me
packet of cigarettes, 3/4 full
packet of cigarettes, empty
kitchen knife
ashtray, full
infinite jest, 2 bookmarks
duvet, no cover
pillows, 4
vibrator, blue
lighter, purple
hair pins, 10-15
concert ticket stub, blonde redhead
ignatia amara, herbal remedy
blackberry mobile phone
white lace tank, dirty
work laptop
home laptop
i am not allowed to come here any more
because i am trying not to see
because all these fingers are good for
is masturbation
i just sat on the toilet and cried this ‘eeeee’ sound. it sounded like a dolphin but less nasally, more choked. the toilet and the crying are unrelated. i mean, sometimes you sit on the toilet and you cry because you are constipated and your butt hurts or you have the runs and your butt hurts, and sometimes you sit on the toilet because you have to pee and as the stream gushes out of you you remember what a fuckup you are and do a noise like a dolphin but sadder. my life is like if you turn a bunch of esses on their stomachs and link them together like an s centipede. that didn’t work. up and down is what i mean. up and down. my grandfather is dying but i can only think about not being invited to someone’s party because as i always say, we are all dying. what’s the word for always thinking about dying but never actually dying. well, not never. i didn’t even call him because i didn’t want to listen to him say how tired he is and not get to say how tired i am back because he’s lived almost three times as long and that just seems unfair but motherfucker, i am tired too. i am so fucking tired. i haven’t done a thing but i just want to curl up fetal and have someone kick the shit out of me for at least five minutes. hi, this is a blog post that aims to get your attention. hi, this blog post says, PITY ME. hi, this blog post says, hello, i am a human, how are you. crazy girls are attractive until they wile out about you, this blog post says. this blog post says, i don’t care that you know i am fucked up. this is the kind of blog post that people delete their blogs after, i think. don’t worry, all five of you. i am not going to do that because i am short on self-esteem. that ‘all five of you’ sounded bitter. i promise you it is not. after just one of you came here, my shitty life was validated. they paid my mom in karma points for carrying me all those nine months. next time, she might get to be rich, she’s already been beautiful. i continue to do ‘unapologetic personal blog’ because i am stubborn and a masochist. and i don’t have ‘healthy channels’ for my stupid feelings. and the one person who moved for me found religion. and i am always dying. and i always have to write when my hands and arms feel empty anxious inside and i’m sober. but it’s no longer just enough to write, you gotta hit ‘publish’ or you never exist.
i was going to write a blog post but instead i have decided to go out and get a bottle of vodka so maybe later yeah
is that a ‘statement of irrefutable fact’? is it possible that there is someone in the world right now whom someone did not love however briefly? even as a baby? even if a baby’s mother did not love him, is it possible that not even a hospital nurse cared for him? is it possibly for someone to grow up completely unloved, however wrongly loved?
everyone is such a complete person all the time, i become confused. my 20-year-old friend is not afraid of life, she speaks of businesses and babies like she owes nothing. i am twelve years older and today i found myself asking her what i should do. of course she didn’t know but my point is that that happened. i don’t remember being 20. i went 17-28 with what i imagine like a large hop, no milestones for me: no school degrees, long marriage no wedding, month after month my eggs going unfertilized. which is lucky because i can’t fathom telling new people how to live. what would i say? ‘wake up for no reason and again tomorrow.’ yesterday i looked at a christmas tree and earnestly thought, ‘huh?’
recommended doing
split an orange
read de beauvoir
I have been wrenching myself in knots, twisting tightly upon the seams of my skin. Not to mention they never notice. Is this okay with people? Do we all walk around with a burning hot stone in the rib, a slosh in the gut, an arrow in the back, an aching heart. Poor babies us. An aching heart, she said, ha ha. An aching heart. What is that, it’s not even a thing people say that means anything anymore to anyone. It’s not like knuckledusters grazing your cheekbones lovingly.
There is a man who will hit you in the face at that precise angle in which you need to be hit. This is a man that is in control of his emotions. When a thing happens this man makes it happen so mostly to your face because your face is the moon that receives the most signals. The next time you open the moon to speak it will hurt just enough for you to think. This man is a great man.
