29.0

I have this problem with books.

I love them. Oh, I love them so much. They sing me to sleep and they jolt me awake all in the same page. They are the vehicle with which authors can make the world fall in love with them 300+ times in a row. But I can't finish them.

The best feeling in the world is when you can snag a book from your bag and flip it to its middle section to begin reading. The middle section is always the best section of the book. It's the checkpoint in the relationship, it shows that you are past well acquainted and now having dinner conversations with the characters in your head when six o'clock rolls around and you happen to be eating alone. But getting to the middle section is hard, because you have to get past the first half of the book.
Now that's honestly no problem. Reading is reading. It just feels so strange to not get past the 20th page of a book after 1 week.

There are some answers to this phenomenon. One is that I've gotten to be a slower reader. I have, to some extent, changed the pace at which I eat books. I used to devour them. I'd be Swallowing 300+ pages without even chewing as opposed to munching on a word 10 times and letting the flavor coat my mouth before moving on to the next one. So yes, I have gotten slower. I'd like to say this is because of how insightful I've gotten over the years (2 1/2) during which this pace change took place, but honestly, I think it's because my IQ and attention span have deteriorated tremendously and I can no longer identify the flavor of prose if I don't read over it a couple of extra times.

However, I HAVE gotten more insightful. The realization of my actual IQ level proves it. To have access 300+ pages of someone's brain and then to greedily scarf it down without a pause for even a sip of water seems extremely insolent. Completely counter-productive, in fact. The whole point of books is communication, sending a message. And maybe the message will be something super simple like "Everybody makes mistakes", but the way Victor Hugo communicates that message is TOTALLY different from the way Miley Cyrus does. Les Miserables is not meant to be acknowledged only during the chorus. It is not meant to be over in 3 minutes. It's not meant to be scarfed down. It's not meant to be quick.

28.1

I’m a menace to poetry. I exploit it, I dement it, I ruin it. I shouldn’t call what I write “poetry”. I shouldn’t call it anything. But alas, I do. Because sometimes I’m a bitch. Especially to literature.

But I guess it doesn’t really matter since no one will ever read it and I won’t have any angry Robert Frost fanboys/girls engulfing me with silly critiques and rants. Though I wouldn’t blame them. Hell, I don’t even like Frost and I would do the same to someone like me.
You gotta love privacy.

Yet, most of the time we don’t. We hate privacy. We want—no, NEED – to make everything public. We feel naked if we’re not exposed. We clad our ostentation in Helvetica and a cool blog name. We’re all just little attention whores who inject ourselves with coffee and stay up late so we can be original. Or at least tell ourselves we are.

It’s ok, though. Who am I to bitch about my own people? Well… Nevermind. I’m allowed. Just like we’re all allowed to bitch about our family.

At the same time though, it’s like we’re the ultimate superheroes of our contemporary literary culture. The ubiquitous exploiting of poetry, burning out of free-verse, miming of thoughtfulness. We’re pop art but with words. A lot of people argue that Andy Warhol is the best thing that happened to art and a lot of people say he’s the stupidest thing that happened to art. That’s kind of like us. A precious few have a method to their madness, but most of the time none of us know what the hell we’re doing. We puke on the keyboard and call it art. Why? Where does that leave everyone else? With a bunch of mental bulimics who call themselves brilliant. We could always shoot us to the moon. I always liked that idea.

28.0

Sometimes I hate breaks. Gone is my motivation to do anything along with my social life. This is what I get for being a lazy butt with rich friends. Well, they're not rich, but they go skiing and snowboarding and crap during winter break leaving me at the foot of the mountain in a puff of my own exhales.

I literally can't be bothered to do anything during these times except for eat incessantly, watch movies or walk to nowhere and come back again. I always run into a problem with each of these things, and when I have a problem with all of them I end up sitting on my couch poking my belly.

I always resort to eating first. But even I have my limits. It's usually right after I've eaten my whole weight in raisins or pistachios when I realize that I'm doing something stupid. So I put away the munchies and decide to walk it all off. So I bundle up in every sweater and scarf that I own, warm my ears with my earbuds and head for somewhere while I thank Gosh for blessing me with a suburban home.

