luv u

And the sight of you

undressed

has made a wreck of me

yeah?

this is what I look like lately, I guess

I realize I only take selfies when I've had a drink

Mmmmmmm shit

That was fucking weird

My bad

a holy hand gesture

it was a sunday afternoon. i was home alone, sat on the dinner table, glasses sliding off my face as i hunched over this laptop. 

i was home alone so i decided to watch ...nope, wrong guess. i was not watching porn. it was not porn, but i suppose some prick could argue otherwise. anyway, so i was here, slightly blushing at the viewing pleasure of such a goddamn sexy scene. it felt silly because i came to realize that i had never watched any sexy scene on any dinner table. dinner tables aren't for watching sexy scenes. family dinner tables are not for watching sexy scenes. but frankly, that fact didn't stop me from continuing to watch these goddamn sexy scenes. i kept looking around just to make sure that no one's home because, my god, dinner tables are not for watching sexy scenes. i had been home alone for a few hours. i had been absolutely home alone, but paranoia strikes anyway when the sudden realization of a boner comes stiffening up at me. (un?)fortunately, my nutty boner limped when i turned to my right and saw the statue of baby jesus giving me a vague half peace sign, half middle finger. i closed all the sexy tabs from the show that i couldn't even the recall the title of. minutes later, my parents walk in from the front door, greeting me. 

word count on the use of the word sexy: seven 

rip bay st

I will never be over it.

I'd been escaping coming home, but every time I try and stay out for as long as I can, I run out of places to be.

Tonight, I chose Bean Scene, previously Bay St (RIP, OH GOD). Upon ordering a mediocre ass tuna melt, a mediocre ass salad, and an average ass earl grey, I was informed that the establishment closes at eight pm. Mind that I arrived fifteens minutes before said time. I do recall my mouth actually flying open in reaction to such an absurd closing hour. So, I took my order to-go and again realized that I have no where else to be. Listen--let me divulge my current whereabouts. I'm sitting outside of Bean Scene with my mediocre ass meal, eating on the patio furniture, in the dark. It's relatively uncommon to find people dining alone in public, especially someone of my age and appearance (shout out to that xx chromosome). Already I'm receiving these half-pitying, half-suspicious glances from a number of passersby. Typically, being glanced at with such vague judgment by all these strangers would bother me to the point of muttering my profanities (but not quite enough to be uncomfortable). But I'm sitting here--slouching really--shoveling plants in my mouth and chomping on a sandwich like the smug scoundrel that I am. I'm eating a salad for fuck's sake and I can barely see a thing. This is a good fucking night. But the thing is, I never understand the kind of unease that comes with seeing some stranger eating alone in public. This is, by far, one of my favorite pastimes. I happen to like sitting in solitude without really having to be bothered with conversation. Maybe I'm growing more attracted to the sort of presumptions that come with seeing someone eat alone. I like seeing that look on their faces. Like they can't grasp what the fuck it is I'm doing here, sitting quietly, pouncing on my meal. I really do get smug about it. As if no one else around has a company better than my own company (shout out to Me, Myself, and I by Beyonce).

I miss Bay St. but I'm glad I'm sitting here, squinting down at my salad and sandwich.

PS. I heard through the grapevine that a Starbucks is opening next door. Thoughts? Jesus fucking Christ.

scaramouch

i keep using the word "strive" like i actually ever strive for anything. i don't strive. i don't actually ever strive. if i did, maybe i wouldn't be so often in this loop of a lull. i'm not depressed, i'm quite literally a depressive. you couldn't imagine the sort of brick wall that came flying at my face the moment i realized that. you couldn't imagine much of anybody's life because it's not yours. as far as you are concerned, your own thoughts and observations are fiction. you can't ever actually know somebody's else's life. everything is fiction, and i don't believe a god damn thing. 

if aliens were so highly intelligent and biologically advanced, would they really need light to land their goddamn space ship? wouldn't the moon be enough light source for them to land a goddamn space ship on goddamn planet earth? i think so, i really think so. i think that we expect to see lights when they visit us because we would have lights if we were to visit another planet. but they're not humans. humans are idiots. and idiot is a term coined with a certain sentiment, a certain emotion that only a human could coin. it's so pathetic. we are so very pathetic.

pratfall

Without acknowledgement or certain realization, I had always strived for this existence to be as elusive as it possibly can. I never strived for a sort of greatness. Or success. Or happiness. Or love, or what have you. My idiot self decided to instead shamelessly veer through life. This idiocy I'm so fond of, so proud of. It won't take me anywhere. Even now, I have my own head tilting to the thought of it. I lie still, wrapped in a wet towel, trying to remember how not to elude myself.

calvous

chewing red meat like a junkyard dog, glancing up to catch foreheads floating up the clouds

a smug squirrel had me terrified, I ran passed the sliding doors, clammy

I rubbed it off on my pants

I balled it up and opened to rub off on my pants

are I?

