plotless

"I don't know what to say to you, but I know I want to talk to you."

I once read somewhere that you don't just find another soul by accident. That, implying fate and disregarding coincidental sequences. But I never quite believe the things I read. Just the same as how I never read the things I believe in. For the most part, I don't believe in anything. This is something that took me a long time to understand about myself. I don't believe in things. I have nothing to prove and I want nothing to gain. I relinquish explanations into another plane of existence that doesn't contaminate with mine. Because of this, I shrug a lot. Because of this, I am stagnant a lot. But this isn't all too much about myself anyway. 

I once read somewhere that you don't just find another soul by accident. There are reasons. There are purposes. There are intentions. There's a destination and a resolution. I haven't quite figured out what they are and when I should encounter them. I do know, however, that this has the last track same as the sound of a car crash. 

"I don't want to do this right now, I just want to see you." 

The sound of a car crash repeats. The sound of rim on gravel while the neighborhood peers out their curtains. The sound of gagging. The dim, dopey lights. The groaning of anxiety.

We talked about how we didn't quite fit into each other's worlds. Like jamming towels in your already full luggage last minute. She said I love you while she laid on my lap and I drove us home. She said it like she's been saying it for years. Like a sentimental salutation over the phone. I said it back like I was on one knee. "You didn't have to say my last name," she smiled. And I knew she liked the ring of it.

"When do you think this will end?" she'd ask. "We can't keep doing this." I never answer because we both know we don't want the answer. But I'll kiss her anyway. And she tastes like always. Not like a promise or a swear. Just a comforting always. Like taking in a breath. I haven't loved in a while, I realize.

This will not end well. Our unwillingness to sacrifice each other's worlds is the sound of this crash. Maybe it won't even be a crash. Maybe it'll be the sound of fading out. I'll take this happiness for now. I'll love as much as I can now. Because she feels damn good. And I forgot how good feels to be loved this sweetly. If it was all up to me, I'd gamble everything. In the mean time, I'll just drown out the sound of the end with this pounding in my chest. 

pavement gazing

the anxious neurotic and the manic depressive

smoke breaks and dysfunctional affairs
sick stomachs and sick shifts and sick uneasiness
stubborn uncomfortable
noses stuck up and mounted on giraffes
try to laugh right
laugh and try right
life like anvils
let's just have a smoke break

every morning puppitos

dear delight,

romantic

"Aye. You got me?"

"Ye I gotchu."

Nothing warms my heart like being gotted, to be very honest.

daytrip with honeybear

aa

these assholes have been my bestfriends for as long as i can remember

th

rare pic of daddy skydiving in the pool with my pet pool spider

smitten soft serve lost in the sauce

best friends

"And in his eyes he had the look of the cat who inspires a desire to caress but loves no one, who never feels he must respond to the impulses he arouses."

Anaïs Nin

Daddy's Home

To celebrate the homecoming of my beloved laptop, I sit here on my desk bearing the undivided intention of a complete and sincere entry. I can't remember the last time I was here, but everything beneath my fingers feels like home. Granting myself my own sentiments, this is has been a long-awaited happiness. 

As I was driving home a few moments ago, I thought about what I would write about first. What I would publish out first. And the only solid content that came to me is how I am my own static character. I'm flat. I have months worth of evidence (years if I'm readily to return to my typical self-deprecation).  But maybe it's too soon for that. Or maybe it's all too tired for that. Something has changed, surely. Unfortunately nothing that I can put in my own words. 

My dog is asleep on my bed. She, and this moment alone, could keep me contently here for quite some time. She's got the hiccups. Maybe she can sense my excitement. But really, she'll just happily lick her feet beside me, and I'd probably do the same. My girl and I are meant to be together, and this is the first time I am experiencing this type of love. 

As for my well-being, I still have all but significance to say. If it's possible that I have less to say, I couldn't be surprised. I don't feel miserable. But the stagnance remains. The looming nothingness remains. I talk and think less about death (maybe?). I talk and think less about most the things I'd obsessed about. My focus steadies on my entanglements. Distraction after another. All to avoid the seriousness that's always bored me. I might just be relieved that I haven't felt hateful in quite a long time. Pat myself on my damn back. 

Half of my friends are graduating and getting on with things to get on. I peer into their lives sometimes and take note of this pride I have for them. This spectator happiness that I nod their way. It's comforting really, to know that somebody could be doing alright. The other half are getting more lost. Or staying off. Or breaking down. There's a silence for that, but we don't talk about it anymore because there's nothing to talk about. The silence is to confirm what's already understood. "This too shall pass" being the sound that echoes intermittently. 

