures. Me wiping. Me with my piss face. In the bathroom is where Vagger exposed her puke-made tube socks. As you may notice in the photo, her flip flops both gave her feet a platform and prevented the dirt from absorbing into her feet. 

After the bathroom breaks, we'd take another shot, and I always found myself disappearing for a smoke (eventually I just smoked inside the storage unit). Every time I walked back inside the unit, I was more drunk than the minute before, and it seemed to me that the place was mutating. The sitters were on their feet. The place gained a crowd. My pals were scattered doing our thing. We would reunite every once in a while to scream "shots in five minutes" then disperse to fuck with the masked crowd. And we fucked with everyone. When one of us notices that one of us was excelling at a troll, we'd immediately join in for a double team. For an overkill of trolliness. One guy, I remember specifically, fought within himself to be as patient as he mortally can while we pestered with incessant and infuriating questions. Anyway, my blur came after the twelfth or whatever shot. It came fast and it came hard. They told me the lights went off eventually and the music turned up. They told me I didn't leave the dance floor for quite some time and all I was screaming was "turn the music up." I can't recall my pals. I disappeared from the photos. The next conscious thing I can recall was waking up in my bed with an enormous trash bag beside me. As I mentioned, I lost my wristwatch. And I also lost half of what I was wearing. I mean my costume. Don't be so dirty. The next morning, Vag and Jul and I reviewed what happened during the night. 

-Jaws and Jacon frittered away their money buying us shots. 

-There was a girl with the same costume as Vag. Aiz said they'd either be best friends at the party, or they'd chunk it. The girl twerked on Vagger. So. 

-Someone gave me a twenty and I began to take solo dolo shots.

-Jaws went under the beer pong table and announced himself a troll. 

-Vag and Jul were side by side throwing up in the parking lot. 

-Aiz and Cody made out on top of their vomit because the rule of the night was, if anyone can guess her costume, she'd make out with them. 

-I lost my wristwatch.

-I ran out of the storage unit and onto the streets, screaming at the top of my lungs, looking for the cops. The younger sister of the host told me she had to chase me down and bring me back to shelter.

-Vagger allegedly lost her phone and everyone went completely out of their way crawling from the parking lot to the storage unit looking for it. But really, she had it in her hand the entire time. 

-Jacon drove deliriously drunk. 

-We were dead in the back. 

-Jacon had to carry me inside my house.

-Vagger and Jul threw up on our lawn.

-I placed an ordered of two sunny-side eggs and sausages to Aiz, demanding it. She kindly made me food, and I knocked out to oblivion. 

That morning we found Vagger's socks in the living room. It smelled like Satan's sphincter. It looked like Satan's sphincter. And she refused to clean it up. Later, she mustered all her courage, picked up the socks with a plastic bag, and chased us around the house with them. 

This is the story of shamelessness, triumph, whiskey, and post-regretful shame. 

kwichurbichin

Hey Ace, when are you ditching Paris again? Tryna fsu. Also no whatsapp. Gayboy, am I right? Alright.

Birthday black out

One morning and several days after my birthday, Mak found photos of us in her phone that neither of us could recall. By photos I mean selfies. By selfies I mean the kind we never take together. Cheers to my favorite person in the world for blacking out with me.

stop touching yourself you fucking asshole

i'd just had lunch after debating whether or not i should have lunch. it was dreadful, if you must know (which you mustn't). why do i even cook. i made coffee. too black and too hot. my stomach is churning. there's a bad taste in my mouth. 

there's a bad taste in my mouth.

there's a bad taste in my

mouth.

there's a bad taste in

my 

mouth.

there's a bad taste

in 

my

mouth.

there's a bad 

taste

in 

my 

mouth.

there's a 

bad

taste

in

my

mouth.

there's 

a 

bad

taste

in

my

mouth.

wasted weekday

Jaws, Eyes, Delaghetto, and I have been spending our Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays getting hammered and getting very lost in the sauce. Not the weekends though. We don't like each other that much. Except for that one storage unit party. That one was just literally the most insane FSU we've done. It involved a lot of shots, a lot of cigarettes, a lot of puke, a lot of getting down, a lot of screaming at the dj, a lot of wall sits, a lot of piss, a lot of suicidally running down the street looking for cops, a lot of rude conversations with strangers, and a lot of blacked out assholes aka us because we all died. But I digress. It's been nice with these turds. We get separation anxiety, and we all say very gay, very soft serve things to each other. It's nice.

