New Years Blog (5th annual)

I have survived another year. Slightly W-T-F, also kind of a relief.

Some resolutions.

I have resolved to not fall in love anymore.  I simply neither have the time nor patience to lie on my floor grasping my chest out of love pangs. All the energy that goes into my previous devotions will be spent otherwise on education, art, and books, (for all creative purposes, not art for the sake of love.)

Purify, as intangibly as possible.  Deeds will be done because of pure motivation, and solely for that singular motivation.  No ulterior motives, manipulation, or hiding the truth. Blunt. White. Pure.

Depress less. Smile more.

Quit cutting my hair.

Drink more water.

Be taken seriously. (Always a resolution of mine).

Look better in pictures.

Be pleasantly surprised (also always a resolution of mine. Though this time it will not involve love).

Pay dues to my idols.  Someway, somehow, I am going to do something about my heroes.

Ali's Good Things of 2009:

twitter, cats, the color yellow, skirts and dresses, kissing, my friends, watercolors, sockeye salmon, George, resale stores, scented candles, my bed, mythology class, all the trips, strangers, when people stop being strangers.

Ali's Things that can go to hell in 2009:

24 hour celebrity death coverage on television, sex, mononucleosis, breakups, hookups, myspace, REL 110, commuting, people moving away, liars, death, navy blue.

I love you all. Have a safe and happy entry into 2010. Fuck the 2000-single-digits.

Vacation-y blog

I am so afraid of flying. It's not really that I am afraid of heights, or airplanes, or steward(esses), just whenever I get on a plane I feel like it is my last moment alive.  I think it has a lot to do with Vermont, and a live Paul McCartney CD. But I didn't die, and I am on vacation successfully. However, I wish it were warmer here, I would really enjoy not wearing a winter coat...(have been doing so since...October? Ugh.)

Things I like about Las Vegas:
-The out-right flamboyancy
-The drinks are so much stronger
-Criss Angel (Think about it...if he and I were engaged, I'd be like "Darling, I am hungry, I could really use a toast." And he'd be like, "CRISS ANGEL-MINDFREAK" and toast, with jam and everything would be levitating right before me.)
-(Girly one) Shopping. Ahh/OhMyGod I touched very expensive clothes
 -The mountains. Seriously some of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I can't comprehend them, they're organic and sinewy but majestic and rusty. Just unbelievable.
-The curtains in my room. Had a late night at a dance club (L-O-L) and met some Canadian business students that insisted on buying us drinks.  Consequently, I could really use a coffee, and I am glad the sun isn't peeking in, I'd be making obscene gestures at him.

Things I am really not crazy about here:
-Gambling. Honestly, I hate it. I can see why people think it is fun, but not for me. It hurts me inside to think my moneys are just, well, gone and my skill/luck is the reason.  Starving artists should not gamble. We need money for...well, I need money for a Wax Museum, and I want to go to Barneys.  Haha. Not artistic at all but, yeah!
-The food. I was surprised at this one, but all of it tastes strange and it seems as though Las Vegas city council tried to exclude vegetarians from having fun.  Like, Oh look at all these gourmet dishes! But, not for you little vegetable, you can have some macaroni and cheese.  I'm not opposed to macaroni and cheese, but I wish it looked as pretty as the meats.
-The crowds. Don't get me wrong, I love strangers more than I should, but I do tend to speak my mind to them when a family, in the midst of a large group migration towards elevators, for example, decide to stop and look up. I find myself saying, "Oh you're not in my way at all, it's not like there are four hundred people going in the direction you are blocking because you wanted to make sure the ceiling wasn't collapsing." I'm mean, I know. Sorry, but people here are on missions-getting drunk, getting money, getting hookers, and there is a crowd etiquette that I feel may have been lost in their luggage or something.
-Can I say the food again? Because I am really hungry and I know I am just going to be sad...haha.

Well FOLKS, that is my vacation thus far, maybe another one of these, as my friend brought her computer (LOVE YOU QUACKS) and she's a-sleep-in' like I should be.  I am going to venture into the world of tourists, cigarette smoking indoors (not allowed anywhere in Illinois so it's so weird), and blatant money loss and gains and find a coffee and bagel for under 7$. Yeah, it shouldn't be hard, but it is. Haha.  Love y'all so much, wish I could write every one of you a postcard!

1+2+3+4+5+6

"Tragically, she took a turn for the worse, hid a shell casing in her birthday cake, with a note inside reading, 'Thanks, I will be seeing you all again on the 31st, when I am reincarnated as the full moon.' The car was on and the garage doors were shut." 

A poem from a 13 year old's perspective..

Roses are red
and violets are blue
i'll wait by your locker
to give this to you.
I went on my Myspace
and changed it today
I put you in my number one top friends spot
because you said "hey"
before algebra class
and I wrote you that note
in pink gel pen
I said I liked your new coat,
and you hugged me after the basketball game
I'm nervous about high school,
you will probably forget me
and date a bunch of cheerleaders
and get all sweaty
in the back of their dad's cars
because they will be older
and i will sit at home
looking at my shoulders
and how they are too big
i cant wait for puberty
to give me boobs
so i can be pretty
anyways,
i hope i can see you on AIM maybe later
and we can talk about math problems
and maybe the dance?
i mean, if you going, and i go,
maybe we'll see each other by chance?

Update, nothing too great.

Hey readers. There's been a poem struggling to come out, but as I planned it while I sat in traffic, I think I made the decision to write a one act play. So, that's what you're waiting for, I guess, my hypothetical dialogues, monologues, back drops, and dramatic lighting! How I'd love for it to be played!

So there's that.

It's going to be my birthday eventually, soon, I guess, is the better word, and I have written a poem each year on that day. The last two are awful....I reread them both just now, and I don't like either of them. I'd post them, but I'm embarrassed, and also not nearly as upset that I'm alive. Thumbs up.

Yep. Love you all. Don't mind my little break from here, I am still writing. Writing a masterpiece for YOUUUUUUUU!!! Just for you. Actually, I do have a specific dedication in mind, but that's besides the point and for you to hear about when the play is posted.

