marl lights

the lethal eventuality of a break-up peeks with an unreal velocity. the post-break-up fringe exists more so than just that. it is significantly symbolic enough to be a tangible spectacle. the post-break-up fringe is a newborn lifestyle. it wails and pisses and shits and eats and demands an exhausting amount of attention. it's beyond the impetuousness of a haircut that'll probably hang in front of a newly single face. it's beyond the newly craning neck muscle to acknowledge other birds. they are, in fact, risen anew. they beam or dim a different shade of light. they are forces that insist to be reckoned with. proceed cautiously from here.

i can't stop listening to katy perry

what's happening?

join me on this journey

it won't even hurt

i hate this fucking planet

my parents are racist as shit and it turns my face red. I don't know how many times I have to explain/fight over shit before they understand that they don't have to be robots/slaves to this system. Old world views are so stubborn, it's rough to get my hands around it. My blood is curdling, and I don't think I can change the way they think. Maybe if I got shot dead by some fuckboy cop, maybe they'd understand then. Nothing like cold-blood empathy to shake up comprehension.

I'm getting this dreadful feeling that I'm going to grow my hair out. It feels like betrayal.

inevitable unhappiness

cold, wet parking lot
warm, wet faces

are we choking on this?

customer concern

It's typically the parents who make such asshole customers. Truth be told, I still end up being a passively condescending ass. Customers are not always right. Sometimes customers are just fucking assholes. Eat a fucking dick to all the fucking assholes.

god damnit

my stomach divides and churns and i can feel the sickness rising up to my throat. it's putrid in my mouth, and it's bitter, and it's even sicker that it isn't supposed to make me puke. more like having someone else's puke in my mouth. why would i ever open my fucking mouth to gag on someone else's? it's just selfish of me. i'm dry-heaving fucked up images in my head. i could almost forget, if only my idle memory didn't flash me mercilessly.

dynamic douchebags

i tell a lie, she sucks her teeth.

i tell another lie, she tells me I'm lying.

i grin wide, she says whatever.

i grin wider, she rolls her eyes.

disconnected

reminds me of that twilight zone episode. you know the one.

i have reasons to suspect that my eyeballs are melting. i think they're melting and they're trying to slither away from me in the form of a puddle. sticky, escaping glob. i also have reasons to demand a spare pair of eyeballs, just in case I want to see again. I'll apologize in advance to whom or what I'll demand another pair of eyeballs from. it might occur in the unexpected event of some haze that I'll surely find myself skulking towards. (but hopefully not, fingers crossed). i'll attempt to make demands from none other than my own person. hopefully i won't have to kill anybody in the desperation of acquiring another pair. so. much. hope.

i bet i could whip up a killer eulogy though.

teething, again

a cute face that made me piss myself. pissing myself like there's always a cute face to look at. couldn't tell that i was embarrassed. couldn't tell if i was offensive.

this morning i took a cold shower, and i think i wept as i shaved my legs. i hate watching leg hair sever from me then swirl down the drain. who froze the pipes? who fucking hates me? probably just ex's and their ex's. I wanna make stew out of all of them to find out what it's like to taste their contempt inside my mouth. If I puke them out, I must not find them very convincing. If I keep them in, I'll just shit them out anyway, like everything else I put in my mouth.

It's funny to swallow a lover, isn't it? That's what I consider comedic gold.

what do i call you?

i say awfully hurtful things sometimes in attempt to preserve my pointless pride.

silver water

Read the story, you ninny.

very true

"Luckily no one is patient enough to read all these."
-my sister's writings on one of my notebooks.
That's how I feel about writing. I have all these notebooks. All these scraps of paper. All this media. But seriously, no one is patient enough to read any of them. What's the point?

get real

I occasionally have these moments when I realize that I will never have anyone who is as beautiful, if not more or even nearly, as Shannyn Sossamon. That itself cripples me from everyone else. What is up with that? I don't need that goddamn woman to be that mind-blowingly attractive. My eyes think that it's kind of grotesque how gorgeous she is. And I'm irritated. I compare every single attractive face to hers, and every time, I consistently conclude that all other faces pale next to hers. But I'm irritated because I think she's been haunting me since I first saw that goddamn face. It's lousy but satisfying to go out of my way to look at pictures of her. And forget watching a movie. It makes my palms sweat and I get a little manic. My god, humans can be so ugly. Some genetic make-ups are just ...yikes. But then there are those rare fallen fucking angels. And I swear, she must be the face of the devil. A beauty like that, get real.

This has been a weird rant that kept getting weirder, brought to you by self-consciousness and sheer envy/lust.

shadowed protagonists

anne welles is to neely o'hara as esther greenwood is to doreen as sal paradise is to dean moriarty as nick carraway is to jay gatsby as fred is to holly golightly

if i think too hard for any more examples, i might altogether quit writing anything forever. it's depressing because i can be so aggressively narcissistic. 

but it must be some psychological root as to why I get myself so incredibly partial and attracted to the shining, shitty characters. just because the protagonists are shadowed, doesn't mean they deserve less of my attention. ain't that just the shit. fuck all the gatsbys and all the moriartys and all the golitghtlys and all the rest of characters that the narrator centralizes on.

(I'm just being bitter because as long as i aspire to write, then my personal character gets pushed aside. And I'm the type like all the listed above. It's probably why I can only manage to write well about my friends. [You're lucky to have me]).

SMIRKS

(This has gone way too far).

cavil

it's not poetry, you know. what's happening here or out there. i've adopted that it's syntaxy droppings. funny, empty little prose. funny, empty little clever and deep, deepening voices. a smooth, relatable cadence can't bloom it poetry. even a pretty, attractive cadence can't rot it poetry. peculiar indentations and peculiar spacing and peculiar line breaks, a peculiar poetry they're all meant to be. they're kind of exciting when the thrown up letters are more notably uncommon. they're kind of enlightening when the gurgling voices are suspiciously unfamiliar. syntaxy droppings, syntaxy droppings. excretion of syntax. excretion of excretion. it doesn't count if you've finished reading it and it gave you nothing. and it doesn't count if my rapport with repetition has fooled you into thinking this an exception. 

get out

it was a speckled notebook and an intro to some book

disgusting, sugary swill nudged away the favored, precedent sickness

everyone was asleep by then

i skulked in my bedroom, staggering and soaking wet

i dragged inside the mud

my floors smeared with black out

i must've fallen on a bush near a puddle because why else was i soaked

i must've been in the middle of the street, or the middle of my lawn, there was a rousing discussion about, oh i don't know, probably life?

i woke up in bed with my pants on but without a shirt

now I'm staring at my mud smeared floor, deep deliberation for how to rid of this goddamn mess

i wasn't tanked at the party, i got tanked when i was finally in the quiet of my home

happy hollow scumbag

swalloween

alright ramblers

Let's get ramblin'

Trays of quiche and trays of lasagna: this is how I first dealt with death. My mother's father died sometime in April during my seventh grade year. And my father's father died the following April. There was no grieving period for me. I didn't get to know either of them. They were also bastards. Both with side-families with their mistresses. But all I can remember were the trays of quiche and trays of lasagna that I'd eaten for weeks during those deaths. I remember thinking that I could eat those foods to my life's end. And I still feel that way. Just the other day, I found myself attached by the hip with my tray of lasagna. I ate the entire fucking thing. And when I finished, I wanted more. No doubts, no regrets. My mind has been so distracted lately that all I can manage to write about is how I indulged in trays of quiche and trays of lasagna as a grieving method during the death of both my grandfathers.

What trepidations an idly hysteric mind brings.