| cheap chardonnary |
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Monday, June 15th, 2009
@ 6:24pm |
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these words felt like a bad dream i had the other night. i was walking the rooms of an enormous mansion. the decor reminded me of an esoteric love ballad to my childhood. rooms upon rooms from barbie's dream house. oversized sofas with ridiculous humans lounging across them like dressed up mannequins. at some point i must have been dosed with a healthy helping of lsd because the creatures around me slowly transformed into melted wax. time danced by itself in the corner. you know that feeling im sure. one minute youre trapped inside an insuferable cess pool and the next your entire world has shifted. you ignore the larger picture and begin to take enormous interest in obscure details like the pea green color of some dickhead's shirt. your mind grows wider and the pitiful details swallow you whole. pea green. like a sad soup served at the diner on the edge of town. like all of life's emptiness could be served up on this asshole's coat sleeve. sitting alone, sipping lukewarm soup at the edge of nowhere before you pile into your shitty dodge and drunk drive home.
it's like the more toxins i ingest, the quicker my mind ignores the cause. i forget the pornographic movie entirely and spends a half hour disecting the textural faults of some stupid bitch's nipple. weird, huh? |
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| little blue boy |
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Monday, March 23rd, 2009
@ 5:38pm |
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sometimes i think i must be the loneliest girl in the whole world. every cell of my body is tripped like an electric fence. high voltage. the paranoia has me too scared to sleep. sleeping is for the weak. i hear a heart pumping loud protests like quicksand through my skin suit. each beat seeps deeper and deeper into the black hole of my chest. i can hear the echoes in my brain stem. thump thump thump. 4 lines of uncut coke up the nose. thud thud thud. one pill of pristine x down the throat. chain smoke until my lungs collapse.
i didnt even go looking for this shit this time, i swear. i spend my nights alone and depressed and puking my guts out. on my way to the dumpster to throw out the empty food containers i asked a dude if i could bum a smoke and he followed me inside. next thing i know hes laying out white powder and purple pills. a generous benefactor in my time of need. snort snort swallow. talk about life. ask about his past. pretend like you give shit.
at one point he told me he shot two people in the chest during a robbery. i ask how that made him feel. his eyes looked up at the moon and he whispered, "real bad." yeah man. i think i might know what you're talking about. |
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| The cherub and the deer. |
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Monday, March 16th, 2009
@ 2:19am |
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Time to feed the beast. The beast is hungry. It is always hungry. I have 19 dollars to my name. This angers the beast greatly. But I have a plan. Only 19 dollars to feed this suffocating beast that lurks in my mind so I must make it count.
I start swiping shit as soon as I enter the store. This place is full of walking zombies wandering aimlessly around the aisles, attended with pitiful interest by only a skeleton crew. Death and dignity are at war for our very souls in a place like this but I ignore the battle. I have my own demons to fight. The beast urges me on. A bag of reesces, a bag of peanut m and m's, a white chocolate bar, various other sugary shit. In my purse they go.
I do the math and come out just shy of 15 dollars, not including the 15 in my purse. This pleases the beast. I carry my "legit" items to the counter. The check out girl looks like someone i could have been friends with in a different life. She has streaks of blue in her hair and a cherubic face. I get the vague impression that she simply doesn't give a fuck. The thought crosses my mind to ask if they are hiring. Maybe i could get a job working the night shift, and she and i would become comrades in arms, even friends. Perhaps after enough time we might drunkenly confide our darkest secrets to one another over a pint of whiskey on some moonless night. My mind clutches at straws and daydreams as she begins scanning my items. I feel desperately alone.
Suddenly a piercing beep breaks my train of thought. BEEP BEEP BEEP. The theft alarm has gone off. Fuck. I look over to my right at a scrawny teenage kid with acne putting his hands above his head, a look of sheer terror plastered upon his face. He freezes in this absurd pose for what seems an eternity. A deer in headlights, the very statue of submission.
"Run!" I want to scream at him. "Get away from here before we are all fucked."
But I do nothing. I just stand there. A trickle of perspiration runs down my armpit and soaks the fabric of my shirt.
"Come on over," my new friend says to the boy.
He obeys her command, sheepishly shuffling to the counter.
"I've got my receipt right here," he says producing a white slip of paper from his pocket.
That's it, I think. We're all fucked now. This sorry prepubescent kid has fucked us, and here I am with 2 pounds of illicit chocolate on my person. It's all over for us. The beast is laughing maniacally. I stare angrily at the boy as he pulls the item from his shopping bag for inspection. A pack of magnum condoms XXL I begin laughing aloud at no one in particular. I can not control myself for shit. The boy looks nervously from me to the cashier, as he hands over the condoms and proof of purchase.
"Oh, okay," she says. "Sorry about that, you can go."
