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Friday, January 2nd, 2009
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Hipsters
Circle I Limbo Militant Vegans
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind PETA Members
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow Creationists
Circle IV Rolling Weights Scientologists
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled River Styx Bill O'Reilly
Circle VI Buried for Eternity River Phlegyas George Bush
Circle VII Burning Sands The Pope
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement People who don't know the difference between then and than.
Circle IX Frozen in Ice Design your own hell |
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Tuesday, September 26th, 2006
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Please don't feed me pretty lines I don't care
I don't have the patience for the words you have prepared
All these ravings and apologies don't get us anywhere
god i'm tired of fighting I don't care
you tell me lovingly you need a rest
if you won't treat me any better it's just the man you are I guess
but darlin' spending time alone won't make me suddenly need less
so let's say goodbye it's for the best
please don't speak to me of time for all I gave you
oh if i sound angry baby, I don't mean to blame you
and though you're taking time to break through
I'd still be wasting mine to change you
i loved you to my bones, but I'm good as gone
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sex is the subject again. i am reminded of its importance as the seconds tick away from the last satisfying encounter. If sustenance of a particular grade is consistently supplied there are limits to what one will do for a delicious feast, but a person will carnally crave a good meal once they have been without one for a significant amount of time. Just as a body subjected to mediocre sex, stimulation without full satisfaction for a great length of time begins to feel a gnawing hunger that refuses to be abated. A hunger that lessens our sense of reason day by day; perhaps not our personal ethics but certainly seems to heighten hormonal stimulants around us, turning the surrounding world into a stew of sexual delicacies begging to be tasted and scented, moistened with the soft pressure of our tongue.
I am sitting on a couch alone in a familiar house that is not mine -- nor that of a lover -- and the pressure of the cushions, the exact delicate texture of the nubby fabric (ribbed but silken) raised against the backs of my thighs, against the worn-in fleeciness of my jeans -- which yield delectably to the texture of the couch -- is amazingly erotic.
And this creates a voltaic cloud up the ridges of my anterior superior illiac spine, down the small of my back (like trickles of sweat), over the smooth bowl of my belly (convex, not concave), in ribbons over those same thighs, and seeping in. I am serpent, I am an aching need; there are forest fires and holocausts, and the requirement of a ready, eager being to burn down to the bone.
that is all.
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Saturday, August 12th, 2006
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I am astounded by the phenomena of the body. Instincts, in general, leave me dumbstruck, but the capability of knowing when another person is dangerous or trustworthy, kind or henious . . . I love the idea of palpable energy, a character flaw you can smell on a person.
I have learned tonight that I have a great talent in sniffing them out. I will never doubt again.
~~~
ii. silly rabbit, how did you ever let a relationship kill your sex drive? or Tricks are for GIRLS!
When Shaney told us that not being present was selling yourself short, I took it mentally and emotionally, but now it feels oppurtunistic. The ideas of strangers on a train doesn't spell liquid sex and romance in hyperdrive, it makes me feel sick in my belly because I associate it to cheating. fuck THAT.
There are good people in this world; there are glorious, sexual strangers; there are others like Alex (well not like him at all, but adventitious, healthy, ethical and stuffed with wonder (yes, like a chicken full of bread crumbs)), and Casey, and myself.
There are others like me, with good hearts and intentions, who have salubrious, insatiate, sex drives and sensuality. That might be in trains. Or planes. Or boats. Or wearing coats. Or in a box with a fox. And I might be the fox . . . I think that's all I need to say.
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Friday, August 11th, 2006
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I have always felt safe in my neighborhood, perhaps unreasonably, as I've less qualms about biking or walking around after dark by myself than in previous places.
Tonight, travelling back from Keelan's, I took the little windy path through Alberta Street Park past the basketball court and the fire station, thinking as I sped along, "I love this park."
Except that I was chased while biking through, some kid that I didn't even notice until he screamed after me, "Stay out of my hood!" I glanced over my shoulder as I rode away and saw him stop himself short mid-gallop, hands reaching to his back right pocket. Was he truly intending to catch me? If so, then what? And if I hadn't been speeding through, just leisurely pedaling, or stopped to watch the game, would he have still run after me, or was the chase merely bravado? Something in me doubts that there wouldn't have been follow through.
