the woman behind the myth/titties:

I'm back from a month and a half trip I took by myself through Europe. The countries I visited (in chronological order) were Spain, France, Germany, Greece and Italy. The experience can't really be reduced to words. The things that occurred did so intensely in my body. My feet bled, I felt faint from heat, got a heat rash, froze in the cold, licked dried salt off my shoulders. That type of living can change one's aesthetics of morality. I felt limber. When nothing is expecting of you anything is possible, there's less reason to hide.

Overseas, dynamics in relationships are malleable. The minute someone overstepped a boundary I didn't even hesitate, I disappeared. Control-- I felt more entitled to take what I wanted. There were some moral qualms with this, of course, which I far from tortured myself over. My life has always had a certain element of fantasy. There are memories I have from my childhood that I, at least in a small part, know aren't actually real. Accuracy and relevancy to truth isn't always what's important, and it certainly isn't important in terms of shaping the body. So there it is: these friendships, these tender glances and heart-felt late-night talks, they are all a part of my fantasy, and there is really no need to moralize a dream. Let's not lie to ourselves: real relationships have something at stake, they need to be able to transgress time. It almost seems banal to keep in contact with the people I met. Paris won't be Paris again the way it was, and sharing a beer won't have the same effect. These events were stagnant, locked, and soon enough I won't even remember the faces of the people I met. I do wonder, however, with a mixture of excitement and terror, what marks the trip has left on my flesh and how they will develop.

More often than I believe is probably healthy I find myself thinking, "How ought I feel about this?" without giving concern to how I actually feel. The necessary step of checking-in-with-myself is totally left behind. I think that's because my natural reaction to feeling overwhelmed is to completely turn off my feelings. There's too much to say, too much to feel, better to just not and say we did, right? Life is simply too absurd to obsess over sometimes; there's no good that will come from trying to create an ordered meaning. If I had to describe how it felt to be back in Los Angeles, though, I'd have to admit that I am beyond fucking terrified of this homeless/jobless limbo I'm in and that the thought of falling into a routine again or having responsibilities (particularly being responsible for other people and their feelings) makes me want to vomit bile while gauging my eyes out with the blunt end of a knife. All in all, that's pretty normal. This shit (growing up) is pretty fucking exciting, and I wouldn't change anything about it.

I like how this entry just turned into me giving myself a pep talk. GET IT, GIRL!

I can't pack because every time I put one thing away I will mechanically take it out of box where I just put it and stare at it for minutes, thinking of where it came from, who it reminds me of, where it will go. I don't know how Eddie packed all of his things into a tiny car and moved to Chicago. I really don't. I kept asking him if he was excited, scared, constipated, anything. He was always so neutral. I obviously panicked, "This is our home, and you're leaving it. How can you not be terrified?" All he had to say was that he knew it was going to be ok.

Today I had my first ever mini mental breakdown in the storage aisle of an Office Max. Maybe that sentence is misleading: I have had numerous panic attacks in my life, but none were set in a fluorescent lighting high ceiling wrapped up in plastic purgatory. My mother was on the phone with me and we were trying to decide what to do with my bed once I move to an unknown city where all my anxieties will vanish and I can blossom into a wonderful old man with a beer gut. The thing is, my mother and I are both Aquarians, so this complicates my situation dramatically. Aquarians get very attached to objects. She said to me, "You're sad because you grew fond of your bed."

She's right. I read countless books while laying in this bed, written papers, journal entries and poems; I've cried multiple times while clutching its floral cushion headboard, I've had two different boyfriends accidentally throw up on it. It's where we fell in love and tore each other apart.

And yet it still doesn't make sense to me that of all the things that could preoccupy me at this crucial time in my life I'm worrying about a bed. My bed is a shitty Ikea bed. It's pretty, yes, but it slants to one side and that happened to be the side I always slept on when I was with that one guy. It made me feel like I was going to slowly roll into the abyss that is the crevice between one's bed and one's wall. So screw my bed. It's slanted and dumb and I don't even like flowery things anyway. But I grew fond of it. Just like I grew fond of a lot of silly things in this town: a strawberry farm, a downtown area that is one street long (fucking stupid), a boy. Since I can't take any of those with me, I'm guessing I just made up my mind: the bed comes with me.