The kid grabs his shit and splits. The deer has bolted. My new friend resumes ringing up my items.
"Does that happen often?" I ask casually.
"Yea, well that's a high theft item." she replies. "I ought to change the bar code so it stops going off."
I glance nervously at the two electronic alarms on either side of the exit. What else does this place consider a high theft item? Do normal people steal chocolate or are they too busy fucking one another with extra large condoms?
"When that happens to me I usually just keep walking, since it's such a pain in the ass, you know?"
Her eyes narrow to fleshy slits. She says, "The night shift doesn't play around with that kind of stuff here."
Suddenly I have a change of heart. I don't think this friendship is going to work out. We are too different after all. The sicker half of me wants to punch her right in her angelic face, but instead I smile sweetly.
"Absolutely. Say, can I use your bathroom?"
She directs me to the restrooms and I lock myself inside the handicap stall in a state of panic. I can't get caught shoplifting, not again. Terror sets in and my blood feels hot and laced with venom. I begin tearing out the bar code strips from the candy wrappers with my teeth. I am stuffing handfuls of m and m's into my mouth in a blind panic. Fuck it, if I get caught at least I'll have some chocolate inside me. I flush the barcodes down the toilet and watch them swirling down the drain. It reminds me of vomiting. The perfect vortex of absolution. Flush all your sins away. See? It's like they never existed at all.
I exit the store holding my breath and half an undigested kit kat bar in my mouth.
Success. The beast will be fed tonight. |
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| Excretion. |
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Thursday, March 12th, 2009
@ 2:38am |
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Today I took a trip to an all you can eat buffet. They call it the Golden Corral. It frightens me to think that humanity is fucked to the point of naming a restaurant after the cattle herding industry, but you know, who the fuck am I to judge? It was my first time and I was nervous about going alone, yet strangely numb to the idea. What does someone like me have left to lose? Someone who was about to walk into a public eatery and gorge themselves until they puke gallons of refined sugars into the handicap stall, I mean.
I walk through the front door and smelled the despair immediately. All around me were poor, disheveled lumps of flesh packed tightly into t-shirts and trucker hats. We shuffle along inch by inch to the cashier, everyone straining and panting to pay their tickets and commence feeding. Human cattle. The employees prod us along. Easy piggies, relax, plenty of cud for everyone.
Finally we are free. I am alone and painfully aware of just how fucking sad this makes me. The food is everywhere. I find a semi secluded spot by a middle aged redneck couple and mark my territory. And then I begin the ordeal.
I start with steak and mashed potatoes. I'm not sure why. Maybe because never in my wildest dreams would I ever binge on steak and so this seems somehow exotic and taboo. I am chewing slowly at first, cutting gingerly into the bloody red of the steak, unsure of where to look. This is so foreign to me. I never binge in public like this, so blatantly, so completely exposed. I feel like everyone's eyes are on me as I sit there chewing this dead animal. Just one greedy animal eating another dead animal while a herd of fellow cattle sit watching. All around me are small families with children and elderly couples huddled together in silence chewing their cud. We all sit together collectively masticating as one grotesque organism.
I begin to relax. Just who the fuck am I trying to impress here exactly? A woman sits across from me weighing easily 300 lbs in a yellow tank top with butterflies on it. She eats her food agreeably. All around me I see signs of gluttony and excess. My life revolves around extremes. Shit, if I were religious this buffet would be my fucking church. And I intend to worship in my new found temple.
I rise for seconds. A plate of bar-b-q sauce smothered chicken and a questionable helping of macaroni and cheese. I make a bee line to the desert station and elbow a granny out of the way for plates. I calmly pile on 6 chocolate chip cookies, 2 fruit pies, 3 rice krispies, 2 slices of carrot cake, and 3 cupcakes. Beside me an older black man says with a laugh, "You like those sweets, huh?" I don't bat an eyelash. "I like them ALL," I say. I retreat to my pen and finish my plates.
Now I am getting sick. Sick sick sick. The sugar and soda and mounds of flesh are swarming up my throat. Panic spreads to the extremities and the world collides with a single deadly thought. It's time to puke.
It's pouring out of me into the toilet and I'm making strange notations in my mind about previous occupants. Hmmm, looks like a pubic hair on the rim, I bet they're a brunette. Odd looking urine droplets there, hope it's not contaminated with SARS. Puke puke puke. I wonder if anyone has done this before in this very stall. How many women have lived my same madness in this 4 by 3 foot prison? Excreting their fucking sanity. My life is one long excretion.
I finish and go sit back down. I think about the conversation I had with my mom today and the surreal feeling of not wanting to live anymore grows heavier. I slowly look up. The colors and smells of food surround me. Enough to feed a small army. I grab a clean plate and the feelings evaporate.
