Hi hey, hello.

How long has it been now? There's something different about the concept of "estranged." It's not one of those normal-loss feelings, where you wave goodbye, weep, and carry on.  It's different because they're still bumbling about someplace. And it's sort of uneasy to think that they may never think of you, and sort of eerie that they might.  I think the hardest thing is dealing with artifacts. Once a pair is estranged, their artifacts become headstones. And there's not much use for headstones except for making you sad, or rubbing. I guess the rubbing would materialize in real life in perhaps recycling and making it into a new artifact. I heard that if you dance on a headstone, you're likely to be possessed by the spirit of that headstone.  I think I'm going to line up my artifacts and dance upon them and see if any of you come back. Then again, maybe they're buried for a reason. And if I did dance, I'd have to get an exorcism.  And I'd never be the same. Not that I have been the same since, well, the departures in the first place. I keep coming back to that sinking feeling, my digestion percolating at the idea that I could see one of you again. I might be dead to you, but we're still alive. So, I guess, I miss you. The kind of miss that makes my arms weary and lax; where I could see you at the grocery store or bowling alley, and I'd have to look away.


For you:

Picklepuss Pearl  

By: Jack Prelutsky  

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m not very nice,

I’m not made of sugar, I’m not made of spice,

my attitude’s awful, my temper is vile, 

I have no idea what it feels like to smile.

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m nasty and sour,

my wretched expression can wither a flower,

it takes but a blink of my miserable eye

for laughing hyenas to break down and cry.

If I fix your face with my permanent frown,

your stomach is liable to turn upside-down,

my stare is so cold it turns water to ice,

I’m Picklepuss Pearl, and I’m not very nice.   

And for you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ms0RtYGEhY4

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).

"Hello Meteor...Hello Meteor"

There is a meteor shower tonight and I feel like that is epic enough to mention. It reminds me of an inside joke with someone I love very much and miss dearly. I seriously doubt she will read this but if she does, I never wanted anything that happened to actually happen. I hope you are okay, and that this link makes you smile.

I tried to write a blog last night, but I was so angry and listless. In fact, I did write a blog, but I x-ed it out and no one will ever see the lovely little story I concocted about a princess and her imaginary scar. I feel this blog is more level-headed.

Okay. So, say "laughter" out loud. Now subtract the "L". Is "aughter" a suitable replacement/alternative for "after"? If so, why isn't it "lafter"? And if not, "aughter": "otter"? HOW perplexing.

I began reading Lolita the other day, and I must say. I bathed after how much pleasure I got out of it. It's like a homophobe listening to Moby. I know for a fact I am past my "nymphette" prime, but how I would love to be the object of someone's affections like so! I want to be someone's madness, their sickness, their fault, their art. Lord knows, that's what they'd be to me. I am not saying with superior seniority should steal my precious love's innocence, but I really do envy the devotion. I guess for normies, it would be like reading Pride and Prejudice. I want a dreamer/pedophile to adore me, and worship my mere scent. And, let me just say, I really do try to smell good.

But I read the real book. And I know all the lines, and what you're going to say, and what you're thinking right now. But one of these days, you are going to, right in the middle of reciting, slam that book closed, and make out with me like one of the meteors is going to kill us all.

Not a music blogger, but listen to "You're not a Whore" by The Format. It's been in my head along with some pussy Say Anything that was at the end of an episode of Scrubs. "Alive With the Glory of Love." Hmph. Please, I know I am not musically well endowed.