letters make words, words make phrases, phrases make phases.

I have always said, slightly in jest, "If being addicted to sleep aids is wrong, I don't want to be right." However, I am now addicted to them.  I cannot sleep without them, and I pretty much must have them in one way or another.  Sometimes I come home in the afternoon and take them, and then when I wake up, I take them again. Basically, if I have no plans, I take sleeping pills and peace out.  I need to quit, but I don't know how.  I hate sleeping without them, I have really bad dreams.  The kind where you get raped, and have your skin peeled off, or get dissected, imprisoned, starved to death, beaten, and frankly, just die.  It started with saying, these pills will prevent these bad dreams, but now, I'll take them with only one thought before hand, "Did I drink alcohol tonight? I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone if I died tonight."
Half of me is self sustaining, I consider whether or not my choices will kill me.  And I keep making plans and getting involved in things so I am continually committed to something, so I'd feel guilty if I died by accident.  And I perpetuate. But the other half just wants to go away. Somewhere where no one knows me, where no one has a story about me, where no one can laugh or insult me, or reject me, or ask anything of me ever. That is what my nights are. Little vacations. But they're just sleeping pills. 10$ for a month, 30 nights of bliss. Sometimes 36 hours, if I take two in a row.

When I die, I don't really care what happens.  But I think that will be the only time I will be ready to be forgotten.  It's my biggest fear, to be forgotten, probably why I just up an decided to become an artist one day, after I tried to die.  "Oh wait, no one even knows who I am, I better draw pictures." Thus, I'm alive. But the things that hurt me the most are the people that have forgotten me. My ego is that big.  (Actually, psychologically speaking, I think that people recognizing me is probably the only affirmation I accept. Compliments are in one ear out the other.) But when I'm gone, no more of that.  Not a funeral, not a wake, not a cremation, I want to get donated to a laboratory, where I become a specimen. A soulless number. And when the scientists are done, then I'll ascend into the sky and please the world for 24 hours as the full moon. And then I'll die again, and become a little frog.  Not a special one, but one that you might find one day while camping, and cook over a fire. Or a nine year old would take as a fling of a pet. But then I'd become more things that begin with "f." Being "A" was enough for me.

Wouldn't it be funny if I found out I was immortal? How cruel the irony if that were true.

compare contrast, bipolar.

You,
I've never hated someone so much,
I want to die on your front steps,
and leave a trail of blood and such,
and tell your mom your secrets.

But you,
I want to write you songs,
and push you on  swing sets.
Or parallel park, so you don't have to,
And buy you lots of flowers.

And back to you,
I wish you the worst,
and hell, and a gas shower.

As for you and your pretty face,
I wish you'd sit and pose
so I could draw your pretty face
and tie it with a bow.

You, you suck
Your time has come
to jump into a river
all tied up
and bound and gagged
while vultures devour you liver.

And me and you will sing and dance,
and buy ourselves a sheep
and build a cake
and play kazoos
and smile until we sleep.

And when you sleep
I hope you never dream,
just think of ghastly nightmares
and torturing, ghastly, screams.

While we will sleep so pleasantly.
On clouds of love and clovers.

And you will watch me die and bleed
on your floor, over and over.

And we'll walk down some aisle someday,
and I'll invite your mom.
And everything will just suck for you
broke, sick, shit, disease and despair, and Vietnam.

You and I will shine our shoes
and braid each other's hair
and drink and talk about
how wonderful it is
when life, it turns out fair.

'Cause you'll be in a sorry state,
with your sorry job,
and your sorry mate,
and it'll be dark and bleak and
we'll never speak.

Until one day you see us
at an estate.
You'll say I look pretty
and I'll say
I hate you.

6a^2

Hi hello.
I got this thing item for you and yourself.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is large and soft.
Feel free to do anything you like with it,
please, just don't call it ugly.
You may draw upon it with washable inks,
and you may cut it open.
Just do not call it ugly.
You may tell it everything you are thinking,
 but do not call it ugly.
You may hit it and quit it.
You may ejaculate upon it.
Just do not call it ugly.
This surface area is ugly.
Do not call this surface area ugly.
This surface area hates the obvious.
But this surface area loves you.
This surface area will do your laundry.
It is ugly.
It is a surface area.
It is not a volume.
It is not a mass.
It is a surface area for you.
I got this for you.
I have a surface area for you.