I could easily be running errands for my mom, but I don't because I usually don't tell her I'm going out until I'm already out and she texts me asking where I am. I'll head to the library and read a magazine, I'll head to the Smiths and not buy anything. Lately I visited Blockbuster for the first time since Netflix was born. Just another office space sparsely lined with "trendy" titles and overpriced movie theater candy. Two or three employees clad in blue, (both literally and figuratively)filling their remaining hours with heavy sighs. I shouldn't have gone, it was more depressing than the out of business sale at Borders. (Actually, scratch that. Borders was more depressing because it was as if the carcass belonged to the family dog and we turned into vultures regardless.)But when it finally does go under, I think I'll pay my respects.

I eventually have to come back. My mom isn't negligent, so she does call as soon as it gets dark asking me to come home so I don't get eaten. I obey because it's getting cold anyway, even though I know when I get home I'll gravitate towards the couch again.

And I do. With a movie. But I have a love-hate relationship with movies. I used to be able to watch 2 hour movies no sweat. I also used to be able to finish 300 page books (with normal spacing) in one day. I could focus like no one's business. Not anymore. I don't know what happened to me but it's stripped me of the little patience I had. I used to appreciate even bad movies, but I can't stand them anymore. I've ejected a DVD within the opening credits once. But in my defense, if I'm gonna devote 2 hours of my oh-so-busy life, I might as well devote it to something well done.

See, this is what the holiday break does to me. It turns me into an erratic vegetable that listens to bhangra while writing equally erratic blog posts.

27.0

Sit beside my bed

feed me nostalgia with a spoon

Let me drink your lullaby

laced with makeshift pantooms

you're caring for your cancer,

turn to yourself for blame

and all that time, love remains

fastened to my name

The sky's not as far as they say

and it's tempting just to leave you

regardless of the countless days

you made me pinky-swear not to.

you're caring for your cancer,

turn to yourself for blame

adhered to it is love,

unconditional, it will remain.

Never second-guess the sentiments

said as I look into your pupils.

You never have, but I know you keep

a pocket full of scruples.

Even in the dust,

I'll always see you clear as day

Even if you're on the outskirts of my mind

in my heart you'll always stay.

you've cared for me,

your cancer.

your nuisance.

your baby.

I've left you now,

but love isn't enough

to make me sorry.

26.0

I don't know why I do a majority of the things I do. But sometimes, those things make my innards curdle and my brain throw me a disciplinary finger wag along with a "tsk tsk tsk."

I'm so awkward. It's a curse. It's like I have turrets and my tick consists of every imaginable faux-pas. When all is said and done my eyebrows wrinkle and the only thing I have to say for myself is "what. the. hell?"

If I could, I'd stand on a mountain top and scream my apology to the whole world:

"I'M SORRY, DAMMIT, I DIDN'T MEAN TO!"

25.0

From my planner:

I wish I were artistic.

Sketching portraits in the sand, humming makeshift tunes during class, and scrawling stories on anything and everything that can be marked on.

But no.

I'm just left with my blog.

My thoughts are left to cyberspace.

Take good care of 'em, ya hear?

I've divorced paper, but only for a little while.

I'll come running back sooner or later

24.1

I feel like a bear in the mornings,

greeting the day with a lovely view of my cavernous mouth.

Feeling my weight lazily thump through the kitchen making the fridge and stove shake.

And the breath of the furnace lightly brushing my fur,

unkempt

and knotted

and coarse.

I mean business when I make breakfast.

I check the empty mailbox with purpose.

I feel powerful, ESPECIALLY when I yawn.

Being a bear is pretty sweet.

24.0

I've had the song "The Blower's Daughter" stuck in my head since it started to get cold. It's a good song.

It's funny though, because I've been listening to that song for a really long time now. I listen to it when I'm happy, I listen to it when I'm sad, I listen to it when I just want something else in my ears besides my own breathing. And yet, I still don't know all the words.

