Phone Sex and Juice in the Fridge

“Power’s out” she said
“How many fingers?” she said
I pictured her splayed out on the twin mattress, curly hair like warm earth spread around her head, bare chest heaving tiny mountains of breast in the moonlight shining through dorm window shades.
Four hours and forty-six minutes away the room slowly cools.

I sit up, drawn back to my room by the sound of a bathroom faucet. Warm light reflects off pink walls left over from a childhood of princess fantasies, creating rosy glows and a sense of innocence that feels all wrong.. The full-sized bed feels too big.

On the other side of the room, I open a window, letting winter chill greet skin overheated.

ramble rimble rabble

1|

A man full of guts sat on the stoop
In front of my house with a briefcase in one hand and
His heart in the other

“It was my civil duty,” he said
And set the heart in the dirt and leftover autumn leaves




2|

The banana tree felt alone.
It cried to the birds.
It cried to the bugs.
It cried to the animals.
It cried to itself.

Nobody answered.




3|

She beat the piano!
Black and white keys bleeding red
Music screaming from inside a gaping wooden mouth
Somebody’s out of tune,
But we danced until daybreak in a haze of alcohol misty eyes and cigarette smoke.





4|

The hills don’t have eyes.
They can’t see the couple screwing in the dense woods.
The hills don’t have tongues.
They can’t taste the sweat from heated, passionate bodies.
The hills don’t have fingers.
They can’t probe her soft insides, feel her soft skin, feel his tensing ass midthrust.
The hills don’t have ears.
They can’t hear the moans and whimpers and soft cries of bleary ecstasy.
The hills don’t have mouths.
They can’t speak to her like he does, pleading filthy fuckery and hissing burning cumslop into virgin ears

Or so she’d have him think.





5|

The bear can stare
Its plastic eyes slightly askew
Its false furs matted with age
It’s mouth wide open, hole cut inside, filth from yesteryear
This is why we have yardsales


6|

I roared.
He roared.
She roared.
They roared.
We roared.

They audience applaud, we bowed, and the dinosaur orgy came to an end.




7|

“Bow to me.”
They pushed me down, but my eyes were still clinging to his.
“Your majesty!”
I cried to the king of the deer, his antlers mighty topped with a crown of acorns from the ambassador of squirrels
“I shall fasten you a salt lick sceptre! I shall fasten a cloak of fall leaves! We shall all be awed by your presence!”

He scoffed and rubbed his rack on the tree.




8|

The arrows rained down and we clutched the umbrella around us tight
The weatherman was wrong
He’d said they had orange feathers
Still, we kissed and streaks of blue pierced our livers and lungs and gizzards galore.




9|

The sea sang seashells to the dawn
And the whales carried the choir
And the shore caught the tune in salt and foam
And the hermit crab said, “Fuck this rock and roll.”



10|

“Hello mister fox.”
“Hello mister bear.”
“Hello mister owl.”
“Hello mister bat.”
Her shoes dragged dirt into the house, hair akimbo and dress askew
Her mother just hoped she was using protection.

I have secrets, secrets and a sick, sick stomach

1

I have secrets, secrets and a sick, sick stomach
That twists and turns and wraps around your words

I have heartache, heartbreak and wasted time
With other that never saw me like you do

I have scabs and scars, inside and out
Wounds picked at, opened again and again

But I have hope
And love

And maybe you can save my soul, though no one’s ever tried.

_____

2

A faint trace
Of stale cigarettes mingling with
Chocolate and mint
Dance across your tongue, tease my senses
Make me beg for more

Grey eyes
Gone in an instant
Like second hand smoke
I’m addicted to your love

_____

3

Author’s Word:

Perhaps it’s a little strange to write the author’s word first. I don’t really know, I’ve never attempted to write a book before, so try to understand.. It’s only my first try. If you’re even reading this, it means I’m finally succeeded in sticking with something long enough to finish it, and that it was actually good enough to get published. Hopefully, pigs aren’t flying. Actually, scratch that. Flying pigs would be kind of cool, if a bit messy. If this book has been written, published, and is getting good reviews, well, maybe I’ll even get a boyfriend. And I suppose that’s the first sign of the Apocalypse, so I suggest you hold onto your hats, grab a can of soup and your electric toothbrush, and run for the hills, a storms a’brewin’.

Anyways, I suppose this is really unconventional in that I don’t have an idea yet. No beginning, middle, or end. No characters, plot, summary, nothing. I’m just going to type, and see where it leads me. Hopefully, to the Apocalypse. Whether it’s a drama, or a mystery, a romance or sci-fi, once thing is for certain;

Like all great stories, it’ll start with ‘Once upon a time..’

_____





I haven't updated in a while, mostly because there was no reason for it. I've been to depressed and too busy to even write, 1 is the first thing I've written in a long time. 2 was written at least a year ago. 3 was..somewhere in between. It was just an authors not for the story I was going to write (Who is Maggie Moon?) but that never panned out. Oh, and I've found something else;

a frantic disaster,

a great calamity of human excrement dropped from a ten story building in midjuly.


I don't remember when, or why, I wrote this, but there it is. And another thing;

4

I am the static on a television screen.-m

I am the white noise of a radio broadcast failure.-a

I am the stack of newspapers piled in the garage- wrinkled, waterlogged, and browned.-m

I am the lonely library books of yesteryear, forgotten fiction musty and aged.-a

I am the love letters of soul mates dead and gone, bound by shoelaces and fine ribbon, lost in the unfinished basement of a great grand child.-m

I am the record on repeat, scratching and flickering like a candle in the wind, fighting extinction in sterilized stereo compact disc mp3 generations.-a

I am the woman on horseback surrounded by the comforting musk of earth rather than stifling exhaust stink, moving with her mount’s smooth three beat candace rather than the jarring leap of neglected potholes.-m

I am the shaking girl in her half-lit bedroom, sopping hair cut short for fear of bugs, paranoia writhing in skin like worms hours of shower-scrubbing cannot remove. Every freckle is a new disease. -a

I am the drug induced euphoria, a perception skewed by chemical- the only road to normalcy.-m

I am societies underbelly, a scavenger of truth and the unconventional filthy pleasures.-a

I am the haunted eyes of a middle aged woman- studying herself in a mirrored reflection, memorizing worry lines, crows feet, laugh lines- the time line of an inconsequential life.-m

I am the sinking realization of the meaningless existence we live, the cubicle mind and 9-to-5 brain cells dreary and hopeless and dissatisfied.-a

I am the doe, wide eyed and bright, unaware that the soft tread of cleft hooves has caught me in cross hairs.-m

