jel

okay... so you want to know what is not cool... telling someone you care about to fuck themselves. on my defense, it was a total accident. a total accident. i thought that they were someone else. and i am sorry. very sorry for that one.

lotion

my skin itches.
my head goes in and out of frustration.
my thoughts wane.
my heart aches with pain.

oh and then i found this... jezebel talks zits

chat strew is face juice

i had a fucking zit on my face.
i touched the corner of my right nostril all day but i didn't think that was doing anything. even though i know that when i put these grimy paws on my sensitive face i get weird things inside my pores. like dirt and bacteria... and probably someone's cum. probably not with the cum thing. but the puss that oozes out of my zit reminds me of some dirty boy spanking his meat and oozing a very similar looking liquid out of his own zit for an excuse of a penis. penises and zits are so similar. when they are full of puss, they are huge, and when they release that cum, they are practically gone. like a bandit in the night... but not at all. because bandits take things... i guess penises can take virginities and zits can take valuable time and thought power to pop or to not pop.

well this zit was occupying my face, then i decided... rather i realized, that i am actually the governor of my own face so i should evict it. if someone is occupying a park in the city that is my face, i'm going to kick them the fuck out.

funny thing about popping zits is that you have to get your fingers in just the right place to get that shit out.
that’s not funny.
what’s funny is that me touching my face made this a problem in the first place and now i'm touching my face in a semi-violent way to fix the problem that my careless hands caused.

touching caused this and touching shall ultimately fix it. so i tell myself.

so what is funny about this, is nothing. zits are natural and a bit cheap.

but, when you offend that mother fucker with your mitts, there is no other joy.

i'm standing in my new bathroom, hands on face, pushing hard.

i remember how much i love/hate poetry... and then
and then, the fucking thing blows up.

but there is this moment right before you squeeze that cum out of your body when you see something totally radical. you see that thin sheath of skin stretch like a body being pulled apart by the forces of gravity in a black hole. it bulges. it waxes and wanes. it dose not want to release the wrath of evil that it holds... yet it does. and there it goes.

its like watching the sun spontaneously explode.

60 60

there is some kind of undying, relentless animal feeling in my gut that tells me that i am truly happy wherever i am. that's because i typically have all the physical essentials of life... water, food, shelter.  it's just that i'm so scared to be happy with "what-the-fuck-ever".
i want to strive for better.
i will strive for better. 
i will get the better of the best.
i can't live my life with displeasure in what and where i am now. so i have devised a plan worth my own consideration. the plan is to actually be 91.7% honestly truthful to myself in how i really feel; to be 73% completely comfortable with my surroundings; to work on the goal...all the time; to chill the fuck out about 69.9% of the time; to be selfish beyond belief; to be open and giving beyond reason; to calculate 60% of the time and to give in 60% of the time.

fly fishing for someone to move me... master baiter.

ahhhh fuck! what the fuck is going on? why is my ex boyfriend from like, 12 years ago sending me youtube videos about stoner parodies. i mean, i love it, but i'm not sure why i have his email address and why we have been emailing each other (alcohol makes you forget things). actually, i know why. i wanted to send him this fucking weird video about conspiracy theories. and then he sends me videos of mock stoners. wtf. whatever, the videos are funny. i laughed a lot. also, i might be totally in love with my ex boyfriend but i still can't figure that one out yet. ummm... i hope he never reads this.

anyways.

i'm trying to pack. haha
no i'm not.
i'm sitting by my computer writing about how i should be packing.
i bought this sweatshirt from the goodwill bins and i love it. i really fucking adore it. its purple and it is stained with bleach and i have tried to get rid of it a couple of times but i have never succeeded. its one of those things that you know you don't really need; that you know only coast about 75 cents; that you know can easily be replaced; that you know you really don't care about. but. but you love it. i need a sweatshirt that is stained because that means its already dirty and if i make it more dirty, no one will presumably notice. i need a sweatshirt that only cost 75 cents because i already bought it and it only cost about 75 cents. i need a sweatshirt because i plan on considering running again, for athletic reasons, and i like to wear this sweatshirt when i do that sort of shit.
i'm going to keep it. again.

okay also... let's just get the record straight here... i think i might be in love with every boy that has ever said hi to me. but. the particular one mentioned earlier is a very special person in my life, one that i want in my life forever. and i'm completely available to meet new people. just saying. 