Things you cut.

wanted to write a pretty poem tonight, but this came out instead.

i've cut class

and i've cut my veins

i've cut paper

and animal remains

i've cut into wood

and cut into glass

i've cut up some drugs

and i've cut the grass

i've cut my legs shaving

i've cut them free will

i've cut up grapefruits

i've cut up the bills

i've cut costs

taken short cuts

and cut off my hair

i've cut food to cook

and i've cut to prepare

i've cut in line

and i've cut people off

i've cut in, cut it out

and cut down on stuff

but no cut has ever hurt quite as badly

as hearing you're cutting ties

with me

(and not sadly).

Proud of this.

Sunsets are purple because of pollution. Sad for environmentalists, but lovely for everyone.

It has been time.

Time to get a new watch!

No, but it is time to quit this motif of "who are you and why have you ruined my life?" I've been so blue lately, and it's time for violet or something.

I am looking for a hobby. And I think I have an idea. I have been working on a project, an art installation of sorts, and I have it all in the works. Maybe I'll unleash it here. But it's so personal. So so so personal. It's like all my good dreams were drained into this concept and it left me with nightmares for months. (Which is true. Couldn't close my eyes without something really bad happening. So sleeping pills became a bad habit, but I am cold-turkey. Cold-hand-turkey if you will. ) But yeah. Everything beautiful I have ever thought, ever hoped, written, all my love went into this art, and it left me all empty.

Things are starting to normalize now though. Maybe I am not constantly creating enchanting, whimsical works, but I'm at least not having nightmares. It's not champagne, but it's not water either. Life's like...club soda. A little bubblier than nothing, but not indulgent and ecstatic that makes me kiss everyone on New Year's Eve.

The timing could be better...but like I said. Time for a new watch.

I'm

Sorry.

I love you all.

I can't tell if it's a novel or a series.

You know that feeling you get when everything seems like it's not real, and it's in a movie or book or something? Every little dramatic thing you're feeling just seems unreal, and like it's being laid out for you by some cruel writer. Well, that's me. And I can't tell if this author plans on ending the book soon, or if it's going to be a series. Either way. Life's far too climactic, and, frankly, I really hate it.

I've developed this cough, that manifests only at night through the early morning, but consequently, I've lost my voice. I think this author may also have a voodoo doll of me. Or, which is the far more likely, my character was not all that important to the plot, and I'm being killed off.

Whatever.

But yeah. My character, or me, whichever, is the most uninspired I've ever been. I can't paint, write, poem, nothing. And it is manifesting physically in my lack of voice. I can't talk to my cat, or talk on the phone, or order a drink. Or. Explain myself.

Something's not right. So. Author, can you do me a solid? Uncomplicate, and give me a muse.

You know what's funny? I re-read this, and I'm not going into the details that I used to love. So, suffer, readers. I'm uninspired, and I'm probably past my prime. I'm holding back a little, not going to lie, but it's still nonsense/rubbish/any word for "sucks" and trite.

Well, I've taken my sedatives tonight. I should be asleep soon.

Similes. Not to be confused with Smiles.

I feel like an army. A whole army fighting some war. And boy, am I losing. People used to be all altruistic, but morale is fading. Mugwumps, tergiversators, and fifth-columnists. It's a trench war, and rats are eating my wounded troops. Others are willing to venture into no man's land weaponless, taking it all. More barbed wire adorns my troops than ribbons and medals. And no one is back home with a torch song. While many more burn their draft cards, on the tombs of my troops that have died. They're all unknown soldiers. Or more like a submarine. With pin holes, just plunging downward. Friends with barnacles. Death before ever knowing because of the pressure discrepancy.

I wrote this kind letter to Yoplait Yogurt Manufacturers and Marketers.

"I love all the flavor options Yoplait offers. It is great for weight loss, because almost all my favorite desserts can be substituted with yogurt. Have you considered making entire meals as flavors? Such as pizza, macaroni and cheese, and burrito? Such a consideration would be great because it would greatly increase consumer interest and demand for your product, especially in the war on obesity. Perhaps you can release this idea during the holiday season to promote health and the New Year's resolution of weight loss. "

young ali.

i want to switch out your skittles with m&m's

and watch as you get disappointed

and i'll smile from across the lunchroom

as you think of the possible vile creature to have done this.

it was me! me darling!

but you married the girl who was princess jasmine for halloween

on the playground

by the pile of leaves

yesterday.

and she's got great shoes,

and she'll probably get boobs soon.

so after lunch,

at recess,

i'm going to watch you two on the playground

going down the slide together.

If only I could be the one

with your legs flanking mine

as we tear down the chute!

and then we'd sneak into the tunnel,

where no one can see us,

and you'd grab my hand,

and ask if you could kiss me on the lips.

and i wouldn't respond,

but match your request with a kiss of my own!

i like to see when you get up to recycle your milk carton,

so i can throw away mine as well,

and maybe you'll leave jasmine in all her glory

you know,

she could even get a pile of leaves to marry her.

today, as i saw you get up to toss your milk garbage away,

I stood up and made my way to the bins,

and what fate!

my unfinished peanut butter and jelly betrays me!

that judas!

adorning my white blouse with purple jelly,

like a falling trapeze artist.

and you noticed.

but you laughed.

can you guess which one is me?? think far right, green bow, no friends. L-O-L

my october 31 traditions.

here i will drink to you both tonight

this day of the year has never felt right

since the night that no one responded

when i painted my life

and depression compounded

i made a big mound of big blue pills

that made me throw up

and gave me chills

i woke up the next day

profoundly upset

my heart was still beating

i wasn't dead yet

so they shipped me home

and made me better

but the love of my life

he wrote me a letter

"darling, i dont think you're cute,

you've lost your luster, and we dispute

over far too much for me to enjoy

anything but fucking,

because i'm a boy."

and that was that

another heartbreak

incomplete by the break of day

so the next hallow's eve

i found a guy

who'd give me drugs

and make me cry

he'd be flat out, and tell me things

how i'm too fat, and i can't sing,

or draw or smile or anything.

then on my one special day

he lent me fists

it was not okay.

so now year three,

i toast to y'all,

for giving me art

and loving my fall

into deep horror and scary dreams

remembering those nights

of bad extremes.

i wish i had more to show you two

i'm still alone

i'm still abused.

but fuck.

whatever.

i dont care.

nothing cool rhymes with care.

i really just hate halloween

but at least i'm not staying with the routine.

poem attempt.

i want to sit down and write a poem to you

but i don't know who you are.

i want to be inspired by you,

but you're probably really far.

i came home tonight,

you weren't in bed,

i looked at porn,

but i thought instead,

of happy little things

little joyful things.

you'd pull my hair back when i'm sick

you wouldn't leave me for a prettier chick

you'd hold my hand when i was scared

and wouldn't wear jeans that were flared

you'd kiss my back when i awaken

and jesus christ, you won't eat bacon

you would laugh at things i say

and it wouldn't matter who would pay

so i turned porn off

'cause it was grueling

and thought some more

of what we'd be doing

but then i remembered you don't exist

and i have no one to share this with.

