Cirrhosis in 4 days

So delightfully hazy
Laughing and dancing
Dance with me
Nonsensical
I want to touch and
Let me draw you
Just let me
Please
We’re breathing
Sucking bubbles
Together
You know
I want to know
Let me know you
Let me love you
Turn that song off
Let me go
So ordinarily magic
Temporary
And changing
See?
Itslaughter grab it
If you grab and shake it
Let it work
Be free
The room is quick
It spins
And I want off
I have to see
If the rules of love apply
Or just
The rules of gravity
So easy
Not to notice
You sitting there
You touching me
Lights flicker fast
And falter
Let me up
You’re sputtering
The world falls down
I struggle up
Don’t laugh at me
Me me me me
Who brought the sun
I hate the sun
I hate you too
I just need sleep

Waiting...since I can't think of anything better right now

Are you sitting half dressed in your recently abandoned room, with a one eyed, not just dog, but pug?

Are you waiting to go some where?

Waiting to realize something, like Zing! and the answer appears, and you are delivered, the demons have been exorcised?

Waiting for someone to tell you what to do/say/wear/eat, hello Jesus I’m talking to you, p.s. I read your book, it sucks?

Waiting to go eat sushi with friends when you know you really need to be alone, even though you don’t want to be alone because you can’t shake the feeling of waiting?

Waiting for those compulsions to pass? No I don’t want a cigarette. No I don’t need a drink. I am aware these things do not solve problems. Or do they?

Are you waiting for that part Dayvan Cowboy for change your life again for the first time?

Are you waiting?
It’s not just the feeling of waiting for something you can’t define, just cannot put your finger on, something that exists only in another universe or dimension, or in a fabled garden, guarded by twirling swords. It’s the feeling of immobility, inability. Every opportunity exists, so no opportunity exists.
Meh… I suppose it’s all just a matter of perspective. And at this particular juncture in the space time continuum, the part of Negator will be played by Candice. Please turn off your cell phones and keep your kids quiet or so help me god I will smash them in their aurally chafing mouths. Fuck! I hate kids.
No but seriously.
I really don’t like kids at all; they aren’t even as cute as puppies. Fuck em. I’m having my tubes tied.
You’re welcome world.
I guess I just want what all waiters want; a good tip. Except I’m not that kind of waiter, besides if I was a culinary transport specialist, I would be dubbed either ‘waitress’ as I have tits and a vajayjay, or the more PC, non-gender-defining, but still inherently and obviously demeaning ‘server’.
“Here are your pancakes…I AIN’T YO BITCH!....sir….”
Again, seriously…
I guess I just want either an answer or an escape. A bottle of vodka or enlightenment. A cigarette or the Rosetta Stone. A roll or the key to the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle…on Friday.
But it seems like I’m getting the answers in the Sunday paper, Sarah smoked the last cigarette, the liquor store is closed (*remember, it’s Sunday, and this is Texas), and the Buddha wrapped up all the enlightenment in his meditation mat and b-lined it out of this dimly lit shit hole and straight into Nirvana.
And the Oscar for most stellar performance in accurate portrayal of fictitious character created by girl whose blog no one reads, goes to…….Candice for her role as Negator!
Clapping, cheering, laughter, one rotten banana thrown, more clapping, all around general conviviality and satisfaction with the decision except from that one guy with the banana who’s being escorted out as we speak, don’t worry he’s being taken care of, I know a guy.
p.s. I also won a Pulitzer Prize for best ever usage, placement, construction, and clever delivery of run on sentences. It is on my mantle. Wearing a rhinestone tiara. Don’t ask.

When good coffee goes bad..

I am such an uber grumpy biotch today.

I made the Tiffers go away, I angered James with tactless abruptitude, I accidentally hit One Iris while I was sleeping.

Some one just walked in. I will kill them.

It was the Tiffers. I roasted her to ashes with my menacing death stare 9,000. I'm sorry Tiffers. Rise like a P-hoe-nix from your pile of charred remains, and go to sun your white ass in the back yard. Fire crotch!

I am utterly evil.

This is what you will become if you move to Austin and are allergic to anything at all. Don't do it. Try New Mexico. Everything is dead there so nothing can kill you. Except rattlesnakes.

Fuck it, I'm getting a bubble to live in.

