i dont want to live til im 30

today, im sick.

tomorrow, im sick.

the next day? sick

yesterday? i was sick.

sick.

boohoo.

im sick.

dont come near me.

marinating in the shit

to gain an unique flavor profile,

i dont want to be touched.

or loved.

or have a conversation.

or babies.

i want to be like that

dead kitten, skull

crushed 

and 

sizzling

in the middle of 

the street

covered in 

a buzz of 

flies,

lapping up whatever

nutrition they can

from

the rotting body.

ew.

im sick.

but you're sick too.

don't you realize it?

it's what happened after

you and i were born.

but we can never be sick 

together.

so we lie in cigarette butts,

dirty dishes,

glass,

used needles,

fingerprints,

discarded tumors,

unspoken words,

dishonesty,

and darkness.

with blank minds,

and our backs turned;

two sets of eyes 

facing opposite walls.

im sick.

you're sick.
the times are sick.

it's hard to move,

but impossible to

fall asleep.

the moon is not 

our mother,

neither is the sun.

the shit is starting 

to pile up,

and you're afraid 

we will drown;

im afraid we might

learn how to swim
and save ourselves.

sick 

sick 

sick

so fucking sick.

sick of you.

sick of me.

sick from life.

i run my nails

down resurrected

veins and feel

excited but,

even more alone,

because there is 

no cure.

there are only decisions

and circumstances

that we mix 

together

in a blender,

and call existence.

i laugh,

and 

you say,

"it's not funny."

even though,

being alive totally is

in that sadistic kind

of way.

sick.
the future's sick.

im sick.

you're gone.

oh well.

it was expected.

the cross 

i will be crucified

on will not be made

of used works, dried blood,

and hiv.

no, my cross will

be made by illuminated letters

from the signs of fast food chains,

a.a./n.a. meetings,

boredom,

the low fuel light on my dashboard,

and name brand plastic shopping bags

filled with useless shit that means 

something to someone

who isn't me.

everything held together

with masking tape, saliva,

and pieces of my brain.

why eat healthy

when the end is

always so

fucking 

predictable?

that feeling you get

that feeling you get when you're on your knees listening to your joints crack as you repeatedly start punching the ground as hard as you can until the earth's skull cracks open reaching the core to bathe your skeleton in molten iron, while bringing upon the last mass extinction on the planet, but failing, always failing; collapsing on your back in gravel, rocks, mulch, grass, ripped up cellophane wrappers, flatten fast food cups, used syringes, cigarette butts, regrets, and bad feelings, next to a stump from a tree that was recently cut down by men with chainsaws outside your apartment building (spine resting on the roots and what remains of the trunk) with broken arms, fractured wrists, and busted fingers sharp fragments of bone sticking through like broken twigs, realizing you haven't even made an impression in the dirt because you are weak and a failure by choice, not luck or circumstance, that never accomplishes your goals, improves your life, and/or achieves your dreams in life in any way because you're lazy, unmotivated, with no self-belief because what evidence is there to believe in yourself since there is always someone who exists in the world that is better than you at what you’re supposed to be good at, so you always have to open your eyes in the morning to do the same monotonous shit every day that you settled for because you are alive and left with a choice to accept it, and die with the passage of time at some random moment because of something you can’t prevent or predict, feeling the same as you always have, and disappointing more people you care about for longer than you already have, ruining their lives more, or you look up the chainsaw men who just cut down the tree by your apartment building in the yellow pages stacked outside your building’s front door, because you can't afford internet or a smart phone, and don’t have the gas or bus money to get to a wi-fi hotspot or library, so you hire them to do the same to your body that they did to the tree: slicing you into smaller and smaller pieces with gas powered tools that have a use/purpose, then having the workers put whatever big remains are left through a woodchipper becoming nutrition for other forms of life that will soon become infected with your shitty thoughts and outlook on life, according to the people who understand what’s wrong with you and the world, which you’ve never been able to figure out yourself since the day you were born, until nothing remains.

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.

i understand if you don't want to talk to me anymore.

my alarm clock goes off,
and i punch it in the face.

smashing my head
against a brick wall,
trying to breakthrough, and always failing.
blacking out,
and waking up
alone
saturated in a pool
of cold sweat
and partially coagulated blood.

a dented forehead.
a cracked skull
exposing the thought of
you in the front
of my mind.

fuck.

i repeat the process
over and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over,
and over,and over
again with the same results.

you watching.
you crying
as i hit the floor.

negatively affecting you.

i'm passed out
while you're
on your knees
next to me,
cleaning my wounds with
your delicate tongue.

fuck.

i wake up.
alone.
and realize i am an equation:
(piece of shit squared multiplied by the square root of manipulative bastard equals motherfucker.)

i wake up.
alone.
and repeat the process again,

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.

status update

 

Current Status: a line of two hundred thousand assholes; my mouth at the end taking it all in. Losing control with every sunrise and sunset. Sorry for being a narcissist, but our faces have a geometric resemblance when we look in the mirror. The terror. The terror. And when I ask you to shoot me in the face with a crossbow, do it. Because I would do the same for you. That's what friends are for. 

The arrows poking through the top of the skulls.

Feathers tickling our bottom jaws.

The terror.

The terror.

I hate senior citzen and food stamp day.

What You Want to Be When You Grow Up

A middle-aged man who is wearing leopard print tights. Touching. Pumping himself in the blue haze of the computer screen, as he watches an eighteen year old in braces shove the head of a teddy bear into the moisture emanating from her crotch. It is not illegal.