Comedy.

"Indie-Off 2009"

*Warning EXPLICIT Content, and offensive material is the basis of this actual conversation*

E. Wow, Sorry about yesterday, I shouldn't drink so much I could barely walk. I cut my toenails you would have been proud. Thought of you.

A. It's cool boy, we're alive.

E. Deep.

A. You know me. They actually wanted me to make Where the Wild Things Are, but I declined, because my screenplay blew too many people's minds.

E. I wondered why they didn't pick you. They didn't pick my screenplay because of the perverse sexual content.

A. Oh yeah, in mine the boy rapes the monsters but their orgasms cure world hunger.

E. In mine, the monsters rape themselves.

A. Yeah, but in mine, Spike Jonze and Wes Anderson have sex.

E. Yeah, but in mine, Wes Anderson and Max have sex.

A. Yeah, but in mine there is an orgy with that girl from Donnie Darko, and Donnie Darko, and Johnny Depp.

E. Animal Collective plays the monsters in mine. Jared Leto cuts off his own dick.

A. Heath Leger is still alive in mine. And mine features Animal Collective before they got popular. E. Stanley Kubrick's corpse is dug up and I make a marionette out of him.

A. Ingmar Bergman jacks off and his cum is the opening titles.

E. Barack Obama plays Max.

A. Ron Paul narrates.

E. Ron Jeremy narrates.

A. Fail. Ron Jeremy is not indie. In mine, John Lennon is still alive.

E. Double Fail, John Lennon is too mainstream. Everyone knows the Beatles. John Lennon's old barber is in mine. He fingers the monsters.

A. Well Yoko Ono is Max's mom. And no, all indies love John Lennon.

E. But I liked him before he was popular.

A. You also wore two belts.

E. I also fucked Zoe Deschanel.

A. I had sex with Crystal Castles in American Apparel with the cast of Royal Tennenbaums watching with Eraserhead on in the background.

E. Keep in mind I own American Apparel.

A. Roman Polanski is my boyfriend.

E. I taught him everything I know about unlawful sex.

A. I ended the scenexcore movement.

E. I inspired Bob Dylan.

A. I inspired Beck. And I am having sex with Conor Oberst right now.

E. Courtney Love has a dildo shaped like my face.

A. I did coke off of hipsterrunnoff.com's headquarters.

E. I play legos with M. Ward.

A. I never wear bras and I'm a party photographer named rainbow-disco-cunt.

E. I buy my absinthe from Whole Foods.

A. I sew all my clothes and only date artists. I'm in the Flaming Lips.

E. I named my kids after different types of clouds.

A. I got my iPhone from Steve Jobs himself, while he was making out with Ellen Page (pregnant with Michael Cera's baby)

E. Steve Jobs got a fat dick.

A. I'm an actress...

A. Have a good night at work, Eb. This is going on my blog.

E. Lol I'm so honored.

Check Box, Yes, No. You pencil in "Maybe."

I think I am going to do some likes and dislikes, loves and hates.

I like when people who originally did not like you open up and say they don't really mind you.

I like when two people are on the same "wavelength," like they read your mind.

I like when people like my shoes. Because I fall in love with other people's shoes.

I like when art happens exactly like it did in my head.

I like when people remember things you said even though you weren't all that important at the time.

I like talking to strangers.

I like finding people that remember things the same way you do.

I like all these post-it notes around my desk.

I don't like how I get when I consume alcohol.

I don't like how guilty I feel regarding weekends and free time.

I don't like how some people learn what empathy is way too late in life.

I don't like feeling sticky.

I don't like when people realize my luster is gone.

I don't like overdue fees.

I don't like folding clothes.

I love mixed messages/reading between the lines.

I love my cat's face when she sees me.

I love when people use anything above 100%.

I love when people look deeply. In general. At anything.

I love when the sun peeks out for a second, but then goes away.

I love when people fall in love with each other, right before my eyes.

I hate miscommunications.

I hate Stanley Kubrick.

I hate when people say there is an argument, but there is really only one side.

I hate going to the cleaners.

I hate when people violate the things I love.

I hate that I have to hate.

Word Collage- Homer

Why are you crying, Son? What’s wrong? Don’t keep it inside. Tell me
so we both know. You eerie thing, why do you love lying to me like
this? Where are you taking me now? But you’re hurting and I won’t let
you down. With that he plunged into the surging sea. Ah! That mind of
yours! That’s why I can’t leave you when you’re down and out: Because
you’re so intelligent and self-possessed. Listen to the dog talk,
with his big, bad notions. I’m telling you, we really have to hurry.
I’ve killed the suitors in our house and avenged all the wrongs that
have grieved your heart. But this is war.

Blue Quilt

shivers

because it's cold and I just can't wrap that around me

when I do all I can feel

is the candlelight

when we made love like our lives would end

and they did

i vanished

but when i came back

you forgot about the quilt and

just fucked me wherever

and you threw out the scraps of it i gave you

and smoked out of the rest

so i bought some pretty fabrics

something

and i'm poking holes in it

with a needle

and it's bleeding

but i'm giving it sutures

with pretty purple, yellow, and floral patches

and it smells like an april

when i laid in the grass

and looked at the sky

it's so much warmer without you.

i think i hate you.

but i love this quilt,

since i dry-cleaned out your semen.

