Sunday, November 30, 2003
Thursday, November 20, 2003
I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot rain slide down my body
reflections of a Tuesday afternoon
Tuesday rolls down the grass and breaks her fall in your hands
we bake memories in an unconventional oven
ones that are hidden in boxes in the closet, pressed inbetween pages of a childhood book,
and occasionally, they lurk in threadbare sheets that smell faintly of your skin.
I can trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where I now sleep
then,
Thursday night blinked and turned blue
that day feasted on fiercely guarded hopes
passion stumbled on the steps of prudence
and the kitchen was closed indefinitely,
condemned by unforeseen occurrence
now,
I can barely trace the outline of your presence
where you were and where you will never be again
tomorrow is an intangible treasure
a luminescent assurance held aloft and kissed softly every evening
to justify a peaceable sleep
until you run out of tomorrows
and are left with the remains of yesterday
now,
I like to sit on the floor of the shower
and feel the hot tears slide down my face
Friday, November 14, 2003
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Yes, friends and neighbors, I used an exclaimation point.
Today, I was laying on Katrina's floor denouncing something, or someone, and I was trying to talk about drowning someone in the ocean, less commonly known as "Davy Jones' Locker". I...failed.
Chelsea: "...And I sent him down to Davy Crockett's Tomb....Wait....Crockett? Davy... Davy..."
Katrina: "Davy Jones Locker."
Chelsea: "Wait. that doesnt make sense. Davy Jones - Wasn't he a Partridge?"
Katrina: "No, that was David Cassidy."
Chelsea: "Wait, Davy Jones was a Monkee then."
Katrina: "No."
Foolish, no? Yet...it turns out Davy Jones WAS a Monkee! Score, Sexton.
Katrina: [rebuttal] "Never mind....Apparently he was."
Other great things happen on the floor: Impromptu Nose Fights.
Apparently, I smell like soap.
Eh, it could be worse.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
I've always thought it was a beautiful love anthem, until I looked up the lyrics.
if you were here
I could deceive you
and if you were here
you would believe
but would you suspect
my emotion wandering, yeah
do not want a part of this anymore
Sounds like people have had enough of silly love songs. I better not tell Molly Ringwald.
In a world riddled with terrorism, this is comforting.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
I was just on the phone with my sister, told her I loved her and she said "Yea."
Maria prefers to say "Thank you."
What about you?
I was so happy today that I sang in the shower. Last time I was that animated in the bathing chamber I broke all the toes on my left foot. It was worth it.
I'm bundled like a yeti, I want to bathe in spaghetti, I'll take you on with a machete. Word.
My world is crashing down upon me, and the only thing I can think about is how much it all looks like a jigsaw puzzle. I am a lumberjack in the lumberyard of love. I am a cog in the magnificent machine. I am not, however, svelte.
Why can't I stop shaking. Many people have told me I quiver like a defrosting meat popsicle. Ok, not exactly in those words, but that's what they're getting at.
Bliss makes me drowsy.
Now it's time for me to go, the autumn moon lights my way.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Monday, November 03, 2003
AND I SHALL CALL THIS ONE..."I smell cabbage."
When in doubt, grab a Joycian Freewrite.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
I fell asleep in the living room, a room whose walls are made of windows, and I woke enveloped in an creamy orange light. The talking heads on the screen told me what had happened. Let it burn, let it burn, let it burn.
The scent of the burn is inescapable. The sun hovers in the sky like a maraschino cherry, threatening to come plummeting down and complete this sad sundae/Sunday of fire.
On a less conflagrant note, yesterday was simply marvelous. However, I fear that circumstance (and pomp) will not allow such activities to happen as often as I would have them. I cannot elaborate in such a public venue, but feel free to inquire within.
All this is going to catch up with me, isn't it?
Until then, I'm just going to have to keep
on
running.
Sunday, October 19, 2003
The events of the past weekend have been mind-boggling and draining of every resovoir of sanity I once thought I had. Now I realize I am little more than a scantily clad gerbil who is being tossed about in a swell of persecution and love. And mints. I really want to get a webcam.
There is this girl I know, she has a pointy head. She manages to maintain her desirability by eating souls of those less fortunate than her, eg. those who aren't hip enough to have undisclosed locations and really smashing nicknames.
