I'm still not in love and am a real, actual drunk, but now its killing me and I know it, how dramatic. I can physically feel the dents carved out of myself with a blunt chisel glaring like when someone called me creepy as they looked into my glassy eyes bouncing right off so many times a day I'd do anything you asked just to go to sleep. Maybe it's time tomorrow, maybe today, it will keep starting over and over.

my body is burning

Tanks and Blanks

A red ache in my fingers
to count the moles on your back, you
asleep, so slowly asleep.
You roll to your side, words
as coins, heavy, but with sharp sounds
when placed together.

I removed myself from life
only for you--
Waiting for you to stop by the bar,
my pulse, thick and wasteful.
Finally, you entered, pale and long,
reeking of the end of the night
maybe even my old man, darling,
too many times you mostly go.
I was prepared. I knew. But I still
shook at the shock of when
at the end of every day
that has ever mattered, you left.

I can still hear the clank
when nobody is speaking to me.

So I put my head
on the bar, shifted sideways like a stream
of water, desperate for something to tumble into,
my fingers shaking like they were threads
tied by a child to my hands,
something fumbling around
in an organ I cannot pronounce
and suddenly, nasty, hard I vomited all over
your least favorite shirt--
spit latching to my chin and fingers dripping
with myself, so obvious and wet,
dizzy from the light that came off of you.

I can taste how much I will miss you.

You're a liar and a whore

and it makes me want you just a little bit more

Evil Urges

I wish you would have traced the mosquito bites
with something other than scratches
I'm a wet spot on a sheet that stacks itself
onto you and makes you sweat
kick me off, it's so easy in the summer to do
I got flat back drunk just for you
so I'd be able to really touch you
but instead it was all something else,
as usual it is always something else
than what we made all of efforts to construct.
I sit in a similar corner watching
everyone else slow down, myself
reeling under the air vent
with nothing besides my blood pulsing too fast
in morse code reminding me that
I'll always be a liar, and my love is nasty and
for something that is shutting me down carelessly.
And I let it, I do it.
Just because nobody here knows
doesn't mean it's not the same.
Just because I lie about it
doesn't mean it's not still the truth.
I can't wait until the day when somebody says
oh god, look at what your love is doing to you.
and then wipe my mouth
with the back of their hand, slow oh for fucks sake
for once it will just be slow,
and then they will stand up
and leave me alone.

Hey guys I'm talking about booze again BOOZE YEAH!

I hate it when drinking is described as a way to "remove oneself from reality." For me, drinking never consciously felt like an escape--never once a way to avoid or to disconnect. If anything, my drinking felt like a total thrust into something fuller, deeper and more textured: a sort of careless splashing around in a huge vat of unsorted emotions, ebbing at a spasmodic pace. When I drank, I felt like it gave me full admittance into human interaction--a sudden, disarming ability to actually communicate, and to do so freely and authentically. It gave me license to become emotional, to discuss old topics of hurt or rejection and to respond to those old experiences hyperbolically. To get unapologetically lost in them. The next morning I would have forgotten the disclosures I made the night before, but with the steady wave of uneasiness I would still have the personal acknowledgement that I had gone there, however sloppy the attempt. Drowning in dopamine, feeling possible, wanting everyone around at once, talking, moving, whatever--if anything my reality seemed amped up, not watered down.

It's been a month since I had a drink. I found out that I had almost drank my pancreas into oblivion and that any future drink I have could potentially kill me. Not kidding. Did you know you can drink yourself to diabetes? it is true. My panic attacks weren't psychological--it was my blood sugar dipping so dangerously low my body was going into shock. And I knew I was at the helm, I knew the drinking was the cause, but still I put my body through it, again and again. I wanted the fully fleshed, dynamic, beat driven reality, even if I was making the beat with my head against the wall. I wanted to feel able to connect, the warm flush I got when we got through the pitcher and down to business, the truth just freely wheeling itself about the table with abandon. I would pay the price in the morning, over and over again. But that drunken reality turned out to be incapable of surviving dawn, the connections that felt so authentic and infinite wilting by morning into awkward and uneasy. There was nothing translatable in the actions I made during drunken attempts at life to daily, sustainable living. I could not work. I could pay my bills. I could not have an honest, sober conversation without a wave of panic. I could not plan and I would not have survived.

I will always romanticize booze. I will always think of it as something fabulous and promising--something with a real power unlike anything else I had ever gotten into my mouth. To strip one of insecurities, to bolster confidence and flood one with chemicals of pleasure is quite an elixer, and I will never think of it as anything other than magical. I will probably always want to walk through the wine aisle, read the labels of the Cabernets and the Pinots, tasting in my head exactly how they'd swell on my tongue in between puffs of a fag. I will probably always catch the waft from a nearby glass of whiskey and try to imagine if it was Kentucky or Tennessee, quickly play through my head what expression I would have spread across my face is I got down a glass of my own. I fucking love alcohol, and I probably always will. But the party is over. The party has been over for a while. I've just been refusing to leave, minesweeping unmanned dixie cups of beer, trying to squeeze a mumbling conversation out of the dude half-awake on the couch.

I'm lucky I almost killed myself, because there wasn't anything that was going to stop me except a direct, and fully understood threat to my life. If I drink again, my pancreas could blow. It seriously could just fucking blow. I know now that not having your health is not being fully alive. You cannot care about others when you feel your body everyday, yelling at you, putting you in perpetual pain. You cannot make good decisions, you cannot have a regular daily life. Nothing is worth your health, and I know that now that I'm getting mine back. I'm lucky I finally got a diagnosis. I was not being crazy, it was not in my head. I knew that on some level, but since nobody seemed to offer me any sort of further information I was left to draw my own conclusions. It feels terrifying that your youthful missteps can forever imbue you with disease. I don't want to be sick any more. I printed out some old photographs today to bring with me to Korea, but I don't think I'll bring any of the ones with me in the frame with me. I look so haggard, my eyes perpetually soggy and my facial expressions always twisted into some poor imitation of a happy person. I wonder how I was able to get by like that for so long, without anybody expressing much concern. I guess I was more convincing than it seems to me now.

I leave for Chicago in the morning, and it's crushing. I didn't see anyone before I left but my mother. Tomorrow she'll drop me off at a hotel where I'll spend my last 3 days alone trying to finish up paperwork and get my head together for the three year exodus. I can't afford to get too emotional about it, as I'm fully aware of how much living abroad takes out of you emotionally and physically. I'm preparing myself for feeling a long-term, tangible loneliness that for once in my life I cannot chase away with whiskey. I may make friends, I may not. You never know with these things. I may enjoy it, I may not.