Target Group

Once upon a time I was on my way to supervised knitting club, 'Cause you know that knitting unsupervised is like a sin, and my battery died and I fell in a black hole. It ate me up and, sorry Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan, but it spit me out, precisely where I was going, but not where I wanted to end up. There were all the queens, knitting their so-and-so's winter scarves, carefully including little scraps of their hairs and eyelashes so to mark their territory. And I knit, for you. But you were just a picture from a wallet I found in a library parking lot while I was checking out books on Electroshock therapy and Snails, so I returned the wallet but kept the picture. And for you I would sometimes practice my piano playing, with the music scores closed. And you would just smile back. That same old smile in the faded class photograph. No name, just on the back, "for tracy," in cursive. The "y" was not loopy. Neither are my "y's". Then one day, I saw you, leaving a doctor's appointment. You had aged a bit since the photograph was taken, but there you were, your pretty smile all intact. And you were beaming. Then out from behind you came a brunette girl with rosy cheeks and the beginnings of a pregnant tummy. You looked at her with the smile that had listened to my favorite love songs, watched me get ready to go out, but always were there when I stumbled in the door, lipstick awry. You touched her protruding stomach and gave it a kiss. And the scarf turned to spaghetti.

"But That's Just How I Feel."

My mind is a gutter

and it's storming outside.

I washed out

and onto your lap...

Started writing that a few nights ago, I didn't like where it was going. Upon further self-examination, I realized where it was going. I know why I am in this direction. Here's how I realized it. Or, maybe I am just searching for a reason to explain this. Either way.

A text message. Strangely sincere wording. A thought. A change of plans. Spontaneous. Ironing and perfume. Buyer's remorse. Setting myself up. An hour's worth of traffic. David Bowie. Witty texts. The beginnings of reconsideration. CTA bar. Him recognizing me immediately. Chinatown. Restaurant. No forks. Risk taking. Two mushrooms? His success with chopsticks. My failure with chopsticks. Fed me. Check. Tip. Suddenly awkward. The line I've been waiting for. Annie Hall. The part after she sings. Rain. Cold walk. Juxtaposition of industry and nature. Lots of doors. Short tour. The Catcher in the Rye. Remorse reconsidered. Wine. Records. T Rex. Hopes and Dreams. Nice linguistics. Flipping the Record. Vodka. Changing the record. Jazz. Wine. Quilts. Matching. Honest. Milo and Otis. Again. Drunk. Sleep. Cold. Awake. Sober. Cold. Remorse. Atypical male behavior. Invitations. Shoulders. Reconsiderations.

So. Something happens I've been waiting for...but I'm not all ready to jump on the wagon. I just want to write my ransom notes. To be the John Hinckley Jr to Jodie Foster. Or this. Should I just go along with it thinking I'll love it eventually? Or hold out? 'Cause I honestly like wearing a ring on my left hand and pretending I'm already happily married. I'm married to an idea. that may or may not exist.

I'll probably delete this blog. So read it fast, my darlings. I'm incredibly fastidious with my words lately. But I love you all the same. Really. I'd gladly have a picnic with all of you, in this precious little meadow with magenta and purple flowers and high grass. I'd even share my sandwich if you were still hungry.

but that's just how i feel?

octoberfest

haven't sketched in a while.

Ode to Hath Not a...

Please, stay where I can see your pretty face.

I say it politely, but I command it.

I'm sorry I bothered you while you were fixing your car,

but I could tell you wanted to talk to someone.

But why use speakerphone,

when you can look at my mouth?

I swear,

as pale in hue as my eyes are,

they run deep.

Don't judge me by my hands, wrists, or feet.

With them, I can impress,

but I have a circulatory system beneath my breasts.

Stay right there,

and keep describing meat to me.

I want to hear what it tastes like.

Spit me pretty adjectives

from your pretty throat.

And I'll pick them off the table,

and try them on for size.

And maybe we can build a radio transmitter together,

and then talk to the world.

It's not easy,

but it's worth it.

As long as you stay right there.

'Tis the Season

Hey. I am back from my hiatus. The blogging was getting to be a burn book more than little post-it notes. Sorry. Seriously. I adore the people that read this. Really. Hugs and high fives, and a promised dinner.

Just some thoughts for as of late.

Le Dinde de Main: 'tis the season. Although these little fellows are usually children's art projects, I often call them my favorite animal. And they appear in my masterpiece, THE KATZENJAMMER. But these little cuties, a traced hand with two eyes, a beak, sharp teeth, and a target on their bodies (palm), they have strong thighs and skinny calfs, and they love each other very much. They live in groups of 12+ and they just cuddle all day long, until the fall when they are hunted for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Girl" By the Beatles: I've already spoken once of the song I wish people would quote to me when I get sad, or maybe I haven't and I just said it to someone in particular, but this song...(Note my pause. It's an homage to the song!!) This is the song I want some guy to say reminds him of me. Never has a breathy sigh been so damn beautiful. I want some guy to love me so much that he's just dying! to tell the story of me. And he has these beautiful sexy sighs when they think of me. No more mixtapes with emo stuff, please. Waiting around for the stuff from Rubber Soul.

Karl Marx: Boy, oh boy, does this guy come up in my life a bunch. I've been obsessed since 13. And then I have learned about him, read his work, one way or another every year since. This time around, I am not just going to smile and write about his stuff. I'm going to overthrow me some bourgeoisie. I have a factory in mind, that I need to free the workers, and violently destroy the machinery. Hey, it's my self worth talking.

Mighty Aphrodite: Movie by Woody. I love that man. But I need to watch that movie. And segue into how zany I get about stuff sometimes. One little suggestion and I am currently rewriting the story of the trojan horse, for my mythology studies. To be played by puppets. With musical accompaniment. Maybe I should be a playwright. OR a puppeteer. My version of Snow White in Spanish was great. Nieva Blanca. No one got it. I played the wicked queen, of course.

Finally,

Projects: I have a new one. I will be pouring more of my heart and romantic-devious soul into that. As well as color. Going to post a link to it when more of it exists. It's going to be beautiful and maybe make you think possibly a little. I was looking at the ground when I said that and kind of decrescendo-ed a bit.