We tried to lift our communal spirits earlier by going to Spiderhouse for coffee. We even brought One Iris who escaped by crawling under the less than secure fence and also she scratched my leg, but she is so cute and she always snores. I love her. Things seemed to be going along swimmingly; it's a beautiful day, we listened to Playground Love on the way over, Iris is a cycolps, we're going to have coffee. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, this'll teach you to count all your chickens' eggs before they hatch in one basket.

I order my large coffee (yes large, I deserve a special treat today) and prepare it with the utmost care, slowly stirring in the carefully apportioned unrefined sugar crystals, pouring in the thick, rich half & half in a circular fashion, the black coffee ribboned with white swirls of heaven as it gradually turns to mocha, and then to that perfect shade of caramel. The undulating, convoluting spectral steam rises from the ambrosial surface as I carry my prized fluid concoction to the table, where I plan to sip it contentedly in the soft, enveloping spring sunlight.

As I make myself comfortable in my tetanus infested, yet delightfully quirky retro chair, I reach for my coffee, skipping over the inhalation of the roasted bean aroma since I can't smell for shit right now, close my eyes in a relaxed anticipation, bring the cup to my lips, and take the first glorious sip. Ahhhhhhhh.....

Wait! No! Not 'ahhh....' at all. More like 'AHHH!'

I can't taste a god damn thing. Seriously nothing at all. That's when I realized why I couldn't taste the foulness that are my unbrushed teeth.

All the joy is gone from my life.

Some people eat to live, some people live to eat. And if you know me at all, you'll know that I am part of the latter group. Why has god not only given me horrendous allergies, but, to add insult to injury, taken away my means of indulging my one true passion; my sense of taste?

Take my eyes!

Take my nose! (oh wait you already did you mother fucker!)

Goddammit!

Nothing really interesting happened at all today, so I said to the Tiffers, "Do something interesting, " and she made a funny face. It was slightly interesting.

One thing though... We went on a bike ride this morning to get the blood flowing before breakfast you know, and One Iris rode in the basket of the front of my bike which the Tiffers was riding, and we passed by this guy with his dog who was both big, and shitting and I said, "That dog is taking a shit. DROP THAT DEUCE!" and his owner laughed and the Tiffers and I also laughed as we kept peddling by, but I was also a little embarrassed at being white trash. Either that or I'm 'delightfully tacky, yet unrefined' to borrow from Hooters.

I'm going to go refill my 'single use' Jack-in-the-Box styrofoam giganti-cup with ice water, and enjoy it thoroughly since water doesn't taste like anything and I can't taste anything, therefore we are soul mates.

Someone please smash me in the face now

Whatever you do, if you don't love to have a constantly running, red, chafed nose hole, and a continuously watering eye ball which is also red and your eye lid is veiny and chapped from wiping, and also your voice sounds like a retarded cartoon rabbit, and also you can't hear very well because your ears are pressurized, which means you can't really hear your stupid voice which your friends are snickering at over dinner, and also you can barely taste your food, and if you don't like to be hopped up on Benadryl strips that make your tongue first taste like disgusting and then make it numb all while not working at all except at making you a space cadet fuck tard, then for the love sweet baby jesus, DO NOT MOVE TO AUSTIN!
P.S. What culinary genuis thought of putting the fries ON the burger!?! My heart is either welling with joy, or seizing up from arterial plaque. It's hard to say which.
I'm sure we figured this out from my last entry, but I love Boards of Canada. Seriously. we are engaged
Note: I am listening to BOC and also I'm drugged up so I have nothing in my brain to write about since my brain is actually melting into the snot that is pouring forth abuntantly from my facial orifices.

Dayvan Cowboy

The cluster of radio towers in Westlake. You know, the ones studded with red flashing lights. The ones that always conjure my Grandma's lamp, oil dripping down the circular arrangement of guitar strings, a figurine in the center, slowly. The one that we drove around for hours to find the provenance of that night; we hopped the fence, we stared the 'radiation' warning signs in the figurative face, and copped a defiant squat. We weren't high, but felt so in that misty, unearthly, undulating red light.


The feeling I get when I see them, from any point in Austin, a huddle of giants in the hills.


