Thursday, December 27, 2007


The feeling came back around the holiday, the claustrophobic feeling of losing her freedom; to feel bored to the point of madness, bursting into chaotic statements. She sat another day, with him who is preparing her, judging her, scrutinizing the way she snores after wine; to determine if the noise could one day become too tiresome; if that snore would eventually peel layers of flesh, hours of precious moments of dreams and lazy sleep in mornings where coffee is priority within the waking hour and it will always be this way, she sees: the outline of everything everyday and forever-mimicking his invisible army assertives, general declarations of validity.

This calm was too quiet for her. His honest eyes too easy for noise.

Her heart races only for sustenance anymore and it's silent. In its calm: her morals die as myths, ethics for people subdued or pretending, or lost in trying to do the right thing.

The racehorse is calm and eats apples under green fields of perfect temperature'd sunshine, within a fence large enough to hold 2.5 kids, a porch swing and a tomato garden.

Its mind is useless somehow, now that there's no where to run but in circles of oblivion, in every morning coffee and the way she scrubs her tub, her teeth, the dishes, the floor.

Within slow leaks exposing the interior design, when exteriors veneer'd for purposes of aesthetic allure show true sentiment in weathering,

porch swings creak like hell but they say, it's part of the charm, and smile, while in her mind it's a terrible noise; and as her body rocks like pendulum, she asks herself these questions:

where would I be without these patterns of obscurity, time bombs of chaos and happiness and misery going off everywhere unexpectedly?

must all my comfort's reek of failure?

if I run away will it follow me?

And decides hypotheticals are ridiculous reasons to worry, when one chooses not to hear the answer anyway.

Sunday, December 23, 2007


{In a coffee shop close to campus, Betty and Gertrude are having a conversation about George (Gertrude's brother) dumping Betty in order to pursue his latest fascination for Pamela Anderson types. Betty ordered a mochachino caramel almond nut cherry latte with whipped cream and sprinkles. Gertrude has Earl Grey. Normally, she is pretty easy to get along with; but today, in the coffee shop, Gertrude lost it, punched Betty in the eye and called her a dumb cunt. All at once.

It was violent.}

B: You say that George adores me. I feel he does but when you tell me other things that he says to you (i.e. wanting a blond with big boobs), I'm not sure! :)

G: I adore people, but I am still attracted sexually to people I don't adore. Come on, Betty. Be real. Are we supposed to be sexually attracted to and only want to be with one person we adore? I adore all sorts of people, but I'm not waiting around going, "Why do they want to have sex with so and so, and not just me?" What a waste of time.

George wants to have sex with blondes with big tits for the time being, but he adores you as a person. That's not really that hard to understand. The world is not a basket of cotton candy. It's full of millions of different personalities of everybody being curious sometimes, or not. Some people are curious all the time too.

Just because people aren't like you, that doesn't mean they're bad. They're just different. They do things differently.

Forcing people to change for the sake of your own emotional peace and stability is, on very high levels, selfish desire imploring imperative dictations.

In other words: It's bitchy. I don't know anyone who's into that unless they have some Elektra complex, or shrivel in the bathroom mirror at the sight of their own pathetic face.

*sips tea

Remember these things, or people will laugh at you whenever your expectations are too high and you get crushed by your own blind enthusiasm, for what you want versus what really is.

There will not always be someone around to give you help with the answers. Sometimes you just have to fall and get bruised to get tough and/or wise.

B: I'm confused. So does this mean George does care about me?

G: Betty, you're really stupid and I hate you, like a lot.

B: Do you think George thinks I'm stupid? I mean is that why he...

Monday, December 17, 2007

triple mutated kitten heart goes boom

Lead poisoning? Aneurysm? Disco fever? The Apocalypse? Someone might've given it too many Tylenol pm's. Cat's OD on sleeping pills all the time. They are known for insomnia. That, and for taking the breath of Filipino men when they are napping. I smell foul play. Is the Friday thing a threat? God makes Friday? Did the Christians kill kitty because it chewed all the buttons off the telephone? Maybe fleas sucked it dry. Fleas are assholes. Their new plural spelling should be changed to flice, and lice changed to louses. I'm serious. You get two uncle Neds together and you get louses, not lice. The English language needs a good spring cleaning. It needs to get rid of all the dead kittens whose pacemakers were pieces of crap. Dead kittens depress me. The English language depresses me sometimes too. It's a good thing I am not depressed, or else I might be sad about these things: dead kittens dying from cardiac arrests, uncles who crawl around in hair and bite your scalp, missing telephone buttons, fleas. Maybe someone came up behind it and scared it to death. That's terrible. Kittens' hearts are tiny portions of bumblebee meat. You do not mess with bumblebees. They will explode on you with shrapnel severing any sympathetic notions of fuzzy buzzy floating gumdrops. Wake up kitty. Please? I'll make you milk. I'll name you Rex. I'll show you how to slowly torture then kill baby rabbits and eat everything but the white knowledge gumball catered for survival and sex. What are mornings without death souvenirs crunching underfoot anyhow? Barefoot too. With a hollow crunch of victory more pleasant than confetti'd feathers any day, more pleasant than pipe cleaners from the butts of tree rats, miniature snakes with their heads amiss, Filipino men out of breath, buried in sand boxes.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007


Jill, I have to say first off that I think you are going to be okay, that you are brave, that regret is healthy, that it will keep you from going back. It's okay to hate a part of yourself. Who says that we are only comprised of one way of being. We are facets of our experience. We are not naive because of this. We can sympathize with hardship. We can despise the weaknesses in others knowing that they can be overcome with enough analytical torture.

For me, from the Jackson pill epidemic, I am traumatized too. In my case everyone around me fell and I couldn't stop watching everyone die and become helpless and miserable, people I had the most faith in turning into shadows. It is my biggest heartbreak and I am still numb and untrusting from it feeling if I loosen up and become less of a cynic, love people, they will inadvertantly at the last minute turn into self destructive monsters.

The Stephen/Chan thing was the worst, but it's fine now. If it hadn't been for the hatred of that situation affecting me, I might not be in Austin now surrounded by love from beautiful people in a healthy environment. I might not've been able to recognize troubled or weak people from the start to avoid them, the signs of addiction in someone's eyes, in their demeanor.

I learned a lot, but the price was paid, my heart has been broken into a million pieces in the process. And that's just me. For you I can't imagine. I can't. It scarred me, but it amputated your limbs in a way and now you're limping painfully around until all your wounds heal, and still you will carry this pain of knowing with you for a long time.

Analogies, are free now, you are away from it, them, you are clean, you can start over and begin to forget after some time, you need to get speckeled composition books and fill them page for page with your thoughts, from the begining to now until you're sick of looking at the words.