Again. Love you all, I want to tuck you in a night and wish you good dreams. But. Question. Why bother folding towels? I am going to silently rebel like I do wearing white after labor day...

78 things. Word Association.

Word association is totally underrated. Give yourself like 8 minutes and type out 3 words per letter of the alphabet. No real thinking required.

axis, apple, anorexia

baste, blender, baby

cat, cuddle, cheap

death, dirt, dynamite

element, ephemeral, easy

fact, face, floss

gigantic, guilt, guess

help, highness, history

image, indent, instance

just, joke, jubilant

kiln, knock, knight

laugh, leather, loosen

mask, martian, marvelous

nonsense, nobody, never

optical, outed, omnipotent

poster, pillow, pasture

quilt, qualm, quotient

restless, running, ruthless

sidewalk, synonym, something

television, too, tab

umpire, unnecessary, ultimate

vapor, visualize, vest

walked, wanted, waste

xenophobe, xanax, xerox

yes, youth, you

zen, zilch, zipper

8 minutes are all you need to compile data for perfect analyzation. Reading over that, I can think of a distinct thought I had about each one. How interesting. I highly recommend doing this and having a reflective moment with each word/word group. Things to keep in mind: optimistic? pessimistic? daily events? hopes and dreams? people? memories? jokes? something you just did? something you're about to do? Either way.

Heroic.

I hadn’t really the intention of writing about this today, but I felt it significant enough an event to really expand upon.

I was walking to the library as I do everyday, and I generally keep my head at the sidewalk, I guess half looking for anomalies and the other half not making eye contact with anyone unless their feet are interesting. In either case, I came upon a wasp trying to kill a moth. It really was an epic battle I was witnessing.

I had to intervene. Or else, I suspect I would have been real upset and the rest of my day would be shot. I can speculate as to why I intervened:

Maternally: I care far too much about living things. With the exception of myself, I just want to sweep every little critter up and care for them. Making them breakfast and tucking them in at night, even folding and matching their socks. (I firmly believe that “tucking in” at night is essential to a good night’s sleep.)

Morally: Wouldn’t it be just cruel to let something die like that and carry on all “Oh-my-life-is-so-superior-as-human”? If they were any sort of creature, or even object, I would have intervened. Man vs wild, man vs man, animal vs animal, animal vs vehicle, child vs ice cream, to no end.

Nationalistically: As an American, isn’t it my imperialistic duty to throw myself into every fight and get credit for winning? Of course this would be best accomplished by killing them both. Preferably with a hydrogen bomb or equally as controversial weapon, i.e. my stiletto heel.

Pacifistically: I have never fancied myself as a pacifist, because I like to fight, but I certainly don’t like war. I am so inbetween here, I mean all I can really say is that on days where we talk about soldiers and prior wartimes, I give the peace sign instead of waving. They, ironically, wave back.

Whichever I chose, I decided to merely break up the fight. I prodded the moth away from the wasp’s grasp. (What awkward wording, ali! A repetition of consonant sounds not even a mother could love…) The moth flew North and the wasp flew West.

I feel accomplished, and I am only slightly worried about vengeance. However, karmatically, I feel I did something good for life, and I hope it comes back at me all lovely.

Finland or Wondering the Next Time I Will Hold a Hand.

This post really has little to do with Finland, but I feel as though my emotions, as of late, have been transcending both time and space, and that is where I imagine I would feel these things.

I would like to believe that people of any gender preference know what it feels like the very moment right before someone breaks up with you. It's the moment where his or her eyes are distant, and they know that there is nothing left on their end, and it sends you into this full-body panic. Like a rush of adrenaline, or equalled in artificial highs, the party is suddently filled with enormous confusion and an amalgamation of a myriad of feelings. Everything is precisely unclear. Something you said? Did? Heard? Expressed in any way? And the words "I don't love you anymore," haven't even been spoken.

Say, as many times it is true, you no longer love them either, this spiraling feeling does not cease to exist, but instead manifests as a bout of rage and jealousy that you didn't get all distant first.

The pre-breakup is such an astounding mess, really. Probably why breakups involve tears. What's stranger is feeling this disaster of guilt, confusion, and basically all the stages of grief all at once, when you are single. And not even recently single, so it's not memories, or a rehash. It's just some amazingly perplex rush of insecurity in every cell of your being, plus a good deal of envy that I didn't say it first.

All goodbyes and personal item exchanges and closure remains, and you know you just wont like consuming anything more nutritious than water, or less intoxicating than 45 proof. And you get all thin, and almost prettier (subconsciously), in that newly single way; in the mood for anything that reassures your self-worth.

This is how I feel. Single for a year, yet just dumped and by no one in particular. And I'm in Finland. Maybe I am also an actress. And in this parallel reality I like Ingmar Bergman.

Strange, right? Perhaps I am experiencing one of those continuum transferrences, where in another time and places, Finland perhaps, I am about to get broken up with. Perhaps I have a double life. Although, if we are assuming that infinite possibilities are happening at every moment every day, I have infinite "lifes" so to speak, and in one of them that is happening.

On a more relatable note, I have had some intense dreams lately. Three were grotesque nightmares, and the last one was sort of this magical experience, finding out a dead relative wasn't actually dead. I think I learned that I would no longer cry of joy from the beauty of a song written about me, but the pleasure of regaining the ability to tell someone that you loved things you wish you had told them.

So scared I have sold out or something. Here Lies post summertime: thumbs up? thumbs down? Biting your thumb at me (sir)?

Essex inn

Isn't it just wacky when you're at a place you used to be so superstisious of? I used to sit outside the museum in which I worked and gaze lovingly at a hotel I could see, imagining all the mischief I could get myself into had my boyfriend wanted to meet me there. 6 years later, I stare at it from the other side. But probably equally as frustrated and dreamy.

I used to fantasize about the city. Seeing the pretty skyline and stunning museums, but now I notice a girl whose shoes are too tight and she is walking like she has blisters the size of Russia. I hope she relaxes and takes her shoes off soon. And I see Ed hardy clothes. Yuck. And this real skinny norweigan kid with "synthesis" tattooed on his arm and Norway tattooed on his leg. Tacky. And I have a fifth of vodka in my purse.

