Thursday, December 31, 2009

everyone is a fucking napoleon

it has been evident to me in my experience that when a person says, "i am a very..." that almost 100% of the time, whatever character trait they are saying they are, they absolutely are not.

"i'm a very non-jealous person." oh yeah? then why did you scream at me in the bar parking lot for and hour after on the way to the bathroom i stopped and asked my friend travis why he was wearing mascara?

"i'm a very trusting person." really? then why did you go through my phone and throw it in my face when i told my friend (who you dislike because you are threatened of him, for no reason whatsoever) merry christmas?

"i'm a very independent person, and i like to give people their space as well." huh. that's why you would get upset when i needed to run my errands and didn't want company just so i could have a couple hours to myself to go to the bank, buy groceries, and shit without having to make sure you weren't going to come into the bathroom right after i did it. i can't think of anything sexier than referencing the smell of fecal matter while your girl is giving you head. lovely.

"i'm a very humble person. i don't find it necessary to pitch my experiences in other's faces." riiiiight. so that's why you don't really know anything about me... because i had to sit and listen to how you were honorably discharged from the army because your parachute didn't open and how you didn't die but broke alot of bones about 17 times, or how much money your tattoo shop made in san francisco on a daily basis, what cars you had, what cars you were going to buy, how you know how to make goods out of leather, how you know how to make soap, how you interrupted me on a daily basis during me telling a story to let me know that he building on the corner of 42nd and broad was the one that you and your brother were the overseers for, and how you are pretty much better at everything than anybody who does anything, ever.

and the kicker...

"i'm a very honest person." no. you're not. no one is. i don't give a shit how mother teresa-like you are, no one is 100% honest all the time. you may try to be. you may aim for that and hit the target when you tell someone that they have food in their teeth at a public place or that you don't care for periwinkle blue as a color choice on them.

but you will eventually tell your grandmother that you love the pink crinoline party dress she made you for your 16th birthday, or had an "orgasm" to push the oral sex along cause it wasn't going anywhere, or that you really enjoyed the burgers your girl made for you even though she put way too much garlic in the meat and they were super soggy on the bun from the cream of mushroom soup she thought would give the patties more flavor.

and let's take it one step further. just because you don't tell someone something you did, that is also a lie. you may not have told me you went through my phone, but when you are trying to be a wiseguy and throw some of my actual texts back in my face verbatim it's kind of easy to know where you got them from. or when you first startetd courting me and were still talking to the 21 year old girl you had been fucking that you labeled as your "best friend" (which, by the way, is not true... it's a lie in itself that you could be best friends with a girl who is 12 years your junior), but you never really told her that you were dating me as well. two lies right there, one to me and one to her. so hows that for being honest? you just broke your own damn rule.

listen people. i don't care what you say, but none of us are honest all the time. therefore, none of us should play that card when you are looking for a reason to break up with someone. and on top of everything else, make them feel like shit for concealing the fact that a one night stand when you were drunk and lonely with a person they happen not to like even though it was before they ever even met you. it's not right. telling a good person who has been by your side and listened to all your stories about how great you are and taken you out to dinner and bought all the ingredients to make soaps for your families for christmas (grand total was somewhere around 250.00, who's the fucking idiot? me. that's who) to point blank, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

go fuck myself? go fuck MYself?

right. because you're so much better than me. because i never say shit like, "i'm a very honest person," or, "i'm a very open person." i'm not. but... i'm not any less honest or open than you, nor will you ever be better than me for everything you've accomplished. you are a great person. but you are no better than the last one before you.

because it turns out... you are all the same. we are all the same. we are all thieves in our own ways. we are all liars in our own ways. we are all assholes in our own ways, and that's what makes us amazing. it may suck to be lied to. but it's not the end of the fucking world. it shouldn't be the one thing that determines wether or not a person is good or bad. we are human. we do bad things. it's what's engrained in us; we are programmed to fuck up. and if you can't love it or at least learn to live with it, you will never be satisfied with anyone, ever.

how's the view up there, from that beautiful golden pedestal? because it looks really lonely from where i'm standing.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

the klutz

saw a ghost
of you today,
someone small and sweet,
and without doubt
you should know
i tripped
on two left feet.

the more i try and keep my thoughts at bay, the choppier the waters get. why does my mind do this to me? months will go by and i will still reel inside. something got to me, in that space between my synapses. something is haunting me, the way i wish my shadows would be on his black-patterned walls. there is nothing more i can do, because everything has been done, and said, and slung...

i'm starting this thing from the ground up, again. i have some more searching to do, as it seems the restlessness inside is rearing up again. my heart hurts and my organs shift and my brain spins every day, all while a head so full of smile bobbles around on wobbly bones and makes pretend like pretty little christmas cookies in the dimples of my cheeks.

you will never know what you lost. but then again, i'm getting the feeling that you didn't want to anyway.


Monday, December 28, 2009

prefrontal cortex says no *cough*

wipe away this dry
erase board of memories, so
you can press
reset on nyc... reset.
there, i did it for you
and your new life
filled with everything
besides me.
defriend me,
slander my position and
my character, let me be
a platform
for your pity, party
of one...
let the dust develop
and the photos fade
and walk away
like nothing
point your fingers,
but don't forget
to do it in the mirror
as well.

isn't it odd how we can just will ourselves to forget people, erase them from our minds like the delete button on the computer so gracefully erases them from our frontal lobes. i make bad decisions. i do, it's not necessarily a good thing but at least i know what i am. and right now, i am someone who has been lost in the wake of one of them.

i knew at the very beginning of this what it was that i was about to sacrifice. five years of fun times, great rapport, and laughter. five whole years, down the fucking drain. and now, because it was by my hand, i'm the one who barely has a house, albeit a clean one at that, and i'm the one that everyone looks at and shakes their heads.

"what was she thinking? how could she do that to him? is she an idiot?"

well. i may be an idiot, but at least i was the one who was honest. and that doesn't come out in any of this. i'm the one with the staff and horns. i'm the one who wears the dunce cap for what people think are "selfish intentions." i'm the one who got fucked on social networking quotations. because i was honest. because i had respect for someone who has not shown so much for me in the afterbirth.

maybe i'm being bitter. but i'm also fucking couch surfing and giving all of my money away and cleaning and doing laundry and making sure that he realizes there was a friendship that i respected enough to try and make lives better. in twenty years if i had continued down this same road would it have been so kind?

i think not. i think the one-sidedness of the situation would be roman candles exploding like spiders across the night sky. and not in the good way, kerouac. i'm not angry you don't want to be my friend anymore. i'm angry you have managed to cheapen everything i have tried to save, however miniscule i can show it. i may have been the hand that held the axe. unfortunately, my head is the one rolling on the ground right now.

boo hoo, me. at least i was never a victim. life was before this, and life will continue after. and if i died tomorrow, it would be a shame that all my pictures have been deleted from any point of return. chew on that. you can keep the pity.


Saturday, December 26, 2009

dirty laundry

Laundromats may just be one of the most interesting places in the world. The universe, even. Fuck that.

The galaxy. I'm feeling adventurous today.

Not only is fabric softener one of my most favorite smells in the world, this is an excellent excuse to watch people in a habitat that says a lot about their personality. The clothes they wash are a reflection of who they are of course; the gangsta in the corner folding out ninety of his best do rags and waiting for his rocawear puffy fur lined jacket to be released from the royalty wash of clothes, the dry cleaner; the hipster girl separating her black plaid button downs from her red ones; the mexican mothers folding mountains of clothing (literally... they are taking up two folding benches and they are still waiting for their other dryers to be done) and letting their children eat candy and swordfight in the aisles of washing machine glory...

I have been washing and drying for a long time, it seems. The last time I had a washer/dryer set was the first apartment in buckhead, near six years ago now. The one I had in boston didn't count, as I figure the point of naming something is if it lives up to that name. Just as a slut should have previously slept with several of your or your friends boyfriends, a dryer should actually dry the material within its boxed-up stature. I did, however, figure out how to get quarters for free from it, which I promptly used at the coin-op down the road. It was a good means to an end.

The convienience of having the pair is amazing. You rarely ever have to break out the febreeze just so people don't think you live next to a landfill nor do you really have to spot clean a pair of pants to try and release the two-week spaghetti sauce stain that you swore you were going to take care of the next day. It's literally a wash and go deal when its right there.

But the laundromat. That's a welcome inconvienience to me.

Yes, it can be expensive, and of course, time consuming. But it does lend you a couple hours to yourself, and let's you dive into that book you've wanted to finish or, in my case, be the girl who watches you as you gingerly fold your hanes so there are no wrinkles to grace your ass. Among the many things I've seen inside:

-several parents beating their children (although I think the cocktail of twizzlers, gummi bears, and four orange sodas had something to do with the catalyst and really, its not the kids fault)
-a breakup over the phone
-a breakup over the phone and the girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "I may have hooked up with him but at least you never had to clean the fucking skid marks off my underwear you piece of shit!"
-someone trying to clean bloodstains out of a bedsheet and eventually throwing it away. I don't even want to know anything about that one.
-a couple get engaged (technically it was outside of the actual place on a restaurant patio, but still)
-someone watching porn on their phone (mobile porn: masturbation of the future?)