Looking out over the ocean, at night, lights from the string of hotels and resorts blighting the beach shining behind my head, and the sea is that much darker. It is black as pitch. There is no moon. It is infinite, and I am so small. I am so very small. That is magic.


Falling back into a swimming pool, sinking to the bottom, weightless and nearly drowning as my air escapes, elevates, in a plume of a billion bubbles. Looking up. The sun. The quiet. And that would be a good way to die.


The sun setting from an airplane window, vivid on the curved horizon.


That song. What is that strange chord it strikes in me? The undeniable one I can't identify. I feel so 'mortal.' I feel....

Burger Tex should pay me for this

Here's a poem

God gave me style
God gave me head
God put his muddy boots
On my bed

Imagine this: You awake, unreasonably early in the morning (10) considering how late you went to sleep and also how drunk you were and how many left over (delicious) mashed potatoes you ate just before cozying up to your red headed friends dirty pillows (boobies). You are confused for a moment about where you are and who you are/aren't with, considering you haven't slept at home in a few days. You have to take a humassive morning after drinking, solid at the beginning, runny towards the end, shit. But mostly (take notes, this is important), you are hungry, and you are thirsty, and this, for the mother fucking love of god must be remedied pronto, other wise ginger haired (though completely undeserving) heads will roll.
"But where, " you ask, "can I get delicious and filling food in abundant variety, that is also healthy because I don't want to ruin the de-flabifying roll I've been on (liquid diet) since I've been back from Thailand, because, well, I don't care if I'm a cunt, as long as I'm thin?"
To which I respond, "Souper Salad."
I'm changing from 2nd person omniscient to 1st person narrative now. Look alive.
So you/I and also the Tiffer's put on our flippy-do's (I'm actually lobbying at present to have the unpalatable colloquialism "flip flop" changed , for obvious reasons, to the superior and, I'd venture to say, musical "flippy-do." I'm sure I have your support in this), forgot our phones, and headed in the direction of the vegetable smorgasbord that was our destiny.
While en route, using meticulously selected back streets so as to maximize efficiency, and minimize a) fuel consumption, b) time consumption, and c) my frustration (p.s. I am a master navigator), we wound up behind this total smeghead in a Lincoln or some other ugly, and in this situation, slow going car. As I was road raging at him, borrowing generously from my reserves of outdated urban vernacular, the Tiffers and I noticed simultaneously, that we were passing by Burger Tex, at a ludicrously slow pace. And we looked at each other, and we knew. Salad was not in the stars for us. Not today anyway.
As a quick aside, I feel I have to explain something. I have passed by said Burger Tex hundreds, nay, thousands of times in my life, never thinking to stop and have a bite even once. But all that changed Saturday, when I had the most enjoyable, life-altering experience (I can die happy now) imaginable; a mushroom swiss burger from Burger Tex. Thank you Nick, I will name my new fat after you.
Continuing. Well, getting to the point anyway, we abandoned any hopes of self satisfied smugness at our iron resolve to better our lives through the consumption of healthy food, and got 2 delicious burgers, one each, and ate them with zealous gusto, and now we are fat, but elated, praise the lord! it is a beautiful day in Austin!

A Discussion of Intriguing Topics

Today I am so (insert adjective). I wish I could just (insert verb) all day until (insert pronoun) (insert verb, past tense) all over (insert pronoun) (insert noun).


Whew! Good to get that off my chest.


This morning Tiffers and I, in a frenzy of previous evening alcohol mixing induced ravenousness, went to Taco Cabana for a smidgen of their glorious breakfast tacos. While en route, a long and harrowing route filled with trials and tribulations of a terrifying nature, I was saying really hilarious things to distract us from vomiting up the non contents of our stomachs. one item of said hilarity was this...


(Note: I am adding a verbatim transcript of the conversation in order to demonstrate, in addition to the obvious humour of the comment, the contextual genius as well.)


Tiffany: "If they aren't serving breakfast any more, I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra cheese."


Me: "I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra taco."


HAHAHAHAHA! You are laughing.


And now for the latest installment of The Death Shoe Chronicles.


They are fucking rank, and they are Tiffany's and not mine and they are also boots and not shoes and let's get some Dr. Scholl's foot stank spray for the love of god, my lungs are being melted by the noxious vapors.


