On days like this, where I was too scared to stay at home all day by myself, I would go to the Art museum. The Art museum in Raleigh is free, easy to get to, and has ample parking. Their selection of pieces isn't nearly as amazing as it could or should be, but the other three factors I mentioned cancel that fact out. It was somewhere to go to get away from the gloom hanging in the house, thick with my fuck-ups. I can't go to the Art museum here in Seattle when I feel like that - it costs $15 to get in, and then another $15 to park my car somewhere where I won't get raped. I hate how expensive it is, how everything is, it's isolating.
I don't want to complain. The volcano is beautiful, the air is fresh, and the Sound reminds me of New England. But so far, the only people I've met have scared me - and I'm usually not scared of anything without red eyes or eight legs. After ten years in the South, I can't get over how cold it is here - I always have a shiver, my teeth are always chattering, but - oh, hold on, I'm watching an episode of "Law & Order: SVU" and there is a fight club. A real fight club consisting of New York cabbies, and one betting all his fighting money on his step son whom he makes fight to 'earn his keep'. It's so bad, it's almost good. But, enough of that.
I can't get over how lost I feel sometimes. Somedays, I feel like I've fell down a rabbit hole. Sometimes I am at a happy tea party and I can't stop laughing. Other times, I'm alone in the woods and I can hear something eating in the dark. and he wonders why I can't move sometimes.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Suddenly
When I came home today, I dropped my things off at the door and went to the couch where I sobbed into my dog Taco's furry neck.
She sat still and let me.
I brushed my teeth twice,
I still feel twinges of tightness in my chest when I think about it.
When I was driving home after it happened, I resisted the urge to call my ex, who used to be my best friend,
"He probably would just pretend to care, while laughing so hard inside his organs would quake."
I am missing my life two years ago, suddenly.
I want the friends who I let inside my heart more than anyone before back in my life;
People like Jessica, Chris, Nick, Will, and Wyatt.
4 boys.
4 Men.
Coincidence?
"Law & Order: SVU" puts me to sleep nearly every night, unlike any other show or movie, it actually relaxes me,
That's how I know I'm fucked up.
The bad writing and predictable dialogue - how many hookers actually get murdered in New York?
I'm suddenly realizing how ridiculous i must look to the world.
I am suddenly sick over the thought of trying again, what if it happens again?
It's enough stress to make me go to church again.
I associate Churches with death and guilt,
If I want to be happy, I go to the movies - darkness and popcorn - it's a cure.
Suddenly, I want a life in the country - writing novels, chasing dogs, not talking to any more people.
I feel old, suddenly, and it was mirror.
Do I look retarded in my Ramones shirt?
I suddenly want to get all of my tattoos removed,
Except for the ones that represent the 3 men that have really loved me -
Maybe the only people that loved me.
Suddenly, I can't sleep,
and movies with sex scenes just look like gore now.
The idea of eating chocolate makes me gag,
even Nutella is horrible - saddest thing ever.
I can't believe how empty I feel.
How stupid I feel now.
Words cannot describe how stupid I feel.
She sat still and let me.
I brushed my teeth twice,
I still feel twinges of tightness in my chest when I think about it.
When I was driving home after it happened, I resisted the urge to call my ex, who used to be my best friend,
"He probably would just pretend to care, while laughing so hard inside his organs would quake."
I am missing my life two years ago, suddenly.
I want the friends who I let inside my heart more than anyone before back in my life;
People like Jessica, Chris, Nick, Will, and Wyatt.
4 boys.
4 Men.
Coincidence?
"Law & Order: SVU" puts me to sleep nearly every night, unlike any other show or movie, it actually relaxes me,
That's how I know I'm fucked up.
The bad writing and predictable dialogue - how many hookers actually get murdered in New York?
I'm suddenly realizing how ridiculous i must look to the world.
I am suddenly sick over the thought of trying again, what if it happens again?
It's enough stress to make me go to church again.
I associate Churches with death and guilt,
If I want to be happy, I go to the movies - darkness and popcorn - it's a cure.
Suddenly, I want a life in the country - writing novels, chasing dogs, not talking to any more people.
I feel old, suddenly, and it was mirror.
Do I look retarded in my Ramones shirt?
I suddenly want to get all of my tattoos removed,
Except for the ones that represent the 3 men that have really loved me -
Maybe the only people that loved me.
Suddenly, I can't sleep,
and movies with sex scenes just look like gore now.
The idea of eating chocolate makes me gag,
even Nutella is horrible - saddest thing ever.
I can't believe how empty I feel.
How stupid I feel now.
Words cannot describe how stupid I feel.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
A Night With Cameron / Crown's Thanksgiving Speech
Cameron was actually really into Astrology and Palmistry and anything else that could give him some kind of hint as to what to put money on. One afternoon after lunch and still a long ways until dinner, we decided to split a bag of mushrooms and barricade ourselves in one of the drawing rooms. I found myself on a chaise lounge by the window rubbing an expensive lotion I had found in one of the bathrooms all over my legs(this was when I was still in my swimsuit after a swim in the bay). We had one of Vivian’s old Victrola’s playing some obscure rag time record older than the both of us, and Cameron was dancing spritely all over the room. He landed in a spot finally next to a large, basketball sized crystal ball on a pewter stand in the corner of the large room.
“Oh my fucking God!” I heard him yell, like he had just found that pot at the end of his Gay rainbow. I heard him start to shuffle and grunt, frustrated and swearing under his breath as he moved spastically in the corner. Still high and seeing fish on the Persian rug swim beside the lounge I sat on, and called out to him;
“What are you doing?” He whipped around excitedly, peering out between the giant potted ferns in front of him.
“I’m trying to get this ball out of the stand, you have to see it. Can you just come over here and see it? It’s ‘A-fucking-mazing’!” I looked up from my leg with a slight grimace on my face. Out of my peripherals I could still see the swordfish swimming slowly below me, and now it seemed, that the Persian rug had started to breed small lobsters that floated slightly and awkwardly up to near my feet.
“Oh, Christ, I can’t swim over there right now. Can’t you pick it up?” I moaned. I do remember really, really, wanting to see this crystal ball. Who the fuck has a basketball sized crystal ball in their house? It was most likely older than the house itself and I have always had a fondness with anything with a history – obviously.
“It’s too heavy,” Cameron whined, tugging at one of the silk scarves he was wearing. “Please.”
Two lobsters fumbled over themselves trying to pinch my left foot. I hissed out a ‘Goddamn it!” to them as I grabbed a pillow of the lounge and swatted them away. I felt tiny beads of sweat on the brows, and the whirlwind of the high was beginning to subside.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re too Gay to pick up the crystal ball….that is so ironic.” I said, smirking.
It was then that another song began to play and Cameron went back to dancing around, and explaining how Astrology was ‘more science than magic ‘.
“You see, someone like me, a Gemini, has to always have something going on! And if I let my hands be still for one minute – oh my god!” He gasped and folded his arms and shook his head vehemently. “I could end the world if I was angry enough, I mean, I really could!” He flew over to my side of the chaise lounge and sat in front of me like a puppy asking for some kind of playful romp, but Cameron wanted to play with words. He would get into these long conversations about nothing and everything and what people wore and who they fucked, how they fucked, when they fucked – Cameron didn’t get fucked enough. The conversations were tedious and obligatory to begin with, but then they started to be like radio shows and personal Opera performances. Cameron played every character out with voices and mannerisms and brought every story to life. Soon, I was starting to prepare myself a large tumbler full of Jameson and head down the hallway to his room. He’d start a conversation and always beg me to listen to his problems with the world. “Nobody ever listens!” He’d whine. Offer me a cigarette and by then I was nearly drunk so I’d accept and drowsily smoke while he rattled on. The conversations were a warm blanket of self-indulgence for him and a thick layer of cozy comfort for me. I loved to be an audience for someone.
It was Cameron’s great idea to do Thanksgiving at the House. He had planned and arranged – with Vivian’s funds – for the dinner to consist of 5 amazing courses. The appetizers being scallops wrapped in bacon, with some sort of lemon and black pepper sauce drizzled all over. Then the New England clam chowder, with some sort of added sausage mixed in and served with fluffy Southern biscuits with a sausage gravy as a dip. Then, we had a thick lobster each, complimented by a salad with artichoke hearts and hard-boiled eggs, and then there was a tiramisu the size of a football before each of us.
An hour before dinner was to start I smoked an entire bowl in my room. I had been doing this ritual of getting myself baked before I knew I was going to devour an amazing meal since I was 15. After an hour, the munchies have set up camp in your brain and have had a fire burning for a while. The last 20 minutes before the meal are always the worst. Your brain is teetering on making you get a snack and ruining the fine meal,and clawing at the seats and Google-ing ‘food porn’. Those giant, Hi-def images of pizzas, cheesesteaks, fries, burgers, and fried chicken. By then it is 5 minutes until, and you are about to jump out of your goddamned skin.
‘If you don’t eat soon, you will die.” I looked up from a deep train I was riding in the kitchen, sitting on the high wicker chair against the wall by the fridge, and Cameron was looking down at the bacon he was wrapping around the scallops, but there was a smirk on his face.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You’re so stoned and your munchies are kicking in.” He said, looking up at me. Smug motherfucker.
“Marijuana is a dangerous drug and should be exterminated." I said, mockingly triumphant, and jumping off of the chair and walking over him to inspect his work.
“But it cured my Anorexia!” He cried sarcastically, throwing an arm up in the air, dramatically.
“Anorexi-o. A new designer drug.” I said slowly, watching my words float out of me, over the appetizers.
“I’m from the planet Anorexia. Our god is Donatella Versace and we only have sex ‘up-against-the-wall.”
Oh!" I smiled, 'Up-against-the-wall' sex is the best...it's so chic."
"It's the only way the Parisians do it." Cameron said, putting the serving tray of scallops to the side and reaching for the ladle to stir the pot of gravy with. I suddenly realized that there was no catering staff anywhere around, the kitchen was marble silent with just Cameron and I to fill the high ceilings with noise.
“Where are the caterers?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Cameron’s back was to me and I watched it rise swiftly as he drew in a frustrated sigh.
“I sent them away. All they were doing was fucking everything up.” He said, stirring the gravy faster ass the thought of the caterers ate at him.
When he finally decided to feed us all, we assembled in the White dining room on the 20 foot long cherry oak table Vivian had acquired in Charleston after the Civil War. China on top a black lace table runner, Waterford crystal glasses filled with champagne, and $500 in rich ingredients to consume each. I felt a moral obligation to every blue-collar person in all of earth's timeline to become the epitome of glutton and satisfaction during this meal. When you are handed a plate of the finer things in life, is it so wild to put faith into the thought that you owe it to all of the poor bastards who have never and will never? Or do you eat and somehow tuck into the back of your head that, someday, somewhere, you will be given a second chance to have this finer thing once again? I have to say enjoy it because no one else is currently present to take your place. The idea of wasting anything spectacular and grand is a shipwreck – a devastating little tear on the face of history. I sat up in my chair and put my best table manners on display, garnering a brief but elegant nod from Vivian, whose place was at the head of the table, four seats up from me on my right.
That first bite into the meal was like water on a wild fire – instant calm and relief from that superficial hunger I created myself. Everything tastes so much more complex and alive when I am stoned. But this was the first time I was stoned off of the regular stash that sat in the green glass jars – one in every room of the House. Each jar was always full of at least an ounce of weed in it at all times. Making the House even more utopic, was the constant stickiness and pungency of it. The rooms the jars sat in where always thick with sour sweetness of the weed. The times I wanted to fill my nose with the scent, I would go to each jar and take a lung full – and always leave with an acidic tear in both eyes.
By Thankgiving, I had been at the House for a continuous two or so weeks, and had not left once. I had finished the last of my own weed about four days before, and in order to fufill my gastronomical ritual, I had to smoke the House’s stash. To ease any back-brained uneasiness I felt about using these accessible drugs that I knew no concrete origins of, I reasoned that each glass full of dank was just ‘an adult version of candy dishes’ in each room. After only one toke, my head began to float on it’s back while it allowed me to navigate the rest of my body through the pool it had placed me in. I had never noticed the House’s light humming; soft like a harp chord – sharp as a sickle. Once the humming entered my ears I felt the floor slip from underneath me. It was exhilarating, but smooth – a controlled, safe, but fast boat ride through a still black lake. Eating was sensational. The seasonings were blooming all over again on my tongue, the meat was soothing the wolf gnawing away at the inside of my belly, and the breads were making peace with my serotonin levels.
From down the table 5 seats, I watched as Vivian cut into her lobster with precision, and then cracking the claws open without a nutcracker. She sunk chunks of meat into the ramekins filled with melted butter and Old Bay seasoning, thickly coating it with the lipid. She would then take a bite to divide it in half, and drench the remaining half in butter and repeat the process. Finishing her lobster quickly with this starving vigor, I snuck a glance at her eyes as she eyes everyone else’s plates.
It was as if she wanted to steal the lobsters out from each one of us. She looked blood-thirsty and desperate for more food. I kept my head low hoping she wouldn’t notice me staring out of my peripherals to watch her. Watching her stretch her back, adjusting in her seat like a predatory feline, getting comfortable with the notion of ending someone’s life, my head buzzed up to a auditory alarm.
It’s all about the dinner, babe.
Crown clinked his goddamn crystal with his salad fork.
“A toast?” He said, grinning and standing. Vivian rolled herself from plank straight plank back to a demure elbow on the table and her head resting on her fist. Her iris’s were swimming with a deep mahogany color, near looking reflective and red. Her eyes had relaxed into a dozy, sleepy U-shape. Her brows were relaxed and the air around her seemed to purr – as if she was fed and satiated.
Everyone turned to look at Vivian, a silent signal on whether we should all this to what this prick had to say about the season. Vivian made an approving nod and Crown raised his glass.
“For the pilgrims, who wanted to forget God, but then they realized they needed him when they got here and didn’t know how to plant or build anything. It is because of them that our country is full of Christian imposters with hollow insides. A people that are hell-bent on creating fantastical re-creations of the past and commemorating them into holidays in order to alleviate our guilt from subjeceting entire races into brutal slavery, slaughtering millions in order build upon stolen land, and for the countless – and useless- hours people spent praying about the genocide, rape, and starvation we incurred. May we always have the spirit of those Pilgrims – a soul that looks for independence and success in unfamiliar territory, and then who selfishly uses others in order to get them.” Crown downed his entire glass of champagne in one large gulp against the background of the entire dining hall clapping him on. I looked up at Vivian and she smirked, amused at Crown. He straightened back his black hair, shiny today with pomade and gel with one hand as he poured himself a glass from the table bottle with the other. He then stood and raised his glass again, and this time Vivian raised hers in a polished response.
“And, to the Indians,” Crown began.
“Yes,” Vivian said, all eyes looking at her. “They were delicious.”
“Oh my fucking God!” I heard him yell, like he had just found that pot at the end of his Gay rainbow. I heard him start to shuffle and grunt, frustrated and swearing under his breath as he moved spastically in the corner. Still high and seeing fish on the Persian rug swim beside the lounge I sat on, and called out to him;
“What are you doing?” He whipped around excitedly, peering out between the giant potted ferns in front of him.
“I’m trying to get this ball out of the stand, you have to see it. Can you just come over here and see it? It’s ‘A-fucking-mazing’!” I looked up from my leg with a slight grimace on my face. Out of my peripherals I could still see the swordfish swimming slowly below me, and now it seemed, that the Persian rug had started to breed small lobsters that floated slightly and awkwardly up to near my feet.
“Oh, Christ, I can’t swim over there right now. Can’t you pick it up?” I moaned. I do remember really, really, wanting to see this crystal ball. Who the fuck has a basketball sized crystal ball in their house? It was most likely older than the house itself and I have always had a fondness with anything with a history – obviously.
“It’s too heavy,” Cameron whined, tugging at one of the silk scarves he was wearing. “Please.”
Two lobsters fumbled over themselves trying to pinch my left foot. I hissed out a ‘Goddamn it!” to them as I grabbed a pillow of the lounge and swatted them away. I felt tiny beads of sweat on the brows, and the whirlwind of the high was beginning to subside.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re too Gay to pick up the crystal ball….that is so ironic.” I said, smirking.
It was then that another song began to play and Cameron went back to dancing around, and explaining how Astrology was ‘more science than magic ‘.
“You see, someone like me, a Gemini, has to always have something going on! And if I let my hands be still for one minute – oh my god!” He gasped and folded his arms and shook his head vehemently. “I could end the world if I was angry enough, I mean, I really could!” He flew over to my side of the chaise lounge and sat in front of me like a puppy asking for some kind of playful romp, but Cameron wanted to play with words. He would get into these long conversations about nothing and everything and what people wore and who they fucked, how they fucked, when they fucked – Cameron didn’t get fucked enough. The conversations were tedious and obligatory to begin with, but then they started to be like radio shows and personal Opera performances. Cameron played every character out with voices and mannerisms and brought every story to life. Soon, I was starting to prepare myself a large tumbler full of Jameson and head down the hallway to his room. He’d start a conversation and always beg me to listen to his problems with the world. “Nobody ever listens!” He’d whine. Offer me a cigarette and by then I was nearly drunk so I’d accept and drowsily smoke while he rattled on. The conversations were a warm blanket of self-indulgence for him and a thick layer of cozy comfort for me. I loved to be an audience for someone.
It was Cameron’s great idea to do Thanksgiving at the House. He had planned and arranged – with Vivian’s funds – for the dinner to consist of 5 amazing courses. The appetizers being scallops wrapped in bacon, with some sort of lemon and black pepper sauce drizzled all over. Then the New England clam chowder, with some sort of added sausage mixed in and served with fluffy Southern biscuits with a sausage gravy as a dip. Then, we had a thick lobster each, complimented by a salad with artichoke hearts and hard-boiled eggs, and then there was a tiramisu the size of a football before each of us.