So I've seen quite a bit, here, in this fishbowl of downy goodness. But definitely not as much as the laundry ladies, who wash and dry complete random stranger's clothing every day. Wash, dry, repeat. Wash, dry, repeat. I even fell culprit to this convienience. No matter if you love the fresh-smelling people watching atmosphere, we all have to go to work at some point, and new york city keeps you busy. So I dropped my clothes off to 'mia' or 'selena' (if those are their real names) and went about my busy day.

I didn't realize that this is a very odd practice until recently. I don't know if we understand how personal our clothing is. We wear it every day, this colorized sheild to the world. It can be a defense or an enticement, and we make that decision based on our feelings that moment. It is a tangible manifestation of our emotions, or more significantly, who we are. These women look into our lives, and we hand it over willingly. Its a bounty prostitution ring and the fuzzy little bear is our pimp.

These women know our styles. Metalhead. Businessman. Professor. Thug. Ballerina. Hipster. Housewife. None of us the same but with patterns of our lifestyles evident in all cycles of cold or hot wash. These women know if your businessman husband wears briefs and that he likes to fuck you in crotchless panties. These women know if you have bullet shells or paintbrushes in you pockets, if you wear magnum XL's or trojan 'just your size' condoms, or if you accidently sharted yourself laughing when you watched it's always sunny in philadelphia last Thursday. It's quite amazing, really. They will probably know more about you after doing your laundry than a friend will know before you die.

Maybe we should be more careful with our personal lives. Protect the sheilds that protect us on an everyday basis. It's not bad for me because I don't mind keeping to myself, no matter if it's at a laundromat, bar, or washing my own panties. Id like to kow my armour is keeping my secrets safe with me.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

the ice, it has a color, and its name is pelagically pretty

Oh, it may be a small this, but oh, how it makes my head reel with smile.

Alone, heading towards another hallmark holiday, but I'm giving thanks for the hands that still grasp on to me, helping me over the icy patches.

Thank you, to the blue bluer than any blue I have ever seen.


Monday, December 21, 2009

turpentine chaser

days go stronger,
this length, it gets
longer, but
my spine stands
straighter and this head,
screwed on tighter
my temples hurt less
by a vice loosening
by these warm nights
whipped by wind,
burned by snow and skin
fingerprints fade from cheeks
blushed by thoughts
from foreign palms,
brushing away
ice from eyelashes
like the dust on all
corners of life,
settled in after shaking
voices quieted and
the flecks of paint chip
and my walls warp with
these questions,
but the silence lends
rest to a saturated brain,
and for that, thanks
are abound... cause my
hands are heavy, laden
in lead jackets,
protecting my bones
from the frostbite
of your biting knife.
a fever-seed, this
newfound light, it's
growing stronger with
every missed smile
and forgotten glance.
tomorrow's a new day,
and once again,
everything's going to be okay.

once things got quiet again, they should've just stayed that way. even now, after everything that has happened to me and even the things i have implemented myself... i still have faith in people. shit. i even still have faith in myself. it may be small, but it's strong, and it's a fighter.

it would have to be considered so. for me to be rocked this hard so many times... and get up from the kicks. i've been kicked everywhere...

the ass: coming to new york
the head: losing a friendship over a relationship
the gut: listening to a pretty mess of words
the chest: my father's cancer
the ankles: jack daniels (that one's a combo of my destructive habits and stilettos)

and that's just the first few. there's even a couple repeats. probably more than there should be for someone who's traveled as much as i have. but. regardless. it's been a wild ride.

i guess i'll never know how things will turn out. the cuts and bruises of my everyday life will eventually not mean as much once the skin has healed. i don't even scar that bad in most cases. maybe that's why i forget and give people the chances they probably don't deserve. but then again... can't that be classified as faith? running on a hunch... believing even when you've been knocked down and drenched in sorrow?

no matter the final outcome, no matter how severe the burn can feel. i will always have faith in others. and it will either pay off, or wind up killing me. but since i know death is inevitable, i may as well hope for it to pay off. it's better than taking a grudge to my grave.


Friday, December 18, 2009

the fame monster

bah hahahaha check it... i'm in the new york times for... LARRY THE CABLE GUY?!?!?!

and yes, it's cause i googled myself. i'm an asshole. :)


the keyboard has been drinking

i'm done.
i'm done, cause my
head hurts from the
jack and bitterness,
from the questions,
and from the
unrequited handshake.
i have to be done
with you
because if i don't
it's curtains for me
and my poor little
brain, don't you see...
don't you see...
i'm sure you are rooting
for this, silently.
this humor is eluding
me, and my
stupid drunken letters,
i'm a regular
tom waits over here
with a drunken piano
and a full head
it's done like thanksgiving
and my birthday
and you.


Thursday, December 17, 2009

let it flow, let it flow, let it flow


We didn't think anything about the effect, just the cause, and now I'm lodged in between what's good and what's right; but who knows what's right, anyway... did someone hold out on the rule book so that everyone else would look bad, so that they could look better than all the rest- what a dick, it's not fair- whatever, rules were never for me anyway and I know that... I don't ever want to look back and say that I did what was in accordance with fcc regulations; a censored life could be nothing I could ever attempt, seeing as I have hard enough time putting the muzzle on in social situations and family gatherings- btw I'm never telling THAT joke again at the next familial function- but I digress, again... the cause and effect (or affect, however you want to see it), it truly was never deciphered; words can murder like knives or a syringe full of air, or maybe even a sexual esphixiation gone two seconds too long too wrong... be careful what you say just the same as what you wish for... both can murder the mind and eat away at the psyche; as long as you have a haven, you can get away... but in saying that, I didn't have a safe spot for the last couple months, until about a week ago, until that cobalt blue washed over me, walked through the swinging doors, and pushed everything else away; all this negative, all this bad that has been eating my psyche as a snack over the last two months- by the way, it said I was so delicious it came back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths... I guess I can be like a good book to some, but to others as difficult as trying to finish even cowgirls get the blues by tom robbins (dig, dig); tom robbins is difficult to get through but so rewarding and life changing in the end and if I'm anything like his lyrical prose then I have come a long way, for those who can't finish it, I guess it's their loss on life, right?

Right. The horizon is starting to look a lot clearer, drenched in this blue. My run on is done. My restoration and replacation (not replication; as in, replace... that's right, I verbed it, fuck off) has already begun. The choreography is being created everyday and soon, people will know how run-ons can be great for an ailing mind.

Here's to a good day, and many more to come.


Wednesday, December 16, 2009

my alchemy

a mix of everything, an elixir of life.
some days i wish i could be a park ave shallow pool genetically blessed princess.
just so i wouldn't have to think so much.

but then i think, nah.
i could never be comfortable in that cocktail.
i guess i'll have to take the insanity
and shake the dust off life.

picasso had never sounded so pretty until it was in reference to me.
but then again, i guess nothing ever does, hm?

life before vs. life after... the outcome?
it always goes on.


Friday, December 11, 2009

blowing out candles

i feel a little better.
i feel a little stronger.
i feel a little sadder, though,
the days are growing longer.
i feel a touch nostalgic.
i feel this calm wash over.
i feel a little crazy, still...
i feel a little colder.
i feel a little brasher.
i feel a little closer.
i feel a thicker heartbeat, which
will soon be one year older.
i feel like breaking walls.
i feel like breaking down.
i feel like i should yell and scream
so you can hear the sound,
of everything you gave me,
and how words can be a killer,
and see how much i want to hold
this bloody, beaten thriller;
it's the story of a cowboy
of a man who should know better,
the basket of our dovetail dive
in a desert of disaster.

its my birthday. irony is one of my favorite things of all time. i love it... how else can you take it but with a smile, which is another one of my favorite things...

“A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.”
-Jessamyn West

so the irony today, you see, is that for the last four or five years, i have kept to myself on my birthday. well, kept it for myself, at least. i was actually performing last year with the dames but i didn't tell anyone it was "my special day" so it doesn't count. the years before that were spent with my cats and an ex-boyfriend and two bottles of red wine and a movie. i don't really care about birthdays. i get sad just knowing i'm past my quarter-life crisis and heading up to my mid-life one. that sucks.

so here i am, on my birthday, with a beautiful party dress i bought in orlando on black friday to wear on the first birthday i really wanted to go out on; the first one that, leading up to it, approached with excitement and happiness. i have a dress and a hat and shiny new stilettos, and i was going to walk in the park with a flask and there would be hand holding and possibly ice skating and champagne sunsets and birthday awesomeness... and, now, with whom will i be spending my birthday?

with me. alone, in a party dress, at the cabaret. how's that for an ironical situation? well, i guess it is ME. i don't know what it is about me that magnetizes these things, but shit, these lessons get overwhelming at times. how could they not? it's like they're being catapulted in my direction from all angles of life. LEFT FIELD! no, no... GO LONG GO LONG! wait - SHORTSTOP! WHO'S ON THIRD BASE???

and i'm watching this game of baseball from the dugout with a cast on my broken arm. which, ironically, did happen... when i was eleven.

but it's alright. i was never really all that good at baseball, anyway. i guess my preference for cigarettes, alcohol, and not getting sweaty unless it involves ballet or a naked man surpasses that of a penchant for organized sports. and i like that better anyway, which is NOT ironical at all because i'm okay by myself. i always have been, and i always will be. i don't need another person to tell me i'm pretty in my badass party dress. i've known it all along. it's why i bought the damn thing.


raise your rose colored glasses

fleeting, so
quick it was
the definition of
instant, like
oatmeal or a
seizure or a bus
smashing you on
a random tuesday
quick decision, now
locking the numbers
on the phone,
everything so
nothing can replace
what once existed
so gilded and golden
i will not budge
not an inch, not
a day, just
rot away
in these pretty, fake,
wobbly walls
they will get stronger,
again, they will get
better with age
i will build
build until the
sun sets and casts
shadow puppets under
my lids
i don't know how
to do anything
gracefully, except
dance in this dark
and wish for colder
and hopefully the hands
on the clock
will push me through
please, i want
them to.