What 'follow through' might entail, I honestly don't know. Or what my reaction might have been if I were forced to react or defend myself. I doubt the kid (and I mean KID, little white-and-red-striped polo shirt, maybe 12, maybe a small 14?) would care that I lived three blocks down the road. I'm apt to think, in fact, that such a detail would have been reason for more rage as opposed to a deterrent.
News in Drama on a more familiar scale: I have opted out of Peggy's bachelorette party / bridal shower, because I barely have stamina enough for a guaranteed good time, let alone dealing with Teddy's potential bullshit. And considering my current track record for this Friday, I shouldn't even breathe next to another human being until the morning.
Today has been fucking weird. I choose to view the park hunting as an isolated incident but all energy directed toward me in the last eight hours has been glacial bordering on hostile. Fuck. I wish I had started pounding out on the keyboard last night, the words were suckling at my head; I could feel it sharp and throbbing under my skin, eyes growing sharp and glinting like an animal's.
Right now every muse in me feels hebetudinous. I'm not a bitter, brilliant writer, or even a heartbroken girl engorged, possessed by loss and longing. I'm a little lonely, but more just anxious about not yet having a job that's going to pay the bills, or having school squared away.
I wish I had money and gumption enough for a beer out, but I'm broke to the bone and tired already when I've an early, long-ass day tomorrow, and besides every other excuse, I'm too scared to ride again tonight.
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Friday, November 14th, 2003
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john calls me and serenades on his guitar. instead of assuaging, it feels gooooood to hear him, but it breaks the skin over all my soft spots so i have to hang up and breathe like punches to my chest the whole evening, my throat as raw a rope on a montana winter fence... but before that: i joke about how the bottom has fallen out of my last hopes, that the world is ready to end and i don't even feel like saving it.
a is all the fucking way over /there/. we are in opposite corners of the same bastard country and i can't even feel half love for the stretch of dirt between us. i think i'd banish it in three blinks, no care.
i just feel mean. people walk in the door and ask how i am and i have to bite bite bite my tongue till it bleeds just to keep from screaming, "FUCK OFF!"
i am terrifed all hours of the day. i can't even cry about it. i can't even write about it. i can't even fucking write.
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Thursday, October 16th, 2003
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scrabbled late june-ish:
charlie has stolen 2 hearts in one week. (both born in ohio.) The girl is delightful, easily the sweetest person i've ever met in my life. i have never used the word 'nice' to describe someone with such flattering tones. she's enchanting: wide, liquid green eyes, hair the color of blood on fire; both confident and shy in the most graceful mix ... i am enamored.
jacob is, in his own words, retarded for the girl. it would be harder to imagine someone not being crazy or charmed to the point of mental unhinging.
together, these two are one of the great loves.
they are suspended on the almost unearthly dimension of the three great loves i have seen in my life. one for jen and jeff, two for cris and ryan, three for jacob and charlie.
he will be moving to california, this i can guarantee -- and i will be surprised if he lasts the whole of a week in ohio.
can i explain them together? how beautiful? they enhance the individuality of the respective other, enriching what each is alone yet create something together that is equally wonderful and of its own entity. in the fullest, purest way, they bring out the best in each other.
i have never seen this before, this becoming … jen and jeff, they were already married when i met them, already set in motion, stable in their emotional solace, so when you saw them together or apart, it was already there, glossed over them, living and breathing. i have never witnessed the transformation, the birth and gestation, or known one of the hearts enough to understand the depth and breadth and beauty of the change. having held some small part of jacob in my hands ( having prodded occasionally in soft places) i can SEE the form and color of it all, know the relief and joy of it -- almost palpable.
how they glow when one strikes the other! Charlie in the bookstore, carefully ravaging shelves, her hands quick, almost birdlike, with strong, strong intelligence -- the seriousness, the bright curiosity on her face: jacob at the end of the aisle, leaning in to me, "Look at her go!" his lazy grin, the stumbling haze of thick, thick attraction.
charlie and her huge, easy smile – this child-wide grin that shines and shines – eyes dropped to the table [shy and lovesick and overcome and giddy] after jacob and his sly, sexy card tricks.
…they are eating each other alive, and savoring the slices like mangos.