I now fully intend to sit here perfectly still until my brain starts percolating or I fall asleep. Tomorrow, I intend to wear jeans, because it is Jeans Day, and I am a sheep. A black sheep. Bleat.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Monday, October 06, 2003
gunboat, was built in 1862 at Cincinnati, Ohio, as the
civilian steamer Florence Miller. Purchased by the
Navy in November 1862 and converted to a gunboat, she
was commissioned the following month. In January 1863,
Rattler led the Mississippi Squadron up the White and
Arkansas Rivers to capture Fort Hindman. In March, she
was flagship for the Yazoo Pass expedition, an
unsuccessful attempt to isolate the Mississippi River
strongpoint at Vicksburg. Rattler next took part in
raiding up the Red, Black, Tensa and Ouachita Rivers
during July 1863, assisting in the capture of the
Confederate steamer Louisville, which later became USS
Ouachita. She thereafter was employed on patrol and
convoy duties in the Mississippi River, largely near
the town of Rodney, Mississippi. A heavy gale near
Grand Gulf, Mississippi, on 30 December 1864 drove
Rattler ashore, causing her to strike a snag and sink.
After being abandoned by the U.S. Navy, she was burned
by the Confederates.
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
Monday, September 29, 2003
Sunday, September 28, 2003
I am temporarily giving up on this project.
I no longer have time to write...this is sad. I may be sporadically posting, but nish, nish to it all!
I may simply write about mundane daily activities instead of vague and wordy references to things that may or may not exist.
I shall attend Radiohead tonight (!!) thanks to the magic of modern telecommunications and my own feeble bartering skills.
The White Stripes were mind-blowing. By the way, Jack White = Michael Jackson.
Last night (this morning) at midnight I saw The Goonies at La Jolla Landmark Theatres. Word on Cinema Dr. is that they will be showing midnight films every Saturday. This is smashing, for it provides yet another opportunity to deprive myself of sleep. One more word: Bubbahotep.
Newsflash: People no longer will sleep in my bed with me because "you cuddle too much, I can't handle it." Apparently, in my sleep, I wrap my limbs around people and fully mash myself against them. Huahuahua. I am not ashamed! I shouldn't be held accountable for my actions! That is so, like, unfair.
I'm attempting to eat these flaccid potatoes I microwaved.
They are trying so hard to be french fries, I pity them.
Sunday, September 07, 2003
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
Monday, September 01, 2003
If I carry on my day as usual, if I don't let them smell my fear, it will not come.
If I don't believe in it, it doesn't it exist.
I can live this way for the next 20 odd hours, but somehow, at 7:35 tomorrow morning, I will be there.
And so will they.
All of you.
Shudder.
So the other day, I was at VONS buying water balloons and rocket launchers, and I was eyeing the shelf of candy across from the register. Mmmmmm, candy bars...breath mints...Metamucil.
Wait. What?
Yes, Metamucil has been inaugerated as an impulse buy.
This is for those flighty types who immediately eye the towering stack and think, "Aye, that reminds me, I'd really like to regulate my bowel movements," as they toss a few jars onto the conveyor belt. "Thank Jehosephat for fiber rich laxatives!"
I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow. I don’t want to go to school tomorrow.
But…
Seriously.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
audblog audio post
Sorry about the "Awww, crap!" in the middle of the post. You see, a massive fruit bat busted through my window and started feasting on my armpits, which kind of tickled.
Inspire me.
The night I lost the will the fight is the night I lost the will to write.
I'm waiting for the Electrician, or someone like him.
Electrify me.
I am an apathetic goldfish, slowly dying in a plastic bag full of deflated desires that a little girl with fragile hands left on the trolley.
When she gets home and the excitement of the carnival dissipates she will realize she left me behind and she'll cry and run to her mother screaming, she will mash her frail little hands against her eyes.
"Mommy! We have to go back. I left my Goldy on the trolley! She's going to be so lonely! She's going to die!"
Mother will hug Little Girl and say, "Don't worry sweetie, it was only a goldfish."
Friday, August 08, 2003
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
He fell from his windowsill where he had crookedly resided for too long.
As I looked down at his broken face I felt refreshingly alive, as if his death catalyzed my liberation.
The Clock had stopped running days, perhaps weeks ago. Still, he had laughingly scorned me from his lofty ledge, a reminder of deadlines and impending disaster.
How fortunate that he has fallen of his own accord, how fortunate he has freed me from his numerical talons.
He is shattered.
Now, I am free to play in the sands of time, and swim in this ocean of oblivion.
