Currently getting destroyed by my first hopeless, straight girl crush.
There's this cool, sick, pathetic hollowing happening inside me. Like a chill excavation that I'm watching as I sit on my couch; my feet up on the coffee table and my hands clasped behind my head. So this is what hopeless, merciless disappointment feels like.
How could I wear this blank expression so hungrily?
I'd just like to take this moment to admit that I love everyone at my work. I'd like to be adopted by my newfound Vietnamese family. I would like to be engulfed so much so that the traces of my being Filipino gets washed away and I am born anew. On second thought, I will never wash away being Filipino. I can't complain too much. However, I'd still like to be able to understand what everyone is saying, instead of numbing myself at the thought of hearing just sounds. I learned one word though. Just one. One 3-letter word. Take a guess.
I'm noticing this idiot pattern where guys will more likely respect a girl if they've got a boyfriend. Key word is more likely. And by respect, I mean "be hella wet about." Humans are weird bruh. We will never even come close to being as great as sea otters.
Can't tell when I've stopped comparing myself or my life to anybody's. Can't tell how I'd brushed off some gargoyles off my shoulders. Can't tell where I'd gone the passed few months and how I can now manage to surface up. I feel kind of sunny even when I'm low. I feel kind of pleasant even when I can hear it whisper. I didn't realize how cavernous and malicious it had been until I'd gotten my first breaths back. I'm still probably choking, but at least the wringing has loosened.
I never thought I'd have to be anxious or concerned about accidentally having wet dreams on someone else's bed.
Never thought I'd become obsessed with annoying someone and watching their eyes roll.
However
I have lately been laughing till my sides are sore.
I have also had swarms inside me for days on.
The former and the latter have no relation
-wake up on the verge of coming
-watch eyes rollback
-cry and drool
-was that a moan?
-gets weird
-hits on everybody's girlfriends
-excessively compliments
-excessively talks mad shit
-inquires about everybody's well-being/comfort level while simultaneously making everybody uncomfortable
-"these fucking assholes..." points at general group of people
-picks up Scottish accent
-slurs in French
-swallows dignity/self-respect for the sake of uncontrollable and chaotic freedom of speech
-is an aggressive feminist/lgbtqa warrior
-is apologetic but also persists to be a douche
-rich until the well runs dry
-pukes in your luggage the day before your departure
-creates bizarre call log
-seeks life advice while simultaneously giving one
-airs out insecurities
-hits on everybody's girlfriends
-hits on self
-puts arm around the nearest available shoulders
-loopy and emotional
-loves to hold hands
-what about college?
-dies
In my experience, being offended may only occur if the the offender (or their opinion) is valued by the offended.
I'd just been deeply offended, and I can't fucking believe it.
Word count for root word offend: 6, counting the bolded root
Word count for root: 3, counting the bolded
Word count for word: 5, counting the bolded
Word count for bolded: 4
Word count for count: 9
Uhm.
This took a swerve.
This newly found confidence I have in myself tastes like ice water. It's the kind of magnificence where I'll screengrab a picture of my face from my own snapchat and then fucking stare because I think I'm fucking adorable as fuck. It's sass slaps pervading idly. It's smug smiles and a melodic fucking laugh. I am my own dream boat, and I smell fantastic always. I guarantee it.
You know that last scene in Carrie (the original) where her bloody hand bursts out from below the dirt? That's me. That's how I've been feeling. I'm that bloody fucking hand, and I might love you like I love me.
Goodnight.
The moment I realized that being with someone isn't going to cure or solve or fix my head was the moment I knew not to regret ever letting anybody go. It was the moment I stopped pressuring myself to "find" someone. It was the moment I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I feel better than I did a year ago. Two years ago. I feel better because I'm smitten at the thought of myself. I figure if loving someone is going to fail me, and if having been loved wasn't enough, at least I glorify myself enough to stick both my middle fingers up and nod along carelessly to anybody's dull standards. The inner mechanisms of a manic depressive, hey.