You have been through hell, but you are alive, thank fucking everything, you've still got your looks, you can immerse yourself in the city life, make art, get a camera, start taking pictures of life, you are alive and not on very addictive pills anymore.

You have not had children, you are thin and beautiful, become someone's muse, get three boyfriends, enjoy flavors neglected through being numb all the time, smells, and the company of people who will appreciate you for being a hard core survivor.

You are amazing for getting away. I am your friend. I will help you and listen to you talk and you can visit me in Austin. I have a beautiful life here, now. Jackson's fucking hell hole and the only people left there are the most worthless fucks that the world will forget about. You're awesome, Sabra

Sunday, December 9, 2007


I don't have big breasts.

My breasts are small, and I hate the fact knowing that if my breasts had been bigger from puberty, my life would have been easier thus far, easier now, or in any case easier. Easier from the expanse of swollen glands, I would be a much more powerful woman, more dangerous than I am now. A super villain.

My mom and her sister are slender Korean ladies, and before they got breast implants, they had small breasts too.

Once my mom held the open end of a teacup against the refrigerator while we were having lunch and said, "This would be a good size for you, a teacup's worth, not too much, a handful's enough, too big is too trashy," and offered to pay for half of an operation as a college graduation present. Her criticism was always part of lunch.

I thought about it too. I still think about it, the new found power I would possess if I had big fake breasts, opportunities more abundant for comfort and security.

I ultimately settled for a huge down payment on a car that's falling apart now, ten grand on a used Maxima that's seen a lot of miles.

Nice people say: You would only get more attention from shallow assholes, your personality would not be the same, you would not be as smart as you are, they hurt your back after a while, they sag, I'm a butt man, it's not a big deal like you think it is.

This does not change the fact that I know I have and have had to work extra hard with small breasts, to stay in shape, to look nice in the light, to hone my charisma, deal with the deficits of boys who pay less, boys who are lazy, who are controlled with mind blowing oral sex techniques but have beautiful physiques, lovely princes, stallions, scavengers, pisspies, louses...

I have to explain how deeply ingrained it is in me to think men are shit because my father was shit and how guys I dated when I was younger mostly turned out to be shit.

These things will make more sense with those facts on the table.

And to this day, even though I'm surrounded by nice guys now, finally, for the time being, I am still overly skeptical and untrusting, think that men are ruled by: large breasts, women who mimic mothers, consistent mind blowing oral sex techniques; and with the naive who believe they are smarter-simple manipulation using guilt underlying in realms of conditioned response.

Fun fact: Most of the boys I (have) like(d) most, and who (have) like(d) me, were thought to be gay by friends and family until their first serious girlfriend (though the sex is more mind blowing with them for some curious reason, which I have not figured out yet aside from the fact that they might be more passionate, but I hate to say that. It doesn't seem fair.)

They're prettier too, skinnier, dress better, and smell better: less like cologne, more like soap. It's a generalization, but I don't care. I've seen what I've seen, and know what I know from it.

Fortunately, they don't seem to mind small breasts as much, or maybe they're just into Asians and know that's part of the territory, part of the compromise for the spice, the enigma, the feeling of being a samurai, the slanted vagina.

That's okay. I don't like small penises. That's okay.

I will survive with my small breasts.

I will watch educational video clips on the internet to practice mind blowing oral sex techniques.

I will stick with mythically gay butt guys with Asian fetishes using guilt underlying in realms of conditioned response who aren't shallow, who care about my back; stallions, scavengers, pisspies, louses; guys who appreciate my winning personality and smile.

As A Zombie I Would Not Eat Your Brains

If I were a zombie
by another zombie
after it chewed
my brain
and I was dead
but came back
alive again
craving brains
and I saw you
at Central Market
perusing the cheese,
I would not
bite your head,
even if my
greatest instinct
was to eat
your brain
like nothing-else
when I was not yet undead.
I would have
an extra boost
of will power
all bad ass like that,
because I like you,
and I'm sure
your brain
would be the x-tra
tasty kind too,
but still...
I would bite the head
of the guy who
cuts meat instead
and punch the
other zombies
trying to eat you.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Tuesday, December 4, 2007


I'm going to start donating plasma again, for three reasons:

1.) donating blood is the only charity where you know you're helping actual people who are dying with what you have plenty of in your body, with guarantees of no one skimming the profits (unless of course some blood thirsty maggot's straw fucking that mess, and if that's the case, different strokes I guess) to pay hookers or buy expensive cocaine.

2.) perfect book reading down time with minimal distractions

3.) $20 the first day, $30 the second, twice in a week max = $200 extra a month. In cash!

I used to donate blood four times a year because it made me feel like I was good. It was my one humanitarian deed, until a crazy cute newspaper editor guy named Pete informed me that his Iron and Wine ticket for our first date would come from an hour long plasma center paycheck to explain why I needed to buy my own. (Pete was an ex-Catholic buried in college debt, but he was also 6'3' with a nice record collection, an extreme hard-on for Nabakov, and a corresponding butterfly collection. His eyes were probably the best part though, crystal blue, which is weird, since I'm a fan of the green mostly. Green eyes kill me like it's unfair...)

Donating plasma makes my lips feel cold and tingly. I like to watch my blood collect in a bag beside me coming through a plastic hose from a piece of sharp metal jabbed in my arm. It lets me feel masochistic without the dumb embarrassment of obvious low self-esteem, through a hole the size of a speck.

When my parents found out about it, when I was doing it initially, somehow, they forbade (sounds funny doesn't it? for-baaade) me to collect money for it, said I could donate for free, but that collecting money for it looked bad for the family. And as with every other thing they have ever forbidden me to do, I did it more, and with more satisfaction, up to the day I moved, and forgot about it.
Then it came up again, more than a year later, as I donated blood for some work related incident; I thought, 'I used to get money for this same sharp prick and drain, tingles, hyper down time with a good book, I miss it' along with the band aid, the snack party, sunshine and feeling weak walking to the car.

Either way, it's helping people from dying, and also, it's MY plasma, which means people will feel better than they've ever felt before, like pizazzafied, since it's filled with sparks and magic powers, ya know, for energy.

I am going to save the world with my plasma! and get paid money for doing it. I'm excited enough for at least half an erection.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

nice, when we want to be

They were in bed, just waking up on a Saturday afternoon, when Jane asked her boyfriend Marcus if he thought she was a nice person, after he mentioned how he thought so-and-so from the night before was a nice person, how he liked that person.

"Do you think I'm a nice girl," she asked.

He looked at her carefully.

Abandonment issues was what he called it, after he started. "You're always preparing to be abandoned by someone you get close to because your dad left when you were little, preparing yourself to be strong so it would hurt as's like you're bracing yourself. That's why you're only nice when you want to be, and mean to people when you felt like it too." He looked serious and sleepy.