I am the quivering hand clutching a cigarette in the cold, tips pink and veins blue- splashed of colour and bruised nails.-a

I am the skin of an infant, lumpy and puckered and pink where it ought to be smooth and perfect and white- flesh forever marred because of a mother leaving her unsteady offspring to fend for himself in a suburban kitchenette complete with the splattering oil of frying chicken.-m

I am the wild night, the drunken glory and camaraderie or secrets yelled out van windows to the world, warmth creating gasoline blood to set the heart on fire. -a

I am the bird in the still of the night, full moon’s sun light reflection casting the misshapen patchwork of tree branches onto frosty spring grass. I shriek into midnight. Over and over again, shattering the peace of the dead of night. It is to no avail. I am alone.-m

I am the tourniquet, strangling tendons the syringe with ignore- the veins with fill, inducing pleasure the world can no longer give, fear it will end too soon, shame you have plunged so deep, horror at the track marks and lost hours. -a

I am a decaying leaf, tumbling down a concrete path of ecstasy and comfort, dragged by whirlwinds of woe and malice, and stopped by the heel of your selfishly engineered shoe. -k

M is Marissa, A is myself, and K is Kaitlyn. This was titled Text Message SOS and when my laptop was wiped, I'd thought I'd lost it. It was recently uncovered on an expedition through my hard drive. They occurred over the span of one night, the text messages between Marissa and myself. The last one, by Kaitlyn, was added after a read through once I'd typed them all out.

About 6 weeks ago I was in a car accident. This is what was posted on my tumblr that day;

Today I was in a car accident. I was in the passenger side and the car got t-boned, smashing the whole side of the car that I was sitting in. The car is now totaled, and I just got back from the hospital. Thank got nothing is broken, but I am very very bruised and very shaken up/scared.

I cannot express how terrifying that was for me. Feeling the other car smashing into me, and then not being able to breathe, being so confused, pushing the airbag away from my face, still not being able to breathe. Just..sitting there for 10 minutes before I could crawl out the drivers side and pick the glass out of my hair and off my clothes.

It was horrible.

My brand new phone got destroyed, too. Thankfully, I still have my old one to use for now.

I went to the hospital a few hours later because I couldn’t breathe well still and my chest/lower rib area and right arm were hurting really bad. After sitting for a few hours and getting some tests done, it turns out I’m just really badly bruised.

So yeah.

Cars are nasty.

I am scared of them.

I am never going to drive.

Now, six weeks later, I am no longer having flashbacks. I am still very anxious when in cars, and that probably will never change. However, my arm, neck, and back still have a lot of pain. If I use my right arm too much, my hand goes still and becomes very painful, and the rest of my arm starts to burn and ache. My mother says it's nerve damage. Oh, well.

In other, startling news;

I..am in love. And that sounds remarkably silly and stupid, and I know it, but there's no other word for the way I feel about her. Or the way she feels about me. I am still so terrified of it all, because as of now..,she's the only one who has never hurt me, even accidentally, and that..is something that scares me. I keep waiting for her to turn and run away. So far, so good, though. Hopefully I won't fuck this up.

There's so much I'd like to say about this matter but I simply do not have the words for it.

All I want is to go back to her bed and sleep in her arms like I did that weekend.

I've never been happier than I was in those moments.

This whole town is so fucking depressing.

It really is. There's nobody to have a goddamn decent conversation with. I mean, sure, people are talking, but they're never really saying anything. Not to you, anyways, they're just talking to themselves about themselves and using you as a goddamn medium.

The last time I had an actual conversation was with Abby a few days ago, when we talked about intellegent design and creationism and how bitter I am about all of that and how even though we disagreed, we could UNDERSTAND each other. I can't meet anyone who understands me half the time. It made me feel pretty damn good for a few hours, that conversation did.

Before that, it was with that guy I met at the party. I was pretty drunk for most of it, but damn, that was a hell of a talk. I'm sure he was a shitty guy and all, but he called me the next day and was real sweet about how drunk I was and all. Gentlemanly, I guess. Didn't really change that he was a shitty guy, but that coversation made me feel damn good, too.

And before that was the night I took shrooms and it was wasted because half the time I was crying my eyes out and the rest of the time I couldn't even speak but that was a fucking good time regardless and I was happy and warm even if I felt so fucking alone in my big old room with the lights all pink and everything looking really rosy and soft.

I'm not saying every conversation has to have a point, no. I love just fucking talking about shit with people I care about. Just talking. Texting. Whatever. But god, it gets damn lonely in my head, with all these ideas and needs and fuck I don't know. I don't know.

All I know, this town is bumming me out. I just need to stop smoking so many cigarettes and reading so much because these books are all written by people I could have a good ass conversation with and it's really fucking lonely.

Katzenklavier

Things I have done lately:

1.

It was a cold September and I’d wasted away the day chasing fairies through woods,
but they had all packed up before the winter came and blew it’s vicious wind to chill their hands
and stop their fluttering hearts mid-beat.

The night was calm but cool and I stood on my driveway,
shrouded in darkness
my feet
and teeth
and skin trembling in time to a song I couldn’t hear,
the way they did when you pulled me close and held me tight as I’d cried over a world
so unforgiving and
so complicated and
so hard.

I could never understand why you loved me.

You were so good, with your eyes so big with lashes dark and full and skin so soft,
it pained me to touch it with my own
flawed and dry and rough.

I had to leave before I broke you, too.




2.

I once met a man
or should I say, I once saw him,

terrified to move as he walked the streets at night.

Confident in his two feet
he seemed so large .

And
I so fragile with porcelain bones and paper skin and lead feet rooted to the ground,
trapping me in his gaze.

I could feel his eyes on my flesh like cold linoleum on bare feet
though in the cover of darkness hidden between cars in the driveway my insignificant form could barely be noticed.

In that moment, I became an unmoving, breathless spectre, my trembling soul caught by those eyes.

He may have seen me and known his effect, but he moved on as he had, his pace never changing,
and was gone,
leaving nothing behind.

I have never cried so hard and understood so little.



3.

Barbara could tell from where she was standing that this man was dirty, scared, and probably on some sort of illegal substance. Since they’d been in the elevator, he’d pounded on the metal doors, sobbed in the corner, paced back and forth, and talked to his dog. She was grateful for the size of the elevator, that it was a bit larger than usually as hospital elevators tend to be, because to call the brown dog large would be an understatement. It was massive.

When they’d ran in here, they didn’t know that in a state of panic the elevators locked down. They didn’t know that in an asylum such as this, the elevators were industrial heavy-strength massive things. Nobody gets in or out unless the system wants you to. She’d tried everything, almost every tool in her utility belt she’d thought would work. But people who work amongst the people who are locked in these places know more than Barbara did about the strength of the mentally insane. One could argue they knew more than Bruce, but he’d been doing this far longer than Barbara. He’d dealt with a lot more. And he was the one that usually handled the clown she was sent here about.