His cadaver melts on my floor.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Monday, August 04, 2003
Sunday, August 03, 2003
I took it off quite a while ago, but the wiggy sensation is still there. Like when a person's amputated leg starts itching. After so much hectic planning and shopping, it's over. The costume party is done, and we're mostly home now, albeit sporting moist fishnets and melted makeup. Quite disappointed in the performance of the male species. Why would you come to a costume dance party, if: a) You don't wear a costume, b) You don't dance, c) You refuse to mingle with the rest of the party.
Thankfully, one or two of my trusty men at work were there, and saved the dance floor from being a sea of creamy estrogen.
I kareoked.
A lot.
Hah.
I actually had more fun at Denny's afterwards.
I was propositioned by several men, but I blame them not. If I saw me at 2 am, I'd think I was a
I managed to: shove 24 French fries in my mouth (Gag.), keel over (Multiple times.), find interesting uses for a wig cap (Pigface lives.), wear my boots ALL night (Ow?) and accidentally ingest a strip of false eyelashes (That's going to tickle).
Let's all be feisty pirates.
I apologize for never updating, dear inky void. I only feel the need to update in order to keep me from sleeping. Sleep is the enemy. The injection of liquid into the intestine by way of the anus is the enema. My bathing suit is hanging from the ceiling. I'm sitting on the floor. There's an empty pudding cup on my desk. You can dance if you want to, you can leave your friends behind.
I am the Lizard King, I can do anything.
I'm a drunken buffoon, I play Yatzhee with my pet loon.
I better sign off before I not-so-spontaneously combust.
Poof.
Monday, July 21, 2003
EClara726: to realize, that you are the center of the universe and the key to the meaning of life
Shur1yTemple: Where is the slot?
EClara726: everyone has a different slot i think, but you are always the key
EClara726: for some people though, you are the key and the slot, i believe
It is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me?
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Bartleby:
Seethestory.
Readthefilm.
I propose a Bartleby revolution! The influenza of indifference will spread.
We must make daily deposits of anarchy into the National Bank of Bartleby.
In the face of opposition, slay your opponent with a halting "I prefer not to."
I'm becoming addicted to cinema.
Not “movies”.
Films.
Cinema.
Brain….belch? Hiccup? Cough? Sneeze? It’s horrible when people say they had a “brain f***.” I can’t even handle it. I might giggle nervously, but inside I’m cringing and my evil gland (not a gland that is evil, but my gland that makes me evil) starts secreting it’s evil secretion and I’m tempted to slap them and say evil things. But it wouldn’t be my fault. I could blame it on my gland. And who wants to pick on a girl with a diabolical gland, anyway? (“Not I,” screams Farmer Patsy)
HALT!
Hiccough. Now that is one of those words that…Well, I have this great analogy containing prostitutes and midgets and bastard sea turtles and stuff, but I can’t share it with you unless you bring me a shrubbery. And after that…a larger shrubbery! Let’s just say that if your brain ever hiccoughs, you’re better off wearing a blue dress and waxing your nipples.
Back to you, Ted!
Coffins are ridiculous! I could explain, but I’m sure you know why they are ridiculous, so I shouldn’t have to tell you. Cremate me, baby. Please don’t bury me in the ground with the clammy worms and the sunken gnomes of ages past.
Update: The Six Glowing Orbs of Possibility:
a. Undoubtedly I was born in the wrong decade. “Jim Morrison” haunts my thoughts, but the music is over.
When the music’s over
Turn out the lights
For the music is your special friend
Dance on fire as it intends
Music is your only friend
Until the endb. They arrived. I shrieked like small child and ripped packages open. How can my sister methodically unwrap, fold, perforate….I must rip. I must claw. I must roll in the sand and I must mash food in your face. I will post evidence of the items to validate my greed and soothe my gluttonous spirit.
c. Acquired larger gauge plugs. Ar ar ar, matey. Somebody stop me.
d. Yes.
e. ::looks around shiftily, hands empty::
f. I found a tentative date. Yeah. Ahee.
Eyeliner will never fail to send me soaring into the stratosphere. I love hiding behing it. I love using as my last line of defense.
Once you've broken every barrier, it's there. And you can never defeat it!!!!!! Unless of course, you have, like, some soap. Whatever.
I fear the apricot drops, scintillating off geometric police officers.
I fear for the boxy ballerina, being pursued by the cackling beast.
I fear for the perspiring ice cube, melting slowing on the gorilla's breast.