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| after orgasm |
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Thursday, March 12th, 2009
@ 2:38am |
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i watched a porn today of a lovely, vaguely Asian woman getting gang banged by 5 men. she made me like her almost instantly. her tits were real and glorious in their mediocrity. not even pretty for a porn star. they hung almost comically from her chest, deflated and sagging. her skin was a glowing bronze that traced the soft curves of her fleshy body. a beautiful sun kissed geisha.
the men asked pointed questions of her and she spoke slowly and deliberately. her vocabulary was impressive. it struck me as completely out of character for a porn actress. for example they asked her something to the effect of, "how do you feel about double penetration?" and she said without a shred of fabrication, "they're very intense, but i enjoy them." and throughout the film she would let out this melodic laugh of self awareness that made the questions seem that much more ridiculous. then the fucking began and it was strange to watch. she wasn't just another 2 dimensional prop like every other female porn star. this was somehow different, it felt intimate. it was like watching your friend or schoolmate get fingered under the bleachers. she made real people noises of pain and surprise. even the men involved seemed to understand that they had something very special indeed here, and so went out of their way to make things as comfortable for her as possible.
as i was watching this i began to feel very depressed. i was hating myself more and more with each progressive sexual act. i had put on some porn to try to motivate myself into exercising because sometimes an easy orgasm can be just the trick, but this was entirely not what i had expected. it was too real and raw. watching her made me feel like i was horribly violating someone in a way that i could never take back. like i had just stolen a tiny piece of her soul, and she probably didn't even fucking enjoy what she was doing after all. maybe the geisha had a coke habit and needed some quick cash to go score an 8 ball or something. who the fuck knows. then she sucked hard on a cock and winked into the eye of the camera. i got off and closed the video. i think i may have just fallen in love with her.
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| Mindfucking. |
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Friday, January 20th, 2006
@ 4:34pm |
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ZOMBIE
by: Joyce Carol Oates
This is the most riveting piece of psychological literature you have read in years.
Fucking brilliant to the point of insanity. But maybe serial killer masterpiece theatre isn't your cup of tea.
...
Thank you ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) solitary_shell .
It's been over a week now. I still can't wash the brutality of those raw words you've written out of my mind.
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| Tuned On. |
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Friday, January 20th, 2006
@ 3:23pm |
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She has shiny hair the texture of stiff yellow plastic and a repulsive face. I watch her sometimes on the television. The smiling news anchor with the phony name and android tits. Bright crayola features drawn thick like sunshine. Weeknights at ten you can catch the show. Mindless banter and bullshit journalism are her specialty. I get a hard on whenever she does those consumer investigations. WHAT YOUR BUTCHER REALLY DOESN’T WANT YOU TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR MEAT. You can’t help but jerk off to all that exposed corruption. Sit and stare at my screen as she color codes the world for fucking idiots. I bet every year her hometown throws a parade in her honor. A whole crowd of human cattle just standing and watching with big dumb eyes. Mouths swelling up full of proud sticky cum. Like greedy kids wolfing down huge gobs of cotton candy. Yeah. On that day she is making them feel really fucking special. I guess they must pay her in good feelings because the bitch sure does a first rate job.
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| Paint thinner. |
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Wednesday, January 18th, 2006
@ 10:24am |
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You can smell the chemicals coming off you in waves. Honest to fucking god, the stench is unreal. You want to gag on your own aroma. Choke back your own bile. Swallow gulps of stomach juice and acid. Justify this temporary discomfort with the present knowledge that your skin suit could contain any possible combination of unstable pH or bases. Vomit and vapors. Highly combustible. The last thing we need right now is a volatile reaction. Best not to draw attention to ourselves.
Jesus, she can feel it seeping out of her. Every stink pore on her fucking body is a miniature collection of hazardous waste materials. The living, breathing bio-factory. She doesn’t feel so healthy. Not sick, like as in ill. More along the lines of not fully human anymore. She is fucking radioactive.
...
Guy to my right can smell me. It’s surely no secret. As soon as I sat down I said to myself: 'that's it. you’re fucked. he knows everything.' Now it acts as our unspoken bond. This isn’t paranoia, not quite, but rather a rarely documented side effect of extreme nutritional neglect. I accept full responsibility. Right about now I wish I were a swamp. I wonder if he can see my teeth glow as I talk? Leaning over, I whisper confidentially:
"Look, I feel it's my duty to inform you. Fresh air may cause cancer. That's why I never leave the house without a half carton of mentholated cigarettes and a can of Raid. Protect your lungs, that's what I always say."
He nods his squishy little head.