It's all Glee's fault. I'll spit it out: I'm dissatisfied. How come nobody expresses their deep love for me by bursting out into song? How come none of the guys I know have six packs? Or ask me out on a date (I promise we can go dutch-- having dudes pay for my meals makes me feel like a prostitute anyway)? How come romance has disintegrated into late-night drunken ramblings and waking up after three weeks of partying to find yourself somebody's girlfriend? It's like nobody is interested in impressing each other anymore. There's no drama, nothing really at stake. "Let's keep things lax." Once a girl, trying to ask me how long I'd been sleeping with my partner, asked me, "How long have you guys been hanging out?" I didn't really understand what she meant.

I was complaining about this to some of my girlfriends when one of them, clearly agitated, told me to shut the fuck up, "Even I came onto you." I was embarrassed. I wanted to tell her that trying to sext me while she was drunkenly trying to hook up with a guy I know wasn't incredibly settling and didn't make me feel particularly special, but instead I just sat there like a moron and shrugged.

I've thought about this a lot. I've considered the fact that perhaps the fact that I'd like somebody to make me feel "special" means that I rely too much on other people to feel good about myself. I ruled that one out because I believe the desire for romance has come from a deep-seeded understanding that I am pretty cool and deserve someone who would be down with frolicking with me and staring into my eyes and, if you're going to puke on my stuff while I'm asleep, at least you can offer to wash the stuff you puked on the day after-- not that that's happened to me or anything... with two different guys.

I've also considered the fact that maybe my 10-year-old-boy sense of humor turns guys off to the idea of asking me out, then I read this study and was relieved to find that men actually like women who have "guy humor"-- whatever the fuck that is! Therefore, the fact that I am disarmingly funny cannot be the reason why Finn won't ask me to prom.

The fact of the matter is-- at least according to me-- that everyone's trying to turn each other on instead of actually attempting to get close to a person. Being in love is boring, idealistic and, ultimately, disappointing. Yes, it sucks. Time and time again it really sucks. You get close to a person and the next thing you know you're daydreaming about singing Adele to him in a crusty smoky bar so that, you know, he could finally understand just how much he hurt you.

To me, it's all worth it. To me, it's exciting to think about the perfect present for him, the perfect meal to surprise him with, something new to do to turn him on. Maybe people simply don't realize how vulnerable you feel doing these things for them, maybe they don't care, but I'm still waiting for the day that I fall for someone who won't express their feelings solely via text. Someone who remembers my coffee order, the way Blaine remembered Kurt's.

The joys of womanhood:

Feeling like your going to kill yourself for a week out of every month for at least 30 years (moreso now because of all the obese children) and having your only salvation being that the flood gates of hell are going to open between your legs. Keeling over because of the pain in your sexual organs that also tends to create the most pleasant I'm-about-to-shit-myself sensation because of the closeness of said organs to your bowels. Going to the bathroom thinking you'll feel better afterwards and realizing all you have in you is piss. Wiping yourself and taking in the smell of urine and blood. Nauseating. Throw up, bloody up, fuck those were my favorite panties. At least when I'm in my late 40s this will all end. Then all I'll be worrying about is plucking my mustache and osteoporosis, my tits coming down to my knees. That's what we can all look forward to.

So yeah, my Advil hasn't kicked in yet.

My hands look like clay. In fact, I'm pretty sure they aren't real. Tonight couldn't have been real either. Drinking alcohol faster than the other dame I was with; she was on her second drink, me my sixth. Politely excused myself from the table to go to the faulty bathroom and fill my stomach to the brink with a mix of ibuprofen, celexa, temazepam. I died in that bathroom, among a leaking faucet and a dispenser out of paper towels. I must have been so selfish, but.

