Sunday, May 31, 2015

pissing pants.

dear numberless beauty magazines,
i understand you may be interested in me. i write shittily but i know everything about beauty. i also have particular taste in fancy things such as fifty dollar eyeshadows. please hire me on a one half of a million dollar deal to write a book about my experiences with these enlisted subjects, or the other half of my life which is anything that has nothing to do with beauty, unless i so choose to do a cut-up thing with recommendations for make-up, for the sake of getting all warholian
sealed with a kiss,
someone whose nom de guerre is "peach schist"

put christ back in christmas.

pro-capitalism: "i like sucking."

the fit and fury of lenore.

whoever thought up the rich idea that anti-drug commercials would frighten kids from getting anywhere near them was naive. now that i'm old watching those on youtube is very funny. and they are also cruel.
i was traumatized by a t.r.u.t.h commercial once- for years. what would happen was i would smoke weed and panic that my life was a t.r.u.t.h commercial. i don't have to deal with that anymore- one reason being that i realize their advertisements were very extreme and threatening to my sense of security.
it also all started this particular time i got laced. i'm not sure if that is true- i've just been told this is what happened by different people i've told the story to. this is possible, as it's not unlikely most weed out there is laced. but this was...different. perhaps i was roofied, and saved by the grace of an enormous panic attack. it all started when i thought of this particular t.r.u.t.h commercial immediately after looking at my phone that had been in my purse, learning that my friend i had been hanging out with prior had been sending me ruthless, harassing texts and phone-calls- as many that can be possibly squeezed in a period of like twenty-five minutes. i blacked out, apparently or somehow. it all ended with the guy who i had just met and smoked weed with in his car, driving me aimlessly as i couldn't figure out a safe destination, yet believing we were on hawaii- him driving me to my doom as a sex slave in a remote trafficking empire.

i have sinced gained street-cred via adult life experience, and maturity from how i react to these experiences. this being said, i'm not scared of the same exact shit anymore. the television and it's 't.r.u.t.h' advertisements don't appear nearly as concerned with the war on drugs anymore. it appears more concerned with kicking the tobacco industries ass, and promoting as much alcoholism as you can fit into a television set.

so let me tell you something.
if we ever get involved with drugs, it's because the idea is appealing during the moment. drugs appeal to our innate inquisitiveness. at earlier points in our lives, this sure might read like a recipe for a disaster- a problem is something that blinds a person. however, in life comes a point when you become fond of behavior. behavior is how you react to a thought or an emotion, or most likely a mix of both. you become fond of knowing behavior can change very easily, so you are not stuck with either being a total dirtbag or a straightedge kid. i know, this totally sounds as if i'm writing this specifically for you. what it is is that this is a law so it applies to everyone (therefore you are never alone).


our brains are hard-wired to react according to the make-up of the personality. and drugs are appealing to many, many people. i honestly think that certain drugs make people stupider is because they have to turn their lives into living lies because their drugs are so taboo. that, and drugs fuck with our bodies and relationships, but that will all change. it will change with the de-criminalization of all drugs that i propose should be, no matter how many people wind up getting hit by cars. that, and also because this orderly that once sexually harassed me [in the psych ward] informed me that mushrooms and weed should be legalized because they're totally groovy.
everyone rather faithfully holds onto a scale which decides what bad drugs are and what good drugs are. there is nothing wrong with doing a good drug.
we take in sensory information and generate according to the architectures of our neurons. that's how we all learn differently, class. we learn from unique experiences!

ed: or that song "because i got high"
i question the man who uses the word "tragicomedy".
i laugh at the person who uses the word "tragicomedy" to describe sylvia plath's "daddy".
i once
read this book about a guy who's a famous doctor.
what he did was condition dogs into helplessness. it's called
"learned helplessness". this was an important book to read.
when i took the "optimism test", i wound up with a like two.
but i really think optimism is annoying and stupid in a like "god, i just wanna corrupt it," kinda way, and pessimism is annoying and stupid like the guy being that dick-ish brand of depressed who you don't want to invite to the party but you have to due to social politics (there are just some things in life that are laws). so i tend to see past them, and i also see that optimism and pessimism are very superficial, and also bi-partisan...i choose...realism. realism is when i can react any fucking way i want, according to my personality, which seems to be the one thing i cannot change but need to change most. and that, my friends, was an accidental definition of borderline personality disorder.
so let me tell you about learned helplessness and a guy named william shatner:
this guy is a capitalist. okay, i might get hunted by the nsa, but i mean, i've made it through george bush and michael moore movies, so i can survive anything. this could be a matter of something not being on the same page as my energy, but ewww, capitalists. ewwww they like wearing suits and hitting their hearts on their sleeves with baseball bats. they're so commercial. let me just say coked up, as well. this disgust is probably why i never held any interest in snuffing cocaine. this country has evidence of coke in all the marketing it slams in my face of sex and other hedonistic pursuit. there's probably going to be coke in the next pop-tart i eat. which makes me think of "flowers in the attic". and let me just say it, not spray it: if you're after power and power over people especially, just remember...hitler's doctors were, too. faggot.
so we're off to a good start. william shatner is not awesome. i'm tired of william shatner trying to be christopher walken. william shatner's millions-made, famous career was founded on sucking. that is very sad. you could argue with me he was in stark trek and the twilight zone episode with the gremlin on the wing, and i will say yes, that episode scared the crap out of me when i was a kid. now i think it's hysterical. and yeah no, william shatner sucks and ruins star trek for me, too.
it reminds me of learned helplessness. it is not awesome. and if you find it awesome, it's because something in william shatner's poor heartbroken eyes speaks to you ("i'm ugly on the inside! help me!"). maybe you feel talentless, too. and that's where william shatner snatches you up like a walrus hogging oysters.

and now all the celebrities are paid to act stupidly. and bad decisions their managers and agents made in playing chess with them. e.g: the new batman is ben affleck. i'd rather see shatner be batman than even see ben affleck's dumb face.

by the way, they all wear big brown hooded cloaks and sacrifice unborn children.

don't go chasin' waterfalls.

hi, my life from now on is based on a current muse: "my life is terrible, isn't it so new york city?"

the squeal.

you know the spoiled girl died young, yes? and that
it's always such a shame

when people die ahead of time- you never
would've suspected
a part of them was obliterating themselves-
they used big words, they went to school- nevertheless,

they die
worming their way through the dirt in
their wildernesses-

the essence of their lives buried
for they didn't know what they were doing-

unreasonable, crazy, mean, accepted-
it turned out they were not superior-

and their basic needs
dunked into the sea- pouring water, after
through a journey- inside, it was

actually quiet.
if this was hollywood,

or new york city, i would love
to be stared at, for i love to laugh at
big fat places

filled with their big fat people- i love
to name-drop and to
memorize maps-
sectioned into different areas where you can
sample the artificial air, thickening

into aphrodisiacs that the people get hooked to
and are honest about.
"i am horny."

where is the sense in these maps? i'd rather

give my whole at once, to a cause, or to a life,
then chop it into nuances
that do terrible jobs-

some bits getting to places and some bits
staying right here, instinctively faithful.

please do not feed me to the birds, leave
my stupid things alone with
my wisdoms. i have no eyes left. i feel

my way against my blockades with
my whiskers against the walls-

this is famous, this is famous.

numbing the entropy.