Jesus fuck, I'm relieved that all that pain was worth it. Jesus fuck, I'll be as narcissistic as I want to be and never apologize for it. Jesus fuck, if I ever decide to step down my own pedestal to put someone else there instead, I'll bet all I have that she'll be prime as fuck. Or he. I'm mercurial enough for that.
Last night my pals and I ranked all my exes from least fuckboy to most fuckboy. That's the moment I realized that I'm sickeningly done with heterosexuality. That's it. I'm grossed out and passed all the dick. Every single one of them was a fuckboy. It depressed me into premature slumber. I'm in this bizarre stage in my life where I shudder at the memory of having a fuckboy penis inside me. Shuddering right now, as I type this.
Thousand apologies to younger me for not knowing better. For not realizing you deserve so much more than the track record of goodie guys with average dick.
The next time you see me with some dumbass Filipino guy, check if I still have a pulse. (I bet I won't).
I can feel my tiny little gay heart attempting to sink its teeth into one of those fucking deadly ones with the vicious, glistening smiles that ask me for my insides.
Through denial, I would buy a lung infection for this.
Nothing feels better than being a server to all the lesbians. They tip better than the best tip I've ever had. Wink, bitch.
One Ariana Grande song getting stuck in my head post-work is one too many Ariana Grande songs getting stuck in my head at all.
"Have you ever felt numb with contempt?" ..was my moment to shine who I truly am, even for just a moment. I am the nefarious one.
I will not regret playing favorites between coworkers. I like the ones who bare their teeth.
But I give a half more shit when the kitchen staff gets pissed off.
I might be sorry about the server-complex that I am starting to develop. Still more sorry about the lactose intolerance that I have certainly developed.
Maybe we can't be friends. I'd feel too bad.
It's alright to outgrow people.
It's alright not to laugh.
Ina Garten is truly comforting.
Lactose intolerance is just further proof that life is full of compromises.
Be altruistic. Be fucking kind. It won't kill you. Hufflepuffs are not lame just because the series made them seem like wimps. Cedric Diggory was a hufflepuff and he was FANTASTIC.
Moreso, don't fuck people up. Don't do it. Cruelty is such a human concept. And it's embarrassing. Don't destroy people. At least try not to.
Understand what you're really tripping about. I mean REALLY.
Coffee makers change lives. I drank decaf last night just because. I know I said death before decaf but people change.
Also, sleep will trump most things in life. The only thing that could win a battle against sleep is hunger. Although, I am a firm believer that the Sleepless Games would make a finer series than the Hunger Games. Imagine a tyrannical dystopia, delirious from exhaustion, and fighting for survival. Jennifer Lawrence will not participate. I'd make sure of it.
It's alright not to finish notebooks cover to cover. A few blank pages are nothing. The measurement of a year doesn't define you. Remember the art of letting go?
Imagine yourself at the airport and impetuously deciding not to go to baggage claim. How important are your belongings that abandonment isn't a problem? Maybe that could also apply for emotional baggage. Fuck it.
Southern California is insanity. Southern Californianians are insane. I want no part of it for as long as I can help it.
Be your own coping mechanism. Friends are just varieties of coping mechanisms. We are each other's goddamn coping mechanism, wouldn't it be a ball to be your own?
Optimism comes in bursts. Pessimism comes in crawls.
Stay sharp.
Do you understand control yet? Is discipline a thing again? Can I manipulate my chaos yet?
"Oh please" is the only phrase I need to speak an entire language. I can reduce my speech and entire diction with "Oh please" and it paints volumes.
Have a laugh. Just have a laugh.
i have a goal right now and it's to wear pant suits. Back off.
I feel like sophomore year all over again when I blew up so carelessly. I can't live like this????????
I took a selfie with some ship because I was in a chill mood at some point today B)
(That is, disregarding the livid rage that consumed me during other points of this trip. S/o to the SoCal population for blowing chunks).
I come home to the bay soon, just in time for ex mass eve. (Not soon enough though). I'll surely survive. Maybe if I hold my breath, Christmas will whiz by me without any sense of realization. I'd like that. I don't hate it, but I certainly can live without this holier-than-human holiday.
