uvuv

  This is what we do to people when they don't fit the guidelines. The manual is meant
to be followed, every human is issued their own copy at birth along with their serial ID number
and starter batteries. Additional fees may apply. Check instructions for details.
    We are just doing this to keep everything nice. Nice like how your grandmother's knick
knacks are perfectly placed on each shelf. All collecting dust at different rates. None moving
from their spots until the cat knocks them over. That's all they have to live for. They exist
only to be collected by old women and to be destroyed by the curious paw of a feline. How can
you be so fucking routine? Where's the glory of this destroyed being? Where is the additional
focus and character development?
    A sad reality I cope with every day is that we're all walking around gawking at each
other, fucking like sick little rodents till another meteor comes and sends us back to the
fuck hole we birthed ourselves from. I think this is why I want to kill myself. What's worse
is my gender is nearly obligated to be the most cruel of our species. Although our own females
hunt each other and kill males if they don't succumb to their matriarchal strap ons. It disgusts me to think
that if I want to mate, reproduce and take a shot at love I have to deal with the assumption
that it's just how 'we' are. I am forced into a category right off the bat. Preordained Minister
of the obligatory Male gender. Males aren't the friendliest either. On a whole,
the human race isn't very desirable or logical or even a little bit civilized. Yes, we built grand
things taller than the sky itself. Magnificent structures
shooting up straight into the heavens. Our technology was advanced and our lives were very
easy. They say any thing alive is effected by it's environment either positively or negatively.
This is common. When there are so many living things together in one environment, they tend
to step on each other a bit. Humans are the species that completely stomped all over everything
else. Now that the planet is almost dead we sit in our comfort with our proud accomplishment
strung in a fine polished gold frame with accents, velvet lined with a crystal pane. Some thing
you spent your hard earned time on, because you had to do something to be given the things you'd
need to exchange and get that very frame that you hung such a beautiful fucking piece of
work up in.
    "So, we're going to start with the basics. Positive things to kick this all off, okay?
What are you good at? Any hobbies? You look like the type of man with lots of hobbies."
    "I suck at a lot of things, most of them important. There's no real telling when it will
all end so why really focus on things that fall under words that have implied meaning through
social conditioning."
    "Life is like a box of chocolates but you're allergic to dairy. Christ Almighty,
how'd you end up the black sheep?"




    People assume that I'm a sadistic asshole. I used to be bothered by it until I realized
I totally am. Everyone makes me sick and it would only take half of my ex girlfriends to tell you
that. Not saying that the other half wouldn't feel the same way, just saying only half are
honest enough to say it out loud. When I space out a remember that I exist and all that stuff
there are these shimmering memories that come back and remind me why I don't exist here mentally
almost all of the time.


   
    "You're a real piece of work, you fucking know that?" She's slamming doors and throwing
things. I'm sitting in the living room of our one bedroom 5th floor studio apartment wondering-
   
    "WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!" She pauses dramatically. Her effectiveness makes me sick. Out
of all the people on this fucked chunk of asteroid with moss on it, she had to be the only one.
   
    "You don't even listen to me anymore. It's like I'm just fucking background imagery
with fucking elevator music coming out of my fucking mouth. DO I LOOK LIKE A SHITTY MOTEL
ROOM PAINTING TO YOU FUCKER?"
   