It's dismissable to be cold. It's unacceptable, however, to be cruel.

In light of the grimness that is seemingly my disposition, I'm optimistic to believe that I strive to do no harm. It's the simplest concept I live by. Although, I do believe in justifiable vengeance (i.e. don't cross my fucking path chris wies).

In terse summation, don't fuck anybody up. Fuck yourself up all you want, but leave the rest of them out of it. Because some shit stay with people. Cruelty isn't fucking cool man.

uncool shit

when I turn around to see that the person I'm watching a movie with has fallen asleep. I always end up feeling betrayed bruh.

Jaws is the only person I can watch anything with.

a manic depressive named laughing boy

and you let your bridges burn
with your secretive timing
she was a manic depressive named laughing boy

i take comfort in pretending to be asleep. i get tired of being tired, but i always end up retiring to lie still. my head throbs like a reminder. my head throbs a very unforgetting fuck. i have too many tendencies and i don't ever feel like screaming. groan from one morning to the next. groaning grows quickly but exhausts quicker. it's laughable because this is what alright looks like. this is what fine feels like. this is for treading, because the passed months have been worse. the passed months were vicious. so if this calm is what alright looks like, if this calm is what fine feels like, i can't begin to think about whether this is worse than what i've felt was worse. 

they all died cheerily

nun of my business

cute fam

hey.
it's me again.

i've been in la for the most part of my last few weeks. what's up with that? summer's coming to its end and i'm home again. this is probably the part where i share some stuff from my small ass dome (small dome, smart girl, don't. get it. twisted). 

ace's place is nowhere near furnished. for four nights, we slept on the floor. my back aches the way old age manifests itself into agony. (it's bearable [if you're a grizzly bear]). but her place is still cozy and didn't at all smell like ass hole, which i am entirely grateful for because that was my main concern. one of her friends fucked with my tape recorder though...that got me itchin' for a quick minute. i itched enough to mention it again now. nbd though, i swear. 

fyf was excellent. (as excellent as a festival could get since festivals blow for the most part). interpol, bruh. just. bruh. phoenix was also a cool time. we lost our granolas during earl. because bruh. bruh. and the strokes were average to subpar. average because the strokes aren't all that terrific live. subpar because they headlined the last day. but still, drool and i two-stepped for the entire thing because how else do you deal with below-average live performers with a fat fan base? (we were drunk boys at the festival). bummed that i didn't get to see slowdive. kinda bummed that we missed joyce manor because of the festivals inadequate accommodation. cool about little dragon, which i was surprised by. 

the weekend was mostly excellent because of our cute fam time. very cute fam during cute things like going to museums and having fat family lunches and taking cute pictures. what's with all the cute? we're gay as fuck for all this fam shit, but i mean, go fuck yourself, you know? we keep it in the family. undercover softs, passive-aggressive banter, sarcastic exclusivity, arrogant bastards, shit talk out the shit holes, mean appetites, etc. 

it's cool to have people that you can stand. 

oakland, oakland, oakland

Yeah, I fucking love Oakland.

period blood brothers

tatsu

My mom's babies.

My mouth was sunburned (still is).

Magic Mountain, there's a drought.

cute girl

I like back rubs. Reminds me of being little when my granma or my mom would be busy talking to someone on the phone (or in person) and I'd just be waiting around, listening. And when I get fussy and impatient, I crawl to them and they rub my back, or pat me, or draw circles to calm me down. And almost always, it drifts me to sleep. Like I have a puppy complex (I have a fuck ton of complexes). Anyway, Mak spent an hour on the phone last night and I got a little fussy, so I curled up to her and she did exactly what my granma/mom used to do. Yeah, I fell asleep. Yeah, I drooled on her leg. And yeah, I felt like Yung Baby Ange for the first time since I was yung baby ange. It was so reminiscent, in the most comforting sense, that I wished I was yung baby ange for a quick minute.

Oh well. Cute girl with the glasses aka my granma.

boudin

sux.

it suck.

While everyone was stimulated by casual conversation, I had to shield myself from the intrusive sun. I was the only one in the entire establishment who was getting hit directly in the eyes by the goddamn sun. So of course they took pictures of me, sulking. Artistically of course, because look at me. I'm a masterpiece.

And also, I remember liking the food. But that shit just suck this time around.

le clair stitch projet

I documented this trip on my tape recorder.

All I've ever wanted to be is a cute boy. But if I was a dude with a tiny dick, I'd rather walk through life as a gay ass girl. I can't emphasize that enough.