Lately I've been doing this super awesome thing that I really like a lot. Basically these are the steps to a good time:

1. Go get breakfast somewhere nice. Drink mimosas with secret admirer.
2. Get annoyed at service being too slow, world traveling too quickly in space (space is creepy), magma under my feet, need more mimosas.
3. Panic on my way home because of my love-hate relationship with this cave that was supposed to be a one year rental for me to rush through but has slowly crept into becoming my three-year apartment.
4. Admire my four white walls, my two pale palms, glowing empty sheets of paper before me.
5. Drink more until I pass out, which is usually around 8 pm.

Putting a price tag on something doesn't give it value, it is the creation of banality and the actions marks the death of that thing as having revolutionary potential. That's why I show my tits for free.

Dear Ma,

For the past couple weeks I've been having intense synesthetic episodes. Simply admiring a photo of our old Tuscan villa will send me into a dizzy spell in which I am taken by the scent of figs, pines and those crunchy sun-soaked rocks that lined our driveway. The odor of your mother-in-law's house will suddenly overcome me while I do the most mundane of tasks. I try to concentrate; my forehead will tense as I desperately cling to what is left of the smell. I'm sure I look like a damn idiot. What is it that sets this off, Ma? I will leaf for hours through my music collection, trying to find that song that most encompasses my time in Italy, but I always come out empty handed.

There is no home in this country. There is no familiarity. Every year I am here I disappear more. The girl I am sculpting is no product of historicity. Ma, I have become every bastard woman who has ever been deserving of blasphemous poetry and the scorn of a million evil eyes. Bastards find it easier to mold themselves into the what an other might wish for. Grotesque, unclean, coo-cooing ghosts. Men and women whisper fantasies of leaving their lovers for a ghost-- grandiose tales of never leaving the confines of a tiny studio, feeling their bastard writhe under their hand as she is crafted into a perfect new lie. We are not people who feel, we are people who inspire others to feel, to create. The artist constructs for us the perfect world of disinvolvement, and we float in it.

Ma, you have been left for another woman, so tell me: What would you think of me now? Am I an idealistic fool or is there maliciousness behind my acts? Is it too late to come back home? Would I even recognize our old house if I saw it in a picture with others?

Please help me shed some light on this matter as soon as possible.

Yours,
GCB

"For being such a babe you're kind of a dumb fucker."
- my friend talking about me when it comes to courting men

On a different note, writing this master's thesis is proving to be harder on my cuticles and waistline than it is on my brain.

I can't wait to be done just so I'll stop nervously shoving muffins in my face and biting myself raw. Tonight I'm giving myself a break: wine and youtube.

me: he's just really honest and considerate and he makes me feel comfortable
edbury: i don't think i've heard you say that about another human being in a long time


sad/awesome.

Dreamt cars were tearing me apart in the middle of a busy boulevard. This was seconds after my body was flung from a bus. Woke up feeling like I was on my way to a funeral. I ceremoniously brushed my teeth, brushed my hair. Put on my mother's shroud and went to class. Spoke some words, lost my train of thought.

On the drive home I realized something important while I was crying: this isn't my funeral, it's the one for all the people I've ever loved who have never existed.

This was not the first time I had been run over. In preschool I vividly remember staring calmly up into the sun as I was getting pummeled by wheels. But who is to say I survived? I've asked my mother to remember that day with me, but I always forget her recounting of it. I search through my brain for evidence that this trauma really did occur, but I can't see myself with bloody lips or broken teeth. What are these events that never happened, and where are they from. Who is this person that I spent my days with, and did he resemble you in any way.



I am terrified to find out what it is that I am hiding from myself, so I live a fantasy?
WHAT THE FUCK.

These new hands feel like on my flesh; it's not in the fingertips, it's the pressure. It's knowing exactly how to birth a woman under fleshy palms. It's caressing the face-- the simple gesture that a man may often forget while too busy ravaging the body.

There's love in those new hands, a true différance of meaning. They haven't yet become callous from working every day on a body that needed more. And so it is as simple as that: words might seem reassuring, but hands cannot lie.

