is this really what it’s come to? are we as good as it gets? the fucked? the fucked up leftovers of a bullshit theology? i feel like death. tell me this is living. i couldn’t stand this being death.
march 5, 2012 7:35 p.m.
i hate you. i hate you. innate you. i hate you. j hate you. i hate you. i hate you. a drunk conversation with myself about you.
february 29, 2012 12:29 p.m.
i remember exactly where i was and what i was doing and thinking when i realized that i would never be happy. i thought it was because i am a woman, and that is not inaccurate. it is widely misinterpreted, however, that i am saying that men can be happy. this is not true either, but i do not have time for the ugly species of men. bistro.
january 21, 2012 11:14 p.m.
what is to be done when i cannot trust myself alone? when i feel like i need someone around for survival? i know that i will lay down on the cold floor for hours if i let myself. i just want to walk myself to death. ”it’s a good thing you’re doing, honey.”
may 26, 2011 11:04 p.m.
there is a world waiting for me that isn’t a choice. it is one fucked-full of baby strollers, undersexed moms, and aggravated fathers. this world i resent dangles itself in front of me like a pharmacy in front of an addict. the torturous existence that if offers me lures me closer with a promise of an eternity in sweet, self-hate. so many years of fighting this inevitable conformation. fighting for what? fighting for this living death to come slower? depression: i’d rather break my teeth on a concrete curb.
may 26, 2011 10:24 p.m.
let’s get blackout drunk and fuck face down on the floor. no, don’t worry, you won’t remember or feel a thing. no, dear, i do not love you, and i won’t tomorrow either. but all this hate and tension can find release if we let it. with dynonisian impulse we wake bloody and hurt from battle. we will piss on the “the plan” and destroy the remains. but when in fear we age a hundred years and rebuild the structure we destroyed, resurrecting it like christ, the god that won’t go away. destroyed to be rebuilt. death with consume so sweetly, but boy just know this, if the election goes as planned— you do remember the plan of our aging? well if that plan commences i’ll reserve my spot with out neighbors to the north and watch with slight pity and enthusiasm as uncle sam lures each innocent and trusting niece and nephew into the game closet for his own play time. oh, sweet, ignorant america, please remember to fight! fight with mutiny the aging plan! why remain calm any longer? we haven’t tried the opposition in a while and the time will come. practice reacting! react in pure intention and naivety! oh, you and the plan. i will destroy you both. together let’s create the anti-plan. together alone, glen echo.
march 19, 2011 7:12 p.m.
recipient grueso recommend i’m writhing under my own pressure. i really don’t like the crimson, i hate it. but that’s the point, isn’t it? to embrace the thing i’m supposed to hate most. (take that, nature!) pain. i’m supposed to avoid it, not self-inflict it’s power. i still shut my eyes when i get a shot. can you imagine? after pouring my own liquid, red earth all over the bathroom tiles i still wince when a point smaller than pencil led is inserted into my delicate flesh. is this blade really more comforting? it is only at this moment, believe it or not, that i begin to question my own sanity— no, not when i open the flood gates with an edge, but when i consider the irrational nature of my needle fear. now i am hiding the razors like tolstoy hid the rifle and rope. i no longer fear others, only myself and the ease i feel toward the misery and infliction of my moods.