Just after the first hour mark, when none of her tools had let to any improvement on the situation, Barbara had began questioning the man in the elevator. He hadn’t complied at first, just crying and holding his dog, but once he’d realize she wasn’t just a delusion in his stoned and panicked mind, he started answering. He’d come there with his friends. They heard the place was haunted and strange occurrences were common in the area. They were some kind of mystery team, this addict, some feminist with daddy issues, an aging prom queen and a man with severe control issues.

And the dog.

By now, having been sitting for a few hours, it was starting to smell. Rigor mortis had come and gone. This man didn’t seem to notice the state of his animal. He’d practically dragged it in, talking to it, laughing nervously, eyes darting from it’s lifeless form to Barbara’s hidden face. To the man’s credit, he couldn’t have known who was working here. He couldn’t have known how fast things would have gone down. He couldn’t have known how, over the last few months, after the death of Bruce Wayne and the disappearance of Batman, how bad Gotham had gotten.

And now this.. Shaggy, he’d said his name was, was stuck in an elevator with Barbara Gordon. It had been almost three hours. Nothing had noticeably changed. The air had gotten heavier somehow. Thirty minutes ago, Shaggy had calmed down to the point of just petting his dog and making small talk with Barbara about the places he’d been. Barbara had relaxed, too, sitting and leaning against the cool metal walls. By the time she realized they were being gassed, it was too late. The last thing she heard before she passed out was the doors sliding open and that clown’s horrible laugh.

The first thing she heard when she woke up was that same laugh coming from her.



4.

We were all pretty confused when the commercials started changing. At first, it was kind of funny. We’d chalked it up to advertising and the push in recent years to be quirkier, more memorable, more bizarre. But when the companies started coming out, suing the stations, swearing they’d never changed anything.. That’s when people started to get a little frightened. When the commercials kept changing, when it started slipping into the television shows, people started to really panic. Especially the children’s shows. A few months ago, watching Dora cry out his name would have been funny. A real fucking gas. Now? Not so much. Not when scripted shows came on in a language nobody could understand and the actors could never be expected to speak. Not when their voices came out in some alien sounding garbled tongue, deep and chanting the same lines over and over. Not when the newspapers suddenly switched to these ancient, I don’t know what. Tomes, symbols, scriptures.

I could recognize it. Of course I could, I’d read about Him on the internet all that time ago. I was a big fan. Hell, I’m so fucking out of it right now on anything, everything I could grab off the streets and out of the pharmacies and out of the liquor stores I’d probably look Him right in the face and tell him, “Hey man, I’m a big fan. You do great work.” See, the thing is, as I was learning about Him on the internet, so were They. That’s the funny bit about the internet. The exact people who shouldn’t ever, under any circumstances, get that information.. well, they usually do.

Way back when it first began, we laughed at the religious nuts who fled to underground shelters to inbreed for a few generations until they felt it safe to come back up. We laughed because we thought they were overreacting. They laughed because we’d finally all be gone. Too bad that whatever it is that comes back up, if it even gets the chance, had only just prolonged it’s fate. They’re just going to be eaten last. Right now, I can hear the people screaming. I can hear gunshots and windows being smashed. I can hear people struggling with the knowledge that shortly, He comes. I’d like to think I was smart. I have enough drugs and alcohol here to last me.. oh, a week at least. I’d like to think that I was pretty smart because, goddamn, it’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

I flick on the television.

“Hi! Billy Mayes here with OxiClean and Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn..”

what was normal in the evening by the morning seems insane.

The Piano Speaks

After Erik Satie

by Sandra Beasley

For an hour I forgot my fat self,

my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander

shimmying through the kelp in search of shore,

and under his fingers the notes slid loose

from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs

that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know—

a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs

and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree,

and under the summer of his fingers

the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

_______

minimum wage steals the night away
& morning always comes too soon

what's the point of being special if noone's there to see it?
midnight
one
two
three
halflit cigarette fills a porchlight with smoke

chases away the demons of the night

midnight to dawn;
this is the hour of the wolf


and we're all too fucked up to feel it
that sudden sinking
that unseen terror
we've no guns or knives or blunt sticks
we arm ourselves with nicotine
booze
steel-plated hearts

just to make it to the sunrise.




I've been experimenting with new mediums. My new typewriter for one, which is why only one poem of late. The rest wouldn't translate well. they aren't worth the time it would take to type again, anyways. Blackout poetry, too. Pages sliced from a book that now acts as a jewlery box. I've picked up knitting, again. I've picked up a new turn table. I've picked myself up and knocked me back down all over again.

It's been a while since I last wrote about life, and I suppose things have changed. I am still the teenaged mother, though with my aunts passing it's gotten easier and more difficult and I find myself snapping at odd times because I am the strong one and I can't, I can not, allow myself to become an emotional wreck again.

Of course, no matter what I do, I turn into a completely different mess.

I drink too much and I smoke too much and I hate myself too much and I am too out of control and too stuck in myself and too big for my own two hands and for this island and for people to understand what I am going through. It's all my fault, but I can't help it. I can't stop it.

There are so many blurry nights lately. I've fallen into old habits easy. And I want you to understand, I do. I just worry that you worry and it tears me apart. I let someone know once and they just couldn't keep caring. Not that I could blame them.

Missed meals and the ones had lost soon after with a quick little finger trick. Long digits are good for something, at least. Lately it's been easier. I forget sometimes, I do. But I am trying. It's just hard when I see the weight dropping off and the compliments finally come, the first kind thing my mother has said in years.

I am tired of being the disappointment.

I hate that I love the nights of fudge with shrooms that tastes like easter candy in august, chalky and stale and straight to your head, lights blooming like flowers until all the words are ripped from you and tears stream down your face. I hate that I love the numbing of the pain pills, the lightheaded giddy seperation from everything. I hate that I love the blackout nights, the sloppy drinking, the half empty vodka bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other. I hate that I love waking up to the bruises and the missed memories and the knowledge that at least, for a few hours, I was free from my mind and my mother and my OCD and manic depression and hypochondria and body issues.

I hate that when I feel out of control, I feel beautiful.

I hate that I love the way my eyes look so blue when they are so red, when my head is a bubble about to burst and every moment is like waking up from a bad dream into something wonderful.

I hate that I love skipping the iron pills, playing russian roulette with the days until I am walking and my legs give out to the black explosion in my mind, falling forwards into disorientation. I hate that I laugh afterwards. I hate that I do the same thing a few days later.