I wish I could have seen someone. Anyone. The way I've gone about this has left me feeling disarmed and unprepared, trying to manage my body and get healthy while working out logistics zapped me of the energy I would have rather spent on making sure I said goodbye right, and to the right people. At the end of the day though, I guess it doesn't really matter. Things end, people leave and they never come back whether you say goodbye or not.

If you love me, that's your fault.

Jeffrey Lewis - Moving

It went well,

You didn't have to do it all by yourself.

Some friends came over and helped,

a hand truck, a friend with a van,

and you're moving out again.

Remembering when you first came,

it's crazy these streets look the same,

they looked different when they were strange.

And it's always weird to erase

every personal trace

from a place you called home for a while

and see all that you own in a pile.

A place that had become a friend,

to return it to how it had been,

to be friends with whomever moves in.



And you stick around

after all the boxes are down

the fridge is empty- just one ice tray,

and you swept and mopped more today

than the entire time that you stayed.

It's a shame you now have to leave,

the place is actually nice when it's clean.

It wasn't hard mopping the floor,

why didn't you ever do that before?

Now the van is down on the corner,

and you've done everything that you're gonna.

There's some pennies and dust on that shelf,

but the landlord can clean it herself,

and you're not sure, but you're going to claim

the blinds were busted like that when you came.



Man, so existential in that room,

so existential with that broom.

Cause the room looks the same

except there's no life left,

and you start thinking about death.

When you die, will it be the same?

No more thoughts decorating your brain?

An empty space for the world to reclaim?

You're on the verge of thinking something deep,

then you hear the van give the beep,

then you take one last look around to make sure,

then you take one last walk out the door,

and you'll never again see the angle

of the street you saw from that window.

You take the key out of your pocket,

you close the front door and you lock it,

drop the key back through the slot,

sure hope there's nothing you forgot.

I didn't say it isn't, but I never said it was

I don't have anyone to blame this space on, even though I've been trying. I am sad for the length. When can I have a worthwhile dinner? I wouldn't have minded a party. People must be tired of my parties. What is three years? Three years ago I was in a different country, did anyone expect me to stay? It's like watching yourself die and then living to see the world go forward, hearing the plans for seeing a show, without you, go to their new job--I will do it too, but right now I'm just sitting in an empty apartment dealing with sudden echos. This time I figured I'd just slink out the back door since any sort of organized "see you later" usually doesn't solve what you think it will solve. I'd rather not know the last time, but instead to have someone's absence leak in on its own. Three years will see most of you in and out of so much. Will you recognize me when I get back? Am I coming back? When am I coming back? You're getting older, and I'm getting older too. Eventually we may get too old for this shit, you may just get too old for me--I don't know how I'll be able to explain myself after this. I guess I'd be scared if I wasn't so goddamned lazy.

Squash

every week into a day.

I am a geographic. External processor until I ingest something nasty, oh hello life little pelican hunt out on the dock! How are you doing this fine evening? What is that? You have nobody to drunk dial now smoking your fag from your pointy orange beak, etched with 10 or 20 indents proving battles or ill wills or poor decisions oh isn't that the worst? Isn't that the absolute worst, darling? To invest all that time, all of your money hoping to shed yourself enough to be loved, to be engaged only to walk home alone and fuming? To walk home unsteady, unprepared for the creepy morning, dark yellow and insidious flowing from all corners? I get it. The gust from under a feather. A poke at something you knew was dead. Empty chalis, ringing with your metal hitting the rim, it doesn't stuff it up. Nothing stuffs it up. Where will you go? We're all tired of saying goodbye. I'm tired of hearing it. Adieu, nothing comes of it.

some lonely night we can get together
and i'm gonna tie your wrists with leather
and drill a tiny hole into your head

Bears and My Body

Bears. If I were an animal I would be a bear. I'd be a big black bear. They're cute. They're cute. They go to sleep for a long time. They have a big sleep. I get tired a lot. Bears are powerful. Me too. My body is work. My body feels angry sometimes. I sweat. My belly hurts. I try.

Eating some jelly

Kerala what is your problem now i gave this fat bitch a tamborine and asked her to fucking sing for me like lungs could lift a fat ass up for a walk down to the bodega for some over priced sharp cheddar but she just stood there slack-jawed and oh my tits she wasn't wearing any liner or floral patterns and I wuz lyke u hambeast dyke lol HOW DARE YOU. One of these dayz she's going to ooze out on the sidewalk and I'll accidentally step in her before stumbling too close to a speeding taxi which by the way, taxi maxi pads i won't miss your shit at all. Big city, same bars. Long songs, same keys. Young kids, am I a young kid now? The fact that I'm older now than I was in 2003 makes me flip a hip shit whenever I think about it. LINEAR TIME IS FOR FAGS. Can I watch you do your make up? I always wondered what it is about women that makes them women--there's such an orchestra of effort that I hear whenever they clamor by, all knees and tit drapes, mascara running away from their sockets. Do you scarf and barf? I want to watch other women put on their sundresses in the morning before they take the scenic route to Bergdorfs to charge some lyrca purple stretchy contraption to their card subconsciously humming about how men are such sadly visual creatures, how much more sad it is to be the creature that caters to that acetone, ACETONE GIVES ME A MIGRAINE. I think it's Fergie's fault, that dumb bitch. Do you order your dressing on the side? Do you spit or swallow? Does the new Miley Cyrus song give you a hard on?

I have an entire dance routine planned and it involves elbows and ribbons and baby bird feathers being sprinkled from above on a fat woman named Kerala speaking in tongues to the beat of ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL!??!?!? I'm going to record it and then I'm going to blog about how this made me feel deep in my lower intestines sandwiched between my lunch proteins and then I'm going to put it up on Youtube and become the star I always knew I was. What do you dream up while I lick you down?

