Draft

Makes me feel so dirty, so petty, so shamefully honest. I can just imagine yr reaction if you were to read the things i write you in draft. It would take yr breath away. Yes, love, in the Berlin way. Yr reaction would be nothing but stutter. You'd hate me for making you hate me, the only defense that you could possibly muster. You would have no choice. You would make yr masturbation face.
No, not the cute one! No, dear, but the perverted, twisted look that terrorizes yr fuzzy shower mirror.

Can you imagine just what i would have done to you, had i not this hideous case of subterraneous self-confidence? How unlucky for you, to have to bask in the repercussion of an unfortunately lonely, shameful childhood. I'm not complaining, for i'm just fine! I have plenty to read.

Traffic vs. Tofu

You can think through traffic.
Tofu demands attention.
Traffic has a shelf life.
Tofu has a shelf life.
Tofu is white.
Traffic is colorful.
Music and tofu mix.
Music and traffic mix.
Traffic has no flavor.
Tofu has no flavor.
Tofu is never consistant. Soft, medium, firm.
Traffic is always consistant. Stop, go, stop, go.
Tofu steals all the action.
Traffic has no action.
Tofu and black beans.
Traffic and exhaust streams.
Traffic is loud.
Tofu is mild.
Tofu is the way of L.A.
Traffic is the way of L.A.
30 minutes of traffic makes me hungry.
30 minutes of tofu keeps me full.

CK-1

We haven't been friends for many years, however, i bet she really enjoyed "The Virgin Suicides". Sisters, isolation and sex in the back seat. I'm almost sure that she didn't voice her feelings of congruency. She's too macho-feminine for that type of trash.

Joint property

"there's no time, there's never enough time."--Jessie Spano

My Little Secret

Has grown teeth and gangrene. Life too afraid to even dare touch veins. it waits in the bottom of the puddle in an alley, slimming on its own slipe. throwing tantrums, cage in swing, buttering up the milk like a broody little thing. Dropping aces, jacks and queens. Let us bet on better things!

Girlhood

I'm a little teapot. Short and stout. Here is my handle, here is my spout. When I

get all steamed up, then I shout. Just tip me over, and pour me out.

Condemned to Freedom from, Freedom to

Relating to others is possible, but only within the limits of shared experiences. Woman is totally free and responsible for her acts. This responsibility is the source of the dread and anguish that encompasses womankind. Abandonment is the consequence of individualism. Alienation is a state of divided selfhood in which one is distanced from one's true being and confronts the self as an alien being. And nobody is authentic. You can not be authentic for more than an instant, frozen in time. Because of social pressure, individualism is rejected by you in favor of conformity. Thus, you rely on mainly upon the actions of others and neglect the meaning of yr own personal life. You see yr life as meaningles and feel the inner void.

"To continue in a blind state causes the increases in distractions such as alcoholism, delinquency and suicide. Freedom, however, is only in the choice of one possibility---that is, in tolerating one's not having chosen the others and one's not being able to choose them." --Heidegger

An almost Goodnight

I figured that if I'm not going to be drinking anymore, that i'm gonna look elsewhere for my courage. So I decided to go through my blog and post my drafts. I suppose i'm still not that brave if I won't expose my secret fantasy blog. Whatever, i guess there's no reason to care since most of the audience i address doesn't even read this. Perhaps the point is that it is there if they cared. So ya, goodnight, almost.

My Butterfly Effect

Every decision has consequences and what will be mine? I was told I am notorious for that sort of thing. I want love in the form of distraction. I want anonymity. I didn't want this road, and this wasn't "in flight". This is, my friend, the fight.
I love you. Like I want to marry you, love you. Like when I wake up in the middle of the night to your hand in the air, asleep, quiet, innocent and i kiss you. It is unbearable. Love feels like torture. For this reason,i cannot live here in your world, full time. This is the fight.
It would have been easy to stay. Comfortable, expected and lethargic. You do not love me like I do you. Oh no, it's okay, i understand. In fact, karma owes me a lot more than that, don't you think? Ain't no thing, sugar wing. It was good to hear it out loud. It was very good. You made it real, like it needed to be. It was good to hear all that you said, all that you did. You've never been so real before. I finally made you be mean to me. It is what, secretly, i always wanted, you know. It felt delicious. Isn't that awful? For this, i am thoroughly ashamed.

I will be honest. I love your world. The things you see with your eyes and describe with yr mouth are beautiful and sarcastic and hilarious. Even in its flaws, yr perspective is breathtaking. Though it keeps me forever facinated, this world is not mine. Yr dreams are not my dreams, and to live in yr illusion is no good for me. Because as long as I remain entranced by yr imaginary universe, i will make no dreams of my own. As long as I marvel at love, i ignore the love that I lack. The longer I lay in our slumbers, the less i know what wake is. It is this that is the fight.

Here, on this road, i fight the numbness of mundanity, I fight acute lonliness, i fight platicity, i fight my own dose of self-loathing, i fight traffic. Here, i will make friends, make love, make my cakes and eat them too. Isn't that the way? The murkier the lake, the sweeter the flower? I lost track of my original plan that I had made for myself, the plan I was doing so well with before i moved up there. My head has muted my heart for now, but she will be out again, soon enough.