I hate that my mother calls me a failure. I hate that my brother calls me a drunk. I hate that my father doesn't even call me anything, I am not that important.

I hate that when I am happy, it doesn't last long until this comes back. I hate that when this comes, I hate all of you. I hate your talent and your beauty and your flaws, because no matter what they are, they are more glamorous than mine. I hate that I could write books about you, I could love you all forever, but I know that in reality, I will always be the afterthought. The fuck up. The mess.

I hate that when the high wears off, I hate myself more than ever. I hate that people have to play 'mother' like I am some deranged child incapable of caring for itself. I hate that I am exactly that. I hate that I can never shake the feeling another mistake is around the corner. I hate that it's what keeps me going.

I know you'll never understand it.

I know you'll worry.

I know this will come back to haunt me somehow.

But I know I will be alright.

Just give me time to make my mistakes.

Sing me to sleep with an Rx lullaby

I.

I am trapped

I am an anachronism
a remnant of what could have been
the memoir of a dying generation
the last breath of the last real poet,

all the failure and rage and dreams and hopes and
none of the joy
none of the glory.

I am alone and they passed on at the moment of
my birth and
my rebirth and
my realization of being born

I am the bastard child of the ages.

II.

have you ever felt the world dying around you? felt yourself going mad like some planet crawled inside you and is growing and growing and strangling you and you'll never get free and you're drowning in this modern cesspool of society and you'll die young in the next ten years and you were never meant for this era. you were born too late and you'll never belong and people will look at you funny like when the radio is between stations and you're static and erratic and you'll never see the fall.

III.

Between the books, sections Hg3883 and Hf5548.4 our bodies touched. Heated kisses, muted sounds, gently caressing against works of nonfiction. Could their authors see us now? Feel our passion? Crave you as I do? Would they understand the way I ache? In a million years, when this library has turned to dust, will our love still stand?

IV.

Sitting in my room, shirt off, Lucky burning in what I can only describe as a finger bowl, I have hit what I can only begin to think is the most wonderful balance of vices. booze and incense and nicotine and rage course through my veins in spastic screechings of children on a water ride, letting the liquid take them where it wants. tea cools on the night stand. my beautiful cotton second hand blanket is blackened by frantic ashings of a shaking hand.

I am completely content.

I am out of control.

[exerpt from the litle blue bird journal on the nightstand, written several nights ago, fixed for spelling errors]


Things have changed.

The way I spend my days, my nights, my brand of cigarettes, the way I felt towards someone who would never feel the same, the colour of my skin, the health of my aunt.

I am traped in the life of a housewife, a teenaged mother. With my mother at the hospital, care and keeping of my tiny cousin has fallen upon me. I cook, I clean, I do all that is requred of me with no complaints, not to my mother. I am not going to be unnecessary stress. But it numbs the mind, and I can slip out every so often on a walk, escaping to follow the sounds my headphones pump into me and clear my head with nicotine flooding my body. With all that is happening, I can't quit.

I don't want to quit.

I rarely write during the day, but it's hard to access the computer at night now that my laptop has, unfortunately, passed on. He's off in some factory now, cooling system having malfunctioned, and should return by the 6th of July.. or I am to get a new laptop from Best Buy, if they can't fix him. His memory was wiped, and half of my poetry that I never uploaded went away with it.

I am so tired. Sleeping is nearing impossibility, or, at least, good sleep is. I wake up more exhausted than when I fell asleep.

My skin, usually pale and spotted with reddish gold freckles, has taken a vibrantred of a red-brown tone depending on where you look. My thighs are so painfully burnt. My shoulders and arms aren't as bad as I would expect, but they're exposed far more frequently. I haven't worn shorts in two years, but I've worn plenty of strappy tops. The plus side is that with all of the sunshine piercing my skin, many, many more freckles have come out to play, sprouting all over me. Including a few on my face, which hasn't freckled in several years.

I've created a tumblr, it's mostly photos and things I find intriguing, along with blogsecrets I find amusing or relate to, and conversations with my friend and myself over things that were tumbled or retumbled or something similar to that.

I'm reading Haunted right now, I've recieved and finished The Show that Smells, and I recently watched Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I've started smoking Lucky Strikes (I miss my blacks), I'm a pescatarian for over two weeks (who made a mistake yesterday of eating some chicken. filled with guilt over it.), I am doing my best to stay sane in these trying times. I have conversed with spirits over a ouija boards, had a tarot reading, and remembered how I am going to die. I am young and reckless, but not as wild and wrecked as I would like to be.

I am so many things compiled to create a nobody.

SOCIETY WILL LAY IN RUINS

The depression came again, but I have been working through it this time, and it is not as bad as it used to be. I still can't sleep, I cry all night, I wake up with tearstains on my cheeks, reeking of heartbreak and incense. I am not smoking any more. My aunt is living with us now. She has three kinds of cancers and a perforated bowel. We don't know what will happen. It scares me. I just want a cigarette, but I don't want to be her.

Not smoking has make me gain weight. I have gone through three different diets in the past few months. Because of the weight I gained back, I have lost a total of three pounds. Some days, I make myself sick in the mirror. Other days, I can guide my hand down soft skin and fat and feel beautiful like the stars in the twenties. They weren't so thin. They wouldn't give me dirty looks.

My birthday went well. It was small, a few friends, and I spent part of the day at the hospital with my aunt (she is now home with us, as I said). I was pierced, on my left brow and my right nostril. The brow piercing is horribly bruised now, deep blackpurple and reds and yellows. I received wonderful gifts, like a ditch head named Hershall who was gained through means I do not believe were exactly legal, and an antique clock shaped like a giant pocket watch. I have new clothing and jewelery. I am soon to be getting a gift in the mail from a friend who lives far enough away that it is required.

A few days later, my friend took me to Lily Dale as a present. I had a reading done and she also bought me a few things that hopefully will bring me what they are supposed to..

I have spent almost every day with my friends so far. It has been the most wonderful summer I think I have ever had, and it is only the end of May. We eat lemon ice and watch movies and discuss the fall of society and how we will come out unscathed and dressed in the height of steampunk fashions. Marissa purchased a gas mask. I am lusting after goggles and circular bandoleer scarves.

Everything is kind of backwards right now, but I am working through it. I am stronger than I have been with all of this support. It isn't so bad. It isn't so bad.

I just want a cigarette..

Little girl, little girl..