Regardless of the countless times that song has traveled through the squishy cracks of my brain, the only things I ever remember are the subtle strength of Damien's voice, the melody, and a few choice lines. I tend to find myself singing along to the first "And so it is..." and then trailing off into a faint hum. I'll meet back with Mr. Rice at the "can't take my eyes off of you" in the quasi-sobbed chorus.

The lyrics are usually the thing I admire most of a song. But sometimes, no matter how good the poetry is, you just don't want to fully absorb it. It'll sit flat on the surface, trying to marinate your thoughts but for some reason, your brain's wearing an umbrella.

It's never bothered me, though. Damien, just like any other artist, wrote that song in hopes of being able to speak to others through it. Every artist has a message they want to communicate. Whether that message be transmitted via words or the sound of words depends on the recipient.

Some people just don't understand that. Everything is meant to be acknowledged and payed attention to, and it's nice to poke and prod at the innards of someone else's psyche through their metaphors and flat-out hallucinations. You can unscrew anything. You can take it apart and put it back together. However, art is made to be appreciated, not to be burned out.

It's fine to read a story and not think about the religious undertow. It's fine to look at a painting and not notice the innuendo. It's fine to listen to a song and forget all the words. You're allowed to like something based on the sole reason that you like it.

Let the tale be spun for you, let your eye be transfixed by a single color, let music float in your head.

23.0

Sometimes I feel a void.

A MAJOR void.

I'm talkin' eternal abyss of NOTHINGNESS

everywhere.

Stuff happens, then it doesn't. I see, then I don't.

I am then I'm not.

But I guess everyone feels like a little soda bubble every once in a while.

Round and bursting with--- emptiness.

but enough of this!

For it is late and my eyes are tucked into my skull, and now is the time for the screwing of all homework that I was in the midst of completing (or beginning...) and to instead, write.

To write of my emptiness and my existence as a product of carbonation.

To write of my spine that feels like the tree branch from that one lullabye.

To write of my past and my vingetted memories coloured in muddy fingerprints and stuffed with innocence.

Or to write of my future as an anemic vegetarian left to rust in a leaky broom cupboard. But there's one problem. I won't rust!

Yes, today is of turning myself in front of the furnace to toast myself as evenly as possible, tomorrow will be of turning myself into something that actually works.

Today is forever and tomorrow is never.

Today it's ok

to write like this.

22.0

I ran today

on the HIGHWAY.

I never do this for obvious reasons, but I did it today, cuz hey, we're all entitled to some nonsensical actions every once in a while (especially if those nonsensical actions involve commas. Or any punctuation in general).

I ran about 2 miles with my baby iPod in my ears. It barely tickled my eardrums as it tried to compete with Doppler.

It didn't take long for the wind to coat my eyes and for the exhaust to coat my throat. I didn't care though. Did pull a couple of "Mulan"s while trying to deal with my un-swallowable spit, but other than that I embraced the nastiness.

In the midst of the highway whining, I was oblivious to my equally sonorous breath. Which is good, because the sound of a dying horse is probably not the best soundtrack for a run.

The cold didn't stop me from sweating. My face never fails to saturate itself in perspiration or to transition into a nice red wash. When I reached home I looked in the mirror. I looked like I'd been punched in the face.

It's such a great feeling when you feel your body working. Doing what it's meant to do.

And you know what's an even better feeling?

Sitting on your butt playing Tetris.

21.0

my head hurts

sooo much.

But I can't stop using the internet.

My laptop's battery is down to about one millimeter. I don't want to plug it in. I'll let it die with me.

20.2

Carry my crossbow

lift the pride from my chest

sing of my misfortunes

and the things I did best

Don't hold me for too long,

don't think of them in the wrong.

Leave your tears to the mist,

and leave me with a kiss.

20.1

The emotional callusing,

the hopeless faith that she harbors,

the raw and rusted wit that she is forced to conjure up,

and the fears that distort her reasoning.

For love she plunges herself to the gallows of humanity.

For love, she is panicked and rash.