Thursday, December 10, 2009

get 'er gone, 'lil dogie

i saw a little
black boy, last night with
hair like yours,
with curls
and this, angelic this,
a sheen that trumps
any candle by
he came out of
left field, and
slipped the rug
out under my feet.
his black curls that
built a bridge
over his scalp and
this fire in his
dark almond eyes
were enough to paint
a negative of you,
enough to remind me
of the regret
of the loss of your feelings,
not mine...
and all that, filled
on top with holiday
cheer and a bottle
of pinot noir and
twinkling lights and
hearts, aglow with fire
from somewhere i never
knew existed... all
my beautiful words,
wasted on the wine
and burned by that
non-existent fire. oh.
i see it clearly, and
for the first time in my life,
all i want to do is
take out my contacts
so the blur can get
in the way.
but i guess the
does that enough already.

my bones still hurt, from something beyond the beyond. inside the inside. damage was done with a text message and now my ribs will crack one at a time, breaking the cage that has been built up so strong. what a shame. and a shame that i let myself believe. i know that i have that stupid emo bullshit tone in alot of my writing. but there's a reason for it, and this could definitely be considered why. maybe if people would just lay off and leave me and my stupid wobbly walls alone i could get some sleep and be a happy writer. but the bulimia would eventually set in again and i guess i would create the emotions on my own.

i am an angry, sad motherfucker. and i don't think it's a bad thing. i find happiness in sarcasm, and fleeting smiles before the storm. it's enough to put gas in my tank and bullets in my gun. hell, it's enough to get me through 27 to 28. and if i do that, maybe... maybe i'll get another chance.

but probably not. :) see? i can make myself smile. it just depends on which way the frown is being loooked at, right?


Tuesday, December 8, 2009

here's an irish prayer for you

affirmation is the shitty thing about realization... and confirmation. and degradation. that "god grant me serentity" shit? go fuck yourself. i need to grow a sac and stop feeling guilty for shit that's not my fault. IT'S NOT MY FAULT. it's not my fault.

the more i say it, the less i believe it, and here i am again, feeling like the fool i made myself out to be.


Friday, December 4, 2009

boom boom

last night i had a swanky charity event, which i was invited to by a designer that "loves my style." though i hardly think a hanes his way wife beater, black jeans, and rattled old white boots constitutes a new york minute, i do have to agree with her. i make a plain white tank top i bought in a pack of three scream sex. i digress. the event was at a little place on bowery on the lower east side, and filled with industry specialists from designers to models to wonderful gay men who want me to be their arm candy at fashion week. D. and i had a blast, starting with vodka on the rocks and moving on to the free 2 buck chuck wine, laughing at the models sucking in their bellies and cheeks, posing for the paps, and eventually getting drunk on the christmas lights that from far away, almost look like the glowing city windows from a high rise in midtown.

after i dropped D. off to get her bags at my house i caught a cab to meatpacking and met up with my old friend steve, who reps makers mark and loves going to the sexiest clubs for free. i mean, who doesn't, right? evidently the answer to that question... is me.

we went all the way up in this glorious silver bullet elevator that had no buttons, to the top floor of the standard hotel, eminently dubbed the "boom boom" i guess. i basically only look at out the doors of my bar to the standard because there's no reason for me to ever actually go in there, hoping to get a glimpse of lovers caught in the heat of the moment, the windows foggy from lust and breath and whatever else the smoke and mirrors brings to them... it's not a place where i would go to drink or sleep or work. definitely not work. cause the bitches in there need to eat a cookie and they scream desperation with their "i'm an up and coming model" glances over their obviously fake and very forced eyelashes. please. i might never have been slender enough to be a working runway and fashion model but i most likely will have had more print work than any of them in this lifetime without ever sucking a dick to get there. there were beautiful girls and well dressed men and money and glitter and a balcony to smoke on as i drank my twenty-five dollar a glass of perrier floret champagne....

and all i wanted to do as i looked out on the beauty of the twinkling city in all it's chilly glory and christmas light hoax buildings, was to be drinking 40s and eating grays papaya dogs, smiling at the people who don't get it. i like nice things. but i like good company more, and last night, i got hit hard. down for the count, regret-the-loss-of-a-feeling low. i always thought that those pretty things were the things i wanted, all shiny and new and crisp and clean. nice things are wonderful things to have. but the catch?

they really mean nothing if the meaning behind them is gone. finding something intangible that you love and cherish will fill the void that we replace with all those new things. and since especially right now, in the wake of losing that, those shiny new pretty lies are so transparent, like looking at fish through the bowl. things aren't fun when you are sitting in the middle of everything and wishing you were anywhere but there. the golden glow of the bar and the laughter all around me wasn't enough to make me smile, or feel as glamorous as all the rest of the sheep in there looked. in fact, it all made me feel... corroded. battery acid covering my insides.

so i finished my glass of champagne, kissed a bewildered steve goodbye (he could not for the life of him comprehend why anybody would ever want to leave his presence, which is why i love him and can't stand him all the same), and went to my dusty bar that was a speck of nothing on the golden room's radar. i drank pbr's until i forgot the feeling of the corrosion on my brain and took shots of jack like a fucking sniper picking off the good guys in a matt damon spy flick. i watched the girls clog on the bar and hugged my burly security guys, smoked cigarettes on the bench outside, not even glancing back at the golden high rise i had just come from.

i took a cab home, and woke up this morning, in my wife beater, jeans, and belt. which, by the way, i do not suggest belts are a good accessory to sleep in. the buckle is a little much, i think. especially when the floor pushes it into your hipbone. not pleasant. i've been writing and stretching and thinking all morning, took a break to watch dogma, and i have two more eyepatches to make before i go in and play the role at work tonight.

the problem with wanting to learn about everything is that you have to experience the bad right alongside the good to find out just how valuable the good is. and now, the bad is making me hate ever tasting the good. le sigh. one day, when i'm an eyepatch millionaire, maybe i'll buy that bar in the standard and serve 40s and hot dogs wrapped in bacon. and the people who come in will be more beautiful than anyone could ever see.


Thursday, December 3, 2009

three little hot dogs

three little hot dogs sitting in a pan,
one got hot and it went BAM
two little hot dogs sitting in a pan,
one got hot and it went BAM
one lonely hot dog sitting in a pan
it got hot and it went BAM

when my cousin jackie was little we would play this game, her sitting on my lap as i bounced her up and down, and when the BAM part came around i would open my knees and she would almost fall through to the floor, if i hadn't been holding her hands. she would laugh hysterically, and after the last hot dog exploded she would squeal, "again! again! again!"

after she died, i would have nightmares about this, waking in cold sweats in the middle of the night, because on the last hot dog, i would drop her and she would disappear through my legs, to somewhere i couldn't touch, somewhere i couldn't see, and it was all my fault. i know these were just dreams. just lucid fears, from somewhere in my brain wanting to think if i would have been there at her death, i could have saved her. i could have found a way to resuscitate her from the liquid in her lungs. if i would have been there then, maybe she would be here now.

no. i know this isn't true. things are the way things are. if someone is going to die, it is their time, and i have no bearing on the situation. i just wish, one time in my life, that i was that person. that i was the person that holds that difference.

but that's just my problem. i wish too much. maybe i just think too much. my head hurts, and it's not even 930 in the morning. here's to another long day with myself.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

being bulletproof hurts more

i'm dizzy with everything,
today, lost
in footsteps resounding
through tunnels and
on top of pavement;
nooses around necks, give
way to hands that
are so full of habit
they've stopped trying
to stop
a long time before
i was ever known...
push everything
so that feelings
cease to feel, so that
the noise is
mute and the movement
is moot;
burn my tongue
with your mouth full
of matches, let your
water extinguish my
fire, so that
heads can walk
so full of smile, but
it's so empty, and
so fake. i'm faking
this silence and
giving you gifts,
ribs cracking and
heads bobbing and
feet walking and
for what...?
for this?
fuck this, i hate
this. this
de-collision of
worlds, this sweeping
up shards, this
shiny plastic-wrap silence.
i don't even know
how this

karma - you win. i give up. i'll be in the studio, i'll be walking, i'll be anywhere but where this is.



this chick is my new theme for my life. so, so lovely.


fighting proper

when i was seven years old, i had an unfortunate accident which involved a hill, a scooter, and a large brick mailbox. this is probably the first good sign (a red flag, if i may) for me not to want to ever buy a motorcycle, but there is this beautiful vintage yamaha with red and black detail my friend had which inspired me to own one too. maybe it's just my dream to be able to take the helmet off and shake my hair out. or maybe it's because it's up there with being an assassin slash spy... fucking badass.

