very fun gal

TBH

I don't believe I'd ever met anyone brilliant. Whom I thought was brilliant. Ever. It might be best that way.

woke up face down ass up

I hate leaving my candles lit when I pass out.

I've been fly as hell lately with my dad's baroque as fuck shirt and my fly as fuck hat. It's like a uniform for being home.  (My god I have a headache).

only leather......can make me feel this way

romantic as hell ma

Royals OG left for their road trip to Napa. I dragged my amp to the living room and slapped shit with my annoying ass energy. (I even slapped Lost in the Woods just to test the capacity of the bass). We kissed them goodbye and told them to drive safe.

I was slappin again in my room while pairing up a mountain of socks when I received a romantic as hell text from my mother. That's stinking cute.

have a swell day as swollen as my nips

*-*

sulfuric methane

This morning I thought how The New reminds me of Moonlight Sonata. It reminded me to poach an egg, make a cream sauce, and boil pasta al dente (unlike my usual carby mush). Coffee Black--Tori Black's annoying and high-strung cousin. Everything I make gives me a stomach ache. In the middle of a home-cooked meal, I deliberate as to how sick and queasy my food is making me. Rate me an average of 7/10 on the grotesque scale. As I was choking back vomit, I read through Nietzsche's goddamn arrogant and pompous WHY I AM SO WISE. Thought about how I could never feel that way towards my work (mostly because I don't have any work to feel that way towards). ZARATHUSTRA, stay away from him. 

Today is my last day being a nanny for the Law boys. Fuckin' Clair De Lune kind of sleep, kind of clarity, kind of morning. Kind of incessant in the morning, that third movement of Suite bergamasque. The fuck? I just feel so annoying today. Haven't heard myself talk in days. I might be getting the flu. Maybe I'll be dreadfully ill on my first day Monday. But already I'm daydreaming about how I'll get fired for misbehaving worse than what I heard the runts behave there. I will miss Matthew Law so damn much. 

DAILY TIP (no pun intended because I am celibate): BE A CRIMINAL. 

it's my birthday tomorrow

you're past, past prime

my grandmother thinks i'm gay

my grandmother is suspicious of me. it's not really a secret. i just don't want to talk about it. what's there to talk about anyway? my grandmother thinks we're all gay, probably. (gay).

auntie virus

Immediately upon arriving home, I locked my bedroom door and spread on my floor. I sketched a sum on a blanket that smells like cockroaches. For five darling hours now, I'd been holing away, downloading a sad pile of sad songs, and glacially eating cold ramen. I'm wearing a hoodie for fuck's sake. It's high school all over again. My record player is struggling to blare music preeminently. I want it superlative. I want it paramount. That's how young I feel right now. The only difference between me then and me right now is the fact that every few minutes, I now massage my back in attempt to obliterate these malicious knots. My apprehensions lie on the fact that my computer might get a virus and how the ramen will keep me bloated all night. 

I will date myself whether I like it or not. I will pursue me. I will court me. I will swoon over me. 

(Maybe)

(I'm hopeful)

(I'm a lot more fun when I have only myself to impress)

(parenthetical bull shit is my shit)

wordpress, i barely know her

I spent a good amount of time on blogger, just clicking the 'Next Blog' link on the top of the page. But every damn blog took me to a runner's blog; guide to a runner's life. Or some family's blog. Or media reviews on the worst shows on tv. So finally I took into wordpress to find something...more. I just wanted to read people's thoughts. Personal thoughts. I found this guy. I'd only read that one entry of his, but even that was enough for me. Now I'm late for work, as I always am. But ye. Alright. 

Click this link to see whose blog entry I thoroughly enjoyed

ctchr in th ry

I'm listening to the National Public Radio on Remembering JD Salinger. 

As obvious as Hemingway, Salinger, to me, is on the other side of the spectrum. Same damn spectrum. Same damn spectrum that I now deem guilty pleasures. 

A sixteen year old just read the last few lines of Catcher in the Rye, and I found myself annoyed by his affectation. If Holden heard the way he'd read it out exaggeratedly, he would've called him a phony. 