Little girl, little girl
Why are you crying?
Inside your restless soul your heart is dying.
Little one, little one
Your soul is purging
Of love and razor blades
Your blood is surging

Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
Your a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go

Little girl, little girl
Your life is calling
The charlatans and saints of your abandon
Little one little one
The sky is falling
The lifeboat of deception is now sailing
In the wake all the way
No rhyme or reason
Your bloodshot eyes
Will show your heart of treason
Little girl little girl
You dirty liar
You're just a junkie
Preaching to the choir

Runaway
To your lost tranquility
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the dregs of humanity
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go

The traces of blood
Always follow you home
Like the mascara tears
From your getaway
Your walking with blisters
and running with shears
So unholy.
Sister of grace.

Runaway
From the river to the street
And find yourself with your face in the gutter
You're a stray for the salvation army
There is no place like home
When you got no place to go



- ¿Viva La Gloria? [Little Girl] - Green Day


My birthday is tomorrow.

I've asked for books, a typewriter, two piercings (nose and horizontal brow), a tattoo (the owl for my left foot, to go with the lonely seahorse on my right), and some clothing.

To be honest, I don't expect much of anything this year.

Which is good because it means I won't be disappointed when I am pushed aside, as that is the latest trend.

I can, but I can't.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.


http://nuddy--pants.livejournal.com/39507.html

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/article.html?id=182837



Tonight, I am filled with the madness of youth, but I am trapped in the net of how tame I really am.

Some nights, I just want to scream and yell and be out until five in the morning, walking along the beach and wearing my shirt too low and drinking too much and saying things I never wanted to tell.

Some nights, I don't want to curl up on the couch with my books and my laptop and the tea I haven't been able to make because of the kitchen being remodeled and the stove being detached.

I don't want my soft slippers and comforting cotton pants.

I want to wear too much makeup that will smear and I want my jeans to be too tight and smell of spilled liquor and I want my hands that I obsessively wash to be sticky from my own sloppy drinking of something I can no longer name in a red plastic cup.

I don't want to be the modern poet, caught up in my comforting home. I want to be Jack Kerouac. I want to be Charles Bukowski. I want to be Allen Ginsburg. I don't want to be the domesticated human.

Can't I be wild every so often?

I know I break the mold every once in a while. I know I can be a mess. I know I can, and I know I crave it, and I know I feel a little bit better, a little less soft, when my hair and my hands smell like the black kretek cigarettes I smuggle into the dark, hiding them from my Father in the middle of the night.

Why isn't anything ever enough?

Robin red breast..

"Who killed Cock Robin?" "I," said the Sparrow,
"With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin."
"Who saw him die?" "I," said the Fly,
"With my little eye, I saw him die."
"Who caught his blood?" "I," said the Fish,
"With my little dish, I caught his blood."
"Who'll make the shroud?" "I," said the Beetle,
"With my thread and needle, I'll make the shroud."
"Who'll dig his grave?" "I," said the Owl,
"With my pick and shovel, I'll dig his grave."
"Who'll be the parson?" "I," said the Rook,
"With my little book, I'll be the parson."
"Who'll be the clerk?" "I," said the Lark,
"If it's not in the dark, I'll be the clerk."
"Who'll carry the link?" "I," said the Linnet,
"I'll fetch it in a minute, I'll carry the link."
"Who'll be chief mourner?" "I," said the Dove,
"I mourn for my love, I'll be chief mourner."
"Who'll carry the coffin?" "I," said the Kite,
"If it's not through the night, I'll carry the coffin."
"Who'll bear the pall? "We," said the Wren,
"Both the cock and the hen, we'll bear the pall."
"Who'll sing a psalm?" "I," said the Thrush,
"As she sat on a bush, I'll sing a psalm."
"Who'll toll the bell?" "I," said the bull,
"Because I can pull, I'll toll the bell."
All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin.


The weather has been miraculously beautiful the past few days, enough so that I dusted off my windows and pried them open to let the air into this musty room today. Despite the sickness that has crawled into me, I found myself off at the beach yesterday evening with two of my very best friends. We walked along the pier, and at the edge, climbed over the fencing to sit on the rocks and watch the sky bordering twilight. We talked and laughed and I took pictures with my little book camera, and it was cool but the breeze was warm and we didn't mind that our feet got wet even when we went back and walked along the sand. It was dirty from the winter still, and driftwood had been scattered along the shore. There was a dead fish stranded along where was water just barely met the land, and it is just now that I am realizing the poor thing was still there because the seagulls weren't quite back yet.

When it was just about twilight, we went back to my house, and the warm night left me sleepy and content and after a shower to scrub the sand and sunscreen off, I fell asleep fairly quickly though I unfortunately didn't sleep well. It's not too unusual, considering I am, as previously stated, ill.

Recently, I watched Little Children, mostly because Jackie Earle Haley was in it, and it is yet another thing to add to the list of why my heart breaks so frequently. It really is a wonderful story, and a tragic one in how very human all the characters seem. I highly recommend it.

I miss the days when I could breath and move without with odd aching in my bones. It is a want that i cannot satisfy and I am tired and sorry that I ever allowed myself to grow this sick, though I know it isn't exactly my fault. I was very sick before it, and on ten days of the horrible smelling sulfur antibiotics that made me dizzy and sick to my stomach. And once those ended, a day later, this came on, and it will not go away.

I need to get away. This place is suffocating me.

Hello, I am the brokenhearted.

My heart once again aches, and the pain is the sort one can only get from a particularly good novel. I've just finished Peter Pan, and though I know it is a children's book, there is so much of it that I think children can't grasp. Or perhaps that is just my silliness, the way I sobbed at the end when Wendy had grown and Peter had returned and I truly felt as betrayed as he must have. Though, again, this is perhaps just my silliness that makes me see Peter as such the tragic boy.

The weather has grown cold again, which I don't particularly mind. The warmth of the few days brought me to playing about outside with my tiny cousin and my two friends. We drew chalk pictures on the front walk and played tag in the back, running very slowly when the baby (though really, she is a toddler, or whatever four year olds are to be considered) had been claimed 'it'. The running about had left me sunburnt (I am the only fool who can get sunburnt in March in upstate New York) and sore with the aching of laying about all Winter and suddenly running about for hours and hours. I imagine it's how a butterfly must feel when it first spreads it's wings. Like all of it's muscles had been pulled tight, and to move them after so long would be too painful, if the feeling of flying was not so great.

I've all of five hours to sleep before I need to wake for class in the morning, and I don't believe I'll get that much if I attempted to rest now. My sleep is so interrupted lately, and I toss and turn and sigh and fail to find a comfortable position. It's always been a bother for me to fall asleep, hours of laying around with not a wink coming to me, but lately.. it has been more troubling in a way I cannot begin to describe, for I myself can't define it. This insomnia leaves me ragged and exhausted, but I have not yet resorted to taking the pills again, nor anything else I may have, in the past, self medicated with.