so anyway, i took the hill at top speeds, eyes watering with wind and fear and the understanding that at the speed i was going, the scooter was either going to slide out underneath me if i turned the handlebars and jack my body up in the air like a ragdoll before shattering on the pavement... or was going to keep on the straight and narrow, not turn the handlebars but go straight for the mailbox and hope to somehow gingerly fly by it into the neighbors rose bushes. i opted for the latter, but narrowly missed the rosebushes because my body had smashed directly into the brick heathen, as my scooter went on to the brambles.

it was one of those times that everything is happening so fast around you, and your heart is dancing the night away with adrenaline, and you are aware that you have about 3.4 seconds before you are going to make it out unscathed or epically fail...

but life holds it's frames in slow motion, and your thoughts are clear and poignant and articulated. you see everything in this soft, underwater world where gravity doesn't really exist and at that one moment, you know that anything could happen. anything. beauty, breakdown, soaring, or diving... all of the contradictions are complete and you feel, well, unreal. drowning in lucidity, reeling with unknown.

i hit the mailbox, yes. smashed into it and hugged it and knocked myself out. i flew full force into that thing, the same way i do everything else in life. looking back writing this, it was my first memorable venture into what i realize now... calculation is just not for me. maybe if i would have planned out the turn before the big hill, i wouldn't have generated that much speed. it would have been rational, and calm, and i would have all the ability in the world to avoid the blood-pumping adrenaline junkie high right before the crash.

fuck it. i don't care anymore. i guess i didn't care then, either. fuck calculating and planning and freaking out. so many people make decisions based on someone else. take than hairpin turn. be the scooter speedracer and laugh into the wind. you feel it. you know it. so why don't you just go with it and let things take you away? i would crash into a mailbox seventeen times over if it meant i didn't have one more day of someone telling me i'm not planning for the crash correctly. and i don't give a shit what those airline attendants say, the tray tables being in a locked and upright position will have nothing to do with my safety as we plummet thirty-five thousand miles to our 'final destination.' we are going to die, motherfuckers. let me lay my god-damned head on the fucking tray table. fuck.

in the end, i want to know i did it my way, no doubts. i want to sinatra that shit, bitches.

hope alls well. but is open for business.


Tuesday, November 24, 2009

break, me

just let me
go, and
let this in
this small, wonderful
i have no idea
what i am
and if i do
the beauty
in your words
i could do
no more beauty
in this world.
i want to break
i want to breathe
i want to scream
i want to deal...
but here i am,
writing words that
will burn
with thanksgiving embers.
kiss kiss,
bang bang,
i wish
i was soft
so all this was
my breath
my chest
my blood
will never be
the same.


Thursday, November 19, 2009

breaking dishes

“Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”

-dr. seuss

let's break it down a little, people.
brass tax. or tacks, depending on what you want to hang up.

the fourth and i dated for years. ten years, to be exact, on and off. he was my first everything. first love, first lover, first "oh shit... i would swallow fire for you" feeling in the pit of my stomach. people would ask me what it was i saw in someone who was such a loner, such a flighty, quiet, angry man. i would reply, "i just know."

i just knew.

i was wrong, of course, but that's what being young is all about. i would have, rather, i DID do anything i could to be with him. i bought a plane ticket to see him in california. i drove miles and miles from college to atlanta and orlando and ormond beach to breathe him in. i wrote letters and poetry and journal entries about how deep he ran and how i could never bear to lose him. i changed my hair color and took out my peircings (several times at that, ugh) and dressed differently all because he didn't want me to look as "alternative" as i did inherently.

we don't talk anymore. we don't talk, and my world went on and i survived because i realized i am always going to be the way i am. i can spend money on highlights and let the holes in my skin close up and wear gap khakis... but underneath everything is a broken girl who finds beauty in things like candles by winelight and how dusk makes leaves golden and how hurt and sadness are inspirations to me. i have always been this way, and i've come to find out, i really, really like it.

it took me ten years with this kid to understand that he was too chickenshit to tell me that it wasn't me he loved. maybe because he thought i was pretty, or his friends were telling him that i was a great catch and to never let me get away or he'd regret it. but deep down, he wasn't in love with who i was, and no amount of sacrifice on my end would ever change that.

it's a valiant thing to protect someone you love from heartache. to want to shield them from the things that burn bridges in our hearts. but it's more valiant to know when to let them go, because they deserve better than what you can offer them. the fourth would have kept me for the rest of his life had i stuck to all the changes. but inevitably, what happened was that i was so angry with him, all the time, towards the end of our hiccups of a relationship. i was angry with him, and i would get so heated at myself, and eventually end up destructing what i thought i wanted so badly, and it was because i just never seemed to be what he wanted.

i am a great girl, don't get me wrong. i'm smart and quickwitted and independent and artistic (and i could have done worse in the genetics dept, i'm not all that bad to look at i think)... alot of men would want a woman like me. but i'm not for everyone, and it hurt me so bad that i couldn't be what he wanted. i sacrificed and shed tears of loneliness because he just didn't understand me... but, it was never going to work. i could never change enough of what i was to light a spark in his heart, and i wasted years of my youth and ink in my pens trying to do it.

had he just told me back then, and let me fall to the floor, i would have picked myself back up and attended to my wounds. i deserved someone who would look at me the way i looked at him, and i think the worst part about him never loving me that way was him keeping quiet about it so that he could keep me, like my grandmothers ivory jewelry box on my dresser.

none of this is easy, and none of this was planned. it hurts on both ends, truly and deeply.


Wednesday, November 18, 2009

where the weather is perfect

Either of two points on the celestial sphere
at which the ecliptic intersects the celestial equator.

these lines, this
highway in my head,
the birds are
loving their wings right now,
pushing for the moon.
clean air, in
my lungs,
this blood runs
more red than ever
before, in love
*and death
and hearts beating themselves
into night from someone
elses hand on top.


ps: to my good friend mike, big kudos on this piece. i've been living inside it for quite awhile. :)

Saturday, November 14, 2009


“Human folly does not impede the turning of the stars.”

-tom robbins

another night passes.


Thursday, November 12, 2009

our little mermaid purses

what would life be like if we had nothing to hide?

and don't skew this... i say "hide" the same way i mean "possess"- insomuch as we need the things no one can know about us to BE us. the world of celebrity today makes pornography of their daily lives. on twitter we can let the world know at all times where we are, what we are doing, and who we are doing it with. and it is a shame really. what would a life be like without secrets?

we couldn't conceal that we don't like certain christmas presents. my grandmother gives me something i hate every year. i mean, like i HATE it. i don't know why she actually goes and spends money on a red and purple paisley pashmina i gave to salvation army, or a two dollar chinatown purse she got at T.J. Maxx, to which in my knowledge i never remember expressing i wanted. ever. but every year, i write her thank you notes, thanking her to all ends for the shit she gave me, when all she really needed to do was cut me a check for the amount she spent on them.

or, or.... what about children? i teach kids. and if i told them what my life was really like in my down time when they asked me, they would all turn out to be bigger reprobates and whores than if i didn't give them a head start. "miss kathryne, what do you have to do to be a famous dancer or actor?" the appropriate thing to say is, "well, anything can be achieved with a proper work ethic and determination. just keep trying, little timmy." but the truth is, "kid, if you wanna be famous and make millions, you need to sleep your way to the top, marry someone with millions, and make sure the prenup has more holes in it than britney spears' diaphragm." but if i said that, what would their parents think? surely they aren't telling them the secrets they have in their own marriages. why should i have to be chastised?

the thing is, we all have things we need for ourselves. a bubble bath, a secret crush, a mystery about our lives that no one else can touch. most times, that's all we have in this world. everything else can come crashing down around us. but not our glass boxes. they remain glistening and finger-print free. a shred of sanity in our overexposed lives.

and if you think you don't have any secrets, well, fuck you and the horse you trotted in on. i'll burn your pedestal and punch you in the face. every person in the world has a secret, no matter if it's calling your girlfriend the same name you called the girlfriend beforehand or the fact that you stole those glasses from a streetmarket in san francisco when no one was looking.

i know. i may not know what your hiding, but i know it's something, and i commend you.

conceal away, people.