I always like the pink cloud days of the beginning of another promise of sobriety I make to myself. I literally feel my body start animating itself again, my brain spinning a little slower when I get on the subway with every day that I'm clean, the feeling of a head full of salt water sloshing around draining out with ever extra hour of sober sleep. Once I start navigating myself around the city on overdue errands like a normal member of society around the one-week mark, I start to feel those unfamiliar washes. Pangs. Small stubs of a psychic toe. Weird sensations of giving a shit. Hanging up a phone call and not knowing that I miss somebody but feeling like I miss somebody. For most people it's very trivial and expected to feel as though you care about someone else, but when you're a real drinker your lines between an authentic, slowed down, deliberate feeling and a juiced-up, hyperbolic one that only comes out when soaked with a lot of whiskey is non-existent. Things get strangely cerebral on the bottle, believe it or not. In your complete irrational way of living the way you relate becomes very black and white. I am here, I am with these people, he's an asshole, she's my friend. I want that person. I don't feel like I want that person, but I know that I do. I know that I want that person around, but I don't feel it. Science explains this, how habitual drinking leads to a complete restructuring of chemicals in the brain--your neurons blossoming extra receptors to compensate for the avalanches of dopamine you send to your brain every night. Then when the booze isn't fueling the deluge, the receptors sit there in your brain, hungry and wilty, your mood static and hollow. Unless you're drinking, you don't have a single emotion register on the richter scale. A literal, real alcohol fueled robot. Then you decide, half with whatever rational thought you have left against the pure and direct requests from your private chemistry--satiate now, or wait it out.

Let's say you choose the latter. Then the pink cloud, the aligning, the sobriety you are so proud of--you want to laminate it, frame it, coddle it. Amazing how you can suddenly be so willing and able to smash it in the laziest of ways. How you can be so drunk in your sobriety on real emotions, you just cannot imagine how you ever lived any other way. And then you feel threatened. You feel bored. You start hanging out with your drunk friends, and they ask where the fun version of you went. You realize you have nothing in common with the people you spend the majority of your time with and feel resentment towards them. You start worrying that they're feeling resentment towards you too--didn't you realize? You had a function, and it was not to have meaningful conversations about politics or god or your soggy emotions towards an old lover or fuck knows what else it is you're blathering on about so awkwardly. You were fun, easy to be with, down for whatever. You always made the night a little edgier, a little more haphazard, a little more F.T.W. Who's the traitor here? Who's at fault? They never mislead you, never suggested that you call them in the afternoon to catch up. You're the one who changed, you can't complain.


I swan dived his weekend, and I'm trying to really understand why. I remember a really uncomfortable realization that the person I was looking at had played a significant role in my life and that I missed them. They were sitting right next to me, and I was sober, and I missed them. I remember touching my hair too much and making a couple inappropriate jokes that nobody laughed at. I remember thinking one beer. I remember thinking in between gulps about a story I read about a man who was sober for 3.5 years and decided to conduct an experiment with a bottle of scotch. He sat alone in his old drinking chair and took a shot. Nothing bad happened, he took another. 4 hours later the bottle was empty and the man stood up, and to no one in paritcular said, "The Experiment has failed." I remember sitting on the john 4 drinks later with my head falling down by knees and saying "OK THAT'S IT." I remember looking at this person and feeling immense jealousy for the way they were looking out the window. I remember the bartender making me a shot, he winked at me, it was in a highball glass and tasted minty. He touched my arm and I remember thinking it's too late now and how liberating it was to just be bad again, like I was finally being honest with myself because isn't this what I do? What else am I known for? It's not their fault, this is how I've always behaved. I provided a sketch of myself to others. I can't get angry when they don't choose the right colors to shade in between the lines--whatever macabre and specific colors I had imagined myself consisting of without any sort of proof.

I remember sitting on my floor, passing a bottle of Jack in between us because I just wasn't there yet. I was still touching my hair too much. I hadn't departed psychically, to my planet bullshit, my debut on a film reel of a more authentic, feeling person. I faked the feeling, I knew it was fake, I tucked myself into the falsity and hit my marks, knowing it was fake but high on my peptide wave of feeling this right now I wouldn't have been able to offer much clarity on it in those moments. I remember waking up and feeling like the left side of my brain was engaging in open-fire with the right side. I remember feeling like at any moment I would lose motor control and vomit everywhere, over every living thing in the world, over all of my possessions and it would just keep shooting from my gut until the organs themselves lept out from my mouth--a stomach hitting the back wall, a heart against the window. I remember thinking this person looked really great in the shirt they were wearing, and that I wanted to touch the sleeve but I couldn't because I was too busy keeping my body from erupting. So I went back to sleep, feeling retarded. You know, really retarded.

Today isn't a landmark. I'm trying to keep tabs. I finally returned somebody's phone call who had been trying to reach me for weeks, really upset that I was leaving. I remember not understanding why they kept saying they would miss me, how they were able to be so honest. Then at some point during our conversation I realized that we had dated for like, 3 months. I had been so fucked in the head, so separated from the reality of my actions that I literally didn't know this fact until this conversation. It was shocking. I was sober, sitting by city hall, realizing that I had been in a relationship without my knowing. There were no tricks, no shenanigans, we went out a bunch of times but drank out even more. But they weren't the only one, I knew I cared about them but I didn't feel it. I was sober. I was sitting by city hall with my visa documents in my lap, realizing that I had really fucked up. Say it with me now....I always knew I was fucking up but I never felt like I was fucking up. If anybody has every wondered how I have had such a natural talent for treating other people like shit, this is why. If you don't feel it--the flush, the intrinsic knowing instead of the theoretically knowing, than you can't possibly give a fuck.

I remember apologizing, hanging up and for once in the past two months not feeling as though I was on the precipice of a humiliating, crippling panic attack, that I was lucky to have someone who was able to forgive me, that I have so many people who have forgiven me so many fucking times and truly cared about me despite me not really existing like a normal human being, of being reckless and quite often cruel and always messy. I went home and wrote an honest letter. I felt like I would miss this person, like I would miss a lot of people.

I signed my full name, the one I was born with.

Taken from Drinking: A Love Story by Caroline Knapp

"[...]Longing for intimacy and terror of it: a wish to merge with others and a fear of being consumed; profound uncertainty about how and when to maintain boundaries and how and when to let them down--weren't addressed with much texture or depth.

"No is an extraordinarily complicated word when you're drunk. This isn't just because drinking impairs your judgement in specific situations, like parties or dates (which it certainly may); it's because drinking interferes with the larger, murkier business of identity, of forming a sense of the self as strong and capable and aware. This is a difficult task for all human beings, but it's particularily difficult for women and it's close to impossible for women who drink.