    More slamming. She came in here just to say that to me and I still can't think of a half
witty response. She's not even being clever any more. It's not fun for her, it's all just stress.
There was a time when we were more than happy. The skies were a light blue with brilliant
clouds that fractured like kaleidoscopes with little diamonds in them. Her smile made my mouth
water with anticipation. It wasn't an awful lust either, although her body was young and her
features were nice. I had a whole hearted infatuation with this projected image of her. Hell,
I don't think I could tell you her favorite book. She's a writer and I don't even know what
piece of writing inspired her. I made a decent portion of fun when watching her favorite movie,
that inspired a lot of her ideals on life and such. It's not like these aren't important things,
they are surely very important. They are things that make up a human being's personality and
created guidelines for them in life. I should honor them if I really honor this person. But I
don't.
    Her eyes are glimmering little spheres of amber encasing little black beetles. They make
my skin itch because when she cries they get big and glossy. It's not really hard to not feel
bad, because I don't really understand why she's so mad.
    "Do you have anything you'd like to say? I mean this is kind of a thing that's happening,
so if you have input it's kind of the time to do that, right now, ya' know for the SAKE OF MY
FUCKING SANITY!"
    Her face looks like it's been condensating. Like all the liquid from under her eyes just
formed above her skin. It's just the water pooling from her eyes on her make up I'm sure. I
want to tell her it looks really cool but this is definitely not the time for that. I'll keep it
in mind so I can tell her when she'd no longer mad at me. I still haven't answered her completely.
I keep stumbling out "I don't knows" and not too long ago I swore I heard myself say "we're
not in love anymore then." which caused her face to go pale and I felt her heart drop from all
those feet away.  That was the moment she realized I am a loser. I'm the worst thing she ever
did in her life and she'd never get the time she wasted back. Wasted on trying to make me
husband material, or whatever. I should've told her off the bat that it wasn't ever going to be
like that. She was very much out of my league. Unlike guys I know that just serial date and
create chaotic little messes for themselves, I try to keep it clean. I chose her, and we were
a nice thing. She intimidated me and after a while that smile now makes my mouth awfully dry.


    There was a time, when, it was all really nice.

VV..



    There are ripe drops of dew on the plants on the balcony. I decided not to have them
inside anymore, the cigarette smoke will do something to them I don't want God to punish me
for. I suck down the carcinogenic breath of fresh air and lean over the wooden banister to look
down at the street walkers. People are crazy. With their frilly pink dog collars and their Adidas running sneakers. I live in the central part of a city where there's a lot of politics.
Tons of business and all that junk. I grew up here but this part of town was always scary when
I was a little. It was always busy. There were bums every where. It was alright though. When
I was a high schooler I'd get drunk with a couple of people I knew who were homeless. They'd
get the booze and I'd pay. Working young was the bees knees. At least then I actually found
pleasure in making money. Now I just feel like a people watching broke as fuck prostitute.
Thank you America.



    "I have always wondered why people look at each other at all. It's almost like they're
infatuated with themselves to the point where they want to resemble literally every single
other human." Once again he's going on about some thing that just popped into his head and
confirms it's a sign of something relevant. This is totally what we should be talking about
right now. Probably not the fact that I'm not tolerating this anymore. This bullshit
spiritual shit got me off the first few months but damn, this guy knows how to beat a dead
horse.
    His mouth is literally an asshole and shit just pours out of it. I recall his best
friend telling me that once. He also said I whined when I didn't get my way.
    "I really don't understand but it's clear to me that I am not happy anymore." and the
conversation is over. The grand master excuse maker created the perfect excuse, now he can
excuse himself from the situation that makes him uncomfortable. You aren't allowed to confront
the Gods, but this is the one time no God-complex is gonna touch me the wrong way.
    My smile is pure acid peeling my flesh away. "That's great. Looks like we covered all
the bases then!" I saw his lips curl into a smile. The kid was hopeless. My sarcasm was crisp
and sharp and the fucker didn't even acknowledge it. Or he pretended not to, because everyone
knows he's full of his phony mentality and cheap tattoos.
   
    It's not hard to be single. It's just annoying. There's nothing fun about searching
for someone you can just watch television shows with in your underwear eating cold chinese
food at 4 in the afternoon. This was also the moment I realize I never had such a serious
relationship before and now it's over. My brain shuts off and I reboot the next day with
no recollection of the event, and, that is that my friend.

   



"It's really the idea of the human being that makes every one so hard in their shorts! Do
YOU of ALL people really believe THAT!? LORD have MERCY!"

Malpracticed Heart Surgery

The special service party.