A household plant neglected in the shade of the blinds, because your owner never turns the fucking light on since he is working on his night vision.

The violet hair chalk rubbed on the pubic hairs of someone you're infatuated with. It could stick to the dampness lying dormant on the surface of your lips, if only you had the courage you motherfucker.

An undiscovered planet with the most basic form of life. Unintelligent. You can be a good mother.

Hawaii? Or Alaska? Just not connected to the main land.

An eye spinning around in a socket, unfocused. Distracted and disinterested. You would rather look at a video of someone being shot in the head; the wound self-inflicted. Because idle chatter with friends is so captivating, especially when you're not connected to the main land.

Hawaii or Alaska?

A torso hanging out a window, contorting and becoming sore, eventually. Looking at the orange light reflecting off the clouds from the city located behind the mountains. It will skew any observation made about the stars tonight, never coming to a conclusion. Dumbing yourself down. Contorting and becoming sore.

A guilt trip eating away at her conscience. It's your turn now.

A board game misunderstood and complicated. Hands drunk. Tossing little wooden pieces. Gone missing in the carpet. You are losing parts of yourself that make you complete in the process of decomposition. No one cares about ruining this shit for future generations. Not fair. 

The thesis statement outlining his assertion of what it means to have a bad day.

The depression embedded in the lines of a smiling face.

A bed, which never got laid. Unloved. Meditating in the solitude of an empty room. Quiet, finally.

Medication dissolving in a nasal passage. You will clog sinuses as you pin pupils. Fuck the cops.

A missing hand lost in the ass of a male hooker. The ass lined with razorblades, he clenched at the wrong time, you unlucky fucker. Now you can really kick off this pity party right with some 7-up cake, soda, and some fucking balloons. Fingernails coated in waste. Shit man.

A murder/suicide involving an elderly couple. Channeling Chester and Mildred Welebob.

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.


Going nowhere.You're all grown up.

Terrible? Sometimes.

Recently, I have been contemplating sawing my head off, and replacing it with the head of a mascot from a sports franchise or a big business corporation, or a cartoon puppet from a children's show so more people will like/believe me when  I'm apologizing for being a terrible person, sometimes.

I probably say the words, "I'm sorry ____" or "I apologize_____" at least 100 times a day.

Because I'm a terrible person who ate a box of locally made chocolate peanut butter candies in the shapes of apples + A Weekender sized bag of locally made BBQ potato chips. I bought them for the greatest/coolest person in the world, who is currently living in Washington this summer. I ate them because I was stoned and hungry at 4 in the morning, and there was nothing to eat in my aunt's house. I also got her a t-shirt and wrote her a letter. (I didn't eat it either of them— I wasn't that stoned) But I'm lazy and wasted too much time and too much money doing meaningless bullshit with people I kind of care about (okay not really), and now she's gone, and coming back home, and might not like me as much before she left because I'm a TERRIBLE PERSON who is unreliable piece of shit. Sometimes. It's a proven fact.

I'm the worst.

Multiply anything by zero and you get zero.

And I'm sorry for the times I was late in the past.  (#101)

And for eating all your peanut butter chocolates and BBQ chips. (#102)

And never sending them out in the package with your letter and t-shirt before you left. (#103)

And for driving by roadkill without even acknowledging its existence. (#104) 

And for not erasing best friends who only give a shit about themselves sooner. (#105)

And for not attemping to cure AIDS or cancer. (#106)

And for being a TERRIBLE PERSON sometimes. (#107)

I want to bake myself into a tray of cookies, which resemble nothing in particular so people that care about me will be able to hold me gently in their moist palms before tearing me apart with bleached mouths, and digesting me with alcohol stained stomachs. Afterwards, rinsing the parts of me, which got stuck in between teeth out with mouthwash. The last of my sugary shapelessness dissolving or being spit and sucked down a drain because I am a MOTHERFUCKING success. Self-proclaimed. BFA: Class of 2011. Smoking bowls at work in the cooler with a coworker who is a former crack addict; her sixteen year old daughter, our lookout.

I will enjoy baking in the oven. Watching the people I know talk in the kitchen. Not understanding words, nonplussed expression of boredom with occasional fits of laughter. I will enjoy it because at least this time, I don't have to awkwardly stare around the room at people and assault them with funny faces. I have nothing to say. Or no one to say anything to. Listening to the mechanical sound of convection humming from the oven as I turn a golden brown. It's comfortable. I guess.

Except for the plethora of frowns reflecting off the windows. And the melodramatic buzz of text messages broadcasting unhappiness throughout the room. 

I can make coffee, but I don't think that will improve the situation.

Fuck, I'm a horrible host, but I'm trying my best. Making eye contact. Smiling. Asking, "Is everyone is okay?" Mingling. And looking concerned.

But I don't clean. My room is filled with a random assortment of garbage, loose body hair, and boxes of shit that have yet to be unpacked. 

And with five people in here it's cramped.

I'm sorry, I am terrible person sometimes, but you'll have to adjust.

Because I really don't think I'm that bad.

I don't have cable.

I do have Netflix, an iPod + iPod boom box dock, and a N64 and some weed.

(I guess it's all relative.)

But please don't forget  me. 

Because everyone is a terrible person sometimes. 

I'm alright with that even though my fingers are hidden and crossed.

And I will try as hard as I can never to forget about any of you.