Tuesday, November 10, 2009

p.s., thanks for the flowers

a bloom, a
petals rigid and
slender stalk, its
fever under skin.

i wish there
would have been
candles, or
quiet, or
something to soft
the relics of
someone elses past.


there was the
bitterroot flower,
so shyly waving
it's petals
into the night.

i think that's
candle enough.

i'm so glad i'm off for the next couple of days. i have every intention of dwelling in the great and letting go of the mundane. ah. i love fall. it's so beautiful here, in my life. ;)


there was

Friday, November 6, 2009

my eyes are up HERE

tell me you wouldn't be just as happy as them to have one of these. if you say you wouldn't, you're a filthy, pathetic liar.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

truth... again?!?!

the paradoxical theory of change.

my topic of internal discussion today has been settling over time, creating a little village in my head, whilst it's properties decorate the insides of their houses and the tree-lined streets with season-oriented christmas lights. and while i may not exactly know where this dickens village of my mind originated, i do know that i didn't know that there was actually a theory to back it up.

thank you, wikipedia, you can suck it.

so for the last couple of years, really, since i've been out of college and away from where i grew up, i have been outside looking introspectively in, watching this painful process of growth, although i never really labeled it that to begin with. when i was at home, i was who everybody else wanted me to be... i was a yuppie; i was an honor roll student; i had money; i played golf and tennis; i was a debutante; i was chaste. upon college, a little part of me pushed the envelope... i got a nose ring; i bought a ticket to california during the first semester back my freshman year to visit my then-boyfriend; i got a tattoo; i locked myself in the studio at night and danced to rock music instead of classical. of course, i was still a dean's list student, i still pulled my hair back in a tight bun for daily ballet classes, and i still obeyed my curfew when i went home to visit my parents, who were growing alarmingly suspicious of these almost non-existent rebellions. i pushed further when i graduated and moved to atlanta. i cut off all my hair, moved in with a boyfriend, and added to my tattoo collection fullfold. the waves of evolution grew stronger as i strived to become closer to who i really thought i was.

which of course, leads us to the question. i was pushing for change. change all around me, from who i used to be to who i wanted to be, to how people perceived me and my image. i look at it now, and what i had become was a caricature of what was inside me. i was so hell-bent on proving that i was this strong, independent, tough woman that i had completely glossed over who i really was. and when i would start over each time, in san francisco, on tour, in boston, in new york... i had less and less a grasp on who i was because the girl i'd become didn't have the support of her environment around her anymore. in proving i was strong, i had become weak with resistance to deny everything i wasn't.

that's a paradox like a motherfucker right there. i wish i would have known all this had a name. maybe it would have made it easier for me to identify with.

so here it is, for you to see. maybe you're going through it right now and needed to find a name for it, too.

Briefly stated, it is this: that change occurs when one becomes what he is, not when he tries to become what he is not. Change does not take place through a coercive attempt by the individual or by another person to change him, but it does take place if one takes the time and effort to be what he is -- to be fully invested in his current positions. By rejecting the role of change agent, we make meaningful and orderly change possible.

The Gestalt therapist rejects the role of "changer," for his strategy is to encourage, even insist, that the patient be where and what he is. He believes change does not take place by "trying," coercion, or persuasion, or by insight, interpretation, or any other such means. Rather, change can occur when the patient abandons, at least for the moment, what he would like to become and attempts to be what he is. The premise is that one must stand in one place in order to have firm footing to move and that it is difficult or impossible to move without that footing.

The person seeking change by coming to therapy is in conflict with at least two warring intrapsychic factions. He is constantly moving between what he "should be" and what he thinks he "is," never fully identifying with either. The Gestalt therapist asks the person to invest himself fully in his roles, one at a time. Whichever role he begins with, the patient soon shifts to another. The Gestalt therapist asks simply that he be what he is at the moment.

and what all of this really boils down to, which i hate to say because i hate hate hate that everything in life seems to be based on this... TRUTH. you have to be honest about who you are. admit your faults while seeing the strengths, and finding beauty in them both.

why does everything have to be about honesty? is this life's karma repaying me for a lifetime of lying to people, from my parents to my teachers to myself? i mean, can't we just all glide through life allowing people to think we're from australia or that i'm famous for writing several novels under a different pen name? i know, i know. spiritual health and a clear conscience and all that bullshit.

all i'm saying is, the paradoxical theory of change applies to us only as long as we stop seeking out what we think we are. and the only way we can do that is if we cut out the bullshit.

and that being said, i wouldn't mind if i didn't find out exactly who i am. i thought that was the meaning of life. which is paradoxical in itself. oi.

chew on that, trebec.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

existential insanities

"inessential insanities are a brittle amalgamation of ambition, aggression, and pre-adolescent anxiety - garbage that should have been dumped long ago. essential insanities are those impulses one instinctively senses are virtuous and correct, even though peers may regard them as coo coo.
inessential insanities get one-self in trouble with one-self. essential insanities get one in trouble with others. it's always preferable to be in trouble with others. in fact, it may be essential."

-tom robbins, still life with woodpecker

which type do you concern yourself with? and which one is more sane, if either?


Wednesday, October 21, 2009

oh, you karma chameleon

legally, are you allowed to be angry at someone for doing something if it's something you've done before but karma has already repaid you for it? and when i say legally, i just mean by the ethics of relationships. i don't pay attention to "laws," if that is their real name.

but really, even though there's no rule book on how we are supposed to feel about anything, there have obviously been some longwithstanding certainties that have been created and followed to a statistical norm over the years. when someone dies, we mourn. when someone trips on the sidewalk, we laugh. and when someone who labels themselves as a friend does something in the realm of betrayal, we become angry and upset. i think this is a pretty basic outline for regular emotional patters of an adult.

so now we've got a basic outline of reaction. whatever the catalyst of that reaction is, so be it, but the reaction itself should follow in suit. granted, there are a variant of different degrees depending on the stability of the the reactor, because as we all know there are some fuck crazy exes out there who thrive on making the situation worse with their simpletonistic mediocre arguments that never quite make any sense at all...

regardless. i digress.

so my question is (no matter if you believe in karma or not, because i do and it's my fucking blog so that's what i'm going to write about) does the degree of what you did to make the bad energy boomerang back to you determine how many times you will have to suffer for it in the future? or is it your fault for befriending people who have very little practice in things like "loyalty" or "honesty" or "prophylactics"... or maybe it's a little bit of both. thank you to the wonderful scientists who created the HPV 6 and HPV 11 vaccine. i'm sure it has helped me through contamination. gah.

when i was 18, i had a very good friend and my boyfriend sit me down in his bedroom and proceed to tell me that they were sorry, but they had really started to like eachother, basically asking me permission to fuck. actually, i take that back. they probably already had at that point, and were pathetically asking for postliminary agreeance to what they had already taken from me.. my relationship. me, +1; karma, 0.

then four years later i did it to my best friend... she was interested in a guy who liked me more, and i went for it. i knew the action was the same of the two that dicked me over, but with a little rationalization and a couple bottles of wine, anything is possible, right? i was lucky she forgave me. although i will say, he was really crazy and ended up fucking me up in the end, but i guess that doesn't count. me, back to 0; karma, +1.

fast forward two years to when i was 24, dating someone way too young and broke for me (i could add a couple more adjectives here but i'm not going to because what good what it do? i can't change the dates i paid for just so i could go out on a date like a normal 24 year old wants to), i came back from the most disheveled two months of my life and found out he slept with his ex (we have a mutual dislike for eachother, it's actually kind of cute). okay karma, listen, i know i did it before but you still hadn't repaid me from when i was fucked over at 18! i mean, at least, i didn't think you did... i guess i need to take a closer look...

-incident with best friend / douche boyfriend at 18 (-2)
-kissed other boys when i was with the "4th" (+2)
-the 4th broke my heart 6 months later and didn't talk to me for a year and a half (-2)
-slept with the 4ths best friend to get back at him (+3)
-delivered flowers all day with the "stoner" on valentines day and got nothing in return from him (+1)
-the stoner took me to a dolphins vs the patriots football game for our anniversary (-2)
-broke up with the stoner on new year's eve (+1)
-incident with nat and the chef (-3)
-gave the kid a chance to be with me (+2)
-offer money and apt to the kid so he didn't really have to work (+1)
-kid stops talking to me for 6 months out of nowhere (-2)
-get back together with the kid, he sleeps with ex (-2)
-get back together with the kid, i emotionally cheat on him with the director (money, power, and looks) (+3)
-director stops talking to me (-1)
-move to boston, date a harvard lawyer (+1)
-found out via facebook the kid is dating my hairdresser friend (facebook. really?) (-2)

there may be some other shit in there, but buy this scale of karma being the me being the positives and karma being the negatives, i have calculated that karma is almost settled up on her payments. me, 14; karma, 16. and i think those couple extra points i am waiting on are happening right now...

i am in new york city, getting lost and finding things i never new existed. i am dancing and being noticed, not to mention being appreciated for my many differences to other girls in this same profession. i am in a relationship with someone who is driven, intelligent, funny, and incredibly handsome. and my best friend is coming up in january to take a swing at things for herself. me, +1.

it really is odd how things even out in the end. thanks, karma old friend. you always know when to put me in my place.


Tuesday, September 15, 2009

i cracked under the pressure of cable

so i did it. i watched the vma's last night, after a strong avoidance of anything mtv has produced over the last ten years or so. after real world versus road rules XXVII: the blazing inferno of death and syphilis, there's really not alot of places to go. music videos? why would we have music videos (besides the fact that it's IN YOUR FUCKING NAME YOU SKID MARKS OF POP CULTURE) when we could watch nine hot twenty-somethings get drunk, fuck, and fight? where THE FUCK do i sign?

but. i will say. i was first off so impressed with the performances. the quality of the dancing and the theatrics and the *gasp* notion that there are performers out there that actually can sing live... well, bravo mtv. you made a horrible choice of the host, russel brand, who was not only impossible to understand (arrie p'ttah? what the fuck is an arrie p'ttah? oh... oh you mean HARRY POTTER. STOP PLAYING INTO YOUR ACCENT, YOU RATTY, UNFUNNY DOUCHE. we get it, you're english. enough already.), his comedic timing was slow at best. and when i say slow, i mean mentally retarded.

oh, by the way... kanye west is the stupidest pop star i have ever heard. i think he's one of the most ignorant and least fashionable persons in this industry and i may kill him later this year. i know a guy. so don't worry taylor swift. at least you don't have to look in the mirror every morning to a fish dick like mr. west. and when we have that, we are walking away victorious every day.

but the performances. some of them were really special to me because my talented and beautiful friends were among the other dancers. sora, maya, stephani... you guys were so incredible and brought the house down with your sassiness. i wish when i grow up that i can be a hip-hop dancer who is as cool as you guys are. much love :).

and that being said, i am in love with lady gaga. she is the most eccentric artist i have ever seen. her beauty is radiant, and her passion is so addictive. in honor of one of the best performances i have ever seen, i have posted her video.

all hail thee, lady gaga of the times. you are a mint julep on a hot summer day, or scrambled eggs on christmas morning. well needed.