TLC explains this point purrfectly:

this weekend, in chronological order:
- lost the last marble
- got my heart ripped out of my chest and shit on
- was able to talk myself down from doing what i wanted to do, which was to wreck havoc. sat on a couch and actually meditated while everyone else around me was wrestling and yelling. i was really proud of myself for about 30 seconds until...
- threw up on myself
- realized that people like me
- didn't do the "bad" thing and fuck someone
- got called "cute", which makes me feel a lot safer than being called "hot" and in this instance made my face contort into a smile
- gave myself permission to lick my wounds

i feel like i should write all this down on my hand so i can remember it easier. there is something deep and meaningful to be learned from all this, i just can't pinpoint what that is yet.

Today I went to see my psychiatrist for the first time in ten months. She was twenty minutes late to see me but made up for it by vividly remembering things about me: the funny spelling of my name, my glasses, my fascination with Drano. I did not remember much about her except for the fact that she irked me, especially when she compared me to Janis Joplin. I even had a conversation about this matter with my friend Bryan yesterday.

Me: She told me that meeting me reminded her of seeing Janis Joplin in concert.
Bryan: That's not good.
Me: How did she die again?
Bryan: Of old old age.
Me: Thank you.

When I left my session I saw a woman standing in the psychiatrist's waiting room and had the most extreme flash of tenderness towards her spirit that I could ever feel for another human.

Many moons ago I became devastatingly fascinated with a homosexual in a class of mine. The whole class used to go out for drinks after our three hour discussions, and in the dark bar filled with plush couches I used to try to get this man's attention by asking him what his thoughts were on lesbians, Lacan and the revolution. His indifferent attitude toward me and ability to say the word "cock" without hesitation were definite turn ons. However, there was another man in the class with us who was not so indifferent toward me. This is the man who ruined the year of the woman in the waiting room.

As I was chasing after a man who had no interest in me or my sex, this other man was spending most of his time trying to get to know me. He even asked me what my high school was like. After a while his attempts to catch my attention finally paid off and we went on a date. He told me of a recent ex who was desperately trying to get him back, and the awkward position of a man who wants to fuck but his sense of duty gets in the way. Actually, he told me a lot about himself. Every now and then he would catch himself and say something along the lines of, "I am talking so much," then ask me a question. I would answer with one syllable and then beg for him to continue his story. I don't whore myself out to questionnaires.

And then his birthday rolls around. Imagine my embarrassment and horror when I realize that a boy I hardly know but am trying to get to know through the awkward experience of dating is having a birthday party. I show up, sit next to him, try to have fun. Toward the end of the night, when this guy is already pretty drunk, the waiting room woman shows up. I have never seen her before, and I hate her immediately. She speaks softly in a determined voice, never faltering to get her point across. She sits across from him, but eventually he moves to sit next to her so he can casually stroke her hand. At the end of the night I am seriously perturbed. I don't want to see those people again, I don't ever want to see anybody again. He sends me a text the next morning to apologize that I had to meet his ex in such an inconvenient way.

I haven't thought about any of them in a long time. I understand that we are all merely human, and that we're all just trying to get by. Malicious intent is rarely a motive, unless one has to do with someone truly vicious. I can't get the image of her standing in the waiting room out of my mind, though, and I hope that she's ok.

"you just went through a break up though."

actually i went through a break up four months ago and have yet to go out on any date of any fucking kind. fancy that.

I bought over a hundred dollars worth of make-up this weekend,



probably should have spent the money on food.

Silly girl.

Went out for a walk the other day and all of the sudden was enveloped by the fog. It was really beautiful.












On a side note, I just noticed something very amusing/awesome/slightly worrying/deviously wicked about myself. The three things that are at arm's reach from my bed at all times? Lube, chocolate and a book (these days it's most likely some Deleuze).