good job at trying

it's noon and i'll be late for work. my mother greeted me this morning with my responsibility towards my well-being. she told me i need to get a flu shot. it put me in a bad mood and i don't know why. which made me feel guilty because it's not her fault i hate myself. i'm typing on my laptop, which is a first as of lately. i only use my laptop to watch youtube videos of people that only partially entertain me. but i found that it entertains me more than netflix or watching any shows or movies. i haven't been too insane which is great. i wake up in the mornings which is great. i drink too much coffee and drink too much wine which are both great. probably. i'd been keeping a journal again which makes me feel both younger and more pathetic. i want to say i stopped chasing my youth, but i'm still not over it. at least in my mind. this weather makes me calm but also makes me sad, but really, i am always sad. i'd rather be calm, i guess. i miss hanging with ace because i'd been doing outrageous shit lately, and i usually do those with her. not really too outrageous because everything is boring. it's so funny to read old entries of mine or my friends' and notice how fucking sad shit has gotten. so funny that the only word i can use to describe it is sad. i overuse the word sad but it's the most succinct of all the words i can use. fucking SAD. it's hilarious how sad shit got. in fact, i'm hysterically laughing right now at how fucking SAD. is it ok to whine? it's probably more ok if i didn't keep acknowledging when i'm whining. my bitching is my bitch and i'm its bitch and we function like a unit, drunk or sober. it's you and me, bitching. i'll be late for work today and i don't even give a fuck. i should quit soon so i can stop being pathetic there and be pathetic somewhere else. i won't get a flu shot, but i'll tell my mother i did just to ease her mind. it's alright. i can take it. i can take being sick. sick of me. sick of you. sick of this. let me be sad. i don't want to be happy. even happy seems fucking stupid. let me be sad. i don't want to be happy. happy seems stupid. when did i become like this. 

inner demon outer baby

I have exceptional manners and a filthy diction.

Oh I think they like me.

red-faced scatter brain

I always forget how terrified of birds I am until I encounter them. This morning, I arrived at work to find a brood of turkeys attempting to cross the street as I was pulling up to park. Four hideous abominations blocked my way. I had to wait till they gathered to one side of the street. I thought, these bastards are ugly and stupid. When I finally parked, I was too afraid to step out of my car. Entirely paranoid by literally any moving creature, I opened my door and jumped at the sight of a cat across the street from me. Incidentally, we both jumped at the sight of each other. And I thought maybe he saw the turkeys and was also instilled with the same fear I was suffering from. The cat and I, in that moment, were one and the same. But still, after we pissed ourselves, I slammed my door and listened to my heart beat out of my ears. My head swiveled to my surroundings, snapping my neck. For the love of Satan, I nearly prayed for my life because I pathetically dreaded stepping out of my car. Bravely, I mustered all my courage (while steadying my shaking knees) and opened my door. I bit my jaw down, still swiveling, and ran towards the door. I fumbled with the keys because their backyard is a forrest floor on its own, and I was afraid that another flock would be waiting for my by the door. I finally unlocked it, but for once in all my shifts, the chain was locked. So I knocked. With failed composure, I knocked frantically while my eyes darted to anything that moved. Coincidentally, four squirrels were playing with each other by the pool. Slightly pissed myself. Just slightly. I was much relieved it was just the squirrels. Justin unlocked the door for me, then I rushed inside, hyperventilating from the crap of terror that struck all my nerves.

The bastards. I am most hopelessly petrified when they're around. This irrational, stupid fear almost made me late for work. God damn.

sickly

I miss my wristwatch and all the other shit that I have lost because too drunk to live.

Sad sad is t

I am most irrelevant to the person I care the most about. How sad is that.

Damn that bastard

Why do you plague me...

four am

I spent my four am downloading The Raven then reading The Raven aloud in my most accurate accent.

do apple juice and whiskey go well together?