We saw some turkeys there, so inevitably, I spiraled down an abysmal panic. But I didn't eat shit, not even once. What an accomplishment.

i stay posted with bob ross

i'm tired and

this is it.

this is what i want to occupy my time with.

cheers to that time i tried to fight matt

remember when i drank an entire bottle of bourbon and tried to kill scorca? remember how he physically had to disarm me because i had a fucking knife? 

what a time to be alive (or dead really) (i prefer my friends dead)

tomorrow i'll be driving to la. nobody likes to pack. 

i'd like to confess that i'd been listening to michael cera's album true that. i mean, i'm fuckin into it. 

ps. my secret life is steadily thriving. 

pps. very excited for summer to pass, yes 

"I hate birthdays. Not just mine. Everyone's."

Lifewise.

I confess that every year, I still get surprised that we're still steadily getting on strong. It's not my lack of faith in our friendship. It's just miraculous nowadays to have someone no matter what bull shit comes around.

I take my loyalties very gravely. It's remarkable to know you take us as gravely as I do. Even better that I feel like an exception, considering you easily let everybody go. (Thank you for making my head swell and soften, demon).

We still barely take photos together. But it's kind of nice that way. Having to hunt us down like this.

PS. We constantly look dumb as fuck in photos together. Either one of us looks like an idiot, or both of us. Most of the time me, but I'm not trippin. Is this why we don't take pictures? 

hachi

This weekend was my frowning housewife's birthday.

What a babe.

god fucking damnit

i looked back on entries from three to four years ago and realized what a fool i'd been. why would i upload my pictures on tinypic? now it's all gone. very foolish girl. 

soup

this might be one of the most terribly awkward portions of my life. i can't even really comprehend what i'm laying on. an egg maybe? i just know i spend a lot of time waiting. i think that's what makes this portion so awkward. waiting is always awkward. i hate that word, awkward. even the spelling is odd. the K is sandwiched by two W's which are also sandwiched by two A's. Then given by a rushed R and D finale. pronounced aloud and my brain immediately uses the inflection of a stunted, idiot teenager. So considering all that, i'll instead describe this portion of my life as one of the most terribly stiff. 

fuck that, i digress. 

who makes you laugh the most? and not out of humor or any sort of sheer comedic brilliance. who makes you laugh the most out of plain personal joy and amusement? is it your lover? your favorite person? isn't it usually? i can't tell who makes me laugh the most. (apart from myself considering it's a concrete fact that i have never once fake-laughed myself). i keep thinking about this lately. maybe i'm afraid to acknowledge the answer. 

fuck that. i digress again. 

i'm completely out of sync with everyone right now. i spend so much time with myself that i can't seem to flow normally with anyone i spend time with. it's like that moment of suddenly being too aware of your hands and then struggling to decide what to do with them or where to put them. my relationships with people feel like that right now. it's stiff. 

fuck it. 

i'm going to wash my hands of these irritatingly mundane thoughts. 

pride daily parade

i don't ask questions

and i try carefully

not to raise my eyebrows


chipped shoulders

and an entire freezing torso


steady legs

buckled by bad knees

and weak ankles


feigned tight-lipped

like open-eyed dead girls

and it's fact

that dead girls can't inquire at all

six slashes and it's wrong

Yesterday I thought about those dead sunflowers that I never got to see. I think I would've liked them more. But it was so exact, everything that happened. To me, I was robbed of a moment I would've glorified in the gruesome way I'd always insisted. But otherwise, dead flowers simply weren't good enough to be seen by me. It was excusable to me as sweet, but I was disappointed either way. I was always so disappointed.

There are so many fucking things I refuse to talk about. It's terribly overwhelming in the long run.

tequila bar

We liked it because they didn't card my prepubescent sister. She was a crotchety elder before she had her first drink. I liked it because the ceviche was excellent and because I knocked over that goddamn outdoor heater behind me. I forgot that shots are expensive when you pay for them yourself. Few weeks of straight sobriety and I dove head first into a goddamn tequila bar. It was a good night, but I'm already tired.

The only hours I ever walk are six, seven, or eight. AM or PM, I don't care. I'm just trying to avoid the sun. I don't mean to under appreciate it, I just get so grouchy under that fucking heat. Also, my wardrobe no longer provides for summerwear. Everything I wear is too goddamn warm. I can't stand sweating when I don't insist it.

It's already August and I'm still steadily estivating. If I have tomatoes for lunch again today, I won't complain.

Yesterday as we sat outside waiting for our table, I watched some tall blonde standing by the street. She eventually walked away with her average-looking, wealthy boyfriend (or dad, maybe suitor?), but my mind was stunned by the envy of her length. Never before had I been brought sadness by my very typical height. In heels, she peeked at six feet, nearly towering her pal. And I stared on at her legs and her arms with a sickly burning in my chest and in my fists, cursing very quietly in my head. Is this how it feels to wish your dick was bigger? As much as I'd always wished to be a guy, I couldn't risk being the one with a small dick. My pride couldn't handle it. And if I did luck out and was endowed largely, my pride still wouldn't be able to handle it. In summation, I'd be a shitty fucking person if I was a dude.

