bananafish and winckelmann

this is probably a work in progress.

you're the seymour to my sybil

"the most beautiful thing

ever to have been created

by human hands."

bless your father for fondling your mother. 

and coming up with you!

kiss the arches of my feet

and let's not leave the beach today. 

or ever. 

Few and Far Between.

That is how my blogs have been lately. I haven't wanted to write a thing about what has been going on. I'm worried I'll jinx it. For example, and ice cream cone. Ice cream, hooray! But suddenly you think about what if the ball of cream just rolled off the cone and onto the cement? Or worse, in the mud! With a priest watching! And it does fall. And he hears you swear. And you are so upset you don't ever get ice cream again.  Well. If you hadn't thought about it, it may never have happened. So there. My lips are sealed.

And I suddenly remember some words I was awfully familiar with. I wrote my best story about it.  Asomatognosia. The lack of awareness of the condition of part or one's whole body.  It is most interesting, when it is a pair of people experiencing this condition in one person of the pair.  One feels, or in this case, does not feel it, and the other person also refuses to feel it.  It's most unfortunate.  Perhaps the most deplorable portion of the condition is waking up post-revery realizing that the condition is still in effect.  Hence, my story title, "The Katzenjammer." A hangover from the condition in which you, and in my mind, another person, are unaware of the condition of your body.  I think in layman's terms, human affection is effective. Unless in dreams, and then it's just unfair.

The lighting in my bedroom is terrible.  At least it's not a cold dark, and instead it is a pleasant dark.  Soft, and like a hug. It doesn't feel like a basement at all. And it shouldn't.  I'm on the top floor.

It's almost another month.  What an unsatisfying statement that was! I will follow it up with a more important one.  On 26 April, 1986, the disaster at the Chernobyl Powerplant happened. As neat as nuclear power seems to be, let us never forget the huge risks involved, and for how long the consequences may last. Remember Chernobyl.

I refuse to get into anything else. Gag order. Here's a picture. (Of my beloved?)

applegize.

First of all, I had no intention of not writing since February.  In fact, I believe I have written 3 blogs since my last.  Good 'ol bloggy blogspot, though, seems to be ignoring me. Obscene. Watch, all the sudden they are going to show up, and I'll be redundant and look like a dunce. To conical hats! Whatever, here's a poem.

I wish I were a bricklayer,
bricking a perfect wall.
Or a paper-pusher in a visor.
Just not what I am at all.

My sentence structure's boring,
my fashion doesn't match.
I cannot get a suntan
and I cannot throw or catch.

I wish I were a deep sea diver,
restoring sunken boats.
But I cannot even swim in pools.
I cannot even float.

I wish I weren't so whimsical,
or looked into the stars.
Maybe I should be a scientist,
or learn to work with cars.

I cannot seem to self-improve.
I don't really get much better.
I won't ever be a "girl of dreams,"
Some guy will have to settle.

Settle for a dreamer.
An unmatched, tacky dreamer.
With cheap knowledge
and the desire to rhyme "femur" with "dreamer."

You're so, so pretty.
And I'm so, so plain.
And sadly on the inside,
I'm really quite insane.

So instead of writing a love poem,
which I'd really like to do,
I'm apologizing for my lacklusters,
and my mediocrities to you.

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.