"But doesn't that apply to most humans: ambivalent niceness?"

"People are supposed to be nice when they don't feel like it to be considered nice and not nice-when-they-want-to-be?"

"But not pretending to be nice is less stress and more honest, and honesty is a good thing, and you're nice when you want to be, and mean when you don't even realize it too, and just because I don't put up with other peoples' crap and think some people are stupid..."

"You're being defensive," he said.

Jane knew it would take plenty of humility to tell herself that she was being defensive, and to admit it in the middle of a slowly formed snowballed nitpick argument over nothing in particular, was a pain.

But he was right.

It could be worse, she thought, lying there in bed trying to calm down. I could be one of those people who can't be nice, whether they try or not. But I guess depending on my mood, I'm one of those people too-if I'm not making an effort to be nice-if I feel like it, but if I'm not being nice am I automatically being mean, or is there some neutral temperament, which is not nice or mean, something like apathy? Why does it have to be either, or? Why couldn't you have just said 'yes' and this wouldn't be happening?

Tired, Jane agreed that so-and-so was nice, how she liked that person too; then she changed the subject so they wouldn't fight.

She was trying not to pick fights over small things as much anymore, since Marcus was thoughtful enough to psychoanalyze her in the first place, bringing to focus things like:

Her picking fights for an excuse to leave due to insecurities of being left, her inability to relax and not worry so much about people leaving before she wanted them to, and her over cautious nature, which would ultimately wear her down, along with the patience of others who even thought to try to care.

For a Japanophile oil painter from Houston who stayed around because he liked the sex and Jane's family had money, she admitted: Marcus gave good advice sometimes.

Around Thanksgiving, over beers, Jane's Korean aunt, the same one gave her piggy back rides as a pre-teen when her mom was an early twenties disco queen, joked that Jane and her boyfriend would have lazy babies one day, if we they were to ever have babies.

She always knew how to make serious things sound like jokes, the same way she could get away with insulting people right to their face, if only for the satisfaction of being honest and getting away with it.

"But he still better than ugly doctor boy," she said. "Pretty lazy baby is better than ugly baby with rich doctor husband."

Either, or, she thought, why does it have to be either, or? Why can't I have both? Or none? Leave me alone. It's no wonder I'm not nice, but nice-when-I want-to-be and mean otherwise. It's because your sister was always gone somewhere dancing, with her husband who knocked her up, my parents. And I was like putty to you.

Tired, Jane agreed that lazy pretty babies would be better than rich ugly babies; then she changed the subject so they wouldn't fight.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007


There was a pretty girl named Meredith Beecham who worked in a second hand store somewhere next to a coffee shop in Philadelphia.

Meredith had dark brown hair, eyes that resembled fresh swimming springs with glints of sunlight shimmering through, which were pretty if she'd ever let them out, which she hardly ever did.

Meredith liked her job. It gave her the opportunity to guess the lives of others by the smell of things they left behind; to stick her nose in the yellow-paged-dog-eared-soft-cover stories; hands in the pockets of over sized suits, she'd wrap her arms around herself sometimes, rubbing rough tweed sleeves, the scent of faint cigars across her cheeks, fingering leather elbow patches, soft seams going everywhere under her slender stained and steady fingers.
Meredith had a thing for black and white Fellini movies, strange fruits like kumquats, persimmons, and prickly pears; she loved feeling like she was on the verge of losing herself to a well-versed stranger at any moment.

If someone were to walk up to her in a bar, for instance, a crowded shopping center, park, convenient store, or coffee shop; if that person were to look her dead in the eyes and say something along the lines of:

"You are an exquisite formula, a rainbow stopping children dead on high street. The full circle of your darkly cast eyes festoons with raw privilege, such is your hold on me. When the delicate order is given I will tear into you, dark guttural hound, snarling lusciously. You will ask me to give it to you. I will make you beg. Precious need in your lips open quivering, when your naked beauty strikes me my god burned soul will take a ten count to recover, salaciously beating your unspoken needs, making sure that when we are both dreaming, it is of the very same thing,"

she would probably pass out a little, still standing, or sitting, and go with the person, dizzy, into whatever bathroom, backseat, or unorganized house, and let them have their way with her.

Meredith thought about this a lot, staring at walls, face in her hand, drooling, because she had a weakness for slightly absurd sexually romantic jargon, which was very specific and original, and a little disgusting; with the idea of someone seducing her into some state of dazed whimpering slavery and electrified madness.

She also had fantasies about being conquered, taken, and owned generously (if that makes sense). She could not be neglected unless she brought it upon herself to be neglected. She felt abandoned otherwise.

To be owned generously, for her, was to be owned graciously.

Which meant: she didn't mind the idea of seeing herself as some poetic stranger's purring bedside kitten, their toy, as long as they could make her mindless with words which were used and clustered into what seemed to be a second language of someone who exuded the demeanor of being exceptionally aware, or hyper-perceptive, and creatively ambitious.

To Meredith a touch of the divine was the greatest cause for curiosity, and more than enough warranted inertia for spark enticing physical indulgencies-also known as foreplay, which for the patient sort was quite the sport, according to back country poets, such as herself.

But what if the person was disgusting, revolting, old and hairy, with sticky magazines all over snot ragged hair carpet blood on walls, too much violence and abuse and incest as a child, what if they were a needled prophet with cold sores, a video-game-playing-stoner-pseudo-intellectual-with-terrible-hygiene?!

Tough titty for her is all she would say. An honest answer.

Meredith didn't dwell much on causes, or reasons. She didn't like to analyze the intentions of whoever might pursue and seduce her with their words, for the sake of preserving what seemed to her an inexplicable myth, defined, illustrated in her occasional banquets of exploration.

Hell in her mind was coming back to earth some clone of an animal who didn't even know it was an animal, standing around with other animals, replicas of each other eating grass or wild rabbits when it was time; and her mind would wander furthur, and wonder: if it would be worse to know exactly what kind of creature she was in a realm of creatures, the burden it would be, to be so limited within a range of comfort and mirrored familiarity.

Sunday, November 18, 2007


Last night we (all of us) caroused, had a home style type dinner at a trendy place called the Woodland with a fake kitschy tree inside (growing up and out from the center through the roof); went to a hipster place called Sidebar where outside to smoke was infinity tables harboring tight black jeans wearing emo kid penguins looking anxious and pissed, channeling the word drone in my mind more than once.

Everything was very hip and cool and hip and deep and trendy and I played pool, and pee'd in the boy's room twice because the girl's line was long and stupid. I don't remember any of the conversations, but they happened in massive multitudes of assumed interesting, on levels of casual small talk, with no real heavy themes, nice.

