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.