For love she puts trust in a demon.

She erodes,

she totters

on the edge of sanity and survival.

And by the sigh of a choice wind, she shatters and falls.

For love.

20.0

It is 7:16 of the PMs and I have done nothing but internet all day along with some sprinkled math problems here and there.

Hooray for the life of a 21st century teenager who thinks she's too cool for everything but her desk.

Oh yeah. Get ready, America. I am your future.

But honestly, this whole week has been more productive than a Chinese sweat shop. So doing nothing has given me that refreshingly grubby feeling that everyone gets when they sit on their ass for too long.

In addition to the adipose coagulating in the area that is supposed to be my waist, three new volcanoes have been born. They're nicely aligned on my cheek. I can pretend they're bite marks from some three-toothed demon instead of cysts filled with facial residue.

Adolescence is so disgusting. And I say "adolescence" because that's a much better sounding word than "puberty". Ugh. That word definitely sounds like what it means.

Though I feel that the only part of me that is "pubescent" would have to be my physique. It got stuck at age 12. My brain is probably that of a 40 year old woman with cats to substitute as actual biological offspring. As far as my girly hormones that cause me to constantly shriek and whine, I have those. But when your male English teacher can out-brat you.... well... I don't know what to make of that, actually. I feel like I should be ashamed because I can be out-brat-ed by an adult man, but at the same time I feel slightly superior.

But for the most part I feel ashamed.

God, men just have to be better than women at everything. Even at being women.

I've already been told I have the eyes of a 35 year old woman. By my eye doctor, of course. I am blessed with small pupils. And I say blessed because then I can do weed and my pupils will look normal when dilated because they are naturally smaller, like the grinch's heart, but these are eyes.

But I kid. The likelihood that I will willingly intoxicate myself in the latter years is probably slim to none. Mainly because I have no friends with whom to get intoxicated WITH. And we all know it's only fun if there's someone to film/quote your profane spurts of genius you gave birth to in that cloud of herbal armpit smell.

19.1

The cold months always get to me.

It all starts in fall. It all starts with my hands. The skin on my knuckles dries and cracks like that instant chocolate shell stuff you put on ice cream. My paralyzed fingertips steal the color of the congested skies. A fire is started in my stomach, constantly needing to be re-kindled with cake, and my lips turn to dust whenever my the castanets in my mouth start to play.

My bed turns into a millefeuille (along with the rest of my wardrobe), and I don't cut my hair because I value my neck and my ears. The Earth sighs, blowing knots in my hair, spitting snow in my eyelashes and freezing my lungs. The cold turns me livid. And pensive, I guess.

Because what else is there to do when you're robbed of sleep?

19.0

I swear, at night, someone takes a crazy straw and sticks it in my belly button and fills me up with lead-air. And then in the morning as I trudge out of bed I'm greeted by an inflamed face in the mirror that says "good morning" but not really. I get the feeling that the undertone of its greeting is something along the lines of, "I am going to explode, I am going to explode, I am going to explode and soon you will have no face because I will explode."

what's the point of feeling like a balloon if you can't even fly?

stupid.

18.1

My friends: They are beautiful

Thing is, I don't regularly appreciate that about them, but I should. I know this is the most canned phrase in the world, but I honestly don't know where I'd be or what I'd do without the few people I have in my life that will tolerate me. Of course, they do so much more than tolerate me, but I don't wanna get all into that because.... I don't.

One thing's for sure. No one can live for themselves forever. You need others. Not just for company, but for responsibility. If I were completely on my own, there's no doubt that I'd be completely unmotivated to do anything very significant or to put forth any effort in anything.

So anyway, this is just me being grateful for the people who will stand in the cold with me, give me a good slap when I need one, listen to my "troubles", laugh at all of my stupid jokes, and give me the sickest music to listen to. I have a level of care and love for these people that's more than I have for most of my blood relatives (:P)

Ok, I think I'll spare you the rest of the sap now.

:)

18.0

so. What now?

besides falling asleep during health class

and during library sits

and during movies.