Inventorywise, I drank a Maker's Mark on the rocks, three draft beers, a dirty gin martini, a 13 dollar half glass of pinot noir (by accident) and two glasses of gallon jug red wine before finally waking up this morning gasping from thirsty and corroded feeling. I had a Fresca.

Two hours later I woke up again, my teeth glazed with aspartame.

My mom called today to confirm Thanksgiving plans in Tennessee and while telling me about a peeping Tom incident which happened to her last week, I couldn't help but feel like a shit head for thinking the whole time, 'this would make a great story! No way, my life is so interesting!' Her story sounded something like:

"I was in the bathroom. I heard a dragging sound outside, like an animal dragging something (no shit!) so I turned out all the lights inside and turned the outside lights on and looked around the house after looking outside in the dark and seeing something under the window that wasn't supposed to be there (no shit!) I yelled 'WHO'S THERE!' and nothing. Then I walked closer and looked and it was a chair. Someone dragged a chair under the window. So I called your aunt, my sister, and she came over fast. We talked to the neighbors. We called the police. The police looked around the house. They found another chair pulled up to the living room window. They said he must have been there an hour, at least. They showed me how to pull the pin from David's (my dead step dad) automatic. Now, whenever I hear anything outside, I get the gun and yell 'WHO'S THERE!' and wave the gun at the window. The two policemen said there were thirty break-ins that they personally had to deal with last month from gang initiation rituals, but I think it's just a guy who parks his car and walks."

(My mom and I had a nice conversation after that, about gang violence from peer pressure in lower socioeconomic ghettos where parents are ambivalent crackheads, about overpopulation in general with rises in cost of living giving people anxiety.)

Don't mess with my mom. She's totally holding and ready to blow somebody up. She will yell at you and shoot you if she catches you in the window. I'm serious. She takes kickboxing too, and has a black belt. My mom drives a cornflower blue Lincoln Towncar which will roast you like beef. My mom will kick you in the throat and shoot you.

Monday, November 12, 2007

running the course

On Sunday, crammed in the back of my movie maker buddy's silver Saturn to check on a green screen location for a Buck Rogers/Barbarella type sci-fi project, scanning the buildings flash past on Guadalupe's main drag, we passed a Jiffy Lube with a sign that said: Now Hiring-Will Train; and I thought about it: fantasized the hard work, dirty fingernails, mechanic's frock with Bubba on the front pocket, the skills and experience I would acquire with a job like that.

I thought about making $7 or $7.50 an hour versus what I make now which is more than double that; didn't mind the idea of cutting back on expenses. Reformulating the would-be difference in a three month budget--if I cut back on new clothes, driving, a little food, and read the books I already had stacked everywhere, I'd be fine.

(Wha? Alcohol?...I don't think so. My wine and booze budget is the same as paying for fast Internet service to me: a total-luxury-boredom-numbing-heyday-escape-without-ever-having-to-leave-the-house-unless-you-feel-like-it luxury.){Some people meditate too.}

Within the ideals and glamourfication of stockpiling--I have plenty of clothes. Regarding food: I could be a few pounds lighter and still look healthy, so the less, the better. I have money saved in a rainy day novel writing piggy bank too, alongside an extra hunk of Swiss for Melbourne in the Spring as a grapepicker bunking on couches.

I've changed oil before. It's easy.

Dirty, but easy.

Twist, drain, wipe, twist, pour, and zoom zoom: another couple thousand miles of lubricated goodness for fluid mechanizations.

Three months is what I think I'll try; then it might be time to move on after that; but good, hard work, I am convinced, makes me a better person-in doses which aren't overwhelming, or monotonous.

Unlike others who say things like "we are going to die" and "we are fucked" I say why waste time acknowledging inevitability when we can exert the same energy into finding ways to be happy, surrounded by good people; by being a good person.

To me, happiness feels right. I'd rather dwell on that than declaring the fact that we're all doomed any day. But that's just me. I don't like to blatantly waste my time being nihilistic.

I know how to change brake pads too.

This helps me feel self-sufficient and tough.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

day in Frisco


sax guy

opium den





Tuesday, November 6, 2007


I used the then term 'electric shithouse' today to describe a sense of pleasurable pain.

It didn't make sense to anyone but me, and there were complaints, and people asking, "wHY'D YOU DO THAT that makes NO SENSE, WHAT's a SHIThouse, and how CAN IT BE ELECTRIC?

I changed it once after that to 'electrified shithouse,' then to 'electrified shitstorm,' maybe finally. It describes a nerd's bloody knee after falling off a Segway. I liked electric shithouse. I thought it was cute.

Maybe I'll name a book of stories Electric Shithouse. Stories that will never make sense to anyone but me, and a few really intuitive crazy people.

I'll bury it in the dirt and water it and a nonsense tree will sprout, with fruit so tangy no one can eat it but me and my offspring and whoever I kiss a lot whose DNA I alter with survival-instinct-strengthening-sour-resistance-no-nonsense saliva.

Today the girl in the kitchen with cold sores said, "On the phone my mom told me that I was beautiful both on the inside and out when I told her about dating a handicapped person."

"That's nice," I said, "My mom told me that men will love me, and that I should marry a rich one."

We both kind of laughed at that.

I haven't been getting enough sleep and it's giving me wrinkles more than the stress or booze or cigarettes.

I slept a lot yesterday and the wrinkles were gone; three weeks worth.

Now I'm fresh again to seduce your father if he is bored with his w/l-ife and can buy me a goat farm on a vineyard on another continent somewhere; even Africa. Maybe not Africa. But I'm serious about the goats. They are feisty and their eyes say so much of nothing in horizontal slits.

A man who smelled of yeasty chum was nervous and asking me for coffee.

"Come meet me, coffee, anywhere, you can buy your own if that makes you comfortable, bring your boyfriend, coffee, I want to get to know you better, give me your phone number, you're interesting, you must be interested in me as more than a friend if you think I'm hitting on you, coffee."

The whole time I wondered who he must've rolled around in. Some not-that-great, I guess. Perhaps someone who feeds penguins at the zoo and soaks their feet in milk.

The dark birds huddle on the power lines, fly in clustered circles, huddle, shit, huddle.

"Mama had a lotta babies," said the brain injured boy, driving himself to karate.

They want you to look up so that they can blind you in one eye, oblivious to suspicion of espionage, thinking only, "bugs, berries, shit, bird, air, air, air, egg," or more, "*** ^^^* * ^^* *^^ * * ^* *** ^^^**** ^***** * ^^ **^ ^^ * * *^^ * ^^^^*** ** ^^^ ****^^ ** ^ ^^^ *****^^^^*^** & ***^ ^***, " I thought.