If you've ever wondered what the difference is between a lover and the loved is, it is that one cries for themself while the other cries for them. I am guilty of both.

Plans for TOnight

I am going to put on my coat and slippers, grab my keys and walk myself down to Walgreens. I will purchase a pack of Parliaments for 4 dollars and sixty seven cents. Then I will walk outside, light my smoke and think of how i want to tell this story that's been stuck in my head since December 29th, 2005.

Twenty-Six

I will probably remain the most immature kid on my block. There are a few semi-explanations though they are tired and unrelenting. First, i am intimidated yet moreso despising of comfortability. If i want action, i can't depend on others to give it to me. Though, on the other hand, just an excuse. It's just that the other actions aren't as simple to work through, it's just that if you want something done right, then you have to do it yourself. The funny thing about that though, is that if something may go wrong or awry then there's no one else to blame.
Creating a scene, and not in a funny Elaine-type way either, makes the reason that twenty six must remain twenty six. To grow older, yes, however to grow younger, never. Immature has gotten me to where I am right now, and so you just gotta learn to live with it if you wanted something else to matter just so as much.

Not until Im sober

I am drunk right now. I admit it. I will not post this unless i deem it okay. Tomorrow maybe. So fine. What i wanted to talk about was private, angry but private. As i thought about last night's dream, I found myself unreasonably confused. I was at a private resort with my mom, where i met this girl who tempted me onto her vacational veranda. She was chocolate, and i loved me her chocolate like really. I got lost on the way back home, where i realized my mom wanted me to leave. I went back to the pool to get my swim goggles when i came onto her. Only, she wasn't a she. She was a he in disgiuise. We began to make out on the wet floor, my towel felt cold yet still there. He lied me down onto the concete when my mom popped up and called me for it was time to go. I felt a little embarrased, like she shouldn't have seen me doing what i was doing. I was making out on the floor with an oreo transvestite as the pool was about to close. I decided to allow my mom to watch, and continued with the lovemaking, when she came to my feet and insisted that we must leave immediately. I finished the kiss, got up from the floor and put the towel around my waist. I let my mother lead me away as i looked back, knowing that i did something wrong. I knew that i was leaving something that i so wanted to finish. As I walked away from the pool, I took a deep inhalation of the chlorine filled air, and i looked at who i was leaving....a girl with short brown hair and blue green eyes. She was no longer black, she was no longer boy, she was beautiful, and brown haired, blue eyed and beautiful. I felt my mom's arms pulling me. I felt like crying. I felt like something else.

The Search for Meaning in what We are Afraid to Know

There's a difference between those things that i am afraid to know and things i am afraid to admit. I can't help but know. It's ingrained, and inevitable. Though, to admit it to oneself, there is where the search becomes muddled by two thick hands cupped together as if to protect a worm or a butterfly. This affliction encroaches upon all the leaking facets of my substance. Yesterday, my secret online journal was found by a friend. My extremely private, clandestine collection of salacious stories and wanton fantasies. I was less embarrassed and more disappointed. My favorite thing about secrecy is that it is all mine. Occasionally, i share it with those that i love and trust, but ultimately that is the one thing that belongs to me, and is mine to control. Except when it is stolen, or rather accidently misplaced.
Again, my first reaction was disappointment. How sad, my secret, no more. Next, shame. She knows how i fantasize, and of who i do, and why. And that's the worst one of them all. The why. Too personal, too revealing. If someone manipulatively intelligent knew too many whys about you, you're theirs for the keeping, hurting and eventual killing. Third in the line of emotions, fear. Deep, penetrating, unadulterated fear. You know the kind, the ones that run along those old, broken down synapsis underneath all the time of adolescence and young adulthood that whittled you into the half, white-faced ghost of everything you never really were or could be. Or do you know? I'm not sure if those things exist in trueness, and by that I mean atoms, molecules, that type of trueness in substance. Do you know? Does it exist? At least for you, my reader? Anyhow, fear of knowing.
After playing it off, and her departure, I could not walk into the room where my computer resides. I feared to hear it's soft, one directional breath. I trembled in thought of re-reading the last month of filth i had written. I could not even bear to navigate the mouse's pointer toward the right corner X in a temporary fashion of making it all go away. At least for now. All these feelings made me think about my half assed search for meaning in what i am afraid to know. I wondered what meanings each of you seek and what things you must tiptoe around in what you are afraid to know. I pondered whether we share any of the same.
Eventually, i made my way back. After thinking, and thinking, showering, then thinking more, I decided that there is no point in succumbing to the fear. Fear of what, losing? People, self-respect, face, self, memory? Those things can be stripped from you despite what you do to protect them. You can, at any time, lose everything without the slightest clue to its eventual arrival. You can at any time, be absolutely, and utterly alone. Because you are right now? Right? Why am i afraid to be known as a hater, yearner, pretender, dreamer, fucker, down right dirty mothafucka? I don't want to be afraid to know myself. If i depend on a meaning not of my own creation, how can i trust it? How can i trust my own? I don't even know what a meaning looks like, or sounds like. I'm the only one around to tell me that i may be right or i may be wrong. I'm just traveling over the same words that someone must have said before because i feel so bored with it, so absolutely sick with it!

