Archive for the ‘transliteration’ Category

I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want
and you’re not going to successfully tell me any differently.

I eat a lot of shit
outside of my little domain
but even out there
I’m a boss

so fuck off.

I’m going to do what I want.

I’m going to fuck who I like.
I’m going to leave dirty dishes in the sink
and sleep during my time off.
I’m going to play fetch with the dog in the house
and I’m going to ignore when my family calls.

I’m going to eat ice cream for breakfast sometimes
and I may not work out at all this week.

I’m going to leave unfinished projects lying around
and I’m going to have plants growing under a light where
convention dictates a dining table should be.

I might not sweep up the dog hair each day
and maybe I won’t make the bed.

Cook your own dinner
and buy your own clothes
and shave your own hair
because I’m not shaving mine.

I don’t feel like doing the laundry right now
and I’m too tired to give you a massage.
I’ll read when I want.
I’ll eat when I want.
I’ll sleep when I want.
I’ll fuck when I want.

Surely this conversation was long overdue, but it’s done wonders for my overall mood.
Last time I checked, I’m not kept; and unless I am

fuck off.

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Dog

Posted: April 17, 2015 in transliteration
Tags: , ,

“So, what are we going to do if we get evicted?”

Who the fuck cares?  At this point they’re lucky I don’t burn it down out of spite.

My body has started to object to how much physical labor I demand from it daily, and I wish you dead every day.  Just fucking die.

The nights would not be complete without sirens.  It’s such a prominent part of the neighborhood that I can easily tune it out along with the sound of shots fired, and the low musical rumble of car audio base.  At some point having bullet holes–both incoming and outgoing–pepper the walls just becomes part of the decor.

I exaggerate.  There are only four bullet holes, and I screamed when they dropped in.

Sometimes, nice people just need more specific directions to the drug den across the street, three houses to the east, or in the west corner lot next door…depending on demeanor.  That’s fine, but get the fuck off my stoop and be on your way.

Please, don’t loiter in my backyard.  Cut through, but keep moving.  Despite what the fast food fucks sharing the lot line want you to think, this isn’t part of their thoroughfare either.

If getting a dog gets us evicted, when the neighbors can ram their car into our wall without consequence, I’m fine with that.

Believe is or not, my student loan debt isn’t going to dictate my surroundings forever, and an eviction from this wouldn’t fuck up my permanent record enough for me to give a shit.

Now…you said something about a dog?

chemical imbalance

Posted: September 4, 2014 in transliteration

Since early adolescence, I have been in and out of the care of many mental health professionals. I have seen counselors, psychotherapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists. I know the key variations delineating these titles. I have been hospitalized both inpatient and outpatient. I have had equally varied diagnoses and treatment regimens over the years both voluntary and involuntary.

When you tell me, “I have a chemical imbalance,” there’s no judgement here. I know that you’re familiar with the system. I recognize the language. I won’t look at you like you’re weak or sick or marred by an inferior genetic makeup.

I cope without treatment. It’s a personal choice that some doctors have supported and others have not. It’s not easy, and I’m certain it’s not always in my best interest. I wish you wouldn’t seek my advice on this, as if what I’ve done is a solution. I don’t know you. You say you don’t want to take your medication anymore and that your doctor advises against changing what has been sustaining your current state for over a decade…so you keep taking it.

I can’t tell you what’s best for you. Why do you want to stop taking your medication? Go back to when you started, and think about how and why you entered the system. Try to remember how your mind worked when it failed you. The things that are missing, the things that don’t work the same way on medication, don’t think about that. Think about the worst moments when your brain tripped every wrong wire. Wrong by your standards. Your mind left you where you didn’t want to be and didn’t leave you with the resources to change that. If you’re properly medicated, you won’t be able to simulate the intensity of those feelings. You might not even have those memories anymore, and the healthy mind wonders why you would want them.

If there’s something in you now that’s missing the worst of your worst…

I deal with my worst, because I don’t think the same way when in treatment. It’s a common gripe with mental health patients,but it bothers me. It bothers me more that, despite this construct trying to accommodate the proclivities of an individual, the whole point of treatment is change. It helps alter the links the mind makes. Even if it’s psychotherapy without any physical or chemical intervention at all, it’s meant to help adjust thought patterns.

I don’t want to do that.

I’m essentially an organic alcoholic: There’s not a problem. This is fine. Fuck you. Except, sure, I can see how you might see this as a problem. I don’t like it either, so it’s a problem. It’s not fine, but still. Fuck you. It’s my problem. You’re fine. Fine, I’m sick. Leave me the fuck alone. Fuck you.

Keep taking your meds. Balance your brain chemistry. There’s always going to be a little bit of dry drunk in there.
Always.

Didn’t they tell you?

It’s a disease.

shrug

Posted: July 26, 2013 in transliteration

I have no inclination to write lately.
As it turns out, I’m…happy?

Yes, happy.

Not just happy, morning sex happy.

I was there, too.

Posted: June 6, 2013 in transliteration

Exactly what kind of fence have I erected in my life?
Tell me again with that ever scrutinizing, perfect perspective.

He wore the same suit everyday, even after we knew he was unemployed for over a month.
He would wander up to the gas station to buy a 40, and he chose you, because you had access to a car.

You know that now, right?

He told me in the end, “I just want you to know I’ve never done heroin in my life,” even though I repeatedly tried to cut off the conversation by telling him I didn’t care, wasn’t interested, it didn’t concern me, and it was none of my business what he did or did not do.

He really wanted me to know.
He hated that I gave my time and consideration to a fuck up like you with a stand up guy like him right there.

You.

I sought you out.
I stayed with you in the pile of cans you passed out in next to your rotting mattress and fetid takeout containers.

With the carpet of roaches.

You always drank yourself stupid with him and told him he was so much better than the degradation we were all experiencing, but what you failed to see was that he wanted to be there.
He wasn’t going through a rough time working his ass off to improve with his dress shoes tapping up an optimists tune.
He wasn’t beaten into submission like half the washed up dropouts crawling through the halls.

I don’t think I need to clarify how I felt about him
or you.

Yeah, I still have to work my ass off almost everyday to keep it, but

I get to sleep when I want, eat what I want, listen to what I want
as loud as I want.
I can dance the way I want, naked in the kitchen if I want.
I can put whatever I want on the walls.
I can fill the place with plants and books.
I can talk to my bird, and ignore all phone calls and knocks on the door.

This house is my world.

morning sickness

Posted: May 7, 2013 in transliteration

I don’t know how to find you anymore, and that’s probably for the best.
Sometimes I still think about you, but it’s not consumptive anymore.

I confused Tolstoy with Dostoevsky last night and lost a bet

You work harder than I do, but you haven’t brushed your teeth in at least three days.

I used to knock on a stranger’s door every day
several times a day
until she didn’t feel like a stranger anymore
even though she never answered.

It was a compulsion.

There are still half naked pictures of you here from ten years ago
frozen in pixels.

We’re getting so old now.

I don’t wake up wishing you were someone else.
After I drop you off, I want to go back to sleep,

but I can’t.