I only understand a little bird though. I could be wrong.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007


to the way things really are,
they don't care what I care about
as long as I alleviate my oral fixations.
"It's all about that;
the rest is bonus."

Disconcerting blood flow bauble-assed,
everything else going to waste,
my mouth stays closed, ajar, lubricated
words, sounds in traffic, evaporate in the distance,
when we let ourselves ignore.

"There are always sacrifices."
Context, balance, tightropes;
wanting-to-be-adored-for-all-the 'right' reasons,
And in their minds they can't see that we know;
they don't even know themselves.

Monogamy. Decided by you,
or some other thing before you
negative implications to subdue blood flow reversals vivid tongue grazing imagery swelling
fear in the eternal hell;
burning sensations around the sensitive skin areas
--the romantic sanctity of closeness, so pure.

My heart's the size of a whale compared to your wildebeast;
my attention span's ocean vast, it thrives,
my guilt: an anemone,
passions: ten tickled testicles on an exaggerated octopus.
Thrive on Savannah wheat grass alone?

In the word 'luxury,'
the 'X' is sandwiched between two 'u's.
'Guilt' has nothing to do with it anymore,
when it's only a word,
a sign saying:
"beware," "no trespassing" or "stop,"
a fence I slide my lips around,
splinters. .

Thursday, October 25, 2007

'narcissism' from an elitist's perspective


"Narcissistic personality disorder is a condition characterized by an inflated sense of self-importance, need for admiration, extreme self-involvement, and lack of empathy for others. Individuals with this disorder are usually arrogantly self-assured and confident. They expect to be noticed as superior. Many highly successful individuals might be considered narcissistic. However, this disorder is only diagnosed when these behaviors become persistent and very disabling or distressing."

elitism -n.
The belief that certain persons or members of certain classes or groups deserve favored treatment by virtue of their perceived superiority, as in intellect, social status, or financial resources.

confidence -n.
2. belief in oneself and one's powers or abilities; self-confidence; self-reliance; assurance: His lack of confidence defeated him.
3. certitude; assurance: He described the situation with such confidence that the audience believed him completely.

talent -n.
A marked innate ability, as for artistic accomplishment. See Synonyms at
Natural endowment or ability of a superior quality. A special natural ability or aptitude: a talent for drawing.
A capacity for achievement or success; ability: young men of talent.

Plato Vs. Nietzsche: The Nature of Good Plato and Nietzsche have opposing views on the nature of good. Plato, as demonstrated in the "The Cave" and "Apology," believes that Good is absolute. This means that he is of the opinion that there is one perfect version of Good for all people, whether they are rich or poor, powerful or weak. However, Nietzsche believes in the relative nature of good. He thinks that the meaning of good can be different for different groups of people, specifically the upper (master) class and the lower (slave) class.

I remember sitting in the back of one of many a psychology class, (because I thought the different smells of people were disgusting, and personal, and none of my business) raising my hand, and acknowledging the burden of having a personality disorder for the first time in my life; asking if having too much confidence could really be that bad, begging the question of 'should it really be considered a disorder if you're totally bad-assed in every way?'

My question was dismissed as a joke, but in the absurd way I presented it, that was an option I've always offered instructors, to buffer the more likely answer of "I don't know," since that's what you usually get when you ask for answers outside of textbooks, a.k.a. asking good questions. There is an art form to being subversive if you're not trying to make an enemy out of yourself, which often involves elements such as: tact, good timing, and humor.

As a person who's studied much psychology, a moderate amount of philosophy, and a mild dose of politics, in and out of school, I consider the word 'narcissist'...hell, the entire concept of narcissism, in the same sense that I consider the concept of 'arrogance,' as a negative way (for people who hold contempt in their inequality, in their jealousy) to use words as weapons to make people who are better than them feel bad about it.

In an air of positive connotations, controversial/negative seeming personality describing adjectives, i.e., 'narcissism' or 'arrogance' translate with little effort into the sunshiny realm of 'confidence.'

Think about it, has anyone ever said something like, "Man, that guy Tom's a smart, good looking guy, but he's got way too much confidence. I think he's mentally ill for that."


How about, "Man, that Tom's a smart, good looking guy and a total fucking dickhead because he knows every woman in the neighborhood wants to throw their soppin poons at him. Tom's a fucking narcissist because he knows he's not ugly, and won't be my friend because my wife thinks I am fat and disgusting looking and keeps telling me to start jogging again, but what's her fat ass gonna do to get rid of those oceans of cellulite beneath her floppy size 16 butt cheeks, and man, Tom has no right to think he's better than anybody because he's in shape from exercise and a healthy diet, has a good job from a good education, and reads books by dead people. We're all gonna die one day anyway, so what's the point, right? God, I hate Tom. I hate him for trying to make the best out of life, so I'm gonna blame all my problems on narcissistic people like him. Jerks!"

I have to say this, and this might shock people, and offend people, but I don't care:

It is okay to love yourself.

It is okay to look in the mirror and think, "Awesome, I'm so glad my parents have good genes because I am not ugly like a lot of people I see everywhere I go, like crazy Mr Potato Head looking people," and shudder.

It's okay to not be buddies with the guy at your job who loves Nascar, porn, and America's Next Top Model because he wears Bermuda shorts and Metallica shirts to work every other day.

It's okay to grab a handful of fat from your gut and think, "I'd better do something about this before I turn into a fatty turd bucket looking chum sack that can't even see my own feet when I sit down to take a shit."

It's okay, that there is something called the mediocrity principle: saying there is nothing special about humans or the earth, a bar, a consensus, the herd, most people, average, typical, norms; that you don't relate to predictable views and ways of entertainment for people who are proud to be normal, and not 'weird' or 'eccentric' or 'different.'

I have met, interacted with, and studied a vast majority of personalities in my life. I have learned that communication is much easier when the person you're talking to doesn't hate you for making them feel worthless and insecure because you are better looking, have more money, are more intelligent, have better clothes, weren't beaten by your father, have a nicer car, would be impossible to fuck, have better skin, have been to foreign countries, or are good at things like painting lifelike portraits or wailing the electric like Hendrix.

If narcissism's roots are planted in being a realist and recognizing and embracing your own assets as a human being as being kick ass, then all people with a positive sense of self-awareness should be diagnosed as having a problem, or at least chastised as arrogant assholes because there's something wrong with everybody, right?

I'm sorry. Now that I think about it, I have no right to think that I am any better than anyone.

Starting tomorrow I am going to fuck whoever wants to fuck me from now on. Especially the fat, ugly, lesser intelligent men, since that's been the brunt of most most of my propositions, since I was a kid. I mean, what gives me the right to think that I'm above those, probably-really-nice-in-their-own-ways, characters?