To close this off, I'll confess that I had been watching the Warriors' games. It brings me nothing but anxiety, frustration, perspiration, and embarrassment. Unfortunately, I will see it through till the last game. I'm in too deep now and I currently do not know who I am. Can't even tell if life is better off this way. No matter, I raise my eyebrows to myself. 

babies

baby

baby

fuckin homies

cute friends and cute girl

soft/wet

been fly

Life

I am indescribably happy for Sof.

I think I might be swelling with pride.

lapin

My couch and cold sweat. If I'm not on the goddamn phone, I wake up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. Drenched enough so that I'd have to change into dry clothes. I have these mundane, tedious, but dreadful dreams about work. Like I'm constantly being grabbed by the head with these huge ass grubby hands pushing me down. I sweat more than my best 3mile run. I sweat more than my best cum. If I'm not on the goddamn phone to sleep, this is how I sleep.

I feel weaker now than I did before. Lazier. More lethargic. Listless. I hate missing my previous job for how easy it was. I hate how mentally grueling this new one is. I can't even describe what makes it so unbearable. I just know I can't keep still.

My father hates me for being drunk all the time. My mother hates me for being drunk and for being gay. Didn't anticipate just how homophobic she is until she found out. It's stormy in this house, and for the first time, I'm sincerely considering getting the hell out of here.

I somehow always expect things to make sense the longer I live this life. But it just keeps getting more confusing, less satisfying, and a fuck load more tiring. And annoying. I couldn't forget annoying.

I must admit though, there are the few things that clasp me by my hand and shake me awake.

chained

enslaved by pretty pussy

handsome baby girl

by ace's house

me, actually

cc cheer

Newport hundreds bummed like an entitled vacuum, the kind dogs fight with. I watched a toilet overflow and refuse to flush. Then I stared it down and quietly hexed it. After 5 long seconds of stillness, the fucking thing swirled down just the way I wanted it to.

Georgie, my darling sweetheart baby. I'd never heard anybody talk so loud and so carelessly. He said that every city he touches turns into "f*gville". Then we touched some places together and even those turn into his own pool of goo. Charming fucking man. I feel unstoppable with him. The queen and the queer. And I'm certainly not the queen.

I can't stand counting money.

The difficulty of grasping a very particular fact is astounding. Not everyone can make anyone come. "You didn't come?" Get out of my fucking face. It's becoming more clear to me why I stayed as long as I did with my last relationship.

I revealed to Georgie that I'm not actually a lesbian after spending weeks of allowing him to assume so. But I also told him that I don't fall in love with guys. Homoromantic bisexuality, but who wants to get into that shit? I am starting to like not receiving the assumption that I'd be straight. Still, some people are fucking clueless.

FSU at it's peaking point. FSU and Ace isn't even home yet. FSU and I keep finding new rock bottoms. Fuck shit up, fuck shit up, fuck shit up.

This is me trying to get over this. This is me trying to get over her. This is me burying my face somewhere else, anywhere else, so long as I don't think about that face.

bad fucking week

every single day

Am I acting up again

straight fucked

I didn't need to say "bless you." I didn't need to buy mouth wash. Didn't need to apologize so often or say it's ok. Didn't need to say hi so fucking cheerily. Didn't need to justify why prostitutes should be protected too.
I didn't need to wait for phone calls or peer out the window. Didn't need to sing along to songs I went out of my way to learn. Didn't need to be the designated driver. I didn't need to hold a goddamn hand, with the other on the wheel, while craning necks for all those kisses that I pulled my eyes off the road for. I certainly didn't need to let pry open those pages or read aloud those short stories until I heard the light snores. Killed the sarcasm and professed nightly, I didn't need those either. I was fine not needing. I really fucking was.

knots

In the morning I smell like Mexican food and at night I smell like seafood. I smell like heaven during the in between and I probably taste like it too.

Stabbing. Slicing. Grazing. Cold metal and no clothes on. Trash and cash in my pockets, covered in half-chewed spearmint gum. This is devious. The air out is dry. Moist palms but grabby hands.

I will stack them however I please.

ss mf scoundrel

My tendency of hitting on other foo's girlfriends is starting to get fucking out of hand. Bad enough for me to have to acknowledge. Too into tryna steal your girl. Fuck.