Someday, I'll beat it. Someday, I'll lay down in bed, close my eyes, and sleep soundly, lightly, and wake up able to think clearly, the fogging and pain of yesteryear long forgotten.

Perhaps tomorrow will be my someday.

Oh, but I AM such a pretty disaster.

I have made so many wrong decisions, I can't even pinpoint the things I've done right. Everything is coming around, and while I was flying high a few days ago- hell, a few hours ago, this rollercoaster I'm stuck riding swung me down again back to the bottom so quickly I'm left with nothing but a whirr of half remembered words, nausea, and a headache that makes me tear so badly I can barely see the glow of the computer screen.

Arrests, death, cancer, suicide. Families falling apart. Nobody to turn to.

Is this what being an adult brings?

The people closest to me are suffering and there is nothing I can do. I can cry to myself, curled up in my bed, but what good does it do? When all I have are my pretty words, what do I do when I don't know what to say, how to make it better? I can't make it better. I can't do anything.

I'm sorry.

I'm so, so sorry.



I need to go far, far away. It won't solve anything, I know it won't, but I can't be here anymore. I can't stand to see you all in so much pain. I can't stand to feel so useless.

Bits and Bobbles.

It’s the dark I want for myself, all for myself, but there is so much I want that I just can’t have. And why I do these things, I don’t know. Not to feel, not to be numb. Not to break, but to feel broken, perhaps.

So I stand in the dark, with this cigarette between trembling white fingers, their red nails matching the colour of my cheeks, a blush that rises from the cold of this winter night.

It’s nights like these, with the snow falling on this suburban wasteland, the streetlight illuminating the stop sign and the four way street, that makes one feel so much like a caged animal. I am trapped, harnessed, and I could free myself if I wasn’t so terrified by what would happen.

What could happen?

My hands are shaking, my heart is breaking, but not for you. No, not for you. Not the way you are now. But the way you will be when I hurt you so. I will hurt you, even if you don’t know it now.

And I want so desperately to be saved from this madness, this fear, this cold. But I put myself there, and I keep myself here now on this late winter’s night. I put myself here, but I won’t let it go, even as the edge slips away with this nicotine fix.

Even as I retreat to bed, my body quivering, aching with exhaustion, I hold it close like a bird with a broken wing- hobbling along, singing a shattered song.

Oh, how I long to fly.

_

Outside this cheap, dingy motel window I can see, shining across the street, a neon sign declaring ‘Shrine of the Infant Jesus’ in colours that could save your soul if only you had one. I’m sure I sold mine long ago, cashed it in for a night in a room just like this, for some cheap liquor and a few hours of being somebody new.

And just like then, this sign was like the guiding star, with three women huddled under it, wearing clothing so thin you could see the little bits of dignity trying to hold on and failing and falling down into the dark, stomped down by the shined shoes of the business man who had his hand on the slightest of the three’s waist. Even from here, I can see the way her skin crawls beneath his.

I wonder what kind of gifts they were bringing to the baby Jesus tonight.

Eventually, I pulled back from the window, falling onto the bed. The t.v. went on and on in the background, as it had been doing, flickering lights against my closed eyelids like a dream machine. No sound. I hate the sound of televisions, though with the thudding of the bed against the wall in the room beside mine, it almost seemed worth it to suffer a night of trashy cable shows with people who have even less dignity than the three wise women across the road.

I was craving a cigarette. I was craving sleep. The clock flashed 2:45. 2:45. 2:45. 2:46. 2:46. 2:46...

_

So, there he was, perched on his couch and smoking his joint easy as can be. Like nothing had changed between us. Like nothing had even happened. But that’s just the way he was, you know? So at ease, no matter the situation. As long as he was smoking, anyways. I’ve never seen him lose his cool when he was smoking, even if it was just the Lucky Strikes he usually had. I clear my throat. It takes him a minute to turn, but he does, and fixes me with those doe eyes. “You know,” I start, my voice faltering slightly. “They say you’re abusing substances now.” There’s a soft noise, something between a snort and a laugh. “Honey,” He said, stretching out onto his back, one long leg dangling over the edge, “Substances and me have a funny kind of relationship. To say I’m abusing them.. well, that implies something bad. Me and substance? We’re like Van Morrison and his brown eyed girl. We’re Sonny and Cher. Do wah diddy diddy dum, you know? The thing is, substance and I have a sort of, you know, S and M relationship. Substance wants to be used, abused. But it’s not abuse. Not the way you’re talkin’.”

We make small talk for a while, subject dropped, and it’s not until later, when I’m doing the piles of dishes in his sink and he’s perched on the counter when you bring it up again. “Honey,” he says, and I know that tone of voice. That soft, sad tone that he’d use in his favourite songs and when interviews got too personal. “Someway or another, I abused everything in my life.” At this point, I’m shaking my head, covered in suds to the elbows. “That’s not true.” I said. “That’s not true.” I repeated. “There’s me. You never abused me.” And it’s his turn to give a tiny shake of his head, curls brushing across those cheeks. “Yes, I did. Ten years from now, if you’re around, you’ll hate me for it. You’ll look back on me and you’ll see it and you’ll hate me. And if I’m still around, I’ll understand.”

Like I said, that was the last time I saw him. Ten years ago, almost to the day. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why he never returned my calls. I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me. I just..I just don’t know, okay? God. I don’t know. He left, get it? Ten years ago. That day. He just left and he never came back and, fuck, would it kill you to give me a box of tissues? He left and I don’t know why he killed himself and I don’t know why he wrote the letter to me and I hate him, I fucking hate him, and I don’t know, god, I don’t know. I just don’t know anything. Can I just.. can I just go back to work ?

-


In actually blogging about myself news, I am completely obsessing over Watchmen at the moment. Well, for the past..since December. But it had gotten a lot worse in the past few weeks.

I don't particularly mind, but I have an unhealthy love for Rorschach that is daring to pass my unhealthy love of the Joker. I am a comic book loser destined for abusive relationships.

So it goes.

Things have happened, of course, such as nights spend running through pouring rain to see a roller derby, lies to our parents, a man dressed up in blood and gore, oh so many black cigarettes, lady salvia, southern comfort, and a ride in the back of an SUV that left me numb and calm and sleepy, laying without my seatbelt off across the street while the others chatted amongst themselves, the lights from the bridges whizzing over my head like little comets all in a row. Lady salvia, if it was not some impostor, was not good to us that night, but we ended with a note of camaraderie that spun out into the night and turned slightly sour the next day.