And for those who even think about printing that last paragraph off and trying to use it as a coupon, "I hate you because you're ugly and dumb, as does everybody else," so fuck off.

Monday, October 22, 2007

20 items, a.k.a 'cunt peppers'-by people who use bad words

0.44 Lbs @ 1/ 7.99 F 3.52
0.32 Lbs @ 1/ 4.99 F 1.60
15 BRITA REPL FILTER 35512 4 T 7.98
0.35 Lbs @ 1/ 1.49 F 0.52
0.21 Lbs @ 1/ 1.18 F 0.25
1.84 Lbs @ 1/ 1.79 F 3.29
21 FP cunt FRESCA
1 Ea. @ 3/ 10.00 TF 3.34
*******Sale Subtotal*** 61.35
Sales Tax 3.24
*****Total Sale*** 64.39

this poem is dedicated to elimae

Sunday, October 21, 2007


The Rorschach inkblot test is a method of psychological evaluation. Psychologists use this test to try to examine the personality characteristics and emotional functioning of their patients. The Rorschach is currently the second most commonly used test in forensic assessment, after the MMPI. It has been employed in diagnosing underlying thought disorder and differentiating psychotic from nonpsychotic thinking in cases where the patient is reluctant to openly admit to psychotic thinking.

I'd always wanted to
ignite a strike anywhere match
with two day old cheek stubble.
Tried it on the back of my front teeth once.
As a result, the tip of my tongue was distracted for weeks, from the absense of enamel.

The brand new bottle of Jack was thrown back, in less than ten,
and before we could even remotely catch the effects,
the two gallon porcelain tiki hut was filled to the brim,
with a bottle of vodka,
strawberry gatorade-for the sake electrolytes and flavor,
carbonated power drinks for oomph,
bubbles, vigor.

To and fro, his slow attitude watched,
from a recliner covered with cat hair,
his apathy, unamused most of the time, unless that one person calls, and then he turns
into multicolored Christmas lights the day after Thanksgiving,
next door.

"In the movies,
there's a fire in a hotel, the hero punches the glass shielding the fire extinguisher, removes it, and pops bad guys in the head
like some midievil mace ball," I said,
my hand over the sink, band-aids and ointment coming from every which way.

"Those people in movies are usually in desperate situations and break the glass that way out of panic."

You didn't know I knew that already
but thank you.


Thursday, October 18, 2007


"Your actions are strongly tied into your emotions today, Sabra, so make sure you remain centered throughout the day. Be careful of sudden whims that might take you off on some tangent direction that will leave you stranded in a back ally somewhere at the end of the day. This doesn't mean, however, that you should turn away any situation that comes up suddenly and unexpectedly. Just make sure that what you put your time and energy towards is something you truly believe in."

I don't know who in the world's writing these horoscopes for me, but I want to be their friend. He or she is obviously a writer/philosopher/intellectual making a living cranking out these daily outline affirmation type guidelines between novels, and I can see that what we have in common is our ability to find jobs which we find interesting and bemusing, for the time being. I can imagine whomever saying to a confidant, "I wrote this great horoscope today about not taking an impending situation too seriously, basically telling the sign of Aquarius to slow down and try to enjoy life despite all the stressors which are pretty friggin inevitable ya know? And I say this in so many which ways, and try to be positive, and keep the cynicism hungry? Let's get some food. How about Thai? Yeaaah. Okay, what was I saying, oh yeah, my job is awesome, nevermind, you know this. So, how'd your tips go? Any twenties thrown your way last night, like the other night? Cool. You're buying today."

We are a scattered bunch, but I recognize one of us when I see you, and it gives me hope enough to give you all the love and support I can muster, even if you never let yourself have the arrogance to understand why. Let's amalgamate shall we? Take whatever you can use from me. I will make more, and give, as long as you are productive, and useful to me in my silly ideals
of progress, revolution and/or revelation.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


I'm on something called Twitter where I am only allowed 140 characters or less to create greatness. Here are some recent posts to illustrate what a classy lady I am. And please, no marriage proposals. I am already in a relationship with your mother, and her delicious breasts make for ample company.


I sleep on a couch three nights a week for 50 dollars a pop. No really.

"A damn kindergardener grabbed my tit and I was all 'you can't do that' and he was all 'nah, it's all right baby. It's cool.'"

"but i like it," is what the 6 year-old whined, when I told him "don't do that" to him repeatedly jabbing my butt cheek with his finger.

We woke up and exchanged zombie dream stories. Mine had X-Men powers with vampire teeth. His were plain.

If you think about it, zombies have a tough time, because skulls- they're REALLY hard.

I think she's got a dog, I hear its feet go BADABADABADA all across the ceiling, then WHOOOSH, the sliding door. Other than that, nothing.

I like it when a boy enthusiastically eats candy that's been sitting in my mouth for a long time. It shows that he is tough.

A long time ago I decided to replace regrets with orgasms and everything's been better since I stopped worrying about nothing.

Walruses have funny fang looking things on their furry faces. If I had fangs and a furry face, I'd probably be a mack and dance a lot.

If I were a stick figure, I'd be a boy stick figure with a giant stick for a penis.

Fresca has to be my favorite soft drink. My favorite hard drink is rocks in a jug mixed with turpentine and grease.

Most people don't know what I'm talking about and think I'm crazy until they realize I am satan clause and own their soul.

I bought a red Peggy Sue wig while in New York to wear as a disguise during sex. I will also wear sunglasses.

Dance for me. I will like you if the jello is fresh.

I fix myself up more when he's gone. I am my own doll, and the doll of others only when I'm in the mood to be adored.

When I told him the batch of pictures turned out well, he asked if they were of my profile. He said,"You have such a lovely profile."

The enamel on the back of my front teeth is still worn down from Saturday's night's strike anywhere matches.

I've started eating apples all the time, and termites.

Had another natural disaster dream last night with rising waters and boats. I wonder if drowning to death is similar to puking to death.

Went to the grand opening of a place called Ink last night for free food and drinks. They asked me how I wanted my Jack, I said in a glass.

When my skin smells like vanilla, mouths want to taste my large organ.

Relationships are great. Variety in and of itself and in relationships is great. I had lamb for lunch today. It was alright.

I've been told I'm initially difficult to understand. Who isn't really? Everyone seems to like to pretend a lot, in the beginning.

I felt my body eat itself for lunch today, after I skipped breakfast, and thought, "Well, that's what fat's for right? It's just extra food"

Went to a park today where people crawled on rocks and let the currents drag them while dogs sprayed themselves dry on muddy banks.

I just ate some 4 day old cold sushi. My stomach is starting to get mad at me. Vomiting might happen. I hear noises.