Cheers to the rest of you though. Stay happy, ya filthy animals B)
If I've known you enough or at all, be sure that there's already a fictional version of you floating in my mind. There are no exceptions. I've created your stories, every one of you. Any one person I've met could elicit for me at least three characters. I read through these stories and, unaware of it, picture a face I'm acquainted with.
One day, my god. One day.
slap on a whitening strip and drool.
I like splitting my lips open and pressuring out the blood because the stinging makes me feel cute.
Hold on to my belly aches. I'm still upside down.
sorry about being such a weirdo too
and being creepy sometimes
and for all the intended passive aggression
i just don't understand warmth right now.
Real luv must be the glorious days before my laptop left me. I am now merely a shell of the person I once was. When I sulk sadly, it's a guarantee I'm mourning my lost friend. The thing was my best friend. It was the only computer that I never felt the need to use an incognito window. THAT MUST BE REAL LUV.
I don't think I could even get myself to own another. I'm ruined. Nothing will ever be good enough.
Where's the goddamn remote?
I still can't bring myself to listen to that shit.
Hello it's me again.
It's four am and a distant helicopter outside is mimicking the whirr of my stomach. Thanksgiving had just passed and I'm already thinking about next year's feast. If had a choice between having freedom of speech or possessing some high-tech gravy dispenser, guess which acquirement I would choose. I'm in an intimate cahoots with gravy. Leave us be.
Haven't felt like sharing any thoughts lately. I've been sleeping on the foot of my bed for two months now, along with spending an inexcusable amount of time in the living room, melting into my couch. That in itself is an evident indication that I am experiencing a transitional time. The dull buzz of television programming I still find comforting, like some childlike relapse. I think it's the scheduling. Every program had a slot and you can always expect it to be on at that time. At this very moment in my life, I know ABC Family's schedule for when I need to numb my brain. I know the according channel of every late night talk show host. I know to tune into Oxygen when I feel like marathoning some show. Reality programs such as Becoming Nuns is slowly easing itself into my preferences. When I feel calm enough for decency, I watch HGtv. I wrap myself up with blankets and I fold myself into a vegetable, wasting away on my couch.
Furthermore, I've been having less and less desires to be outside, spending time with my own friends. At most, I'll hang out with jaws because, get fucking real, that's the most comfortable time I spend with anyone. I don't miss company, and I can't even tell if that's unhealthy. Tomorrow. Maybe I'll get out tomorrow. Or maybe I'll just hope that work calls me in. I spend my days off waiting to be at work because at least that way, I'm getting paid to be around anybody.
Speaking of, I have not been getting asshole customers lately. I've been getting a lot of great tippers actually. It might have something to do with the fact that I now pregame before any of my shifts, which means I unavoidably become more convivial and less scrutinizing. I like my job (right now). But I've already got my guard up for the moment I start hating it or being bored by it. Stay tuned.
We're spending the holidays in San Diego. We pleaded not to end up in souther California. We really pleaded.
I'm exhausted now.
We can all be exhausted.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
i say awfully hurtful things sometimes in attempt to preserve my pointless pride.
"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?
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.
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).
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.
I'm not going to pretend that Robert Smith is ever just a passing thought.
Pornography on perpetual slap.
Sike, discography on perpetual slap.
My soulmate is probably someone who would refuses to smile for pictures. My soulmate is probably someone who would never order me to smile. My soulmate is probably someone who wouldn't quiver at my adorable cruelty. My soulmate probably has an irresistible recipe for mashed potatoes. My soulmate, if I know myself at all, is probably myself. Modern romance has never felt so satisfying.
A distant cousin of a panic attack, conveniently located on a couch shitted on by the same dog over and over again. Comforted close by a body pillow that belongs to that sassy little thing. It wasn't like I was imploding (like how I feel now). It was more like I was being dismembered in this agonizingly slow manner and then tossed aside to dissolve. Scorning at forced kindness but relaxing those chipped shoulders anyway. Stupid, stupid child. The demons will have eaten away at everything, and stupid, stupid child will still probably be grateful for it.