There's a cool, constant breeze on my naked nape. I pet myself incessantly. I enjoy it.

Low tables are a joy. 

fortress

Schizophrenic tendencies have had a hold of me since the weeks worth of ostracizing myself from social situations. Blame my swollen face, my aching mouth and head, but mostly the wilting of my well-being. It's like I've signed myself in for rehab. Surely, I'm feeling better. Sobriety takes me back to some childlike state. Look at my fucking fortress for fuck's sake. I consecutively ate six goddamn popsicles. 

I miss No. 27 the most though. Maybe when I decide to be social again. 

An Aroused

It was faint but I heard his slow, wet footsteps in the bathroom. I imagined it immediately, his smileless, laughing shrug as he turned off the faucet. He appeared at the door while my gaze followed his wet prints on the wooden floors. 

"You left the faucet running," he said in curt amusement. 

"Did I?" 

"There's a drought you know," he  leaned against a wall, examining the changes of the room. 

"Is there? I've only heard of rumors."

I slouched into my chair, staring at his shoes. The numbness of sitting for hours discouraged any movement but the swiveling of my neck and the darting of my eyes. I waited for his shoes to squeak when he strode across the room and sprawled on my bed. Nothing but three taps. He laid with his left arm under his head and looked out the door at the trail of water he created. Irritated, I found myself cursing quietly. If he was going to lie down, he could have at least looked up at the ceiling instead.

"I heard they fired you," he said finally. 

"I thought I quit."

"They would accept any resignation but yours." He stuck a cigarette between his teeth and lit it. 

"I didn't realize they found me so valuable."

"They loathe you."

I turned myself around to face him, simmering a scorn that I had always been too quickly accustomed to wear. "Do you have to smoke in here?"

He looked at the expression on my face, froze for a moment, then laughed a full and joyous laugh. My scorn returned. His hands held down his stomach as his high time grew thunderous. 

"Put the thing out, will you?"

He wiped tears from his eyes. "Since when did you quit?"

"I don't smoke."

"There are cigarette butts all over the floor. In fact, I bet I'll find a pack under this pillow." Just as he waged, he slipped his hand underneath himself and pulled out a box. He bent over the edge of the bed now, joyous again. 

I was stricken stiff with contempt. 

"Those aren't mine."

"The pack is fucking empty," his laugh began to slow and he tossed the box on the floor next to the butts. 

"Is it?"

He sat upright on the edge, straightening himself and relighting his smoke. 

"I can't believe they would fire you. God damn." He tossed his pack and lighter to me, both landing by the legs of my chair with a flap and a small thud. His eyebrows quirked. "Shy today, are we?"

I turned back around on my chair and reclaimed my slouch. He smoked on and we settled for silence. I couldn't help but stare again at the trail of wet that he scattered all over the hallway and the room. 

"Do you mind cleaning the mess that your shoes made in here? Everywhere is soaked."

He stood up and walked towards the door then turned to face me. "You flooded the bathroom," he smiled, dropping his cigarette on a puddle underneath his shoes. The sizzle of it eased me into my chair so I looked up at him.

"Did I?"

Immediately, his mouth opened and his voice ascended to a sound cavernously melodious. "Strangers in the night... exchanging glances..." He turned around and walked away. "...wond'ring in the night... what were the chances..."

He sang until he was out the door, his voice carrying deep and deadening from outside through my windows. The silence of him cut by an engine, then silence again. 

Faithful to my slouch, I should've returned. Instead, I bent down by my feet and picked up the box and the light. I stuck one between my teeth then lit. Momentously, I dragged and walked through the wet, passed the hallway, and into the bathroom. I turned on the faucet and shrugged. 

As I slowly walked out of the bathroom, striding across the bedroom, and sprawling on the bed, I smoked and stared at the new trails I created, lazily humming the tune. 

felt pens

charmed

I sat like this for hours, anticipating for the anesthesia to wear off. Like some hazy daydream, my mind wound at the thought of storing all my bloody gauze inside my bulge pocket. It's been a fucking weekend without pain killers.

i sketched california and now i'm sitting here bleeding

i feel like learning something.

i sketched california and now i'm sitting here bleeding

i feel like learning something.

my trouble

my trouble with people is that there are certain instances when i cannot tell  apart someone from someone else. i confuse the purpose and cause of occurred/occurring relations. (i can't even continue this thought because i can't grasp what point i'm trying to get across. i just know there's something i want to get across). my trouble is that beyond the levels of connection, everybody begins to mesh with each other. that's my trouble. there's a hierarchy of importance/significance, isn't there? whether unsaid or declared. my priorities regarding everyone had been before solid and certain. but as years pass and drifting comes more naturally, everyone becomes everyone. yet i'm still uncomfortable with the idea that everyone is everyone. you should always be able to set apart where your heart lies from where it doesn't. but lately, time has been silly and i'm beginning to claw at how dispensable anybody is. i'm as dispensable as the next. passed significance and inevitable heart breaks, passed disappointments and so-called broken promises, there'll come a point when anything and anybody is no longer necessary. to quote somebody i share the same genetics with (my sister, if you just can't figure), "When you're having a good day, just remember, there's only one to a coffin." That's not cynicism. I won't classify that into cynicism. It's an imminence that shouldn't necessarily string along contempt. in attempt to word this more simply, anybody can and may or may not be anybody. 