Its like driving my car is an adventure now. Something’s definitely wrong with the brakes, of that much I’m certain. Engine trouble. Respirator. Exhaust. Leaky fluids. Cardiac fucking arrest. Before today I was full of vigor and resented these symptoms, but since my recent change of condition, nothing but sympathy for my sad, sad friend. Lets die together, you and me baby. Red lights, green lights, stop signs, pedestrians... Sure, whatever, fuck 'em all. I’m ready to go anytime now. Stuck in traffic I noticed something odd. When I pull up beside the other humans I no longer experience feelings of self consciousness. That awful slippery sensation where you're a particle trapped beneath some stranger's microscope. Not anymore. Fair Warning: from now on I'll just drive around this dying town, sucking down death sticks, looking like the perfect, putrid, pile of wax corpse shit. AND YOU WILL FUCKING LOVE IT. Cocksuckers. We all secretly hate you for driving that late model Honda, regardless.
I remember now why I don’t bother to write anymore. Once it starts the sickness never ends. An internal compulsion takes over the nerve centers of the brain. Spreads from the brain stem up, seeping a flood of neurotic ideas and electronic pulses outwards, until all other activities become meaningless. I haven’t bathed in almost three days. Shampooed, scrubbed, brushed, flossed, or shown any particular interest in the requisite grooming rituals. You can forget masturbation. Can’t fucking do it. Instead I sit around, smoke cigarettes, scribble meaningless hieroglyphics. Read a full novel in a few hours. Take a piss, light a fag, and write some more. Type it all out. Every last iota of data, no matter how random, how seemingly insignificant. Keep detailed records for future posterity. Give any combination of numbers or letters enough time to digest on paper and you simply can not fail to find the hidden meaning. It's like playing the lottery. The important thing is that you allocate enough hours in your day for proper productivity. Sleep deprivation is key. You’ll have plenty of time for reflection twenty years from now.
It’s never enough with me. My fatal flaw lies in the twisted gratification I derive from mindless repetition. A habitual anesthetic to the outside world. Just the soothing sound of click click clack on the keyboard as I go through the calming motions. Alone here now. Except for the sadistic smell. Always inside the same poorly ventilated room.
God, I'm so morbid. I seriously need a fucking bath.
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| Men are sluts too. |
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Tuesday, January 17th, 2006
@ 4:18pm |
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Mostly I'm obsessed with fucking. Lately it's all I ever think about. Probably I’ve been reading too much quality literature. It’s not even sex, it’s the idea of sex. I want to fuck: Him, Her, You, Them, Me. But one at a time, single file, orderly like, and all without ever having to compromise a god damn ounce of flesh in exchange.
Something led me to that moment. Somehow I knew it was going to be me lying on a bed between the two of them, the other one just watching, or jacking off in the corner, or doing whatever else you fucking compulsives do to pass the time. I was the one who put the music on, chose the melody. I like to feel rhythm flowing deeper through the beat. Tempo. Watched through curious eyelashes, as the one on the right slipped his fingers down the length of my stomach. Knowing that they want you is the biggest turn on of all. His breath on the left side of my neck seemed easy enough, another hand now getting familiar with the fabric of my shirt. I'm not saying I was helpless. Infact I'm almost always to blame. Each time they stroked I moaned. Every time they rubbed me I pushed back twice as hard. I play a shitty character in a porn movie even I wouldn't pay to rent. I just want to get lost in a moment. Pure of thought. Free of doubt. Not have to worry about how fat my ass looks from a particular lighting angle. Or some asshole's fragile emotional state concerning the size of his erection. Or the ever dramatic flow/duration of my bloody menstrual cycle. I just want to allow myself to get fucked. Fucked until we both collapse in a heap of hormonal exhaustion like the sweaty animals we so desperately love and despise. FUCKED.
Then he unbuttoned my jeans, and slid them down a few inches from my hips so he could push my legs apart. He started fingering me, and it wasn’t gentle or like a woman would. He was pushing his fingers in hard and fast, trying to vibrate his whole hand while I muffled the pain inside my throat so as not to alarm the guy in the corner, who sat watching like this was some demented game show, trying desperately to appear as though we were all perfectly casual. His violent method induced speculation as to the origins of his technique. Probably the usual gangbang porno or some drunken frat boy initiation. Perhaps a lifetime of subscriptions to weekly advice columns like dear Abby. Thanks a lot, bitch. The other one took off my shirt and pulled down my black bra, slanted purple now from the falling glow of neon stars along the ceiling. I remember this clearly. My nails were digging into the back of both necks, their tongues and mouths slowly fucking my skin, tasting the salt and sweat off my breasts. And then both were sucking hard on my nipples as I arched my back, wanting release from the pressure of his stupid hand and wet fingers, filled with shame and self-hate, touching every part of my body, but all of it like a muted orchestra with the only real sound or expression in the room focused directly between my barely parted lips. I remember that because this is what I think about lately when I need to get myself off.
After that it was a complete fucking disaster, and to tell you the truth, I try not to think about it very much. I try not to think about it very much at all.