But anyway, I finished Catcher in the Rye again last night. Since I'd read it the first time as a younger cub, I'd grown to really detest that specific book (which is why I was always so surprised when I found myself enjoying Salinger's other works of literature). But I gave it another shot, and I'm biting my tongue. Endlessly, I vilified how unlikable and downright annoying Holden Caulfield's character was. I hated the way he talked. The way he shat on everything. The way he moaned and denounced everything he encountered. All his observations (I felt) were a denigration to appease his bitterness. I hated him. Mind that I was in high school when I first read this. I'm now twenty-two years old, and after last night, I regret to admit this, but I hold this book very close. Still a guilty pleasure but finally, the book spoke to me. I even found myself near tears. As far as I'm concerned, we read books and watch movies and listen to music in hopes to find ourselves in it. To connect with the ideas and characters and experiences and the poetry. But we are also too hopeful to want to see ourselves in all likable characters. In characters who possess exceptional traits or experience exceptional things. But Caulfield is the exact opposite. He's everything we don't admire in ourselves. When I began to read it again the second time, I felt the same irritation I felt when I first read it. And I realized that it's really just a reminiscence of how I felt before. But when I started to pay attention and read unbiased and open-mindedly, that's when I wove a connection. That's when I related. The things he said about people and felt about people were all things that I know I've claimed before. He was as sardonic as I am now. Refer to every single one of my little entries here and that'll give you enough evidence as to how I find Caulfield so fucking relatable. He was a lonely guy looking for someone to talk to, but everyone he encountered was too preoccupied with being tedious and self-involved. The self-involvement about people that he explicitly enunciated was an exact reflection on himself. His denouncement of them didn't take away from the fact that he was also self-involved. In the same way that I'm so arrogant and reserved and judgmental, I am also just as much of a narcissist as anybody else whom I've disparaged. Take the selfies and the tweets of the people I follow and how I so openly belittle them. After my slander, I go on here and type out my own issues. Everything about me, no matter how evident the self-loathing, is entirely self-absorbed. Narcissist at heart. Crying about not knowing how to be a person. I'm not a tree. I'm not a squirrel. I'm not a dog or a cat or spider. I'm a person, and I don't know how to be. That's my fucking problem. (And also bad bitches). 

Give it a read, if you haven't. Or don't. Just don't be a phony about it. 

my excellence:

being pathetic
complaining
bitching
whining
not talking
not making eye contact
talking mad shit about self
straight dissin' self
lost in the sauce with self
internal monologues
internal war
holding in piss

corner temper

For alone, I don't feel too cold. I'd been perspiring more, in fact. A year ago, my body craved the heat of the seasons. The warmth of almost nudity. The fucked up sweat in fucked up places and the fucked up breathing of the fucks around me. It's a new year now and I have promised nothing. I will further promise nothing, and I'll lay around with the blankets pulled off. This is me sulking for a year and some. This is me idle at the bottom. This is me bad. This is me at refusal. Me at contempt. I wake up bored and uncomfortable. Then proceed to my days bored and uncomfortable. Better days I think things will fall into place, but I'm the most terrific liar I know and denial is my sidekick. I surround myself to three of the same faces and I cycle through three of the same emotions.
I'm not happy and I haven't been in a while.
I'm really fucking pissed off and I will be for a while. I wish to be sad, but I have on my devilish ways now and I got ten on me that I'll destroy everything I have left. 

spectacular weight gain

it's not the binge eating

it's the binge drinking crampin' me up

what's good with all that 40 I had last summer?
or the reds I inhaled the past autumn?

thick keeping me warm
thick keeping me too warm

toasted

im a firm believer in lying, and im a firm believer in truth.
no matter how idiotic, i don't believe in excuses. either lie or tell the whole damn thing. i refuse space for anything other.

aka

determine how truthful or deceptive i am.

ps
you're exactly like me.
who ever the fuck you are.
i guarantee.

melted prongs rusty tug

yesterday I woke up sad and talkative. I talked till all my words dwindled. I talked till my throat gave in.

I went home with my head face down on my lap. My wrists were faulty and gelatinous.  Seven sorry hours, then crawl to claim space I simply forgot was mine. I sprawled shyly, stiffly. I had my dinner vertically and choked on my water vertically. My dim lighting all of a sudden felt too bright, so I darkened it entirely, locked the doors, and chose to sleep. When I rubbed my face down on my pillow, I didn't recognize the smell. I ran my hands by habit and didn't recognize the lumps under my pillow. Crumbs crawled all over me. My feet were clammy. With my stomach flat down, I recalled a terribly ill memory. 'This is my bed,' I thought. This is my bed, but my mind associated it rudely.

I slept early and semi-deeply. I didn't dream anything bothersome. But I woke up today morose and still rudely associated. I don't want to talk. I don't want to leave. I don't want to think about the next ten minutes or few hours or days or weeks and certainly not years. I don't want to think about dreary ole time. I was never meant to be bothered. My door's already locked, but you're still bothering me.

:(

never going to meet anyone as cool as this punk.

"When I'm a teenager and you're forty, I bet we'd still be friends."

melodramatic strikes again

I've decided to read the bible. If I pick it up and it burns my flesh, I suppose I wouldn't need to read it. Devilish, devilish.