I can't do anything anymore, my eyelids won't let me.

17.2

I gotta say, the internet makes me smile in various ways. But I got a kicker out of that funky "I write like" website.

According to the net, a few of my recent poems are reminiscent of Chuck Palahniuk.

I'm flattered :)

P.S. I also found out my style is very Canadian.... ?

Cory Doctrow, Margaret Atwood etc. have showed up quite a bit for my stories.

But for my blog posts I'm J.D. Salinger.

17.1

"So then, Satan practically blew up all the aliens--- I MEAN ANGELS!!!!"

17.0

Lately I've been feeling inadequate. It stinks. I feel like I can't think anymore, and therefore, like I can't write anymore.

I would blame it all on the internet, but that wouldn't be fair. The net already gets a lot of crap from the rest of the world, it doesn't need any more from a teenage girl who's just feeling inadequate.

But seriously, it stinks to be in this funk. Nothing seems to feel right. None of my interactions, none of my comments, none of the things I laugh at, everything has felt forced and awkward. And don't get me started on my writing. I haven't written a lick since last year, and now that I'm starting up again I'm insecure as a pre-pubescent boy in the gym locker room.

I've lost confidence in my characters, my plots, everything. While I'm writing something I'll write and write and write and think "oh yes, this is some nice imagery," or "Yeah, that's a good name for a character" but nothing else. Then when I look back on it I think "WHAT THE HELL? This is so slow! Nothing happens! No one will read this! WHAT A PIECE OF SHIT!!!" And these kinds of th0ughts are definitely not helpful when you're barely 500 words into your story that you need to turn in 2 days from now. And supposedly you were only HALF WAY DONE...

Yeah. My brain can be pretty brutal.

But I've lost it. The security of my thoughts. I don't know what to think anymore, I can't have opinions. I try and try but far to often have I found myself falling back into the sweet subjective blanket that we all fall into when we don't feel like growing a pair.

"No one will like it, no one will read it."

"They'll be disappointed."

"They're expecting action!"

"They'll say I'm stupid."

What am I 12? NO! I'm 15! In some ancient cultures I'd already be a grandma! And who the hell is this "they" I'm so scared of anyway?

Well whoever they are they're pretty damn intimidating that's for sure.

And it sucks.

I started to wonder, "Why do I bother? Everything feels shapeless. All these half-page word documents on my computer are a nuisance. Why am I doing this?" But then I looked through those word documents (some of them even 1 page long!) and was pleasantly reassured.

I laughed at my stuff. I thought about my stuff. I smiled at it too.

then I thought,

"Hey, this kid doesn't write half bad."

And then I remembered.

I write for me. I do things for me. Not for anyone else. (Well, at least I don't WRITE for anyone else).

Why would I write something that I would hate to read over again? What's the point? I don't care if everyone else in the world would read it, if I think it's bad, it's bad. I've lost that lately.

So when I clicked back to the 500 words in my short story I'm meant to turn in soon, I read it. It's a subtle story. That's how it came out, and that's how I've been writing it (despite my hesitations). And suddenly after all those "I'll bore them! They'll hate it!" thoughts, I laughed.

So what if they get bored?

They just can't appreciate my brain.

I am so finishing this sucker.

16.1

My face is a shell

and my brain is starting to swell

and the corners of my mouth are filling with

barnacles so I can't shout

"WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?"

but I guess I had it coming.

I'm crying

aging

drying

dying

trying to scrape off this coat

of shit

lying here without a hope

of fitting in

there's no way I'll break free

so I guess I'll just let crustaceans eat me

attaching to my eyes and thighs and poking, bulging out my sides

I'll toughen up

I'll stay right here

You'll never lose me

have no fear

whenever you feel like a laugh

or if you just want to kick my ass again

just crack me open

no matter what I'm still your friend.

just crack me open.

so we can pretend this never happened.

16.0

I should be doing a school assignment right about now. But we all know how my prioritizing works, right? I do the things I really want to do last. I do.