"When she describes this, Meg talks about a component of anger and rebellion: she was in her late twenties and early thirties at the time, and she'd spent the better part of her young adult life responding to her fears about intimacy and sex by shutting men out, steering clear of relationships. There was something about drinking, something about getting drunk and sleeping with men she didn't know, that gave free rein to a host of buried feelings, to an undercurrent of neediness and longing she'd kept compressed in the darkest corner of her soul for years.

"The drink released this current, let it stream up and out. There was a fuck you, I am going to get what I want, Even if I feel I don't deserve it. Frustration and shame and fear and self-loathing and release, all rolled into one, all liquified and drained away by drink. She drank and she just did it, just said fuck you to her own complicated mix of feelings and did it. In some ways this worked: drunken, anonymous sex gave her the illusion of intimacy with none of the attendant risks, none of the aching vulnerability of sober sex.

"If you both long for intimacy and fear it, if you feel worthy of it and ill equipped to receive it and ashamed of yourself for wanting it, alcohol becomes a most useful tool, a way of literally drowning out the conflict. It's a way of giving license to the part of you that wants to say yes. Yes to life and yes to deep connection and yes to touch and comfort and love. The sad thing is, whatever sense of affirmation you get from anonymous, drunken sex is usually metabolized away with the booze in your system. Meg would wake up in the morning and feel like an idiot. She'd feel shame and regret and confusion.

"Oh shit. Head pounds, hands shake, mind races. Oh shit: what have I done?

"Drinking, drinking. Drinking and loving men, drinking and loving men who drink. I never once went out with a man who didn't like to get drunk. Never. Right from the start the idea of going out with a man who didn't like to tie one on was unthinkable to me, and would be for many years.

"This seemed perfectly reasonable, to choose drinking men. Alcohol can numb fear, and allow you to fake it, and take you places you literally don't want to go: strange beds. But it can also give you access to romance, a bridge to the positive sides of sexuality. Alcohol felt like the cement in female sexuality, at least it did to me: over the years the two would become so deeply linked that for the longest time I simply couldn't imagine one without the other. A first kiss without drinks? Forget it. Sex without liquor? No way. Drinking was integral to my sense of sexuality as a body part: no more, no less. And sometimes that form of integration was effective, amazingly so.

"I can almost feel the drink, feel how central it was to my experiences. Deaden the shock; facilitate the exploration. Voila: No problem; I can do this.

"Truman Capote once wrote that he saw in Elizabeth Taylor an 'emotional extremism, a dangerously greater need to be loved than to love.' Me, I was too cautious and inhibited and scared to give in to extremism of any kind in sobriety, emotional or otherwise. But when I drank, it happened. When I drank, the part that felt dangerous and needy gre bright and strong and real. The part that coveted love kicked into gear. The yes grew louder than the no."

Oh, to be the Cream

FAKE SOUL

Red nail bed
orange door
White strings
of my neurons
firing at me
empty plastic
bottles green
or clear
horses hair
egg white
I had to crack you
to see it
along the River Avon.
Picture the
bridge orange
rust under
tennis shoes or
your hat
tucking itself
into gravity--
it stood you up
to leave you at it alone
lapping at
the shore

Picture the
ceiling white
dust under
the refrigerator
your face
falling off
after I shut
the door
picture the door
orange,
Wasn't it?
Picture the nail
beds red
like they weren't
Picture the telephone
green
like it wanted to be but couldn't
legs kicking over the railing
like you never wanted
No, all you ever wanted
was everything
You never had dreams
of bicycle wheels
for the 7 seconds of
le vol
or did you?
You always were the first
to journey to the end of the night so
lentement, désespérément
votre amour dans le cadre d'une vague
tranquillement.

and I don't know what it is about me
that I just can't keep still
I keep thinking someday I will make this all up to you
and maybe someday I will

I guess I'll never really be able to tell you how
sorry I am

...I'm Chuck Bass.

mi nombre

FOR CLARIFICATION

My name is J
pronounced J-A-Y
some people spell it J-A-I because they can't deal
with a letter
nobody has called me Jeanette since....
my 5th grade teacher. When I hear "Jeanette" I do not think it is me OR my name
because aside from technicalities it is NOT my name.

My name is J. Very simple.
That is all I have ever gone by and it is all I will ever go by. Spelling don't mean shit to me as long as JAY or J or JAI comes out your mouth. Don't think you're special by calling me Jeanette!!! Even when my mom is mad as shit as me she still hollers "JAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY"

I'm not trying to divorce my identity, or separate myself from my upbringing. I have always been called either J or Purvis. I have always introduced myself as such. It is not complicated. One syllable!!!

J

I wrote a love song in the key of C for you baby!

I'm tired of hearing all your dumb fucking stories and I'm tired of wasting time time time on sitting around FUCK little birds I want to kick them in their hollow boned asses and watch all their friendly fucking feathers go POOF into the wind FUCK FUCK FUCK I am so not in the mood to exist right now and everybody is annoying because my birthday was such a failure on every level because Jesus is a son-of-a-bitch who decided to punish me for all my crimes on that precise day, oh fuck me FUCK FUCK I never go to anybody when I'm down (just to the internet because I'm a giant, shit stained faggot) I never tell any body my stories and the one time I do people act like I'm such a fucking cry baby well fuck fuck fuck a turtle dove in the rectum with a used tampon you bitches I've been nothing but a goddamned drunken rainbow in the plotless saga of your life and you know I've smashed head fucking first into a giant brick wall when I actually admit I'm a depressive little fuck with a hardcore junkie love problem that has all but obliterated my body and I'm freaking the fuck out about it because I'm can literally feel my spinal fluid attempting to escape through my eyeballs and my body swelling in rebellion against my shoddy life choices to the point I think if someone was tender enough to touch me I might very well mushroom cloud into this sweltering hot new york summer and rain down my diseased organs all over Alphabet City where I want to line up all you paltry fucks on that abandoned dock by the WBB and drop kick you one at a time into the East River so for once in your goddamned life you would SHUT THE FUCK UP.

WHY IS THE SUBWAY SO DAMNED SCARY. WHY ARE THE BRIDGES SO DAMN SCARY. WHY DOES MY BRAIN TORTURE ME CONSTANTLY WITH PANIC ATTACKS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO DIE DIE DIE. WHY DIDN'T MY PARENTS EVER GET ME THAT DAMNED PONY. OH WHAAAAA SOMEONE GET ME A PLASTIC FAKE TITTIE SO I CAN SUCK ON IT AND SHUT MY CHAPPED AS FUCK PIE HOLE AND ACT LIKE A REAL HUMAN BEING INSTEAD OF THIS FAKE ALIVE WHISKEY STRUCK CURSE BULLLLLLSHIT FUCK THE UNIVERSE.