An hour before dinner was to start I smoked an entire bowl in my room. I had been doing this ritual of getting myself baked before I knew I was going to devour an amazing meal since I was 15. After an hour, the munchies have set up camp in your brain and have had a fire burning for a while. The last 20 minutes before the meal are always the worst. Your brain is teetering on making you get a snack and ruining the fine meal,and clawing at the seats and Google-ing ‘food porn’. Those giant, Hi-def images of pizzas, cheesesteaks, fries, burgers, and fried chicken. By then it is 5 minutes until, and you are about to jump out of your goddamned skin.
‘If you don’t eat soon, you will die.” I looked up from a deep train I was riding in the kitchen, sitting on the high wicker chair against the wall by the fridge, and Cameron was looking down at the bacon he was wrapping around the scallops, but there was a smirk on his face.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“You’re so stoned and your munchies are kicking in.” He said, looking up at me. Smug motherfucker.
“Marijuana is a dangerous drug and should be exterminated." I said, mockingly triumphant, and jumping off of the chair and walking over him to inspect his work.
“But it cured my Anorexia!” He cried sarcastically, throwing an arm up in the air, dramatically.
“Anorexi-o. A new designer drug.” I said slowly, watching my words float out of me, over the appetizers.
“I’m from the planet Anorexia. Our god is Donatella Versace and we only have sex ‘up-against-the-wall.”
Oh!" I smiled, 'Up-against-the-wall' sex is the best...it's so chic."
"It's the only way the Parisians do it." Cameron said, putting the serving tray of scallops to the side and reaching for the ladle to stir the pot of gravy with. I suddenly realized that there was no catering staff anywhere around, the kitchen was marble silent with just Cameron and I to fill the high ceilings with noise.
“Where are the caterers?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Cameron’s back was to me and I watched it rise swiftly as he drew in a frustrated sigh.
“I sent them away. All they were doing was fucking everything up.” He said, stirring the gravy faster ass the thought of the caterers ate at him.
When he finally decided to feed us all, we assembled in the White dining room on the 20 foot long cherry oak table Vivian had acquired in Charleston after the Civil War. China on top a black lace table runner, Waterford crystal glasses filled with champagne, and $500 in rich ingredients to consume each. I felt a moral obligation to every blue-collar person in all of earth's timeline to become the epitome of glutton and satisfaction during this meal. When you are handed a plate of the finer things in life, is it so wild to put faith into the thought that you owe it to all of the poor bastards who have never and will never? Or do you eat and somehow tuck into the back of your head that, someday, somewhere, you will be given a second chance to have this finer thing once again? I have to say enjoy it because no one else is currently present to take your place. The idea of wasting anything spectacular and grand is a shipwreck – a devastating little tear on the face of history. I sat up in my chair and put my best table manners on display, garnering a brief but elegant nod from Vivian, whose place was at the head of the table, four seats up from me on my right.
That first bite into the meal was like water on a wild fire – instant calm and relief from that superficial hunger I created myself. Everything tastes so much more complex and alive when I am stoned. But this was the first time I was stoned off of the regular stash that sat in the green glass jars – one in every room of the House. Each jar was always full of at least an ounce of weed in it at all times. Making the House even more utopic, was the constant stickiness and pungency of it. The rooms the jars sat in where always thick with sour sweetness of the weed. The times I wanted to fill my nose with the scent, I would go to each jar and take a lung full – and always leave with an acidic tear in both eyes.
By Thankgiving, I had been at the House for a continuous two or so weeks, and had not left once. I had finished the last of my own weed about four days before, and in order to fufill my gastronomical ritual, I had to smoke the House’s stash. To ease any back-brained uneasiness I felt about using these accessible drugs that I knew no concrete origins of, I reasoned that each glass full of dank was just ‘an adult version of candy dishes’ in each room. After only one toke, my head began to float on it’s back while it allowed me to navigate the rest of my body through the pool it had placed me in. I had never noticed the House’s light humming; soft like a harp chord – sharp as a sickle. Once the humming entered my ears I felt the floor slip from underneath me. It was exhilarating, but smooth – a controlled, safe, but fast boat ride through a still black lake. Eating was sensational. The seasonings were blooming all over again on my tongue, the meat was soothing the wolf gnawing away at the inside of my belly, and the breads were making peace with my serotonin levels.
From down the table 5 seats, I watched as Vivian cut into her lobster with precision, and then cracking the claws open without a nutcracker. She sunk chunks of meat into the ramekins filled with melted butter and Old Bay seasoning, thickly coating it with the lipid. She would then take a bite to divide it in half, and drench the remaining half in butter and repeat the process. Finishing her lobster quickly with this starving vigor, I snuck a glance at her eyes as she eyes everyone else’s plates.
It was as if she wanted to steal the lobsters out from each one of us. She looked blood-thirsty and desperate for more food. I kept my head low hoping she wouldn’t notice me staring out of my peripherals to watch her. Watching her stretch her back, adjusting in her seat like a predatory feline, getting comfortable with the notion of ending someone’s life, my head buzzed up to a auditory alarm.
It’s all about the dinner, babe.
Crown clinked his goddamn crystal with his salad fork.
“A toast?” He said, grinning and standing. Vivian rolled herself from plank straight plank back to a demure elbow on the table and her head resting on her fist. Her iris’s were swimming with a deep mahogany color, near looking reflective and red. Her eyes had relaxed into a dozy, sleepy U-shape. Her brows were relaxed and the air around her seemed to purr – as if she was fed and satiated.
Everyone turned to look at Vivian, a silent signal on whether we should all this to what this prick had to say about the season. Vivian made an approving nod and Crown raised his glass.
“For the pilgrims, who wanted to forget God, but then they realized they needed him when they got here and didn’t know how to plant or build anything. It is because of them that our country is full of Christian imposters with hollow insides. A people that are hell-bent on creating fantastical re-creations of the past and commemorating them into holidays in order to alleviate our guilt from subjeceting entire races into brutal slavery, slaughtering millions in order build upon stolen land, and for the countless – and useless- hours people spent praying about the genocide, rape, and starvation we incurred. May we always have the spirit of those Pilgrims – a soul that looks for independence and success in unfamiliar territory, and then who selfishly uses others in order to get them.” Crown downed his entire glass of champagne in one large gulp against the background of the entire dining hall clapping him on. I looked up at Vivian and she smirked, amused at Crown. He straightened back his black hair, shiny today with pomade and gel with one hand as he poured himself a glass from the table bottle with the other. He then stood and raised his glass again, and this time Vivian raised hers in a polished response.
“And, to the Indians,” Crown began.
“Yes,” Vivian said, all eyes looking at her. “They were delicious.”
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Some simple requests. :)
well, it's obviously been a while since I last wrote something on this thing. I've gotten a new laptop since then, and I've been busy writing my novel (which I'll have to at first publish myself, but hey - technology rocks) instead of on this thing. My favorite pair of tits came to visit me here in Washington, (Leanne, for those who are unsure who my 'favorite pair of tits' are...)and it was great! It felt amazing to have her here and actually pretend that she lived here....I wish she did, we'd have so much fun. ) But she wrote a blog for the first time in forever yesterday, and it inspired me to d othe same.
So, today at the gym, I started mentally making a list of things I'd like to do. Preferably, within the year, but I guess it could also be a 'Lifetime List" of 'shit-I'd-like-to-get-done.'
1). Get a tattoo / piercing apprenticeship. (And also learn to spell 'piercing' properly, without Spell Check correcting it for me. I before E bullshit)
2). Go white water rafting.
3). Take my niece Mila to the Bug Safari while she's still in the phase where bugs are cool and not the horrible, alien sent monsters that they really are.
4). Start modeling. Plus size, or 'alternative' - I don't really care. But, (as vain as this sounds)But I've realized that I have a beautiful face, and I like it. :)
5). Go on a Nerd-tastic trip to New Orleans with Leanne Patrick (A.K.A - My favorite Pair Of Tits). I want to go to the French Quarter, and ghost tours, and go to Gothic bars, and try and have sex with Jefferey Star.
6). Go hiking in the rainforest. Washingotn has rainforests - so I'm gonna go climb shit in them.
7). Finish my book.
8) Eat something ONCE without feeling guilty.
9). Finish my mini-line of greeting cards / valentines for you people to buy them. They're off-color, blunt, honest cards. And then there is also a line of one's featuring really creepy characters. BUY THEM.
10). Start making dog treats at home. Don't ask why.
11).Write a children's books with my favorite pair of tits. Actually, she'll write, I'll illustrate.
12). Get my BB Monster Puggie - pregnant. I want her to have a 'Pug in the Oven' - and then be able to give Lee and my sister Meghan a puppy.
13). Get a Pink Floyd tattoo with Van. We have our reasons.
14). Move back to New England (once I'm done with school).
15). Get pregnant.
16). Haha! Gotcha! I don't want any fucking kids.
17). Get my Green Card.
18). Get my passport and go to Ireland.
19). Take a Glass Blowing class. Save the blow job jokes, people.
20). Visit my aunt in Rhode Island.
21). Volunteer at Planned Parenthood. I could be the bouncer.
22). Have dinner and drinks with Will Ward. We need to catch up.
23). Have drinks with Buster Freeze. We need to get stupid.
24). Write something amazing - or create something amazing - with Wyatt Rollins. And make him come to Washington for grad school.
25). Go to Portland and see Eric and get drunk on Absinthe.
26). Make a pecan and chocolate chip pie for my nieces and nephew.
27). Tell the 6'6 Saudi guy who lives upstairs from me, and his Kim Kardashian wannabe girlfriend, to pick up their 300 pound German Shepard's shit. I mean, goddamn, I step in it all the time. I, and the other tenants pick up our dog's shit - and just because your whore faced girlfriend with the heels (that I KNOW for a fact she bought at Target) works in the apartment complex's office - doesn't mean that you are immune to some payback. And you'll get it.
28). Collect my dog's shit for 5 days, and in the middle of the night, leave it on said neighbor's doorstep.
29). Move to a house on the waterfront. Puget Sound waterfront, NOT Lake Washington.
30). Have my sister Ceilidhe and her wife, Kris come out to WA for a visit. I would like a picture of me and my sisters together now that we're all grown up and don't want to rip each other's eyeballs out anymore.
31). Find Elizabeth Hasselback and fucking kill her.
32). Find Norman Reedus again. and then find a closet. So I can get my rocks off.
33). Get a Winnie Sanderson tattoo. If you don't know who she is - you're an asshole.
34). Split the world in two - make half of the people love me, and other half want to kill me. Success breeds in polarity.
35). Get back on stage.
36). Have someone or somewhere to stay in North Carolina for the summer - I'd like to sing Betty Hutton in the USO show.
So, today at the gym, I started mentally making a list of things I'd like to do. Preferably, within the year, but I guess it could also be a 'Lifetime List" of 'shit-I'd-like-to-get-done.'
1). Get a tattoo / piercing apprenticeship. (And also learn to spell 'piercing' properly, without Spell Check correcting it for me. I before E bullshit)
2). Go white water rafting.
3). Take my niece Mila to the Bug Safari while she's still in the phase where bugs are cool and not the horrible, alien sent monsters that they really are.
4). Start modeling. Plus size, or 'alternative' - I don't really care. But, (as vain as this sounds)But I've realized that I have a beautiful face, and I like it. :)
5). Go on a Nerd-tastic trip to New Orleans with Leanne Patrick (A.K.A - My favorite Pair Of Tits). I want to go to the French Quarter, and ghost tours, and go to Gothic bars, and try and have sex with Jefferey Star.
6). Go hiking in the rainforest. Washingotn has rainforests - so I'm gonna go climb shit in them.
7). Finish my book.
8) Eat something ONCE without feeling guilty.
9). Finish my mini-line of greeting cards / valentines for you people to buy them. They're off-color, blunt, honest cards. And then there is also a line of one's featuring really creepy characters. BUY THEM.
10). Start making dog treats at home. Don't ask why.
11).Write a children's books with my favorite pair of tits. Actually, she'll write, I'll illustrate.
12). Get my BB Monster Puggie - pregnant. I want her to have a 'Pug in the Oven' - and then be able to give Lee and my sister Meghan a puppy.
13). Get a Pink Floyd tattoo with Van. We have our reasons.
14). Move back to New England (once I'm done with school).
15). Get pregnant.
16). Haha! Gotcha! I don't want any fucking kids.
17). Get my Green Card.
18). Get my passport and go to Ireland.
19). Take a Glass Blowing class. Save the blow job jokes, people.
20). Visit my aunt in Rhode Island.
21). Volunteer at Planned Parenthood. I could be the bouncer.
22). Have dinner and drinks with Will Ward. We need to catch up.
23). Have drinks with Buster Freeze. We need to get stupid.
24). Write something amazing - or create something amazing - with Wyatt Rollins. And make him come to Washington for grad school.
25). Go to Portland and see Eric and get drunk on Absinthe.
26). Make a pecan and chocolate chip pie for my nieces and nephew.
27). Tell the 6'6 Saudi guy who lives upstairs from me, and his Kim Kardashian wannabe girlfriend, to pick up their 300 pound German Shepard's shit. I mean, goddamn, I step in it all the time. I, and the other tenants pick up our dog's shit - and just because your whore faced girlfriend with the heels (that I KNOW for a fact she bought at Target) works in the apartment complex's office - doesn't mean that you are immune to some payback. And you'll get it.
28). Collect my dog's shit for 5 days, and in the middle of the night, leave it on said neighbor's doorstep.
29). Move to a house on the waterfront. Puget Sound waterfront, NOT Lake Washington.
30). Have my sister Ceilidhe and her wife, Kris come out to WA for a visit. I would like a picture of me and my sisters together now that we're all grown up and don't want to rip each other's eyeballs out anymore.
31). Find Elizabeth Hasselback and fucking kill her.
32). Find Norman Reedus again. and then find a closet. So I can get my rocks off.
33). Get a Winnie Sanderson tattoo. If you don't know who she is - you're an asshole.
34). Split the world in two - make half of the people love me, and other half want to kill me. Success breeds in polarity.
35). Get back on stage.
36). Have someone or somewhere to stay in North Carolina for the summer - I'd like to sing Betty Hutton in the USO show.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
A Cornish Hen
It has been a crazy month.
A month ago today I was in the Badlands of New Mexico and Utah sandwiched between Taco and B.B. Monster, trying to read a magazine in the heavily vibrating cab of a Budget rental moving truck. Slowly moving across this ridiculous nation at a mind-numbing pace of a mere 60 miles per hour.
Ugh.
When we got to Seattle, there was no where to park the moving truck to unload. But after just parking the thing and then dealing with numerous apartment tenants yelling at us as we unloaded our belongings (for the 6th time in 3 years) into our new home on Pacific Time. We had a great first week before Van went to work -we went everywhere and had fun, almost a vacation.
Then, once Van went off to work, it was time for me to begin what I came to Washington to do: Get into Cornish College of the Arts. A highly competitive Arts school and proud alma mater of many, many, many famous people. I worked nearly every day to finish 5 paintings in one cohesive theme, 5 sketches, 2 essays, and one really good outfit. Finally the day had come. I packed everything in my car, set the GPS, and headed to Cornish - a twit of nerves. The campus is in one of the oldest buildings in Seattle, on the top of Capitol Hill (Seattle is divided into hills) and in the middle of everything. Once I got in there and set all of my work up, and big woman named Bonnie came in, totally not in the mood to see me, or my shitty artwork, and told me to get started, because she only had 20 minutes before she had to catch the metro. This woman, was Bonnie Biggs. Arguably one of the best female sculptors of the 20th century. She sat there and quizzed me on everything art technique term I could think of, berated me like a drill sergeant and asked me about a million times: "Do you really think you're up to this?" After looking her in the eyes and replying with: "Did you think you were ready when you went to Art school?" She then softened and asked me if I'd like one of the junior professors to give me a campus tour. I said yes.
And this next part, in addition to the day my father passed, is why this day was one of the worst days of my life....
It was immaculate. Amazing studios and work everywhere. It was just as good as RISD, if not better. The students were chugging coffee and working. One guy we talked to said he hadn't slept in 2 days, trying to finish his painting before the summer was over - drinking coffee and taking pills (drugs are kind of 'no big deal' at Cornish - which I can't lie, I kind of liked) and in addition to looking so focused, everyone in that school just seemed so fucking miserable. No one smiled there, no one laughed - it was intense. Which is what art school is, just like med or law school, people are there to work, not play. But one girl told me she was going to UW in the fall to get her second Bachelor's in Business, and one guy said he's going back to school after grdauating Cornish to get something in education. I asked why, each time: "Because it's just not what i used to be."
Let me explain something to you all: There was never a point in my life, where I didn't identify myself as an artist. Everyone has their thing that they are good at and that they love, art was mine. It didnt matter that I could fail a Math class 20 times, because when I'd put a brush or pencil in my hand, different worlds were made where I was queen. I created it all and at the same time, it was beautiful. That is the best feeling in the world. It make everything else disappear, it clears my head so i can figure things out, it brings my dad back to life, it makes memories I had forgotten resurface, music sounds better - everything is alive when I'm making art. I think I'm a very dead person at times. I have no sympathy for most people, nothing really impresses me - I'm not a good girl, I'm not a good person. But when I'm making Art - I am a good person. I feel like I can do anything, say anything, and people will finally understand me and what I'm trying to do for this world.
I don't ever want that to go away.