All the TAs for my class are upset because they believe that they are going to be overworked in two weeks. Not only does the professor we are TAing for require us to attend a 45 minute meeting with him before class once a week, which is pretty unorthodox, he wants us to schedule a 90 minute midterm review section for the students. On top of that, we will have 40 papers to grade in the span of three days, after which we will receive 40 midterms that he wants us to grade in one and a half days. It seems like this could lead to a breach of our contract, which says that we can only work 8 hours a day, 40 a week. This professor is notoriously an 'asshole' to his TAs. From what I have heard, he simply gets frustrated when TAs do not follow directions correctly. He is meticulous, deliberate. All the other TAs are afraid of him, which is absolutely idiotic. One of them simply said that he was going to try to grade the midterms in time and, if he didn't, he would just not give them back to the students. What people don't understand is that when you're fighting someone who is in a position to have more power over you, there is no way for you to have this struggle outside of the power's framework. There can be no action that arises out of this context of power that sets certain guidelines. In other words, if you don't turn the papers in on time, you will end up looking like the asshole. What you can do, instead of complaining and bitching and fucking around, is to talk to the union administrator and help him/her get a better contract for TAs OR set specific limits with the professor as the course is starting out as to how long you should take to grade each paper, etc. People underestimate the power of accuracy and diligence, and I'm sick of unproductive discussions with fellow workers that just end up in a huge bitch fest.

"Coming out" as a heterosexual woman who enjoys sex: the awkwardness of having the first boyfriend meet the family, the heartbreak of fucking a man just because you wanted to, the confusion of loving a woman with a pretty face. They're all things that most heterosexual men don't understand; they might want to make you hate yourself.

There's this guy that every once in a while I will fantasize about dating. I have only met him a couple of times and every time I've seen him I've been a horrid bitch, but I heard through the grapevine that he likes me. Last time we saw each other was at my brother's wedding, during which I made an ass out of myself. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, vomiting in a garbage bag, stealing beers from other wedding guests. When I'm under pressure I freak out and I drop the ball completely. Without fail, I will fuck up. Maybe it's my unconsciousness trying to manifest how freakishly tormented it is at the moment by destroying everything in its path, maybe I just like to party too much-- who knows.
The thing about this guy is, we have nothing in common. I know this, obviously, because I check his facebook every so often. He loves football (or any sport for that matter), grilling, living in big cities, looking confidently into a camera and smiling, and hiking. These are normal man things, which sounds amazing for me at this precise moment. Simple things to give us comfort in our home, but obviously a modern couple on-the-go. I'm already imagining what the interior design of our kitchen would look like.

Apparently something about INFJs is that they are always lost somewhere in the future, building fantasy worlds out of mere possibilities, and we are therefore very romantic and idealistic. I think it's fascinating that I can be categorized. I'M NOT A DELUSIONAL STALKER I'M AN INFJ, GET IT? The sad thing is, this makes it incredibly difficult to fall in love with someone for who they really are; I'll be a million light-years away, completely overlooking them.

"Now it is over life, throughout its unfolding, that power establishes its dominion; death is power's limit, the moment that escapes it; death becomes the most secret aspect of existence, the most "private." It is not surprising that suicide-- once a crime, since it was a way to usurp the power of death which the sovereign alone, whether the one here below or the Lord above, had the right to exercise-- became, in the course of the nineteenth century, one of the first conducts to enter into the sphere of sociological analysis; it testified to the individual and private right to die, at the borders and in the interstices of power that was exercised over life."

- Michel Foucault, History of Sexuality: Volume I

I like to imagine that this passage is a love letter to Durkheim.

Take the power back, aka kill yourself.

"baby, why do you bother?"
-ere iv


Jolted at 8:30, ready to devour. Hands twitching, mouth groping, toes strained. Hungry, greedy neck. Dreamt about greedily grabbing love handles and eyes that turned from a deep, rich burnt auburn to a festering pool of rotten pits.
Guzzling orange juice because they say it helps your high; orange juice sounds really good right now.

Dear LJ,

I find it increasingly silly to discuss the events of my life on a public forum. Not because I am embarrassed or shy, but because I have lost my ability to find said events humorous. I am still the funniest person in the world, but I find no solace in my blog at this time.

There was a period where I would get to the end of a story and feel productive, invigorated, completely drained, vulnerable, capable. I'm still writing stories in my head, but they don't make it to my keyboard anymore-- such lingering moods have yet to find a way to be explained adequately. For example, how am I supposed to discuss the compromised situation of a desperate mix between Peter-Pan idealism and embittered estrangement who balances roles as sex object, care taker, friend, teacher, deranged lover and hates the very confinements that allow her to be a social animal without reducing myself to a banality?

