“that’s gross, im sorry but it is. it’s gross.”
a man at comicon was dressed to the nines in his best bdsm getup, complete with a remote to shock his tiny nipples and nether regions. complete with chained up wrists behind his back. complete with a leash to be lead around with. all of this creating a happy little friend between his thighs, hidden behind all of his leather and chains, standing at the most respectful attention.

what i wanted to say to that was, don’t be rude. what i wanted to say to that was, different strokes for different folks. but really, what i wanted to say to that, with all of the energy in my body and air in my lungs is,

that’s not fair. i think children are gross and you pushed two out of your sad vagina. you house four of them and an adult man that behaves like one. you’re gross. children are gross. your stretched beef curtains, that’s gross.

but i didn’t. im too kind hearted, i care a bit too much about others feelings. honestly, what i should have said is,

remember when you would send overly sexy pictures to married men? your socks pulled up high and your small paunch of a belly sucked in tight. remember when you would meet them in hotels to hang out and return upset when they wouldnt leave their wives? remember how you would accept gifts from men old enough to be your father as they requested your return to use their sex table with their other young friend? do you remember?

she doesnt.
well, she does probably, but she’s burying it when she could embrace it. when she should embrace it. everyone has their kink. shame someone today, be shamed yourself tomorrow. ignorance breeds in some of the sweetest people and gives birth to words that should have been aborted just as quickly as they were formed behind lips. ill never understand.

“how would you feel if some old man was standing next to you with a boner.”

if he wasn’t using it i suppose i wouldnt care. that’s what i said. but again what i wanted to say was,

your sex life makes me more uncomfortable. the desire to be miserable because if you aren’t you don’t believe you’re doing things right. misery obviously equals hard work.

im too tired to fight today. 


time truly is a flat circle, if only a little bit slower each lap. 
yesterday facebook told me that a year ago i saw a grown man lapping at soft serve in a shitty sugar cone at the mall. outside of market basket, just a moment ago, like a creep i gawked at a rather homely man on a bench. slowly his old, gray, dry tongue traveled the curves of the melting mush. vanilla in a sugar cone. soft serve. my stomach turned.

these are the cons of going anywhere alone. without a consistent, nagging distraction you’re bound to see a woman in leggings too tight, bend over and expose the crevice that is her extra long, extra dark crack. you run the risk of watching a man dig deep behind him and return his fingers from their trip down south, holding them beneath his nose like some pathetic monkey that the pack left behind. perhaps you’ll be so unlucky to witness an older woman without a bra on bend over in front of you, her depressed sandbags wagging about in her vneck shirt. going alone, you’re going to see a man, eating soft serve like a child out of a goddamn sugar cone in some form or another.

honestly the most offensive attribute of this man was his choice in vessel. sugar cones are an abomination and should be wiped off of store shelves. the only cone that truly matters is a waffle cone. no waffle? bowl that shit. a sugar cone will never suffice as a substitute. you are lying to yourself and innocent bystanders know that you are unhappy, possibly crying inside.

i project on to others often, but normally its silent. in my head. a place that it doesn’t matter and isnt a bother.

im really not any good at people. i often catch them in their most indecent moments and try like hell to avert my gaze. the thing about these people is that for as much as they offend with their disgusting habits, they are ten times more offended than you when they lock eyes with you.

dont pick your ass in public and both of us can avoid that moment, thats all im saying. dont strategically lick at a melting ice cream desert whilst looking around to see if someone is watching you. i am and now i feel guilty.

act like you’ve been a place. 


the noose doesn’t loosen. 
manifesto is eating away at my brain and my heart, it keeps bubbling up beneath my pale skin. im torn between wanting to know who anonymous is and never wanting to even catch a hint. im becoming obsessed. ive searched the internet and then promptly shamed myself.

it’s a good book. it’s not the best book ever, but it’s really, fantastically good.

somehow hauntingly relatable though ive never thrown a thumb out and leapt across the country. thats not the relatable part.

when i say obsessed i dont mean it in the underwhelming way young girls do when they enjoy a boy band or television show.

when i say obsessed i mean i didnt get to read last night because i left my book in the car. i stayed up until three in the morning knowing i would be miserable today because all i could think about was who this person could possibly be.
when i say obsessed i mean ive now scoured the internet for any flake of information and finally found just the tiniest bit.
when i say obsessed i mean i read someone else’s blog entry about how they tried to contact book stores that had received copies of Manifesto to see if anyone knew anything about this mystery being.
and when i say obsessed i mean i read that whole entry, found the name of a record shop with a manager that knew a very little bit, figured out the address as well as an email address.

the whole point is for the author to not be the point.

and when i say obsessed i mean im really, truly torn on if i should bother. if i should pursue this witch hunt that will ultimately reveal very little, if anything at all. im unsure of what my end game is or if i even have one.

the record store is an hour and fifteen minutes away.  ive driven further for things i care less about, then and now. if nothing else becomes of the trip im sure I’ll at least get some new, old music out of it.

it’s sad, but ive thought about, i mean just really entertained the idea of jd salinger writing catcher in the rye 2.0 to try and inspire a new rumbling, tumbling group of teens that needed to be inspired by a radical, anarcho main character as apposed to red capped Holden Caulfield. i know it’s not the case but would that be beautifully crushing?