And it's the same drug-like feeling that inspiration and artistic motivation comes from - and most nearly as artists have it. The "Selfishly Me and Free and Fuck You" gene. I remember when I signed up for Music classes at HCC. I was beyond excited. I was doing a lot of shows at Lakeland at the time, and one thing Lakeland does to teenagers and kids is boost their confidence - almost too much. At home being treated like a child, then at Lakeland treated as an adult professional that shares the stage with other adults - it can lead to feelings on over-whelming invincibility. I was told I was talented everyday by people, encouraged to make it a career - while other people told me I was a bitch, un-talented, refused to cast me, and sabotaged my chances of getting in to NC School of the Arts by writing nasty letters. So, I did take music classes. I was going to be a performer and nothing made me feel better than singing next to Art.
but after one semester - I hated singing. After Singing nearly everyday, learning theory - I never wanted to sing again- and didn't for nearly a year after. Now that was HCC. And even though Chris was a great teacher, I doubt he has as much fire and pressure on him as the professors at cornish do. I can't imagine 4 years of that. I knew that after those four years, or maybe even before those 4 year were over - I'd hate art. I'd never want to pick up a brush again - unless I had just sold $300,000 worth of work at a show - but who knows if I would ever get that show? The idea that I'd lose Art is like the notion that tomorrow you'd wake up and your best friend would be dead. Or your lover, or your soul-mate. They'd be dead when you could've done something to stop them. I couldn't handle that.
The next day, I woke up and went to check my email. Via the admissions counselor that was handling all of my info for Cornish I was sent this message:
Hi Elyse
I am so glad you were able to come for the portfolio review. I am sorry everything was so last minute!! I have spoken with Bonnie and you have been admitted for the Fall semester! Congratulations!
The next step is getting FA in order. Have you filled out a FAFSA?
Let me know what questions you have.
Take care,
Cari
Cari Mc Ialwain
Admission Counselor
cmcialwain@cornish.edu
* Cornish Near You: view our Admission Calendar.
* Missed the 2010 BFA Exhibition? View our Online Catalog.
* Visit Cornish: 2010 Departmental Open House dates.
* EVENTS: 2010 /2011 Merce Cunningham minEVENT
* Interested in a pre-college program? Visit Summer at Cornish.
I couldn't breathe. I guess I could compare it to when I found out I was pregnant. So amazingly excited but yet so extremely scared at the same time. Immediately, my brain does what it always does: split in half. On one track, I was parking my car and heading into the building on my first day of classes, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, balancing my nerves and messenger bag. On the other track, I was sitting alone in a studio, day 3 of grayscales, measuring my hands and feet for accurate profile drawings, looking at the clock and realizing I'm missing dinner, meeting friends for drinks, calling Leanne and going out (in this fantasy Leanne lives in Seattle :) .... ) I don't know. Not happy.
When you're spiritual like me, yet at the same time, so totally against organized religion - you have to go with what your gut says. My gut was telling me to stop. Not to mention that cornish basically needed $1000 by the end of the week that I just did not have... I basically said, 'thanks, but no thanks. Maybe next year." Bonnie Biggs had told the admissions counselor I was admitted for the fall, and not Spring. So, I can re-apply next year, but I don't think I will.
My favorite memories of childhood and all the way up to 20 years old was drawing and painting, and seeing my dad's reaction to it. It made me want to do better. When I make art, he comes back a little bit for me. I don't want to lose that. I refuse to sacrifice my passion on the altar of 'You got a good thing here, Elyse.' So, I said 'no' to Cornish. Am I having second thoughts? Fuck yes, I am. All day, every day. In the middle of the night I have them, while I'm cooking I have them...they don't stop. But hey, you do what feels right.
Right now, I'm trying to get my life in order. I'm looking at schools all week, every week. Whether it's massage schools, graphic design programs, Culinary school - whatever, I'm exploring my options. Why? Because I can. I want to find a career path where I'll be happy what I'm doing, providing for my family, and not losing myself. And that takes time and dedication to the craft of "Trying" - you've got to try it all to figure out what is right. I just don't care anymore. I don't care what people back in North Carolina say about me, or the choices I make. I don't care about what my mother thinks of me - because I know I am doing what's best for my head and heart and husband. Now, everything would be perfect if Leanne would just move out here.... haha.
I don't know yet what is right for me. I know I'm 24 and I should know by now, but i don't. Congratulations if you're 19 and you think you've got it all figured out just because you're in college doing what it expected of you - but wait till school is over, and you're out in the real world and you'll realize - you don't know a fucking thing about yourself. Your career? It's what? A career? Oh, wow, but I don't really like nursing, or business management, or English, or Anthropology..." Yeah, you don't.
But I do know one thing, I know that Art is my religion, where I am in constant prayer. But i'm not ready to give up the faith quite yet.
A month ago today I was in the Badlands of New Mexico and Utah sandwiched between Taco and B.B. Monster, trying to read a magazine in the heavily vibrating cab of a Budget rental moving truck. Slowly moving across this ridiculous nation at a mind-numbing pace of a mere 60 miles per hour.
Ugh.
When we got to Seattle, there was no where to park the moving truck to unload. But after just parking the thing and then dealing with numerous apartment tenants yelling at us as we unloaded our belongings (for the 6th time in 3 years) into our new home on Pacific Time. We had a great first week before Van went to work -we went everywhere and had fun, almost a vacation.
Then, once Van went off to work, it was time for me to begin what I came to Washington to do: Get into Cornish College of the Arts. A highly competitive Arts school and proud alma mater of many, many, many famous people. I worked nearly every day to finish 5 paintings in one cohesive theme, 5 sketches, 2 essays, and one really good outfit. Finally the day had come. I packed everything in my car, set the GPS, and headed to Cornish - a twit of nerves. The campus is in one of the oldest buildings in Seattle, on the top of Capitol Hill (Seattle is divided into hills) and in the middle of everything. Once I got in there and set all of my work up, and big woman named Bonnie came in, totally not in the mood to see me, or my shitty artwork, and told me to get started, because she only had 20 minutes before she had to catch the metro. This woman, was Bonnie Biggs. Arguably one of the best female sculptors of the 20th century. She sat there and quizzed me on everything art technique term I could think of, berated me like a drill sergeant and asked me about a million times: "Do you really think you're up to this?" After looking her in the eyes and replying with: "Did you think you were ready when you went to Art school?" She then softened and asked me if I'd like one of the junior professors to give me a campus tour. I said yes.
And this next part, in addition to the day my father passed, is why this day was one of the worst days of my life....
It was immaculate. Amazing studios and work everywhere. It was just as good as RISD, if not better. The students were chugging coffee and working. One guy we talked to said he hadn't slept in 2 days, trying to finish his painting before the summer was over - drinking coffee and taking pills (drugs are kind of 'no big deal' at Cornish - which I can't lie, I kind of liked) and in addition to looking so focused, everyone in that school just seemed so fucking miserable. No one smiled there, no one laughed - it was intense. Which is what art school is, just like med or law school, people are there to work, not play. But one girl told me she was going to UW in the fall to get her second Bachelor's in Business, and one guy said he's going back to school after grdauating Cornish to get something in education. I asked why, each time: "Because it's just not what i used to be."
Let me explain something to you all: There was never a point in my life, where I didn't identify myself as an artist. Everyone has their thing that they are good at and that they love, art was mine. It didnt matter that I could fail a Math class 20 times, because when I'd put a brush or pencil in my hand, different worlds were made where I was queen. I created it all and at the same time, it was beautiful. That is the best feeling in the world. It make everything else disappear, it clears my head so i can figure things out, it brings my dad back to life, it makes memories I had forgotten resurface, music sounds better - everything is alive when I'm making art. I think I'm a very dead person at times. I have no sympathy for most people, nothing really impresses me - I'm not a good girl, I'm not a good person. But when I'm making Art - I am a good person. I feel like I can do anything, say anything, and people will finally understand me and what I'm trying to do for this world.
I don't ever want that to go away.
And it's the same drug-like feeling that inspiration and artistic motivation comes from - and most nearly as artists have it. The "Selfishly Me and Free and Fuck You" gene. I remember when I signed up for Music classes at HCC. I was beyond excited. I was doing a lot of shows at Lakeland at the time, and one thing Lakeland does to teenagers and kids is boost their confidence - almost too much. At home being treated like a child, then at Lakeland treated as an adult professional that shares the stage with other adults - it can lead to feelings on over-whelming invincibility. I was told I was talented everyday by people, encouraged to make it a career - while other people told me I was a bitch, un-talented, refused to cast me, and sabotaged my chances of getting in to NC School of the Arts by writing nasty letters. So, I did take music classes. I was going to be a performer and nothing made me feel better than singing next to Art.
but after one semester - I hated singing. After Singing nearly everyday, learning theory - I never wanted to sing again- and didn't for nearly a year after. Now that was HCC. And even though Chris was a great teacher, I doubt he has as much fire and pressure on him as the professors at cornish do. I can't imagine 4 years of that. I knew that after those four years, or maybe even before those 4 year were over - I'd hate art. I'd never want to pick up a brush again - unless I had just sold $300,000 worth of work at a show - but who knows if I would ever get that show? The idea that I'd lose Art is like the notion that tomorrow you'd wake up and your best friend would be dead. Or your lover, or your soul-mate. They'd be dead when you could've done something to stop them. I couldn't handle that.
The next day, I woke up and went to check my email. Via the admissions counselor that was handling all of my info for Cornish I was sent this message:
Hi Elyse
I am so glad you were able to come for the portfolio review. I am sorry everything was so last minute!! I have spoken with Bonnie and you have been admitted for the Fall semester! Congratulations!
The next step is getting FA in order. Have you filled out a FAFSA?
Let me know what questions you have.
Take care,
Cari
Cari Mc Ialwain
Admission Counselor
cmcialwain@cornish.edu
* Cornish Near You: view our Admission Calendar.
* Missed the 2010 BFA Exhibition? View our Online Catalog.
* Visit Cornish: 2010 Departmental Open House dates.
* EVENTS: 2010 /2011 Merce Cunningham minEVENT
* Interested in a pre-college program? Visit Summer at Cornish.
I couldn't breathe. I guess I could compare it to when I found out I was pregnant. So amazingly excited but yet so extremely scared at the same time. Immediately, my brain does what it always does: split in half. On one track, I was parking my car and heading into the building on my first day of classes, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other, balancing my nerves and messenger bag. On the other track, I was sitting alone in a studio, day 3 of grayscales, measuring my hands and feet for accurate profile drawings, looking at the clock and realizing I'm missing dinner, meeting friends for drinks, calling Leanne and going out (in this fantasy Leanne lives in Seattle :) .... ) I don't know. Not happy.
When you're spiritual like me, yet at the same time, so totally against organized religion - you have to go with what your gut says. My gut was telling me to stop. Not to mention that cornish basically needed $1000 by the end of the week that I just did not have... I basically said, 'thanks, but no thanks. Maybe next year." Bonnie Biggs had told the admissions counselor I was admitted for the fall, and not Spring. So, I can re-apply next year, but I don't think I will.
My favorite memories of childhood and all the way up to 20 years old was drawing and painting, and seeing my dad's reaction to it. It made me want to do better. When I make art, he comes back a little bit for me. I don't want to lose that. I refuse to sacrifice my passion on the altar of 'You got a good thing here, Elyse.' So, I said 'no' to Cornish. Am I having second thoughts? Fuck yes, I am. All day, every day. In the middle of the night I have them, while I'm cooking I have them...they don't stop. But hey, you do what feels right.
Right now, I'm trying to get my life in order. I'm looking at schools all week, every week. Whether it's massage schools, graphic design programs, Culinary school - whatever, I'm exploring my options. Why? Because I can. I want to find a career path where I'll be happy what I'm doing, providing for my family, and not losing myself. And that takes time and dedication to the craft of "Trying" - you've got to try it all to figure out what is right. I just don't care anymore. I don't care what people back in North Carolina say about me, or the choices I make. I don't care about what my mother thinks of me - because I know I am doing what's best for my head and heart and husband. Now, everything would be perfect if Leanne would just move out here.... haha.
I don't know yet what is right for me. I know I'm 24 and I should know by now, but i don't. Congratulations if you're 19 and you think you've got it all figured out just because you're in college doing what it expected of you - but wait till school is over, and you're out in the real world and you'll realize - you don't know a fucking thing about yourself. Your career? It's what? A career? Oh, wow, but I don't really like nursing, or business management, or English, or Anthropology..." Yeah, you don't.
But I do know one thing, I know that Art is my religion, where I am in constant prayer. But i'm not ready to give up the faith quite yet.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
A Brog?
So, obviously, I've left North Carolina. Here is a list of things that are either currently running through my mind, or they did run through my mind prior to leaving.
1. I miss my best friend Leanne (Lennon) Patrick so goddern much, it's inappropriate. Some people call us lesbians because we're so close, but, we're not.... or are we? No, we're really not, but we are close. She's the first friend I've ever had that I trust completely and honestly. We're so much alike, it's well, look, she's my family, no other way around it. I don't know what I will do if she doesn't come out here in October for her birthday.....
...I really don't know what I will do if she gets an amazing job offer that keeps her from moving out here after her graduation.
2. I want to get back into school RIGHT NOW. I've applied to a few universities in the area, but I've got a portfolio review for Cornish College of the Arts in 2 weeks that I am racing like hell to finish. I am very nervous.
3. Seattle traffic is NO FUCKING JOKE.
4. I am glad I left Peace College when I did. In all honesty, I went there because they accepted me, and they had a major I was interested in. It didn't change my life or some shit like that. I met some great girls there, but I also met a lot of bat-shit, butt-ugly, bitchy ones who would do better learning in a place where there are posters of boy-bands on the wall and Ring-Pops on their hands. But hey, to-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.
5. Also, don't act like you chose to go there because it 'changed your life." You told me numerous times you went there because Meredith didn't accept you.
6. I don't give a fuck that you went to Mexico. Honestly, I didn't know about it until after you went there because I had deleted you a long time prior. Sure, I would've loved to have gone, but it's hard to save for a trip when you're paying $2000 a month in rent and utilities because your room-mate only chips in $260 a month. (But she uses your dishes, silverware, Internet, Netflix, etc....) But really? A school Mexico trip? Nah. I want to drink and smoke with the locals, go to Frida's house, paint on a cliff, and do shit on my own time. I'm not impressed, nor do I care. But, hey, the semester will be back on soon, and you can start hoarding your shit again, like plastic bags of cat shit that you don't throw away. Not changing your nasty litter box, letting your cat get on the same surfaces that your prepare food on (you may be fine with bacteria and fur in your food, sorry if I was not) and spending hours watching the shittiest shows on TV ever made. Also, you're not a witch. Please don't disgrace those of us that are by calling yourself that. Also, I hope you find a your own personal style - and stop trying to imitate everyone you meet. Good luck - honestly, I mean that. The only problem I really have with you - is your deceitfulness. That's it - other than that, I wish you all of the best. Really.
7. No one is bad person for smoking weed. It's better and safer than alcohol and cigarettes - and everyone here in Seattle does it.
8. I miss Leanne. I know I said it, but, hey.
9. My husband is so comforting to me.
10. I'm addicted to fountain soda diet cokes.
11. My mother finally gave me my father's ashes. I don't think I've been happier. On the same note, having them in my apartment is kind of creepy.
12. I actually enjoy talking to my mom on the phone. This move may be a good thing.
13. I miss a lot of people from North Carolina, but not the people I THOUGHT I would miss, a whole other bunch entirely.
14. HempFest is in 2 weekends!
15. I'm going to the goddern Zoo this weekend - HAPPY. I WANNA SEE TIGERS AND PENGUINS!
16. I want to get more tattoos. Seriously.
17. There are so many Asians in washington State.
18. My friend Wyatt Rollins is one of those friends I don't want to lose, and am liking more as an adult more and more. Seriously Wyatt, you're a great person and the only person who can EVER keep up with me in quoting entire movies. That is a rare gift, my friend, and we have both been blessed by whoever or WHATEVER with it.
19. Brian Lewis is a great guy. So is Christopher Wright. Both are exceedingly talented and need to do SOMETHING and EVERYTHING to use it properly. Artists are not meant for corners and dark rooms - they are meant for moonlight, stages, and open windows. GO FOR IT, I LOOKED UP TO BOTH OF YOU AT ONE TIME IN MY LIFE. <3
20. I want to be Lara Croft when I grow up.
21. I have more, but I need to sleep. My bed just seems more comfortable on Pacific Time.
22....Oh yeah, this Pacific Time change is fucking with my head.
1. I miss my best friend Leanne (Lennon) Patrick so goddern much, it's inappropriate. Some people call us lesbians because we're so close, but, we're not.... or are we? No, we're really not, but we are close. She's the first friend I've ever had that I trust completely and honestly. We're so much alike, it's well, look, she's my family, no other way around it. I don't know what I will do if she doesn't come out here in October for her birthday.....
...I really don't know what I will do if she gets an amazing job offer that keeps her from moving out here after her graduation.
2. I want to get back into school RIGHT NOW. I've applied to a few universities in the area, but I've got a portfolio review for Cornish College of the Arts in 2 weeks that I am racing like hell to finish. I am very nervous.
3. Seattle traffic is NO FUCKING JOKE.
4. I am glad I left Peace College when I did. In all honesty, I went there because they accepted me, and they had a major I was interested in. It didn't change my life or some shit like that. I met some great girls there, but I also met a lot of bat-shit, butt-ugly, bitchy ones who would do better learning in a place where there are posters of boy-bands on the wall and Ring-Pops on their hands. But hey, to-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.
5. Also, don't act like you chose to go there because it 'changed your life." You told me numerous times you went there because Meredith didn't accept you.