Everyone is dying all around you slowly. No one ever stops dying, everyone is always dying. Its just a matter of how quickly we all go. But really, if you think about the breadth of time it seems absurd to think of longer. Or longing. Or tree leaves and branches and other things that are dying like you. When I think about the air that swirls around me my stomach hurts. Why can’t everything be okay. There are no stories in me, just questions. Lots and lots of questions to which I hate the answers.
I think I know a thing but I am dying. If it is true that lightning will strike a bear while he is bathing in the stream then let it strike me too. I can add ‘she said’ to the end of that to make it seem more something. But that’s just posturing I know. When it hurts this bad it’s best to hold your nose and don’t keep breathing. It is the intake that causes the pain.
If you are no one’s mother, you can never be blamed for what you didn’t do but you will be blamed for having never given birth to a thing that is worth having, like a life, right. Is a life worth having. A life worth having is a life worth doing over and there are no do-overs because this is not like that.
Remember when my parents sent that asshole ahead in front of them to spy us out? He climbed the fence, so monkey he was and sneaked up behind us. What’s that, I said and you smiled and said you didn’t know. It was my parents getting ready to tell you that you’d done enough damage for one weekend, even though they gave us that weekend those bastards. What did they think our hormones would do? That they would sit placidly idle, side by side under a tree. That they would look out into the landscape and see what, cows? Why is everyone who is dying all the time so ridiculous.
I feel really tired and no longer sure how much longer I can go on with all of this living. Big kisses to the clever kid that never grins and big kisses to all you lemonjuice fanatics, I know you’re out there, stroking listlessly the shape of your discontent with a paring knife. There is a man that is dying and we none of us know what to do because we really are meant to do nothing but die with him slowly and a little bit.
And I keep twisting inside. I hurl glass bottles at the wall and care nothing for my sliced up fingers. When I’m stoned, I think of cream cupcakes and those little things that breathe. Everything I do is to cover up another hole, to fill it. Since I can’t stand things that are empty, vessels are there for the filling.
I HAVE SEVERE SOCIAL ANXIETY AND DEPRESSION, I want to shout. THE ONLY WAY I AM STANDING HERE IS WITH THE HELP OF SOME AMOUNT OF ENTACTOGENS AND ALCOHOL. And there hasn’t been enough alcohol but no one is listening.
The reason I don’t like to sit down is that I’m afraid I might not be able to get up again, that this heavy sad will pin me to the chair forever or maybe not forever but just make it kind of embarrassing and uncomfortable for me to get back up again. Like when running you stop for air and to start again is harder because you’ve lost momentum and your body remembers how it is to not run.
Someone says something and a bouquet of flowers blooming in my chest is choking me and I feel a million things at once that I am not able to separate concretely but on top of all those things is a thin layer, like a dusting or a fog that dulls everything.
I want to engage sincerely and it hurts that what I most want and probably need is what my body physically rejects. That just to speak takes so much energy because I have to simultaneously try to still the pounding of the heart in my ears and behind my eyes and regulate my breath and these simple activities take my focus from you because my nervous system is uncontrollable.
Imagine if we had to consciously breathe and make sure to pump blood all the time to not die, what else would get done.
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This is where I kept the little white mounds and in the morning we ate bread. This is where I kept that feeling of having never been so alone, right under the set of mugs with the pictures and the words on them. I don’t know, but this is where nothing much happens until it does and then nothing much happens until it does. The light is always off when you can’t see. This is where the smell has changed. This is where you kept me crawling backwards and forwards like a wind sail. I wanted kool-aid, I really did. This is where I kept dying. I think Britain wants me to be gooseliver pate, I don’t know what I want to be. Over here, this is where our meat kept changing color in the sun. This is where one day you were bright pink. Me I was blue, I have always been blue and this is not me trying to do a metaphor. No one has seen me for days but that doesn’t mean I stopped existing, it’s just the nature of my insubstantial form, it’s just an empty oven in a room, it’s where I am hiding out because what if they don’t come for me?
an arrow points at another which points at another. that’s how we go around, chasing each other like tails.
writing can never be an enjoyable experience for me because writing is either work or therapy.
you can never be an enjoyable experience for me because you are either work or therapy.
it’s like me, mixed up with him and a little bit of another.
it’s like when you toss up all the candy and it lands and some of it hits you in the head.