(this is poorly thought out and i don't think i was able to express what i wanted to. but it's in there, in the ether of my dome, my thoughts and suspicions about life and people. i just can't quite get it out yet. i gabbed on because i wanted to get the idea out. i'm undergoing my personal transitions regarding all my relationships because i let everybody drive me fucking mad. i'll finish what my trouble is another time, perhaps once i've reached a sort of revelation with myself [pff].)

startled at the sound of my own amusement

There's something terribly therapeutic about scrubbing my entire bathroom clean and then showering in it right after. It's therapeutic in a humble sense, less self-serving or if at all indulgent. I come out of the shower feeling like it's cleaner than I am. (That might be a result of my own pride towards an excellence in scrubbing and bleaching it). A shower glimmering at me while I'm naked and glistening, it almost makes me self-conscious. Like it's met it's maker, when all along, the maker was under the water, scrubbing herself of the filth she absorbed from said shower. A swelling head my shower has. The taunting is stunting my shit at this very moment. I can't sit on the goddamn toilet without feeling guilty for what I'm dropping in it. The gall of this damn room.

Still I can't tell if I'd rather stride in here chin up, with the fresh smell of piss harassing my senses while prudently sitting on the toilet, hoping the film of scum won't volunteer me as a host for new bacteria. Or if I'd rather feel inferior to the cleanliness that is my shimmering bathroom.

PS. That bowel movement was spectacular despite the internal war I stewed in whilst duration.

axel rex

"...and his itch to make fools of his fellow men amounted almost to genius. Perhaps the only real thing about him was his innate conviction that everything that had ever been created in the domain of art, science or sentiment, was only a more or less clever trick. No matter how important the subject under discussion, he could always find something witty or trite to say about it, supplying exactly what his listener's mind or mood demanded, though, at the same time, he could be impossibly rude and overbearing when his interlocutor annoyed him. Even when he was talking quite seriously about a book or a picture, Rex had a pleasant feeling that he was a partner in a conspiracy, the partner of some ingenious quack--namely, the author of the book or the painter of the picture."

Currently my favorite fictional character.

Laughter in the Dark, Nabokov.

a piece of paper in my bedroom reads "try not to crave listening to your own voice"

my mouth smells like sour mangoes. the best kind.  there are scabs on my knuckles that seem to get pinker and deeper and more eager to sting than when i first awoke with them, wet and forgettable. i'm missing my knife. i keep cinnamon in my mouth for the burn and aching of my jaws. crooked glasses on my face, readjusting and fiddling and twitching. i realized today i read poetry aloud terribly. i enunciate without cadence and stutter into an abrupt strain from one word to the next. anxious for a period, or a comma, or any punctuation to alleviate lines of dribbling. line break, pause, sputter nervously, and never catch a breath. i'm working on it. not that i anticipate anytime soon to read poetry in front of anybody. it just bothers me about myself. 

Jerk Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

still a baby

still a baby baby

wriggling

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

:/

been on this person's channel for a minute

hating, liking, and being indifferent. good range.

supine

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

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

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

bloody knuckles

My favorite game as a kid.

"I hate seeing you like that."

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

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

Bloody knuckles.

I don't want to know

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

a dollar and something

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

I think I love you, it's terrifying.

eternal sunshine of the spotless mind sucks get real

what else can i hate on?

nevermind, i'm spent tonight.

hello,

it's me again.

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

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

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

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

i made a salmon burrito tonight. unbelievable. 

maksauce

I don't love you anymore.

How dare.

not happy not upset

it's not a lull either.

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

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

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

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

this is not a lull. 

it's just early in the morning. 

i still really like foxing.

scratchy and dreamy

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

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

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

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

it's been mellow. 

eat a duck. 

night swims

I panicked that some unidentified shape was a turkey. How typical. Everything unidentified is a fucking turkey. My breath keeps hitching because of my lung incapacity. Nearly vomited just walking up, let alone surfacing up from water. In nothing than a second of a snap, I knifed through my unrelenting frailty. I succumbed to the infallible hole. My breath keeps hitching and my chest is stupid. I don't understand this. Like a sick repetitive cycle I still deniable clutch on. I can barely look away.

heart burn and gut ache

fleeting fucker, gone so soon.

welcome back the regular scheduled program.

nap made, the anti-sleep

i've rejected the autonomic practice of a circadian rhythm. (it's not a practice?)

flushing, right now. high hopes i don't vomit today.

my walk this morning was hazy and delirious. i walked in a strange, stuttering saunter. on my toes, darting my eyes at anything that resembled a bird. fremont isn't very exotic. no signs of turkeys. although, i crossed the street twice due to unidentified black figures on the ground. i kept thinking they were dying dead birds. both times, they were snapbacks. there are two idiots out there who lost their snapbacks last night. very high chances that i could've been one of two idiots. life is getting more difficult bobbing around without my glasses. but i will remain at refusal. keep it at shapes. 