The answer is no. Where is my ginger ale?

My ginger ale, actually, is in fact under my desk. But considering it is nearly two weeks old (if not more), I refused to mix my drink. Today I cried for my bird for literally hours. I avoided going home because I refused to see my dead bird. But eventually, the night became unbearable, I went home, saw my dead bird, and cried some more.

I am not quite sure why I have been weeping so much. I am suspicious that it is because it's been a tough weekend. I just spent five hours watching chick flicks. That is what I get for having Jawsh back in my life. It's literally as if he inspires me to be a sap. I don't want to be a sap. It's annoying and it makes me sad in a soft way unlike my usual bitter and hardened way.

It's four am, and I don't believe I'm quite done drinking yet. If there's anyone who can make me feel badly about being an alcoholic, speak up now. But considering I shit on myself harsher than anyone ever, no one can touch me. So fuck all of you. I'm sad, but at least I'm not a slut. (There'd been a lot of slutshaming lately. Most of which [if not all] are by me).

(This weekend, I spread more rumors than I ever have before. Someone be proud of me).

PS. Season your meat well.

PPS. You don't want them to spit it out.

truth

I terribly want to cuddle my dead bird.

casualties of the weekend

my wristwatch
my dignity
my liver
my throat
my pride
my bird

I'll cry if I want to.

I disorient them when I'm stern. Only because I'm most likely a joke.

scoundrel

my hobbies include

Rumors
Beep beeps
Kneesock
BLTs
Nachos
Uncorking wine
Gum
Getting irritated at the sound of my laugh
Wild style
Wearing some clothes
Bitching about my hair
Conversing with myself aloud
Being embarrassing
Denying boobs
Sleeping

Am I dying yet?

I feel
like
all the liquor in the world decided to reside in my right eye. How does that work? I wake up. I don't know how things went about. And I awake sore in my right eye. Someone got me a bag beside my bed which made me think about the last time I puked. Then I realized I can't recall when I last did. I'm not sure that's a good thing. Haven't got anymore cigarettes.  Jawsh told me I'm the most terrible influence. I think he might be right.

dark night poem (uncollected)

“they say that
nothing is wasted:
either that
or
it all is.”

-Bukowski

unheard

If I were to lie with a song, I'd lie with Do I Wanna Know. I'd been getting stoned lately because I can't write drunk. Drunk gets me to abandon my thoughts. I haven't quite gotten it yet. But if I were to lie with a song, at this very moment, I'd lie with Do I Wanna Know.  Last night, I heard it unlike I have before. And I've listened to it enough times to think I'd beaten the greatness out of it. Last night, I listened to that song and let it seep into me like a fucking virus, in the most pathetic way possible. The whole time, I just kept thinking, it must be gory being at someone's disposal. It must be murderous to choose to be at someone's feet. Only moving if they move. Only speaking if they speak. The worst part of it is realizing that you are at their disposal. That everything you have been doing, planning, or saying had every bit of that person in mind. That's the song for me. A series of nearly in disbelief questions about how unrequited and how pitiful things have been, and finally realizing it. It's a confessional really (the entire album is). It takes the creativity and cleverness of their past work and presents itself in very big, bold letters. It's saying exactly what they intend on saying without getting too funny. Now through out the song, the composure sarcastically remains, even with all the embarrassing admissions. It's hopeless but smart and pissed off. At the end of it, the last few lines, he asks (with guts, with mockery and absolute cynicism), "Do you want me crawling back to you?" I lost my shit. I saw my life like I hadn't before and heard this song like I hadn't before.

It confesses.

It inquires. 

It realizes. 

It wants to say fuck you, but might possibly crawl back after all. 

I slap this shit every times it plays, without hesitation or exception. 

These are my embarrassing admissions in a song.

and I'm not the kind who tries to

Been a shithead
Been pissing a lot
Been pensive I guess
Probably
Been writing weird shit
Been alright for like a minute
Beanie
Everything becomes a fucking beanie.
I get to feed Kneesock with a little guy.
Been thinking about walking everywhere
Pretend I don't have a car
Like I used to do
Talk to myself on the streets
Make shit up.

