Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

panic attack june 2, 2014 4:52am

right now,
in my mind,
you're
dead
with a needle
stuck in your
arm.
skin
pale blue
eyes still
open.

i'm going
to the bathroom
to puke,
and curl up
in a ball
on the
sand colored
square floor tiles,
as i watch my
phone until
i can't keep
my eyes open.

Topp D (Stepping Into The Realm Of Meaningless Bullshit, Smelling It, And Throwing Up Into Front Yard Bushes.)

The only reason forty to eighty something customers like me is because I'm on drugs 100% of the time.

Shit, I rather be at home, in bed watching cartoons and eating rice pudding.

Another money consuming addiction.

Nowadays, I kill a motherfucker over a pound of rice pudding.

Straight up.
And if I don't pick up, you bet those forty to eighty somethings are going to hate me because I didn't save enough for tomorrow.

And haters gonna hate, except they forget I'm the one with all the fucking knives.

I'm striving to keep my 100% record.

If I had more money, I would only kill myself quicker.

Feeling Sorry For Yourself And Other People Is Stupid (How I Spent My Saturday Night: 5/25/13)

I soldered my lips together and cut my hands off with a rusty machete that had black electrical tape wrapped around the handle. Then I picked up some drugs, spat a used needle out the window on my drive home, and listened to it skip off the pavement. It was Memorial Day weekend, and I made it home without getting arrested; phantom hands and fingers gripped the steering wheel.

A replay of the Champions League Final was on my aunt's flat screen tv, and my ass sank into the couch.

At the same time, Ryan, someone who was on the same swim team as me in high school, and now hangs out with/does drugs/gets pissed at me from time to time for various reason (some known, some not), is cooking a steak for himself and a girl that works at Logan's Steak House with Shannon, this girl I know. He left the army (honorably), and moved back into his parents' house, which is a couple miles down the road from my aunt's.

We were over his house last night with Carrie and Shannon because his parents were out of town. He pounded two rib eyes with a meat mallet, put them in a Pyrex dish, marinated them, covered the dish in plastic wrap, and put it in fridge, while Shannon argued on the phone with her off and on girlfriend. Shannon got off the phone, and we went into his living room and Carrie put on a movie.

Shannon and Carrie were telling Ryan how excited they were for his date and dug for the details of what he had planned, and Ryan explained. Shannon and Carrie thought it was cute, a homecooked dinner for two, before the three of them went over the ways in which Ryan could fuck it up and how to avoid it. I nodded off on the couch. Carrie woke me up when it was time to leave. Ryan gave Carrie and Shannon a fist bump and a hug; I got a wave and a cold look—I figured he got pissed because I was nodding off, which made it seem like I didn't care.

Sitting on the couch, I thought about the word, “cute,” and why I don’t care about other people’s happiness.

Sitting on the couch, I wondered why I cared about people who live hundreds of miles away from me that I've never met in person.

And those people are scratching my limbic system with fingernails made out dull razorblades, then kissing the wound to make me feel better.

Cracked lips puckered up, I scraped together an answer that I really can’t explain.

I turned the tv off by hitting the power button on the remote with my big toe.

Spacing out to the electric lullabies of household appliances.

Not hanging out with anyone.

Thinking about a specific individual that I've never met in person who genuinely cares about me.

Smiling the entire time, as I bled out.

Two Facts About The Deli I Work At.

My one co-worker eats expired pies out of the garbage while I wait on customers and/or clean the fryer and/or rotisserie and/or dishes.

He gets paid more than me.