So there's that inn. Looming off in the distance. I could reach out and touch it, but I left my condoms at home.

-- Desperately posted mobilly.

Qualifications.

RESUME
Ali Urasky
hereliesali.blogspot.com
Illinois

Objective
To be hired as a wife. I will use my people skills to honor and cherish until death, in sickness and in health.

Career Highlights / Qualifications
Great communication skills- eloquent, vocal about concerns, fast wpm in both word processing and texting.

Well practiced in sexual recreation, and socialization involving beverages, and various forms of fanfare.

Artistically driven-a fabulous companion to artistic ventures, i.e. films, musical outlets, galleries, I also provide gifts of artwork regularly.

Well rooted-knows place as a woman, great at cooking, especially vegetarian genre, loves to clean, disinfect, and organize.

Experience
Ex #1, fall 2003-fall 2006. responsibilities-being passive, being supportive. achievements-virginity lost.

Ex #2, winter 2007-fall 2008. responsibilities- being passive/aggressive, being creative. achievements-sexual identity mastered, depression treatment.

Various temp. positions fall 2008-present.

Skills
poetry, love, sarcasm, hilarity, extensive Woody Allen knowledge, vegetarianism.

References available upon request

But...I wasn't joking!

wtf is that?

I wish this time I was direct, but I think I am going to beat around the bush, shillyshally, and drag my feet. Oh and play with some words so I don't exactly tell the truth. Funny. One of my first lies on this steaming pile of words.

I have this flower, and it's dying. I wanted to put it in water, but that is too formal. Had I put it in water, it would have been like receiving an actual flower. But it was just picked right in front of me, and handed right to me. I kept it. And I painted it. But now it's going to die. And I just want to say thanks, but I don't know where my giver is. Where are you? Can I let you know that I liked listening to David Bowie all night? And the way you acted like an eight year old boy, pulling my hair and twisting my arm and throwing me around. And the sunrise on that dirt hill was lovely. I really have never gone somewhere to watch the sunrise until that morning. I did sincerely enjoy that all. It may as well have been a dream.

Serious? Hopeless? Does anyone endorse this?

I think instead of pursuing anyone ever again, I am going to just hopelessly adore someone who doesn't know me at all. Like we all used to do when we were little, just completely fascinate with little things, a silly little crush, that will never manifest.

Interestingly enough, I am not sad over all this. In fact, I am somewhat happy. It's easier this way.

So, two playlists... One titled "Songs to end your life to" and "Songs to change your mind to" Just thought it was funny.

This is old, but some "good" free-form poetry.

Titled, "Divorce Cake," and "Divorce Cake: The Sequel."

feels like we got a divorce,
and you got the kids, the car, and the house
and all i got was this stupid t-shirt
and the std from the bitch you cheated with.
hope you're happy with your pretty new thing
and you remember to take care of the childs
and that shes a great step mom
and cooks your favorite meals.
and im going to go on e-harmony
and be one of the people they cant "match"
because ive let myself go since we've been together.
since you got custody of everything,
going to have to rent a moving van
and the neighbors will all gossip
that i didnt get the kids because im a crystal meth dealer
and i fucked the pool boy
but you fucked the pool boy's mom
and my sister
when you called and said you'd be late
on our anniversary.
now that our trial separation is over
i hope you remember my alimony
because it is all that is going to get me through
the next few months
of eating ramen
and mac and cheese
the kind our firstborn liked
while i slowly forget your middle name
and your favorite color
and my children call your hooker "mommy"
and you buy her the volvo she always wanted
and i sell my car
for a monthly bus fare
and one day i run into you
and your new wifey
while i am walking the sick puppy i adpoted
to replace the love i lost
and i stare at the ground hoping
Sparkle the puppy would piss on your spouse's
Coach shoes.
you mention that you are moving to Connecticut
to the town that we visited
when you proposed.
i hope you take her to that park by the lake
where we joked about living in the creole states
and you tell her the same jokes
and then you watch a woody allen movie
and say that its your favovrite.
when you know that its my favorite movie.
and the kids will someday say,
"where's mommy"
and you will say, "right here with us."
and i will no longer exist
all because the sex with your hooker was better.
but i bet you anything she fakes it
and i know i never did with you.
because people that look like porn stars
dont have screaming climaxes
they are paid to look like they have them.
you will change my number in your cellphone to
"don't answer."
and when i eventually file for joint custody
or maybe just for a weekend a month,
you will laugh because your lawyer is much better than mine
and you will say,
"your track marks are looking rather big today."
and i will say
in my head
"yeah, so id your ego."
and you'll giggle when our youngest runs away from me
and i collapse on the courtroom floor
because when i excused myself to the bathroom
i took all of my antidepressants.
now you dont have to pay alimony anymore,
just one more payment
for the pine box
where i will spend the night
until im reincarnated
to the full moon
that overlooks you and your wife's
second honeymoon
where she will get knocked up
and you will both treat that child
like an angel
and the other kids will get jealous
and then our firstborn
will go through a phase
where he hates you for indirectly killing me
and he wears eyeliner
and fucks the pool boy that i fucked
so psychologically being closer to what remains of my womb.
and you will ground him constantly
making him have a curfew
that he will never follow
until one day he runs away
back to chicago
where he will go to art school
and carry on my legacy.
but that's just how i feel.