Regarding the above: Can you figure out what I'm doing? The pattern? It seems quite obvious to me, but then again, I think Matthew Cuthbert is darn desirable. The first person to figure it out...is the first person to figure it out. I have the urge to say:
Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaang!!!
I could go on like this for hours, but I think I'll regret it. It's all about simplicity. I want to delete this entry, but I feel like that would be a tragic abortion of this virtual fetus. Speaking of fetuses, I think I'll name one of my kids Mowgli.
Here's a great line of musical masterpiece for the road:
I'll be waiting
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches
And nothing, nothing, nothing.
Bicycle ride.
I conquered The Hill (Part Four)!
There have been three monumental obstacles in my bicycling adventures, and now I have conquered Part Four. I didn't even mean to, today, but I took a wrong turn, and Chelsea will not succumb to the humiliation of walking her bicycle up a hill.
Flushed with victory, I sped off into the jungle of picket fences and dying lawns. Drooling, sweating, grunting, I turned the corner and plundered ahead.
Isn't that great how Pete (the mystical man who rules the events of my life) chose to reunite me with post-puberty-down-the-street-boy-who-suddenly-has-become-a-very attractive-man-man at that very moment? There I was, hair plastered to my face, shirt soaked in sweat, gasping for air, wearing purple stretch pants.
I know, okay. Why do I even own purple sweat pants? And if so, why did I wear them? Pete, you cruel hearted plumber.
I laid on the grass at the park. It had just been cut, it smelled vibrant and alive. I laid there and stretched, inhaling the pulpy goodness. I must have looked like a very "special" girl, writhing, sweat soaked in the grass, wearing my tight purple pants. Very possibly a call girl/escaped mental patient. I probably scarred some of the children there for life. I went on the swings, hoping to enjoy the unadulterated bliss of weightlessly soaring through the air.
The swing set groaned. It protested. I snarled. I got to a moderate height and the set trembled and moaned. It’s really sad, once you reach a certain point, you just can’t play in the playground without having to worry about the whole thing coming crashing down upon you and the coppers having to pry your dead body out of a heap of monkey bars and bright yellow plastic tic-tac-toes.
It is now naked laundry time.
Post.Script. I apologize.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
I conquered The Hill (Part Four)!
There has been three monumental obstacles in my bicycle adventures, and now I have conquered Part Four. I didn't even mean to, today, but I took a wrong turn, and Chelsea will not succumb to the humiliation of walking her bicycle up a hill.
Flushed with victory, I sped off into the jungle of picket fences and dying lawns. Drooling, sweating, grunting, I turned the corner and plundered ahead.
Isn't that great how Pete (the mystical man who rules the events of my life) choses to reunite me with post-puberty-down-the-street-boy-who-suddenly-has-become-a-very attractive-man-man right then? There I was, hair plastered to my face, shirt soaked in sweat, gasping for air, wearing purple stretch pants. He smiled and waved and I mustered up a dopey smile and jiggled by purple-rump out of there.
a. See The Doors on Friday.
b. Savor the sweetness of waiting for my items to arrive in the mail.
c. Stretch my earlobes more.
d. Lay on the floor of a perfectly clean room and burn incense, peppermint, wish upon the ceiling.
e. Hold the hand of a boy. I realized I've never really held hands with anyone of the penile persuasion. Interesting. A lot of people are shocked when I say I've never had a boyfriend?
f. Straight from the Che Cafe website:
Saturday, August 9th
Live bands: Bunky (local sometimes pretty, sometimes avant etc... goodstuff www.bunkymusic.com), the castanets ("lyrical genius of Ray Raposa and the musical and production skills of Nathan Delffs [of the Album Leaf]), Liz Janes (maybe you'd call it local bluesy and pretty solo acoustic singing niceness www.asthmatickitty.com), Rachel Jacobs (pretty solo acoustic nicety), the places (you don't even know how nice this is! it's crazy nice! amy annelle's band, the places. i get confused between the band and the solo stuff, but either way, it's nice) - 8PM, donation (for bands).
If this sounds like your idea of a good time, get in contact with me before hand.
Oh, the thought to ponder: This is it.
It needs to be just small enough to be comforting and comfortable and just big enough for your hands to fit in the pockets. Small enough so that a thrifty yellow t-shirt can stick his threadbare head out the bottom and big enough so that Gretchen and Betty don't suffocate. I want to dissolve in it's fuzzy goodness and put my head in your phantom lap. Mmmmm.