I want to address an issue really quick, as I'm sure it's been on the front burner (the big one) of everyones thoughts, and I'd hate to be an inconsiderate twat and not quell any curiosities/fears/insatiable desires. So here goes: I am fully aware that I say heaps of nothing with words in equal proportion. But my question to you, kind sir a.k.a. fuck wad, is this; what do you have to say? I have an unfortunate medical condition, incurable I'm afraid, where in I have been blessed with an extraordinarily large vocabulary (snicker) and an immensely enviable and innovative mastery of the English language, but I am incapable of contriving a single interesting or original thought beyond what our kids would look like if cilantro and I copulated (more on this later).


So anyway, the real point is this. There is no point. If you'd like to see a free verbal masturbation show, read on. If not, do something other than read on.


I like to use masturbation in analogies. Also, abortions, interracial comradery, the stock market, and lion pride hierarchy/feeding habits. Fascinating.


Back to cilantro. Whilst on the previously mentioned Taco Cabana outing, something revelatory happened to me. But before I can even think about opening that bag of chips, I feel the need to prologue the story with a bit of Taco Cabana 101.


While Taco Cabana's fare is both delectable and authentic (made by real Mexicans), neither of these qualities are what made the establishment into the fast Mexican food empire that it is today. No, what makes Taco Cabana truly great is their all you can eat condiment bar, which features a dizzying array of fresh salsas, pico de gallo, fresh onions, limes, and jalapenos, and, you guessed it, cilantro. Ask any one, tell your friends. It is the shit. Take a big whiff.


That said, I can begin the story. As I tore into my potato, egg, and cheese breakfast taco, wrapped in a thick hand made tortilla, topped with a tongue teasing rojo salsa, pico, and a sprinkling of tender cilantro leaves, something, I'd venture to say, life altering occurred to me. I realized, I love cilantro. I can't deny it. My salivary glands squirt out their lubricious fluids at the very thought of that scintillating herb rolling around in my mouth, being ground by my molars, becoming an embarrassing green thing in my front teeth, and finally, fatefully, coming to rest in my welcoming stomach, nourishing, not only my body with its chlorophyllous goodness, but also my soul. Cliantro raises your IQ by 3 points on each occasion that you eat it. I am now a genius. (Wouldn't it be funny if I spelled genius like 'genyus' whilst proclaiming to be one. Woo Hoo!) My mind then wandered, as girls minds are wont to do when thinking of the things we love, to marriage, and then to baby making. Before long (3 seconds), I found myself wondering what out offspring would look like. After much contemplation, I arrived at this.

I hope this means as much to you as it did, and will continue to mean to me.
Something terrible actually happened a couple of minutes ago, which was that Tiffers asked me if I wanted to go for coffee, and you know what? I do.
Now I am distracted and hurrying through this and I am not giving my writing my 100% super star effort, so I'm going to stop and feed the beast.

Fecal Matters!

This shit is serious.
It is Fat Tuesday, which means it is Tuesday and you are fat.
But seriously, I think we should take a moment, on this most solemn of days, to reflect on what it means to get completely leathered and either a) bare your mammaries for strands of tawdry plastic baubles, or b) try, in your state of retarded inebriation, to steady your video camera as you record said exposed mammaries for (self) pleasurable viewing at a later time.
That was yesterday.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and I have no idea what that means to people of the Catholic description, except that you can't do anything fun any more for a long while. Yes. And something to do with ashes.
It actually all just came flooding back to me in a moment of omniscient clarity. On Fat Tuesday, Jesus, turns water into wine (things get a little crazy, women are showing their ankles, a holy tradition begins), on Ash Wednesday, Jesus is cremated (resurrect that, you sum-bitch), skip (insert adjective) Thursday, on Good Friday, Jesus makes a miraculous comeback with the single 'Love Your Neighbor, All Night Long', Saturday, Shomer Shabbas, and finally on Sunday, Jesus goes to IHOP for breakfast, waits 2 hours for substandard pancakes, all the while cursing the church going crowd for flooding the 24 hour breakfast market. And that, my friends, is the story of the Easter related holidays, and the foundation on which the whole of New Orleans' economy is based.
I am the queen of run on sentences.
As much as I'd love to bitch today, and believe me, I always can (Complainator), I am instead going to write about the weather conditions in Austin, Texas today.
It is lovely.
Tiffany, James and I went to the Barton Springs spillway in, get this, flip flops and shorts, tanned for a minute, had iced vanilla lattes of the non fat variety, and now I'm here, pecking out this verbal virtuosity, for you to enjoy, you being James, Lindsay, Tiffany, or any of my friends whom I force to read my blog and tell me how funny it is.
Yesterday, Tiffers and I went to a fire station, tried on their fire proofing awesome costumes, climbed the pole, ate chocolate chip cookies with cream of the ice and whipped denominations, and watched Face Off in extremely comfortable recliners until we could no longer bear to witness the nauseating spectacle of over aged, over actor showmanship. The we left to go get pissed. Yay!
Tonight I'm going to work, and I am convincing myself that I am uber excited about this by writing right now about how I am uber excited to be going to work.
Holla!