Poured out earlier. Pardon my weather report, it's just really nice to have a morning like this.
I almost forgot about the fact that this giant retriever with giant paws very insistently tried to hump me last night. I was just having a casual smoke with my friends. And this dog that I kept calling Cody (who was actually named Buster, my b) kept pressing his face on my thigh as we all stood around. Mind that we were informed on the kind of lonely dog that he is. Also mind that I'm not in any way a pet person. I had been taking a drag when the dog got on his hind legs. My very initial thought was, 'Oh this is cute. He wants to dance or something.' What astonishment washed over me when I realized that he wanted so much more than to waltz with me. And as I tried to back away and push him off, the damn bastard kept trying to mound me. I found myself in panic, in such great panic that all I could manage of myself was my helpless back-shuffling away from that goddamned dog. He was insufferable. No matter how forcefully I pushed him off, he kept lunging at me anyway. Eventually my appalled panic became so unbearable that jsmke had to pry the dog away from me. And beyond the prying off of me, he had to hold him down to keep him off for the rest of the night. I'm sad to say that I felt violated. I was supposed to understand. He's a dog after all. A dog locked up inside an empty house all day all the time. But I felt violated anyway. I felt my trust being broken. I thought we became old chaps, the dog and me. I petted him. I was kind to him. I even grabbed his face and told him we were friends. Well, the night went so bad that he had to be closely supervised around me. As in, my buddies had to take shifts watching him because every time the dog had a moment to himself, he would seek for me and try his best shot. I couldn't sit down, and every time I found him near me, I kept a chair between us. I was actually quite mercilessly unforgiving. He's a dog after all, sure. But even dogs should understand acceptable behavior. Neo-feminism has me by the throat, and I can't excuse a damn thing. Not even the poor behavior of a fucking dog. I did feel slightly bad for cutting ties with my quadruped pal. I couldn't even look at his face. But I felt his risen anxiety when he noticed we were all leaving. He knew he'd be alone again in that old, creaking house. My heart ached for him, but I still couldn't look at his face. Not even to say goodbye.
What strange relationships I build with everything.
I talk too much and too fast for someone with a scalded tongue. Does my face always manage to sneer like that? I've been in and out of consciousness all day, and every time I'm awake, I'm be greeted by hot stomach aches.
There is something about a malevolent scorpion spider that resembled a black lobster looming over my thoughts right now. But at least it's keeping me from falling back asleep and then waking up to small puddles of drool.
I hadn't seen it coming. I had just been wolfing down the food specifically ordered for me. When i put down the chopsticks, i felt my stomach whine at my speedy gluttony. Then it became too quiet, and i can't remember the rest.
The next thing that i do recall was having my head down, talking outloud to myself through such broken sobs. I kept rubbing my eyes with my hands, and I had stared down at them, smearing off the mascara as if i wasnt crying at all.
I always forget that i hadn't quite gotten over it. And i always forget that i end up here sometimes, sobbing and talking to myself about how much my chest hurts because there isn't anyone else that I'd have the courage to even speak to about it.
I wasn't even drunk. I was just really broken up about things.
(Of course you do, you nosey bastard, why else would you be here?)
I get pissed off when I realize I have a bummed and sad look on my face while watching someone walk out my front door. (Very particular idiots cause such a face from me, I realize). Nobody gets to dictate why I have a bummed face, please see yourself out this page because I bet you're not one of them. If you are in fact one of them satanic bastards, see yourself out also since I want nothing to do with you anymore.
(We all say shit we don't mean)
(Don't excuse me, it's better off that way)
(I can tell that the more you read me, the more you like me)
(But fuck off)
to my selfie rampage from last night, you fucking fucked up because those will be gold when I'm gone.
Goodnight to all the sensational idiots who fucking get me!!!!!!
There isn't anybody that I'm alright with calling out for. Uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable, constantly.