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| Forgotten. |
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Tuesday, January 17th, 2006
@ 1:24am |
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I have this friend. Believe it or not, her real name is Sasha. We are really good friends, Sasha and me. At least I think so, anyways.
Only problem, I can't decide if I like her or not. Or even supposing I did, exactly what functional purpose that might serve. That's because every time we hang out it's always a direct result of the massive commitment of smack. We even met because of dope. An online newsgroup catering exclusively to hard drug users. She was giving some jizzface freshman helpful tips on how to synthesize heroin from readily available household ingredients in his mom's basement. Ammonium chloride. Muriatic acid. Activated charcoal. Absolutely. Listen, fuck your mother. Go blow yourself up. A relationship of mutual respect and understanding was born. In her drug fried brain I imagine this makes us the social equivalent of the last two ship wrecked albino amputees to survive amongst the island's sparsely populated dating scene. Either that or completely dispensable, like tissue paper. Nothing about her is genuine except her love for heroin, of that I can assure you.
She works in a laboratory. Not to shock you, but she's a real professional that Sasha. Every time I see her, without fail, she wears an immaculate white lab coat. This oversized coat acts like a cape, dragging just above the ground, creating a cloud of dust and debris behind the black spikes of her hooker's heels, which I suspect she uses more for psychological leverage than any sexual kink. In reality she couldn't possibly be an inch above five foot two. I must confess the notion struck me as more than just a little appealing. Lab technician by day, heroin aficionado by night. Dispensing sterile needles, micro wheel filters, and hydrochloric acid from forbidden pockets like cocaine rock candy and so much sought after confetti. A real red cross on heels. At one point I put some serious thought into opening up a needle exchange program down the front of her pants. Why the fuck not? She tells me stories of how almost all the doctors and medical professionals she knows are pillheads or pushers of some sort or another. The attending doc pops tranquilizers in the break room. Respected researchers simmer meth on their lunch hour. Chemists are the worst. They'll synthesize anything for the sake of ego, and then proceed to snort it all up their nostril in the name of science. Makes you wonder just how many of these professionals are one jack off short of a test tube. Reassuring. In a fucked up kind of way.
Maybe I romanticize it in my mind, this deeper, darker, idea of her. It's just that reality so rarely compares. It lacks a drug's promise of escape, or the total seduction of my imagination. I never said I wasn't fucked up too. The first time she laid that thick, syrupy sweet accent on me I nearly fell over in a fit of sheer absurdity. Did I mention she's Russian? No, no, please, this can't be for real. We drive around dilapidated ghettoes to score our impure powder with windows down and a mentholated cigarette dangling between both fingers. Her strange voice talks continual nonsense over the sounds of the radio. She could be strung out on acid for all I know. Half the time I feel like I'm in some low budget Soviet propaganda film with Borris the fucking spy, on a covert mission to sabotage the U.S. government. All that's missing are the subtitles. Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist party? Please check all that apply. Between puffs she tells me exactly two facts about Russia: It's really fucking cold, and she misses her dope.
The first time we hit it neither one of us had the patience or pleasure to waste with introductions. No how-do-you-do's when there is business to inject. Afterwards we talked. She told me a lot of things I won't repeat. Things that paralleled my life. Felt fucked up and familiar. I began to wonder was this all just dumb coincidence, or something actually more meaningful? She also told me ugly things. Truths I willed myself to forget. Like the prostitution.
Later on I met her middle aged client. He sat on my white living room sofa, balding, telling depressing stories about his many wildly successful attempts at published authorship. Third place for worst piece of shit in a short story contest goes to the older gentlemen without a future. His midsection sagged as if let down by a lifetime of microwaved dinners, and I knew instantly that to look inside his wallet would mean uncovering several small, worn, snapshots of his loving wife and three kids. Probably all gathered round together on the fucking lawn hugging the family dog. All the while: My doing more and more smack just to get the words out of my head as he talks about fucking Sasha. How he fucked her on the ride over. How he usually fucks her on Tuesdays. How he tries to fuck her on a semi-weekly basis. How when they fuck he loves to eat her pussy for hours. How much he loves the taste of it. She nods and plays along. He's telling me this, as we all sit calmly around my living room, like scattered chess pieces pretending not to understand that the only reason she does any of these things is the cash. The cash she needs to buy the drugs. The drugs she scores from her friend, who right now doesn't even fucking care if they're really truly friends, because the one thing she can focus on is fixing. To numb the whole night away with smiling novocain. And emerge from the bathroom five minutes from now, like any of this shit makes her not want to vomit all over the endless white tiled floor.