I live for my rug! Interpret as you see fit.

Is it wrong to buy a bottle/box of aged wine (the product turnover at that liquor store is deplorably low), a value sized container of economically piquant grape drink, at 5:20 in the evening, and not only consume the entire thing solo, but in under 30 minutes?

I may do this regardless of your morally superior (incorrect) opinion of, "Yes, it is wrong."

I was considering changing the, what I thought to be no longer aptly applied, name of my blog, the other day. I stopped considering that, when I realized that it is not only quite apt, but probably more so now that I've started writing from a perspective other than some sort of idealistic highhorse.

Who wants to wrap themselves in a cozy blanket of self-deprecating-glorifying-pitying, world weary, cynical, sarcastic, and boringly magniloquent humour? Well step on up kids, I've got a variety (one type) of cheap vino, 1 lb of peanut M&M's (half gone), a tub of crisco (also half gone) and a black rubber dildo (very broken in) the size of two Coke cans stacked. What the fuck does that even mean (shut up you twat)?

Update: Cigarettes are more powerful than god+jesus+black holes+infinite gravity+the compulsion to masturbate with a pillow when ever left alone for even a moment. They are not more powerful than Satan (god rest his soul) as they are made of a carefully rendered composite of the dark lord's nail clippings, semen, fromunda cheese, and just a dash of heroin(shocker!). The amalgamation is then roasted to a scrumptous crispiness (I'll give you one guess as to where), packaged and deilvered to my nearest convenience store, or as I like to call them, Chinese people, where they idle their time, preforming one seductive siren song or another, until I actually have to throw my car keys into the nearest pond (which is actually farther than the 'Chinese people') to avoid succumbing.

p.s. The car keys part is an artful embellishment, meant to enhance the appeal and intrigue of the former factual, even if dull, statements.

I just thought of a game. Let's think of something good that happened to us today.

.......

Well, that was a nice mental exercise in futility.

No no no. I can breathe. And that's always good. Also, I have a functioning healthy body.

The sad part of this all is, I don't even have a box of cheap wine with which to inebriate myself to a stupid degree. I made that all up.

But I am not a para... or better yet, quadraplegic. And that is good for me. Not for wheelchair production companies. But for me, it rocks.

I also have a very cool rug. It really ties the room together.

Wow! I'm feeling so much better.

Wow! I wish there was an internationally recognized font meant for conveying sarcastic tone.

The latter sentence was not sarcastic. The former was. Note the difference in font. Viva La Revolucion!

For your viewing pleasure, here is a photo of me passed out on V.D. over a plastic bag I had just thrown up into. Go on, have a laugh.

p.s. Is it wrong to rub one off to a picture of a kid you had a crush on in 5th grade, if said picture is a yearbook picture, and said yearbook is from 5th grade?

Purely hypothetical people. Tranquilo.