6. I don't give a fuck that you went to Mexico. Honestly, I didn't know about it until after you went there because I had deleted you a long time prior. Sure, I would've loved to have gone, but it's hard to save for a trip when you're paying $2000 a month in rent and utilities because your room-mate only chips in $260 a month. (But she uses your dishes, silverware, Internet, Netflix, etc....) But really? A school Mexico trip? Nah. I want to drink and smoke with the locals, go to Frida's house, paint on a cliff, and do shit on my own time. I'm not impressed, nor do I care. But, hey, the semester will be back on soon, and you can start hoarding your shit again, like plastic bags of cat shit that you don't throw away. Not changing your nasty litter box, letting your cat get on the same surfaces that your prepare food on (you may be fine with bacteria and fur in your food, sorry if I was not) and spending hours watching the shittiest shows on TV ever made. Also, you're not a witch. Please don't disgrace those of us that are by calling yourself that. Also, I hope you find a your own personal style - and stop trying to imitate everyone you meet. Good luck - honestly, I mean that. The only problem I really have with you - is your deceitfulness. That's it - other than that, I wish you all of the best. Really.
7. No one is bad person for smoking weed. It's better and safer than alcohol and cigarettes - and everyone here in Seattle does it.
8. I miss Leanne. I know I said it, but, hey.
9. My husband is so comforting to me.
10. I'm addicted to fountain soda diet cokes.
11. My mother finally gave me my father's ashes. I don't think I've been happier. On the same note, having them in my apartment is kind of creepy.
12. I actually enjoy talking to my mom on the phone. This move may be a good thing.
13. I miss a lot of people from North Carolina, but not the people I THOUGHT I would miss, a whole other bunch entirely.
14. HempFest is in 2 weekends!
15. I'm going to the goddern Zoo this weekend - HAPPY. I WANNA SEE TIGERS AND PENGUINS!
16. I want to get more tattoos. Seriously.
17. There are so many Asians in washington State.
18. My friend Wyatt Rollins is one of those friends I don't want to lose, and am liking more as an adult more and more. Seriously Wyatt, you're a great person and the only person who can EVER keep up with me in quoting entire movies. That is a rare gift, my friend, and we have both been blessed by whoever or WHATEVER with it.
19. Brian Lewis is a great guy. So is Christopher Wright. Both are exceedingly talented and need to do SOMETHING and EVERYTHING to use it properly. Artists are not meant for corners and dark rooms - they are meant for moonlight, stages, and open windows. GO FOR IT, I LOOKED UP TO BOTH OF YOU AT ONE TIME IN MY LIFE. <3
20. I want to be Lara Croft when I grow up.
21. I have more, but I need to sleep. My bed just seems more comfortable on Pacific Time.
22....Oh yeah, this Pacific Time change is fucking with my head.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Hipster sex.
Sometime ago, I found myself being forced into trying bondage with this guy whose name escapes me at the moment. He was one of those hipster guys with skinny jeans and a octopus tattoo across his breastplate, and asked me over an Irish coffee if I wanted to be tied up. Raising one eyebrow, although in my head I really just uncrossed my legs, I shrugged and said, 'Why not?" Back at his place, just under an hour later, he used my fishnets to tie my hands to his headboard and then proceeded to give me the worst sex of my life. It wasn't the bondage, if anything, he tied the stockings too loose. I think it was the incessant moaning and asking me, "Does that feel good?"
Does that feel good? I rolled my eyes over and over and felt the Irish coffee sloshing around in my belly. I looked over to his bedside table, knowing that in the tiny drawer he stored his rolling papers and small amount of weed. That would feel good. I knew that as soon as he came, he'd want to roll and share one and make me listen to fucking underground band that no one knows about. So I quickly faked an orgasm and waited the 2 minutes until he came. When he went to the bathroom to clean up afterwards, I stole his weed and slithered out of there. The point of this story is that hipsters suck at trying new things and sex.
Does that feel good? I rolled my eyes over and over and felt the Irish coffee sloshing around in my belly. I looked over to his bedside table, knowing that in the tiny drawer he stored his rolling papers and small amount of weed. That would feel good. I knew that as soon as he came, he'd want to roll and share one and make me listen to fucking underground band that no one knows about. So I quickly faked an orgasm and waited the 2 minutes until he came. When he went to the bathroom to clean up afterwards, I stole his weed and slithered out of there. The point of this story is that hipsters suck at trying new things and sex.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
I am amazed.
- At how many people are educators, or call themselves educated people, yet they can't spell the simplest of words.
- How people who have known me for years still write my name like, "Elise" instead of the correct, 'Elyse". From now on, I am going to purposefully misspell your names. It makes me feel like you don't take me seriously enough to learn my name, or that all this time, I've been associating with a retard.
- How mediocre some people are.
- At how a left hand turn completely terrifies people.
- When a drive-thru line is longer than 5 cars, and people still refuse to get out of the fucking car and just 'go in'.
- That some of the most devout Christian's I know are also some of the most petty, egotistical, back-handed, and ugly people I know.
- You are able to call yourself a friend to someone when you basically used them for a year.
- How much I'm going to miss Leanne when I move to Seattle. It's tearing me apart.
- How much I still miss New England - but mostly the seasons and landscape, not really the memories.
- That weed is still illegal, but alcohol is not.
- At how much I don't care about the Casey Anthony trial.
- Or any trial unless I'm in it, or it effects my civil rights.
- How some people think they can lead a revolution, but never leave their bedroom.
- How some people don't realize that one day, they will be alone. So they better start learning how to take care of themselves.
- How you really don't think anyone suspects that you're in love and/or mind-fucking your brother.
- That you aren't willing to get healthy.
- That you make promises but you sure as hell never keep them.
- That some days my opinion matter s to you, and other days, it's not even acknowledged.
- That you think you're smarter than me. Just because you can do a math problem doesn't mean you are. It means you can follow directions. I suggest you join the Marines, they love people who follow directions.
- How I never trusted you.
- How badly I still miss my father, that I cry once a week when no one is around.
- At how badly I hurt you.
- At how much you've changed for the better since I've hurt you, and how proud I am of you. And jealous.
- How delusional you are about yourself.
- At how you should really stop wearing heels, you look like a water buffalo who was given two legs by Ursula - but you don't know how to walk with them.
- At how you can actually call yourself a witch. It disgusts me.
- How you can call yourself anything but a liar. I've never seen your real personality, style, or sense of humor - because they don't exist.
- At how much I love my dog Taco.
- At how much I hate salad.
- At how much I love music and theater, but that I don't care if I ever get paid for doing either one.
- At how much I want to be an artist - and not really anything else.
- At how much I don't want children, or really like any of them.
- At how people use the term 'simple-minded' when they really mean, 'close-minded'.
- At how I never get tired of fountain diet cokes.
- At how often I youtube 'Are You Afraid Of The Dark?"
- At how scared I am to start over - AGAIN.
- At how bad I never, ever want to work in a shopping Mall.
- At how much I hate having a boss at all.
- At how often I say, 'Fuck You.'
- How people who have known me for years still write my name like, "Elise" instead of the correct, 'Elyse". From now on, I am going to purposefully misspell your names. It makes me feel like you don't take me seriously enough to learn my name, or that all this time, I've been associating with a retard.
- How mediocre some people are.
- At how a left hand turn completely terrifies people.
- When a drive-thru line is longer than 5 cars, and people still refuse to get out of the fucking car and just 'go in'.
- That some of the most devout Christian's I know are also some of the most petty, egotistical, back-handed, and ugly people I know.
- You are able to call yourself a friend to someone when you basically used them for a year.
- How much I'm going to miss Leanne when I move to Seattle. It's tearing me apart.
- How much I still miss New England - but mostly the seasons and landscape, not really the memories.
- That weed is still illegal, but alcohol is not.
- At how much I don't care about the Casey Anthony trial.
- Or any trial unless I'm in it, or it effects my civil rights.
- How some people think they can lead a revolution, but never leave their bedroom.
- How some people don't realize that one day, they will be alone. So they better start learning how to take care of themselves.
- How you really don't think anyone suspects that you're in love and/or mind-fucking your brother.
- That you aren't willing to get healthy.
- That you make promises but you sure as hell never keep them.
- That some days my opinion matter s to you, and other days, it's not even acknowledged.
- That you think you're smarter than me. Just because you can do a math problem doesn't mean you are. It means you can follow directions. I suggest you join the Marines, they love people who follow directions.
- How I never trusted you.
- How badly I still miss my father, that I cry once a week when no one is around.
- At how badly I hurt you.
- At how much you've changed for the better since I've hurt you, and how proud I am of you. And jealous.
- How delusional you are about yourself.
- At how you should really stop wearing heels, you look like a water buffalo who was given two legs by Ursula - but you don't know how to walk with them.
- At how you can actually call yourself a witch. It disgusts me.
- How you can call yourself anything but a liar. I've never seen your real personality, style, or sense of humor - because they don't exist.
- At how much I love my dog Taco.
- At how much I hate salad.
- At how much I love music and theater, but that I don't care if I ever get paid for doing either one.
- At how much I want to be an artist - and not really anything else.
- At how much I don't want children, or really like any of them.
- At how people use the term 'simple-minded' when they really mean, 'close-minded'.
- At how I never get tired of fountain diet cokes.
- At how often I youtube 'Are You Afraid Of The Dark?"
- At how scared I am to start over - AGAIN.
- At how bad I never, ever want to work in a shopping Mall.
- At how much I hate having a boss at all.
- At how often I say, 'Fuck You.'
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Artist's Plea
We are the Artists.
The eternally young, perpetually angry, constantly looking, beautiful, honest, courageous - artists.
....For many years, we've made this world beautiful.
Laying color on top of your concrete,
Blooms on top of your foundation,
Shine on top of your skyscrapers.
....But we'd like a chance now.
We want your deafness to repair itself.
....We know what we're headed for, and what is heading for us.
....Give us ONE day, world.
Where you let us drive.
The planet is thirsty,
...sick,
.... scared,
...plain,
...uniformed,
........Dying.
We have the tincture,
the remedy,
...the cure.
It is thick laughter, sarcasm, sex, color.
It's profanity, pushing children out of the way, shielding the world from pain,
...But not honesty.
.....Not all do-gooders are soft people.
For a long time, we have tried to open your eyes, minds, souls, bodies, and heart to change.
For forever, it seems, we have ran across endless numbers of you, refusing to do so.
Despite your adverse reactions to some of us, despite the pain you've caused those unlike yourselves,
Regardless of the shame you've made us feel, the outcasts you've made of us,
...We still love you,
...We still hope you'll join us,
....We still hope that you will listen.
By pushing us away, you pushed into the darkest corners of ourselves.
Shuddering from the cold you made us feel, we look up, and saw our demons in the darkness.
They held out their hands for us, offering wisdom and courage.
Some of us took it.
..... You people like to fight your demons, and kill them.
As artists, we know they're with us for life. Parts of ourselves.
...We work with them.
They keep us mighty, they keep us smart, they keep us awake from the terrible, monotonous sleep some of you dwell in.
...In this darkness, dancing with these demons - we've grown stronger.
In our bodies, our souls, our brains, and our hearts.
...Those with the greatest capacity for hate, also have the greatest capacity for love.
...Not all those with weapons seek to harm.
For many years, you've driven the ship.
Creating monuments, markers, and technology.
You've built our world faster, stronger, heavier.
In our sleep, in our dreams, we artists feel her weight.
We feel her tremble with fear of herself, we feel the gasses growing hotter,
The air growing sour, and the silent screams she gives out.
....They're nearly whimpers.
...We're not saying that the world needs a 'reset' button.
...But, we're asking for ONE day, ONE chance to prove ourselves to you.
To kneel before OUR god, maybe even YOUR god, and say, 'We're Ready."
To say, "Trust Us."
And you respond with, "Okay."
...Believe in us, even though we're unlike you.
...Don't insult those who are different than you.
Who may be slower, or faster, or weaker, or stronger.
Because then, you are more alone than you ever have been.
...Let us save you, ourselves.
...Let us learn the right way.
...We're running out of time.
even if you don't know it,
...You're always running out of time.
The eternally young, perpetually angry, constantly looking, beautiful, honest, courageous - artists.
....For many years, we've made this world beautiful.
Laying color on top of your concrete,
Blooms on top of your foundation,
Shine on top of your skyscrapers.
....But we'd like a chance now.
We want your deafness to repair itself.
....We know what we're headed for, and what is heading for us.
....Give us ONE day, world.
Where you let us drive.
The planet is thirsty,
...sick,
.... scared,
...plain,
...uniformed,
........Dying.
We have the tincture,
the remedy,
...the cure.
It is thick laughter, sarcasm, sex, color.
It's profanity, pushing children out of the way, shielding the world from pain,
...But not honesty.
.....Not all do-gooders are soft people.
For a long time, we have tried to open your eyes, minds, souls, bodies, and heart to change.
For forever, it seems, we have ran across endless numbers of you, refusing to do so.
Despite your adverse reactions to some of us, despite the pain you've caused those unlike yourselves,
Regardless of the shame you've made us feel, the outcasts you've made of us,
...We still love you,
...We still hope you'll join us,
....We still hope that you will listen.
By pushing us away, you pushed into the darkest corners of ourselves.
Shuddering from the cold you made us feel, we look up, and saw our demons in the darkness.
They held out their hands for us, offering wisdom and courage.
Some of us took it.
..... You people like to fight your demons, and kill them.
As artists, we know they're with us for life. Parts of ourselves.
...We work with them.
They keep us mighty, they keep us smart, they keep us awake from the terrible, monotonous sleep some of you dwell in.
...In this darkness, dancing with these demons - we've grown stronger.
In our bodies, our souls, our brains, and our hearts.
...Those with the greatest capacity for hate, also have the greatest capacity for love.
...Not all those with weapons seek to harm.
For many years, you've driven the ship.
Creating monuments, markers, and technology.
You've built our world faster, stronger, heavier.
In our sleep, in our dreams, we artists feel her weight.
We feel her tremble with fear of herself, we feel the gasses growing hotter,
The air growing sour, and the silent screams she gives out.
....They're nearly whimpers.
...We're not saying that the world needs a 'reset' button.
...But, we're asking for ONE day, ONE chance to prove ourselves to you.
To kneel before OUR god, maybe even YOUR god, and say, 'We're Ready."
To say, "Trust Us."
And you respond with, "Okay."
...Believe in us, even though we're unlike you.
...Don't insult those who are different than you.
Who may be slower, or faster, or weaker, or stronger.
Because then, you are more alone than you ever have been.
...Let us save you, ourselves.
...Let us learn the right way.
...We're running out of time.
even if you don't know it,
...You're always running out of time.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Moving Out....again.
So, it's been nearly a year since we moved into this large house with too many rooms. It's been a long year. I started a new school which I have mixed feelings about, I found my scissor sister, I took my work places, and I found myself. Now, Van and I are moving into a smaller apartment, where we plan to save a shit-ton of money (that's an approximate number) and decide on a few things. One thing we're waiting o is to see if he gets a job in Seattle. If not, there are a few more he really has his eyes on, and if he doesn't get any of those, we're saving up and moving next year when this lease is over. One way or another, guarenteed, I will be in Seattle for my 25th birthday. This coming year will be amazing, regardless, for a couple of reasons. One, my best friend, Leanne, and I, are finally getting our music off of the ground, I can feel it. She's on her keyboard, and me learning a few instruments and planning on mastering the MacBook beat maker - we're going to be amazing. I really trust her as an artist and as a soul - and I don't trust a lot of people - none really. I feel so blessed by the goddess and the Universe that she and I are friends, she's definitely been a rock for me the last fews months, and I can't get over the laughs! (Not a lot of people compel me to use an exclamation point) Also, she, Van and I, are working on a big video project. Leanne is also an amazing writer, and she and I are going to write scripts and stories of people, and act them out. She and I, and Van, are both itching to perform. So, fuck it, we're going to do it ourselves. It'll be a beautiful mockumentary, I can feel it. That's another thing - I'm branching out and learning all new different forms of art. I used to just limit myself to painting - but I think that's because I was scared to try anything. I'm not really scared of anything like that anymore. I'm learning video cutting software, mastering a camera, and now I'm working with Andrew Giovinni, who is an amazing photographer and plans to teach me a lot - and then, get my own show in his gallery on Martin St.
What else?
Oh, yeah. This year, I was able to re-connect with some great people. My other best friend, Jessica, found me on Christmas Day (when I was terribly lonely and sad) through an email, and we became friends again. I missed her so much the year prior, and I love her so much, because she is a FUCKING GENIUS AND A BEAUTIFUL SOUL. And my ex-boyfriend, or whatever you want to call him, Will, and I reconnected. We're not like, chummy or anything, but it's nice to know that I can wave hello or something. It's nice to see how he's blossomed and how amazing a life he's built for himself, in a way, I'm proud.
I am really ready to put my foot in the ground and walk on it this year. I've become so much more aware of myself and others, and I'm kind of adamant in the fact that I'm not going to do anything i don't want to do anymore. I've said good-bye to a fw people that I realized that I don't want or need in my life anymore. Some friends that have exposed themselves this year to be nothing but followers, that were never my real friends, liars, fakes, and plain un-interesting (no matter how hard they try to be cool - they never will be, it's sad.).
What else?
Oh, yeah. This year, I was able to re-connect with some great people. My other best friend, Jessica, found me on Christmas Day (when I was terribly lonely and sad) through an email, and we became friends again. I missed her so much the year prior, and I love her so much, because she is a FUCKING GENIUS AND A BEAUTIFUL SOUL. And my ex-boyfriend, or whatever you want to call him, Will, and I reconnected. We're not like, chummy or anything, but it's nice to know that I can wave hello or something. It's nice to see how he's blossomed and how amazing a life he's built for himself, in a way, I'm proud.