define entropy- i see my legs- melting off- i see software-
you're a terrible writer, i'm so much better than you.-
discuss maladaptive tenacity- the sugar- the molecular build-up-

a security checkpoint- a set-up- -                -
elvis lives if i think about the past- i continue to live
as is if i think about the future-

(this is defining an "unknown", which i fear, so i will
define it until it disappears-

you ain't nothing but a hound-dog- that is, until
you walk around as if you own the vicinity
in which you walk around- look down at everyone
who wants to buy you- spit on them-

step on them under your shoe- dribble on yourself-
and say it is their fault- let them know- you are

so much better- let them know-
they will never make it- not as much as you have-

then walk away- until the last second- you hear
a bidder: "wait, wait!"-

it is then that they will buy you-
for all it is worth.

marry- live in a house, not the forest ( : ( bc
you don't want to turn into the unabomber
do what you want- as long as
you do not know what you are doing-

for all it is worth, i do not believe in hope-
i do not believe in apologizing- i do not
believe in promises- i do believe
in the ghosts in the sky- shrouded

by what i project onto them- what it is
that i "project onto them (something that is a verb)"
is also known as reason

it is not scientifically proven.
but it is scientifically proven that

reasoning is a neurotic reaction to
the human condition

Thursday, May 28, 2015

allen ginsberg gets personal.

just remember: when your dogs stare at you like you are crazy, it's because you are crazy- that is, only if our perceptions equate reality. look at yourself like you are crazy, everything ever looks at you like you are crazy, and also like you are below them.
i look at myself like i am crazy because there is a hole in my heart. i dig through the hole in my heart
to america.
america holds me tight in its arms. it fondles me which i guess is okay. but america's hug is a bear hug and i don't really want it anymore. i'm squished is why.
i dig a hole under the fence of america's arms. i dig the hole

to get to the other side. there are fireworks blowing up everywhere
in the sky

so high and mighty about me. this is called "moxie". some fucking nerve.
i am afraid because since i can hear only the fireworks
and see only the sky

i can't figure out anything else and i'm overheating, so
some secret person will come and get me and have their way with me and then throw me in jail for bitches and people america feels betrayed by (this is called the "benedict arnold museum"). this overactive imagination of mine.

america holds me tight and speaks with the voice of allen ginsberg's. he recites the poem "america". it's the only ginsberg poem on my side. i love it. i sneak back and ask for forgiveness. almost immediately, i regret my decision.
america tells me he/she/other is going to make me a star. a star in the sky or a famous person with the power of plastic? stars like that wind up crazy like how i perceive crazy before they wind up shrivelled up. although i am already extremely famous to myself, i am afraid to be famous to anyone else because i wind up seeming completely different to myself around different people no matter what. i dislike it. sometimes, i really like people, but because i dislike how my persona presents itself around people, i can't spend time with them.

it's the unspoken equation with the vowels of the fireworks. it also has the bear hug of america.

i become famous to the world back and forth all the time. sometimes i feel so comfortable with myself i list adjectives i consider positive traits about myself and i can do it all day. at some point i will reiterate "whoa, am i crazy," but in a funny way. sometimes i will spend all day listing adjectives that i consider negative (i.e: they take away from my "potential") traits about myself and they become very complex. i feel very paralyzed but i do what i can to convince myself i am not paralyzed or a cripple or any of that anyway. i do stuff like this:

make a healthy and beautiful salad, paint, shower, read, write, take care of my pet dogs that look at me like i am crazy considering i consider myself crazy which is a vague word with seemingly infinite subjective interpretations, take care of people, garden, do yoga, call out to friends or mom who is also a friend for help or just to talk, take a one miligram tablet of my prescribed benzodiazapene PRN.

that was a list of some stuff i do. i have resorted to a lot of drastic measures that turned out to be teachers, but not the type of teacher i want to fuck. they are messengers of the hindu god ganesha, who i see in my paintings and sometimes other things all the time. they are comforting guardian angels.

so i dig under the fence under america's arms really quickly, because if they spread open the arms might turn out to be the arms of the statue of liberty so i might just drop and die. i am now in the arms of the other side of the fence, but i still don't see the tao or the zen- just pure fortune cookie- in the following joke:

"why did the chicken cross the road? to get to the other side."

i think people came up with that joke because they felt awkward with one another and needed to say something to break the ice. the faux-zen caught on. it's actually grown into a major industry in the west. i buy most of my clothes from this major industry because it knows exactly what i want.

what i want is loose fitting, black and comfortable clothing that fits but does not draw attention to my body which is attractive but that is not the point. i don't know why i don't want to draw attention to my body. the reason for this is

that i view myself at all times. so when i think about my body showing i just want a sweater so i can hide under it, and preoccupy my attention with other things that i want to retain information from.

this is probably another reason why i didn't want to be famous, but it just came to me.

dear america.

dear america, i am older than i look. i am older than you.
dear america, i weigh more than i say i weigh. i don't even know how much i weigh or what i'm supposed to weigh.. scales scare the shit out of me.
dear america, i use spotify.
dear america, i shave sometimes.
dear america, i feel a little better the past couple of days now that i have the internet again.
dear america, i freak out as inwardly as possible when i'm disappointed that i can't get something.
dear america, "dog eat dog" is disturbing.
dear america, kiss my tiny little dick, ayn rand.
dear america, if i was a dog i'd be an afghan.
dear america, i catch up on what the hell is going on with the kardashians today every time i go to the grocery store or to the druggists.
dear america, i feel guilty that my attention span isn't strong enough for very dense things but i can pay attention to crappy shit my mother watches on tv in the other room. does this mean i'm passionate about crappy shit? is there an objective "crappy"? even mushroom clouds are beautiful.
dear america, i don't suck at sports but i'm too anxious to perform well.
dear america, i have health care.
dear america, you have to be really rich for really good shit such as health care.
dear america, censorship is stupid.
dear america, political correctness does not correct racism or prejudices.
dear america, figure out the judicial system.
dear america, stop giving people power. they don't know what to do with it except act stupidly.
dear america, i've never had an iq test. considering several papers of mine were either rejected or given failing grades throughout school for being "too creative" or whatever, i think it seems formulatory to give me an iq test, though i would seriously suck at it because i'm secretly anxious that i'm not a pleasing person.
dear america, whatever an "old soul" is supposed to be.
dear america, i was raised in front of the television.
dear america, this substitute teacher brushed his dick area across my hand in second grade. in front of everyone. dumbass.
dear america, i'm drinking soda to get off of other caffeines.
dear america, opinions and facts might as well be the same thing at this rate, since people don't seem to know the difference- and when they do, they fuse the essence of their opinions into facts.
dear america, if i don't make sure i mean something as a productive member of society, then i'm so miserable that i blur my eyes out in hopes of going somewhere else.
dear america, i think it makes an interesting story to tell about how we were raised without air conditioning.
dear america, i clearly love you.
dear america. friend me back sometime.

the day song.

god is eternally blissful-

pose artfully nude in the bedroom mirror
stare at your beauty as you floss
turn into a neutrogena commercial as you wash your face.
clean glasses. put them back on. become a glasses model in a glasses advertisement. helplessly wave the white flag and view life always from angles that have nothing to do with anything other than their own separate anomalous solipsistic arrogant placenta-bubbles being satellites, circling their clumsy eclipses that they circle around the planet.

i know it is up to me to record their life spans for them. i must honor the shit that hides in trees and spies. the ninjas. the thumbelinas in the roses. the dogs that believe i am theirs. (never drop your beliefs. beliefs don't set you free. believe in this gravity.)

so everyday at least five zillion times i think, between other tremendously revealing thoughts, "i can't wait until it's nine pm."
nine pm is the time when i take my night-time medication. i sometimes experience either the direct effects of the medicine or the conspiracy is true for once in the history of conspiracies, and i'm experiencing the totally unorthodox, anti-organic

(although all is organic)

placebo effect, which is better than a nocebo effect if you ask this gullible personality, proving that meds for psychopaths are nothing but sugar pills that don't do anything but make us navel-gaze. what kind of life is this? sugar pills, and dependency on sugar pills? regularly i go back and forth between believing opposing extremes (i.e how i'm so fucking brilliant then how i'm so fucking retarded). they can't possibly be working if that happens.

what kind of life is life without the sugar pills?
i remember....