(i feel sick now). 

nearly 3pm, the weather is overcast and the stillness is rousing up residual deliriousness of this morning. it took me some time to finally fall asleep this morning after my walk. it was a long walk around fremont. i was sweaty and exhausted when i returned home. but the two cups of coffee still coursed through my system, so i laid in bed and embraced the post-beer comedown, current-caffeine, and fatigued blur. my life consists of a series of sporadic naps rather than the routine of eight-hour diurnal sleep. 

i made a lot of stupid videos last night. i sent some of them to actual humans. i don't want to review what i'd done. next-day embarrassment is unbearable. 

real-time current thought: i have mad beef with my hair. 

:/ 

podcasts, bud light, and caffeine

hello,

it's me again at 5:22 am

instead of waiting for sleeping to conquer my person, i decided to drink two cups of coffee. i will not sleep. you will not make me. 

i spent four hours recording myself talk to myself. i said a lot of shit. all of which are not worthy of being shared, probably. 

5:48am, and i am out for a walk. dog daze. 

overcompensating infant strikes again

I decided to wear this shirt for another three weeks.

greetings from an unfamiliar device

i'd stolen my mother's laptop for the sole purpose of composing an entry without auto-caps. i don't know if my resistance from capitalization is becoming severe, but some things are just better off a certain way. 

hello, 

it's me again, the overcompensating infant you've grown to hate and love (i assume). 

it's been a charming day. 

yesterday was a gloom. last night was even gloomier. a tired kind of gloom that wrapped me easily into a sleep. grateful for it now because i woke up today without the gloom. 

my saltwater flush has been phenomenal. it's been three days. the first day was the best. i excreted thoroughly. i drank the saltwater like it was a bloody mary (i really liked it). the second day was a distracted effort. my gi tract didn't empty as well as it did the first time around, leaving me to return to the toilet more than twice. today was the worst. i'd been so distracted by the little chores that i had decided to take on simultaneously that i stretched my ingestion time too long. i made up for it by chugging the last three cups. a little over five minutes later, i projectile vomited into the toilet. it was all saltwater, all clear. but i feared the cleanse wouldn't settle right. fortunately, my gi tract still flushed accordingly. (then i ate a hot pocket, c'est la vvvvvirgins). 

maybe my mood was lifted by my clean bedding. who doesn't love a freshly washed bed spread, pillow cases, and comforter? i even showered for an hour and a half just so i wouldn't defile the freshness of my kingdom. everything smelled great. smell me, you darling dumpling. smell me. 

and although my body has been aching in ways never before familiar to me, i still managed  to bulge my eyes out with a sort of light you'll hardly ever see me with. i find it strange, sitting upright at this very moment. truly, and i repeat, i am so creepy when i'm happy. i understand this is a fleeting moment. this will change in a matter of hours, if not minutes or seconds. and tomorrow i may not awake with the same fluidity that today has brought me. but that griping is preemptively reserved for future entries. that's the beauty of these transient words. 

you'd been swell today because i'd been swell today. that's as honest as i intend to be in regards to our relationship. 

my heart isn't swelling, but i feel like laughing and taking pictures of myself. 

don't forget this, you sweet little dove. 

squinting and wide-eyed

All I ever want to do is hang out in a pitch black room with people I can stand most while passing a flashlight around, screeching and wailing till one of us (preferably all of us) passes out from lack of oxygen.

#summeractivities

But you can't cry in here.

We don't even have to talk or look each other in the eyes or try to avoid each other's gazes. Catch glimpses from a single flashlight then erase what you saw.

We can snack and draw and popcorn read in whispers once we're devoid of every scream that we wanted to scream.

#summerfun

Group naps inspire.

A darling slew, dilated pupils and open mouths.

granma

Granma, I love you, but we don't get each other. You also called me a gay motherfucker, not to my face. I can only kind of afford homophobia to the point of suppressed/perpetual uncomfortablity. Granma, I love you, but I do like girls. I can't translate these words for you to understand. You'll still love me, I hope.

#bingo

Sunglasses indoor

Crepe rampage.

Flush for a clean gastrointestinal tract.

White boxer briefs.

White tee.

White comforter.

White friend

Living room and the television.

Crepe.

Psychotic friends at your window in the middle of the night.

Knife fight like Two Bit.

Never be inclined to give a shit about everyone. Don't be ridiculous.

Quiet. Very quiet.

