Archive for September, 2012

I guess I should have realized, since I watched my arm bleed
in slow motion
and knew that it wasn’t clotting instantaneously.

The bruise is still bigger than I thought it would be.

Your brother once wrote me a citation even though he wasn’t
a police officer.
He was convinced that I stole your pack of cigarettes.
So were you.

It wasn’t that you smoked.
It wasn’t that I didn’t.

It was that you lied to me.

I thought it was funny that your bother would play cop
with a make believe offense
because I had no need or want or motivation to take your cigarettes.
I thought it was funny that he would write out that citation
as if I’d give a shit
but also much more profoundly indicative of how we grew up:

He’s the one that bought them for you…which
uneventful as it was
actually constituted a real crime.

I kept that slip of paper for years.
Years after we stopped speaking.

Eventually, I threw it away, because I don’t like to think about you anymore.
I never enjoyed thinking about you
even when we were close.

I spent a long time hating myself for caring about you,
and sadly,
I did not take that contested pack of Marlboro Lights
even though you both “saw me” do it.

I think about that whenever I’m handed a real slip of paper
from a real police officer.

I had a bad day.
It happens.
What made it different than most bad days that I have was that I couldn’t regain my composure.

It slipped.
I had it, and then it was gone.

I’m still pretty sick.
I mean…I still think I care.
I still want to care.

I still want to acknowledge invalid sentiments.
I’m still delusional.

When I’m upset, the same shit surfaces.
It’s comforting, and I cling.

Even though I know there’s nothing.
I know there’s nothing.
I know you’re not there.

I know.

It’s just…It’s so unpleasant.
Can’t I just be sick?
Why won’t my mind just enervate?

Why can’t I just be sick?

Why do I prefer to struggle with a reality that never ceases to upset me?
A reality that provides no satiety.


oh yeah?

Posted: September 27, 2012 in otiose

You don’t have a choice.
You have to.

That’s very comforting.

No one feeds me the, “It will get better,” line.
I wasn’t born with that option.

I keep trying to make it happen for myself

but I’m a miserable fucking failure.

way too much stress

Posted: September 27, 2012 in otiose

My first impulse is to throw things, break stuff, and ruminate on killing something.
My second is to become uncharacteristically social and sleep with anyone within close range.
Third, eating…eating until throwing up.
Fourth; sedatives, liquor and complete abstention from food, socialization and sex.
Fifth, suicide.

These are my stages of coping that I count out on my hand.

Number five has obviously never been realized. I’ve been told it’s not a solution.
It sure is fucking tempting sometimes.

My eye has been twitching for four days.


Posted: September 23, 2012 in transliteration

My newest housemate bothers me.
I feel like I need to carry mace and my cell phone into my own kitchen.
I lock my door while I’m in my room.

I come home to windows shut
doors unlocked
lights on
and no one home.

He has been here less than a week, and I can’t stand him.

I hear the door open



I can’t sleep when I hear the doors opening and closing.
At all hours.

I know he doesn’t lock the door.

I already have two that hang out at the bottom of my steps.
There’s one that wanders over from the next door down
whenever I come out.

“What are you up to?”
“Where are you off to?”

It’s none of your goddamned business, and if you fucking follow me; I will put you in county lockup.

Don’t leave notes on my car.
Don’t knock on my door.
Don’t ask the neighbors about me.
Don’t fucking follow me.

Stop fucking following me.

It’s different when it’s inside.
Where I live.

I don’t want to bump into you every time I leave my room.
I don’t want to fucking talk to you.
I don’t want to see you.
I don’t want to smile and laugh at your inane prattling jokes.
I don’t want to invite you into my room.
I don’t want to suck your cock, and I am not sending mixed signals.

Yes, I live here.
No, I don’t live with you.

Take your “How you doin’?” hungry head to toe to chest assessment of me and shove it up your ass.

I’m so stressed out that I black out.
I’m missing chunks of time.

My dishes were done and there was a single dirty butter knife in the sink.
It took me two hours to realize that I did my dishes and I used that knife, and I only figured it out, because there was peanut butter on the knife and I could recall making toast. I could only recall making toast, because I hate having to use my toaster oven, and I hate having to use my toaster oven, because I hate having a toaster oven. I hate having a toaster oven, because I know I lost my toaster to a fucking asshole who forced me to move out of a reasonably good living situation two years ago. A living situation that has nosedived into this bullshit.

Fuck if I wouldn’t rather be homeless right now.
Stay away from me.
I don’t want to spend my lucid time accounting for gaps in my memory.

I won’t.

Just stay the fuck away from me.

Why you’re an asshole.

Posted: September 21, 2012 in otiose

It’s 73 degrees outside, so I opened the windows and turned off the air…which we keep at 72.
You not only shut all the windows and turned the air back on, but you moved my shit without asking.

Fuck you.

You just moved in. I cleaned that kitchen and made it functional. I keep it clean. That’s my shit in there. If you think for one second that I’m going to tolerate smoke billowing up from the stove every time I try to boil water and cockroaches everywhere because you’re a fucking slovenly asshole, you’ve got another thing coming, buddy.

Fuck you.

I live here, and I’m stuck here for five more months. Don’t be an asshole your second day in. Don’t fucking do it.


Posted: September 21, 2012 in otiose

Apparently, by the nuthouse music piping through my phone receiver at the moment, most people do not call their creditors inquiring about mysterious $20 credits on their accounts.

I, however, would like to know why anyone
at all
would give me $20 increments
for nothing
even if it is just a series of unauthorized electronic blips on the screen.

This from the girl currently restructuring her budget to live on little more than oatmeal for the next six months
to pay for a hit and run car dent.

Life is fascinating, isn’t it?


Posted: September 20, 2012 in otiose

You’re not a good writer.
Your fantasies are mundane, and your expression of them is not getting me off.

You should be ashamed of yourself; not for writing smut, but for failing to do it well.