I got a new pair of gray Puma's yesterday, with a purple swish. I like to lick the bottoms of new shoes before I get dirt on them.

If I were a boy, I'd date a girl who liked cigarettes. This would guarantee an oral fixation, and I would want a lot of bl...kisses.

It pisses me off when I smell ass on somebody. Quit smelling like ass, people.

I am right and you are wrong. Unless you are right. Then I am wrong. Okay, we're both right. But I smell better than you.

My favorite cereal lately is raisin bran without the raisins. Sugary, dried up grapes don't really entertain me as much as they used to.

Little Richard came out on crutches, sat down at the piano in his white sequined outfit and sang like some old drag queen, last night.

I bought a rug yesterday. Rugs are cool. I like to walk on them and step on them and drool on them and roll up like a taco, haha no I don't.

My Super Ex whatever movie with Owen Wilson's double chin and Uma was actually really cheesy good despite the stupid previews.

Got caught in the rain today, soaked me to the bottoms of my butt cheeks sticking to my legs. I liked it, muddy feet and all.

Ever spell the breath of people who don't floss? It's very similar to inhaling dead rotted rectums.

Fisting is a weird concept. I don't think I'd like it very much, but I can be somewhat of a prude when it comes to large punching things.

Today my mom told me a psychic told her that my boyfriend was manipulating/using me. I kind of laughed when she told me that.

Funny how a short attention span, and fickle dating behavior in general, is a strange side affect of a jogging addiction.

I thought about what it might be like to be a dung beetle when the hypothetical 'what bug would you be' question came up. Aphids are cooler

Elitism is a word made bad by people who were born with less than people who have more.

Took a few amazing photos with bonfire illuminations and shadows last night while a German Shepard looked good to saddle and ride.

Found an old notebook today with a ballpoint picture of a giraffe, some poetry attempts, a few scribbles from ex friends.

I was feeding dogs marshmellows last night. I hope marshmellows don't kill dogs.

I have a pretty healthy nymphomniac empathy because I don't think it's wrong to like sex a lot, or a lot of sex, or tons of sex a lot.

Was James Brown supposed to live forever or something?

It's true. Fish live much longer than humans and animals because we're addicted to oxygen. I pray my mutant babies will have gills.

Sometimes when I spell the word 'boyfriend', I accidently spell it 'botfriend'. This makes me think robot penuses are probably fun.

Friday, October 12, 2007

on dreams

For Robert: An explanation

Because of the way that my memory capacities function, I have often found myself ruffled from images that appear in my dreams, images I can't shake; conjured events as if they'd really happened more vividly than in real life .

I think about it this way: the sum of my experiences are based on remembered events being utilized in applicable situations (otherwise moments are lost and forgotten forever, unless written down, or spoken of to a second party, which in part turns the events into tangible observations.)

In my wicked subconscious, which absorbs information like a space sponge and mixes it with exposures in real life: i.e., events, movies, media, books, people; I never really know ‘what dreams may come’ and be remembered---with their every crispy creamy gory details strange enough to make David Lynch's strangest movies look like sugar cookie tea parties in comparison.

I could get into it. I could explain in detail; the feelings of having all my fingers sliced off by a madman, of being shot, stabbed, bitten with sharp teeth and drained, mauled by humans out of their right minds, arrows in my side, gut punches, cars smashed with warm blows to the head and hot blood on my face, wing’d creatures chasing in grocery stores , of a soaring weightlessness, extracted teeth , swarms of insects devouring bodies from the head down.

Omnipotent powers, masterpiece landscapes, characters, terror, vending machines, floods, sex with whoever I desired living or dead, playing people like puppets in virtual cities made of bright colors and people's heads and insides and smashed animals screaming all over the streets with expressionless drivers sitting in traffic, deities with good advice, guardians, of dying, real hell, heaven, purgatory. I’ve seen it. I’ve been there.

As bazaar as it sounds, I think I remember dreams that people aren’t supposed to have the ability to remember, which can sometimes be very inconvenient for me, though understandably interesting for others to look upon, even if only for the sake of defending their own contextual stability. Ironically too, one of my first memories as a baby, is of a dream; driving a rocking chair down a street with stuffed animals surrounding me on all sides.

I fell out of bed a lot as a child.

Monday, October 8, 2007

the dark

In a car, on a date, going to a house where we will stay, we are driving through a field, straight, with the headlights turned off; there is no light anywhere, and barely on his face in the pitch black, sometime close to midnight. I'm nervous; we are going fast. I ask him how he can see the road; I don't remember his answer. I stay nervous until we stop; in front of a house, we crawl around the outside, through a doorway, into more dark inside.

There is a quiet man, who whispers hello, he explains:

"They come out when there is light, the things outside." Past the pitch black window, he points in the dim room where he hides, though he does not seem scared at all. "If you can't see them, then they are not there. Be careful when you have to go outside, stay under the cloth over the box by the door. Don't let them know you're under there."

I am in the box with the boy who brought us there. In spite of my wishes, he makes light. I'm nervous. Everything becomes bright outside and I can see shadows interacting, oblivious to us; then they stop, stare, know we're there under the cloth; they come closer, all at once from everywhere. They're coming, three sides of shadows surrounding, bodies crawling closer; I'm madder than scared, with my anxiety; always afraid of the dark, til now.

The faces look at me, all at once; they're human, blank faces playing grenade games like sports, in the grass, in uniforms, as my mind prepares to negotiate.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

i deserve this

"wow. corporate indoctrination has been successful in your case. thank god we've saved you from your yearning for change. way to preach the status quo on yer other blog there sabra.

btw-- myspace was always this pathetic. im so terribly worried that youre right.

i think this when i go to client's luxury condos where the gay residence managers cook them obscure overpriced delicacies, and take the $14000 pair of house cats out for a stroll in a baby stroller. installing hideous museum paintings, then moving them a 1/2 inch up, cuz that's what the client would want. no, on second thought i think youre wrong.

im praying for the day this contraption weve become friends through blossoms into its birthright and the humanhivemind is no longer the stuff of scientific fairytales. forcible empathy would be neat-o.

and, like, youre hot and stuff, think ill whackit now."

This is from a friend. Real friends tell you when you are being an idiot; tell you to calm the frigs down. People who let themselves care about me get frustrated by me a lot, at first usually, until they realize I mean well, think too much, and am everywhere and all over the place like a disease. I'm sorry.