I am really ready to put my foot in the ground and walk on it this year. I've become so much more aware of myself and others, and I'm kind of adamant in the fact that I'm not going to do anything i don't want to do anymore. I've said good-bye to a fw people that I realized that I don't want or need in my life anymore. Some friends that have exposed themselves this year to be nothing but followers, that were never my real friends, liars, fakes, and plain un-interesting (no matter how hard they try to be cool - they never will be, it's sad.).
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Meow Mix
I know this cat's name,
I know what it responds to.
I know what it likes.
I watch it come out of the rain,
Peer in my window,
Watching me do the same.
Cause it copies me,
So sad to see,
This kitty,
Not wanting to be herself.
Kitty, don't copy me.
Kitty, stop copying me.
Cat, not everyone likes you,
But that's just life, so deal with it.
Cat, you need stop wearing my clothes,
And singing my songs, so deal with it.
I know this cat's name,
I know what it responds to,
I know the shitty shows it watchs n TV.
C'mon kitty, don't get wit' me,
It's so sad to see,
So sad to see.
Don't copy me.
I know what it responds to.
I know what it likes.
I watch it come out of the rain,
Peer in my window,
Watching me do the same.
Cause it copies me,
So sad to see,
This kitty,
Not wanting to be herself.
Kitty, don't copy me.
Kitty, stop copying me.
Cat, not everyone likes you,
But that's just life, so deal with it.
Cat, you need stop wearing my clothes,
And singing my songs, so deal with it.
I know this cat's name,
I know what it responds to,
I know the shitty shows it watchs n TV.
C'mon kitty, don't get wit' me,
It's so sad to see,
So sad to see.
Don't copy me.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Ma
I put my cigarettes out like Kathy Brown.
Years of watching her twirl them out,
Usually after saying something bitter and disheartening, like,
"Well, that's just not going to happen."
Or,
"Been there, done that!, Did with ya sistahs.."
I adopted it, it grew on me like an aged memory, looking for a place,
To rest while it prepares it's self for death.
I'm still not much of a beer drinker,
But when I acquire it,
Will I drink the Bud Light Kathy drinks?
It's yellow optimistic, soothing acidic empirical taste?
Why can't I get rid of you Kathy Brown?
Years of watching her twirl them out,
Usually after saying something bitter and disheartening, like,
"Well, that's just not going to happen."
Or,
"Been there, done that!, Did with ya sistahs.."
I adopted it, it grew on me like an aged memory, looking for a place,
To rest while it prepares it's self for death.
I'm still not much of a beer drinker,
But when I acquire it,
Will I drink the Bud Light Kathy drinks?
It's yellow optimistic, soothing acidic empirical taste?
Why can't I get rid of you Kathy Brown?
Desert queen
See, I am covered in blue spots.
Little re-birth marks,
Signs of the times,
I am creating apocalypses.
Little re-birth marks,
Signs of the times,
I am creating apocalypses.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Cocktail recipes of disaster. READ WITH CAUTION!
Providence Elyse Jordan's "Cocktail Recipes for all loud-mouthed, cocky, smart-ass, Liberal - women and / or great gay Men".
by Elyse Brown-Jordan on Saturday, 14 May 2011 at 04:09
These are my recipes for wonderful drinks that we fit and tailor your mental imbalance. These are amazing, people. They fit your bodies like gloves. Enjoy!
The "Fuck Billy Graham!" frozen margarita:
- 2 oz Jose Cuervo Gold tequila
- w al-Mart big ole' tub of shitty margarita mix
- ICE - or not. Warm margaritas are great, a friend once told me they were what the "piss of the Gods look and taste like."
- 1 oz Southern Baptist communal wine (A.K.A - the nasty fucking grape juive, EVAH!)
- Pinch of black Pepper.
- BLEND, OH, BABY, BLEND. (*drags off cigarette*)
- PUT IN RANDOM, 2008 ELECTION MEMORBILIA COLLECTOR GLASSES.
- DRINK.
- PISS OUT THE "PISS OF THE GODS" ALL OVER A STACK OF CHRISTIAN SELF-HELP BOOKS.
The "I'm high and layng on my floor in my panties, listening to Scissor Sisters, ABBA, and Madonna" Cocktail:
- Diet Coke (caffeine free) *bitches need to sleep.
- Ocean Spray Diet Cranberry Juice. That shit is basiaclly just crystal light Cranberry. So, depends on your budget, they can and SHOULD be swapped. Never drink to lower your bank account balance. Drinking is like sex; it should be cheap, and make you feel like you accomplished something afterwards.
- 2 oz (or a shitload, whatever) Southern COmfort
- 1 oz stale cologne. You know, from that guy who rubbed up against you while trying to 'squeeze through the crowded bar', but really he copped a feel and grabbed a nice, fleshy part of you. But you have to admit, it was kind of hot, too.
- Glass. Or paper cup from under your bed. Either one, is AMAZING, because your fucking drink goes in it.
- DRINK. And when the wave hits you can wiggle on the floor along to "GIMME, GIMME GIMME."
The "My mother hates me." shot:
- 3 teaspoons lemon juice
- 1 pinch of salt. Or, I like two pinches. Sometimes 3. Or 4.
- Skyy Original vodka.
- Her picture in front of you.
- Exacto blade.
- SHOOT THAT BITCH! (the drink, crazy, not your ACTUAL Mom! ...unless you want to...do you want to?)
- TAKE EXACTO BLADE AND CUT OUT HEART AROUND MOM'S FACE.
- PUT PIN THROUGH SAID PICTURE AND PUT ON WALL.
- MAKE ABOUT ANOTHER 20-30 SHOTS. (Obviously, if you cut out the picture, you're going to need to drink a few more. Obviously, you're at the point where we need to drink and you need, "vent" tonight about the heartbreak your mom has bestown upon you. Another, *therapy* night? *sigh* You NEVER fuck me anymore.)
The "I just found out my first-love / ex-boyfriend whom I cheated on while fucking my (now) husband, is fucking GAY!" cocktail:
- First, line the tumbler's rim with vanilla / buttercream cake frosting. I've noticed since moving to the South that you people call it 'icing'. That is just fucking dumb, okay? You're not iceing the cake, you are frosting it. Everything has to sound pretty to you people, so scared of a little ugly. Blah. But the frosting is to remind you, while that drink is going down (the same throat where you gave him the best blowjobs that man will EVER have!) - that he always seemed a little too 'sweet'.
- 2 oz Jack Daniels Black. (It makes your bones not hurt 'too' much)
- 1 oz Irish Cream. This is to signfy the Black (Jack Daniels) being mxed with the White (Irish motherfucking Cream), just like the birth of His fucking goddess Mariah Carey, since he is a bi-racial demigod / Anti-Christ. (I'm sorry, that woman played a recording of her Madison Square Garden show while giving birth to her twins, because...SHE IS CRAZY.)
- 4 Red peper seeds. This is make things 'hot'. Just like the hot Hell he fucking feels. He made you feel like a prisoner for four years. He said you had to be a certain way, an indie-Theater major-strolling antique stores Princess. God forbid you masterbate, or eat lunch with your friends, or not want to SNUGGLE! *he cries*
- SHOOT.
- DRINK A FEW MORE.
- GO FUCK YOUR BOYFRIEND / HUSBAND / BEST FRIEND / STRNAGER. (Try and have multple orgasms...you know, the ones he never gave you?)
The "get amped up before going to slash your best-friend's fuck buddy who just humiliated her'" shot:
- Belvedre Vodka.
- That's it. It's classic, simple, and deadly. Hot Russian female spies drink this before slitting some asshole's throat. Go for it, we're all russian tonight, when we seek revenge from humiliation! Bitch, please....
- SHOOT.
- START SPEAKING IN RUSSIAN ACCENT.
- BREAK THAT ASSHOLE'S HEART, SLASH THEM UGLY AS TIRES. HIS CAR IS A 5-SPEED? IT'S 2011, NIGGAH, GET SOME BETTER WHEELS.
- GO TO IHOP.
-DEMAND 'COFFEE, BLACK.' TO OLDER, BLACK, GENTLEMAN WAITER.
- SPLASH OF VODKA FROM FLASK.
SAY, "OH, YES, WE'VE WILL RULE AGAIN, SISTER." SMIRK, THEN DRINK - MUST BE IN RUSSIAN ACCENT.
The "I'm making out with SOMEBODY tonight, goddamn it, I don't if it's a man or a woman! Hurricane:
- The Blue Jimmy Buffet Hurricane mix from the Liquor store -NOT, the Walmart. Seriously, don't do that. Jimmy Buffet is right about somethings, Hippies...and those are: Cheeseburgers In Paradise, hot bitches, and forzen, Tropical drink mixes. I think, he is a genius, I mean, shit.
- Ice. It will make it taste good!
- BLEND. Do it, bitch, yeah, I like that....
- 2 oz lemon juice. Lemon juice is an aphrodiasiac, so it will make it easier for you to make out with the opposite gender of your preferance. It's going to be one of 'those nights', okay? Where, you are just a giant, sexy, whore in the gay-possibilities (because you are an ARTIST - not like those ,other' girls...) Land.
- 3 servings of a shit-load of Jose Cuervo Gold.
- DRINK.
- PUT ON KNEE-HIGH PVC (ADAM&EVE <3) BOOTS.
- GO TO BAR / CLUB.
- GO HAVE SEXY, GAY KISS.
- EITHER GO, 'FULL-BLOWN' AND GO HOME WITH HIM/HER AND HAVE 'GAY SEXY SEX', OR STAY CALM, SAY THANKS, AND GO HOME AND MASTERBATE.
- MAKE ANOTHER ONE OF THESE DRINKS, OKAY? THEN YOU'LL MOST LIKELY PASS OUT. LIFE IS NOT ABOUT RULES, IT'S ABOUT BEING FREE TO BE HAPPY IN ALL WAYS POSSIBLE. FUCK SHAME AND REGRET, IT'S FOR LOSERS WITH SOMETHING TO PROVE TO NO ONE.
The "Is it a grown-up thing to do to make a 'money for drugs? section in the monthly budget? I mean, your professors did say to budget everything in your sophmore "personal Economics 101" course you took, so, guees?" cocktail:
- Mountain Dew. Do you ever notice how stoners love Mountain Dew? Like, they, LOVE it. I've never really have a big love for it. But to be honest, now that I'm getting heavier in drugs lately, I have these late-night fantasies where I drink a whole ocean full!
- Crowne Royal. (Use with caution. Crowne makes you stupid, and do stupid things, like, rooting forthe UNC Tarheels basketball team. Jesus, can they be any more annoying, the fans? Powder blue everywhere, we get it, you like the goddamn team. Get a life.
- Mint leaves. crush them, stupid.
- DRINK. Di you catch the green theme in the recipe? It's to represent money. Okay? Colors have very positive energies, they affect everything! Read a book, okay?
- Burger King's "Double Stack Value meal, with a side of onion rings" combo meal. With a Diet coke, that you can shoot with side crowne royal later i nthe night when you get sick of Mountain Dew. These Double Stacks are delicious. I don't really care about calories or being beautiful anymore, I just care about feeling creative and making life fill richer, even if I feel richer by eating greasy fast-food. I like feeling bad and out of line, fuck the man! Go to eat some trash! Go reach for the stars, and wipe your ass with copies of "The Watchtower" with articles about "STOPPING THE MASS HOMICIDE: SAVE UN-BORN BABIES!" .... *whisper* I mean, who the fuck, do they think they are, anyway? Telling me, that I don't have a right to do with my own body, anyway? For what? To trade in adventures to foreign, sexy places, where Ican finally meet this "Jesus" everyone has been talking about, and find some sort, of cosmic, sexual bliss? Where I feel, so hot and happy forever. You, know trade that in for being 'mother of the year in the Chockyotte Trailer Park - 2009' - Here she is, "Mrs._____ ______.you are the mother of twins, Blackbird and Bluebird, and you are such a great mom! You gave up finding your soul and meeting the Jesus, so you could have these little mess-makers. Not to mention, your husband only pulls in about, $30,000 a year, and you pull in nothing - because you never finished communty college - jesus (I was really fucking smart! I was a brilliant bitch! Community College? All because of that same gay boyfriend, who convinced you to 'stay here in town with him after gradutation, so we could be together, and then go far, far, away - to a town like, Greensboro. Where we can go to a real college! together.) So, you're in deep-shit debt. Life is horrible. You want to die, like, really. If this motherhood is bliss, than I want pain.
The "You-Tbing yur favorite childhood shows at 4 a.m because you want to remember what it was like when shit made sense." morning cocktail.
- Orange juice. Nana used ot give it to you, with extra pulp. It was your fav as a kid. It made you feel safe, and healthy in side, when everything felt to toxic, outside.
- Skyy Vodka.
- Box of Saltines. They are the depressed, drunkard's best friend. Simple and stabilizing, but their taste makes you go numb. It's awesome. *nbble, nibble*.
_ WATCH THEM YOUTUBE VIDEOS OF "Are you afraid of the Dark?" "Rocco's Modern Life", "King Of The Hill", "Rugrats" and "Salute your Shorts". IT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.
- HAVE A NICE LIGHT CRY. DON'T GET TOO DRAMATIC, YOU'RE SUPOSSED TO BE A FUCKING ADULT. NO MORE BREAKDOWN THIS YEAR, ELYSE, THEY'RE GETTING, EXPENSIVE.
- GO TO BED.
The "i have totally out-grown these friends, I have. They all bore me, and make me realize how simple and fake they are. Loser. I'm deleting them form my Facebook." Jello Shooters - or bowl.
- One packet of Rasberry jllo, and another or Strawberry. It's delicious, assholes!
- 90's dance music - Ace of Base, real McCoy, La Bouche, - your pick. You need something and uplifiting!
- Lots, lots of VODKA! And also Tanqueray. Mix with the jello.
- Let it, do, the Jello thing. Like, let it become Jello.
- Then eat it. Eati t for your 4th dinner of the night at 4:38 a.m - the Jello- Vodka-Cereal! fuck those 'small-town assholes who get up, eat their cereal, go their lame-ass jobs, watch American Idol, and ignore what's really important in this world! YOU WLL EAT JELLO-VODKA-CEREAL AT 4:38 IN THE MORNING! AND YOU'LL LISTEN TO PANDORA RADIO IN ONE EARBUD AND THE CLICKITY-CLICK BYE BYE OF THOSE ASSHOLES LEAVING YOUR FACEBOOK! YOU DON'T NEED THEM!. *whispers* Fuck them, seriously. Who needs people telling you how to live, how to think, how to worship their fucking god? Blech.
The "Should I bleach my hair again? MMh, not sure. Let me flip through this issue of "Marie claire" and see what snatches out to me, what color, until I decide" martini:
- 1 issue of "Marie Clare" magainze. Okay, "Cosmopolitain" s too slutty. It's all about 'dicks, and clits, and how to 'mount your man', but still be the 'top bitch at your office'. Like, any of those slutty whores readng that are smart bitches in the corporate world? No, they're like me, poor, minimum-wage whores who read t to feel like we know a thing or two about dicks, clits, and mounting our men. "Vogue" is just, too fashiony. I just want to see pretty pictures of women I'll never, ever look like, not know what every fucking fashion deisgner, or (asshole with a pair of scissors and a piece of bone-fsh and thread who thinks he's a great person for "Project Runway") is wearing, or doing, or NOT doing. Blech. But "Marie Claire" has lotsa or pretty pictures and some smart shit. "Glamour' is about a step below, you know? It has less important, smart people interviews. Little bit more penis than Vogue, but nealry as much as "Cosmo". I would say is 'safe for work'. :)
- Skyy vodaka. Skyy is most definitly a gay man / woman vodka. It's pretty. We like pretty things, that's okay, it's not a sign of fucking weakness if WE LIKE A PRETTY THING AROUND THE PLACE FROM TIME TO TIME!
- Pink lemonade. It's pretty. Just be a chick once in awhile, Relax.
- Sharpe marker. To circle what model's style and hair you like best. Who do you wanna be next week? *sips drink* I think I'm getting fucked up. I apologize.
- Raspberry Tootsie Pop. The only acceptable for wierd bitches like you. ;) Good going, masocist!
- Joint. It's one of those, "Whatever" nights. I don't need any bullshit tonight, okay? I'm wearing my panties and bra, and reading my magazine. If you bother me, if you kill my buzz --- ooh, Jesus Christ, I will slice your scrotum in half, take out the balls, and feed them to the millions of rabid, homeless animals out there! nights.
- READ MAGAZINE.
- LIGHT JOINT. DON'T SPARE YOURSELF, SMOKE AT LEAST HALF OF THE JOINT.
- DECIDE ON COLOR.
- SPEND REST OF NIGHT IMAGINING YOU IN THIS NEW HAIRCOLOR. AND HOW AWESOME YOU FINALLY BE.
- MAKE A FEW OF THESE, CRAZY.
The "What the fuck!? What was that noise?....weird...Oh my god?! My house is haunted! I'm going to end up like that girl in "Emily Rose and the Devil thing with teh Priest from that other movie"! Ugh, I really want to go downstairs and get some cookies. But I'm afraid I'll see a ghost! Ugh...fuck...what should I do?" Cocktail:
- First, just go downstairs. Just turn every light on your way down there. And then run like hell upstairs.
- Sing to yourself while pouring drink and getting midnight snack. It heps the nerves.
- A bottle of "Emergency Wine". This is a bottle of unopened wine you have at all time in the fridge. It's for break-ups, ugly days, Hauntings, and Times where you have to call your mom. It helps if you call your Mother drunk - everyone wins in that situation. You feel liberated to call her a 'cunt', and she thinks that you love her and admitted that she is 'RULER OF ALL THAT IS PINK AND BUDLIGHT-FLAVORED!" because she is drunk all of the time.