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Monday, October 13th, 2003
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Tomorrow: BOXING! pow!
today: got called in early (whee!), breakfast of champions: choc chip mint ice cream
last night: The Big Lebowski ("It's like Lenin said: You look for the person who'll benefit...um..." "I am the walrus?" bwahahahahahahahaha!), mahria escaped her dorm room to study at the palace, we performed Thom the Hippie for the other roomies (much to their squealing hyperventilating delight)
yesterday: shopping with julia. got a new shower curtain, and CHEMICALS for the kitchen floor... and other many needed items: a can opener that works, a new, cheap phone card, other plastic and metal objects. actually ate dinner OUT. such a pleasant fucking day. productive. sang barenaked ladies at the top of our lungs as we cavorted about town.
did i mention BOXING tomorrow??? 10 full weeks of gritty muscle madness YEAH!
end.
*cue theme music*
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Sunday, October 5th, 2003
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Sat. night at L&C there was a drag queen auction. mahria participated as a drag king: i made counter bids on her up to 18 dollars, but lost once the mark hit 20.
the girl looked fabulous: men’s suit and hat, sunglasses, dancing with hilarious and enticing skill to “Billie Jean”.
afterward, we slunk around with our hands in our pockets, mahria looking extra dishy with disheveled hair (that had been slicked back to imitate the businessmen’s crop of the 40s, and had since been subjected to much tousling from her restless fingers), i in her hat, dark, loose jeans and the requisite hoodie. we walked like we were pipe-hitting badasses, hot as hell in july… stomping our boots around campus, sharing the cigar she bought for a prop.
the mood was the kind of philosophical, unquestioned silliness that caused us to form a tight friendship out of the constraints of being housemates.
we sang every beatles song we knew, we bitched about the lack of available beautiful women under our noses, and we wrote a musical about Thom ...
... which is why i am here, to bring you this masterpiece... Behold its Glory:
_Thom the Hippie (BEWARE)_
We are 100% Hippies of Steel!!! (steel, steel, steel)
We will defeat you with our hemp laser guns
Yes
And our vegan swords, made of extra-extra-extra firm tofu.
Thom the hippie
The alpha male hippie
Thom is hippie man, not from Azbeckistan.
He is here to save the world
From insensitive men
With piercings here
Tattoos there
And punkness stanking up the air
Thom the hippie
The alpha male hippie
Thom is hippie man, who will not spank another man.
He's a bigot in disguise
With his vacant tweeker eyes
Captures pixies and boils them to paste
Sells them on the market
For the 18 year olds he hopes to taste.
Thom the hippie Thom the hippie (oh) Thom the hippie the alpha male hippie
Thom the hippie (beware) the hippie the alpha male hippo
Lures people with his miny Willy ad
Promising good people
When he really means spaanndex paaants (rainbow leopard print with Rambo horns!)
He likes taking showers
To wash his golden locks
Meanwhile his surrogate-Saturday-market-stripper-mothered-child-thing
tumbles down the stairs
He cant take the time to watch be caus e ah he's
Thom the hippie Thom the hippie (oh) Thom the hippie the alpha male hippie
Thom the hippie (beware) the hippie the alpha male hippo
BEWARE!
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Wednesday, October 1st, 2003
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befriend beautiful, alaskan drunken poet. check.
makeout in park the first night of long, long conversation. check.
decide to just be friends. check.
have night of long, amazing conversation in which he shovels brain unto table and i somehow reassure and restore hope in life, living, etc. he states, "i am so glad i met you." thinks, against all reason, that im damn smart. check.
invite to party at the palace, when he shows up late with four friends in tow, leave own party wearing viciously torn fishnets and black wings to hit another party in SE where they play sonic youth on the turn tables. check.
have amazing morning the next day beginning with breakfast at his apartment [no, i slept on the couch, thanks], filling with a run through the fountain in waterfront park (still in fishnets, but sans the wings & with smeared eyeliner looking like a rape victim -- except soaking wet), ending with a mild reading of bushisms and chocolate ice cream at my house. check.
meet his sister at ringlers before they head off to see george clinton show i cant afford. wish him happy birthday. really wish i had a present. check.
invite him to see bubba ho-tep on thurs. bruce campbell is elvis, i have junior mints, all is right in the world. except a strange lack of easy conversation. check.
decide in my mad, mad world that all is awry and so must confess all insecurities and crazy ass shit that is only happening in my head to the poor schmuck ive only hung out with five times and thus scare and most likely alienate him completely. motherfuckingoddamnwhatheHELLiswrongwithyoumegan?-check.
p.s. charlie/jacob. ive tomorrow off. julia gave me the gift of phone cards. might you be home?