Friday, October 5, 2007


The last piece I wrote depressed the shit out of me, covertly, since at the time of it being birthed I was feeling a heavy sense of anxiety and didn't even understand why. In an attempt to gain a better understanding of the situation, I posted my idea on my myspace blog, which in the past has served greatly as a forum of discussion among people who like to think; even though lately, the only people who seem to even show interest anymore are pervy types who use girls like me as nothing more than masturbation fodder. So it comes to no surprise when points are overlooked for excuses to flirt, or to praise, as a way to force eye contact in a crowded room or whatever. Myspace has turned to shit, even though in it's peak, it was a great way to make friends who lived all over the place for me, a girl who felt like a prisoner of her environment, an alien in my surroundings, for most of my life in Tennessee.

Now, after some heavy thinking, I know exactly why I wrote what I did, thanks to hours of feeling whacked out and over analytically spewing my guts to friends I trust; friends who wouldn't make fun of me for being depressed over the dilemma which lies in what makes the concept of socialism appealing amidst the existential crisis that comes from being a consumer in a very materialistic society, wanting to do the right thing, but feeling helpless in a very competitive environment with too many options for spending within my conditioning of what is necessary to be a happy person.

I mean, WHAT THE FUCK, right? Talk about wanting to jump out of one's brain for a while.

A strong source of this is all of this socialist type ranting shit I've been reading, which is mostly really looking at negative aspects of an ideology which just likes to take big pisses on most things that make people happy in an attempt to focus on poverty. Fucking poverty and destitution everywhere! Look! Open your eyes and see how people suffer. Feel shame for having money, when others have nothing! Feel shame for having nice things when people are beaten by their parents and don't have anything nice to wear to school; hate people who earn more money than most people and buy nice things with that money; make them want to give their "extra" money to people who don't have skills to find decent jobs because they're mentally deranged or were doled out some bunk lottery ticket when they were born.

(Money: one letter away from 'monkey.' Coincidence? Yes!)

Guilt is shit. Guilt is what Christians have used for eons to convert people into mental slavery. Socialism and Christianity go hand in hand, and I have made the mistake of embracing too deeply a concept which is deeply flawed, whereas it is mainly used as an excuse for people to bitch about things which will never change. Huh, but that's the kind of attitude that prevents progress and equality..., bluh, bluh, fuck you, and fuck equality. There is no such thing-outside of an archaic governing principle in rudimentary mathematics. Look around!

Don't get me wrong. I know socialism and Christianity mean well. Nietzsche knew. I know; that focusing on and throwing in people's faces the shit of the world has a side effect. It makes average people want to shut off even more, or it depresses people who are helpless--as the rich, who have always been keen on getting richer, are getting richer, as they always have, as they always will, no matter how many depressed helpless peoples' peaces of mind we sacrifice in order to get some meaning well message across, the best bet seems to lie in setting a good example for other humans, and not in scrutinizing and obsessing over greedy shitmongers and the like who have the freedom to do as they please, as with the rest of the world. .

Wednesday, October 3, 2007


Something's happening. It's not drastic or anything, but it bothers me when I feel something new happening to my personality, and I don't quite know what it is yet. I'm 30, and pretty much supposed to be 'set,' right? In my ways, I mean. And what I don't get is the confusion of not wanting to become too nice; which has, since about ten years ago, always seemed like a weakness as a target for terribly manipulative people, being nice. And now, since I know I'm safe, I've let myself become happier, nicer, which feels good, for once. It's sad in a way, but not really, considering some real sad ass shit everywhere. Almost as if my sadness could never be anything less than pretentious anymore; and this what get's me to the point:
In a world of luxury purchases versus sustenance and happiness and consumerism, what is too much? What is just enough? Is it bad of me to throw a bill down for a designer tank top when another person's thrill is in Wii games or expensive trucks or golf hobbies, cocaine, pedicures, hot Brazilian bikini waxes, psychotherapy, box seats, box sets, 12-course dinners, Italian leather, yachts, jets, quality German Shepherd puppies, calf implants, Whole Foods' organic artichokes, Thai tapas, hookers, truffles, rare and numbered whatever, oil paintings, botox, Star Trek, samurai swords, classic ballroom dance lessons, orchids, or $300,000 Bentley convertible 2-door coupes with 6 speeds?
I look around my sparse apartment and think to myself, 'I am afraid of excess, I have no right when some people have nothing,' and then the other voice says, 'You are being an idiot, there are people who waste money much worse than you, you are doing fine, you don't even have cable tv or anything, you have less than twenty pairs of shoes.'
And then I read about Jews in concentration camps and don't wanna eat, but then I see someone homeless slumped against a building and think, 'I wonder if he would be offended if I offered him some candy, I mean, who doesn't like candy if they're not watching their weight, I'm sure he's not, I'm sure he has a rot gut taste in his mouth, and candy would be extra nice for someone like him.' See, I always have candy in my purse, but I rarely carry cash. I almost always end up giving it away too, to friends mostly, since I don't have much of sweet tooth.
I think I might know the source. It's socialist side of me arguing with the stark realist. I'm sure they're both rational, but one's more into examining the world in the context of love and hope, and the other's the opposite, with a pragmatic, more selfish attitude looking out for my self knowing that high expectations in others mostly always leads to failure, all cynicism aside.
The result is a sporadic feeling of wanting to abandon all my belongings and become a minimalist, giving everything away, only to get new things later, and the process begins again, but never ends, and rises in the east, and sets in the west, and I like to have nice things, and I work to earn money to buy them, and have money in my savings, and have an expensive car that I've bashed to pieces and kept in pieces on purpose and drink a bottle of wine a night, sometimes two, and my slender metallic blue telephone has a voice recording mechanism for optimum customized ring tone action. I have no right to be sad about anything anymore, and this makes me feel ridiculous.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

circumnavigate sir cum navigate

"I prefer those things to navigators!" said random septuagenarian across the way, the aisle; through the bulky headphones next to me, 80's boy, watched Cadillac commercials on the television attached to the roof of the plane. The bathroom was cozy; it belonged to me for two whole minutes; it was mine; and its blue hand foam by the sink, mine. In a complimentary magazine, above a bag I used once when I was little, I read an article about an artistic savant jazz pianist-He's only 15!, a new trend in philanthropy-It's better to give!, about the succulent lamb kabobs in Istanbul after the death of Constantinople and the Orient Express providing "luxurious transportation between Paris and the Ottoman Empire." I like the word 'circumnavigate' and 'impressive white edifice adjacent to the ferry dock.' Heybeliada means "Saddlebag Island." Turbulence. I asked for no ice in my water but he "obviously didn't care," said nice lady. Cold water in my mouth makes me uncomfortable when it is not very hot in my immediate surroundings. Understanding the-formation-of-zodiacal-dust-cloud's-orbiting-veil-of-interplanetary-particles-formed-primarily-by-asteroid-collisions-and-debris-from-comets feels nice to try, but the clouds look like cauliflower more than anything today, where albino vegetables do not have pink eyes, according to Webster.
There was an error in this gadget