i can romanticise anything.

its sad, but there’s this guy that makes music under the name Pat the Bunny that feels comparable to the mystery of anonymous. the traveling, the drinking, the certain drugs mentioned, man, even the geography could make sense. but our character is in his twenties in the 80’s. if our character is actually our author… it doesn’t add up. Pat was born in 87. No matter how you slice it, it doesn’t add up.

i can find parallels anywhere. everywhere.

it’s sad, but this is why it doesn’t matter who the author is- it could be so many people. that’s the point. it could be pat, it could be jd, it could be me, anyone.

and its sad, but im still wondering if ive walked past this person before and i ache for that to be the case. 


i like seneca cigarettes. i used to smoke marlboros but then by some luck my father started speaking to this truck driver at his work that travels the states. now i get cartons of cigarettes for twenty-five dollars. in store, at least near me, cartons of marlboro reds cost sixty-one dollars and change. even if im killing myself at a slightly quicker pace than a good chunk of people in the world, you best believe im doing so for thirty-six dollars cheaper than the next schmuck. 

today i bought a carton of american spirits- the yellow pack, if it matters. i must have been miserable about something because i had a momentary lapse in my frugality. those stupid sticks cost seventy-something dollars. part of me said fuck it.

theyre not worth it. i dont care what the hipsters say. they dont taste like cigarettes. they dont even burn the throat with the same ferocity. marlboros taste like shit now, compared to most things, but i should have just gone with ol’ faithful. at least i know theyre reliable and get the job done.

all of this cigarette nonsense, its very much about something else. i assume anyway, because today when tanner asked me what was wrong, i said i was fine. not just fine like, hey, im fine, no need to worry. but i said it quick, impulsively and it made him worry more. he said i seemed distant, distracted. and i just laughed it away and blamed it on being tired. i waved it off and said i was concerned about driving to rhode island this weekend.

im not worried about driving. i drive everywhere. ive driven further to get tattooed. hell, ive driven further just to get specific food. besides, my car is healthy and happy- theres no reason at all to be bothered. ive driven a nissan altima that was on its last leg, a failing catalytic converter, brakes so bad you heard metal grinding on metal, pushed way past its oil change date, to and from boston. all youve gotta do is turn your sad music up loud enough to block out the clunking and scraping. piece of cake.

as for sleep, im used to being tired. most of the time i dont notice it until im already falling asleep.

sometimes “whats wrong?” feels like a loaded question so sometimes my reply is a loaded answer. i dont know whats wrong, if i did i would fix it just so people could stop asking. instead i just smoke more expensive cigarettes and wonder why i bothered getting the additive free ones when i dont truly care.

theyre still killing me.


i feel like a fraud. im constantly on one edge or another. everything, right down to my skin, right down to my pores, blood, muscles, bones, i feel frantic. on the brink of sobbing or solving world hunger. i feel like the most unintelligent genius in the world. everyone around me is so goddamn stupid.

im probably stupid also.

im probably stupid also because even though you were one of the biggest mistakes i ever made, even though you taught me to hold people even further away, even though youre desperate and still think youre original, even though youre reminiscent of a child that isnt getting his way, even though you couldnt keep your promise- even though all signs point to you fucking sucking, i still tried to text you on your birthday. and when my message didnt deliver, ive tried every day since.

its pathetic. im not innocent. its not like youre the only one here that sucks. but i dont want you to forget.

mostly I dont want you to forget because i just finally read the catcher in the rye. and now im in the middle of reading manifesto for the second time. im not impressed. i dont mean with the books. both of them were/are perfect. im not impressed with, the big reveal- you. Holden isnt a hero. he shouldnt be someone that a person in their mid twenties aspires to be.

i mean, christ! he wasnt even of age to drink.

anyway, im sure that would just make you happy to know. but im safe because youll never see this. youre so cool, i dont know if you even bother with any corner of the internet anymore.

its whatever. we both know i have nothing to brag about. i was the girl in the bell jar wasnt i? the shrill girlfriend to justin timberlake in that folk movie by the cohen brothers? the sad queen in the song by bad books? wasnt i? fuck, youd hate me now. id be just another thing to drink more about. go ahead and take two shots. i know you were already swallowing one down selfishly for how i broke you.

i always thought you were empathetic, but ive put together now that it was only a matter of convenience and situation. you dont have to care, as long as you never ask that of me.

i watched spider webs today, felt the sun on my face and it warmed me from the outside in for the first time in months, smoked too much pot, appreciated every cigarette that i did and didnt smoke, tried to read through my breaks, and i felt guilty after squishing a spider in the bathroom. you see im only human and i was only human then also. but like you, you wanted so badly for me to be someone else, a character, someone more enchanting. once the veil fell, i was just a girl that stared at things that didnt matter for too long and a sad hunk of human garbage.

its amazing what a world of difference a day can make. its even more astounding the difference a week, a month, a year can make.

you have to understand, i mean eventually you have to get it- the projection you made is sorry, but the person i am is not. as always, the split, the divide, the double life- the two just can’t agree.

im glad you found your farm. i can imagine you in a bright red hunters hat with flaps to protect from winter. i dont want to, but i can.