...the kind that validates the mental illness, as if everything else doesn't already. it isn't SUBDUED anymore. the kind where disorganized-tasting radiators turn into rare m.c escher artworks- ones he gave up on, which clearly emanates, and i'm back in time with him. the kind where i have no control over my facial muscles and my expressions are out of control, but the constant despair, even in this true joy, tells me i'm just faking it for attention. the kind where i'm meditating with the barcode of a book on my third eye and my hand on my heart because it says "doctors without borders" on my shirt, and i believe in these causes, so the meditation will be electric. the kind where my psych ward roommate is seriously loudly and wildly masturbating in the bed next to mine, and i am so freaked out by this, yet completely ready to join in, that my vagina starts masturbating itself. and then the thought of horror movies....noooo. turn back. turn back. that's when the gay delight that the light is a play-pretend peek into a subway station turns into complete sorrow over everyone that has ever died. the kind where i am stressed out over this and other things, and it becomes the worst migraine of all time. then doctors that you'll never even see again come in to observe you because stupor of this caliber is just that fascinating.

explore this.
god is god.

the ideology of misadventures just being adventures.

violet beauregard was sent to boarding school, for he was an unbearable brat. you would do the same thing if you knew him.
his only interest was winning awards for being an asshole.
at boarding school he sold pills. he also snuffed stimulants, such as whatever amphetamine he could get his paws on. he took them because in order to learn, when you've never learned anything that seemed worthwhile before, you have to take shortcuts-which are culturally encouraged.
"my life is going to turn in prozac nation!" exclaimed violet. but, violet, consider prozac nation already happened- and was very much so a nineties thing to talk about- so the movie about your life already happened, violet.
eventually he got off of amphetamines for a minute because of rehab, and this was when violet became close to adjusting to a sense of what is called 'normal reality'. since he was born without a sense of this normal reality, he just slept with every guy whenever he thought of it. he thought of it often, without pleasure. (there was lots he thought of, seeking pleasure, without getting it.)

excerpt from his idea based on his life (idea titled "pawn star"):

"I went right for the hottest, richest, most popular senior and was blowing him in his car in three weeks flat. Social climbing through sex has always been one of my specialties. I don't fuck for love, I fuck to put my name on any given particular New York map.

after rehab and stuff, he often prostituted himself to sketchy people with power. sketchy people with power have the best shit except dicks. he continued to do this because he had done this before. he felt like he would go crazy if he didn't maintain the ritualistic process of immeasurable desperation. so he went along with it, very obviously wishing for results though they weren't to be. there needed to be something. there never was or is going to be something.


since violet was rich, he eventually found himself superimposed across a divan. his "love me", super-retarded big fat doe eyes shut just barely, becoming sophisticated, seductive bedroom eyes. the lighting was upward, but there wasn't much of it. it was in black and white world, except violet's gorgeously dancing red suit he was wearing, and the angry red frame of the analog clock.

"but how did that make you feel.
"but how did that make you feel.
"but how did that make you feel.

these were either echoes, or three people speaking in a quick procession. hypnotism can work on anyone as long as they believe in it.
if you believe in anything, it will speak to you.
soon violet remembered childhood- the chunk before boarding school.

"feelings are for the weak. feelings are for the weak. feelings are for the weak," violet responded, also either echoes or just saying it three times. it seemed formal.

excerpt from "pawn star", no. 02:

"I started visiting plastic surgeons to book fake nose jobs and things, because when you book a surgery you get your painkiller scripts written in advance to fill pre-surgery. Then I would cancel the nose jobs. Easy!


then violet beauregard, a sort of local posterchild for seriously exploited problems, learned to turn his life around after a near-death experience (of course), when he got his head bashed, bashed bashed bashed and bashed by prescribers also known as drug dealers.  (they were fed up with their reputations being transparent to anarchists and took it out on a vulnerable person that just wanted to be loved.) he now learned he was scum to them, but also to the policemen at this point as well, so he had no place to go but the pavement. there were no more connec[tion]s.

"cry for your daddy who fucked you. i'm your daddy now."
"cry for your mommy for telling you boys aren't allowed to cry."
"cry to see how much of a baby jane you can be on the spot. you like that. you believe it."

three against one. the gang had violet surrounded.
but strength never comes in numbers....

he did feel like he was on the verge of crying out to mom and because of mom. and so what if he did? he also worried that if he held his tears back too hard, which he was, than they would hear this restraint in his throat, and he would then cry very powerfully. and so what if he did that, also? he wasn't taught what else to do in life, except from dangerous people- but the dangerous people had turned their backs on him now. fuck them. cry, violet. fucking cry until your balls turn blue for peter's sake.
in a flash of white light, violet saw that the one solution- ever, for anyone- was to impress all of them; all of the dangerous people. he could do it. he knew he could. he had to do what he had to do but he probably did it before anyway. ("just act like the boy they fell in love with," he advised himself.)
but violet's eyes dilated, for he saw god of a sudden. this is what god told violet to confess to himself:

"i've never been involved in a meaningful relationship before."


after the white light he flew backwards from this prayer, passing out mid-flight, and woke up in a meadow.
saved by a presumed atom bomb, he walked in the meadow for quite some time.
although he worked hard looking around for baggies, there turned out to be nothing to self-medicate with. violet figured, "well if i stop looking, it will just appear." violet did stop looking, and i give us all a lot of credit for that whenever we do that- but he couldn't stop thinking about it; couldn't stop hoping for baggies. (hope is bad.)
on a tree stump, he settled for a second.
his head was empty, except for charred indeterminates, which sometimes don't count. burnouts don't always count. it's because their math is off.
see, a burnout believes in the power of prayer, but only when they can get something back from them. since this only works out the first couple of times a burnout prays, out of frustration, the burnout stops praying. this is an apparently subtle form of a tantrum.

on the tree stump he got as existential as possible. he only did this because the only song he could think of was the music during the opening credits of "beverley hills, 90210"...and it wore off after a while. violet viewed himself from a camera that was viewing this as a threatening commercial promoting the war on drugs. drugs feel embarrassing for a second when you realize you really do have a sense of shame (which is a link to normal-reality) hard-wired into your subconscious. (i say subconscious right now, which would otherwise seem very belittling to the mind as all parts of the mind are on the same level. however, there is no other word for when a dormant thought would awaken very frequently, except only when sober- which only happens in rehab. "subconscious" is a word that comes close.)