so.
back to the fact that i'm not packing.
maybe i'm not packing because i don't want to move.
ummm.... maybe. probably not, though.
i think i'm not packing because i'm a procrastinator.
ya know, procrastination is like masturbation... in the end, your just fucking yourself. 

i want a wig

okay so i was one of those kids who loved to play with barbies. hmmm, however, what's more important to state here is that i was one of those kids who loved to cut all of the hair off of their barbies.

so now, here i am, age 26, cutting my own hair. its not like i haven't done this quite a bit in my life... but shit is hitting the fucking fan.

last night i cut my hair. to those of you who know me, or have seen me in the last few months, you should already know that i don't have much hair to cut off. on the contrary. i have a lot of hair to cut off. well... maybe not anymore. do you want to hear the story? i know you do.

the decision to cut my hair off (again) started with the purge of toiletries. i'm moving back to portland and obviously, i need to throw some shit away. so last night's task was toiletries. this is were the problem started. this is were my decision was made.

bare with me here, because this is a long story.

when was the last time you washed your feet? i bet that jesus was not a part of it for you... but when someone with very lovely long hair asks/tells you to wash you feet before you can fuck them... well you just might look at them and think of a cross. no one wants to cross a cross. so i fucking washed my feet. worst decision of my life. anyways... so i decided to cut my hair because i threw away a bunch of shit... like foot cream. foot cream.

foot cream. it is actually foot massage lotion. the last time i massaged my feet with foot lotion was a year or so ago when i realized that i had this foot lotion. before that... well, not since i was 14 or so. i washed my tasty treat feet in my bathroom sink when i found this foot lotion and some feet salts. i salted my feet and then i lathered them up with lube for the sole.

i threw all of this shit away. who the fuck needs foot lotion? no one.

besides jesus hair, the only person who has ever stressed 'clean' feet is my mother. she used to make me wash my feet before i went to bed. and that is why i religiously do not wear shoes and purposelessly walk in animal shit.

ok so my hair cut.

like i was saying, i put a load of toiletries in the garbage... here is a list of such waste:
 foot lotion (a few years old)
 spf 50 (a year old... sunscreen expires)
 hand cream (it was a gift from someone who doesn't give a shit)
 massage oil (the boy i lost my v card to, his mom gave it to me... not sure why)
 hand cream (another bottle of the same shit)
 numerous bars of soap (my parents gave up but my step parents have not quite figured it out yet)
 old tooth paste (i just got more... americans and their excessive behaviors)
 wrist brace ( i thought i broke my fucking wrist once... i still haven't figured that one out because it hurts)
 organic waxing kit (turns out, honey does not pull your pubes out)
 leave in condition (wait for it...)
 hair volumiser (wait for it...)

i fucking cut all of my hair off because i hate corporate america... jk. or... maybe not. but i cut my hair because i had a rat tail. i loved that rat tail. but i thought that i looked like a fucking idiot. now i just feel like a fucking idiot. because i am. 

at least i am not infected with the plague.

Spy squirrels

Ya that's right, the animals are watching you!
everyone is watching

Time is for people who have it ...

3 am...is that really fair? Are you sure about your faith? What about 3 pm. I can guarantee that 3am and 3pm have never met. and they will never.

q&a

i woke up and found out that i am still sleeping.
 i was cutting cookies with my dirty toes. i was making 'negative toe snacks.'
if your not sure what that means, well then, we shall bother a scientist.

    our q&a comes from: dirty ib4e

           q.  when/where/how should i use toe jam in cookies?

            a.  always/anywhere/however you can; just do it.

marc's mark

we left the city with aspirations that were high. we loved like the world was ending. we were alive and feelings were candles in the lack of breeze... we loved each other because that was the only thing we knew.

pizza was the dinner. grandmas pills tasted good as the appetizer but tasted bad as the dessert.

the pool felt good.
the bullets i bought felt better, for they lasted longer, until i lost mine.
shelby. do you have yours?
i lost mine.
i lost my bullet.
i lost my pizza.
i have my memories.

wish

cards of our luck...

i am fortunate to leave love behind me.
i pulled a card and i won.
i won because i stopped worrying about my chances.
that is winning.

stop

dear deer.

your doe eyes make me cry.

why cant i find love in myself? why do drugs act like the caulking to the cracks i can't fill?

breath is death

fuck plain sight and fuck the plain who claim to see sight.

i now want to believe that there is one breath in... some one thing. 