Wednesday, September 9, 2009

it's all good, y'all

new york feels... well, new york feels lovely, like faded cotton sheets after an exhausting day, or cucumber slices across eyelids. its refreshing, envigorating... it's pretty fuckin cool.
it is day 12 and i love my life. the only thing that would make this better is some money and my cats.
the cats come saturday morning. so that only leaves money, which i interview for in a couple days.


Monday, September 7, 2009

the one thing that made up for ashlee simpson's acting skills

"fame is a bitch-goddess. fame is the froth, man... it's nothing; it' foam. fame will break your heart, brotha. but creativity... passion... that's where it's at. you look for fame, you lose your soul. you look for creation, you find it."

-a really really predictable romantic dramedy called Undiscovered

the movie was horrible. but this quote, this quote i think is genius. it's effective and affective in the same breath. most people who want to be famous do so for the wrong reasons... the money, the parties, the drugs, the paparazzi...

but the ones who really hit it big, using their talent as a platform as opposed to their bodies or ability to be a puppet - those are the ones that have that spark, that inspire people to be creators and in turn, inspire others.

i don't know how pop stars and the new tween starlets do it. dealing with the paparazzi on a daily basis, even when it's just a trip to the drugstore or starbucks? no thanks. they are always on par, for the most part, full makeup and trendy outfits and a smile. it must be grueling, and i wouldn't want to constantly think there was or could be someone always watching me. that's creepy as fuck. it isolates their world so much, and makes them less likely to explore. or break down. or do the necessary things humans need to do for their internal files to work well.

my brushes with "fame" were so insignificant i don't even think they could be included in that heading. i was "known". but even that sounds ridiculous, because the people i was "known" by weren't really big players on the scale of showbusiness. i was "noted". there, that sounds better. known but not well. famous in my own right. a much much smaller scale.

like when i did that national campaign. it reached my friends in manhattan before i even knew i was in a popular men's (not nudie, alright) magazine, and when i saw the actual ad all i could think was how ugly i looked in the picture. it really was unbecoming. and of course, that's the picture that they published. it's me, why would they think to print an ad that made me look halfway decent? well, my father was so impressed that he went out and bought five of the magazines and started showing it to all his friends. so i was known, for a hot minute, as freddy's daughter, who was in an ugly ad in Maxim. wonderful.

or when i went on tour with a famous rum company. i toured the midwest in a limo branded with their company name. and of course, to anybody not driving in a branded limo was prone to thinking that we were in some way, famous, and that they should take pictures with us and get our autographs. this was always perplexing to me as well, because these were complete strangers who had never seen me before who thought they should cash in. i was famous by association. fantastic.

or when i teach on conventions. because i tour with dancers in the industry that have actually been involved with major celebrities like madonna, christina aguilera, britney spears, and janet jackson, i am lumped into their success, even though i've never seen any of these stars in concert, much less choreograph for them. this doesn't really make me upset more than depressed, because at the end of these weekends i look back on my life and say, "i've done nothing. anthony was touring with britney spears at 19. my life is unfulfilled." and even though i could give a shit that i was never on her "onyx hotel tour"(which i'm sure was the epitome of creative genius), i look at their careers in wonder, because ballet doesn't offer the same things that jazz and hip-hop can to dancers. money and fame-by-association.

but in all honesty? i would never want to be of that status. i like my life, walking on the streets and people watching, riding the subway without the use of bodyguards, and overall having one of life's most precious weapons...

obscurity. being able to be alone, which is something i like to do a lot. i couldn't imagine walking down the street and having my picture taken if i'm not being paid for it, or seeing my face plastered across all the tabloids with titles like, "superstar gains 5 pounds after stint in rehab," or, "are kathryne and john stamos getting married? the secret wedding in the bahamas." i couldn't deal. and on top of everything else, is my past, which is peppered with certain things i never want anybody to know. let's keep them hidden for the sake of my pride and probably a lot of other's as well. and i would really like not to be disowned by my family. that's on my list of things to do in life... not be disowned. i've come really close. but it hasn't happened yet.

if you look for fame, it will eat you, because it's a vicious cycle. everyone wants a piece of it, with no regards to you. they want your money, they want your style, they want the parties you go to and the scraps off the table. they could give a shit if you overdose, because there's always someone new around the corner to prey on.
creativity, however, will secure your abilities, and in turn your confidence. that's where the good stuff is. people respect you for what you do, not what you are on that stage and then at the afterparty. flourish in the passion to do something you love, and you will have it made. none of that other stuff will matter, because it doesn't effect you the way you affect them. the internal creates the external, and this goes as well in show business. most of the "talent" in hollywood is about as talented as my right leg; it's pretty to look at but without the rest of my limbs is worthless. those starlets and singers and models need the internals to step up, otherwise they'll never be famous. how shallow must that feel... oh, poor beautiful, fake plastic faces, crying saline tears. i feel for you.

don't watch undiscovered. although the way it was shot gets a couple major points in return for just how long you have to wait for your predictions to come true, it is still about two hours of your life you will never see again. and that's just a waste.


Thursday, September 3, 2009

as you wish

"Life is pain. And anyone else who says otherwise is selling something."

Yeah, princess bride. Vintage emo. I like your style.


Wednesday, September 2, 2009

it may be slow motion

...but it's still beautiful. sylvie guillem is god.


oh, and p.s.:

so is desmond richardson. complexions is the shit.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

lasso the ranch

This breeze, this
Fall drenched warmth
And lazy sky, gives
Way to better days;
To relief of wear, and
From bruised egos and
Marrow stung in bones;
Soaked thoughts dry
Lazily, clipped on
Slacked clothlines in
My mind,
dancing slight in the wind,
Swaying to the rustle
Of leaves againts leaves;
And me, content
Stretched out in the shade,
Watching lucid flights
Of insects and shadows
On pavement,
In the moment-
Learning, again, to
Let go
With grace.
It is, what
It is, what
It is...
A day to trump
All days, content
In breeze and heart.

What a well deserved couple hours of nothingness this has been, lounging on my front porch, drinking a diet coke and laughing at the comedy of errors we have so cordially labeled as 'life'. this constant back and forth of these tides make lazy days like this welcome, and cherished.

It is a push and pull, an adaptation, and revelation, all of this is; zen as it may be to have to acknowledge bad to appreciate good. It is so important that the heart be tested. Otherwise, we would never know the resilience and recovery of it.

"When life demands more of people than they demand of life-as is ordinarily the case- what results is a resentment of life that is almost as deep-seated as the fear of death. Indeed, the resentment of life and fear of death are virtually synonymous. Doest it follow, then, that the more people ask of living, the less their fear of dying?"

-tom robbins, even cowgirls get the blues

in honor of lazy days and content in silence, I think we should all demand the most out of life to squeltch the fear of death. And for me, today, it's letting myself bask in the wonderful world of being air-dried on a clothesline, dancing in the wind.


Thursday, August 20, 2009

what i thought about all last night, after a bottle and a half of wine and no forgiveness for the inability to judge temperaments of old friends

a shock to the system.
like a hot penny
burning through ice cubes,
or sunburnt skin
under aloe gel, i
don't know how
this is supposed
to be easy, or
gracious didn't come
through my pitiful
attempt at
accordance; the
tears were hard
to talk through.
you are like
thanksgiving leftovers
at christmas; or
flamboyancy in the closet.
i literally have
no more words for this


Sunday, August 16, 2009

thanks, bonanza jellybean

"Yes, they grew even as millions of young americans under social pressure and upon the instruction of their elders, struggled to cease growing; which is to say, struggled to grow up, an excruciatingly difficult goal since it runs contrary to the most central laws of nature - the laws of change and renewal - yet a goal miraculously attained by everyone in our culture except for a few misfits."

-tom robbins, even cowgirls get the blues

Decide to be a misfit, as a tribute to the laws of change.


Wednesday, August 12, 2009

moving out, moving on

Start over, you
So easy to
When blame is laid
Like brick on brick;
Wash your hands,
Clean your skin,
Cause the scent of me
Is cemented in
And no matter the day you
Decide to taste, to
Know what happened,
What took place was
You grew up and out those
Clothes, while
I trudged on, my
Ego bruised; I
Wish, I
Wish, I wish I might
Have this dish of
Forward sight and
Not once or
Twice or fifteen times
Trust words once said
To make me smile.

Words burn like paper. I'm packing, cutting my losses of clothing, well worn shoes, and old love notes just the same. Well, maybe not just the same. My shoes don't go into the trash with such a fervent urgency. Its not that I don't want these things anymore; the boots I wore so long the suede is loved off the toes and heels; my favorite underwear so fondly known as my "sassy pants"; words written to me out of love, hate, and insecurities...