it was in this violet found peace in, within those meadows- except it was a total waste of time.


in a neighboring city, another bomb went off. violet kept walking. he said he was not searching for lost baggies on the ground between clusters of pollen dust cigarette butts lost things leaves, but he was. his body fell apart and, for the first time in human history, admitted to reproducing asexually.
his arms and legs had came off and became other people- crack babies.



due to the death of inner-rainbows and explainable trauma, violet beauregard did drugs some more and found a new guy. he was a nice a guy that she was going to fuck with the aggression of his entire trust fund. his name was doctor on the phone- now, from the phone, was where violet was going to view the rest of his life from. the doctor was probably listening, so this was incentive to appear perfect, which we all do to each other. the doctor's specialty was assisted suicide.

but violet beauregard wanted a pet squirrel which was quaaludes [SIC:

  1. Methaqualone
  2. Methaqualone, brand name Quaalude in the US and Mandrax in the UK, is a central nervous system depressant of the quinazolinone class that acts as a sedative and hypnotic. Wikipedia
  3. Molar mass250.3 g/mol
  4. CAS ID72-44-6
]- which was a stranger from the seventies that came to the present because the seventies were being marketed as "cool" at that moment. it was predominant in violet's chemical make-up to be curious about things that he didn't think up first, which meant he really really wanted it; really wanted to overpower it. he couldn't get the quaaludes because he wasn't into the seventies throwback trend. he wasn't into anything much anymore.
he expressed all of this while viewing everything about his life from the phone, which he made a point to not keep out of sight.

the phone and violet were lost at sea on a piece of driftwood with thinspiration magazines.


the presence behind the phone materialized. it was a doctor that agreed with the einstein quote "Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.
”, which means he was very cool. while violet was paranoid, the doctor unexpectedly knocked on the door as in he was an arab of death. violet allowed the doctor to kill him by way of lethal injection, which took a while.


even in the afterlife, if your bodies urine sample is sad enough, you have to go to rehab. there are different levels of rehab. the following was the level of rehab to which violet had arrived after he died (which he didn't notice):

violet arrived on a shore, to which he did not react strongly to. (violet was a "been there, done that" type). a ferryman stood there, readying himself to drag him along on a boat ride through the river ahead of themselves.

violet remembered he had been on boat rides before (his heart now grew- which is accomplishing step number one). the enigma which is the superego muttered yet another echo- all violet caught of it this time was:


the ferryman was way more of a "been there, done that" type than even violet, so he didn't even notice the echo, or three voices. he said to violet that he is coming along for the ride, but he must pay a price first. violet never had problems paying for anything.
"how much?" asked violet.
"answer this trivia question.
"what starts off on four feet in the morning, two feet at midday, and three feet in the evening?

"piece of cake," boasted violet, "the answer is man. i almost graduated from school this one time. of course i know that."

"all right," charron the ferryman said to violet as he continued assessing her hellishness, which she was perfectly aware of. "know shit about dante's inferno?"

"of course. i skimmed through it in school this one time i went to school that i told you about a second ago. it's an oft revered work of writing about hell if it was a tourist attraction. but you know, the world is crawling with tourist attractions. i live in the biggest tourist attraction of them all- new york city. 
"but when you think about it, everyone is a tourist. everything is attractive if it is a fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. what i think is beautiful is when people aren't tourists. and we want to be those people- those that are cool with their surroundings. and i'm no tourist. not even to here.

"whatever you say," sighed charron. they went on the ferry and swayed, dolores or violet or iris or whatever the fuck his or her name is happily being analyzed by charron the ferryman who really wanted a nap. ("i'm too old for this shit," thought he.)
charron's guest noticed the surroundings. they were in a new big city...he was being born again. 

"where are we?" asked violet.
charron tossed violet either a copy of rumi's complete poems, or those of rilke's. "read this," he ordered her around, "and everything will change colors- into whatever you associate with mysticism. probably a wonderfully pink and sparkling snow cavern or a german black forest, i'm going to guess."

he rolled his eyes.
he rolled his eyes.
he rolled his eyes.

since violet wasn't interested, he didn't notice any changes. they travelled until the climax of the inferno. lucifer changed his name to violet. and thus earth made the addictive gene a law. it is the color violet (a rich and throaty purple).

question for believers.

when someone dies, which happens all the time, do you guess whether they went to heaven or hell? they probably went to heaven yet hell at the same time.

exhaustion from flames.

fixing the
clock- it's the shape of the zodiac, inside
is the hole- which is a given name.

it's a rejected
given name. decide for yourself.

mind and body co-exist
without co-dependency- only accidentally

bumping into one another. they apologize
without really thinking about it.

the destination of each- the body and the mind-
is a tornado.
these are harsh times we are living in. everything
is something else
at all times. we must be tornados

or we must live without the courage to live.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

which one is married to prince kiki and which one is married to prince william?
which one is named bouba and which one is named kiki?
the headache that tastes like spring cleaning that is born in january with centaur parents!

my father likes porn.

roses are the enemy.
violets are the enemy.
purple irises are the enemy.
yellow irises are the enemy.
mulch is the enemy.
topsoil is the enemy.
caterpillars are the enemy.
inchworms are the enemy.
regular earthworms are the enemy.
red-breasted robins are the enemy.
birds of prey are the enemy.
hunters are the enemy.
reality shows about hunters are the enemy.
overacting is the enemy.
poor scriptwriting is the enemy.
people disillusioned about their high-paying jobs are the enemy.
bob dylan is the enemy.
the electric guitar is the enemy.
jimi hendrix is the enemy.
woodstock is the enemy.
upstate new york is the enemy.
hipster schools are the enemy.
moustaches are the enemy.
facial hair, in general, is the enemy.
food in facial hair is the enemy.
the books that men with food in their facial hair read are the enemy.
cavemen are the enemy.
the wheel is the enemy.
invention is the enemy.
infomercials are the enemy.
laughing at infomercials by myself is the enemy.
i just looked down and dislike the way my tits look is the enemy.
having to drink soda to get off of way too much caffeine is the enemy.
poor sleep is the enemy.
having the bedroom located next to the bathroom is the enemy.
knowing everyones shitting habits due to location of bedroom is the enemy.
my brother has had diarrhea for five hundred years is the enemy.
renaissance tuscany is the enemy.
really old popes are the enemy.
old people being very stubborn is the enemy.
old shit is the enemy.
new shit being indicative of the apocalypse is the enemy.
how come people say apocalypse but never armageddon is the enemy.
ben affleck

the enemy.

roses are red
violets are violet

penetrating the tree bark.

some misleading information has snuck into the part of my brain it's not supposed to be in, further throwing me off. asswhole!
water tastes and smells like chlorine again. i'm not going to worry this is an aura, or synesthesia

(early in life things SMELLED LIKE WATER) (words WERE RAINBOWS (especially the word "magic"- it was a liquid rainbow against a black sky))

mom says i'm doing well. she thinks i'm reacting very calmly to different aspects in my life right now- ones i could easily rip my brains out over, but i'm not doing that. my eating habits are also very healthy right now. i'm eating without feeling like an idiot for eating.

when obsessions and compulsions don't always correlate, they never do.

i opened my photo album from when i was about seven years old.