I can see the look on all their faces that they're itching to punch me in the fucking face.

burnt

that's me. I'm burnt the fuck out. I'll get whipped in the face with this overwhelming urge to quit everything. Every now and again, the thought rises and it comforts me. But I know I wouldn't try that shit again. I can't even fucking think straight right now.

tuna

This idiot loves me.

constant house attire

ss 15 hours daily/60 hours a month

I replaced alcohol with this beautiful girl.

I replaced my complacence with a quieter nod.

I replaced frigidness with kisses to my dog.

I replaced my temper with sweating and soreness.

I even replaced swerving sarcasm with transparent, embarrassing, and absolute truthfulness. (But that's not always).

My contact list is at its bare minimum. I tripped for a little bit until I realized I had no reason or urge to trip at all. I'm so calm and it's fucking lit. It's candle fucking lit.

Everyone I know seem to all be smiling about something. I've been smiling back, I just haven't shown it yet. 

In between reality and delusion, there's this one thing always looking at me, and it's the one thing I'm always looking back at. Small hands, soft eyes, and a propensity to be both breathless and at peace.

This, right now, is my favorite kind of hunger. It'll eat me alive eventually, but I'd still rather be eaten by this than the nothingness that I usually let swallow me.

1 part stable, 2 parts sprung

My chest is swollen.

I am both devastated and elated. Things feel eerily fine right now.

But I am also very suddenly aware of this overwhelming desire to be a better person.

ss rough

I didn't know I was looking for someone who will massage me in return just so I can know their hands.

Red lights flashing.

ss rough

I didn't know I was looking for someone who will massage me in return just so I can know their hands.

Red lights flashing.

ss squeak toy

Third straight morning like this.

My bed is spotted with puppy piss because I keep her cuddled here while I'm dead to the world.

I puked in my trash can then topped it with dog shit.

I'm tired and disoriented and flattered by all the fucked up shit I've been encountering.

You can rest all your pretty little heads on my shoulder and I'll categorize based on scents of your hair.

I can see you can't stop staring.

1 of 2 favorite existence

This is the other thing that keeps me up at night.

ss black out

Woke up with bloody, bruised knuckles and a faint memory of calling out a name

I feel like a teenager tryna spew out about being a teenager.

I spent an entire morning on the phone, dribbling, and letting my dog bite open the wounds on my fingers. She licked off the blood while I professed why I can't think straight. I confessed why I can't sleep at night. And I lied about having regrets that I don't have.

I could've sworn that I swore this off. This is fucking typical.

Kitten the piglet demon monster

My best friend, confidant, partner in play, and nap buddy. 

center bind

there's no comfort like writing on the two pages of the center of a journal. like unloading piss when you've reached a toilet. kind of like that. maybe.

will get squished like an insect

willingly

I get terrified at the thought of my youthful years, my younger years, when alcohol never existed to me. How did I manage these one-on-one dinners with people? How did I manage to converse? How the hell did I manage building friendships and do I want to do that again? I'm panicking.

i get anxious when novels are beyond this size because i know it won't fit my small ass back pocket.

I'M REVOLTING AGAINST THESE SMALL ASS GIRL POCKETS.

ss vile

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?

ss pals

very well

ss guap duty

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 fuckin surrounded

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 am not, and never will be, obligated to have a thirst for life. Neither am I obligated to love life. I am here and that's the best I intend to offer or display; my aimless, erratic, and unintended presence.

ss alternatives

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?

drunk me, unapologetically

-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

Deeply Offended

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.

Things to hate, 2015 till infiniteen

•rapists
•racists
•sexists
•homophobes
•meanies

ss screenshot

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.

gorgeous

holy toledo

That's one handsome son of a gun

constant disposition

ss me

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.

ss shit

i can't be up at six in the morning actively thinking about you. that's too much. I stare at my fucking ceiling, listening to my organs shifting inside me.

It's because i smell nice.

I know it.

cute

thirteen billion years ago

This friendship has survived catastrophes

A+ for horrible people being friends till the end

Sorry about the sleeping

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).

shit head

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.

head tilts toward apathy

i felt nothing at the sight of it.

Finally.

lucky sake

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.

repose of the sad body in the silent grave

books with inscriptions make fine gifts. Especially when you find it wedged in between baby jesus and baby jesus' manger of the nativity scene on your front porch. 

heater up to 69 but never 70, is this kid a perv

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.

braless and harmless

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????????

uss midway day satch scratch

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)

Senti mental

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.

ditch the dentist

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.

frightened eyes

it's not four am, it's two, but this time zone i know is otherwise.

There's a veritable draining coming out of me. This is it. I've been waiting years for this.

It dried up.

sorry about being such a dick

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.

feather report

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?

fm radio

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.

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.