The funny thing is that I have kept letters I have never sent to people I have loved. And harder than any shoe or ratty t-shirt I own, those were the hardest to throw out, because they were such beautiful gifts that showed how much I loved those who otherwise don't believe it anymore. Not that it makes a difference after you calculate in pasts, but still. Those letters were proof by my own hand that I truly thought these wings could be mended.

Maybe I need to mend my own wings. I'm not superman. Hell, if I was a superhere id be the great jager bomb or something. I can't save people, and moreover- who was ever asking me to save them in the first place?

I would love to say the process was liberating. But all it did was make me sad that these men will never understand how great I once thought they were. Now, after years of separation, silence, and anger, who knows who they are?

Just a thought.


Monday, August 10, 2009

on the flip side

isn't it funny the things we love about someone in the beginning, are the same things we can't stand about them in the end? the way they may chew their food; the way they lightly snore at night right after they fall asleep; the way they frown when you tell them something that's the truth although they didn't want to hear it...

i have always found this perplexing. and what's even more so, is the fact that the things you initially hate about that significant other, somehow makes you more determined to be in a relationship with them. they're broke? let's help them get a job. they're a mean drunk? let's help them get sober. they're insecure? let's help them build some confidence...

broken wing syndrome. like whoa.

my friend anne was recently left to the wayside with her boyfriend of two years. we'll call him bill. so bill was a drifter, a smart and kind of shy guy with a very offbeat sense of humor, tall, and relatively handsome. good-looking enough to let the fact that he was 30 and working the foodrunning shift at the restaurant slide. so they had been dating for two years when i met both of them about six months ago upon my move to boston. i thought the pairing slightly strange, but whatever, you can't help who you fall in love with, right?

anne is one of the smartest people i have ever met in my travels. she goes to MIT, is young, and can finish a crossword in an hour without looking on the backside of the page to cheat, like me. she holds up a full time job serving the douches in harvard square in addition to being a full time student at one of the most prestigious schools in the country. she's very quiet but has a razor sharp wit when you least expect it, which makes her even more intriguing. and while her ability to laugh at others and herself is quick and hot, she's incredibly humble and one of the least superficial people i know. not to mention she's naturally gorgeous to boot. so that's always a plus.

so she comes into work one day about two weeks ago overbearingly quiet, and after a couple hours confesses to me that bill has broken up with her. i was shocked - i had just seen them out two nights before and everything seemed fine between them. but here's where it gets ridiculous. she was broken up with because of a compliment about her man's, ahem, member, which was taken in a very different way than how she meant it.

he accused her of only liking him for his body and walked out on her. it makes it so much more insulting considering the fact that she supported him during two stretches of unemployment and stayed with him for the simple fact that she enjoyed his company and truly loved who he was and not what he did. i couldn't help but think what an idiot he was for letting her go, and how lucky she was to be rid of him and his extra baggage.

we went back and forth that day, going over the things she loved and the things she hated about bill, only to come to the conclusion that somehow, those lines had crossed over themselves and flip-flopped. she used to love his quirky laugh, which now made her cringe at the thought of hearing it. she said she never minded the fact that he didn't have a stable job until recently, which she resented him for as he pretty much used her as a plateau for leverage. and i realized...

i have done the same thing with not one, not two, but all of the serious relationships i have been involved with. the same things i fall in love with, are the same reasons why i leave in the end. and vice-versa. every one of the men who have loved me for who i was, hated me for who i was by the time it was over. do i think it's a bad thing? how can it be. i'm still standing, and still happy with myself, and i still believe that i had all good intentions for the men that i loved in return.

do many of them talk to me anymore? not really. i still talk to scott, because he has indefinitely apologized for the way he treated me when we were together in college. i talk to eric every once in awhile but i can tell he resents me for choosing my career over being with him. duffy has written me off completely, and mike... well, i respect his reasons for the change of heart, although i don't agree with some of them. what can i do? we are all only human, and are here for the primary reason to learn through our mistakes.

i don't think i was an angel in these relationships. i don't think that i was the sole mender for their broken wings. but i contributed, no matter where they are in the world or their lives now, and that's all the thanks i can ask for, really. they all did the same for me, and shaped me into the person i have come to love.

anne and i are going out tomorrow night as a mourning process for our exes. we will be wearing some sassy new hats my mother got me from an estate sale with black mesh veils as a tribute to the regret of a loss of a feeling. because now, that's really all i can say that i have.

i'm old enough to know better, but young enough to laugh at all this. it's the only thing i got, and i'm the best at making a meal with leftovers. enjoy the things you love about someone while you do. hopefully, they won't turn around on you one day and freeze over the ability to appreciate both the bad and the good about the ones that you love.


Sunday, August 9, 2009

whoops! a thousand apologies (minus 999.87 of them)

i stand corrected:

ver⋅ba⋅tim  [ver-bey-tim] Show IPA
Use verbatim in a Sentence
1. in exactly the same words; word for word: to repeat something verbatim.
2. corresponding word for word to the original source or text: a verbatim record of the proceedings.
3. skilled at recording or noting down speeches, proceedings, etc., with word-for-word accuracy: a verbatim stenographer.
1475–85; < ML verbātim, equiv. to verb(um) word + -ātim adv. suffix Unabridged
Based on the Random House Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2009.
Cite This Source | Link To verbatim

but i still think it's funny...
i'm just glad YOU aren't smiling.



Sunday, August 2, 2009

aww, look how cute you are with your big grown up words

ahem. this is dedicated to the women who need reassurance that ex-girlfriends are crazy. it's verbatum , cut and copied.

"who are you to talk about fucking someones boyfriend behind their back??? r u kidding me? ive seen first hand how you like to break apart relationships. you suck not only b/c you bash others for doing exactly what you yourself have been guilty of... you also tell yourself that your a better person for fitting into a size 2. i guess if it helps you sleep at night... fyi i fit in a size 2 also...but i didnt have to expel my dinner to do so. have fun with your unicorns you fucking freak!"

this is the best thing ever... to affect and be affected. i think it's worth a little abuse to get so far under someone's thick, dull skin that they feel it's worth them projecting everything bad they did onto another, just so they can build some sort of transparent decency around their bad decisions.

to all the psycho exes of the world...

for your information, if i stole him from you, then he lied about it to me. but i commend him on his second (less psychotic) choice. second of all, i left you alone. you have constantly tried to befriend me, and for what? so you can anger me with your lack of grammar and punctuation skills and your overbearing use of cliches (case in point: on the tip of my tounge? what the fuck is a tounge and why did you decide to use it so many times in your futile attempt at poetry?)? and lastly, i'm sure the literary term of sarcasm is way over your head, but the size two comment was a joke, sweetheart. i wouldn't have posted anything about it if i hadn't had several mutual acquaintences bring it to my attention and you tried to, once again, be my friend.

i don't give a shit what the fuck you look like, who the fuck you want the world to know you are, and how the fuck you think i live my life. it would be nice if you would do the same for me.

and i never tell myself i'm a good person, dumbass. haven't you ever read my emo bullshit poetry? i'm all about the realization of how i have ruined others. hypocrasy is inherent in human nature; you and i both fall victim to that, my dear. perfection is boring anyway. so as you aspire towards that, i'll chill back here with the sinners. pass the fucking jameson, please.

as far as the unicorn comment... i suggest you back the fuck up on that one. unicorns rule, and you evidently don't understand metaphors. it's funnier to me that you STILL read my shit current enough to know my latest bad blogs. it's adorable, really. now can we both agree to shut the fuck up please? i'm getting tired of you being around so much, especially since i DON'T GIVE A FLYING FUCK ABOUT YOUR LIFE.

do me the same favor and lets get on with our different paths.

by the way, how's the acting working out for you? any big shows there in atlanta? yeah, that's what i thought.


ps: you think i'm so horrible? what about the poem i wrote when i found out your grandfather died? it's called a windy twilight, in my archives, and you should be ashamed of yourself for making yourself believe i'm a soulless bitch just cause you don't have a grip on your jealousy. en-fucking-joy.

the service industry

"ok. sorry i'm being a dick. but obviously, being nice hasn't worked out."

i can honestly say that after all the hard-earned lessons i have put myself through, the only one to blame for having to read this statement via text message today is...


i have been serving tables longer than i have submersed myself in bad relationships, but i can't tell wich one makes me hate people more. i have constant faith that both parties will do me right in the end. the people i wait on, i expect 20% gratuity. 20%. i have been clued in over the progression of allowing people to take advantage of me that this number doesn't even exist. twenty percent as a grade on an essay test in college would lead to failure. having twenty percent of your working limbs means you're probably a paraplegic. paying twenty percent of your bills will lead to eviction.

this number doesn't work out in real life. but i hope for that as the maxium gratuity at the restaurants and bars i work at, and translate it as a good thing when a man has treated me with twenty percent respect in the past.

that is ridiculous, as is the fact that after all of these failed relationships i have seen through to the end, somehow i am still blamed for the fact that the other person was careless with their tip share. tip me badly on a check and i will remember your face the next time you come in to eat. i remember your face, and i don't appreciate the disrespect.

your allergies will soon be absolved.