The alarm clock wakes me with it's familiar squawk of 'wake the fuck up you suck'.
My eyes don't want to open and I'm not going to be the awful person to make them.
Sadly you can't do things and sleep forever. The sheets fall heavy in my hands and
roll off the palm back into a pile on my mattress. I stretch myself slightly, grabbing
the familiar package of smokes off my bed side table. Four steps forward and I rip open my
eggshell colored curtain. Another building faces my window, so close I could touch it with
the very tips of my fingers if I stretched out of it. A two story drop into a 3 foot across
ally isn't what I need today, so I spark a match against it's book and light my cigarette.
For June, it's still cold. I grab my hoodie and make my way down my narrow metal staircase.
These apartments were the kind I'd see in indie films, with abstract art sprawled over the walls.
There would be stacks of my artist problem shit of my shit head artist boyfriend would be the
one who lives in such a beatnik place. I would be the white dress shirt on the fire escape,
a cigarette and runny mascara sipping my coffee in the morning sunlight.
I enjoy it for that reason probably, or I wouldn't pay so much damn money to live here.I at
least hope that's a reasonable reason because, shit, I'd feel stupid otherwise. I always
feel stupid anyway, I guess.
My coffee maker starts it's familiar hiss and I grab my faded purple mug from my cup rack.
My cigarette ash hits the small clear glass tray sitting on my kitchen counter. I pull myself up
onto it and slide myself against the wall. one wall of my apartment was brick. I stared at each
one's imperfect face all stacked too close together. None of them match, it's a cobble of
different colors which makes it really hard to put anything on that wall. Everything I tried to
put on it just clashed and made the space look cluttered. Now I just leave it blank and stare at it
every morning, just to remember there's nothing to remember. The coffee is finished, droplets
still condensing into beverage on the rim of the pot. I pour and drink. This is what I wake up
to every day.

I tell people I'm a writer. Normally I get an uncertain nod that proves most people still
think a poor sap that writes is an emotional train wreck waiting to set fire to your field
of posies. Most of the time people get overly excited about what I said. Then come the questions
like:
"What kind of stories do you write?"
"...or are you a poet?"

It's not really like that bothers me. I hear someone tell me they're a doctor and I ask which
kind. A teacher? What subject? It's all the same small talk. The less details you get the more
likely you'll as more questions. I think that may be why I talk with such inconsistency.
I meander and change topics randomly. I tend to lose my vision to the room around me and not
the face of whom I'm talking to. It's the saddest part of my story but alas it causes me no
qualms. If anything it makes people more apt to talk to me. As a writer, I'm far too concerned
about the characters in my story than the main character because the main character is the first
story I finished. It's the side characters who don't get decent background stories or detailed
personalities that set them aside from typecasts and stereotypes. That is my reason for liking
other people so much, and that's why their stupidity only entices me.

The thing is, writing was always a thing I did. I loved reading, I loved words and I wanted the
magical power of making them say fantastical things. There's a princess somewhere inside
this crusted shell of a girl. She tried to get out once but reality was too much for her to
handle. Although she doesn't control most of the things that I say, she does still very much
influence me in many ways. My hopeless romantics are the main contribution. It's never been
a battle with her though. She's so submissive it's almost criminal for me to call myself a
happy independent single female in her mid-twenties. So, I write things because that's the
only way I've found that keeps me from killing myself. Any time an asshole tries to belittle
it, I've found it most effective to just write a story about it. Now I just tell people when
they ask about it, that I write about what we're talking about right now. That normally gets
an uncomfortable confused response, or occasionally an excited mysterious give away that only
happens if for some reason in the universe someone found me generally interesting. That is not
very often by the way, I'm a very unbearable person to be near.



I climb back up my stairs to my room and sit down at my computer. I hit some buttons, it does
it's whole shitty start up routine and I decide it's time for another cigarette.
I started living alone when I was 20. After one of those 'love of your life' break-ups I
called it quits on roommates. I'm almost 25 now and it makes me happy to know I don't need
anyone to enjoy a morning like this. If anything it concerns me how content I am being alone.
It's almost as if I'm no longer comforted by the company of others. I watch my computer load my
wallpaper and little program icons. My coffee is starting to get cold. I never wait long enough
for the machine to actually warm it up. Then I add a ton of cold creamer to it which doesn't
necessarily help. I drink my room temperature beverage and click on a small folder that reads:
'imbecile'.