I remember having to condition myself with names. And how I'd idly call out such a name, in fear. Or such a name, in panic. Or such a name, in boredom. Why the hell did I let that happen?
i do have these moments when i sincerely ask myself and the cosmos if I'm gonna go out amy winehouse style
and the people that knew me would shake their heads in pity at the thought of my exit from existence
and mak would never have another drink ever again
and the eyes of the person who finds that corpse would glaze over for just a second before the cold comes
and I'm taking a spicy shit right now and my ass hole hates me, both for engorging in too many spicies the previous night and for typing out this winehouse absurdity as i take a spicy shit.
a tuning fork
a lasso
wax seal kit
silicone spray
ribbons
a manifesto handwritten by someone i know
an oar
a handmade coat rack
spackle
jerry curl wig
roller skates
a playdoh sculpture of julius caesar
an apron previously owned by a butcher
meat cleaver
whittling knife
this originated in bremen, germany. accomodated by a young friend. indulged on such a stifling, quiet night.
list scribbled, insults scratched. counted approximation over fifty, doubt smirking. another list of shuddering shit and a thought that feels trivial:
i kept someone particularly so i can have someone to write letters to. i liked having someone i felt a coward to tell a truth to, in which i turn to composing these enveloped things to hand out so goddamn sweetly. i don't have that now so scratching lists and scribbling insults will do.
bremen, germany? guess of the word i have cutely associated with that little city.
of the most obvious regurgitations, pierce through the most accessible...
staggering, pointing, slurring at the common workers of laboring indulgence. i was irritable, although i felt bad the next day. i was fatigued at first and was discouraged by the way my mouth hung open at my inability to articulate in accordance to a demanding intention...
it's morning and I'm daydreaming about plates and plates of fish. tried to squirm back into sleep, but then i stressed about restaurants. I've been stressing about restaurants because soon they'll ask me what i want, and I'll panic into a decision that can't ever please everyone. i spent an hour on yelp, but i only ended up downloading brickbreaker and playing for another two. diurnal participants vibrating through a communicational wall that never expects response until late in the afternoon, if there'll be a response at all. i have to go back to dmv today...
It feels like being eaten and dragged at the same time. And no one is recording and no one is laughing and no one is taking eyes off the tv. There are tucked away receipts as acting scripts with no typographical errors and no insincerity and no exclamation marks. Be lucky to find a comma. Be lucky to find the receipts at all, and if so, proceed to being a person and criticize the penmanship.
It feels like murmuring apologizies while being eaten and dragged. But the murmurs are gurgled with shoddy contempt. Contempt worth seven hundred dollars, plus tax, plus service fee, plus a plea on your knees with your hands clasped. Hand over sixteen digits, acquire an entirely different receipt from the ones tucked away. Grab a screet shot, forward an email, put one leg over the other, and pretend there isn't piss dripping down. Wet, hot, and sticky; it feels like relief, when really you just forgot that you're already half eaten and your skin is open and raw from the dragging. It feels like relief anyway, like the way salt foams the snails.
i get giddy about having two desks in my bedroom. then i get creeped out when i realize i have two desks due to an exponentially gradual and crippling obsessive compulsion that came at me hella outta pocket over this passed year.
I've been stiff about my shit, and it's weird for it to have such a hold of me.
Hey.
It's me again.
Currently 0745, and these avian things are making sounds at me. I won't mimic (mimicking birds played cool stuff the other night though, glad i saw them).
There was something i wanted to say, but thinking now, i don't want to say them anymore.
I'm at a constant internal battle between wanting to share my thoughts and sentiments versus pushing for an insane level of privacy.
Keep in mind that i will never make up my mind.
When I read it, at first I thought it was about something in the forefront of my mind. But I put my phone away, I tuned into a movie that I've seen three times, and I rolled over in my bed, caught by the blackness I had drawn. Then everything in the movie reminded me of things I only allow in small, accidental doses. There is supposed to be something dying inside me. I can feel my calves twitching still and my feet are cold, as they always are. I am deflated, but the wrong things are dying inside me.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