Electronic liferuiners

I just watched Vaggy uglycry through the reflection of her crashing laptop as I attempted to salvage it. One of the best uglycries I have seen in a while. Hats off to uglycrying. Now she's redoing her paper from scratch on my laptop while I sit here thinking about the last time I uglycried. Can't remember. Probably the last time I cried since all my cries are ugly. Hats off to bitches who can pull off a prettycry. That is something that 90% of the human population could never execute. Hats off to hats because without hats, beanies would probably have never existed. Hats off to beanies because beanies are good. Hats off. But I won't take my beanie off...

soar eighty

I fidgeted at some point during my drive. Sunglasses before sunrise. I kept looking at my wristwatch, seeking reassurance. The weather fought with me for a second, or maybe I fought with it. I don't know. We kind of just tried to avoid each other, trying not to bump shoulders or look up from the tiles. I cranked the heat to abnormally loud, but rolled my windows down anyway. It had to be done. I had to be done. Anyway, I soared eighty on an empty road. Raced motorists who chose ten below me. I felt agile and competent, and I kept waiting for one really good moment. Like the last time I was conscious of it. There's this album I played. This album, most obviously myself. I'd never done it before because it frightened me. Weakened me. Then I realized after, that I'd just been absurd before. Immature about it. Like a stubborn child. It went on and I sat still, passed what I tend to believe is a natural trip. My voice wasn't hoarse, like I expect it to be. It was clear and strong, and I listened to it like the first moment of meeting myself. Like a very familiar voice of a stranger. I can't remember now much of what I had been thinking about. All I was certain of is my oddity of thoughts, for that particular morning. I do remember thinking about Ferlinghetti, and how perverse he must seem. How he wrote a novel that simply could might as well be a masturbatory story. "I was bearing a white phallus through the wood of the world, I was looking for a place to plunge it, a place to surrender it." That's the first stream of the book, and it has always stuck with me. I always like to note the difference between poets and novelists. Especially when poets write a novel, or vice versa.  This guy is obviously a poet. He lacks the certain conciseness of story-telling. Right now, I like it because his obsession (I expect), will guide me through his self-loathing and narcissism. How relevant for me. Apart from Ferlinghetti, my most distinct thought of the morning was to write it down. When you get off 24, write down what you can remember. Because you never write it down anymore. And you never make sense of things anymore. And you used to be secretive and selective of anyone else, but at least you wrote about things. I can't recognize anymore. So write it down. Before you forget. Before you arrest to caring again. Write it down.
Write it down.
Write, until it gets hards.

play the home song

I blacked out after my party. Nothing unusual. Not too early, but I still died. Mikal told me I tried to run down the street at some point and I had to be chased down. She told me to enjoy this time because we don't know when everyone will be together like this again. I responded with "I don't give a fuck." Nothing unusual. Normal behavior. I remember waking up at 5am after that party, alone in the dark of my room.

The other day, I was told that when I died that night, all our homies crammed in my room with me while I was passed out. The family squeezed its whole self in a tiny room when the party was dying. Vagger described it as very packed and very humid and very smelly. Smelly, drunk turds dancing on my bed while I'm dead. Sometimes, I just really love my buddies. Wish I was alive for that moment though. To be honest.

I'm happy for you baby. But I don't wanna know.

garlic

I think the only reason why people give me a sick feeling in my stomach is because I give myself a sick feeling in my stomach. Hate everyone cause hate me.

Self-loathing game strong.

It's time

If I don't take a trip soon, I'll be solidly tripping for one whole month.

obsessed with sleep

Five minutes.

Thirty minutes.

I'm never leaving my bed.

I'll never leave my bed.

Damnit I need to piss.

sneeze

I got home from work. Ate a bowl of leftovers. Laid unmoving on my couch, clutching on Guillermo, for roughly an hour. Anxious. I put on a jacket. Walked to my car. Now I'm in my car, and I realize I have nowhere to go. A man walking his dog just passed my car, giving me a very slight fright. It's weird having nowhere to go.

list of my October favorites

inspired by all the damn youtubers

1. I can wear a beanie without melting.

2. Cigarettes are like little sticks of heater. Except it doesn't actually warm you.

3. Thinking about Thanksgiving, and dying of overeating. 

4. Kneesock, my most beloved creature on this very planet.

5. Watching Kneesock eat other bugs. She's cool and calm. Seeing her prey on other creatures turns me on, Idc, I said it.