Case of the Mondays

I almost published a post last night that described all my goals in life. I suppose that can be attributed to the end of the year-type shit. Don't most people re-evaluate their lives during this time of year? Especially those poor sorries who are living through their declining 20's? It's easy and expected. Save me some, son.
The key statement, however is that I "almost" published this post. "Almost" doing things is the best. Like when I "almost" was fired, like when I "almost" caught herpes, like when I "almost" started that great liar fire. Wouldn't you like to hear those stories?
No? I don't blame you.
Well, I considered cutting my phone? I only speak to maybe 8 people in entire phone book list. And i'm too lazy to write more. Stupid.

This Honkie

wants a little flag to wave on holidays.

Wednesday Nite in Jail

Do you understand me? The girl looked me in the face. And i knew at that moment when she was screaming in the parking lot. You know, he told me and I wanted to anyway. There has been a warrant issued for my arrest, but i'd like to keep it like Mr. Jefferson. Want some candy little girl? Jesus posted a bulletin focusing on his manly affiliations. I wanted to leave a comment, but he tattled on me before i could fully explain. I'm just looking for some hometown flair. I'd like to dance on yr moonbounce. Maybe we could rent it. Tomorrow, in the snow. Maybe we could drink winter on my balcony. Meet me, like phil, like pancakes, like little Ms. sausages. I'll climb on yr belly and run through yr motel. We'll go the distance. We'll find a bar that may or may not accept all the things we've gotta say, today.

Frisson

There's this thing I love to do. Ingest substances and write. Before typing, i'd become bothered by messy writing and repetitiveness. These days, i ignore all sense and make it public. Public to who? To you. I guess if we can't drink it up, together, after a long day at work, or at the hospital, or wherever the long day takes us, at least there's lonely, drunken writing on a Thursday night. There are lists to be made, and an endless source of stupidity and sloppiness. When i think about some people, i feel ashamed in comparison. They do things like work or ceaseless study, making a difference, improving their situation in life, making friends, making love. Sometimes i try those things, but they confuse me. So whatcha gonna do with all that junk? All that junk inside yr trunk?

"This is the best day of my life"--austrian Michael Jackson fan---June 14, 2005

Fossils

Remain in the holy land. Want you to forget them, love the lives you make them. I always thought yr back looks like a fossil. If an intelligent asked me why, i'd probably answer, cuz it's so little. So discreet. So foreign and strange. So sleek and sexy all the while.

Two at Large

I'm so much smarter than you, while you stay sexy. Actually, i'm exaggerating both our strengths, but regardless, you still win. It's because I love to let my attention run wild. And yr so wild. And so that's how it will always go. I'll be the old man, and you'll be the bambino bound.

The Timeline of Non-Sexual Fantasy concerning the Realm of Comedy---A Work In Progress

1985- I'd sneak into my parent's room and call Ghostbusters. Peter Venkman would come to my house and find no ghosts. He'd make fun of me a little, then tickle me and let me ride in his ghostbuster's car.



1987- I'd live in the days of Mexico, when Mexicans spoke English. Lucky would call me his little Buttercup, and fly me in an old fashioned Wright Brother's plane. Also, he'd kiss me goodnight when I went to sleep.

1987-My dad would get over his racism and buy me a toy. Of course, I am not a white boy, but my toy would entertain me anyway. We'd break into the department store and steal more toys. Richard Pryor would speak to my class on Career Day, and make everyone laugh. We'd walk home after school, hand in hand. My dad would see us, and throw my toy away, I'd cry myself to sleep that night.

1988-I'd ride on the back of Steve Martin's dentist motorcycle and we'd breathe that funny gas, and he'd beat me. But he'd be kind afterward, while healing me with hilarious song and dance.

1989- I'd wonder why grown men cry after seeing that man on my way home from school. After talking to him for awhile, i'd ask if he'd like to watch cartoons at my house. He'd call himself Leo Bloom, but I'd know his actor name was Gene. This would be because my dad has schooled me on all good comedy. We'd play Monopoly on my bedroom floor, but he'd threaten to leave when he caught me stealing money from the bank.

1990-Jim Carrey would come over after school and we'd make up the funniest scenes. He'd go back to the set of In Living Color and pretend that they were his ideas, but I wouldn't care because he'd rock me to sleep at night.

1991-I'd eat fancy arugala salads with Vinnie while he'd speak New York to me, and buy me hot dogs at the baseball game.

1991- "Bob" would stay with us during the summer, and climb into my bed at night because he was afraid of "forest snakes". My dad would suspect that there was something funny going on, but he'd just attribute it to Bill Murray's uncaged onscreen humor.

1992- Harris meets me in the restaurant where nobody believes his stories that he can talk to a sign. Being a kid, i believe, of course. After an hour drive through LA traffic, he leans over and kisses me. I notice that the sign told him to do that. I get mad, and leave. Only to be stopped because I'm stranded on a freeway, very far from home.