"****** IS A FUKEING ASSWHOLE!!!" i write about myself in third person.

below is a miscalculation of numbers i added. 11233211 + 1129111 = 1123433221.
it's bettered, but i've alway had this thing with adding and subtracting numbers in my head. not that i'm any good at it.
i think i've displaced that obsession onto guessing peoples "MBTI" stereotype non-stop during my adulthood, as well as analyzing the hell out of my own (according to countless internet tests, confirming, yes, i do "have" this specific "MBTI", even though i know it stinks of bullshit.)

obsessions are always embarassing. (i can learn from this. it's a teacher, after all. what i learn is that there is more to me than pride, and a lot of what i do experience suffers from the interference of pride.)

'oh, third person! you were dissociating mad early in life!'
(think. dissociate. both)

the earliest i actually *remember* being so obsessive was in first grade.
i didn't get the difference between the catholics and everyone else. in my class, i might've been the only one not being raised on catholicism, so i observed a lot about catholic behavior. since the catholics didn't really seem to know what catholicism was, and i didn't either, i had to resort to observing other behaviors. it hit me- catholics don't blink!

the difference between catholics and everyone else is that catholics don't blink.

being with the vision.

is this a romeo? a juliet? it's
inside of me- a secret

i displace on what is there. it is part of
everything i see.

dumpster diving in mid-day, a peck
away at garbage- dependable things that could always
free (this is called "protocol")-------------bed bugs are here. i am not lonely.

when my ears twitched, some part of my insides was trying to express itself- the fact that it had generated sensory information and was now in the process of interpreting it. since i had been laying in bed for hours, long after the migraine had passed, "INTERPRETATION" was a free-for-all. anything goes. ("interpretation" rhymes with "[lost in] translation")

"she's going to need surgery."

on my brain, they implied, when they said that. it turned out they meant my ankle.

and of course, i chose to hope they meant brain surgery anyway, because of the quality of drug i'd be prescribed after the brain surgery. but also, how i wouldn't be allowed it. MARK YOUR CALENDARS:

the surgery is today.
the due date is june nineteenth. that day, there will be more surgery.
the marriage is june eighteenth. the party is june seventeenth. the other party is june sixteenth. the moment of silence is june fifteenth. the annulment is june twentieth. the four-twenty is june twenty first. the mother is really tired and, when she's not attending to her babies needs, zones out on (what else but) the internet. and, of course, christmas is everyday.
:CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS ACCORDING TO THE MANIPULATED UNCONSCIOUS MIND (god handed adam an apple- and magically, even the unconscious mind was eventually going to be able to be manipulated by the samsara.)

this ass owes me four hundred dollars. i saved his ass is how he got that money from me. he was being pressured into calling david, who would inevitably turn him down, which is painful when you put yourself out there like that. i've done it. i was stuck in a dentist's office and they wouldn't let me go unless i paid them hundreds of dollars on the spot. my ghetto insurance at the time, i learned, was out of network. i didn't have any money- i had just stopped working- five years ago- and i didn't receive government money yet. i called my father i don't talk to out of panic and desperation. he said no. he's too broke, he's travelling around the world too much.
i hate asking for help! not that i believe in hate! (i believe in fear.)
so i had to ask my mother, who was the equivalent of broke that i was if i worked twelve hour shifts at least five days a week. of course she was going to take care of me.

put yourself out there to....quell desperation.
bring me back memories of fondness
mutual fondness of
dead flowers- bouquet

of yellow roses, some black magic.
(------------ secret code to understanding the subconscious

is seeing the other side of black holes?
i once was lost. now i get it

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

inspired, of course.

scrambled is to uncomfortable as miscalculations are relevant to my primary self....but it is not worried about math. its cousin, a secondary self in the upper right corner of mind-map, but also behind my eyebrow somehow (when all is abstract anything is possible. and all is abstract except facts, which are also fascinating, but boring), is worried about math- but never in the language of numerics.

i felt the gateway open and i pushed the possibility of entering
away, away

i fucked up the riddle and ran in the sand quickly- to
get inevitable defeat over with- onto

next life, part 93848470q48498429282428404902820830301084094-49-49q-9-1839yhdfufhghfhfhuieh9e4hiussssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss    }|{ <----------pretty butterfly.="" p="">
there is no pleasure in mastering a craft. an art.
there is no pleasure in mastering.
there is no pleasure.
there is no.

no- is there? no is there.
no is there, behaving on behalf of the anti-matter

which didn't resonate well with the vibes of planet.

the sex does flutter then squeals like a pig, the
person whose sex this is does

very much so
HATE IT. no matter what this person thinks of (which

could be anything sexy or non-sexy but stuck in head
or crossed through mind

in the traffic jam
which is a flowing scarf

the end of masturbation ALWAYS turns into abusive lover
who will be fourty-eight years of age this year.



a restful night of sleep. buying
fucking, loving

finding? why! it's not so complex.

red guy: not complex?
birdman: not complex!?
yellow guy: my dad is complex.

IRL UPDATE OMFG: i called my father, the haunting figure that leaks onto all the other guys on the planet (you're either a father figure or i'm trying to resist seducing you- if we're not soulmates, that is. because when your father isn't your soulmate, it's weird), last week. it was about the bill i keep getting. i've been getting this bill since i was still under his insurance policy. the bill says "paid to the patient" (it means to say a check in the amount due was sent to my name but at my father's address in ritzy-land (the other side of the block is "slum", is why i know it's ritzy). my dad opens all my mail. this is how i found out:

i got mail at dad's address rejecting a claim. the letter was like, "we know this is a hard time in your life, being you just tried to kill yourself and stuff, but you have control over yourself not to do that, so we're not gonna cover whatever we don't feel like covering, because we're an insurance company and every single one of us refuses to empathize (but we don't have the stamina of doctors, who we understand why they cannot empathize- for they hurt people for their well-being- so, we're not doctors)."

dad called the house as soon as he opened this mail addressed to me. my mother fought with him over the phone...blah blah..."she doesn't have a job yet?"....then my current stepmother (it's not just a rumor they suck, by the way) called, demanding to know about the relationship between my mom and dad. ? by the way, she's a psychiatrist. which is a doctor, which explains sorta her bizarre phone call. and nobody asked "how are you" to my mother, or asked how i was doing. in my bedroom i felt small again.

then dad began sending me all of my E.O.B mail (the "this is not a bill" letters). you know what i thought? "fucking waste of paper. how joyless. i can't wait until i turn XX years old so i can be free of my father's insurance policy and finally feel completely free of my father in my life at all."

so the other day i get this bill....from a provider from over a year ago. i've written polite letters to my father with photocopies of the bill. then, i sat on the can, and i thought. why does it have to be a big deal to, you know, just call someone. not just because it's on account of business, but at all?

so i very plainly did that. i just called dad, because i can now. i spoke professionally about the business at hand. he was a jerk, but i get it, because when people are mean, although it seriously hurts like a bitch, it's because they are hurting themselves. they don't mean to be that way. nobody means to be anyway. we're just who we turn out to be- and it's completely normal to us. of course it is. it is our reality.

so i no longer feel scared of dad. whatevz, david, is how i feel. there's nothing to be afraid of. he probably just has to grow, just like the rest of the people of the planet.

this was a powerful moment. just wanted to let ya know.

I BECOME POSESSIVE: on a website talking about mark rothko, in the comments...someone described my experience [as their reactive to the works of rotho] which is supposed to be mine and mine alone. "vibrations on the retina". fuck! i thought it was just me being special. i even went on to start a poem about it....

