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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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.
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