Born on a Train

Some roads are only seen at night
ghost roads -- nothing but neon signs.
But some nights the neon gas gets free
And turns into walking dead like me
And I've been making promises I know I'll never keep
One of these days I'm gonna leave you in your sleep
I'll have to go when the whistle blows --the whistle knows my name
Baby, I was born on a train.
Well I know that you were never young
And I know you probably won't get old
But honey no one's gonna hurt you anymore
And nobody's going to make you want to die again.
I'll go some cold and grey morning
And you won't remember anything
Some people don't believe in dying
But some of us don't believe in life

Magnetic Fields

The Charm of the Highway strip is still the most important album to me ever.

This is the first time moving is really breaking my heart. I've always been excited to go somewhere new, but I'm not this time, really. Really I am just going one mile south, over one little river. I guess what this means to me is that what I thought would happen by coming here a year ago, never really did. Ever since I was a kid I knew I wanted to move to Manhattan, have some sort of important job and be able to pay for my own ham and cheese sandwiches. When I got here, I didn't know what I wanted. I am still here, and I still don't know what I want. I can't afford to live here anymore...this tiny but amazing apartment in the most exciting city in a neighborhood with the most exciting restaurants, museums...I just get up and walk to Central Park. Sometimes I go to the East river and watch the boats go up and down. I never earned it though, and I realized that. I never earned anything that I have. I didn't earn the plane ticket to get here, the books I just bought, the computer that I am typing on. Besides never earning any of these things, I have never attempted to make up for the fact I did not earn these things. I'm trying to tighten the belt. Most of you would never, ever in a million years move to the place that I am moving to. My mother was abstinate that I stay here, but I'm trying to live the life that I have earned--a little box in greenpoint in a renovated warehouse where musicians play 24/7 and smoke weed in the hallways. Maybe if I knew what I liked I would know what I want. I like the band, and I want to be in the band. We are doing very well. But I need to find a job. How do I do that? What kind of job can I have? Should I have? Would have me? I have failed every interview--from bartending to sales to PAs to even living in a fucking coop--It's starting to get to me. I don't know. I don't know what I am doing at all. I can't go visit my friends or my family. I would like that. I would like to have something to do, good god I am so bored.

White Stain

The pallor of a single night
Its only tough love for my
Clouded stain of a memory
I would like to fall in love with you
But I cannot
cause you deserve to be
Taken in completely
I would like to taste your mouth
But I cannot
And I would like to smell your body
But I cannot
White stain veil over my nose and mouth
White stain veil over my nose and mouth
Slipped and fell from that letter
Slipped and fell out of my bed
Religious city or my senses
Rub the alcohol into my skin
To replay my approaching
Ungaurded tenderness
I would like to taste your mouth
But I cannot
I would like to smell your body
But I cannot
White stain veil over my nose and mouth
White stain veil over my nose and mouth

~The Dead Science

Wreckognizable

I am the history
of the bars your genes
grew on your thigh
sometimes i get too nervous
and hit the wrong key
sometimes I give up on living
normally shhh the glass of wine
is saying something kind of lovely
your lips are turning something
kind of disgusting a dark
maroon cuddling in between
your yellowing teeth
is that why you never smile
at me?
Today it rained and a moth
landed behind my ear.
Tomorrow it's supposed to be
warm and you'll still be
going through a hard time
just like last year like the rest of us
white people why is that
a reason to not say thank you
when I told you about my fear
of being a woman to you?

I don't strum
with any one pair of hands
on my head anymore.

The pollen has come and It's a mess.

Apartment Hunting

Oh what will happen?
Will you ever barf out
DO YOU LOVE ME J JAY JAI J J J
I'm sorry I'm such a DICK
I'm sorry I'm such a complete DICK
women as law
as something that itches
as something that can be tucked into your britches
as something to write home about
as something to pose
as something that complicates pictures
as me something that doesn't make sense to you
scary yeah I scare myself
because it's fairly obvious that i don't really give much of a fuck in any real way about anybody especially not myself
myself as a woman as a mouth
that shuts the fuck up too much
or maybe not enough
I tore my pants on the pavement fuck my head!
red red red
yeah, it's the color of my breath
lovers are just people you know you can touch
it always is something
but it never is much

Wilty hair and fags

you're always going to be everywhere, aren't you time slut, even platform fuck i am so proud of you i hate your guts.

too bad your dad killed himself before he saw this.

run run run run pitter patter is the only beat you'll ever make vroom vroom in your sister's shitty car go ahead leave me here i guess i was never with you anyway, sucking saline in the valley, reading stories to kids in the mission, oh lord how we have led them to the stupidest parts of ourselves without decrrrrrrrHAY, but oh decay yeah inevitably. You always looked smashing in red but it doesn't matter because nobody, and I mean nobody baby, ever, in any whiskey soaked explanation, ever believes me.

Forehead

Is what I want so crazy?

a throat that isn't sore maybe a fingernail that just does not grow maybe--

someone who does not have such a horrifying life story but we all have at least one horrifying life story OMG all that matters to me right now is a _____ who____ and doesn't_____ about_____

I'm so tired of people being mad at me,

that poem i wrote in the last post was really fucking gay.

Next Tuesday

All of the horses

are purple and white.

A thousand different horses some day
we'll wake up and hear them galloping outside
All of the horses
they are purple and white
Someday we're going to wake up
and see them galloping outside.

We've all worked long weeks
and we're so tired tonight,
your hands like gloves of thread
made from mistakes of your life,
but someday we're going to wake up
and watch them galloping outside

All of the horses

are purple and white

I know that you're tired, really tired tonight
and I know that your mama never taught you how to ride
but someday we're going to wake up
and see them galloping outside
and I promise that you'll sleep soundly
for the first time in your life
when you see all the horses
purple and white.

Drizzle

I'm so sick of everyone blah blah blahing at me even if I were a mess, which I am not anymore, I don't need anybody blah blah blahing about it to everyone. I am too old.