It makes sense! It's how I do everything. How I pick what book to read first, how I choose my classes (sometimes) and even how I eat. I mean, hello? You don't eat spumoni before you eat your steamed vegetables because then you have to end the meal with steamed vegetables. Who wants to end a meal with steamed vegetables? I like vegetables as much as the next vegetarian, but I don't want green beans to be the taste to linger on my tongue as I finish my last meal of the day. So that is why I've postponed writing my "creative short story" until now. When in a little, the house will get quiet and my hair will be dry, and it'll just be my laptop me and Yann Tiersen. Click Clacking away into the next morning. Why do I do this?

I've already told you.

Spumoni tastes better than green beans.

15.0

Oy vey, I haven't touched this thing in eons.

School's started! I'm very excited :D yeah, that's right. I LIKE SCHOOL. And not just because it's time out of the house.....

Actually... Yeah. I like it because school means time away from home. That, AND I learn things and get to be with cool people.

Now don't get me wrong, I like home. I love my family and they love me (most of the time). But I get sick of them, and there are (a lot of) times when I can't take their idiosyncrasies anymore... Mom's yelling gets old.

However I'm very sad right now. I pulled my calf which means I've been forbidden to practice with the soccer team until I get better. Which really bites because we won our first game of the season yesterday and I wasn't a part of it. :( I better get better soon.

I don't feel like writing much today, but I decided I should stop neglecting my blogs... There was a time, believe it or not, when I blogged practically everyday on my tumblr and my blogger. No more... no more...

And I apologize for saying the ubiquitous "I'll try harder!" but here goes:

I'll try harder.

:D

14.1

Have I mentioned that I'm a vegetarian?

no?

oh.

well I'm a vegetarian now.

:D

have been for about a month and a half.

ok, that's all

bye

14.0

It is so

Hot.

I don't necessarily like the heat, but maybe that's just because I don't use it as an excuse to parade in a tank top and underwear-- oh, are those called shorts? huh. weird.

Anyways, I don't mind the heat. The only problem I have with it is that it makes you sweat like the Dickens and I swear someone at Hogwarts just pointed their wand into the air one summers day and yelled "STUPEFY!" and that's why I always feel so TERRIBLE when it's hot out.

But enough of that. Let's talk about things that matter.

uhm, like what?

UHM like my cousin's party that we all have to get ready for, duh.

...

yeah that doesn't really matter. But I'll tell you what does: MONEEEY..... which you gotta be careful with and that's all I will say on the topic of my cousins belated "quince".

God, people are still missing their houses and have sick family members and want to go to school and what do we do?

Throw thousand dollar parties. That's what.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying we should all starve for the starving or whatever, but it's pretty messed up if ya think about it... :)

but who am I to spoil the party, huh? meh, forget it! LET'S DO SOME JELLO SHOTS!

13.1

I downloaded my first audio book just barely. It's Ray Bradbury.

SHUT UP!

I know I should read it... but.... all the copies are checked out, ok? and I can't buy it because I've devoted all of my money to this laptop and Texas next week... wow I need a job.

Don't worry I'll get one. hopefully next year. or this summer. more likely next year.

ANYWAYS...

audio book

first one

never had one before

let's see how it goes :D

13.0

Got a laptop today. Gotta say I feel pretty amazing.

It's strange because now I have this little computer I can take with me ANYWHERE. I have my tech-savvy notebook.

I plan to write a lot more on this thing.

I think the reason why I never wrote very much on my desktop computers here at home is because.... Well... I don't know actually.

Maybe it was the fact that other people would have to use that computer after me. Which I know is a really dumb reason but ya know... Sometimes I'm a really dumb person.

Maybe it's the whole perceptive thing. I mean, I see Tina Fey with a laptop, Scott Westerfeld with a laptop, my super amazing creative writing teacher with a laptop and they're all constantly typing in it day after day after day--

Well, lie. Because there IS such thing as writer's block, so maybe they're ON their laptops day after day after day etc, but they might note necessarily be writing.... WELL WHATEVER!!! I HAVE A LAPTOP!!!!! IT'S ALL MINE, I PAID FOR IT! I AM GOING TO GO WRITE NOW.

not on this blog because... well... just not on this blog.