Danger Legs

Welcome my bouts of anger.

It's back and it's sharper than ever. Like aged scotch and its wisdom. A still, collected anger rooted from very particular and unidentified strings of shared sentences. Of words I deject the sounds of. Of verifications I'd rather deny. This is as difficult for me as I am in whole. With an overwhelming pile of shit to trip about, I set off at the most pathetic ones.

Welcome my bouts of prevarications.

I can't play cards well. I can't play bull shit well. If cards were humans and the numbers were thoughts and the suits were expressions, then I'd be the one with the least cards and the least intoxicated. You should see how pleased I get when I encounter someone who plays the role in bullshitting as committedly as I do. It's my favorite game. I can barely even introduce myself with my correct name without having the urge to blurt some other. It's easier to make eye contact as somebody else.

Welcome my bouts of anxiety.

I'd never been one to perspire profusely. Some things change. And some things never change. I can't tell where I am.

seventy forty

I couldn't go back to sleep this morning. Thought it'd at least be ten am. I am mistaken and I am awake. Also rip laptop, which means my idle time will consist mostly of staring at the ceiling or my feet or my hands or the back of my eyelids rather than my computer screen watching shit sense content. It's not so bad, I can afford more misfortunes.

Drove home at three am last night and destroyed my guts with nachos. I'm suffering repercussions now. Nonetheless my inane complaints, it's kind of nice out. I opened my blinds almost immediately upon waking and I'm not even cursing.

hide. hurry.

do i seem tense?

i may or may not be coming to terms with the the possibility of never being a published writer. or i may be coming to terms with the fact that i am more enamored at the idea of being a writer than actually being a writer. it doesn't consume me. it doesn't come out of it. it doesn't do anything to me. this could be an insanely indefinite drought of a writer's block, or it could be the end game. i don't have a voice and i don't have a dream. i'm not trippin, but i think i'm being honest. 

i don't seem that tense. do i? 

i need to borrow your tape recorder. 

you're not thoughtful. are you?

the show sold out before we bought the tickets. idiots, again.

also check out this sick yt comment pertaining to pity sex. i laughed out loud. 

day drinking daddy's day

She was supposed to drive home to LA last night. Instead we threw a party. Typical. Also I met the youngest Keokham. I held dude and he smelled like Cheerios and didn't smile once. Cutebug.

you're an island unto yourself

it's always been a silly fear. that i will undeniably identify with the neurotic characters that woody allen plays in his own movies. yes, there's a towering chance that i would willingly drive to your house at four in the morning to kill spiders so you can sleep. i most likely will never quit denouncing los angeles, be it the weather, the people, or the fucking soullessness. the ice queen is fantastic and the princesses are idiots. is this my copy of catcher in the rye, or is it yours? death; i don't believe it's an issue, but i obsess over it anyway. and sex; had i been born male, the world would have already turned its back on me. i'm attracted to dead sharks. self-inflicted nausea while i salt my chicken, relieved of opportunities falling through. eat the salted chicken with a fraudulent grimace. undermine the optimists. weave through and around to wipe the smiles off faces. i don't want to ever hear alvy's pathetic echoes when i move, but i'll secretly always like it more than being anything else. there are two kinds of people in this world; the horrible and the miserable. be thankful to be the miserable. 

this fucking movie is plaguing my mind again. 

"trippin over the same bad dreams"

you're looking throooooouuughhhh me

damn, i really love summer blood. i don't..care..anymore.. my soft serve ass has dissolved into the cushions. fucking sip me up. i'm not even sprung. or maybe i am. sprung off myself. 

It's after hours and I'm snacking on a bowl of fruit

I don't even know who the fuck I am anymore.

ass troll

8 am, still no sleep.

I've only gone slightly neurotic.

The worst part about this morning is how I am going out of my way to read up on astrology. I don't believe in astrology. Never have. But I got curious as to what the fuss is all about. I read enough to want to share the fact that I read enough. I don't get it.

Idgi.

I don't get the compatability bull shit.

Christ, I am exhausted. But I am also a libra. Isn't that neat?

Isn't that fucking neat?

(By punctuation and capitalization alone, you must be able to tell I'm typing away from my phone). 