i feel like you spent our last money on drugs you said you'd never do.
and you left me at the grocery store checkout
with no money to pay for your supplies
that you were going to use to make a meth lab in our closet
and infect the poor little black girl that lived above us.
and you would run away from home
but give me a black eye first
and say "damn u bitch you're better off dead"
and youd leave for days going to columbus ohio
where you felt you'd "score"
but really all it got you were some nasty ass track marks
and a kidney infection
and while you were gone,
i had to care for the baby
who hasnt eaten in 2 days
so i had to call that ceo
that thought i was a hooker
and actually be his hooker
in his loft
while his wife was at lunch
and i had to lie and tell him he was excellent
and i would stumble back home
so i could feed our baby
and youd be there shooting up
with lipstick on your collar
and id say "baby where you been?'
and youd reply, "don't worry about it, whore."
and you'd smack me
and tell me that i like it
when i guess i kind of do
because i havent left you yet
because i think i need the drama
and i hate being pursued
i just like the excitement
of waking up with a new bruise
and the baby is crying
and you sold his teddy bear for crack
and started selling again
so now there's all these
shady motherfuckers
in our apartment
whistling at me when i get out of the shower
and you laugh
and i try to take the baby and move out
to my mothers house
but she didnt tell me that she moved to miami
so i spent the night at the ceo's
with the baby
and he lied and said i was
his secretary
and i asked if i could be his secretary
and he said for a blow job
and i just couldnt put my mouth on that awful dick
so i left with my son in the middle of the night
went to your house
and while you were sleeping
i took all of your drugs
and i started to vomit
and i died quickly.
before i died, i wrote you this note:
hey remember when you loved me and didnt have to be superficially happy? i barely do because you beat the good memories out of me. i hope you care for our little guy because i just cant be around you anymore, and because i cant be around you, i cant be around anyone. oh yeah, and i knew you were banging that pretty dark haired girl from the start. i found her panties underneath my pillow. lots of love/see you in hell
you read the note and then rolled it up and smoked out of it
you dropped the baby off at your sisters,
and went through my wallet.
you didnt call the police,
you tossed me in the river
at 3 am
and no one found out.
and the little boy grew up
and was just like his daddy
a fucking scumbag
and he got some chick pregnant way too soon
and he ran away with her best friend
and she had the baby
and it died
because she didnt know
but the father had aids
and so did she
and the baby was brain dead
and you found out and felt a little sorry
but the sorry was really just sorry
that you missed the last call at the bar
so you bought a bottle of rum
and went to the spot where you dumped my body
and said, "i never liked you, whore"
where you passed out
and were arrested for vagrancy.
but thats just how i feel.

My Ego.

Here's a narrative for y'all. It's about my ego and tiny details, complete with nicknames and new characters.

I was visiting friends, and committed to intoxication. Without going all Gossip Girl, I am among some people that do not get along, so I divided up my time. How considerate.

After my darling hosts and I went to dinner on a Friday night, suddenly everyone in my phonebook was becoming mutually intoxicated and reminding me of what I do best. Being out of town, I really only wanted the attention of this one beautiful boy, The Painting. I call him "The Painting," because, as a painter, I know just how much emotion and beauty go into a painting. He is both complicated and beautiful. And one of my best successes in seduction.

We tried dating once, but to no avail, and he did hurt me emotionally, however I grew up far too much since then, and I now fancy him the way a therapist should not fancy their patient. I am attached to helping him, talking deep, but also constantly wanting to tumble around on a lofted bed.

I consolidated my text messages, and after an impromptu rave, complete with Jock Jams Volume 2 and glow sticks, my lovely hosts went to bed (as they still had commitments to reality.) I decided to meet The Painting with my flask. I did not plan for making any notches in my bedpost, but I would not have been upset by such. We met, and he took a drug.

And we walked and talked like we do, all honest, and reflective, and psychotheraputic, I met his soft-spoken room mate and sat of the floor of his dorm for all of 5 minutes. I thought maybe at least 2nd base? Still no. I started chugging away at a sugar-free Red Bull, as both my physical energy and seductive energy was running out. He now suggested he walk me back.

With all the walking my perfume was fading and my ego was slipping. I was losing my touch. Drunk I slyly reminded him of how attracted I was to him. He thanked me.

I am now set in his name being "The Painting". Paintings can't really love you back. They can just sit there on your wall and look all lovely and complicated. And in my mind he will forever be the little snapshot of his head hogging the blue pillow with his hair in his eyes all peaceful and sleeping. I sat down in the wet grass as he decided he would leave in 5 minutes. I was anxiously awaiting the moment where I could be alone and smoke, so I was blunt and asked,

"So, 5 minutes, anything you want to say?"

"It was nice seeing you. "

I stoop up slightly angry and hugged him goodbye. It was good enough for me, but not my ego.

My friend was waiting for me equally as drunk and ready to smoke, and hungry for Mexican food. We sat on the sidewalk of the apartment building and pretty much finished our packs and watched drunk people come and go.

There was an Asian being carried by 6 other Asians, for which I presumed was either for a sacrifice or his first time drinking. There was also a real wasted dude in a Captain Morgan shirt, to which he introduced himself, and shook my hand strangely.

My friend and I discussed food as a tall guy walked towards us. I asked him all drunk and polite if there was anywhere to get Mexican food close.

He kindly responded that he was also hungry and there was a Taco Bell quite close. He walked us there and it was closed. We attempted to walk through the drive-thru, but they ignored us, as that is never allowed. He mentioned that if we went back to his place he would order us Jimmy John's sandwiches. This sounded fine.

We plopped on his couch, and learned his name. We learned a hobby, and a mutual friend. We took shots. Our sandwiches arrived. We ate and my friend was ready to leave. The tall guy, having kept his hand on my leg during explanation of his talents, seemed to be building my ego. Either that or the vodka was. I told her I'd meet her there, as I was not yet tired.

The tall guy and I took another shot, to which he immediately vomited, and he used mouthwash, which I asked if I could also involve myself. He explained that I did that because I wanted to kiss him. I am not sure if that was true, but I knew my broken little ego wanted it.

The rest is kind of a blur. But I do remember black bedding, me losing my headband, and saying, "Would it be better if you pretended I was someone else?"

I left as he was falling asleep, running back to my host's apartment 3 doors down in only my tank top.

Even with an ego, I still have no self-worth. It made me laugh a little.

Inyoxic

This is important. Did you know alcohol decreases your inhibitions? Did you also realize it is much easier to use contractions while talking aloud?if not try playing circle of death with one other person using shots and jello shots instead of beer. And then making a rule if you use contractions while talking everyone drinks.

Probably am going to vomit up my liver yall. Love you.

Which makes me want to mention. I want to tell like 3 people I love them right now. How absurd. Thanks hydrocarbon chains and fementation-distillation.


-- Desperately posted mobilly.

Shelfish

I blog about shell-fish frequently, but this one is about being selfish, and things that I want.

