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I'm in a perpetual phase of transition which doesn't seem to be phasing out.

Sunday, September 27, 2015


A short play
Scene: A Bar. 2 people talking

X: Do you ever suddenly get overwhelmed with the feeling that you’re dead inside? 

Y: What?

X: Ya know…just random moments throughout the day when you’re bored at work, or driving or taking a shit….do you ever just become acutely aware of a vast emptiness within yourself?

Y: No.

X: Sorry....I don’t have much to talk about. Nothing really happens in my life anymore. 

Y: It's okay, nothing happens in mine either.


Y: I got this new toothpaste the other day, the flavor is awesome, it’s changed my life.

X:: Oh yeah?

Y: That's an overstatement, but really, it’s good shit.

X: Well if you’re a person who follows the rules and brushes your teeth twice daily, it might be life-atlering to begin and end your day with a delightful taste in your mouth. 

Barnacle Scars

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Ramona and the Movie Flicks.

Where does the pit go after you spit it out? the pit in my stomach gets swallowed up into the underground dumpster abyss, an endless filled-up hole. Where does it end…it’s endless. You’re not. You’re just another impala in the mouth of the lioness. Fuck you. I want to fuck you. Primal. I hate it. I hate the need to copulate. Little baby hyenas laughing at me and my withering innards. Like vultures pecking at my scabs. Buzzards. They’re ugly, ugly little fuckers. They’re bigger than hawks and dumber. And they fly in numbers, masses waiting to eat the work of better hunters. I can't even stomp on a fucking spider. I’m so sensitive. So goddamn sentimental. The bearer of gifts wild gifts. Foreign objects from no where. where the fuck are they all from? I don’t know and I don’t even wonder. No where is the location for everything. ultimately. 

But I could stare at a blue butterfly for hours. 

This morning I woke up with a bad case of melancholy. I tried completely zeroing in my focus on the softness of my cat. That regal pussy. But it didn’t really work. To distract me. From whatever the feeling is that keeps me distracted from everything else. And I just think, think, think about this feeling, without being able to place it anywhere except where it’s located. Deep within my gut. 

My best friend said that I make her nervous. Then I thought “you make me nervous too” defensively. Then I thought “we make ourselves nervous” I’m always nervous. I’m never nervous. Not anymore really. Just clouded by the shroud of contentment. 

5:34 pm. I think I’ve accomplished something, I think I can go to bed now. 

my brain. 
It hurts so good. That I’m sad. No happy. No sad. No happy. No sad. No happy. No sad. Know happy. Know sad. Stupid. Know stupid. No, stupid