My main goal for the next couple of weeks is to be the very best at everything in the world. In the meantime, I want to track down Brett Anderson and have his babies.



Plan of attack roughly includes: tracking him down, seducing him over spiked coffee, making out, starting to cry, explaining to him my troubles, him giving me a hug and telling me about his exciting life as a 90s icon, sex, then fleeing the country to get married.

On a final note, my brother is actually scared that I might meet some man and get married to him after two weeks of knowing him after having already been knocked up, which I think is a great compliment.

Your friend,
GCB

I'm wondering if the last scene of the utterly depressing movie Mammoth was intended to be funny. After her nanny moves back to the Philippines upon hearing news of her son being molested, Michelle Williams cuddles with her husband who just cheated on her with a Thai hooker and says, "We're going to need to find another nanny." At this point I crack up and think to myself, "Wow, Moodysson must be making some really striking commentary on how vapid Americans are with their globalization and their fancy SoHo studios." Instead, I am surprised when the end credits roll and "The Greatest" by Cat Power starts to play. What the fuck? So am I actually supposed to feel bad? Sure, these people are confused and knee-deep in white guilt, but does this mean I should mourn for their mediocrity? Moodysson has apparently stated that he is too old to judge others, so I am supposing he purposefully did not want to moralize his own story. I respect that, let your audience do the thinking. Still, the soundtrack clearly strived to leave at least a little bit of feeling in the viewer. Maybe the problem is that this is a movie about a young family in New York City and the person who wrote it is an old dude from Sweden. He's not too hip with the American music. Apparently he loves Ladytron, though.

I am having more trouble getting back to normal than would be expected (which is saying a lot). While there have been some important conversations that could have swayed me in the general direction of be-more-mellow-you-expect-too-much-out-of-life-anyway, I still wash my hands every time I touch anything. The fact of the matter is, I cannot be taken anywhere, but it's not my fault because if somebody does not understand the subtleties of my poop jokes, then they are obviously the ones with sad lives. Stuck in the process of relearning how to live the civilized life, I have whole-heartedly devoted myself to the following activities:

1. Getting rid of the yeast on my back.
("Don't worry, CVS employee. This anti-dandruff shampoo will never touch my scalp. It's just for my back.")
2. Reading ONTD every day, aka filling up my hard drive with Inception memes.
3. Watching every episode of True Blood as it comes out.
4. Hating most things, including Mad Men, sneezing puppies, and chauvinism.
5. Replacing the word "funny" with "funky" in all my sentences. E.g., "Misogyny is, like, so NOT funky."

There should be a handbook on how to live your life. I would buy it instantly and just turn my brain off completely. I could probably do that now, as I have a fairly good understanding of what is wrong with me. I could simply alter my expectations, my moral standings, my comfort levels, be a good-natured bff to every one. Oh man, that sounds so icky.

Even if you did love me more than every note of song ever written, i still couldn't ask it of you. The world I live in is macabre and lonely-- what a fool you were to make yourself vulnerable. There is no force of wind that can sway me.

i went to goddamn italy. i stayed there for not one, not two, but three goddamn fucking weeks. i was with my fucking mother. it was great. i read raymond chandler on the beach and was bombarded with katy fucking perry shit.










then i came home and got to see my amazing boy. here is a picture of the two of us cuddling:



i am still acclimating myself to being around people. in italy, i could pretend i didn't know how to speak the language. or simply just not move my mouth. i created an entirely new world in my head that i'm overwhelmingly excited to share with my therapist and sat in my bed for hours listening to music by myself. now there are people everywhere and i have to be overly nice to them so that they think i don't have an attitude problem. it's a big shift in my time/space continuum.