I want one of those moments, where you say goodbye to someone after having a nice time, and then you both turn around and, magnetically, if not metaphysically, your faces collide in a passionate kiss. As long as we're wishing, he might as well have beautiful arms and a hooded sweatshirt.

I want an extra two hours a day, so a 26 hour day, where I could spend those two hours reading or doing things that I have procrastinated. They would be literary or procrastinatory hours.

I want things with carbohydrates to taste bad so I do not eat them.

I don't want pets to die, ever.

I want to be famous. I am not kidding, and I am not saying it in a little-kid or Pussycat Dolls way or whatever. I actually do want to gain some sort of notoriety so my ideas can be spread further, and I can make enough money to open a school, and maybe (just maybe) buy Marc Jacobs clothes. AND! I don't want to get famous through a sex-tape.

I want a version of solitaire on my computer that doesn't insist that I "buy the full-version" or else I will never win a game.

Most of all, I want people to stop telling lies to me. No more. Stop. I can tell, and it's taken far too long for y'all to admit it.

October 30

This is a story I wrote tonight. No truth, just a story. It's called "October 30"

October 30, 2007

I want to get this all off my chest. You know before I run away with my new lover and all. I just thought I’d let you know that I am listening to that song by The Cure you gave me. I think you only gave it to me because of that thing I say about them. What kind of band names themselves something so hopeful?

I hate you so much little darling. You and your furry green body, all sick and intoxicated. Flirting with whomever you will call yours this evening. When it was me, I adored it. Now every time I look at your neck I think about the time you forced me back into my car, stuffing all the bubbling, bulging fat into my tiny Ford focus. I never did thank you for that, the way you strained and jostled my cumbersome flabs…

She was writing a letter to whomever she could think of that remained in her life. She had happily found someone new, and they, so completely enamored with one another, had decided to elope and run away on a motorcycle. Very Che, but less polio.

The recipient of the letter, probably forgot how to read, she decided, and she abandoned the entire writing process.

“Writing to a party monster is entirely useless. Unless I sealed this letter with an absinthe kiss, he’d never be interested…”

For those of you who don’t know what a party monster is, it is actually best explained like a cookie monster. Fueled only by a love of parties, they think of nothing more, except the occasional word or letter of the alphabet. Party monsters do not overlook any means of party, getting “fucked UP” and any variation of such. Often times they have a tiny reminder of the shell of a human they used to be, before socialization became their primary interest.

The girl looked at herself in the mirror and tried desperately to recall more people to write to, people that could read.

Dear….

You were my… You just got away, didn’t you? We were never really anything, but I must confess, briefly, this time, that you had a nice little residence in my head, right next to daisies and beautiful sunsets. I never did lump you in the category with the assholes that explained things with their fists and dicks. Even if I did touch you, I don’t even remember because that’s not really what I wanted. Anyways, I am happy now and I hope you remember who I am when you get this. If not, then regard it as a junk mail much like a coupon for something you already have…

She nodded in approval at that letter. This particular someone was never really in her life, but why not? She figured. She decided to hop in the shower to prepare for that night.

A wedding! How enormously exciting. She would wear sexy white lace for such an occaision, under her business casual attire for the courthouse. Even if she wasn’t a “blushing bride” she’d still wear blush and make it appear that she was, somewhat, innocent and virginal.

Getting naked was always hard. The mirror would always tickle her in her most sensitive spots, and when it had a good grip, it would shatter, sending shards deep into her tissues. Scars and blood covered her body, but her new lover, made her feel like a princess. Such an unconditional love! He never criticized her for her tendencies to swallow entire grocery stores, and then entire pharmacies and spend the weekend vomiting. He’d just cuddle up to her arms and the weeping would cease. He’d kiss every wound on her arms and inner legs, and call her skinny even if she wasn’t.

She spoke out loud with the water running.

I am eloping tonight, you beautiful tiles. Hopefully I will spend the rest of my wonderful life bleaching you, and then waltzing downstairs to prepare dinner for my lovely husband. And we’ll have a pretty little child that will reap the benefits of a clean, germ-free shower. And on your walls, we will stick shaped sponges and help him learn the alphabet or something equally as worthwhile. And then when he is older, he will masturbate on you, mumbling names of the women or men he desires. I wont be mad, just ready with my bleach.

The tiles responded.

Better use all those soaps tonight honey. You wont be getting any, and certainly not making any offspring smelling like that. And you better do something about that hair of yours. Even though you change it, no one really likes it. It was better when you just let it drape over your floppy chest, all frizzy. Two men liked you then.

She should have been taken aback, but she decided they were probably right. After her cleansing, she would pin back her hair so no one could distinguish what it was really like. And focus more on her face.

Just then the mirror exploded with a gigantic, “NO!” Her face was showered with shards.

“It was a good thing I invested in such heavy duty tweezers. They will most certainly get these out before I have to get married.” She began plucking out the shards and using some antibacterial spread on the wounds. The stitches could wait.

She resumed her shower and then toweled dry. Then, a knock at the door.

Quickly, she laced up her lingerie and buttoned a blazer that matched a pencil skirt.

He walked in, and said,

“Honey, I have a surprise for you. I brought the judge here, so all we have to do is sign, and we’re together forever.”

As if in an ecstatic trance, she sat herself down at a table.

“Everything I have ever wanted. Complete happiness. The overwhelming sensation that someone loves me. Its my vows for you darling, take me now, you wonderful little pointed vile…”

She spoke as her necklace wrapped around her left arm real tight. Teeth pulled the chain into a tourniquet as her lover plunged into her exposed vein. The wave of wonderful. Then a shiver. Then a shake. Then frothy spit. Then nothing.

Something smelled like alcohol. Does hell smell like party monster? Her eyes peeked open. No! Fuck!

A hospital? No! This wasn’t the plan! Some adrenaline pulsed through her body and she broke form the restraints that held her arms down. She burst through the window and made a dash for the apartment. A cop was running at her gun drawn. An idea.

She elbowed a middle-aged woman and stole her purse, rummaged about until she found a lipstick. On her gown she scribbled the letters spelling “FOR YOU,” and then hid her hand in her gown. When the cop got closer she yelled that she would shoot. The cop, consequently was trigger happy, and shot her three times in the chest, for her threat.

She died with the second bullet.