"myopic vibrations, i stick images right there

so i can overcompensate my pride
with even more pride. pride and i

both fall asleep in disappointment over
my actions

to find out the truth
the spirit world tells, gripping

ou non. it will always be weird. the human condition
preys on superstitions because life is so fucking weird

and we get freaked out easily over this. that's okay.

was how the poem started out. and pretty much will stay this way, as i talk about shits of this ilk whenever i talk, anyway.


i would appreciate it if you took note of the following. no matter how i react seemingly, i'd like it if you remained openly skeptical about it. explore me. have a documentary about me.
there is always a seperate reaction aside. and one inside of me. many different ones in different places that remind me of what phrenology looks like. and a reaction to the initial reaction i displayed to whomever, and one to the internal one. this is an infection. it is very predatory for me to live with.
if something romantic can become of it, i'll make sure it will become.



so, i had been holding onto how i admired myself over the powerful dad thing since it happened, which was a few days prior, because i couldn't wait to show it off to my therapist. then a couple of little nips and i found out i was actually rubble and diarrhea again. fucking shit when that happens.
-MY EXPERIENCES WITH A PERCEIVED ASTRAL PROJECTION DURING ADULTHOOD, VERY DIFFERENT FROM THE ONES EXPERIENCED EARLIER IN LIFE (transcribed from pp. 264-265 of what i actually read every page of and have since finished, all successfully...i wrote this in present tense because- knowing myself- it's likely i was fantasizing about writing a semi-autobiographical story):

some dissociative weirdness as usual. but i'm already watching myself from the outside- my formality- so i can't split furthermore. i think. but i am. but i'm meditating on it, in hopes of result. (so it won't work, but maybe meditation-god doesn't recognize me, so he'll give this to me at least just this one time.)
i want to be a kite. the source of the kite string is the center of my belly. the belly is where my people, a while ago, had said their consciousnesses spoke from. so i think anything can speak from anywhere and that languages are not necessarily voices.
it's true i'm crying (hysterically probably), but it feels like i'm laughing hysterically too. it reminds me of being tickled, which is the worst physical sensation in the world. it's a tier away from rape for me, although i'm not sure why. i guess because people often cross the threshold of boundaries when, during childhood, you tell them to stop tickling you, but they don't. it follows the narrative.

this tickling thing also happened to me when i was flipping out during my second to last psych. hospitalization. i absolutely hope i can escape as a kite from my body from this mouth that just won't let go of me.

my best friend is at the end of the bed not knowing what to do, so he tells me what he's doing on the internet. i leave the room. he meets me in the hallway, where it strikes me he might touch me. i dodge the terror that i've projected onto my innocent friend my bolting into the bathroom, leaving the light off, locking the door, and curling up in the corner. [i've since extended this story from the rough draft by adding my memory of the experience.] then mom gets involved.

ma, i'm not cutting. i'll prove it to you.

i let her in. she tries touching me. i feel the tickling intensify but also now claustrophobic, continuously repeating "please don't touch me". this i don't get. half of the time i am quite affectionate. i like hugging a lot. the other half i do not like to be touch. in fact, it seems completely violating for someone to touch me as if permission isn't needed. not that i would give permission.

i need to be a kite. this isn't a crazy thought. in retrospect, i understand- because this is my body of which i speak. if i'm going to evade being in it all the time, i need to do it in a way my inner child would like. i am his/her/other responsible parents.

DON'T TELL ME YOU TOLD ME: "when i saw her for the first time, i mean,
what a knockout. wow.

"i sold them to save a portion of the land. a portion i could really use, you know.

"they didn't say yes or no. their mouths didn't move anyway. not that i could see.

"yes. being aloof and mysterious is a law i agree with about women. restraint is the foundation for a relationship
that seems healthy to me.

"they aged poorly, though.

"don't tell them i told you."

VvVvVVv----v--------------------VVv----   falsely accused of burning the qu'ran.
------------------------Vv-------------------V- jail sentence
-----------------------------------V V v ------- fleeing the iraqi city
-------------------------------------------------- was i urged ?

Monday, May 18, 2015

it was thirty years. thirty years
since i placed myself against the body of another
only because

i felt small alongside it. thirty years

of a terrible horoscope- it was supposed
to be made up- the worst
fairytale-grasp that came

out of my big mouth.

it was devoted to life-saving the only way
it knew how- doing away
with the boredom, by way of distraction
with antiquity-betrayal.

i wanted- wherewithal.

if it is not mine
it is a desire. somehow, a relationship

at all points. get get, get get,
get get.


the head of an empress i will faint at
once my veil is removed

from pallid face.

a reel-in, dream refusal- conscious-of, always

running on autopilot- i refuse
to forget about you. and down into it

goes my i
one fuck of a sloppy dive, when i wished
to express myself but only

the unconscious mind

held me back.

i experienced pain, which i translate
as an attack. aside from myself, only the trees know

that everything is a color- independent things.

i walked nearby watching myself,
without keys, dogs, wallet,

and yes without phone. i was hellbent
on watching the sunset
without being distracted.

everything else bent out of control,
finding. i thought of sex-

inside of my body, causing pollenation.

unforgiving, i remember the pain.

i bent an elbow to touch air.
i raise a child for the empire.

the empire falls to dig deeper, deeper,

bulbous roots- you are never
to die.
i love you, too.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

dear brain, silly brain, don't be dumb. continue
to make it up

as you go along.
you are not a nobody. you are not
a somebody
that takes and takes

from the other somebodies.

you are a one among infinite ones
that make up the binary code

for continuum.
sugar, it's not big deal. i will
sweet talk you out of this.

it's not your bad. bad is not tangible.
it is not to be had.

you are doing this. you are doing this thing.
shit tons of regards. bon voyage.

wow! do you feel that wind? it's new branch of ancient yoga!

hashtag beautiful looking downward dog

does you want to has what i has?


porn takes over the world:

ancient porn
so-called porn state

the desires humans suffer the unbearable itch of is of both exhibitionistic and voyeuristic appeal.
fallopian tubes are phallic.

porn is in high demand due to our supression of keeping up with spiritual data (supressions of spiritual data is called by the title of "superstition"). i am a computer. i know.

Friday, May 15, 2015


"the day that i was crowned
was like the other days-
until the coronation came-
and then- 'twas otherwise-

as carbon in the coal-
and carbon in the gem
are one- and yet the former
were dull for diadem-

i rose, and all was plain-
but when the day declined
myself and it, in majesty
were equally- adorned-

the grace that i- was chose-
to me- surpassed the crown
that was the witness for the grace-
'twas even that 'twas mine-

Thursday, May 14, 2015

the complete poems.

someone explain what "shame" is about.
do we feel sad
when we feel shame
for shame goes
without meaning

and this is probably confusing

because we're fatally obsessed with meaning? fools.
would shame happen to be a shell
to quell our securities within-

-the securities of having morals? (or are they insecurities? hm.)
were morals born in a church or a cloud? morals

are not from the dirt.
i'm from the dirt- a tall green stalk

that keeps wilting but coming back to life-
not like lazarus, but like a tulip

from its everlasting bulb.

but morals
do not recall their past lives. do they
have past lives? if you light them on fire

everything suddenly smells like burning plastic.

you check the stove.

it's morals you're burning. it's all in your head.
pyromania is the first step

to be of the ways of the ascetic.