Friday, July 31, 2009

im the lucky one here

Drinking, drugs, alcoholism, addiction.
Want, need, give, pull, kick, scream, die to live.
Snort, gulp, burn, smile, cry, scream, silence.
Love, hate, hate love more.
Drag, exhale, drag, exhale, drag, snub out.
Write, pour, write a little more.
Think. Drink, drank, drunk.
Wake up, black out.
Wish, want, smolder, ashes.
You did this to me.

The process of being an addict is as gentle as a plane landing in water. Underneath it all is a raging desire to be what you're not and not be what you are. Seeping anger into blood like chamomile in hot water. Let all good be erased and replaced by destruction. Sad, sad, sad. Happy that you're sad, sad you can't seem to ever be happy. Being scared to the point of sobriety but never allowing it in. Killing yourself slow and deep, like one last good fuck out of a relationship.
I'm reading a million little pieces by james frey, again, and again, I'm so happy I'm not him.


Monday, July 20, 2009

unicorns vs. centaurs ; reality bites

topic of the day: letting reality hit you like a ton of bricks and hope to still be standing after the fact.

i have wanted to be a unicorn from the tender age of three, when my father won a tawdry enamel plaque of one for me at the fair. i became obsessed with them, unhealthily. which worsened when my mother made the mistake of renting 'the last unicorn,' an animated feature with the voice of mia farrow, which i rented every weekend for the next seven years. a cataclysmic mistake on her part, i would cry and bang my fists and feet on the floor, protesting to her, "no, we just rented it every weekend for the last five months, why don't you try something new. Sleeping Beauty?" -wails grow louder - "Cinderella?" - people whispering - "This is ridiculous. The rescuers?" -displays being knocked down - And with one final kick, the movie was in my hand and my mother was pulling me out of the store. it would have been much easier for her just to buy it for me, but i think she liked hanging it over my head if i misbehaved, which was every day. didn't clean my room; no mythical forest. don't want to do the dishes? no magic-tipped sparkly horn. my mother was a very smart woman.

i owned unicorn books and legends, plaques and pictures and stuffed animals. i played games by myself about the fairies and gnomes and talking trees that befriended me, the most beautiful unicorn of them all, and about the dark forces that threatened the good magical forest creatures. i was a "unicorn" for halloween one year by my mother's hand, and i put that in quotations because it almost never happened. it almost never happened because my mother, though an artist at heart, was unable to appropriately costume me as according to my imagination, which was obviously very detailed in it's individual semantics. i do not consider a cardboard paper towel roll a majestic magic horn, nor were the tinsel silver streamers she stuck out the back of the white sheet ( which she somehow confused as an equestrian body) congruent to the bundle of tail on the glorious creature's hindquarters. my ass looked like a party favor after new years eve at tommy lee's house - wilted.
i trick or treated that halloween.
but i wasn't damn happy about it.

so anyway... unicorns. love 'em. think it's great that they can just be reclusive and beautiful in the same breath. they just hung out with their forest friends and had some good downtime. cool off in a waterfall, lay down in the shade, prance in fields of daisies... that sort of thing. everything i've ever wanted to have in life, BAM. unicorn. done.

i'm aware now that this will never happen. with the economic recession so far along in it's pregnancy, who knows what the price of daisies are? and magic horn cleaners? forget about it. that shit's expensive, and they only carry it in whole foods. the point is, i had to grow out of my delusions that i was one day going to be a mythical forest trademark. the same way i had to understand i was never going to be a five foot, 90 pound ballerina or a harvard doctorate scholar. there's a certain reality to these things, and they loom over our heads and on the back of our minds while we are lying to ourselves. at best, after all these years, i could really only exist as a centaur, just for the simple fact that i could at least still score some dates with humans without wondering if they only ever wanted me for my horn.

you know?


Thursday, July 16, 2009

submersed in teele

the smell of clean, all
around me, fall
peeking it's head
out of the muggy
breeze, as late summer
settles into it's
big, white chair,
sipping mint juleps
and watching its
flowers bloom.
people are pretty,
in this laundromat
fishbowl, this
sanctioned delouser
station; the sun
is setting over
the tide, and
as i giggle about
the bad joke, the
calm all around me,
in the purring cars
and bustling
pedestrians dancing
across sidewalks, the
hum of the dryers
as my ornaments
shrink from the heat...
this dusk is my head,
at rest,
for once. distraction
does wonders
for decision making.

my clothes are almost clean. i had a chicken salad wrap for lunch, which means my money is evening out, and i will have a new resume as of midnight tonight. i'm not a pessimist, as someone so recently told me about the entries in this blog. i'm an optimist with a jostled view, that's all. i know things will even out, that everything will turn out all right. or at least, turn out the way they should. i don't think life has to be sunshine and disney birds all the time. in fact, if it is, i'm pretty certain that's a chemical reaction due to the prozac cocktail america likes to think helps us out.
things, at least for my one day off, have been good. i like the last couple of hours, and how, even though spent people watching and rewriting my career on hard copy in the coin-op laundry on the corner of broadway and curtis, it has been enough for me to appreciate these days. the days when i feel strong. when i know the sunset will give way to a sky full of unlimitable proportions.
there is beauty on both sides, the dismal, and the decadence. i told that guy that if happy was what he wanted to read always, he should hole up at night with his blankie, thumb, and a good judy blume book. even though my ending turns out just as happy, at least he can wear a smile all the way through "are you there god? it's me, margaret."
:) enjoy the rest of the day off. i know i will.


Sunday, July 12, 2009

april showers

these flower beds, with
geraniums and
daisies and little pink
roses, a rebirth
inside their earthy
bed; look
so bright behind the
fence, pickets
like turrets on
a castle, spikes
of their fortress,
on their soil
they sit, every
day and sing
as i pass, taunt
my hard-earned
poverty with
their fragrant,
ornamental lives.
if i only had
the time to garden,
the money,
the patience;
sing sweet, little
buds, while
i pass, for now...
you will fall
into winter silence
soon enough.


Sunday, July 5, 2009

blame it on the (insert something other than me here)


someone give me a goat, so i can can scape it.
oh, wait.
i guess that's me, the only fool in the room.


the bus was late

sunny, light, and
calm today,
smiles come
easy among
the warm gold
rays and lift
the bad, if
only for a second.
this worry is
heavy and winter-
dark, and dripping
in irony.
what messes
we make
on the path
to successes,
littered in this
winter and

this last couple of weeks has been too much for me. i want to crawl into a hole and admit defeat, even though i know i won't and moreover, i can't. i can't fall victim to being a victim. i can't stand people like that. they can't take responsibility for what they have created. well, only when it's a benefit to them.
i just wish that money wasn't so important to live. you know what? fuck wishing. i do it all the time. no more wishing. that shit doesn't happen, there is no fairy godmother with a damn swarovski crystal wand. wishing is imaginary. i'm all about making it happen, which is why i'm going to stop writing here about wishing and go get my resume re-written from the great hard drive crash of 2009. yeah.
can't give up now. might as well accept the failure and get back up for some more. inspiring, isn't it. : /


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

like crack to the head

Me, I'm a Creator
Thrill is to make it up
The rules I break got me a place
Up on the radar
Me, I'm a Taker
Know what the stakes are
Can't roll it back, it's understood
Got to play our cards


I know what you here for now
Words out you're an idea whore though,
now don't you crush on me
I'll see you in your pipe dreams
whether or not you know it's true
You're who they dictate to
That shit must hurt real bad
fakin' what you wish you had

creator, santogold

i'm just saying. give it a whirl, it will stick inside your head for days. it's a lovely little ditty. and, it's about me. what more could i ask for? :)


Monday, June 29, 2009

word to the wise

why do you insist on trying to be my friend?

i don't trust you, i don't like anything you do, and i hate your face to the point of gruesome fascination with your larger than life gum-to-tooth ratio party you have going on in your mouth. i have no desire to talk to you, to hang out with you, to see you when i come back to visit the south. to even think about you makes me want to punch walls. any wall. pick one, and i'd like to wreak havoc upon it and it's immediate family.

i get that everyone has moved on, and that you have a boyfriend, and that you have settled in to atlanta and evidently gained some "i'm comfortable with me" weight. but that does NOT constitute you sending me a friend request on a non-confrontational internet networking facilitator so that you can somehow pry your way into a life that has nothing to do with you. i'm not saying you're consumed with the thought of who i am. i'm saying you're curious about the woman you never were to the boy that you loved unrequited, and because you made the conscious decision to sleep with with that boy while i was across the country, we can never be friends.

cause you would do that again. and i know this, because i'm not the only girl you have pushed aside to make yourself feel better about your ailing career and gummy smile. you would do it again, cause secretly, you will always hate me, and that's the only way you can get back at me for someone liking me better than you. the same way i will always you.

ladies, if you fuck another girl's boyfriend and then lie about it, talk about it behind their back, and then try and rationalize your poor decisions in a letter to that girl, please use your common sense and don't try to reach out to her. no matter what, even if she does "accept" your apology or friend request, inevitably it will be because of the age old adage... keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

in my world, i don't keep enemies close at all. fuck enemies. it takes too much of my precious energy to hate you, and it pisses me off i spent so much time being curious about your sorry, boring life. we will never be friends, and i will never voluntarily talk to you, ever. we have nothing to talk about except the size of our mutual ex's member. and that makes for a very awkward conversation, doesn't it then.

so no. i do not accept. i laughed, right after i vomited a little in my mouth.