British people are known for bland food

I just over heard a girl at the table opposite mine say that. Apparently they boil everything into a flavorless mush, and that is why they invented Worcestershire sauce. I'm going to have to disagree here. I think they deep fry everything to a heart attack facilitating, yet delicious crispiness, and that is why they invented HP Brown Sauce.
But it's all speculation.
I am looking at a painting of an ecstatic whale, who I only imagine is ecstatic as he is suspended weightlessly in green water that fades to yellow, he can hold his breath for an uber long time, and words are floating with him in that spring colored abyss. I am projecting. I would be ecstatic. To be honest though, his face looks a bit smug. But he has every right to be. He's a behemoth in the 2nd dimension.
SNAP!
I'm sad-ish today. I'm having a coffee at Spiderhouse in attempt to cheer myself with caffeinated good and the hope and endorphin inducing possibility of hot boy seeing, especially one particular hot boy employee, who I thought I just saw, and my stomach jumped, but it wasn't him, and I was disappointed.
It is really hard to be funny or clever when you're down. I am trying to think of things, but instead of actually thinking, I am being repeatedly caught by curious yet apalled onlookers
with my fingers inside my nostrils. I'm not picking! It's a comfort thing. My other comfort thing is putting my hand in my pants and cupping my vajayjay. It's warm and soft and it makes me feel safe. So I'm obviously choosing the less offensive of publicly inappropriate comfort devices. Sod off!
Maybe I'll just run to my mom's house, pick up some of my early to mid-teenage 'woe is me, I've managed to convince every one that I will take my life with an entire bottle of Advil soon, and leave my tortured life in a headache free condition' poetry, transcribe it on to my blog, and call it a day.
One thing though, is that they are playing Black Sabbath/Ozzy Osbourne, I can't tell which because, as I'm getting to saying, I don't like either and I don't give a frick, but the point is that it's annoying and affecting the purity of my self pitying mood, distorting it into a 'I'd like to infect myself with rabies' sort of mood, which is obviously not my desired state.
I also quit smoking yesterday afternoon, which is gay, because it seems like everyday in my life is a bad day to quit smoking. Or maybe everyday is too bad a day to quit smoking because the day has been sullied with attempts at nicotine abstinence. The chicken, the egg? Who fucking knows.
I'm probably just going to procure a beret, a fresh cup of coffee, and a package of existentialistic, brown papered, French cigarettes, which, while not less carcinogenic, are infused with such a high concentration of coolness and superficiality dispelling ponderance, you grow in awesomeness purely by attempting to pronounce their name.
Fuck a Duck!
This motivational incidence of perseverance through the trials of shit early satan worshipping metal, rejection dejection, and bowel shattering cigarette withdrawals, brought to you by a true crusader of awesome, a warrior for fabulous of the highest distinction; me.
I'm feeling 1.3% better.

1969 in the Sunshine

I have intentions today of extracting the diahorrea from my cranium and smearing it around on this vitrual sheet of crispy white paper, with a stick, or a log of harder shit, and I will hand it into your kindergarden teacher, and it will be art. You love it.
I get a gold star.
Speaking of shit, you know how some times after you take a really humassive shit, you feel like you've been anally raped, but from the inside? Well, after last night's, Candice has some how gone from delightfully tipsy, to violent heaving, of both the wet and dry varieties, into Cuba Libres toilet along with her vomit streaked hair debacle, that's sort of how my throat feels. Like it was violated, lubelessly, by a huge phallic object. But hey, maybe it was. Seeing as how I can't remember much beyond, "Hey Lins, let's go to the bathroom, " I'd say it's quite possible that I forceably, and finally, learned to deep throat, as a group of 6 or more random, viral menengitus hosting blokes gang banged my throat. I will be dead in 4 hours.
As my last literary testament to the world, in summation of my life, which absolutely teems with platinum accomplishments, to get down to brass tacks, and thick red wine reductions, I'd like to say, "I don't know how bulemics do it."
So, today I am grouchy and am compelled to be productive by making t-shirts for my new t-shirt making company 'Babies with Rabies, Inc.' which is soooo about to exFUCKINGplode, p.s. that awesome Thai vagrant dog inspired company name is so copyrighted, so don't even think about pilferring it, you poon. My posse should be here before too long, and then it's off to Hobby Lobby for supplies.
I am hungry.

random entry that two people in the world will understand

good times on koh phangan
what you see:
Marcus, Martyn and myself....The Calm Before the Storm
what you didn't see:
the hedonistic smorgasbord that ensued where we feasted on the delicacies excavated from Marcus' nose

ah buckets and sleeping with Martyn in the sand under someone's bungalow with only a stolen bath mat on which to lay our leathered heads
thank you Martyn, for losing my wallet
i will always cherish that memory
so worth it

good times

Posing the Important Questions, Addressing the Hard Hitting Issues

Why is it that food designers think that an organized salad is an appetizing salad?

