some tired things

My dad and I seem kind of embarrassed to talk to each other when we're alone.  There is no "bad" reason behind this.  I think we are just socially fake people and when it's time to stop being fake we have the exact same "Well.  Yep." disorder when we really don't have anything to say.  So we wander off to our separate parts of the house and brood quietly.

Other things I have inherited from my dad: Addictive personality, gait, obsession with weight but also rich foods, enjoyment of animals over many people.  

As much as I want to live honestly, I am always grabbing for chameleon cloaks.  Most people do this.  I do this a lot.  It's not something I can help, and not really me being "fake" per se, it's more of a "what aspects of myself can I showcase to make this person comfortable, and like me."  

I have an overclocked sympathy mechanism.  

I smile and talk sweetly and use folksy phrases at work.  

The dance recital I'm running sound for all weekend is an overbearingly feminine space.  You can see the estrogen shimmering in the air like glitter hairspray; it makes things thick and dramatic.  When I am there I find I've dropped my voice to its lowest register and walk with a slight swagger, desperate to add balance.  

Sometimes straight girls fall in love with me and I want to love them back, but that is just silly.  That was not a statement of ego.  Where am I going with this.

The only person I can be my honest self around is going to be gone for five weeks at a time for a year.  I do not know what is going to happen to me.  I will be lonely and hungry, and start having strange inner-vortex thoughts like I do when I'm alone too long.  I am happy and sad.

Maybe I've never really been myself.    

releasing mice and hard-shell crickets

overdraft fees update

-$94.63

do you ever want to kill people

ATTN Television Cartoon Programs

You really need to cut it the fuck out with the internet "memes" or whatever the fuck because, really?  Really?  They were stupidly funny when they made the first round on the 'nets, then we moved on to the next hilarious thing, then the simple folk who use internet discovered it and ran it into the ground on their myspace pages, then a glacier menacingly engulfed the northern hemisphere in an icy grip, then you had thirty seconds of time on your television show to fill because no companies are buying commercial airtime anymore and you wrote in your main cast of characters acting out the uncouth phenomenon desperately trying to mask the fact that you're entertaining stoned teenagers and all of your writers are late-30s dbags who wear sandals.  

Oh man

I am super interested in the concept of honesty, sidling up to it cheekily and trying it on, "Honest, I am honest, I am an honesty."  

Most of my problems are the indirect result of a lack of honesty and I bet dollars to donuts yours are too.

Will everyone please be honest with me.

Will somebody teach me how to be honest.

I don't really care for donuts.  The sweetness burns; they rely on the assumption that I am deeply turned on by dense, oily breads.  Someday I will move to Portland and try the goddess of donuts, like Tony Bourdain: a humble cake slathered thinly in maple syrup frosting, with three pert lengths of bacon nestled on top.

Nestle.  They nestled down together.  Nestle Semi-Sweet Waxen Chocolate-Approximating Baking Bits.

I love eating, it is one of my favorites.  Lately I have been so obsessed with every junk fucking product that is in my food that it has become an exercise in guilt.  I am not one of "those people."  I just want a loaf of bread from the store that doesn't contain high fructose fucking corn syrup.  This summer, this summer, man, I will totally walk to the farmer's market.  

Last night I dreamed of five tall black men in black suits, singing in turn in serious tones in an alleyway.  

I have just been informed that I fucked like an israeli lady soldier last night.  I have no recollection of this.  Sleep makes strangers of us all.   

tstorm dream

sharp blackrock shore scoured the sky blue white cloud claws inching over the mountains miles away me on the porch of the shack hung silky elk antlers then water everywhere swift and ankle-deep and cold cold cold  

HEY

Whether you "know" me or not welcome to the bloggins, I love you, enjoy your stay.  

Don't judge me, STOP JUDGING ME.  Don't get your feelings hurt here.  

It is a place to be free.

I love you, I love love love love you.

i don't give a don't give a don't give a

THIS SHIT SUCKS BUT I WROTE IT.  It is my feelings.

I always cry when I overdraw my bank account.

-$1.63

OVERDRAFT FEE

-$31.63

If I hadn't tipped that bartender

if I hadn't bought those two yogurts

I needed that extra half-gallon of gas

the line is still below empty

my speedometer is too tired to lift its head

I move at a pace that feels right

and always feel hunted.

My boyfriend slams doors when I cry

and curses and plays loud metal while he showers

and now I'm weeping to judas priest.

I think maybe if he had a job

and took care of me like he promised

when we first no

no nevermind I'm being stupid.

Everyone is looking under their brows at each other

whenever I speak or move.

Maybe if my job paid me this week instead of next

maybe if they paid me more than seven dollars

for an hour of me

maybe if they didn't treat me like a stupid child

which is especially enraging

because they are stupid

and i hate the job so much anyway.

Maybe if my dad didn't erupt in indignation 

when I tell him I need to borrow

a little bit more, and cringe and grin embarrassed

I don't think he knows how much things cost anymore.

I guess I can sympathize,

I still feel like the mid-'90s weren't over ten years ago

I, I, I, I, I-yai,

Maybe if I hadn't spent so much sedating

and waking myself and knocking myself out again

maybe if I hadn't been scared to go outside

for a few months this year.

Maybe if I weren't a LAZY FUCK.

Maybe if I didn't feel crushed by the NECESSITY

of pleasing everybody, or at least not making them angry.

Maybe somebody will buy me a drink this weekend.

And cigarettes.

Maybe if my cats didn't eat such expensive fucking food.

But their eyes glow and their fur is so, so, so soft.