"Giulia Benicivenga's articulate, clear-headed, and dynamic presence in my course was the mere surface undulation of her unfathomable intellectual curiosity and precocity. Widely read and confident in her principled thought, Giulia was also conscientious about her arguments, and we frequently had wide ranging conversations in office hours in relation to film (she was the only student to the take up the formidable challenge of explicating Jean Luc Godard's Notre Musique) and literature. The culmination of these conversations was a her eloquent and deftly handled critique of French philosopher Alain Badiou's "Manifesto of Affirmation," a transhistorical take on artistic production. Concentrating on the privileged left-wing political aesthetic in Badiou (though his is not a predictable one), Giulia teased out Lenin and a variety of other subtleties in the "Manifesto" before making a surprising turn to Locke's emphasis on immediate sense perception as a way of undermining the idealist egalitarianism in Badiou's aesthetics and politics. She wrote several other excellent papers, including a stirringly evocative personal essay. A singular student with the intellectual tools for the long-haul, she is one of the most engaged and brilliant students I've encountered teaching at both the University of Iowa and UCSC."

If only I were as smart/could make my professor want to have sex with me as much as when I was 17.

This has been the weirdest weekend of my life. I find myself analyzing everything, looking to catch the moment when I can feel the love I've felt. Yesterday I woke up, got coffee with my sister and mother and there was an atomic explosion in Sara's cappuccino. The cute grad student sitting next to me was threatening, and there was a transvestite sitting to my right. Completely absurd, and a bitter taste in my mouth. Spewing harsh words, seeing fire everywhere. Then I fell asleep last night seeing diamonds on my ceiling. I didn't want anybody, I didn't need anything. I felt adequately cuddled and content. When I woke up this morning I tried to stop my brain, but my tears just won't quit. I'll be ok. It will be a little less every day, then before you know it I'll be a sexless cyborg and I'll think of these times and shake my head at myself.



I keep trying to post things but they're always too hard for me to reread and I just end up posting them as private. Nobody needs this dirty laundry aired out in their friend page! But I've been writing nonstop, so it's a good thing. A caress, a look of the eyes: these are the things I want to remember, that I will cherish.

Went to Lulu's this morning for a Mother's Day coffee with my mommy and sissy. My mother said, "why do you push people away?" and I scowled. We sat next to a boy that kept glancing over, he was reading a book about something smart. We spoke about him loudly in a foreign language, and Sara kept trying to take his picture. "You should ask him what he's doing later," she said. No, thanks. He checked me out and I tried to make my nastiest face at him possible. Then we started talking about the odd couple sitting to my right, one of the pair being a woman, and the second component a man dressed as a woman. They were in their fifties, far too old to be fooling around like that. We all joked and started laughing, but my laughter was deeper and went on for much longer. I couldn't stop myself and I laughed for a good two minutes without stopping. My family's eyes watched me with wide eyes and gaping mouths. I stopped and tried to compose myself. "So. Should we go?" Sara asked.

I'm jealous of your sheets. They get to feel you stretch, watch you wake up in the morning. I'm jealous of your pillow case.
I want to be the air between your fingers, that fills your lungs, that oxidizes your blood.
We can pass through time zones and fly across country borders. We can catalogue the way the sun looks from here and there. We'll write a book about it, we'll work together. Writing, editing, deleting, scorching. I'll be the pages you write on; the one whose skin is rewarded with your etches. Eventually your marks will hurt, and we'll look down to find blood on my skirt. Vultures will start to swarm above, and, as they're picking away at the remainders of my skin, I will be perfectly content.

If only John McCauley from Deer Tick knew just how much he fucked up my life. Relationships with musicians are generally one-sided, which I completely accept. This is because, in the normal relationship between fan and band, one can: obsess over one track while doing the dishes, crying and shitting and and sorting out your life. It's a reliable friend that you never have to even ask to come over. The person who you've found to have the same sensibilities as you, the same taste in molding (a light shade in an ogee pattern perhaps?). Of course, an artist may have to make some sacrifices for you. There might be some introspection involved. It's all a spooky process, I'm sure; but I don't have to see any of it. I keep my distance. Even at shows you feel like there can't possibly be any way for you to communicate with the artist just how much she has supported you, so you keep it to yourself.

Except with John, because he was here and he made a fucking mess. He made a mess and left, and I'm beginning to wonder if he even really exists. Maybe it was just a bad dream.

Long story short: I was disappointed and angry, everybody else was loud on drugs, and now some gnarly bro wants to kill my boyfriend.