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| Fucker. |
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Monday, January 16th, 2006
@ 10:23am |
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This guy sits in the corner of the classroom. Not so much with the group, as pressed against the outer most edges of a transparent line that divides the rest of us from him. Some kind of fucked up demarcation that exists solely inside his head. Or maybe just in my own scattered observations, can't say for certain. This poor guy wears an oversized red t-shirt and his haircut is shit. The kind of do-it-yourself job that tells me his mom gave it to him in the fifth grade, promising 'you'll look super cool' and sadly, he still lacks the guts to complain.
So this asshole gets up from his seat during the shit film everyone is glued to, and shuffles over to the professor's desk. He bends over and starts whispering something apologetic inside her ear in muted tones. I see her barely even acknowledge his existence with the slightest nod of her saggy gelatinous chin, and the red of his shirt is instantaneously drenched in sweet relief as he shuffles out the door.
What the fuck just happened here? Did he really just do what I think he did? Did this altruistic little cocksucker just ask our college professor for permission to use the bathroom? Surely there must be some mistake...
Sorry. No mix up. This guy's one sick fuck, it's become all too apparent to me. I wonder idly if he thinks this is polite classroom etiquette or if he's just so emotionally fucked up and emasculated by his overbearing mother that even now, at the tender age of 20 some years old, he feels the need to ask a complete stranger for permission to use his own penis. Like this is some kind of coin operated slot device that requires managerial clearance. We're dealing with a highly confused individual. A real idiot. It's entirely possible this stupid little shit is under the false impression that we're still in middle school. Perhaps even kindergarden. Actually, given the hairstyle, this explain a lot.
He came back. He looks slightly flushed with guilt, the schoolboy shame is oozing out from every slimy pore on his disease ridden face. His hands are probably coated in a slick layer of wetness. Probably went to the stall to jerk off, actually. I fantasize that he masturbated to thoughts of the PBS educational video, the teacher, then me. Now I want to ask him more serious questions. Conduct an inquiry into the heart of the matter. Like have you ever had a blowjob, and if so how fast did you shoot your load? All scientific like. If I asked him that he'd just turn red and look at me like I was a monster or a whore, or probably both. That's a sad fucking shame, too.
If this happens again I will have to corner him in the men's room and remind him that his fucking whore of a mother always says to wash his filthy hands if he insists on getting them dirty before lunch time.
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| Elusivity and the Subtle Art of Arbitrary Word Invention. |
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Wednesday, January 11th, 2006
@ 5:07pm |
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There's a mad hunt for the roach. A filthy, dirty, disease ridden riddle of molecular creation: makin' moves like a dried up cactus. Fuck that. I saw it yesterday. In the bathroom. Tub, to be precise. Spindly antennai. Plural with an I makes it so much more sophisticated, you see. They were grotesquely elongated I do recall, perhaps twice the length of it's already enormously unnatural carriage. Not the kind you ride horses on and take your shits with, friend. I mean MASSIVE. As in the bacteria ridden bastard was so vile, so very vivid, as to thus logically convey solely by it's very presence, untold powers. One glance in the beast's direction and an involuntary shudder of revulsion passed through my mind, body, and bowels, respectively.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Or rather behind. I need a fucking cigarette. I’m desperate. My heart is palpitating like mutated cabbage on a childrens' playground. Fuck me fuck me fuck me. Just let me think a moment, damn it. Please allow me to explain the erraticness of my narrative. I recently returned from the local pharmacy.
It’s about that occasion. Time for a story. The usual incriminating fuck-you-off cleverly disguised as a charming personal anecdote. Delicately sprinkled over a depressing cocktail of two parts tedium and a single shot suburban monotony in hopes of distracting you from noticing that you're chewing hard on a mouthful of what probably tastes like shit.
So and so did such and such. Mr. Fuck's a motherfuck. Snapshots from a life so distorted that it could only appear beautiful to the truly mentally ill. I was flying high on a fancy of first class insomnia, so there ensued a 2 A.M. voyage to the land of a thousand aisles: Wal-Mart. We all know the god damn drill. Wander aimlessly until three strangers call out, "You're beautiful!" Then you have to take them out to eat. And then take them home. And to bed. It's the whole if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie scenario, except with blowjobs. Simply the natural progression of things, really. I got that cigarette by the way. What a bitter disappointment. Only in the sense that no matter how deeply I inhale the damn thing, it will never satisfy quite like the very first, or presumably the last puff, will it? I think men are the same way sometimes, only far more toxic. How ever so slightly poetically meaningless of me. What do you care anyway? You probably go to Wal-Mart for the everyday low prices. Asshole.
Pressing on.
The creature still lurks somewhere in the darkness... It’s no fun living in fear of taking a shit. Honestly. Luckily my bowels and I severed all communications years ago, so really the possibility of my crapping is an event in itself. In fact just the other day I announced the urge to defecate aloud in the presence of my mother. She gazed at me in genuine admiration, eyes wide with awe and said "Congratulations."