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Thursday, August 28th, 2003
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[which, i realize as im looking at this title, should be a regular log]... anyway:
ran into a fucking PARKED truck on my bike. fucked up the brakes, almost flattened my tire. and my right cheek has a goose egg the size of a... uhm... goose egg. HUGE and purple. HA!
bonus: found out, however that rivercity bikes offers classes on weds for bike up-keep. and its free! kick ass.
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Thursday, August 21st, 2003
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i am potentially hostile.
i wonder how these always begin with the word 'i'.
and what that matters. or means.
as i write this i know i am trying to find a way that explains that i feel dead.
not explain it in a real way: the lazy fat way (that proves im sitting here instead of getting up to get to work on time, that id rather push for something self-indulgent without meaning instead of doing something productive that is much better for me in the long run...
and the sick, funny thing is
(not funny, laugh out loud funny, but funny twisted irony, tinny nausea, i think my throat is on fire and my guts feel like distended corpses, their skins pressing, seeping against walls of rusted, hacked-off nails funny)
that i love my job.
OR: its the best job i could have right now that i can stomach, that gives me the flexibility of hours and the lack of responsibility and that kind of retarded, whitish grey monotony that keeps you working, working, working your hands without ever having to think... so i can daydream the whole damn day and just rip tickets off of clothes, or staple them to the sturdy edges, or match the numbers on the computer screen to the receipt the upper-middle class lexus driving bitches
[oh but they are all very nice, really, in that unaffected you're-not-really-a-person-but-ill-be-damned-if-im-not-tight-assed-polite-to-everyone-i-meet-besides-the-pan-handling-street-kids-and-the-transients-and-that-man-that-leered-at-me-on-the-street-yesterday-the-sick-fuck) kind of nice that's condescending and mopey and numb of intelligence]
have handed me. and i think, as i always do, 'how can you treat me this way? you know nothing about me.
i could be the next fucking henry miller for all you fucking know, i could have the greatest american novel stuck right here in my veins and you wouldn't know. i could be the most amazing cocksucker on the west coast, i could fuck your husband or your lesbian lover or your daughter or son into blinding ecstasy and you'd never even know. hell, i could have done it last year, last night, today at lunch. i could hold more intelligence and power than you've ever brushed your aura against. i could hold all the hope for new world in my fist. i could have a perfectly formed rib cage, to astonish doctors and sculptures for centuries. i could have the cure for AIDS, cancer, SARS, fibro myalgia, the common cold, and cystic fibrosis all under my skin.
i could be a doctor. i could be studying to be a doctor. i could be a massage-therapist, reiki master, yoga instructor, archaeologist in training. you might be on my table in ten months, needing me to assuage the pain given by the life-changing auto accident that severed your legs and most of your ingrained ideals.
i could be the finest artist you have ever known: ten years from now some white-hot vision will split my head in half and i will stroke with mania the pencils and brushes at a canvas for three years and give panting, horrible birth to a masterpiece that hangs in the halls of Michelangelo and Dali. that revolutionizes the world. that kills the republican party, that ends bigotry, misogynism, impotence, and world hunger.
i might know the one line: the curse, the blessing of breath, that could save your frail life at this very moment.
maybe i looked the way you would at my age, if you had lived my life. maybe i look like such hell because i haven't been sleeping. and i haven't been sleeping well at all lately. and maybe that's because the one person i've come even a shadow's breath close to falling thick, blind, ocean heavy in love with in five years beat the shit out of me three weeks ago and since then...
i just haven't felt alive since that night. it seems as if something huge and essential in me is broken. i can feel it rattling around, punching holes, and the weight of me caving-in without it...
i feel splintered like bone inside, and as if i'm literally wearing thin -- my skin refusing to renew, just cling and ash.
but maybe underneath the hallowed face i possess a passion and beauty so bright and terrible it would burn you alive to see it. and maybe that vision will work through my art and that art will work through the eyes of brilliant young people and change will come, oh yes, sweep in and knock the world down and there will be a total overthrow... because right now, the world is in need of a change, of a huge change, and maybe, indirectly, or very purposefully, i am at the ungiving, undying writhing heart of it.
or maybe i'm just a sweet girl that you'd want your son to meet at college, if i had different hair and a few expensive clothes. maybe i am stronger than you could ever imagine. or easy enough to please: maybe all i need is a beautiful young man dangerously smart that while he's slipping inside me will slip a hand over my throat and squeeze softly, whispering, "is this what you want?"
i could hold all of this and you'd never fucking KNOW bitch, so dont give me that look.
and then i think, 'oh, but you know nothing about HER, megan.' just to give balance. and i think, yes, thats right and feel sheepish. and hand her the change.
and as she pulls out of the parking lot in the enormous fucking stupid silver SUV, i have to wonder if she's really happy. really TRULY happy.
and how the fuck would i ever recognize that myself?