Maybe we could go get dinner together. No, I'm not talking to you anymore, I'm talking to el hoodie negro. After we get to know each other better, eventually I could adorn you. I would sleep with you after the first date. You could accompany me on my adventures, because I always will need an accomplice just like you. Silent and dangerous. Black hoodie! You're the mythic fruit of someone else's loom. I can't find you. Please find me. I'll wait for you. I'm waiting for you.
I'm sweating cocoa.
Most likely a backlash of watching Chocolat and having insomnia. Mighty hypocritical moment of the day! Merely an hour after bemoaning the horrors of "junk food" and how repulsive it is with my dear Kevin, I am hit by intense chocolate longings. I rummage through cupboards and hit the refrigerators, in search of a small brick of carob or sip of chocolate soy milk. The kitchen is devoid of such items. Panicked, I search the lower levels of the pantry...
The forbidden lairs, the shelves of sin. My choco-sense tingles upon the sighting of a Hostess box. Driven as I am, I am somewhat hesitant to look closer. "DING-DONG!" the cheerful box honks in my face. DING DONG! No! Bah! I recoil.
I shun you, harbinger of explosive fat rolls and needless guilt! I have better things to do. Such as...such as…RIP THE BOX OF DING DONGS OPEN, TEAR THE SHIMMERING WRAPPER OFF THE GLOATING HELLCAKE, AND DEVOR THE MONSTER WITH PASSIONATE ABANDON.
No. Nooooooooooooooooo! Why? WHY? Mmmm, why not. Sink. Gulp. Smack.
I stared at the aluminum wrapper in my hand. Hey, that wasn’t that bad. That felt good. That was…tasty. I like junk food. I do. I should have another!
WHAT?
Logic promptly shat upon the lard that was congealing in my brain. I closed the pantry. I stumbled about the kitchen, wondering what to do next. I deciding upon drinking a lot of water. Like that would help.
So now I’m sitting here, at the computer, writing this as a reminder to NEVER EAT A FREAKING DING DONG AGAIN, OR ANY OF IT’S RELATIVES, ESPECIALLY NOT AT THREE IN THE MORNING, AND ESPECIALLY NOT IF YOU HAVE TO GET INTO A BATHING SUIT TOMORROW, CHELSEA, SO FINISH THAT GLASS OF WATER, THEN HAVE ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER, WHY NOT? YOUR NIGHT OF URINATION SHALL SERVE AS A PUNISHMENT AND A WARNING TO ALL !
I’m just looking out for you. I want the best for you. I’m only doing this because I love you.
[My stomach just growled. Have I stirred it’s passions and tempted it’s carnal desires? Was that a groan of protest and utter rejection? A gutteral warning? It sounded kind of like it said “Muuuutinnnny”. Just what I’ve always wanted. An alimentary revolution.]
Moral of the story is: Vomit.
Post.Script. I didn't literally vomit, but I think that is really the moral of the story. I mean, don't eat the Vomit if you don't want to feel Vomitty and then end up writing Vomit on the World Wide Wretch. So I guess that's the moral of the story.
Tuesday, July 15, 2003
I glide over piles of clothes and sit upon a throne of towels, books, and underthings.
Glasses upon glasses of water line my desk. Potions, lotions, bottles of transparent liquids--
::::interlude::::
My internet was abruptly disconnected whilst in the middle of that post. However, I have changed my perspective. I am repentant. No, no I'm not. I am enraged. I can't tell you what happened today, I can't even bring myself to say it. I will clean my room. I promise. If only I weren't so tired. (Shut up, you insomniac, you know you aren't going to sleep) I know, I'm just going to sit here. The thing is I'm more motivated than ever. But motivated out of fear, and the fear is immobilizing. All I can say is, thank you, National Honor Society. Thank you, Strong Bad. And thank you, Courage.
I love the fact that you have no idea what I'm rambling on about.
Oooh, Led Zeppelin. Yum.
I stirred. Laying in bed with my eyes closed, I smiled. I couldn't help myself, I got out of bed and took out the pair of stork scissors. The stork's yearning mouth opened up and swallowed the first plait of hair. My hair yielded under the stork's hungry beak, cleaving diagonally, brilliantly uneven. Still in a slumbering high, I paused and considered what I had done.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
It took more willpower than Will Power to get me to stop.
But I did.
And I like it.
(Don't worry friends and neighbors, I didn't do anything drastic.)