6. Mashed potato.

7. Endless amounts of alcohol from previous parties.

8. Orange.

9. My bench aka my most constant birthday company.

10. Shower stoned.

11. Vandalism. 

12. Wishing I was a lesbian.

13. Wishing I was a black widow.

14. Falling asleep to playlists on youtube.

15. Thoughts about holding Kneesock in my right hand and finding another black widow to hold in my left hand. Then laying supine with both my hands enclosing those beautiful spiders, waiting to get bitten. It sounds like it'd be quite a trip.

16. (Death by a spider).

lossser

I woke up at seven this morning because someone cranked the heater all tge way up to annoying. I am just starting to enjoy the presence of freezing. Waking up in heat makes it irritating.

[Insert the perfect mixture of a melodramatic statement / sarcastic confession here]

For about an hour now, I've been staring around my room, wondering how long could I possibly lock myself in here for, while popping my shoulder blade in and out of its place. It sounds like someone chewing on chicken cartilage. I ball myself deep inside my bed, wondering when was the last time I woke up without wondering why I'm still here.

I'm in a bad way.

^ my ultimate understatement. 

can't think about getting slammed

because I'm too pissed at the sight of my face.

I'm fucking pissed

I'm pissed because I am stuck watching drag queens look fucking amazing unlike my scrub ass self. Earlier I thought about stabbing my face with all the pens that I own. Do you know how many pens I own? Sick of being hurt. Cry.

Oh well

Oh well.

ripped roll

Kneesock cuddles with all her victims. That's why I like her. I have one goal after death, qnd that goal is to be reincarnated into a black widow. How ever I'll go about that.
The other day, my pal and I agreed to sell our souls to the devil. I don't think my soul is worth too much, but I can hope for the best. If I can at least be half as bad as Kneesock, I'd be alright.

PS
I am mourning the very fact that I can't dance well enough for seduction. If I could be a gay guy, maybe life wouldn't be so tough.

early-twenties hobbies

drunk dancing
drunk breakdowns
drunk eating
drunk drinking
drunk chunk-it
stretching out beanies
stealing beanies
swooning over beanies
loving beanies
hate-crying
hate-eating
hate-drinking
hate-living
collecting spiders
collecting pens
collecting a liver disease
collecting sadness
collecting non-memories
blacking out
falling out
coming out
protruding out
selling out
crying out
over-eating
over-drinking
over-dramatic
over living
pissing
shitting
swearing
slurring
dying slowly
trying slowly
living lowly
writing nothing
reading nothing
watching nothing
listening to nothing
listening to no one
eating everything
drinking everything
hating everything
sorry for everything
sorry for nothing

post-sunday shits

I am currently shitting for the planet. I am shitting everything that I ingested this passed weekend. It felt like explosive diarrhea and I haven't had that since Ace left for Paris. Now I'm beginning to think that I had explosive diarrhea due to her summer homecoming. I have a bottle of Jaeger that I will become one with for tonight. Try and forget about the next few days to come. Still shitting for the world as I sign off now...

post-shitface

minor hangover
morning hair is banging
proud of my talented follicles
woke up with the bieber posters torn to shreds and a few new and unfamiliar objects in my room.
my house looks like it's sticky.
the floors make me feel like I should bleach them.
woke up alone in my room and was sad when I didn't see mak here.
went to the living room and she was curled up on the small couch.
she told me I got bad at some point last night.
she said I tried to run down the street.
I thought it was familiar of me.
there's still a bowl of gin and juice on the counter.
at six am, I scarfed two plates of spaghetti while laughing, watching Boy Meets World.
I am Eric Matthews.
I repeat I am Eric Matthews.
an alcoholic, cynical Eric Matthews. 
now I am thinking about getting another plate.
probably will
cody kept calling me fancy pants last night.
so a slew of defiantly deep-voiced drunkards sang happy birthday to fancy pants.
my living room said unhappy birthday.
yes
unhappy birthday.