- DO NOT FORGET COOKIES, THE THING THAT TAKES THE CORK OUT OF THE BOTTLE OF WINE, AND BOTTLE OF WINE. NO GLASS NEEDED. THIS ISN'T A TIME TO BE A BITCH ,THERE IS A GHOST NEEDING A BANISHING HERE!
- WATCH SOME SHITTY MOVIE ON NETFLIX.
Now, remember friends, these drinks are meant fr anyone that has ever felt this way. I feel this way. I cannot scratch an itch enough, and maybe you could admit that you are human, and you feel the same sometimes.
"One man's morals are another's martial law."
by Elyse Brown-Jordan on Saturday, 14 May 2011 at 04:09
These are my recipes for wonderful drinks that we fit and tailor your mental imbalance. These are amazing, people. They fit your bodies like gloves. Enjoy!
The "Fuck Billy Graham!" frozen margarita:
- 2 oz Jose Cuervo Gold tequila
- w al-Mart big ole' tub of shitty margarita mix
- ICE - or not. Warm margaritas are great, a friend once told me they were what the "piss of the Gods look and taste like."
- 1 oz Southern Baptist communal wine (A.K.A - the nasty fucking grape juive, EVAH!)
- Pinch of black Pepper.
- BLEND, OH, BABY, BLEND. (*drags off cigarette*)
- PUT IN RANDOM, 2008 ELECTION MEMORBILIA COLLECTOR GLASSES.
- DRINK.
- PISS OUT THE "PISS OF THE GODS" ALL OVER A STACK OF CHRISTIAN SELF-HELP BOOKS.
The "I'm high and layng on my floor in my panties, listening to Scissor Sisters, ABBA, and Madonna" Cocktail:
- Diet Coke (caffeine free) *bitches need to sleep.
- Ocean Spray Diet Cranberry Juice. That shit is basiaclly just crystal light Cranberry. So, depends on your budget, they can and SHOULD be swapped. Never drink to lower your bank account balance. Drinking is like sex; it should be cheap, and make you feel like you accomplished something afterwards.
- 2 oz (or a shitload, whatever) Southern COmfort
- 1 oz stale cologne. You know, from that guy who rubbed up against you while trying to 'squeeze through the crowded bar', but really he copped a feel and grabbed a nice, fleshy part of you. But you have to admit, it was kind of hot, too.
- Glass. Or paper cup from under your bed. Either one, is AMAZING, because your fucking drink goes in it.
- DRINK. And when the wave hits you can wiggle on the floor along to "GIMME, GIMME GIMME."
The "My mother hates me." shot:
- 3 teaspoons lemon juice
- 1 pinch of salt. Or, I like two pinches. Sometimes 3. Or 4.
- Skyy Original vodka.
- Her picture in front of you.
- Exacto blade.
- SHOOT THAT BITCH! (the drink, crazy, not your ACTUAL Mom! ...unless you want to...do you want to?)
- TAKE EXACTO BLADE AND CUT OUT HEART AROUND MOM'S FACE.
- PUT PIN THROUGH SAID PICTURE AND PUT ON WALL.
- MAKE ABOUT ANOTHER 20-30 SHOTS. (Obviously, if you cut out the picture, you're going to need to drink a few more. Obviously, you're at the point where we need to drink and you need, "vent" tonight about the heartbreak your mom has bestown upon you. Another, *therapy* night? *sigh* You NEVER fuck me anymore.)
The "I just found out my first-love / ex-boyfriend whom I cheated on while fucking my (now) husband, is fucking GAY!" cocktail:
- First, line the tumbler's rim with vanilla / buttercream cake frosting. I've noticed since moving to the South that you people call it 'icing'. That is just fucking dumb, okay? You're not iceing the cake, you are frosting it. Everything has to sound pretty to you people, so scared of a little ugly. Blah. But the frosting is to remind you, while that drink is going down (the same throat where you gave him the best blowjobs that man will EVER have!) - that he always seemed a little too 'sweet'.
- 2 oz Jack Daniels Black. (It makes your bones not hurt 'too' much)
- 1 oz Irish Cream. This is to signfy the Black (Jack Daniels) being mxed with the White (Irish motherfucking Cream), just like the birth of His fucking goddess Mariah Carey, since he is a bi-racial demigod / Anti-Christ. (I'm sorry, that woman played a recording of her Madison Square Garden show while giving birth to her twins, because...SHE IS CRAZY.)
- 4 Red peper seeds. This is make things 'hot'. Just like the hot Hell he fucking feels. He made you feel like a prisoner for four years. He said you had to be a certain way, an indie-Theater major-strolling antique stores Princess. God forbid you masterbate, or eat lunch with your friends, or not want to SNUGGLE! *he cries*
- SHOOT.
- DRINK A FEW MORE.
- GO FUCK YOUR BOYFRIEND / HUSBAND / BEST FRIEND / STRNAGER. (Try and have multple orgasms...you know, the ones he never gave you?)
The "get amped up before going to slash your best-friend's fuck buddy who just humiliated her'" shot:
- Belvedre Vodka.
- That's it. It's classic, simple, and deadly. Hot Russian female spies drink this before slitting some asshole's throat. Go for it, we're all russian tonight, when we seek revenge from humiliation! Bitch, please....
- SHOOT.
- START SPEAKING IN RUSSIAN ACCENT.
- BREAK THAT ASSHOLE'S HEART, SLASH THEM UGLY AS TIRES. HIS CAR IS A 5-SPEED? IT'S 2011, NIGGAH, GET SOME BETTER WHEELS.
- GO TO IHOP.
-DEMAND 'COFFEE, BLACK.' TO OLDER, BLACK, GENTLEMAN WAITER.
- SPLASH OF VODKA FROM FLASK.
SAY, "OH, YES, WE'VE WILL RULE AGAIN, SISTER." SMIRK, THEN DRINK - MUST BE IN RUSSIAN ACCENT.
The "I'm making out with SOMEBODY tonight, goddamn it, I don't if it's a man or a woman! Hurricane:
- The Blue Jimmy Buffet Hurricane mix from the Liquor store -NOT, the Walmart. Seriously, don't do that. Jimmy Buffet is right about somethings, Hippies...and those are: Cheeseburgers In Paradise, hot bitches, and forzen, Tropical drink mixes. I think, he is a genius, I mean, shit.
- Ice. It will make it taste good!
- BLEND. Do it, bitch, yeah, I like that....
- 2 oz lemon juice. Lemon juice is an aphrodiasiac, so it will make it easier for you to make out with the opposite gender of your preferance. It's going to be one of 'those nights', okay? Where, you are just a giant, sexy, whore in the gay-possibilities (because you are an ARTIST - not like those ,other' girls...) Land.
- 3 servings of a shit-load of Jose Cuervo Gold.
- DRINK.
- PUT ON KNEE-HIGH PVC (ADAM&EVE <3) BOOTS.
- GO TO BAR / CLUB.
- GO HAVE SEXY, GAY KISS.
- EITHER GO, 'FULL-BLOWN' AND GO HOME WITH HIM/HER AND HAVE 'GAY SEXY SEX', OR STAY CALM, SAY THANKS, AND GO HOME AND MASTERBATE.
- MAKE ANOTHER ONE OF THESE DRINKS, OKAY? THEN YOU'LL MOST LIKELY PASS OUT. LIFE IS NOT ABOUT RULES, IT'S ABOUT BEING FREE TO BE HAPPY IN ALL WAYS POSSIBLE. FUCK SHAME AND REGRET, IT'S FOR LOSERS WITH SOMETHING TO PROVE TO NO ONE.
The "Is it a grown-up thing to do to make a 'money for drugs? section in the monthly budget? I mean, your professors did say to budget everything in your sophmore "personal Economics 101" course you took, so, guees?" cocktail:
- Mountain Dew. Do you ever notice how stoners love Mountain Dew? Like, they, LOVE it. I've never really have a big love for it. But to be honest, now that I'm getting heavier in drugs lately, I have these late-night fantasies where I drink a whole ocean full!
- Crowne Royal. (Use with caution. Crowne makes you stupid, and do stupid things, like, rooting forthe UNC Tarheels basketball team. Jesus, can they be any more annoying, the fans? Powder blue everywhere, we get it, you like the goddamn team. Get a life.
- Mint leaves. crush them, stupid.
- DRINK. Di you catch the green theme in the recipe? It's to represent money. Okay? Colors have very positive energies, they affect everything! Read a book, okay?
- Burger King's "Double Stack Value meal, with a side of onion rings" combo meal. With a Diet coke, that you can shoot with side crowne royal later i nthe night when you get sick of Mountain Dew. These Double Stacks are delicious. I don't really care about calories or being beautiful anymore, I just care about feeling creative and making life fill richer, even if I feel richer by eating greasy fast-food. I like feeling bad and out of line, fuck the man! Go to eat some trash! Go reach for the stars, and wipe your ass with copies of "The Watchtower" with articles about "STOPPING THE MASS HOMICIDE: SAVE UN-BORN BABIES!" .... *whisper* I mean, who the fuck, do they think they are, anyway? Telling me, that I don't have a right to do with my own body, anyway? For what? To trade in adventures to foreign, sexy places, where Ican finally meet this "Jesus" everyone has been talking about, and find some sort, of cosmic, sexual bliss? Where I feel, so hot and happy forever. You, know trade that in for being 'mother of the year in the Chockyotte Trailer Park - 2009' - Here she is, "Mrs._____ ______.you are the mother of twins, Blackbird and Bluebird, and you are such a great mom! You gave up finding your soul and meeting the Jesus, so you could have these little mess-makers. Not to mention, your husband only pulls in about, $30,000 a year, and you pull in nothing - because you never finished communty college - jesus (I was really fucking smart! I was a brilliant bitch! Community College? All because of that same gay boyfriend, who convinced you to 'stay here in town with him after gradutation, so we could be together, and then go far, far, away - to a town like, Greensboro. Where we can go to a real college! together.) So, you're in deep-shit debt. Life is horrible. You want to die, like, really. If this motherhood is bliss, than I want pain.
The "You-Tbing yur favorite childhood shows at 4 a.m because you want to remember what it was like when shit made sense." morning cocktail.
- Orange juice. Nana used ot give it to you, with extra pulp. It was your fav as a kid. It made you feel safe, and healthy in side, when everything felt to toxic, outside.
- Skyy Vodka.
- Box of Saltines. They are the depressed, drunkard's best friend. Simple and stabilizing, but their taste makes you go numb. It's awesome. *nbble, nibble*.
_ WATCH THEM YOUTUBE VIDEOS OF "Are you afraid of the Dark?" "Rocco's Modern Life", "King Of The Hill", "Rugrats" and "Salute your Shorts". IT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER.
- HAVE A NICE LIGHT CRY. DON'T GET TOO DRAMATIC, YOU'RE SUPOSSED TO BE A FUCKING ADULT. NO MORE BREAKDOWN THIS YEAR, ELYSE, THEY'RE GETTING, EXPENSIVE.
- GO TO BED.
The "i have totally out-grown these friends, I have. They all bore me, and make me realize how simple and fake they are. Loser. I'm deleting them form my Facebook." Jello Shooters - or bowl.
- One packet of Rasberry jllo, and another or Strawberry. It's delicious, assholes!
- 90's dance music - Ace of Base, real McCoy, La Bouche, - your pick. You need something and uplifiting!
- Lots, lots of VODKA! And also Tanqueray. Mix with the jello.
- Let it, do, the Jello thing. Like, let it become Jello.
- Then eat it. Eati t for your 4th dinner of the night at 4:38 a.m - the Jello- Vodka-Cereal! fuck those 'small-town assholes who get up, eat their cereal, go their lame-ass jobs, watch American Idol, and ignore what's really important in this world! YOU WLL EAT JELLO-VODKA-CEREAL AT 4:38 IN THE MORNING! AND YOU'LL LISTEN TO PANDORA RADIO IN ONE EARBUD AND THE CLICKITY-CLICK BYE BYE OF THOSE ASSHOLES LEAVING YOUR FACEBOOK! YOU DON'T NEED THEM!. *whispers* Fuck them, seriously. Who needs people telling you how to live, how to think, how to worship their fucking god? Blech.
The "Should I bleach my hair again? MMh, not sure. Let me flip through this issue of "Marie claire" and see what snatches out to me, what color, until I decide" martini:
- 1 issue of "Marie Clare" magainze. Okay, "Cosmopolitain" s too slutty. It's all about 'dicks, and clits, and how to 'mount your man', but still be the 'top bitch at your office'. Like, any of those slutty whores readng that are smart bitches in the corporate world? No, they're like me, poor, minimum-wage whores who read t to feel like we know a thing or two about dicks, clits, and mounting our men. "Vogue" is just, too fashiony. I just want to see pretty pictures of women I'll never, ever look like, not know what every fucking fashion deisgner, or (asshole with a pair of scissors and a piece of bone-fsh and thread who thinks he's a great person for "Project Runway") is wearing, or doing, or NOT doing. Blech. But "Marie Claire" has lotsa or pretty pictures and some smart shit. "Glamour' is about a step below, you know? It has less important, smart people interviews. Little bit more penis than Vogue, but nealry as much as "Cosmo". I would say is 'safe for work'. :)
- Skyy vodaka. Skyy is most definitly a gay man / woman vodka. It's pretty. We like pretty things, that's okay, it's not a sign of fucking weakness if WE LIKE A PRETTY THING AROUND THE PLACE FROM TIME TO TIME!
- Pink lemonade. It's pretty. Just be a chick once in awhile, Relax.
- Sharpe marker. To circle what model's style and hair you like best. Who do you wanna be next week? *sips drink* I think I'm getting fucked up. I apologize.
- Raspberry Tootsie Pop. The only acceptable for wierd bitches like you. ;) Good going, masocist!
- Joint. It's one of those, "Whatever" nights. I don't need any bullshit tonight, okay? I'm wearing my panties and bra, and reading my magazine. If you bother me, if you kill my buzz --- ooh, Jesus Christ, I will slice your scrotum in half, take out the balls, and feed them to the millions of rabid, homeless animals out there! nights.
- READ MAGAZINE.
- LIGHT JOINT. DON'T SPARE YOURSELF, SMOKE AT LEAST HALF OF THE JOINT.
- DECIDE ON COLOR.
- SPEND REST OF NIGHT IMAGINING YOU IN THIS NEW HAIRCOLOR. AND HOW AWESOME YOU FINALLY BE.
- MAKE A FEW OF THESE, CRAZY.
The "What the fuck!? What was that noise?....weird...Oh my god?! My house is haunted! I'm going to end up like that girl in "Emily Rose and the Devil thing with teh Priest from that other movie"! Ugh, I really want to go downstairs and get some cookies. But I'm afraid I'll see a ghost! Ugh...fuck...what should I do?" Cocktail:
- First, just go downstairs. Just turn every light on your way down there. And then run like hell upstairs.
- Sing to yourself while pouring drink and getting midnight snack. It heps the nerves.
- A bottle of "Emergency Wine". This is a bottle of unopened wine you have at all time in the fridge. It's for break-ups, ugly days, Hauntings, and Times where you have to call your mom. It helps if you call your Mother drunk - everyone wins in that situation. You feel liberated to call her a 'cunt', and she thinks that you love her and admitted that she is 'RULER OF ALL THAT IS PINK AND BUDLIGHT-FLAVORED!" because she is drunk all of the time.
- DO NOT FORGET COOKIES, THE THING THAT TAKES THE CORK OUT OF THE BOTTLE OF WINE, AND BOTTLE OF WINE. NO GLASS NEEDED. THIS ISN'T A TIME TO BE A BITCH ,THERE IS A GHOST NEEDING A BANISHING HERE!
- WATCH SOME SHITTY MOVIE ON NETFLIX.
Now, remember friends, these drinks are meant fr anyone that has ever felt this way. I feel this way. I cannot scratch an itch enough, and maybe you could admit that you are human, and you feel the same sometimes.
"One man's morals are another's martial law."
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Gimme sympathy.
I will walk this
DESERT.
...and find God.
I will lick this plate
CLEAN.
..and find some satisfaction.
I will do very black
MAGIC,
...and get dizzy in delight.
I will find sin, and invent new
SEX,
...and find God.
DESERT.
...and find God.
I will lick this plate
CLEAN.
..and find some satisfaction.
I will do very black
MAGIC,
...and get dizzy in delight.
I will find sin, and invent new
SEX,
...and find God.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
I don't believe.
“Fuck,” You breathe out curtly. “I really wish I held that toke in longer.” You make an exaggerated frown, and we gggle as you look away suddenly, like you just thought of something dirty.
I won’t ever mind saying, that I love the dirty parts of you.
I love the rituals you have. Like, today is Wednesday, and you like to eat pasta and get high on Wednesday nights. You make me so nervous and bubbly, containing myself while your back arches back to reach for an ashtray - it's nearly impossible. You hand me the joint, and I hold mine in forever, tasting the spice hit my tongue and setting it on fire. When I exhale in front of you, the haze takes over your face, making it oblong and abstractly sexy. This is high is something I don't mind, because you letting me in on your rituals. Welcoming to be a part of your inner cult, your realm that only beauty exists. You reach over past me to turn up the volume on the speaks behind me and I catch a scent of your perfume mixed with the smoke, and my legs go to jelly beneath me. I wonder if your sheets smell the same. If they did, I'd want to die in them, poisoned by your lust and magic. Your hair grazes my own bare shoulder, like ice, it makes me jump.