Saturday, July 12, 2003
Tuesday, July 08, 2003
cricket snaps at his ankles, there is no time to delete: only this pounding woman in his wounded ear screaming all the things he never wanted to hear and telling the stove top oven pop loaded on top of the rain not to drop the thunder clouds and open fire grills. to lick the window sill and soothe the savage beast within, he looks into the mirror. entrails of photographs, he relives the deadly moths. they were caked on the screaming toddlers mouth, he cried to sweeten the marbles on the floor. over his head, wondering which clock tower the staples can feather, the curtains open to expose the wicked way of the ceiling fan.
Yes, mainly pictures of me as I am vain and horrible. And subtly abusive. Aaaahahah.
Oh dear. I need to stop being so evil. I feel like I have such a coarse personality. As if I'm lacking empathy and...a soul? When I say I feel guilty, I don't think I feel guilty, I think I say I feel guilty to make myself feel human. At least at the moment. Other times I really do feel guilty. Hell, am I just saying that so that whoever reads this won't think that I'm a hollow wretch? Am I covering my rump for the non-existent reader? Maybe I haven't done anything to warrant guilt. We'll see. I need to be a weepy feminine vessel again. Was I ever?
WHO AM I TALKING TO?
THESE EMPTY QUESTIONS I ASK ONLY SINK ME FURTHER INTO A HOLE OF CURIOSITY.
Wednesday, July 02, 2003
reeking like the mind of a sinister
....................................................criminal
......................... I LIE
......................... I LAY
......................... I lied to everyone but
a shower will make it better if
I could only peel off the last layer
of justice, peace, and underwear
then I could wash away those tender
morsels of memory and liquefied
fungus of regret. All those
.............................. THINGS
.............................. THAT THING
.............................. THE THING
people, things you should have done
wonders WHY NOW? If I could only put on my hat and
walk out the door. Wearing a
hat. And. Nothing else but my hat in the shower. Together we
make music. Someday I'll turn
the water on together we will sing in the artificial rain.
Remember in elementary school when they tell you you cannot start a sentence "And..."? Well, later, they say, "Oh, it's tolerable under certain conditions." Well, I do it a lot. And I say "well" a lot. And a lot a lot. I'm being obnoxious. I hate that.
from authority, time, and
the smell of sleep.
Beethoven can't save us
now, we are tonight.
We are dreaming.
We are honey.
We can't fail,
we can't cry, and we
don't rhyme. Everytime
our eyes meet and I lick my lips you know
what will happen if you don't put an
END to everything.
Give me the eye and take away your hands.
Together we will play
the heartstrings.
- Excerpt from The Notebook, a notebook (Woo.) I used as a substitute Blog while I was offline. "That's called a journal," you say? Nay, I say, nay. A paper Blog it is.
Blog, sweet Blog, I return to you. And what a strange feeling. I'm sorry for being gone so long. Computer. He doesn't know me anymore. He hums slightly when I stir him, but the bond is gone. He doesn't recognize my cold fingers hitting his keys methodically. And I don't mind, when we were closer I shut reality out. But it was a nice break. Now we just have a casual relationship. I think it's because I ripped his vocal chords out. Eventually I'll plug them back in. But when he doesn't speak, I'm forced to listen to the voices from the other room. And the thoughts in my head. Nice.
Things are strange. I've been acting not like myself. Nicer. A regular do-gooder. Good-doer! I just got it! I met a Rastafarian at the Del Mar Faire and he told me everything I need to know. It seems. Though in retrospect, he really didn't tell me anything. Except that I am the sister of Her Majesty. Which should make me royalty, but actually just makes me a peasant.
I need a mouthful of fake teeth, and then I can have everything I want.
What do I want?
I know what I want. I just need to do it. I just need to make it happen.
I think I might have started something. Lit a match. Under my ass.
Sizzle, sizzle.
BLANK LIKE ET!
I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. I am nobody's little weasel. Mmmm.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
Sunday, May 18, 2003
Resignation.
Back to being the girl in the background?
Yes, in the background.
It's been that way forever, don't you remember?
She's always in the audience giving a standing ovation to the actors.
Why don't you realize that she wants to play too?
She can act too.
The little dog under the table?
Yes, under the table.
Snapping at their heels for a little bit of meat.
Just a crumb, master.
The one who lets them get away
Because she likes it that way.
