a fact about myself; a fact about ice cream; a fact about romantic relationships; a fact about sex:

 source.

i can't eat ice cream out of a cone without
smearing it all over my face,
dripping it on my clothes,
and having it melt
in my hands,
which makes my fingers
sticky for the next 4-5 hours.

i spin the cone around
to the sections that are melting,
but my tongue just isn't quick enough.

the beginning of a longer piece that i don't have time to write because i have to share a computer with 12 different people. (excerpt.)

The only person you know is yourself, and it is a relationship you can't get out of.

You buy one of those plastic cube mind teasers with the metal balls, then smash it on the ground, and call it solved. 

You pull your teeth out by tying strings around every single one, and a door handle, then slam the door. Totally comfortable with gumming mash potatoes for the rest of your life.

You want to pull your covers over your head in the morning and disappear every time you wake up, saying to yourself, "Not now."

You pick your nose and make sure someone is always looking.

It's amazing how quick you can love something in a short amount of time. 

It's amazing how quick that something can break your heart.

You try to imagine the outlines of what something is, but you always come up drawing a blank.

You are a fucking idiot.

You only get hard at inappropriate times, which makes the people you care about uncomfortable.

You are perpetually uncomfortable, and build a graph to chart your uncomfortably over the years.

You will never understand people, and that bothers you for some reason.

You will never understand yourself.

Getting To Know Each Other Slowly And Casually Will Be The Best Thing For Both Of Us. (Maybe You Should Slow Down A Little More?)

Tonight before we talked, I laid on the driveway thinking about what you said and how it made sense because it was true.

Because I fucked it all up like my third grade self's art class projects: never doing enough or always doing too much.

Confused and not knowing what to do, which is something I am familiar with.

Wanting to weave the right words into a blanket keep you warm on a cold windy night in October without suffocating you in the process.

Before we talked I felt paranoid like I was going to disappear within the next week and because of that you wouldn't remember my face.

So I got up, bolted through a series of thorn bushes, and came back to my house.

I whispered poisoned seeds into my cuts, which were created in my brain by my own thoughts and the advice of others.

One by one, I watched them roll off my tongue and into a wound, until they were planted across my entire body.

I took a shower and watched the different weeds sprout through the skin and grow; it wasn't special.

My body became a living garden, which I harvested after drying off with a towel, and turned them into a bouquet, tied all together with a ribbon, that I was going to give to you as a gift.

When we talked, I realized all the plants were light brown, and withered.

I threw the bouquet in the garbage when you weren't looking.

Then mumbled, told you how much I loved your hair, and made you uncomfortable.

Unconsciously performing the actions you said you didn't want to see or hear, yet.

And hating myself for it because in those moments, I had the realization that I didn't deserve you; the proof was in the shit floating around my head.

You are a wonderful person who shouldn't be having to experience my temperature swings created by my mental problems.

You shouldn't have to come up with something to say afterwards.

For the rest of the conversation, I wanted to put the hood up on my sweatshirt and hide behind it, but instead showed you items I bought earlier in the day and went through a foot/shin cramp.

You said I needed to eat more and take some B12, even though, at this point, I don't think it would help.

You said you were tired, we hung up, then I saw indistinguishable objects with secret meanings floating around my bedroom, and got depressed thinking about outcomes, instead of processes.

I knew none of these objects were actually there, and it was just another case of my brain fucking up.

Misfiring.

After we talked, I spent the rest of the night chain smoking cigs, practicing my speech, nodding off, and getting in touch with my feminine side.

Hoping that would help since I was out of B12 and cereal.

I'm sorry.

Before I went to bed, I forgot to brush my teeth; I'm going to wake up tomorrow with bad breath and a dry mouth.

Allergic to Latex (Too Faded)

Instead of having sex, we take turns throwing up mostly water and bile in the toilet in your bathroom, or listen to the comforting sounds of two cats fucking on the weatherstripped awning outside the window.

And then there was mostly self -loathing and silence until we passed out.

91513

You don’t want to go to work at your part-time job.

You want to lie on the couch all day covered in blankets, watching mind numbing daytime game shows, and popping k-pins in the fetal position hoping a giant boot crashes through the ceiling flattening your body.

Hoping it twists, grinding your bones into the broken couch parts, for good measure.

Skin and bodily fluids oozing under rubber.

Five minutes pass.

And nothing happens.

You decide against taking a shower and brushing your teeth.

You decide that smelling like shit and having bad breath will help you avoid social interactions.

You decide that having social interactions when you smell like shit and have bad breath proves to strangers that you have no inner-drive or initiative to do anything important ever.

It’s important for other’s to understand this because it feels good to be honest.

You want to be alone, but you don’t want to be by yourself.

You want to be able to do something amazing, but “something” and “amazing” are such broad, general terms that are too complicated for you to understand.

So you put your blue polo shirt on with the company logo on the sleeve, and arrive at work ten minutes late instead.

Upon your arrival, you become a different person who is constantly smiling, laughing, and taking an interest in other people’s lives by asking questions about their jobs, sons, daughters, grandkids, pets, sports teams, vacations, and church functions while slicing ham, cheese, and/or salami.

Just another version of yourself to hate.

They talk and talk and talk and complain and complain and complain as you nod your head.

Always ending the conversation with, “Have a great night!”

Not really giving a shit.

More concerned with the tools you have at your disposal to kill yourself (slicers, ovens, knives, deep fryer, saran wrap + a full bowl of potato salad.)

Only to shut the lights off to go home and do it all over again tomorrow.

The daily $8.05 grind.

Teaching you to talk to yourself, because on your shift you receive no new messages.

She told you to wait because she needs time to think.

And the books you took out and studied to interpret those words have left you with a bad feeling that can be compared to a stomach ache that expands to encompass an entire body.

So you’ve started destroying yourself, instead of being patient because you are a fucking idiot proving everyone who has called you smart and talented wrong on a minute to minute basis.

Which is making you forget about how fucked your life really is until tomorrow.

Then you watch a documentary on people living in the sewers of Bogota, Columbia and realize the whiny pussy you actually are.

And how little you actually matter.

Always second guessing the words coming out of your mouth in comparison to the emotions you’re feeling.