I have waited and worked and flailed and gutted myself completely for this opportunity and I'm not going to let anything or anyone (even myself) fuck it up. I actually believe in it and I believe in everything else I am doing. I am doing well. I don't need or want a lot of things from my past because my new life, which could quickly fall apart I know, but my new life is FUCKING AWESOME.












YOU ACT LIKE A SLUT
BUT YOU'RE REALLY A FREEZER.

Fairy Mary On Hard Lemonade

We can be trusted
to buy all your drugs, little fairy mary
is on the prowl again for love
heard her coming down the hallway
heels going clunk clunk clunk
49.95 all those boys, all those boys
sniffing up your legs for drugs.
Little fairy mary is still some old woman's baby
waxing her thighs with stickiness
dried hard, pulled out the ugly
strand by strand strangely she is playing
the notes by striking the moles on a back
that melody happily smacks you down
wasn't hard wobbling on your kick knacking
heels, kick knacking on the backs of
little boys with little spears.

Did you get a bargain on your Saturday night shopping?

That outfit looks horrible on you.

I can't wait to meet the first one who---

I always buy your lame ass little artwork..."OHh look people I took a picture of my shoe" And like a motherfucker I'm on pay pal with a vengeance because it is your shoe and your expression and I live off the things you do, still, to this day. Oh god, did you know you own all of San Jose? You do. It belongs to you. I will never consider San Jose without considering you, even in a meandering, peripheral thought 10 years from now. That is your city, thanks for colonizing it with your ADD inflicted wonky eye, you asshole.

I track down junkies because junkies get it and I love how much they see. Discombobulated and avoidant, they know more about life and ugliness than you ever will. Just don't expect to make sure you go home OK. Or pick you up on time. Or give a shit about you at all, really. They're for cliched poems and the occassional amusing story. They'll help your writing and your songs. They see more but you can't get romantic about it, or them. They are junkies, and if you've met one junkie you have met the all. Charming fuckers, I'm easily persuaded. on the junkie level but not---

The only person I love is my mother.

Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is gNothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is going to happen. 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Nothing is going to happen.







.

Bjorn's Shock of Everyday Life

Rub out your boredom with your
acryllic fingernails until it hits a wall, a doorknob
maybe just make your eyes extend at the ceiling
while you're lying in bed alone--what is the price
I have to pay for your teeth, your fucking teeth
why do they still talk to me after all these days
you've spent hiding them in the laziest of ways?

I choked on the exhaust pipe of a MACK truck
somewhere along Park when I crossed too eagerly
with my new boots on stomping towards
somewhere dank, HUGGGH I said SUUUGGHHHSS
SALLY! SALLY AVERY! I MADE A FRIENDSHIP CHAIN
FOR SALLY AVERY! I TRIED TO WRAP IT AROUND
THE WRIST OF SALLY AVERY BUT SALLY AVERY
PUNCHED ME IN THE TUMMY AND MADE ME
HUUGUGUHSHSH

It was an ex-votos, baby so we could remember
that morning reaking of sweat and whiskey
when I rolled over and could move all of my limbs
and I said what? What what what you little slut
you didn't kill me?
How rude.

Illiterate

Every year is hard in some way. Somebody dies or moves or meanders out of your life without you noticing until you see them in a new life, money--oh money. Maybe I don't have the perspecitive others have, or people don't think that I do, maybe I don't, but maybe I do. I've watched my family slowly but surely disintigrate just like most people have had to do and have had to wrap my head around the fact that they are not my mom, dad, and sister but three people with their own lives that they have every right to live without me involved. I don't blame my dad and sister for cutting me out. I know they'll always show up when/if I do something of interest and they love me even if they may not particularily care for me as a person. I don't blame them. But I love my mother even though she was sick my entire life and I still think she is and I hope what she gives me isn't out of guilt but sometimes guilt is love and I should just try not to take advantage of it because I may still be kind of angry because she's the only person who doesn't hate me in some way, large or small, and has always thought I was going to do something despite repeated proof that I would not, or possibly will not, never reminding me that I can be as cruel as her mother and letting me go through the phases without punishment and I hope someday I'll be able to pay her back, pay my father back, he said I broke his heart and I am sorry I don't know why I keep doing that.

Codeine....Bourbon...

Hey you little shit.

I could step on that bitch with my back heel in a drunken stumble and kill'er. I could say just one polysllabic word and make her head explode. I could pose so dashingly she'd slit her wrists with her own tongue. Do you have any fucking clue what I have done? Do you have any clue how many little hearts have been shoved under my unconscious head? Do you know how many metaphors people have tried to stuff me inside of?

We have similar stories, oh ho. Always getting caught and never kept. Only you and I know that is not as gallant as it seems, cowardly sucking down our Canadian whiskeys, prowling around the room hoping to be seen and ho, we always are, seen--in the only way we like to be seen--low ligthting and blurry, when it's too late at night to ask any important questions.

But you don't see me dragging around my tinker toys, letting them jack off my ego for more than a night, because then they start saying things about you and I'm telling you darling, she's not saying anything nice. It shouldn't surprise you--People like us don't consist of too many nice things.

Do you have any idea who I am?

You do, I am you only with a moticom of integrity in our filthy business. You should know better. Why would you break the rules and ruin my universe so helplessly? If this is not how to play the game I have years to apologize for.

That bitch was fabulous, you scotch-blind little shit

lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick lick

I wish I could stop being a menace and going
out to the ATM, stealing money and feeling like
a vandal only I don't feel like a vandal I
just know that I am. I do not feel as though
I went to the center of your world
and took a shit
I just know that I have. Like a middle letter in the alphabet
one that isn't used too often and is derived
from something slavic, something hard against the teeth
will you ever forgive me?
I only have the courage to ask when I am in
my drinking shirt and my makeup,
baby girl you shold know I forgot to ask you to put your foot
into my stirrup and kick me as hard as you could
in the flank, click your tongue for me
so I'd be reminded to trot, to canter
will you ever forgive me?
All us addicts are the same. It shouldn't surprise you.
What I do to try and continue grazing alone and fat
shouldn't surprise you.

I feel like I'm ready to be shoed.
Have some nails driven into me, putting me to metal
maybe keeping the calcium from
growing too long but when I see you come
from the shoddy barn with the halter
I put my hindquarters to use and kick at your good skin
and eat a baby's fingers
what was that last line it doesn't matter
I'm just your ordinary drunk
who says the words to get you out of the way
will you ever ever ever forgive me?
Don't listen to a goddamn thing I have to say
because if you do, and understand al all
then
god rest you, rest you. You were always too young
for this like I was.
But am not anymore.