Somewhere in between who we thought we were and who we want to be - lie moments like this. Invisible crossroads, and large infinite rules that no one knows who made up. We can't move, we are frozen in this time, and my mind races like lightening looking for a target. I want you. I want you to be my target, I repeat in my head. I want to put my hands in places I never thought I'd put them. I look at the silver toe ring on your left foot and it makes my eyes go up your bronzed legs, in the middle of winter, I see summer shimmering on you. I imagine running my hands up them and then grasping your hips, putting you under me and burying my nose in your scent. I feel my eyes glaze over in deep thought, and I hear you laugh, thinking it's the weed doing it to me. I smile, "Yeah," I say, trying to keep our conversation going. I look up at your cobalt eyes and they're dancing slowly, and I offer my eyes eyes up as a dance partner. My heart beats faster with every second they tango, and finally these inches are ridiculous.
I don't care about rules anymore.
I don't believe in anything anymore, just that neck of yours. Just that neck, leading into that ass, then those legs that carry you all over this planet. I don't want sympathy for this love lorn heart, I just want to feel you. Every inch.
I scoot closer on the floor to you and I rise to my knees in front of you. I see confusion break in your pupils, and then I sense you match what I am broadcasting loud and clear.
You think, "I don't care about rules anymore. I just want to feel life break lose from it's cage and ravage me. I want life to eat my alive, slowly." You grab my waist and pull me close and as breamed previously, I finally burying my nose into the side of your neck, and then kiss down to your shoulders as you find your way to the back of me. When our lips finally meet, I imagine a gunshot going off inside of me, scaring away crows that bring doubt. I crave being on top of you, and I pin you beneath you, keeping our kisses deep and full of magic minerals. I love this pressure between us, and I'm being shot with adrenaline with every small squirm we share. I put my hands around your chest, feeling the those mounds of soft flesh, and a small, satisfied moan escapes you. I am lost all over again. I made you moan, so I can die all over again, the sweetest sound ever made. I start praying to you and the walls that this feeling never leaves. You taste like what I imagined was the most amazing taste ever, and watching your fingers outline my shape make me feel like I've been welcomed into some secret world where there is no pain and art makes laws.
I don't believe in rules anymore.
I don't want to feel pinned to a world I don't believe in.
This is what I think over and over as we run miles on each other. The shame comes in small waves, but your spirit pushes them back. Nothing could be as beautiful as your silohuette while you put your hair up in a bun while on top me.
I want life to ravage me slowly.
I just want to put my hands everywhere. I want to feel everything.
I won’t ever mind saying, that I love the dirty parts of you.
I love the rituals you have. Like, today is Wednesday, and you like to eat pasta and get high on Wednesday nights. You make me so nervous and bubbly, containing myself while your back arches back to reach for an ashtray - it's nearly impossible. You hand me the joint, and I hold mine in forever, tasting the spice hit my tongue and setting it on fire. When I exhale in front of you, the haze takes over your face, making it oblong and abstractly sexy. This is high is something I don't mind, because you letting me in on your rituals. Welcoming to be a part of your inner cult, your realm that only beauty exists. You reach over past me to turn up the volume on the speaks behind me and I catch a scent of your perfume mixed with the smoke, and my legs go to jelly beneath me. I wonder if your sheets smell the same. If they did, I'd want to die in them, poisoned by your lust and magic. Your hair grazes my own bare shoulder, like ice, it makes me jump.
Somewhere in between who we thought we were and who we want to be - lie moments like this. Invisible crossroads, and large infinite rules that no one knows who made up. We can't move, we are frozen in this time, and my mind races like lightening looking for a target. I want you. I want you to be my target, I repeat in my head. I want to put my hands in places I never thought I'd put them. I look at the silver toe ring on your left foot and it makes my eyes go up your bronzed legs, in the middle of winter, I see summer shimmering on you. I imagine running my hands up them and then grasping your hips, putting you under me and burying my nose in your scent. I feel my eyes glaze over in deep thought, and I hear you laugh, thinking it's the weed doing it to me. I smile, "Yeah," I say, trying to keep our conversation going. I look up at your cobalt eyes and they're dancing slowly, and I offer my eyes eyes up as a dance partner. My heart beats faster with every second they tango, and finally these inches are ridiculous.
I don't care about rules anymore.
I don't believe in anything anymore, just that neck of yours. Just that neck, leading into that ass, then those legs that carry you all over this planet. I don't want sympathy for this love lorn heart, I just want to feel you. Every inch.
I scoot closer on the floor to you and I rise to my knees in front of you. I see confusion break in your pupils, and then I sense you match what I am broadcasting loud and clear.
You think, "I don't care about rules anymore. I just want to feel life break lose from it's cage and ravage me. I want life to eat my alive, slowly." You grab my waist and pull me close and as breamed previously, I finally burying my nose into the side of your neck, and then kiss down to your shoulders as you find your way to the back of me. When our lips finally meet, I imagine a gunshot going off inside of me, scaring away crows that bring doubt. I crave being on top of you, and I pin you beneath you, keeping our kisses deep and full of magic minerals. I love this pressure between us, and I'm being shot with adrenaline with every small squirm we share. I put my hands around your chest, feeling the those mounds of soft flesh, and a small, satisfied moan escapes you. I am lost all over again. I made you moan, so I can die all over again, the sweetest sound ever made. I start praying to you and the walls that this feeling never leaves. You taste like what I imagined was the most amazing taste ever, and watching your fingers outline my shape make me feel like I've been welcomed into some secret world where there is no pain and art makes laws.
I don't believe in rules anymore.
I don't want to feel pinned to a world I don't believe in.
This is what I think over and over as we run miles on each other. The shame comes in small waves, but your spirit pushes them back. Nothing could be as beautiful as your silohuette while you put your hair up in a bun while on top me.
I want life to ravage me slowly.
I just want to put my hands everywhere. I want to feel everything.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Mother Magician
I am on my dying orb, recollecting my life thus far, while drinking down snake blood. It's plain fucking awesome.
Who am I? I'm just this galaxy's version of God, with my offspring ruling their own planets as they see fit -t he best birthday presents I ever gave them. I cam from dust, with something artificial and toxic mixed in - it created the masterpiece that is me. And then I blew my breath onto crystals, creating this world for me. I made me a man, and he gave me babies. My babies. They are the arrows I shot into the word, trying to kill something for dinner. My soldiers, my nursing demons. I can't count on all of my fingers how much I love them. My son Bourbon, drives a Mercedes-Benz with the tires painted purple. He was the real person who killed Osama Bin Laden, and he's stronger than a bull. When he wants to use his brain, it sweeps the world clean of problems, but motivation is sporadic. Chaos, my beautiful daughter, is rosy-pink and educated in trying to get what she wants by screaming and making noise. She sits outside of the State Building, drumming a cow bell she wears around her belt, telling the members of the house of representatives that she needs money for tampons. But my favorite child is Black Betty. All grown up and fucking the world till it's knees go weak. She carries a pistol 9MM in her purse, and chews on the bones of men who called her 'baby'. I knew she was mine while she was inside, kicking to the beat of Ramones songs. Her full name is Black Betty Rock Steady Anarchy. Which sounds like a leader's name. Black Betty gets sweaty on her motorcycle, but doesn't drip a drop when riding a man of equal throttle under her. It's the kind of confidence you bottle and only take in shots. Pure motherfucking adrenaline - nothing sugarcoated but her openings. We all take what we want - it's the only way to live. Did I make my children lose their sanity while they are still in my womb? That way I would be able to run through their heads forever and ever - spraypainting their insides with vulgarity.
Who am I? I'm just this galaxy's version of God, with my offspring ruling their own planets as they see fit -t he best birthday presents I ever gave them. I cam from dust, with something artificial and toxic mixed in - it created the masterpiece that is me. And then I blew my breath onto crystals, creating this world for me. I made me a man, and he gave me babies. My babies. They are the arrows I shot into the word, trying to kill something for dinner. My soldiers, my nursing demons. I can't count on all of my fingers how much I love them. My son Bourbon, drives a Mercedes-Benz with the tires painted purple. He was the real person who killed Osama Bin Laden, and he's stronger than a bull. When he wants to use his brain, it sweeps the world clean of problems, but motivation is sporadic. Chaos, my beautiful daughter, is rosy-pink and educated in trying to get what she wants by screaming and making noise. She sits outside of the State Building, drumming a cow bell she wears around her belt, telling the members of the house of representatives that she needs money for tampons. But my favorite child is Black Betty. All grown up and fucking the world till it's knees go weak. She carries a pistol 9MM in her purse, and chews on the bones of men who called her 'baby'. I knew she was mine while she was inside, kicking to the beat of Ramones songs. Her full name is Black Betty Rock Steady Anarchy. Which sounds like a leader's name. Black Betty gets sweaty on her motorcycle, but doesn't drip a drop when riding a man of equal throttle under her. It's the kind of confidence you bottle and only take in shots. Pure motherfucking adrenaline - nothing sugarcoated but her openings. We all take what we want - it's the only way to live. Did I make my children lose their sanity while they are still in my womb? That way I would be able to run through their heads forever and ever - spraypainting their insides with vulgarity.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Stripe
On the last train out of town,
Many whistles blew to signal the end.
A piece of hair falls across the landscape, and,
One last - "last time?" - you ask, when lighting it up,
This is all I want.
Here she lies,
Born in 1987, but forever reaching upwards.
"Fuck upwards," she whispers, as she takes the drugs,
"It's all holding on to concrete, sinking me."
And here she cries,
Making puddles for little mistakes to swim in,
Down a tunnel, never coming up for air.
There is an urgency in the air tonight,
A brown sky symbolizing a heavy brick inside of her,
Here she lies, we lay flowers on the graves of the insecure,
Take away the cross, she's dangling in the Small Zone - air tight.
Here she lies, beneath us in ever lasting gray matter,
Her credit is bad, and she left her debts to the street people,
But here she lies,
Still a piece of me.
Many whistles blew to signal the end.
A piece of hair falls across the landscape, and,
One last - "last time?" - you ask, when lighting it up,
This is all I want.
Here she lies,
Born in 1987, but forever reaching upwards.
"Fuck upwards," she whispers, as she takes the drugs,
"It's all holding on to concrete, sinking me."
And here she cries,
Making puddles for little mistakes to swim in,
Down a tunnel, never coming up for air.
There is an urgency in the air tonight,
A brown sky symbolizing a heavy brick inside of her,
Here she lies, we lay flowers on the graves of the insecure,
Take away the cross, she's dangling in the Small Zone - air tight.
Here she lies, beneath us in ever lasting gray matter,
Her credit is bad, and she left her debts to the street people,
But here she lies,
Still a piece of me.
Friday, April 29, 2011
History repeating
This is where we grow,
But it's hard for engines to evolve.
To me it seems like we were built for time-keeping,
But you swear it's the streets that doing it for us.
You're coming and I'm going,
And it's rather sad,
That your heart is racing but you're mind is slowing,
Calm down, you're veins are showing.
Angels are not in choirs anymore,
You notice that too?
They're running court controls and opening dollar stores,
But here I am with gum on my shoe.
But it's hard for engines to evolve.
To me it seems like we were built for time-keeping,
But you swear it's the streets that doing it for us.
You're coming and I'm going,
And it's rather sad,
That your heart is racing but you're mind is slowing,
Calm down, you're veins are showing.
Angels are not in choirs anymore,
You notice that too?
They're running court controls and opening dollar stores,
But here I am with gum on my shoe.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Mountain Town.
"You have to have the appearance that you care."
This you told me while trying to tie an Ascot in your tie, and smoothing back your hair while make your reflection admit to the truth. I sat behind you on our bed, my legs stretched out, still slightly buzzed from sex, making patterns of the ceiling. This new place we were in reminded me of an old movie - with Victorian molding and brass fixtures in the bathroom. The communal hallway between apartments smelt of art and confusion, sometimes the weed smelled infiltrated and I loved the honesty of it. We weren't hiding here anymore, but here you were still talking about 'appearances' - but I knew it was just one for the money.
Here, in this new place near the ocean, we need only to concern ourselves about being all for 'one for the money.' In the other place with no beauty and sharks for neighbors, we were all about 'two for the show.' We were sideshow acts, the sexually explorable, adorable, and deplorable couple. We put our fingers on the stove to feel the sting of pain and to allow ourselves to speak gibberish for a night because it felt good to not make sense to anyone else. I am fluent in your gibberish. When you eyebrow arches and you are trying to be funny, and sliding your hands under my back and pulling yourself into me. We are gibberish, but we aren't sideshow attractions anymore here.
As you finish tying your tie and convincing the floor boards that you were substantial, I check our emails while you cruise our apartment, checking to make sure you forget nothing. Facebook statuses from the people back there resemble the Christian mumblins people spill out after a natural disaster ripped through their towns. Now they were praising the day's sunshine for no reason, and the buttercups smelled like salvation again - or some nonsense. Was it because we left their minds? I wasn't there to poke them with my liberal stick anymore, I wasn't there to spit back in their face the bullshit they spewed out. Their lives are TV shows with singing teenagers and living in their shoeboxes full of unreal expectations. But it all goes down better with a Limeade drink. We've been getting random emails here and there from the people back there that genuinely do miss us, telling us to take lots of pictures and to enjoy being in love - hoping you are doing well at your new job, and asking if i like my new university.
You turn my head from the computer and kiss me, hovering over me in this new suit and tie you're in, for this new job you're a vision of sleek and truthful elegance, in full support for the progression of lies in disguise of 'technical help'. Your hands run down the outline of me and you grab the fleshy parts of me, and soon you're mouth is full of me and we laugh for minutes before you know it's time for you to go for the day. Dinner will be waiting when you get home, you suddenly have a taste for seafood here and you prefer candles on the dining room table while we eat. You tell me now that it doesn't matter what the drones think anymore, we have to be in love everyday, we have to keep our hate alive, simmering in our pot bellies, keeping us warm.
Here we are in the middle of it, waiting for the earthquake to come, and we can run up the mountain together and watch our favorite storms. We like to count the lightening strikes and feel the rain on what feels like our 'shared skin' at times. Here, we are no longer on the murky surface of others palates anymore. They aren't tasting and testing us anymore, trying to turn us onto our backs to we can't turn ourselves over and walk over them. You grab my hand before you leave, and you breathe into my palm saying: "We're diving in life's cool waters."
We don't need oxygen anymore.
This you told me while trying to tie an Ascot in your tie, and smoothing back your hair while make your reflection admit to the truth. I sat behind you on our bed, my legs stretched out, still slightly buzzed from sex, making patterns of the ceiling. This new place we were in reminded me of an old movie - with Victorian molding and brass fixtures in the bathroom. The communal hallway between apartments smelt of art and confusion, sometimes the weed smelled infiltrated and I loved the honesty of it. We weren't hiding here anymore, but here you were still talking about 'appearances' - but I knew it was just one for the money.
Here, in this new place near the ocean, we need only to concern ourselves about being all for 'one for the money.' In the other place with no beauty and sharks for neighbors, we were all about 'two for the show.' We were sideshow acts, the sexually explorable, adorable, and deplorable couple. We put our fingers on the stove to feel the sting of pain and to allow ourselves to speak gibberish for a night because it felt good to not make sense to anyone else. I am fluent in your gibberish. When you eyebrow arches and you are trying to be funny, and sliding your hands under my back and pulling yourself into me. We are gibberish, but we aren't sideshow attractions anymore here.
As you finish tying your tie and convincing the floor boards that you were substantial, I check our emails while you cruise our apartment, checking to make sure you forget nothing. Facebook statuses from the people back there resemble the Christian mumblins people spill out after a natural disaster ripped through their towns. Now they were praising the day's sunshine for no reason, and the buttercups smelled like salvation again - or some nonsense. Was it because we left their minds? I wasn't there to poke them with my liberal stick anymore, I wasn't there to spit back in their face the bullshit they spewed out. Their lives are TV shows with singing teenagers and living in their shoeboxes full of unreal expectations. But it all goes down better with a Limeade drink. We've been getting random emails here and there from the people back there that genuinely do miss us, telling us to take lots of pictures and to enjoy being in love - hoping you are doing well at your new job, and asking if i like my new university.
You turn my head from the computer and kiss me, hovering over me in this new suit and tie you're in, for this new job you're a vision of sleek and truthful elegance, in full support for the progression of lies in disguise of 'technical help'. Your hands run down the outline of me and you grab the fleshy parts of me, and soon you're mouth is full of me and we laugh for minutes before you know it's time for you to go for the day. Dinner will be waiting when you get home, you suddenly have a taste for seafood here and you prefer candles on the dining room table while we eat. You tell me now that it doesn't matter what the drones think anymore, we have to be in love everyday, we have to keep our hate alive, simmering in our pot bellies, keeping us warm.
Here we are in the middle of it, waiting for the earthquake to come, and we can run up the mountain together and watch our favorite storms. We like to count the lightening strikes and feel the rain on what feels like our 'shared skin' at times. Here, we are no longer on the murky surface of others palates anymore. They aren't tasting and testing us anymore, trying to turn us onto our backs to we can't turn ourselves over and walk over them. You grab my hand before you leave, and you breathe into my palm saying: "We're diving in life's cool waters."
We don't need oxygen anymore.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Ghost
I came out of this place with no air, (was it water?) where I dreamed of the nights when my mom and ad drove me through Fort Adams in Newport at night. Obscure songs I never thought I'd know on the car radio, my father was so alive. I'd sell my soul now to see him so alive again. He sang and told my mother that he loved her. He told me loved me. I am back in that velvet night again. He forgives me for being me, and we take a final ride. We are happy. I hate that he is not here. Would he be proud of me? I would sell my soul for one more velvet Fort Adams night where I believed my mother loved me and I had a family. But waking from that world is like coming up for air after being underwater - gasping for breath and something to hold on to.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
motherhood.
Most girls, not women,
Long to be little women,
To,
Keep boys little boys and never men.