Masochist.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
jets to brazil - "sweet avenue"
tasting you and rain I walk down to the train
try not to look down
this day could someday be an anniversary
everything is light and sound
facing forwards going slowly wait for you to show me
where this train wants to go
living by the hour i stopped for every flower
everything is soft and slow
now all these tastes improve
through the view that comes with you
like they handed me my life
for the first time it felt right
thank you for making me see there's a life in me
it was dying to get out
holding you we make two spoons beneath an april moon
everything is soft and sweet
this cigarette it could seduce a nation with its smoke
crawling down my tired throat
scratches part of me that's purring
softly stirring
i'm captain of industry smoking famously
feet up on the windowsill
looking at all these trees i feel affinity with
everything so soft and still - budding at my fingertips
touching you i start to bloom
alive with trains and passing ships
soft and sweet along your lips now
i go "oh wow"
thank you for taking me from my monestary
i was dying to get out
with tears of gratitude
i like my latitude
a cross town train to you
now all these tastes improve
through the view that comes with you
like they handed me my life
for the first time it felt worth it
like i deserved it
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
invasion of the body snatchers
under my bed there was a thing under the way you see i can't stop the soliloquy of my life from falling apart and we only wanted you to feel like the permanent eyeball on these strands of golden nudity when you feel something that hurts that bad you can’t wish that it all would not be under my skin and when the clock shadows over the blinking blinking moon sometimes all you can do is sit and go and let the keys click like someone hasn't cleaned it out in forever and then the can will sometimes start to talk and you think how can this princess be part of the spring when everything else is black and there's a nice woman who wants lipstick on the desk overly emotional wretch wanting to hurt the penguin of the link that hinges the door and lets the air breathe in hideously disfiguring the way that almost everybody can get along but the color and the data is over that and when the lips fall off and the mind is released from responsibility and one woman can ruin his life and doesn't that mean that when the shoes are clean it's a sad thing even if the window eats itself and
At that point my trance was interrupted. I could have gone on, but that would marr the purity of my train of thought.
And then I sang, "Where is my brother??" and I stopped.
I looked around.
I wondered, "Where is my brother?"
Then I realized.
I don't have a brother.
Then I changed my song to "Why don't I have a brother?"
I am obviously loony.
Friday, May 09, 2003
"Why do you come here? When you know it makes things hard for me, when you know, oh why do you come?"
I am Human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
There's a club, if you'd like to go
You could meet somebody who really loves you
So you go, and you stand on your own
And you leave on your own
And you go home, and you cry
And you want to die
Sorry I'm posting song lyrics...I hate it when other people do that. But I'm special, you see?
At this point in time, I feel that it's the most cryptic, appropritate way to express myself.
Tuesday, April 29, 2003
a smokey garden of lemongrass
.................eggshells.
everywhere.
on my wall, in my body and on my
.....................................................hand.
a sea of feathers.
serpentine strokes of insanity slither like juice
dribbling
down your
......back
..........neck
lips
.barren lips that die
.lifeless words that live
one smokey asp whispers in my ear
...come to me
i will refresh you
i will eat you alive
Monday, April 28, 2003
In the summertime when the weather's high,
you can stretch right up and touch the sky,
when the weather's fine,
you got women, you got women on your mind.
Have a drink, have a drive,
go out and see what you can find.
If her daddy's rich, take her out for a meal.
If her daddy's poor, just do as you feel.
Speed along the land,
you can ton, on the turn of twentyfive.
When the sun goes down, you can make it,
make it good in a lay-by.
We're not grey people, we're not dirty, we're not mean.
We love everybody, but we do as we please.
When the weather's fine
we go fishing or go swimming in the sea.
We're always happy,
life's for living, yeah, that's our philosophy.
Sing along with us, dee-dee-dee-dee-dee.
Da-da-da-da-da...
Yeah, we're hap happy, da-da-da-da-dah.
When the winter's here, then it's party time.
Bring a bottle, wear your bright clothes. It'll soon be summertime.
And we'll sing again, we'll go drivin' or maybe we'll settle down.
If she's rich, if she's nice,
bring your friends and we'll all go into town.
"In the Summertime" - Mungo Jerry
Results... Shirley Temple-- you're cute around people but
naughty when you get away from the crowd
What's your stripper name?
brought to you by Quizilla
I didn't know my screen name was a stripper name! Rawr. Pretty ironic though, eh?
stomach dropping meltdown on the carpet...
must be sucked up with a water-proof vaccum.