And someday you won't be too young

how dissapointing.

Squish Squash

If you have nothing new to say it's probably best
to keep your lips to yourself, sticking them out
without anything behind the teeth is something
only children and assholes do. Keep your head to yourself
too, and your greasy brown hair, the bags under your eyes
are taunting me oh fuck you it's not fair, all the space that
is under there rudely asking me to get inside
to fill them out, I will not go to your show. Just so
you know, I made no sign with your girlie name
and I am not trying to be your friend even though
that's all you needed not the sheets of my bed
wrapped around your jaw like a pony trained and shaven oh, fuck me?
Really. F the valley U the twin C your tone K the back
the back you couldn't win. I'm dragging A limb L ord
I am Vs you i have an E d in my stupid stomach sorta but not really.
Have you told him yet?
About how you,

trying to make the men jealous IOU a pancacke
and a cab fare to Queens but there is no such thing
as a lady, a fucking lady maybe but that makes her
very very un-lady.
file your teeth and maybe we'll talk but until then
get your smarmy hand off my arm while baby girl
is trying to sleep. What does your sister think of you
dry humping a stranger's leg?
What does your dead father see from heaven?
The balding spot on your head darting around
lower manhattan?

LOL I'm just kidding we could be in love
if you died.
People always really love whoever it is
that has just died.
Ever notice that?
When I die feel free to remind everyone that I was an asshole and
remind anyone who says otherwise it's impolite to tell a lie.

Boomstown

fe fi fo fum I can hear her baby here she comes
such little lips for such wide fists
smacking the backsides all the young drunk bitches
haven't you always wanted to feel in love, well
a hand print on your face is the outline of
the spell, red, real and stinging like hell
What the fuck were you thinking?
Black mascara never made you very pretty
fe fi fo fum can you hear her baby 'cause here she comes
What the fuck were you thinking?
You know exactly where girls like that come from.

I am in so much trouble

finally.

Cheery A Cheery I Cheery U

Why do I go back to it I guess it's because I don't have anything to keep me PTC. Maybe my mother was right and you almost killed me but maybe you're the only proper noun I need. I don't think it matters. Nothing is going to happen. I'm kicking around my little life and missing having someone to pass it off to, see it kicked back at me, never in a straight line. All the strangers I've been playing with want to use their hands and take off down the street. Fouls fouls fouls. I don't think I should delude myself into thinking we had something good when we were always being so bad.

you're mostly what I think about.

excuse me
is it true what they say?
about guys who go out by themselves?
is that they go home by themselves
you've seen me dance here alone before
is it tough to watch
friday after friday?

Xiu Xiu

"An Ian Curtis wish list is a list of things that you have convinced yourself that you want to have happen, but you know that are never going to happen. But, you've sort of deluded yourself into believing that they're going to happen. So half of your... and then you feel like a total ass about it... like half of your body's completely fooled itself into believing something's happened and half of your body is totally beating yourself up because the other half of the body is fooling itself. So an Ian Curtis wish list is things that would fall into that category… like being crazy into this person.”

Small and Hairy

Alleles Alleles Alleles choking on Allels and an XY
in the electon cloud with the XX bouncing off
the neck of a stranger, Ping ping oh shit did I ink
your name I did haha, I did HaHa I DID HAHAHA.
What does it mean when you pay for the cab ride
uptown with a Mexican on your lap and a piece of gum
putting dyes on your tongue, I think it means---oh fucking sick
I just missed my own birthday because
I was flat back drunk bebe, maybe BABY
Whoo ha Haploid, Get me a diploid like OMG ASAP
and I'll write you a letter with all adjectives
and I'll paint you a picture in my favorite F-key
It's our loss, I can't really brag
It's a normal everyday loss, in between normal everyday
weather patterns your biggest stories were not spectacular
they were everyday sad like
the way your half-brother died before you
were old enough to remember what his
favorite colors were and you didn't have
anything out-of-the-ordinary to do.

I know where I need to go, doe dow do DEE
Daudi Gaudi Thorir AsgearrrEAR Do do do di
really really makes me burn up something mad
leave me! Whoowee
seriously
seriously though honey
that was pretty hot.

White People Dancing

Lady Serotonin please paint stars on my head
make me want to live that part over again
an ugly monkey kid with hairless little limbs
sitting in the back of mommy’s car she said
RITALIN RITALIN RITALIN
I dance like a star but laughing
shouldn’t sound like this, it shouldn’t always
come out so hard, she said my body is huge,
my body is too huge—she said
my hands are along your skin
but I don’t feel a thing--oh fuck oh fuck
OH HOLY FUCK I AM DEAD.
Living makes me look like this WRETCH
diatomic gases leaking from my head, trickle of barf
with chunks of ugly things I did
Shh I said and pulled out the amygdala through her lids
until she started uh uh uh ohhh breathing again
Don’t you ever want it hard? Don’t you ever
want it want want want want it to push you too far?
I said POCO BABY BABY MY BABY IS FED
spent an hour posing in the mirror
singing honey bee darling, sugar lips sweetie
someday you’ll understand
that your mommy is dead.

Sorbonne my Asshole, Asshole.

This is about a couple faggots and a basketball
riding in au coeur de la ville, riding in L'arrière de la bouche
with lime green nail polish stuck
around the jaw of Julian the Apostate
screaming TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT.
This is about Bedelia L'énorme
and how many days it took her to hoover the Seine
This is about her fat pair of thighs
squeezing the breath out of votre vie by
rubbing out the bad dreams
while you played chopsticks on your brother's piano.
This is all about your boring brown eyes
the first time you. The first time, me, nibbling on
a stranger's knee
this is about how you threw your back out screaming
TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT
through the rusty screen of your open window
that lined your shoebox
above the Champs-Élysées.

I told you a lie with the crack of my lifeline
stuck over your mouth
about a pack of matches and the dead guinguettes,
dancing to the shaking of your Percocet maracas
with your ringless finger stuck into
votre oeil gauche making me scream
TOUCH IT TOUCH IT TOUCH IT
while we waited patiently
to become quelqu'un beau,
quelqu'un forte--
but we're just
a couple faggots with a basketball.