I'm a libra, by the way.

trivial bag

at best, i try to avoid getting into detail as to why i think disney's ariel is a terrible character. i'll merely mention that i think she's a terrible character, at best. at worst, i go into very specific detail as to why i think disney's ariel is a terrible character. i want to be at my best, for now. 

if i did want to be at my worst, i would throw in my most recent gripe with disney and its maleficent. i shouldn't be at my worst right now. it's six am after all. 

an experimental horror movie called begotten (1990) has recently sparked my interest. it is, by far, the douchiest movie i have ever chosen to watch. it received a wide range of mixed reviews. most commonly, average-joe critics claim it to be a pretentious hipster (silent/black-and-white) movie that thrives on obscure, over-exposed scenes and symbolism excreting out of itself. (i liked it). i'm not sorry for liking it, but surely i am  deemed a douche (refer to comments section on youtube reviews). 

i don't hate the beatles. i don't hate the beatles. i vow to that. but i could absolutely live without ever having to listen to the beatles. 

my lungs are raw and ripe all at the same time. i keep screaming the medic in my car. i scream until i feel my head lighten and spin, and i more or less hope that i actually faint. 

lightning vs lightening, get it together everyone (i'm sorry about this one douchery)

orange is...nevermind. 

grace. god fucking damnit grace. jesus fucking christ grace. for the love of fuck, nevermind. 

it's six am and i still haven't fallen asleep. i peek at four am almost every morning now. by five am, i have my internal argument whether or not i should try to sleep or stay awake. it's always different. i have this sick feeling that i won't fall asleep today. i wanted to sleep earlier, because my yesterday was terrific. if i'd just been able to sleep several hours ago, i could've marked my yesterday a great day, which raises chances of having the next day (today) also a great one. (that sentence structure feels odd to me, it's probably wrong, but i am tired and feel no motivation to try and revise it). 

i feel sick. 

i wanted to make this as trivial as i could because i'm sick of clacking about my feelings. goddamn fucking feelings. "i feel _________." 

lately has been alright. i've been alright. but. it's the four am and five am that reaches for me with its long, eager arms, dragging me out from myself when i acknowledge i feel alright. it's the four and five am, dragging me along gravelly, breathless trips of a groaning panic into my pillow. it drags till i squirm, literally, under my blankets where my toes stick because of the sweat escaping every pore in my lessening human vessel. 

and i get so dramatic like this and so in touch with feelings once my body begs for sleep. and i start to refer to myself as a vessel. and i tell myself that a vessel is precisely what i am and what anybody else is. too tired for cynicism and too tired of my own shit, so i generalize to everybody else. it's easier because it's controversial to generalize, and obviously that takes the focus out of me and my fucking feelings. this has been a diversion. i got you. i fucking got you. 

maleficent was stupid. jolie got me. my mouth was open because yeah, she was fine as hell. but the movie was stupid as hell. i had something of a boner, but it was still stupid. it's seven am, i won't sleep, and i decided this one can be at worst. 

Omnipotent is the New Bust

semi-god-complex

binged

i know that guy

andrey, is that you?

left hand

jaws ran away for a few weeks because The Man said so. his main concern was not being able to jerk while he's away. 

that's a solid concern. 

this happened in my neighborhood this week

i turned a right on my way home and was greeted by this water park. all the neighbors were posted on the opposite side of the street taking pictures and recording videos. a few people indulged and pulled out their lawn chairs. when i got to my house, i went up to my sister's room and found her face red and puffed. she asked, "did you see what happened?" i said, "the geyser?" she continued to sniffle then exclaimed about California's severe drought. during the quiet nights, if I listen closely enough from my bedroom, i can hear her heart breaking about the goddamn drought. she's a sensitive dove about the drought. 

if i live to be that age, i want to look like byrne

i want to be tall
with white hair
wearing white suits
and dancing excellently.

(he's starting to remind me of mak's grandfather, i don't know)

also if i ever watch byrne perform this shit live, i would weep uncontrollably. like a sick baby.

big dumb baby

st vincent in strange mercy

annie clark pre-fashion show performances, yes this one

menstruation tunes

overly-emotional friends

i got yelled at for fuck's sake.

at this time of my life, i value my privacy and solitude above everything else. i not only value it, i relish. i scurry over to myself and am pleased about not having to be responsible for anyone or anyone else's feelings. i am, essentially, free (fearful, but free). i haven't necessarily burnt bridges as i no longer go out of my way to cross some. there are a multitude of bridges that i now can no longer even remember the sight of. (when did bridges become to metaphor for human connection?) 

i got yelled at for fuck's sake. 

you can never ask of anyone to break their own back for you. 

you can never ask of anyone to break their own back for you. 

i used to repeat saying this to myself whenever my precious little feelings would get hurt because of something or someone i can't control. you cannot control anybody but yourself, and even that can be taxing. 

i got yelled at, so i yelled back. 

not everyone is worth following to the end of the world. surely, you must know that. 

i got yelled at, without even bothering to put my car on park. 

so i yelled back, breathing evenly as i drove away. 

hey what genre is this?

i think it's leaning more towards post-porn revival on their debut album but transitioned to progressive wastecore on their sophomore. personally i prefer their newest album, despite some fans saying it's too sub-porn, creambop, and hoegaze transgressive.

  

i might've gotten sucked into the youtube comment sections too deep. i hate this habit as much as it hates itself. my adoration for fueling human hatred peeks in the fucking comment sections. but in an adorable laughable way. i have to go for a walk or something.

driving crying diving

why are you so intense