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.
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