Really though, who the fuck cares? I wrote the majority of this tripe weeks ago and even then only spurred on by a drug addled high. I'm quickly losing interest and focus. Someone in a position of authority better make an executive decision. Fast.
Ding! I need to go shoot up to class.
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| Manifest Content |
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Tuesday, November 29th, 2005
@ 1:06pm |
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I once had a dream that life would be different.
Could be different. That was before the fall, of course. The fall of Rome, the Berlin wall and the Soviet Empire, or maybe the forsaken Stock Market, back when people preferred to invest in more practical items, like dispensable toiletries and sanitary napkins. Before the name Walmart became synonymous with unspeakable malevolent influence and deep reaching power, with venomous tentacles of consumer driven savings that reached out from below the depths of the sea, born of dark clouds of inhuman misery that were never truly intended for human eyes. Because our eyes are now weak from the light that shines down upon us. Cascades over the glittering cities and smoke stacked alley ways that criss and cross among the carefully cultivated piles of trash delicately littered at our feet so that the paths we walk could never truly be understood by any one person anymore. The era of the individual has come and gone. Blossomed to fruition a hundred years ago from this very day, only to shrivel and die along the smoldering heaps of countless numbered corpses who followed before them. Like the doomed dynasty of forgotten dinosaurs, they were reptiles once too, much like we once were human not so long ago. Can you try to imagine what that must have felt like for them? The last choked breath of a dying extinction, the last exhale of a final goodbye to all that was and ever would be... until the next to come along and claim their place that is.
Yeah, I dreamed that nightmare long long ago. And whether you believe me or not, I saw it with an absolute, finite clarity. Terror of Beauty fucking personified. The way it could have been. Vivid. The sliver of chance, the very gateway that exposed entire spectrums of alternate dimensions, held trembling in place with all the fragility of a child's imagination. What the present means to either you or I, is only a single reflection of a past that once held the promise of an infinite possible futures.
But that dream was just one distorted surface, you must understand. It only held a mere fracture of mirror to the dazzling galaxies of moments which we somehow chose not to pursue. Somewhere, someone, someplace, at some crucial point in time made the decision to let go of the hand that reached out to be held. Maybe they were understandably frightened by the tightness of grip or a tangible desperation that this closeness conveyed, with tiny fingers intertwined between promises of an intimate understanding. And so they pulled away. And for a split second, yours and mine, and untold generations of our children's futures, so ripe with richness, so full of their own power of possibility, in that one fatal moment simply ceased to exist.
And all that remained for their troubles was a tiny, shattered, dream of what should have been.
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| gay emo bullshit. |
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Thursday, September 29th, 2005
@ 9:50pm |
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Okay I really need honest feedback. I am being forced to "workshop" this shit in front of the entire class for a creative writing course, and I am panicking. I have been avoiding it for a solid month now, and the professor appears to be catching on. I fucking hate this shit.
@$%@#%!$%!)*&
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| Mindblowing. |
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Wednesday, August 24th, 2005
@ 8:19am |
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If you want to see the most amazing film of your fucking life:
Kontroll
Download or go see it now and be able to tell your friends you caught this shit before it was trendy.
Earn major kudos and highly sought after indie "cred" while you still can!
But seriously, this is like the literary equivalent of some Kafkaesque masterpiece. Words don't do it justice.
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| Off I go. |
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Tuesday, August 23rd, 2005
@ 10:01am |
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...and when I'm down there on my hands and knees frantically scrubbing a bathtub full of splattered puke with my last remaining scrap of putrid toilet paper... I am telling myself things. Over and Over. Noises to drown out the unsettling quiet. Time for the tender voice of Reason and Denial. It speaks an insane kind of calm, like the doomed pilot of some commercial airplane, broadcasting strong and clear over the loudspeaker in my brain.
This is your Captain speaking. It looks like we've hit some minor turbulence, folks. Please try to remain calm. (Scrub, rinse, flush.) Everyone has problems. That's life. Everyone has problems. It's unavoidable. (Digest and Disinfect.) You've all been blindly living identical versions of an infinite variety of shit. Please return your trays to the upright locked position and embrace the fucking Crash.
It will only get better if you can refrain from making things worse. How? Somewhere in the distance a clock is ticking. The rhythm strangely blinding. You've heard it already without even trying. Listen. Gears and Grinding. Torture by seconds. Sixty slowly winding echoes. Fight and Fail to resist them. But Listen: I think about fractured futures and bad reception, typical shit... and oh, did I mention? Subdued chatter by ill mannered passengers, muted and just barely audible beneath the constant droning. Captain Coma reciting routine in flight lectures. Kosher meals and smoke detectors. The hidden virtues of safety belts and flotation devices. In case of emergency: We are all FUCKED.