I sigh and bury my head in the pillow. I feel one of my organs push its contents into the next organ in the chronological order of digestion, an order I to this day am not sure I know. I tend to imagine anything that goes on underneath my skin as a sort of opaque carnival that sends various faceless objects in a series of pointless circles, and actually feeling any sort of tangible movement of flesh or liquids unnerves me. It makes my being alive seem mechanical and strange. Being a homospian boggles my mind on a daily basis. I have a problem with peremeability--I do not want to be permeable in an ambigouous way, in a philosophical way, in a physical way. The outside word is filthy and it is other and I know the inside of me is red and fleshy with bulges in horrifying places, mixing creams and acids in a variety of disgusting pools of matter and I have an insurmountable amount of issues with this, hence my EMETOPHOBIA. It is the ugly inside coming out and I can't stand to be reminded of the ME being as messy as the OTHER of my MEMBRANE being PERMEABLE all the disgusting breezes coming in and coming out without any say so on my part, on behalf of my lovely, innocent carnival.

The process of reproduction is quite perhaps the most horrifying example of this lack of membrane. Even if it is not for reproduction, you have to examine everything as its scientific, basic factual purpose in which case being penetrated, injected, having the OTHER put inside of you in the most universially mammalian process that if viewed through a video would revolt the most self-actualized and at-peace-with-the-body of people, the growing and the eventual horrifying expulsion of what the OTHER has put into you through a puncture in your membrane, you are not closed off to anything yet open to everything without any say so on your part, on behalf of your hideous, smelly carnival.

So how do you rectify this? Align yourself peacefully with the idea of being removed from the naturalness of being alive in respect to this philosophical quandary? I do that, I'm fine with that. I am above it, I should be heralded. People disgust me. Ugh. Myself included, but not in an emo way--in a physical way. Love is not blind, love is retarded. Its your chemicals alerting you of the precident created by evolution to pair to mate to have another-- as the one who goes away from the pack gets eaten, gets in trouble, dies young, doesn't perpetuate the species, is a waste. I have intellectually evolved beyond it but just because I know the law of gravity does not mean I don't fall. I think and I think and plot and still I come to the same conclusion.

Fuck it. Let's break out the booze and have a ball. At least I exist. I don't have a higher purpose and neither do you. Nobody is watching you and nobody is monitering the synapses in your little brain--a brain that is well within the bell curve of everyone else's brain having the same influxes of peptides, the same flavors of emotion, jesus WEPT we are not special, I do not need to be fretted over or upon because I am mildly out of my mind BECAUSE of my surrender to my mind, my wonky distribution of chemicals bestowed upon me by heredity, by environment, by circumstance I really am done fighting the tide, hello, this is who I am this is what I believe after all the shit and the lovliness I have been through, whatever, we all have a bad story to tell that would make you question the tapestry of humanity, so what the hell. What the hell. Who cares I push things too far I'm damn curious and I'm not righteous about it anymore but I'm not sorry anymore I'm just going to breath in and out and pretend that process is not a chemical rearanging of atoms my body is siphening away from THE OTHER to make THE ME continue to exist.

Someday you will die somehow and something's gonna steal your carbon.

Oh oh I bite my tongue la la red alga. Lightly robots. It's good...not so hard now oh but I feel this chance to drop I like that I wrote you a love letter on a traffic cone I was with that drunk and my stand up who didn't work hard enough at getting their fingers into my hair and pulling as hard as they could I always have this fantasy of getting arrested and having my face smashed down real hard into the hood at the point of the night where i licked all my lipstick off but there were no cops, no cops ever give me discerning looks nobody ever puts my hands together none of my parents ever take my pony away nobody ever wants me to be anything quiet like everything I kind of want to be and I swear all the time on my mother's name that I'm being noble in the thrash but at the end of the day the flail has never clocked many hits and I sleep for days all the days I rub through for sleep i fight to hide that I've given up but then.... really oh the relief is the oddest thing.

I'm really fucking pissed off at everyone for failing to scold you. I'm disappointed nobody is disappointed in you and thinks that you're a sloppy mess who ruins the night out by sucking up all the air and letting the whiskey make you sad and desperate as you paw at the general direction of the loudest noise while you give a predetory glare that reminds me of something really hideous that I dreamt about when I was 16 and certain my life was over because of a rock that hit the window of my house and I just think someone should give you a talkin to i wish people weren't scared of you and didn't paw you back like you want it when it's obvious you've just lost something that you know can't be retrived from the storm drain you didn't even really like him he was dumb he was real real dumb and real real basic and you just thought dumb and basic would be easy but you found a way to make it ugly and kind of old with a nasty stench it takes you weeks to clean out because you're lazy to boot mousey little red crested ground lousse.

I'm going to go eat several slices of pizza something hideous and alone because i am hideously alone hahaha that was very live journal nevermind then I'm going to put on some horrific noise band shit and make out with a crack pipe while tracing the veins in my arms with a green sharpie instead. Success! I am a success!! I just discovered the meaning of life and now I'm going to tell my mother about it. Hi mom. Mom mom mom my father is ruining my life.

Don't touch me ever
I practice my walk from you
lonely on the fjord

hi im here to whine and to sound like an egotistical emo fuck. I'm here to complain about drinking again I'm here to complain about wasting money and being an asshole. ooohh poor me. whatever. I AM an asshole. barf barf barf.

I have nothing to complain about i always know what im doing because i always know what im doing is wrong because I always like it and the later i dont oh i am so fucking complicated oooo look at me i am so complex oh barf hit me in the face im fucking lame i dont make art i'm just an asshole without a job and nobody else is going to change that fact.

I wanna go home cause this is getting old kiss kiss is getting old.

How many times will I complain about this and then keep doing it ugggh whatever I'm young and shit but I wear myself out. And I always find someone who encourages me which is a kind of annoying habit but it doesn't matter. I'm kind of out of fucking control right now. I need something to chill me out and get me back into being at least a little responsible. My job gives me complete fredom to be a party animal and once again that's what I'm known for whaaateeevvveerrr it's my fault.

I have no clue what I want I have no plans and I have no dreams I just go day to day looking for another good time fuck i've had so many good times but in retrospect they're kind of bad times I think I just have one of those impending doom hangovers. I would like someone to come over and throw away my dirty kleenexes and make my bed. I never really learned how to take care of myself.

you have killed me you have killed me
yes,
i walk around somehow
but you have killed me.

And there is no point saying this again
There is no point saying this again
But I forgive you, I forgive you
Always I do forgive you.

New Years Resolutions:

Hardee Har Har