12.0

when i feel

the ice in my eyes

and the sun on my lashes

and a lavender taste in my mouth

a buzz through my brain

a rhythm in my chest

and nothing's too soft or too loud

and nothing will move.

My breath won't knock down

the playing card house.

And the best part is,

I KNOW it won't get knocked over,

and that's why I feel this way.

11.0

with whitley

in the computer lab.

I ate a banana* today

We "attempted"** to write a song today.

We will do better later

when we have a musical instrument

other than my melodious voice.

:)

-The humans are dead: stuck in my head alllllll month.

*I never really understood how to spell "banana" until Gwen Stefani

**How sad... the word ATTEMPTED is in quotes. Meaning that we didn't even ATTEMPT TO ATTEMPT.

slackers...

MUST REMEMBER

Your Woman by White Town

oh, and while you're at it go ahead and re-upload all your death cab onto your iPod again.

I never knew I'd miss them so much.

1 a Day

this one's for my headaches

this one's for my backaches

this one's for my stomach cramps

this one's for any other pain I may have that is not a head back or stomach ache

this one's for my vision.

This one's my dose of Iron,

and Vitamins A, E, and D

This one's my dose of Zinc

This is my dose of pink

so I don't look pale and gross

and people will like me more.

oh,

and this one's my calcium

This one's for regulating my periods

this one's for regulating my serotonin

this one's for regulating my life.

this one's so I don't explode with all the other ones I have.

This one's for the morning

this one's for lunchtime

this one's for before I go to bed

and if I don't take it on time...

well,

I actually don't know what will happen because I've never NOT taken it on time... But I'm sure something will happen....

Something.

demented.

A hidden muscle pulses

as the eyes gauge themselves out

and the bottom teeth stick out

as if they want to try and eat your nose.

and it's not you,

it's everyone else.

we're just looking at you from a muggy lens

because you're not like that...

really...

a few damaged vocal chords later

nothing happens.

Maybe you wore the demon out

or maybe it's out to lunch.

either way,

you haven't eaten yourself,

you still have both of your eyes

and your jaw looks normal.

Now we gotta prepare for next week.

H83UA

yellow seat

upholstered in cereal

and chocolate.

Handprints.

Everywhere.

Grimy locks, don't work anymore

but it's ok because you don't really need to keep doors shut like that.

the Wal Mart

the canyon

school

work...

you made me late.

proud witness of my:

first kiss,

first date,

I don't have enough for paint

but it's ok

it doesn't need it anyway.

fender benders

make it stronger

cardboard pine trees

keep it from stinking.

it's a miracle

how long this thing's been living.

but I believe it.

Tomatoes

Scanning for them

the ones who look at you funny

when they see you smile

does it matter?

it should.

at least, it's supposed to.

they want you to.

I guess when you bring a thermos of tea

and lady fingers to the beach at sunset

people are disturbed

Maybe it's the sun.

It's red today.

maybe it affects the blood

But it's just taz, the dog and me

dipping our feet in the

tomato sauce sea

eating our pastries

and drinking our tea

singing to the waves

and venting to the sand

bathing in awkward stares.

I guess the sun's got nothing to do with it

people's blood is always blue.

This is how I know

we've gone way to far

two kids and a dog

withOUT the corners of their mouths reaching their chins

now that's rare.

at least to them it is.

MUST REMEMBER

Lizard Logic

Chicago by Surfjan Stevens

MUST REMEMBER

From Clouds by Via Audio

MUST REMEMBER

Heard Somebody Say - Devendra Banhart

Wishing For Contentment - Andrew Bird

Song For You - Alexi Murdoch

And the trumpets whimpered on.

10.0

NEW YEARS RES:

Yeah, I know it's late, but I'm going to teach myself how to write a screenplay and actually finish one.

START: NOW

END: JANUARY OF 2012

9.0

I don't know.

but I do all at the same time.

Oh, come on, it's not that hard, I promise.