Should I start writing personally and such in this journal? I mean, I read many other journals and people open up the innermost compartments of their minds for everyone to rummage through, trample on, and comment on.
In theory it's kind of bizarre.
Actually, in reality it's kind of bizarre.
I like posting random bits of flesh in here...totally out of context blurbs and events that I can come to and stare at and reminisce about. Then I feel as if I were to talk about my day and feelings and such, I'd be so repulsed at how ridiculous I sound that I'd simply cease to exist. I could write ambiguous things like "I am a failure." "Today was gruesome." "I am with child."
But then the reader (not that anyone reads this, but what if they do!), would probably want to know more, if they were interested enough to be here in the first place.
YARRRG! ::bleats::
How bizarre.
I am a failure.
Today was gruesome.
Just for the record, I'm not with child.
This being the most rantish post I've ever had, I'll probably come back, become repulsed, and delete this entry. Hah.
Wednesday, April 23, 2003
Thursday, April 10, 2003
Try as I might to combat them, they eat away at my brain like I'm some kind of freaking lobster buffet.
When I think about my "problems", I consider: In 20 years, if it doesn't matter, don't worry about it.
But what if it does matter in 20 years?
What if these petty teenage woes end up festering and breeding until they are considerable adult afflictions?
Am I just fooling myself into thinking they are inconsequential?
Should I use a few more rhetorical questions before I go completely loony?
Should I care whether "he likes me", if I'm "going to pass the math test", if I'm "actually living in a very realistic dream and will soon wake up to find that I am only a newborn child who was in a deep sleep"?
No, I shouldn't care if he likes me.
I should care about my math test.
I shouldn't worry that my life is a twisted dream that I'm going to wake up from and be just a baby in a crib.
But, of course, I do care if he likes me.
I really don't care about my math test.
I do occasionally worry that it's all just a dream.
My "problems" are foolish. I am foolish.
Yet - these are the things that munch on my toes at night and keep me awake.
Thought of the day: I am nudity.
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Saturday, February 15, 2003
Ahh, the joys of random acts of kindness.
So Tara, Blair, Elizabeth and I were bored out of our skulls, and we decided to take a little trip to Target. Our plan was to buy as much cheesy lovey dovey stuff as possible and then to adorn several unsuspecting friend's cars.
It was a blast. The coppers busted us and told us it was illegal. Hah. Yeah. Right. Whatever. We had only done one car, and we still had to start our second victim. We slyly went over to the next car and tried to get it done. They saw us "vandalizing", but we hopped in the car and lost them. We then returned and finished our product.
This is The Blair Valentine Project.
Monday, February 10, 2003
NEMU.
Sunday, February 09, 2003
Say it out loud! "Nostrils" contains no comedic value whatsover, but nostril. NOSTRIL! Come on, say it out loud. Laugh it up. It's a guarenteed guffaw.
(If you don't laugh, perhaps there is something lodged in your nostril.)
For you slow ones:
DIAGRAM!
Trust me on this one. Chelsea nose best.
The first person with the right answer wins a special prize.
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
Today I almost was smashed by a motorcycle.
You see, I had gotten out of the car to run up to my mom's car to fetch a taquito. We were on the freeway. Hey, I was hungry! Yeah, so I stepped right in front of a motorcycle and then I did my business, and ran back! Taquito in hand! Almost back to Tara's car! Yes, Tara thought it would be funny to lock me out of the car. On the freeway. Traffic started moving and so did my legs.
I ran until the next stoplight.
Hah, Tara. Bon un. Wretched beast!
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Take the What Should Your New Year's Resolution Be? Quiz
What's Your Movie Dream Car?
by Auto Glass America
I am 65% Evil Genius
Evil courses through my blood. Lies and deceit motivate my evil deeds. Crushing the weaklings and idiots that do nothing but interfere in my doings.
Take the Evil Genius Test at fuali.com
I am 62% Emo
Well.. I've made the cut! Now I'll go buy some promise rings and knit myself a sweater.
Take the Emo Test at fuali.com
"A princess bride personality test!"
brought to you by Quizilla
Tuesday, January 21, 2003
atsync: i am a flat fruit
Shur1yTemple: you are a sliced cucumber
atsync: you are a diced onion
Shur1yTemple: you are a rotten kiwi
atsync: you are a sour lemon
Shur1yTemple: you are a kumquat with a gigantic alien stuck inside
I think I won that argument.
Me and my aunt have odd conversations, no?