isn't it paradoxical
when you feel shame over having morals
as morals are a possession? complain about that.

must i be taught it.
this education is neither good nor is it bad

and i better not fail my studies because i know it.

if thing is man-made and had, it is a possession.
that's all it takes. it is

nature nonetheless.

if the sky, impossible to possess.
nature. oh, it's a pretty smile.

reality is a possession, as it belongs
and that's all it does. it's yours.

yes, you, all lonely

with a crown (that cannot be emulated)

on a throne (ditto)
and a stick

that parts the red sea.

all on your own and you do not even know. that sucks!

you are royalty

of your own experience.

congratulations. you made it. dreams come true

and they do not make sense
but they do not have to.

they just have to come true

and all that's up to you is to eventually realize it.

reality is not real if it doesn't belong to you.

find shame elsewhere. you are surviving. it is working.

you are working. you are. you are

working your ass off

and you deny that too. shut the fuck up.

you are beautiful

no matter how your cunning mind feels
like observing your physicality.

the looking glass is a fucked up place

that reminds me of sex dreams

i never want to have again.

but you can look.

look at the devil while you're on lsd.

if you go against your morals

it is because they are not a part of your reality.

do not repent. god doesn't care.

enjoy the human experience.

enjoy what karma teaches you.

you wouldn't be alive 

if it weren't

for karma.

the human experience

is clearly
so fucking in love with you.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

ulysses' pyramid texts.


i received my son when he was eight years old. because he was autistic, he was difficult to housebreak. because i have no morals, i'm going to go along with whatever i feel compelled to do to my son. rule number one is no eliminating in the house.

also because i do not have morals, i'm going to die young probably, perhaps after something fitting like, during a bar fight i started like right after lecturing people in a holier-than-thou tone about how their virtues are not as polished as mine (contradiction has everything to do with cognitive dissonance). people feel sorrow for me because denial is a deep ditch. i might as well be all alone in a well. i don't believe in hope anyway. my brain is too proudly cerebral for that shit.

my son went through puberty, the hardest part of life, as i housebroke him.
i made him show me his teeth, telling him to put on his war-face. i told him to do this just to examine his teeth as much as i could. "not rotten enough," said i. so i had his diet be purely sugar and second-hand smoke, to assure myself i knew he wasn't just holding it in. after he would consume sugar and second-hand smoke everyday, i kicked and spanked him until he went into the backyard, where i would chain him until he shit everywhere. he also pissed, but because he did not receive the proper amount of socialization he should've, he didn't lift his leg. he had never seen it before.

so i had him meet his father. his father the monster from jail.

i told him to address his father as "captain".

his father wasn't as much as a captain as i am.
the only reason i did not take the "captain" title is because i feel inferior to my gender identity- demonstrated by how i don't lift my leg when i pee. i sit on the toilet with my legs crossed. their spider veins branch out through the recesses in my female form- but that doesn't mean anything to them. they're just looking for somewhere to go.
i fantasize about being a stripper while sitting there.
there are females that are worshipped like demigods out there, as females, not as people, because they are always revealing their female forms. if they dressed like me they wouldn't be worshipped as engendered demigods- perhaps they wouldn't be worshipped at all. they might receive bad press.
and that's me.
i imagine going on a shopping spree for hooker heels and nobody looks at me like i'm funny as i'm doing it. they look at me like i'm a goddess akin to the goddesses spreading the word of sex, such as madonna or hannah montana.
they look at me like they wanna pay.

sometimes i project these elaborate fantasies onto the door of the linen closet, which is in front of my face when i sit on the toilet. i think i can see my elaborate fantasies because in a past life, sex was my fate. perhaps i was a prostitute back in ancient times. maybe i was just some whore that jack the ripper slaughtered, but maybe i was ishtar.
(jack the ripper was probably just a dupe of the cops in those days, anyway.)
sometimes i pass out while doing this. exercising my imagination with a feminine slant. this is the closest i'll ever get to being a lady, culturally speaking. this is me admitting defeat.



the head counselor was pretty and charismatic. i didn't trust her but consciously told myself i did trust her. that last sentence was my main thought for a very long time, even years after i left summer camp. it's still in the forefront in my adulthood. when i get really upset, i displace her visage onto those of other females.
destiny rose- the head counselor- said she was going to help me and the other female campers. she told me that in order to move forward from my girl-sickness, i have to walk down into this very murky and muddy pond, like all the other girls that suffer from the same girl-sickness are able to do easily. they were all popular girls who were making fun of me behind my back.
i was scared i was going to drown, and also uncomfortable with how ugly the water was, but i was determined to prove i was sick, so i put really heavy rocks in my pockets to keep my weight underwater. i continued to try to walk down the flight of stairs in the pond, but wound up swimming as a half-amphibian (somewhere between either a fish and a frog or a snake and a frog) downward, then back to the surface. my big heavy rocks failed me and the law of gravity. i have failed. failing sucks especially when you're very ungraceful at it.

this means i didn't want to move forward from my girl-sickness. it means that i wanted to continue moving with it; being it, breathing it. assuring myself i have it, even if i'm a dirtbag (atypical personality type for someone with this kind of sickness).

destiny rose did teach me things (e.g "carbon" and "hydrate" make up "carbohydrate" therefore carbohydrates are a necessity to a person's diet), i won't deny it. but destiny rose wound up not helping me. she failed on her end of the relationship, which she didn't care about. in the end, it was me helping myself after being promised help in advance by another person (as if they are genies). never trust someone who makes grandiose promises.


i want to burn the clothes i am wearing, if i am wearing clothes at all, that is. i feel like that whenever i am disrobing. i want to rip these clothes off my body, even if my skin isn't healed underneath. i want to direct my anger at the clothes. they ought to be burned and it needs to be done as quickly as possible so it needs to be done without taking any precautions. then i want to sage the vicinity, and i want it to work. i just want to forget all my disgust that has ever happened. everyday.

this means i must've been raped. but i think only figuratively so. i think in very figurative ways anyway.

i have yet to burn my clothes. i am at that part of my relationship with this habit-of-thought where i say the reason i have not yet burned my clothes is because i'm a coward.
let's take a quick look at the etymology of the word "coward": cow and ward- in the direction of a cow. i'm a big ol' lazy cow. i graze at my clothes that lay in a lump, because my brain isn't high-functioning. i must think the clothes are grass.
i'm picturing clothes in a lump right now. it looks like mud or shit or mudshit from a ditch filled with dumped roadkill. the type with their eyes popping out of their flattened skulls. stuff you feel the pain of, then distract yourself from.
flies zipping around all, all the time. and i don't do anything to take care of it. coward bound.

what i wind up doing is learning how to internalize the disgust which overwhelms me- by eating foods that scared me to death prior. i eat them and learn how to shit. i shit the type of shit you're warned about in "get thin" magazines, such as "shape"- and every single magazine that ever was- the shit indicative of poor health...diarrhea and other types of shit.
the bones in my body still ache, so i commence a habit of popping calcium and magnesium vitamins regularly, very chalky ones, which probably help but i'm too stupid to accept it. and cowardly. it's like learned helplessness. i back into a corner and cry because i wasn't taught how to conquer chaos at an early age. (why should i be in a position to "conquer" at an early age?) chaos suits me.
i become at one with comparative thinking, which means i've stopped fighting against it. fighting against it makes it worse. if i go along with it, and accept that i think in this manner, than eventually it will go away. if it doesn't, maybe i'll learn something from it.
i'm jealous of other females because they appear to have their lives together [as in: these females came from money, are happy, and too come happiness and money]. i compare my orgasms to how their orgasms must be. my hair has a slight frizz. i've ascertained expensive products in attempts to tame it- but there's something i'm misunderstanding about hair maintenance.

