dearest,
shambala.
i have removed all the light bulbs.
illuminated is the place i hate to visit, where the green corduroy carpet veils the past
life: reduced, shoved delicately into a box.
a stolen box, from the closet of a kinsmen.

there are two pictures:

one. we are in a pool, our teeth sinking into the same brownie.
someone took a picture. you were red, i was white. i needn't note the color of the brownie.
our bodies looked bulbous and ethereal under the water. later, someone would steal the picture and give it to another as a gift.
we would then be black and white and impervious to pain.

two. we are at a table. a gaudy, wrought-iron table.
i probably bought the brownie because it was soft and indubitably, i would touch anything that was soft. although i intended to prey upon this decadent creation, our attention was ensnared by the photograph being taken. or at least, yours was.
your ingrained film-conciousness told you to look happy, and you failed to bite down.
you always smile when you shouldn’t. it’s as if you’re only capable of joy, and who am i curse it?
i, however, finish my thought and bite down. hard. that photograph crouches in a landmine of remembrance. i refuse to tread carefully, which explains my missing limbs.

do you remember those times?
for i remember how to bake.

what if i found you in my bed?

i remain,
devotedly yours,
chelsea sexton

Running didn't work, I got caught. Now I just trip, because of my own blindness.

avarice

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

The absolute illest-named food at Denny's:

Brace yourself.

Moons Over My Hammy

I know what you're thinking. "What. What! What?"
I feel the same way. It's horrid.

In other news...Thongs are SANDALOUS!

I had this enormous revelation in the shower.
Instead of saying "I don't know," we should say, "Ben Hur." Isn't frightening how much sense that makes?

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking, Ben Hur. I wish that you try it just once today. Of course, Ben Hur if you do, Ben Hur if you don't.

All good things happen on the floor!
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.

My latest song obsession: The Thompson Twins - If You Were Here
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.

SHOUT OUT PROMPT: Worst thing to hear after saying 'I love you".
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.

Hi Club Initiation: Matt.
"I will never read from a book again."

Yonaton Landau on Rockstars:
Robert Plant becomes articulate: "Yea! No! Yeah! Naw! Yaaaaaaahhhh...."
Eric Clapton does the same: "Hey hey, hey hey baby hey. Hey hey baby hey."
Jim Morrison waxes poetic: "WEEEE!! Wha wha wuuaaa....wuoowwww. uuuweeeeeEE!"

vortex of chunky desire slathers hearty tangerine sauce down the wrists of the maid. to yawn over thrown dishes of slithering leaves and windowsills, a marvelous deed indeed. ultra precise words and carob chips make wonderful strides of vanity and electricity. spindles quiver in lofty branches, wanting to live, sucking on lips and noodles, only to be filled with reverberating quadratric terms. moss creeping up cedars and legs: invaders from a place much cleaner than this.

AND I SHALL CALL THIS ONE..."I smell cabbage."
When in doubt, grab a Joycian Freewrite.

What a sad song:
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan - Tere Bin Nahin Lagda Dil
I like what this song does to me:
Interpol - Roland
I love what this song does to me:
Air - Playground Love

There's an entirely different kind of snow falling in San Diego today.
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.

Do you realize...that you have the most beautiful face?

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.

jmeaney14: anyway what is your point
Shur1yTemple: i rarely have a point
jmeaney14: more of a nub really

USS Rattler, a 165-ton stern-wheel "tinclad" river
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.

I left the phone in the refrigerator today. I also dropped another college course.
I am great.

So the latest trend is wearing non prescription glasses.
Yeah, let's all feign visual impairment.
People are strange.

As school, I was labeled "gothic" because I was wearing hot pink eyeshadow and a black hoodie.
Ahee.

I am a rock! I am an iiiiiisland!

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.