the sound of evolution

Hmmmm... This is evolution, of music? Okay, sure I can understand it.  this is a link that sucks the... the the out of the the the. 

who are you? it doesn't matter

persons x, y and z all have hands and this is the story of them.

person x
   HANDS:
    feel like: hot humid wind
    taste like: an egg cooking in butter on a sidewalk
    smell like: tears and sweet milk-bread  
    sound like: bees buzzing flowers

person y
   HANDS:
    feel like: a splash of burning hot oil
    taste line: a strawberry grown in manure 
    smell like: whiskey and muddled tree sap
    sound like: scratchy records

person z
   HANDS:
    feel like: shadows in the dark night
    taste like: the best oyster shot
    smell like: roses on a hot summer night
    sound like: a pick on a banjo

these hands are my hands; these hands are your hands; these hands are their hands.

person x... their hands are attached to the meaning of meanings and the goal of a goal.
person y... their hands may not be attached to their mind, but they are attached to their soul.
person z... their hands are connected to their driven spirit and ultimate understating of perspective.

so which one are you?

and now you know... you can not be categorized. 

this

this is becoming a task.
i'm confused about how i wan to do this.
this is austere.
this is perplex.

this is not me.
this is me waiting for my computer to die. this is me waiting for myself to die.
this particular style of prose... this is not me.
this is someone who forgot what it means to be an individual.
this is someone who questions whether or not they know what it means to be an individual.

this is a human that wonders why it is important to be an individual when loving other people and other beings and other things feels so good and so peacefully natural.

...

Life and death. Both are necessary for humans. However, both are complicated and difficult to understand. Fortunately, I live in a nice town, in a nice country, where my government is not actively trying to kill me (at least to my knowledge) and so I should not complain. Right? Right.
But I'm fucking going to anyways. Or at least, I'm going to question some  things... because... well, just because.
Is life more complicated than death? I think yes. But that may be because I'm alive and not dead, so I'm a bit bias. Life involves a great deal of shit. Take, for instance, having a child... or, if you can't imagine that, being a child. Think about being a child. For me this one is easy, for I am a child. I can't even imagine having a child...thats just really gross. Children should not have children. Anyways, lets get back to the point here... if you get knocked the fuck up, you presumably have to deal/love that alien forever. But what if you die? Or worse yet... what if it dies before you do? Shit sucks. No one likes a dead kid... its basically the worst. So why do it?
So why the fuck do we do the weird shit that we do?
Love. Is it love?
Hate. Is it hate?
Knowledge? Do we, as a species, even know what we want?
What do we want?
What do we want?
Its not money. That shits made up...its not real.
Do we want food and water?
Well, yes...that is essential.
What about cloths?
That depends on where you live and how cold it is.
Love.
Love is what I want and what I need to live. It's love for myself, and for you and for life.

I need a shit ton of love in my life to make life worth living.

Sea

What does a girl want... A red dress in the mail and a guy man by her side. At least thats what I thought.

What about red wine, a black sweatshirt and a deep hole? Or a cat that loves you because he presumably can not understand english... because he is a cat.  Maybe cats understand more things..  more things than I do.

This girl wants her heart to stop hurting.

This girl wants to feel.

This girl wants to feel salt on her face, but never from tears.

Foods for the dead

It's 1 o'clock and I just ate a breakfast consisting of clay, cloves of garlic, panela cheese and red bull, all while sitting under an umbrella in a down pour of gods tears. Don't worry god, I'm crying too.

Love

All I can think about is Devin. How did he do it? Why did he do it? I wonder what he felt like. Sometimes I think I know. But I can't. I could never know. No one can. But I can think about it.

for me

for me.

i went on a hypothetical walk today. i walked through my thoughts and found out that i really just want to be alone. however. i want a man in my bed once a week so that i can feel what it is like to be loved by a warm blooded body.
errrr, no.
that's not quite right.
i know what it feels like to be loved; the fact of the matter is, i fucking love the cells that i am and no man could or ever would change the way i feel about myself. but there is something to say about the way a touch feels. the way a tickle, or a squeeze, or a bite. the way a human feels.  i want a human male. just one time a week. but more than once a week? that, well, that is just too much. i thought about the majority of my family members, about how they have what i want and about how they must feel. and i don't want what they have. i don't want to deal with the burden of other peoples meek emotions.
 fuck other peoples feelings.