the other females do not have frizz at all in their hairs. they are perfectly groomed, and probably get their vulvas waxed- which seems subservient and also masochistic to me. but i guess it's the proper thing to do, so it's okay.

i became jealous over them due to everything and anything about them which my senses generate into my brain- the parts of my brain obsessed with being receptive to information. "they", secret society people or not, are better than me. i saw it that one time, when i watched them walk down into the pond in their capes every night. i think they were freemasons but girls.
  • Membership in a Masonic Lodge is open to all men 21 years of age or older — regardless of race, color, or religion. Our membership requirements are very clear:
  • You must be of good character and reputation. You’ll have to provide evidence of living a positive life through references from at least one Mason and three other people.
  • You must believe in a Supreme Being and the immortality of the soul. This belief is not prescribed — rather, we encourage you to be steadfast in the faith of your choice.


next, i became jealous of all the other people and all the things they either have or don't have. it's an infection spreading, but it's the 1930s and even things that seem pretty basic to my medical needs such as penicillin haven't accidentally been discovered yet so i'm doomed to be overtaken.
eventually i feel so disgusted (but it is probably because i treat myself poorly), that i want to burn everything and everyone.
i test burning myself with a glue gun and it isn't enough. to me, i'm surviving mere blisters. but this might be a lot of pain for someone who hasn't had to learn everything about survival due to experience, or hasn't experienced pain not even once according to my perception. i keep this idea of using the glue gun as an instrument in mind, though it does not set fires.

so i need to leave the house. i meet sugarplum fairy. i tell him what's up, as if we know each other. he tells me to cut the crap with the burning and fire shit. he is going to get all the toxins out of my system, says he to me. he's going to collect them and bring them to his lab for "research", though i know it has everything to do with concocting drugs.
he gives me a deep tissue massage on my breasts and showers me with lighters, and things you need lighters for in order for them to work. he runs out of lighters. the lighters turn into matchbooks. "i've seen you before," says i to him, "perhaps in another dream".
something happened that i don't remember. in the depths of abandoned pre-conscious garbage dumps, something has something to do with the sugarplum fairy.
what i'm trying to remember may have been something i'm just making up to structure my memory myself, which you could really only do if you're a nihilist- and i'm not. just a poseur. but i get it. there's so much information to retain, and most of it isn't worth the effort. i want to make shapes, and i want to make love- if the past isn't happening, then it doesn't exist, so i can remember whatever the fuck i feel like remembering.

all i know now is sugarplum fairy. he is trying to be joycian because he doesn't stop, but i tell him to and that's the difference. and he just won't shut-up. i throw him across the room, which is out-of-character for me, and never see him again.

i know he might still be there. it is the basement of that macdonald's in times square. that's where he is. and i was there too, at some point. probably pissing and shitting and not washing my hands.


i don't always wash my hands after using the bathroom. and? it depends on my mood, and i'm not the most organized thinker.
my son learned how to lift his leg when he peed until he began peeing blood. (my son was also taught by his father how to shave. my son preferred to shave his happy trail and pubic hairs.)

"i don't know what to do about it. do we have to do anything about it?" said the captain.
"of course we do. we don't wanna catch it, do we?" i replied. my name is "the shitty mother", by the way.
my son's cock had to be scrubbed with bleach to clear it of its boy-sickness. not sucked or anything. just scrubbed. my son is too inwardly involved with his autism and complications from his autism and screwed up life to do it himself, and his motor skills have no rhythm anyway. also, he did not like to touch his cock- he didn't identify with it. he only had learned to aim it, so he didn't really need to touch it anyway.
i scrubbed it with a brillo pad, because if the captain were to, this would make him worry he is gay.

his cock fell off and became osiris, the very ancient egyptian god of order. my son, himself, died, chained outside, nude, as if frozen in space with one leg lifted in the air, and two arms hanging lifelessly, and no cock. a museum formed around him- him being the centerpiece, as his body aged into marble over time. (this was how marble came to be).

the captain and i were inside fucking on a bare spring mattress inside the trailer, fucking very bad sex (i always wanted a daughter and he didn't. a daughter wouldn't bare enough of his likenesses) when my son died. the phone was ringing but i pretend i don't hear it although the sound of the phone ringing freaks me out, and destroys the mood of the sex. the people who call are always wanting something from me. stuff i don't have- stuff i owe. when i do answer because i forgot to think first, i tell them- on the other line- that i died a long time ago. when they apologize, i accept their apology graciously.

after sex, i said to the captain, "i don't know. i just feel anxious about his disease. i don't know if i scrubbed it perfectly enough. you know how i am," i experienced an anxiety attack.

"forget it, shitty mother. he's a lost cause anyway. and so are we."

he turned on his side and went to sleep and dreamed of his own personal triumphs but also tragedies. i simply cannot understand how he comes the way he does. i do not believe in myself, and from an objective vantage point, i could not make that any clearer especially during sex. how could he possibly get off on that?
the orgasms i experience are probably not even orgasms. they make me think of vaginismus. i don't get exactly what my muscles are doing. fluttering yet squealing like a pig. when i explain it, nobody else gets it, either.

this is why my vagina refuses the conception of a daughter. it has morals.

on my application for my driver's license, i checked the box that asked me if i would like to donate my organs if they're wanted or society, which seems like a big fat secret to me, so to call it a "secret society" would be awfully redundant. i did it because i wanted fresh material to tell people about my altruistic tendencies when talking about myself which is always because i'm my reality.


i am locked in the bathroom with a red ring around my ass. it smells badly in here. i fell asleep on the toilet seat. captain told me to take a dump. i wake up in the bathtub. it appears the bathroom with me inside it have made it to america.

the drugs that i swallowed to get a lot of money and get into america had hurt my belly. i vaguely remember this. i don't have the drugs anymore because my belly doesn't ache. i do not have a belly any longer. it was slashed apart, so it appears. i do not have a vagina any longer, either. from the way the incisions look, it was carefully taken off.
my legs look useless.



write a post. remember
to be clever.

look at it.

may 2015

(for +Misti Rainwater-Lites )

Monday, May 11, 2015

share recipes, not meal pics.



regular sized bag of [whatever your favorite type of greens are. i personally prefer an arugula and baby spinach mix.]
two oranges, or a four clementines. whatever you've got. peel, and cut up the slices, if oranges. if clementines, don't bother cutting up the slices, as clementines are small.
as many strawberries as you want.
about a cup of cold quinoa.
a fifteen ounce can of canellini beans. if out of that, use chick peas.
six sliced up baby beets.

toss in a large bowl.

it looks beautiful, as "beet juice" is the best color in the world.


six tablespoons orange juice.
two tablespoons white vinegar.
two tablespoons honey.
six tablespoons [peanut] oil. i never have peanut oil, so i use sesame oil.
one tablespoon minced ginger. (this is the most important part for the dressing).
two TEAspoons [dijon] mustard.
a half teaspoon of salt.

whisk in a small bowl.