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Friday, August 15th, 2003
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case in point: i had sex in a fire engine [yes, IN the station, while the firemen were on a call] last night.
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dirty white skies.
i have spent the afternoon battling brambles for blackberries. the trip was a failure: i was released back into the forest unscathed, capturing only two handfuls of ripe fruit and one stained finger. without three dozen scratches, burgundy palms for a week, and a stew pot full of berries, it hardly seems worth the time.
the slow wander back from the baseball fields should have been soothing: kelly green leaves fluttering over my head as feet kept pace to the molasses drool of a sunday amble. fall has slid her hands over the nape of my neck: i taste her in the back of my throat, clench the ether heaviness in my chest… and where there should be a sigh, a reverence for solitude and sultry melancholy, i simply feel dead, chill despair.
this is the time that i ought to be throwing myself into school, art, a new project, a new job…learning to create with colors. learning to create new characters for my books.
the itch will tickle me, but it passes easily… and transmutes to worry. thick, hard worry, that is not overwhelming (thank god) but depleting…
i don’t feel tired, but i feel thin – as if the flesh and soul in me is emaciated down to muted heartbeats and shallow breaths
[oh, usually when i am hurting, there is this huge, ripe soreness: i can feel the outline of the hole –- as worn and painful as the sensation is, it is the substance >around< the abscess that senses the missing piece, screaming for its exposed, red, round, ragged edges…
lately, i just feel [i .am.] the hole. not even apathy (which has its own kind of weight, somehow). as if the girl inside has vanished and i am a walking shell.
[ or, rather, an empty house… the structure just as strong, but stripped of humanity, waiting for warmth and voices to fill it ]
the warehouse where i work is fucking me over. they shorted me last month, and are shorting me again this month. i kind of hate myself, and kind of don’t care that i do not want to fight them… that i will give a poor substitute of a fight at first and then just push over, not wanting to waste the energy when they argue back. i am not a revolutionary. it is a task to even stand up for myself … and money. christ. i hate arguing for money. i hate arguing. period. i would rather change the situation itself and annul the conflict than have to fight for what is rightfully mine. argh. conflict. what a /waste/.
even my bitterness is muffled. i walk around mumbling, ‘grr.’ anger, pining, motivated productivity… they all require more vigor and time than i am willing to part with.
i would like to do nothing.
not sleep. not eat.
just sit, and read, and sip tea, in my own house, with no one to bother me or request attention. id doodle postcards and titter out trivial short stories … munch on toast and honey. drift through september like a slow ship in fog.
never mind massage, romance, the waning fairness of summer … i want quiet, and the freedom of the recluse. (ack. why haven’t i a publisher? a shop where my drawings are as compulsively demanded as lattes?)
and: i miss colorado. i miss fall with silver blue skies and cold, cold nights. apple cider and corn mazes. east coast color wheels drenching the trees. swings and huge piles of crispy leaves. bonfires. hard, explosive sex. red dresses. laughing until my stomach /hurts/. a really, really, really fucking good kisser. someone to spin me on the sidewalk and obsess over my hands. amazing southern indian cuisine. a friend i hug goodbye. snow... real snow, falling lazy and fat. a coffee shop that knows my name, my drink, and my last three dating disasters. a big, healthy crush. new paints. new pencils. new books. a warm room with cold windows. green eyes. someone else's daughter, under 12: smart, sweet, in my company more than twice a month [i miss children... the amazing kind that don't scream on the bus, but astound and change you just playing in the same room you're sitting ]. movies outside my house. money to play with. tea. toast. honey. postcards. {knowing when to quit} ...