YOU CAN'T FIRE ME I QUIT

LOL, love ali. 

Memory is A Funny Think. Thing.

I don't really have a photographic memory. But some things stick in my head like it happened yesterday. It happened today.  It's not entirely clear. It smelled like a heater that's been on too long and french fries.  I think goldenrod really suits you.  I don't remember the size of the hand that waved at me.  I should know it though. I tried to capture it in pen and ink, but your legs are missing. They might be on another page. So I looked for them.  And I found instead the drugs I tried to sell to the bank to repay my debt.  Fancy that the Teller said, she had already been prescribed those! Otherwise she'd have gladly wiped out the debt.  So I set some gloves and a bracelet on fire.  It wasn't warm.  But it did smell like french fries.

I dreamt that my forehead began to decay, it turned black like ashes.  Then luminescent centipedes crawled out of the decay.  They squirmed and tickled down my face. And they were not pretty. Neither was I, half decayed.  And nobody came to scoop up my parts that kept crumbling. I woke up calling for my mom.

I think with memory at least, I get addicted to certain ones that never happened.  Well, not like in the sick delusional sense, just the perhaps ones. Is it you? Was it you all along? Will it ever be you? You're so pretty!

Losing touch.

This seems like it used to be an outlet.  Now, not so much. Over time, I feel as though Here Lies got its own personality. And I think it started to clash with mine, honestly.  Moreover, I have, frankly, had no desire to talk about the events of my life in metaphor. Don't take that in a pathetic way, Nothing mentionable has been happening.  And I mean that in nothing absolutely mentionable, nor positively unmentionable has been happening. Lord knows I like to blog about my various unmentionables.

But things are solidly simple. Pretty plateau, bland.  The highlights of my day are delusional outlooks on the future, and daydreams.  I dig my routine, and a few times a week breaking it, just because.  I've gotten really into taking vitamins. But I feel like the make me smell less like a human, and more like a vegetable.  And as my logic goes, this is why I have become undesirable to humans.  Perhaps if I took shark cartilage (I wouldn't, sharkys are pretty badass and are animals) I would appeal to a more aggressive, outgoing crowd? Right now, I think I attract earthworms and barnacles.  Simple, monochromatic, earthly little things.

Slumpin'.  I feel like a metric ton.  I even wrote a poem about it.  I think it'd make a better song.

The Metric Tons.
I swallowed and anvil,
and since I used to be bulimic,
(I'm recovered now),
I can't throw this up.
And it's so heavy,
it makes me spin
and sweat
and remember
When my tons slumped into the couch
after hinting
on the bleachers at the big game
or the lockers
before the sock hop and milkshakes.
Would you like to dance?
And hold my hand?
Though, I know your calendar
is tighter than my stockings,
just say okay,
write me in
and throw it away.
And slide me another anvil
with some silence to apologize
for a fortnight.
While I spin, sweat, and salivate
some more...
Catch it all in a colander
and drain it atop
The Frozen Lake
and observe it freeze and adhere
to all my other discarded times,
and collect data of my tons.
Dreaming about my real identity,
Rhinoceros Girl.

I've...missed you, I mean, I don't even know who you are.

I wrote a blog a while ago about knowing that distinct feeling right before a break up.  I now intend to write about the feeling about writing about the feeling right before a break up, or right after, and during.

It's really difficult, frankly. It's like when you aren't wearing glasses when you need them a whole lot, and you have been drinking whiskey all night on an empty stomach, so everything is just this woozy blur and words come really slowly.  Your wpm is unusually slow and you stumble of the spelling of words like "of."  Or is it "ov"? I don't really know.

And while you're on an illiterate tilt-a-whirl the only thing that you can seem to hear or make out of your surroundings, are reruns of unbelievably bad and corny television shows.  You know the one's with freeze-frames at the end, and where the characters started out as 9th graders and now they are like, married, and have grandkids?

And I'm neither hungry, nor full, yet food sounds great.  And I absolutely refuse to look nice.

What's funnier is that, like the blog I made allusion to, there was no breakup, no nothing.  All imaginary.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,

Nor customary suits of solemn black,

Nor windy suspiration of forced breath…

Oh Hamlet.  Oh yeah, one more thing. I sigh a lot more and make indescribable, rather, un-spellable, huffing noises.