I've spent the better part of the last four years writing little stories that I was going to
eventually compile into a whole book. I had hundreds of them at this point and they were all
slightly fictionalized versions of things that really happened to me. Since I'd been proclaiming
myself as a writer since early high school most people don't believe any of the shit I say,
which I totally get. I'm a writer, I must be fucking delusional and that's alright. Maybe
the only people willing to actually write things are the people so un-possessed by life they
have more than enough time to develop numerous realities. Then they write it down knowing
they can literally live in that world through words and it becomes The New York Times best
fucking seller. These are people who abuse vices, abuse people, abuse themselves. Half of them
would be considered a threat to themselves or society if they were checked by a mental health
physician. Not a single person I've met who writes as a hobby or even career are normal human
beings. They all have some little glitch that makes them some sort of wrong. I mean, socially
wrong. People existing isn't wrong and no one should ever say it is. Though as my coffee slips
into lower temperatures and my cigarette is at the last drag, I can't really even get down
with the idea that these things roaming around me that look similar to me are real important.

I start writing about something. Some time in my life made more brilliant and shiny with word
play and punctuation. Minutes go by and I'm immediately in a rut. The glorious part of every day.
That moment when you're starting your art then nothing actually comes out. when you think
creatively you tend to be more or less the worst person ever when it comes to getting things
done. I'm sure there are plenty of proactive artists that create hundreds of things all day
long with not a spare moment to wipe their own cum off their bed sheets. I don't doubt that at
all. There is a strong belief in my heart though that those people are full of shit. The monitor
is starting to hurt my eyes. All of a sudden the room is too bright, my coffee is frigid and
some asshole is ringing my doorbell at almost 8 in the morning. This means I have to get up.

Like most normal people with comfort zones and morals, I have a very comfortable space set up
for what makes me happy. A happy place is something that takes development and once you get
one you never want to leave it. My fundamental rule is to never make a big deal out of leaving
my happy place. I have to learn to be okay outside of it, obviously because not every place you
go can be as special as this place. (That's a legitimate rule in the Book of Happiness for you
saps taking notes. Vital. Cannot be half assed.) If you don't have a place like this you're
probably miserable and you have every right to be because you're probably the leftover
shell of a real person. If you only dwell in this place, you are literally the leftover
shell of a real person. And that kids, is why we learn what 'moderation' means.

For a whole minute I waited to see if whoever it was would just go away if they didn't hear or
see anything going on through my window or something. I wanted to not be bothered with the real
world because today was for making fake worlds. The second hand swept past the 60 mark and the
door does that thing again where it informs me some one is outside of it looking for me or
something. Now I am completely frustrated. This is lunacy. There's absolutely no reason
someone should be here right now. For a second I wonder if it's a mail person then I get up
from my spot. The anxiety attack begins so I hurry to the door so I can get back to safety
as soon as possible. The door gets closer and closer as I scurry toward it, the handle touches
my fingertips then in a second it swing open. My eyes follow the opening of the door up to
an uncomfortably familiar face.

<.4

A dim red light covered the hazy room we were sitting in. A wool wolf print blanket is
wrapped around our naked legs, warmth sparking little matchbook limbs. There was magic
here but neither of us acknowledged it any longer. Our cigarettes burned in unison and
our messy hair shone rainbows on the wall behind us. We were golden in our moments of
silence. Quiet half glanced smiles with gentle laughter. Fingers locking under the
blankets. Our hearts locking under the supervision of trans dimensional beings.
The coffee was sweet on my tongue. You used to make fun of me for drinking extravagant
coffee with all the fixings. For someone so fantastical you seemed to always have
very modest desires. It's a spiral in an ammonite, the mathematical equation concocted
from the distance of the wind. We were a fractal. A single moment divisible by
a number too large. The smoke rose and our pink flesh heated sweat between our bodies.
I remember that flicker. The lights turned into little intense stars around you. Our
reflection in the store window made my inner voice silent. There was nothing to be
said about this seemingly infinite sense of comfort you poured into me. I was an
empty cup until you shared your potion. Now our eyes are dancing galaxies bursting
and retracting energy, then popping into oblivion. For a split moment my heart wants
to cry. You touched it and it didn't want to accept how gentle the touch really was.
Or perhaps it knew you weren't the one who should have been allowed to see it at all.
Either way I am completely in love. Our shitty apartment, complete with the comforts
of true starving artists. We sipped our cheap coffee and tangled our legs together
watching 90's anime wishing there was one thing in the world more amazing than this.
We were a beautiful gem handled by dirty fingers. We were tired but satisfied.
This was some sick light we shone on the object that no longer glimmered. We wanted
everyone to see how easily something beautiful could be polluted. We didn't want
to polish it. We didn't want to replace it. The intention was to have everyone see
it as something beautiful regardless of it's minor flaw. We wanted to see it as
beautiful regardless of it's minor flaw.