The kitchen is being remodeled, with the walls a rich plum and the cupboards freshly white. They've been moved up, so it is even more difficult to reach bowls and plates and cups. I can barely get to the second shelf without needing a chair. The lower half of the walls have been replaced from their plasticy white predecessor to wooden strips that remind me of a fence with all the posts very close together. Altogether, it is pleasant, but I eagerly await the day when I can begin cooking in there once more, or at least find myself making a good cup of tea.

I have filled my life with music and books, the most recent of each category being Bob Dylan and On the Road. On the Road is everyhting I have ever wanted to put into words. It is what I long to do with my life. To write and travel and go, just go. Hitching and taking buses when I can, working odd jobs, staying amongst people who understand my wanderlust and addiction to prose. I fear there are too many who are too afraid of this world to even try anymore. I fear I am too afraid to try.

But someday, I know it's true- someday they will ask about me, and someone will be able to say, "That bird has flown."

Someday, I really do hope I will be grand enough to have Beatle's lyrics quoted on my behalf.

What a glorious way to be.

So you want to be a writer.

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

— Bukowski

These are a few of my favourite things;

Words and objects and other nonsense I enjoy:

|Juxtaposition
|Linoleum
|Epiphany
|Metronome
|Superfluous
|Zoetrope
|Electrotachyscope
|Episcosister
|Flipbook
|Praxinoscope
|Tachometer
|Paradoxical

Life goes on, bra.

These pills are fine to pass the time 'til I find my new drug.

Run, Rabbit, Run.

We are obviously soulmates.

Someday I will own them all.

I made these. They were delightfully adorable.

Oh, obviously there is much more. Such as my recent fascination with knitting, and the subsequent learning of it. Having italian feasts with darling friends and laughing until my stomach aches. Listening to music that makes me smile and laugh and cry. Writing until the sun comes up and my eyes burn from staring at my little computer screen. (Someday I shall get a typewriter. I want one so badly.)

I also like discovering new music and sharing it with people who will enjoy it as much as I do. Maybe they'll think of me every time they hear it.

<3

Run, rabbit, run.

It's been a while since I posted.

Life took me by surprise yet again.

The lows it throws at me are astounding, but after a few weeks of earl grey and nag champa and Beatles therapy, I seem to be doing much better, indeed. I find myself smiling, laughing, feeling light and airy. I suppose this is my 'high' time, what with the risky, energetic behaviour I've engaged in. Perhaps my judgment is poor, but I feel alive once again.

Spring has sprung early in my mind, and I am once again writing and singing and sleeping soundly, though sometimes my pillows and cheeks are a tad wet when I wake up and it does, still, take me a while to fall into slumber. Such is the insomnia. That will never change.

A new college is what is in fashion, I suppose, and I do enjoy this one far more than the last, even if I am living at home through this. The classes are lovely, and I take many night courses, so my schedule fits nicely with my night owl tendencies. I am writing odes to the new characters I come across every day. They make me smile and sigh and be thankful the world is such a colourful place yet again, even in this cold, grey winter.

My friends go to this college. Two had gone last semester, and one of those two, a small, pretty, delicate, birdlike girl with tiny bones and wispy hair happened to be in two of my classes with me. The other of the two, a dark haired, elegant and slender and all to beautiful girl, carpools with us to our late night abnormal psychology class. The last of my friends who goes there caught me by surprise, as until two days ago she was supposed to be six hours away. This girl is one of my very best friends, and has been for so very, very many years. She is absolutely stunning with her hourglass figure and mile-long legs. But her mind and her heart.. they are the most beautiful parts.

All of these lovely ladies are going to give me a complex. Oh, dear.

I have a new tattoo, a darling little seahorse on my right foot. Soon enough, I will get it's pair, the owl, on my left. And then I am off to have my right side done with the moon that was designed for me by my other best friend. Somewhere in between those will be some facial piercings. Nothing too much, but a little stud in my nose and a bar in my left brow. I will feel alternative and hip and perhaps somewhat pretty.

I do hope I feel pretty.

Perhaps I will sleep when I am dead.

I think this is what they call being alive.

Not living, not quite.

I haven't eaten properly for god knows how long. Not because I'm anorexic, not because I'm starving myself. This world just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, a sour, acidic churning at the back of my throat. It's hard to eat when you're constantly thinking and thinking and thinking. Realizing. Knowing. Feeling.

I take pills to sleep at night. This insomnia might be part of it. I am so tired, even though I fall asleep and the hours pass quickly, dreamlessly. Dark one moment, just passing out, feeling nothing. Gone. Colours and noises and dull aches and stomach acid the next.

Is this a disorder? This realization of the world. Is this what they would classify as depression or bipolar disorder or schizophrenia? Am I just a broken little mind, meant to be fed pill after pill after pill to pacify this mind of mine like a screaming, crying, filthy child? Not that I don't already feed myself enough pills. Iron, Calcium, Echinacea. Migraine meds, stomach pills, sleeping pills, pain pills. Pills to keep my mind from slipping, keep me focused. That's harder to do when you haven't eaten the way I haven't eaten. A bowl of rice, a piece of pizza when it gets too much. Cup after cup after cup or teas. Herbal, black, green, it doesn't matter. Something warm to slither down the back of my throat, dull the burning in the pit of my stomach.

I am sick, and this world is my illness, and it is a sickness for which there is no cure. As long as there are raped women, starving children, poverty and illness and disaster and death, I can't eat. I can't sleep. I can only feel these hot tears run down my cheeks, feel this acid and the throbbing aching behind my eyes. I can do nothing to fix this. I can only block it out. My body craves it, the pills and drugs and liquor to block it all out. Not because it is addicted, no. But because, just for a moment, I can feel nothing. I am blind to this world, and, if only for that moment, happy. At peace. Myself.

It's a lonely feeling.


Am I the only one infected?

Bonnie and Clyde

'Bonnie'

At this moment, we had only two things in common. One, we were both completely naked. And two, we’d both just eaten the exact same dinner in this shitty little apartment. Could this even be called an apartment? Maybe twenty odd years ago. Now it was just this piece of shit derelict building at the edge of town. We could have called it as house, never a home, if more than one room was inhabitable. It was too much work to clear the shit from the other rooms when we’d be leaving in less than a week or so. Given our track record, probably within the next few days.

I was in front of the window, the countertop fan blowing across my skin, brushing the little beads of sweat on the back of my neck away. You were sprawled on the couch, flipping through the channels, pausing every time our faces were plastered on the tiny screen. The way you’d been doing for the past god knows how long. You just stare at that screen and smoke those cigarettes and laugh about them always getting your bad side.