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Thursday, July 24th, 2003
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i have learned to be wary of people who find me via writing...
it seems a medium they at first thirst for, become enthralled with, regard me with something resembling awe: as if i am some kind of genuis, invoking the divine through slipknots of syllables.
perhaps they expect the skin casing of me to reflect outward an exact radiance... or to be something /more/; how often i find people distilled through writing... text the funnel through which the whole of their blood and spirit must attempt to drip through.
for me, it is one of a thousand doorways, one of which i am most adept -- taking all that pulses and writhes and breathes, and giving it voice. in speech, i am stumbling, stricken, half-numb, half-dumb...
i remember chris remarking off-hand (a kind of wonder under his eyes) how sometimes its hard to believe -- knowing me day in and day out, in the physical realm -- that i can create what i write. his tone insinuating that it was hard to believe i was /capable/ ... how that conversation has stuck and has scared me.
i fear now to disappoint.
do i honestly come off as such a dull, spitting moron? as if writing is the only way to prove there is any intelligence or life cursing under the veil of this stupid, unremarkable girl...
and these days it feels there is nothing left of even skin to entice (as if that has always been a kind of armor: beauty as a trump card, and i am lost without it)...
i hate. HATE. that paul told me so quickly those first few weeks how he loved my writing. hate that he called me a sub-genius, giving height to my hopes... and calling it, stating how different i am from my writing and that instant, stone hard agreement, "YES. You are /very/ different."
fuck! what does it matter? and if the writing is what you fell for...
why does the fascination always fade?
sometimes i wonder if i was built for a paper love. a ghost binded to script and sketches... or to play mute... my writing, the warmth of my hands, the only language given -- so they will not fail me.
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yes, the girl, thanks to jacob, has not a singular name with flat syllables but endearingly entitled with a series of stuttering, soft long notes...
there is a jumble of paragraphs to write of them (all of which ive conveniently left at home). and for them, time and attention... later. at the moment im subsumed -- as both will understand with every tingling fiber of their beings -- with the subject of my next post. oh, the rambling that will ensue...
jb? something i will add to your individual posts as they come: your writing has become so beautiful... engorged with love and light, it glows and glows and grows. kisses, both.
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* news from my end: matt? sockboy? devilishly handsome thing that i thought had tossed me away? found me on the bus the other day, insisting hed misplaced the number & had a friend of his searching for my ad (!) ... we /exchanged/ this time, with much enthusiasm on his part... and when i played hookey on tues. saw him about town and we chatted up for a healthy five minutes before we both confessionally exited our corners so as not to be late to our morning endeavors... matt pressing 'why dont i call you some time?' as we rattled off favorite hiking spots... the weather has been unearthly lately, and ive As in all classes... ~contended inhale~
oh, life is wonderful sometimes, isn't it?
brilliant move of the week: left my bike on the damn bus rack this morning, had to chase it all over C-tran today to get the damn thing back ~hyperbolic rolling of eyes~ what was i saying about my ambition to be valedictorian?
speaking of great loves, ww rocks my world again with this week's feature:i <3 bike.
(let’s get tautological with that tawdry, positive, life-is-beautiful schtick again, just to piss off the pessimists):
chocolate is on sale; i found two strapping young boys to move me for a few traded massages (sush! to the oregon boards!); my pores are tiny, my cheeks glowy... now all i need is a new vibrator and my soul will understand the true meaning of completion.
Happy Weekend!
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| Subject: | *sighsmirk-ish* a little too fitting, perhaps |
| Time: | 4:05 pm. |
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Switzerland -
A neutral power for as long as most can remember,
it has avoided war for several centuries.
However, it is still considered highly advanced
and a global power.
Positives:
Judicial.
Neutrality.
World-Renouned.
Powerful without Force.
Makes Excellent Watches, Etc.
Negatives:
Target of Ridicule.
Constant Struggle to Avoid Conflict.
Target of Criminal Bank Accounts.
Which Country of the World are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
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had an anxiety attack at tar-get yesterday, while browsing the sunglasses and shampoo – every time I picked up one sleek set of black globes or a pink sticky-sweet bottle, my heart would start to scream.
“Get Thee the Fucketh out of There!!!” the hormones wailed.
I consented. And ended up with moolah for my book, groceries, and rent to boot.
since my instincts have caught on that i’m finally listening – rearing their sage-like wrinkled little heads up from my infantile social growth – they throw down right temper tantrums when i try to ignore them. christ, what will puberty be like?
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inconsistently's journal