How does one find the energy to fight when simply enduring each endless day is an act of penance in itself? Tell me from what source this sheer strength and bleeding determination of will derives? I simply must know.
Society brands the bulimics and junkies of this world as weak. Well if these are the wretched, then show me the noble. Picture this: Your local suburban shithead loses his job with six figure salary, blames rising inflation and foreign sweatshops. Little Sally Slutface gets gangbanged behind the bleachers by the highschool football team, but more importantly still manages to make the pep squad. Some sadistic motherfuckers are earning income to kill their fellow man, all in the name of flags and freedom. And we call them heroes. Hand out medals. Throw these worthless fucks on Oprah and bask in their 15 minutes of collective admiration as the studio audience cheers their "victory of spirit". Cue the applause. A mother fucking tribute to mankind. Rah rah rah. Everyone stand in line and wait patiently for an opportunity to go fuck yourselves. But wait! The users and alcoholics are none of these things. They aren't admirable or courageous or camera ready. No, these are the worthless... Born of indifference. Labeled as losers and classified failures before being given the chance to take their first breath.
What fucking scum. They eat garbage and live in filth. Look at them (from a relatively safe distance, of course)... munching on the decomposing vomit I only so recently threw up. Makes you sick, doesn't it? Why don't they fucking HELP themselves? Why can't they just take it like a champ the same as the rest of us?
Our battles are buried ones. Concealed from the world. The daily struggle isn't televised, and self-inflicted trauma doesn't pause for commercial breaks. This unscripted design is ours and no one else's. Society can't relate. They don't give a fuck. Oprah would take a million dollar shit on any one of these losers if she were to pass them on the street. You've seen us, you know the kind. Stone shadows, slumped against the curb of life, begging for your spare change and just a flicker of understanding.
But I've seen the truth and lived the reality, folks. It's the ones who pass these social lepers by without so much as a glance who are truly weak minded and living the fantasy. Society's refuse are the real survivors. Every day is a nuclear holocaust, and still we struggle to avoid the ash pile. This forgotten militia surrounds you. Soldiers of fortune, hidden but not missing in action. We're waiting your tables, driving your cabs, cleaning your toilets. Cracking jokes. Popping pills. Losing hope. Eating waste and shitting sugar. Reading countless volumes of worthless self-help propaganda. (But still never making the local half-hour news!) It's all right there.
This is our existence. Our struggles. And no, not everybody has them. The Pilot of Prophesy was wrong.
Although sometimes I wish he weren't, because I crave the day when all these self-righteous, morality preaching, assholes finally get served a single dose hit of the Brutal Truth. Warning: Cosmic Shock and Hazardous Trips ahead. Until then I wait patiently. Continue refining my ever increasing expertise as a skilled sanitary specialist. All the better to scrub your toilets with.
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| on a Tuesday in April. |
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Tuesday, July 26th, 2005
@ 7:25pm |
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For this love
another day a new issue.
Internal crying and unmoistened tissues.
Thoughts like: I'll miss you.
So please tell me... is this who
you still long for to kiss you?
Sometimes
I undo myself and just wish you
were dead.
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| Revelations Part One.... |
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Monday, July 25th, 2005
@ 10:29am |
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Have you ever gone on the heroin binge that just won't quit? You know, the kind that starts out innocently enough. Shooting up and passing out. Just the usual carnival ride of festive horrors. Only to wake up three days later in an unspecified puddle of dawning realization which tells you that your initially esoteric love affair has somehow managed to take on a twisted life of it's own? Suddenly you stop to look around, eyes wide with disbelief at the various discarded needles and burnt spoons now littering the filthy sink. In this single horrifying moment Reality Warps. Logically you can see that these are nothing more than inanimate objects. Only for some unknown reason you now find yourself conversing naturally with them as though they were human beings. Flesh and, well, blood.
"Come on guys, just one more shot, and then I've really got to be going. What? No I couldn't possibly! Look, I mean it this time assholes. It's getting late okay, and I've still got an entire list of groceries here (itemized by aisle of importance) to shop for. I have enough difficulty procuring this shit when sober, never mind while being nagged at non stop by abusive kitchen utensils. You're seriously starting to break my concentration."
And then of course that prick the syringe (witty pun!) inevitably takes offense, and starts in with the PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE bullshit. Before you know it he's talked my formerly sympathetic veins into a whole host of uncivil hostilities. Namely bruising and bleeding profusely with all the unrestrained subtlety of Christ on the fucking Cross. God Almighty. Enough already! Can't we just put our petty differences aside and try to work together in an atmosphere of renewed respect and mutual understanding? ...No? Fuck you!
But then I came to my senses long enough to take a mental inventory of just how far gone I had fucked this particular episode up... and I began to wonder. That's when shit really turned lucid.
To be Continued.....
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Tuesday, July 19th, 2005
@ 2:19am |
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( ... )
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