CJ's the Art of Coffee and Dog Molestation

I love the smell of brewing coffee.

The way the house fills with yummy scents, as the pot fills with coffee.
Fantabulous.
I love freecycle and the freecyclers, who made my home coffee brewing possible.
I love not dealing with that snooty Quacks barista who is never friendly to me just because he has a "cool" shitty job.
I do miss riding my bike to get the coffee though, but I still ride my bike other places.
I love finally using my bunny coffee cup, compliments of Goodwill's dumpster.

Let's not forget the hovering coffee fairy, who blesses all who partake with the gifts of her vitality and alluring stench.

That was dumb. I just added it because of the above picture that I found.

I wish I could that I could say that I'm just feeling very loving in general this subjective morning, but I am not.
I hate the world, damn the man, dudes can't commit, girls are scandalous ho's, they put onions on my burger, I wasn't hugged enough as a child, the gays are threatening the American family.
But at least I have coffee, and all the accompanying accoutrements of wonder.

Put your bananas in the fridge. Yum! For real.

I am a little apprehensive abour writing this down, since plans are always so tentative, but I'm planning a 3 month solo trip to Southeast Asia in November. Toni is invited, as is my friend Sara Lula, but they're both probably gonna flake out. See? Scandalous ho's.
Whatever.
I'm going to go to my aunt's house for tilapia and some sort of activity other than TV. I'm following your advice Toni. Sort of.
I'll probably love on the dogs, scratching their bellies, lowering my blood pressure, extending my life.

This is one of the dogs I will molester. Zweedle!

poem

remember those days
lonely
walking to the
poorly stocked library
buying coffee
you had no money for
remember those days
wresting
stubborn haiku
from a moment

it's easy to look back
into the past
and think
"it's good"
it's good because it's easy
but it's easy because
it's over

all the time
spent reminiscing
remembering
those days not
anymore
while those days of
now
of not quite yet
shift into them

remembering those days
writing
poems of the future
slipping
to the past
examining the rosy
colored time
that didn't last

then was now
now will be
then
where will i be
walking to the library
drinking coffee
i can't afford
suffering some new
suffer
longing
for the suffer
of before

Harvest

A Shorty...What do you think

She's sitting at a counter having a coffee. It is the color of a caramel chew. The stirring spoon, left in a bus bin. Each time she sips her tepid libation, she pinches her nose with her first finger and thumb.
Looking up from her book, through the window, directly infront of the counter at which she is sitting, she watches a girl in a floppy woven hat, standing on the pedals of her bike as it rolls by of it's own momentum. Noticing the four full racks in her field of vision, she thinks:
"Every body rides bikes here."
She had, in fact, ridden her bike there.

A too skinny, shirtless, surferesque guy, in flip flops and swimming trunks.
A kind of nerdy guy, with intellectual looking hair and glasses, Val Kilmer lips.
A jungle green car pulling into a parking spot in front of the cafe.
"That car's just like mine."
That car is yours.

See the key scratch down the side from that long ago drunken debacle.
See the dented front fender, the battle scar of a shopping cart war gone awry.
See him opening the driver side door, a glance and a smile to his right, locking the door, stepping out.
See her opening the passenger door, moving to get out, pulled back into place by the forgotten lap belt.
"My lap belt."
Yes, your lap belt.
They both chuckle.

She takes another sip of her quickly cooling coffee, the coagulating cream floating on the surface, creating the pattern of wind blown sand on a surface of a dune, floating down her throat, into her stomach, acid with acid, her nose left unplugged.
She doesn't notice.

LEFT LANE FOR PASSING ONLY

I'm passing all y'all motherfuckers!

I seriously think this everytime I pass a "left lane for passing only" sign.

I swear.

I know....I'm cool.

Cheese Curds...A Love Poem

what is it about cheese curds?

sometimes i think i should watch
what/how much i eat
maybe drop 5ish pounds.
all that somehow seems
to magically vanish
when it comes time to eat.

i just ate white rice
with miso dressing
and kraft mexican blend
cheese melted on it,
and then
about a 1/2 cup of cottage cheese.

what is it about cheese curds?

Nuevo Blog

Since no one ever reads this blog, I am now writing here. You know, just in case some one stumbled upon this blog, and was mildly intrigued.