I remember when we used to wake up entangled in each other. Hot breaths touching sensitive
skin the small beam of sun that our window caught through the alley confirming the day.
We survived another night. Eventually we never slept near one another though we shared a bed.
Eventually we stopped sharing a bed.

theworldisbrimmingwithcoffee

Was it the men or was it my mother?
The ability to avoid or slowly smother,
a lover of some thing or another.
oh brother,
where art thou?
We drop trou, you skip town.
It's done now,
no rebound.
Fake frown,
I'm only sad because I can be.
Smiling got sappy when the melody turned dandy.
Like bitter sweet soy candy,
and grand master of the land he,
avoided to reprimand me.
I swallowed the caramelized concoction we consorted.
Reported the effectiveness and only got retorted.

I will board up this self doubt in the room next to the bathroom.


Similar vagrant patrons.

I can't conclude anything here.
I never finalize anything, including my writing.

Nothing ends with a punch anymore.
I'm just here to bore,
feel shitty but be adored.
Poured the last of my pay check to a plane wreck.
Crash landed spiral center in the back deck.
Some say the past is set in stone,
set to roam the equator zone with half a cigarette and shot of patron.

Partake in the vivacious contagious derangement.
Instigating the plainness with prominent page containment,
blatant pain bouquet arrangement,
studied inside the mind just to relearn what mundane meant.
Dis associative repayment,
let me spell it out in wet cement,
with this shard of gem dripping with melodramatic discontent.
You.
Aren't.
Here.
So fucking live with it.
There's an old saying that what goes up must always come down.
Like that time I tongue tied your smile into a frown.
Or that other time you said you would but never came around,
Maybe souls leave soaring but crash directly back into life,
and if that's the case then truly how permanent is strife?
You're fucking right!
Lookey here, he's pulling up the big one.
Gave the boy a gun now he's all delusional from the fun.
Pop, pop, pop,
goes your fucking skull cap.
I can't believe you shot me once I fully turned my back.




O

Puurrr

Sad Sally found herself at the happy rally,
thinking gladly that the pills effects didn't dally,
etch one more line through the ones she made to tally the whole-ly honest hell swell in the heart
of that valley.
Well then,
pick up your pastel pen,
and dribble mark a patterned wall by the hearth inside the den,
First rendition of absolute repetition,
the words don't really matter,
it's always just for the diction.
The depiction of victim's stories of prosthetic vision,
interesting glory story and it even had the sound of conviction.
Now listen,
better weather never made the basement dweller a best seller,
only bought 'em a vest for when the clever get stellar.

You're doing great.
You're doing fine.
You're doing fucking fantastically.
Drastically re-establishing the past pride frantically.
Dismantle me.
(Repair)
Revert to a sugar glazed unaware stare like 'slowly getting there'.
Slowly getting where?
It's half past truth or dare,
now no one's playing this game fair.
It's in the expression that you wear,
looking through the glass made for looking at your half ass idea
at a pass.
Good job class,
you all get an A plus,
in mistrust, fake love and drug lust.

You're not okay.
You're not alright.
You're not keeping it together.
But together was just another stranger with a letter.
Let's do each other a favor forever,
get the fuck out, take your shoes and leave me your sweater.
Stormy weather only makes the feather wetter,
dampening the flight of the sappy story teller.
An obtuse truth hidden in knee high suede boots causes the skin to swelter.
High five smack sound from the Skelter creates a loop.
We were only half sick so we didn't eat the soup.

Simpleton's get simple simply off getting silly.
Get willy nilly,
bee stingers up if you feel me.