They say, "If you love me,"
"Then, you'll marry me, then give me, babies,"
And "..with babies, come eternity, yes, eternity."
Isn't that gracefully vindictive?
Glossy and colorlessly constrictive?
It's a love song to conformity.
A bag of bones, a bag of tricks,
She'll make you trade in your stick shift, for a,
Smooth ride SUV-mini-Van-Hearse hybrid, that,
Gets good mileage but better a worse pricetag.
A daily soccer candy-coated reminder of wanting better sex,
And a,
Bumpy ride to the baseball diamond of regret.
But, look at me as I lie still,
If I don't give you babies can I,
Give you thrills?
An endless supply of dirty jokes and warm whiskey,
And a, warm whisper of you escaping me, when,
There is no distance, distractions when you kiss me -
Nothing is sexier than silence.
Nevermind, I am wasted on the gray.
I am a bad influence and you should not stay,
They'll call me a runner, who went far away,
Mom lives in Ireland and paints all damn day.
They'll have my eyes, but they'll never know me,
I'll get pictures in the mail, but just don't show me,
Since I left.
Long to be little women,
To,
Keep boys little boys and never men.
They say, "If you love me,"
"Then, you'll marry me, then give me, babies,"
And "..with babies, come eternity, yes, eternity."
Isn't that gracefully vindictive?
Glossy and colorlessly constrictive?
It's a love song to conformity.
A bag of bones, a bag of tricks,
She'll make you trade in your stick shift, for a,
Smooth ride SUV-mini-Van-Hearse hybrid, that,
Gets good mileage but better a worse pricetag.
A daily soccer candy-coated reminder of wanting better sex,
And a,
Bumpy ride to the baseball diamond of regret.
But, look at me as I lie still,
If I don't give you babies can I,
Give you thrills?
An endless supply of dirty jokes and warm whiskey,
And a, warm whisper of you escaping me, when,
There is no distance, distractions when you kiss me -
Nothing is sexier than silence.
Nevermind, I am wasted on the gray.
I am a bad influence and you should not stay,
They'll call me a runner, who went far away,
Mom lives in Ireland and paints all damn day.
They'll have my eyes, but they'll never know me,
I'll get pictures in the mail, but just don't show me,
Since I left.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
for you.
Your cynicism and wit are the lie boat that keeps you from drowning in this vast sea of mediocrity.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Nameless
Nameless brushed her brown hair over her shoulder, while standing idly in the line at the grocery store checkout. She looked down at the shoes she was wearing, the fabricated hopes for acceptance in the workplace was the sole reason for buying them. They were "sturdy, classical, and colorful" according to salesperson who sold them to her months ago, and comparing to those glowing adjectives, the shoes were everything Nameless was not. Nameless was a shallow puddle of water, dripping all over any person she wanted to be and trying to become a part of them. Nameless was nearly a shadow at this point, mirroring everyone's moves and was a reflection of unoriginality.
When she got to the register, the young teenage cashier smiled out of boredom and corporate urge, and asked whether 'paper or plastic'.
See, questions were pipe bombs for her. Little geysers of lies and confusion, they set her off to stretch the truth till it fit around the waists of nearly every one she longed to be.
"Paper, please. The blank under sides of them are great, I paint on them when I run out of sketch paper." Nameless said, smiling. The cashier shrugged and smirked.
"Yeah, guess that's cool." Nameless smiled broadly and nodded, even as the cashier looked away. The whole seed of all of was that Nameless never drew, she couldn't even make stick figures look interesting.
Nor could she cook. Or did she ever go skydiving, like she once told a co-workers after she over-heard them discussing doing some a bit lighter - bungee jumping. Nameless never went to Italy, even though she shot her hand up in her college art history class five years earlier and announced to the whole class that she had - and that Da Vinci's "Last Supper" was just so different in person.
Nameless named met Madonna, or shared a personal trainer with Scarlett Johanson - but she told every one she had. Over and over gain.
While walking to her car from the market - a car she had chosen after seeing a commercial with it, being advertised by a tall but buxom model - and wanted not just the car, but to be that woman. Nameless was faceless. A blank roll of paper rolled to rhythym in her chest, like a heart, but unlike a heart, it didn't pump blood through her. But these blank papers were her fuel, to keep going and to keep searching. Nameless finger painted many different lives on these pages, all of them technicolor internal utopias that she could one day inhabit.
Every day, there was a new Nameless. She was putting her self on an never ending assembly line, being constructed and sharply defined by what other people did or say. There was big empty pit inside of her, being filled with buckets and buckets of bullshit and big black lies. Nameless knew plenty of circles and lept through many hoops. The friends in her book club knew her as nerdy and bookish as the summer days were long. The friends downtown knew her to order shot after shot - although not knowing Nameless chased them each with a beer, and spitting the shot in the bottle, not drinking it.
There was no Nameless. Was there ever?
Once you hammer lie nails into the fleshy veil of people's thought process, they stay there. Even if you take this nails away, the scars remain.
Nameless drove slowly out of the grocery store parking lot, passing the various shops in the plaza. A karate studio, "I could take karate, I want to be an athlete," she thought. There was a gym also there, and despite her utter dislike of exercise and fear of doing it in front of others, Nameless debated going in and filling out a membership application.
If there was a Nameless, she had went missing at puberty.
Where is the milk carton with her faceless face gracing the back?
When she got to the register, the young teenage cashier smiled out of boredom and corporate urge, and asked whether 'paper or plastic'.
See, questions were pipe bombs for her. Little geysers of lies and confusion, they set her off to stretch the truth till it fit around the waists of nearly every one she longed to be.
"Paper, please. The blank under sides of them are great, I paint on them when I run out of sketch paper." Nameless said, smiling. The cashier shrugged and smirked.
"Yeah, guess that's cool." Nameless smiled broadly and nodded, even as the cashier looked away. The whole seed of all of was that Nameless never drew, she couldn't even make stick figures look interesting.
Nor could she cook. Or did she ever go skydiving, like she once told a co-workers after she over-heard them discussing doing some a bit lighter - bungee jumping. Nameless never went to Italy, even though she shot her hand up in her college art history class five years earlier and announced to the whole class that she had - and that Da Vinci's "Last Supper" was just so different in person.
Nameless named met Madonna, or shared a personal trainer with Scarlett Johanson - but she told every one she had. Over and over gain.
While walking to her car from the market - a car she had chosen after seeing a commercial with it, being advertised by a tall but buxom model - and wanted not just the car, but to be that woman. Nameless was faceless. A blank roll of paper rolled to rhythym in her chest, like a heart, but unlike a heart, it didn't pump blood through her. But these blank papers were her fuel, to keep going and to keep searching. Nameless finger painted many different lives on these pages, all of them technicolor internal utopias that she could one day inhabit.
Every day, there was a new Nameless. She was putting her self on an never ending assembly line, being constructed and sharply defined by what other people did or say. There was big empty pit inside of her, being filled with buckets and buckets of bullshit and big black lies. Nameless knew plenty of circles and lept through many hoops. The friends in her book club knew her as nerdy and bookish as the summer days were long. The friends downtown knew her to order shot after shot - although not knowing Nameless chased them each with a beer, and spitting the shot in the bottle, not drinking it.
There was no Nameless. Was there ever?
Once you hammer lie nails into the fleshy veil of people's thought process, they stay there. Even if you take this nails away, the scars remain.
Nameless drove slowly out of the grocery store parking lot, passing the various shops in the plaza. A karate studio, "I could take karate, I want to be an athlete," she thought. There was a gym also there, and despite her utter dislike of exercise and fear of doing it in front of others, Nameless debated going in and filling out a membership application.
If there was a Nameless, she had went missing at puberty.
Where is the milk carton with her faceless face gracing the back?
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Bed things
You are scaling around our bed like a spider scales walls.
I'm swimming in it, a backstroke, like in warm waters.
I can't leave you alone,
A piece of apple pie you are,
As American as an atomic bomb,
Going off and vaporizing any cynicism I got.
Got it?
Got it?
Go and rot it,
Ruin it and make me weak again,
Tell all of your friends that you couldn't resist kicking the dog,
when she whimpers at the door -
Tell them she was a whore, I was just a whore for your bed swimming activities.
But we were having fun, streaming home-made sex banners,
Frightening away all of our demons,
But the motherfuckers learned how to make us come.
Over and over again.
That's why they are such great demons.
I'm swimming in it, a backstroke, like in warm waters.
I can't leave you alone,
A piece of apple pie you are,
As American as an atomic bomb,
Going off and vaporizing any cynicism I got.
Got it?
Got it?
Go and rot it,
Ruin it and make me weak again,
Tell all of your friends that you couldn't resist kicking the dog,
when she whimpers at the door -
Tell them she was a whore, I was just a whore for your bed swimming activities.
But we were having fun, streaming home-made sex banners,
Frightening away all of our demons,
But the motherfuckers learned how to make us come.
Over and over again.
That's why they are such great demons.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Stick figure of myself
My faith is a shallow puddle, made murky by one-sided lectures and second guesses. A tall glass of cynicism is an unforgiving drink I pour myself, while sitting on this ledge in my head, as I gaze out at this monstrous puddle.
It's a beautiful sight at dawn.
There are thin lines between hate and confusion, and when the days are long and my feelings get hurt by Supreme Beings, I draw these lines thinner and thinner, nearly invisible by days end. The search for a clear ocean opposed to a cloudy puddle is never-ending, as one of the man in a whole new generation of women without faith. is it technology? Is it sex? Or maybe it's the natural urge to rebel that takes us out of the church and into our own driver's seats that is pushing to go further and further into a world of discovery, and not the old rugged cross. Forgetting about our grandmother's pearls, and our mothers diamonds, we are replacing jewels and instead adorning ourselves with questions - mainly questions about what these same women told us about divinity.
I look at myself in human form. All pink flesh and rushing red blood. I feel my heart beating deep inside me and chemicals that create the humanity that is finite and perishable. When I see someone beautiful I feel the lust rip through me like an electric current, bringing me up to the surface of myself and breaking layers of decency and decorum.
Then there is the incurable darkness. The firecracker of anger that ignites me and keeps me up and in a hurricane of emotion for days at a time.
Regardless of what they preach, I can't forgive everyone. I can't turn the other cheek every time or even love an enemy. I can't ignore the lion scratching at me from the inside telling me to fight until the hurt doesn't hurt anymore. My eyes roll in boredom and disgust at the silly girls I seem to see everywhere that never question, never wonder, and seem to be letting other forces drive her into a desolate area where the Universe has great plans to rape her and deprive her of an original thought. The luminous angel inside of me wants to flutter its soft wings and swoop down and save her from herself, from her own destruction. But the tin soldier in me, the fiery image of a stony cynic, is too busy shaking my head and then looking out of the chapel window. I watch as other young women are walking around outside, chatting with each other and laughing into the eyes of the mid-day sun. Somewhere inside of me I long for that easiness, and that welcoming air of happiness. But the storms that are inside of me, raging then cooling like magma below an inconspicuous surface are bigger and badder than any angels or robed clergy.
It's a beautiful sight at dawn.
There are thin lines between hate and confusion, and when the days are long and my feelings get hurt by Supreme Beings, I draw these lines thinner and thinner, nearly invisible by days end. The search for a clear ocean opposed to a cloudy puddle is never-ending, as one of the man in a whole new generation of women without faith. is it technology? Is it sex? Or maybe it's the natural urge to rebel that takes us out of the church and into our own driver's seats that is pushing to go further and further into a world of discovery, and not the old rugged cross. Forgetting about our grandmother's pearls, and our mothers diamonds, we are replacing jewels and instead adorning ourselves with questions - mainly questions about what these same women told us about divinity.
I look at myself in human form. All pink flesh and rushing red blood. I feel my heart beating deep inside me and chemicals that create the humanity that is finite and perishable. When I see someone beautiful I feel the lust rip through me like an electric current, bringing me up to the surface of myself and breaking layers of decency and decorum.
Then there is the incurable darkness. The firecracker of anger that ignites me and keeps me up and in a hurricane of emotion for days at a time.
Regardless of what they preach, I can't forgive everyone. I can't turn the other cheek every time or even love an enemy. I can't ignore the lion scratching at me from the inside telling me to fight until the hurt doesn't hurt anymore. My eyes roll in boredom and disgust at the silly girls I seem to see everywhere that never question, never wonder, and seem to be letting other forces drive her into a desolate area where the Universe has great plans to rape her and deprive her of an original thought. The luminous angel inside of me wants to flutter its soft wings and swoop down and save her from herself, from her own destruction. But the tin soldier in me, the fiery image of a stony cynic, is too busy shaking my head and then looking out of the chapel window. I watch as other young women are walking around outside, chatting with each other and laughing into the eyes of the mid-day sun. Somewhere inside of me I long for that easiness, and that welcoming air of happiness. But the storms that are inside of me, raging then cooling like magma below an inconspicuous surface are bigger and badder than any angels or robed clergy.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
At night
You are my rolling hills,
Spread out in front of me like a majestic antiseptic,
A cleansing, yet stirring portrait of my imagination.
Once I fed myself entirely with you,
With your sounds and light touches,
Nourishing and revitalizing me until it was all light inside.
Now I am drinking you in, glass after glass,
reflections of celestial bodies and warm bodies,
Swimming in them, provoking me.
You are my dancing flames,
Igniting and delighting,
All along my ribcage, your railroad tracks,
I allow you to use me as a terrain to travel on.
If you are looking for a home,
I am waiting for you to ask me to come along every day.
Where will we be once the ground moves beneath us?
Teaching us lessons in gravity,
Wake up calls in hedonism and minimum wage,
It all looks like pictures of impossibility and shame in the sunlight.
I'll have to drink you all in tonight in order to keep you.
Spread out in front of me like a majestic antiseptic,
A cleansing, yet stirring portrait of my imagination.
Once I fed myself entirely with you,
With your sounds and light touches,
Nourishing and revitalizing me until it was all light inside.
Now I am drinking you in, glass after glass,
reflections of celestial bodies and warm bodies,
Swimming in them, provoking me.
You are my dancing flames,
Igniting and delighting,
All along my ribcage, your railroad tracks,
I allow you to use me as a terrain to travel on.
If you are looking for a home,
I am waiting for you to ask me to come along every day.
Where will we be once the ground moves beneath us?
Teaching us lessons in gravity,
Wake up calls in hedonism and minimum wage,
It all looks like pictures of impossibility and shame in the sunlight.
I'll have to drink you all in tonight in order to keep you.
Monday, January 17, 2011
This bond
They gave me eyes to see the sun with,
But the burning, is getting old to me.
When you're standing at my door,
Saying you want everyone but also me,
It's when I use these eyes to see.
You're frame,
On me making me tame,
You in the kitchen, calling my name,
Pouring me a double, in our bubble,
Lovely dysfunctional,
My territory is yours to claim.
And you go out in the rain.
They gave me ears to hear the prayers with,
A thousand chiming voices.
But I don't use them as much as I do my fist,
Scattered across the country with no-named choices.
But when you look at me and say something, so clear,
It is then I use these ears to hear.
You're height,
Covering the horizon from my sight,
You in the kitchen, calling my name,
Pouring me a double, in our bubble,
Lovely dysfunctional,
My palm is home, my palm is home,
Tell boys we're alone.
But the burning, is getting old to me.
When you're standing at my door,
Saying you want everyone but also me,
It's when I use these eyes to see.
You're frame,
On me making me tame,
You in the kitchen, calling my name,
Pouring me a double, in our bubble,
Lovely dysfunctional,
My territory is yours to claim.
And you go out in the rain.
They gave me ears to hear the prayers with,
A thousand chiming voices.
But I don't use them as much as I do my fist,
Scattered across the country with no-named choices.
But when you look at me and say something, so clear,
It is then I use these ears to hear.
You're height,
Covering the horizon from my sight,
You in the kitchen, calling my name,
Pouring me a double, in our bubble,
Lovely dysfunctional,
My palm is home, my palm is home,
Tell boys we're alone.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Pretty Please
I hate love. Mainly, because I don't think I'll ever learn how to love anyone purely. The one person on the planet who has promised to 'love and cherish' me makes me want to scream and run away.
Friday, January 7, 2011
sod
I know you. I know you better than you know me. But I think that is because you are more transparent than mid-day windows. The sun that reflects onto you is not quite the same that reflects on me. Yours is much brighter, larger, and exposes more than it should. Mine is smaller, muted, and bounces light back into the earth beneath me.
So, I know you. I know your secrets. I know the lies you spread like sod around you. I am familiar with the verses you rehearse in your head, the snappy comebacks you'll say that day you finally 'fight back'. The worst part about knowing all of this is that you'll never 'fight back', but mostly because you don't want to fight, you like the system too much.
People confuse my passion for being self-righteous. They assume that just because I don't want to bond with total strangers, or call you my 'sister' just because we both have vaginas - that I think I am better than you. This couldn't be further from the truth. I am just not interested in you. There are more important things to me. If you trip and fall, I will help you up. But I will not sit next to you during lunch to talk about my pets with you for no reason. I don't care if my funeral attendance is sparse, because I will be dead.
So, I know you. I know your secrets. I know the lies you spread like sod around you. I am familiar with the verses you rehearse in your head, the snappy comebacks you'll say that day you finally 'fight back'. The worst part about knowing all of this is that you'll never 'fight back', but mostly because you don't want to fight, you like the system too much.
People confuse my passion for being self-righteous. They assume that just because I don't want to bond with total strangers, or call you my 'sister' just because we both have vaginas - that I think I am better than you. This couldn't be further from the truth. I am just not interested in you. There are more important things to me. If you trip and fall, I will help you up. But I will not sit next to you during lunch to talk about my pets with you for no reason. I don't care if my funeral attendance is sparse, because I will be dead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)