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. 

Sentimentalism

ate

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