Before you, everything kind of feels like a lazy blur. Like one of those old sepia movies, pushed into the back of my head. It’s too hot to have you pressed against me now, with your skin on mine and your scent in my nose. Spicy, not like cinnamon or curry or pepper, but something all your own. If we could bottle that up, we could make a million, settle down, live that picket fence life both of up know we were never meant for. Not that we hadn’t tried. We met in college, both of us struggling on until you’d snapped and burned your textbook and set of the alarms that sent the whole dorm off into the night at 3 am. You were laughing, I was freezing. I bummed a smoke, those clove blacks you still get today. We’d fucked in your truck.

Half a year later, we dropped out. A few months later, they were calling us the new Bonnie and Clyde. Which was funny shit, you know, because we were different in some pretty damn obvious ways. That week, I nearly broke your arm and you gave me three damn bloody noses and a black eye for the record books fighting over who was Bonnie and who was Clyde.

Your lips break my concentration, bringing me back to the heat and our bodies. You taste like you always do, chocolate mint and cigarettes and that spice of your skin a hundred times more, fogging my mind and weakening my knees just like it always has. That spice, god, it’s like red lipstick in black and white movies, a shot of colour in the dark. Like the smoking barrel of a gun in an old mob flick. You make fun of the way I’m addicted to film. I make fun of the way I’m addicted to you.

We both knew it was coming to the end. Those weren’t wedding bells ringing, it was that familiar siren always in the back of our heads. The dinner we’d salvaged, the chocolate mint ice crème, well, I could see in your eyes you tasted it before I did. God damn, that mouth of yours is so distracting. That spice, it was betrayal and deception. Broken glass and car crashes. It was danger. It was probably the first thing that should have tipped me off about you back in college. Maybe that’s what I’m addicted to. Not you, but the danger. The excitement. Modern day Bonnie and Clyde, my ass. We were something completely new. Something I couldn’t quite put a name to, not when you’re pulling me down on the cracked tile, the dust clinging to our overheated and underdressed bodies. What was that line from the movie we’d snuck in a few years back? It seemed so appropriate for just this moment. That woman, standing there, singing away. “Some men just can’t hold their arsenic.”

Maybe they can’t. Maybe they just don’t want to.

____________________________________________

'Clyde'

Our bodies are just laying on the floor, our arms entwined at the elbow. Hot, sweating, nude forms pressed against the practically ancient cracked tiling. That was partially our fault. You had the cuts all along your back to prove it. We really should have fucked on the couch instead. That seemed slightly more stable, even if it was filthy. Not that it mattered where we went. Anywhere we go we’d be coated in the dust and filth that just accumulates in these places after a while. If it weren’t for the APB, we could have got a hotel room. I cringe, another piece of tile is digging into my back, and turn, and the sight of your face makes me forget everything. We’ve been together so long, but no matter what’s happening, your face can always catch me by surprise. I can find you anywhere, it doesn’t matter how big the crowd. Like when we’d met in college. It was late, real late, and I don’t know what happened. They say it was stress or drugs or whatever the hell people usually say when they try and rationalize something that was purely irrational. I took my Psych book and I set it on fire, every last little page. And I watched them blacken and curl with the alarm going off in the back of my head and then I threw it out the window. And just like that, I grabbed my jacket and keys and walked out with everyone else.

That’s when I first saw your face. You, in those tight jeans with your hair all windblown, crouching under one of the trees in the smokers area to fight off the late fall wind. You, I approached, offered you a cig. Those cat eyes met mine. I was lost. Helpless. We didn’t say anything. And then I started to laugh. Really laugh. And you were startled. And then you laughed. And we sat and we laughed until tears ran down our faces and we kept laughing even when everyone else had gone back inside. Then I took you to my truck and, basically, we fucked and fucked and drove away. Left everything behind. It took a few months to get up and go, but we weren’t who we used to be, and time didn‘t matter any more. After that, we had our first debut. Television. We were on the 5 o’clock, 6 o’clock, 7, 9, 11’o clock news. Bonnie and Clyde, they said.

I pull you closer, into a kiss, and you tense but lean into it, your body on mine, our lips connected. You always talk about the way I smell, the way I taste, and all of those movies you watch. I’ll always remember your eyes, your nose, your lips, the way your skin feels under my fingers, how this filth can do nothing but enhance your radiance as the tears run little rivers through the dirt caked on your skin. First, it was just the sirens but now, as you cling to me so hard I can’t breath, I can’t speak, I can just feel your heart thudding against mine and feel the floor shake as heavy boots thunder up the stairs.

You could get out now. You drove, I held the gun, I took the money, I did what I had to do. But you would never, and your broken sob breaks the silence of the room just before the door is kicked in and uniformed men with their little guns and little sticks and great big egos all full of power and hate grab you and pull you off, and your face is so helpless and broken and pained that it takes me a minute to realize I’m screaming at them. Words and phrases I don’t even comprehend, I just yell and cry and fight to get to you but the cuffs are around my wrist and there are too many and take us off separately, in different cars. Intimidation through separation.

And I swear in the back of this car I’ll have you back.

And I swear they will never take you away from me again.

Oh! Hello there, 2009.

2008 has past, and I am somewhat grateful and mildly surprised I can add yet another year onto the collection. It was a tough one, with a few twists and turns, but I made it through. Onward to 2009! The year was started off right with a dull ache behind my eyes and my hairs all astray and my head a foggy, clouded confusion. Having my very first hangover (I blame the cosmos. Sweet drinks aren't my specialty.) doesn't bode well for the rest of the year. Not remembering most of the previous day, as I am wont to do when vodka is about, doesn't exactly bode well, either, but I am not so concerned with that.

I do remember cooking and eating and cavorting with friends, weaving a web of lies, smoking pomegranate shisha and other, unmentionable, substances in my new hookah (Which ended in the carpet being mildly torched, but that is another story), and falling about a lot. Eventually, when everyone else had fallen asleep and even the powerful amount of alcohol couldn't cure my insomnia, I attempted to brew tea. Half of this, I remember. It only vaguely recall the kettle boiling and the next recollection was pouring more vodka into my teacup, my mum forcing my to go to bed, and then the morning comes.

Which brings me here, to texting people and apologising for 3 am, slurred phone calls. Strong tea (Oh, my love of Earl Grey has no bounds.), a bit of artisan bread, and the miraculous healing powers of limeade have cured all but the swirling of my head. Tomorrow brings exciting plans.

2009 is an empty journal, and hopefully, this year will be filled with interesting people and new places and memories that are worth remembering.

My resolutions? I will live every day to the fullest. I won't let writers block wreck such havoc on my life. I will make my dreams a reality.







Maybe I will lose twenty pounds and find a new love.

If I have time in between all of the life living and dream fulfillment I will be doing.