i wish all you anonymous readers would leave a comment on this post. tell me a secret, anything from how ugly i am to how fucked your life is.
don’t leave a name, and leave any random email in the email portion.
just.talk.to.me.dammit.stop.reading.and.leaving.
Filed under: disjointed
flowers make me sad. i only like conventional roses in my conventional colors that conventional me likes. flowers die off and yet flowers of plastic are terribly depressing. why should love be expressed in flowers and not blood. romance is red and so is blood raw earthy opaquely filled with emotion straight from the heart. i hate it how nobody can hear me scream behind this screen. can you hear me scream see me scream feel me scream my fucking lungs out and sob hysterically. no you can’t.
this is cruel. my poor contraption is beating and slowing and slowing. i told you i’d curl.
cummings once said the earth laughs in flowers. i can just see the laugh at me. haunting and haunting me. stop laughing you fucking flower. stop it damn you.
i. said. stop.
i always say that my heart does not exist. it does not i wasn’t lying. i never lie but i omit scraps of information out. the ice that surrounded what was left of it has now frozen the entire fucking thing can you believe it. disappointment takes over and rage no longer exists. i believe the hokkien term for it is gek sim but i cannot say anything because i have no mouth only time will tell of my ineffable(current) state of mind. i am not stable. etched inside like a tattoo this is deception at its ultimate best. this is all my fault for being stupid. stupid is cretinous brainless unintelligent vacuous obtuse senseless doltish i am all of the above. forgive my foolish young mind.
troubled young mind and the tendency to go wayward all a recipe for disaster. is it not obvious that the mind goes on a rampage only in ataxic circumstances. in tottering times i run and run and run and run this is normal behavior. everyone has their own way of doing things. this disjoint way of prose is my way and it is the wavering way which everything ebbs out of me slowly.
slowly slowly slowly i will curl up and roll away.
Filed under: muse
i realized everyone there was just like me. my existence is really quite sad.
Filed under: confessions
this has taken a toil on my phantasmagorial side late in the nights and early in the mornings. technical terms are such a dear yet such bitches at times. kind of like who i really am but nobody knows who i really am do they. they think they do but they never do. the illusion of being is thinking that you are being but not truly being. lies are never white lies because every lie you tell loosens the very fabric of being till the white lie ceases to be a lie but the truth and we all know that it happens every single time even if we take precautionary measures. i would like to say that i am baring the piths of my insides to everyone but nobody recognizes what is truly the pith of my truth and innocence sold to the devil in the form of paper called money. sold sold sold! i sold my soul and i got it back but it is never truly the same like a rented house is never returned in mint condition. wear and tear and neglect and unloving. yes yes yes. you get my drift and i will press on in this car with no windows. how do i tell of my machiavellian person inside when i alternate between the human rights advocate and the unloving all in one nanosecond. the heart does not exist i tell you.
it. does. not.
i would never die of a broken heart because there isn’t really anything called a heart to begin with. isn’t that why i devour the hearts of pigs and chickens. because i feel my inadequacies deep and deeper. nobody has a heart. if they did there would be no wars no courts nothing at all.
be still, beating contraption. you are not lying. i am telling the truth on your behalf. be still, be still.
can you read what i am trying to get across to you. if you cannot guess then i am either a poor writer or you are a poor reader.
spittle on your face or mine. you decide.
Filed under: confessions
it is a long and intricate list but i will tell you everything in parts just like the unsaid narrator’s father in elizabeth kostova’s the historian. a truly marvelous book i bought at a second hand bookstore in fremantle i swear second hand books will be the death of me. books impure and dusted with the sweaty palms and snot of others yet filled with such content i can only succumb to temptation and make my purchase. i digress and i will tell you i dislike grammatical and spelling errors and i dislike peanuts and red beans and i dislike impurity yet i bathe in it. i will tell you how much sin has blackened my soul and i am desperately trying to wash my white cloth but it is black and red that is why i love wearing black and red so much because the color of my soul is black and red. sheer common sense.
just like a cigarette spells the end of a delirious felicity this spells the end of……..
i speak in bits and pieces because i fear to lie but i will tell the truth in fragments, and leave you, the reader to piece the disjoint together, so that in effect, i am telling the truth, but in a disjoint form, which i cannot be faulted for, except your sheer overweening intelligence which unfortunately, will not piece the divorced, and yet i will fulfill my aim of telling the truth and not lying yet still not afflicted by the consequences.
can you see the big hint or are you witless.
is you is or is you ain’t.
fools.
it does not matter that i am not conventionally beautiful nor does it matter that i am unconventionally sexually inclined nor that i am unconventionally academically unsmart but what really matters is really inside as cliched as it gets but no i am for real and no amount of coddling or swaying will i slowdance to the other realm nor do a moonwalk(not that i can) to the line between the two realms.
i am me and will always be, until the very day i cease to be this living, breathing, ten-kilograms-overweight-shell away from anorexic perfection. this life will be my solace, my mask, my living and breathing portrait.
Filed under: disjointed
cb. two days in a row. head is ccb painful.
i want beef horfun. and cereal prawns…….
Filed under: love
i finger your coat with an urge to savor every bit of you, smooth, creamy, rich, everything i want right now. but you say no, wait, i promise it’ll be sweeter, just like delayed orgasms, you say. and i wait and wait throughout the days, waiting for the color of your coat to change, so i can put you inside my warm mouth and lick my lips, scattering sweet, brown sugar all over your delicious body. i wait, but i want you so badly. so badly i watch your coat for any sign that you want me too.
after five days of my patient coaxing, your coat turns into a smooth, rich, brown. mmm………
and i rip open your coat, to eat you…….
you ninety-nine cents avocado………… i love you.
and my delayed gastronomical orgasm is so big i want more………………………….
my epicurean ennui is satisfied.
for now.
Filed under: muse
i have a love-hate relationship with books, for all the ideas of other people they insert lovingly with hatred inside my head, bouncing around in my skull, and when i open my eyes wide to look at reality, i look and look, but i only see, not look, and what i see disappoints me, because there is nobody who has the same idea as the author of the book.
“I was determined to place myself with this new woman and I looked at her and she was on her side, the sheet lying across her hip, and only the upper curls of her pubic hair were visible. That was all right for now. Since most of the mystery of that had been preserved by my earlier distraction, I’d let it linger. Her arm was twisted up in sleep across her chest and hid her nipples and that was all right for now, too. The soft afternoon light from the window framed her navel and I would start there, happy to, for I love a woman’s navel made more special because it’s so rarely seen, and Fiona’s was a taut little tuck, curved lightly to make a crescent, and it stirred me now, Fiona’s startling Irish skin with her faint smile of a navel and a navel is an intimate thing, after all, the mouth of a woman’s life in her own mother’s womb, and all navels are different – their size, their puckers, their turnings, their dark depths, the shading of the skin – and so this was Fiona here, a sweet little wry smile of a navel and like all navels, it suggested, in sweet miniature, a pussy.
And when I say this now – pussy – I name the place with a foolish little word, a reductive, hissy little word, but there are no others that are better. Vagina is a cold eye, legs in stirrups and rubber gloves. Cunt is angry. Cunt sees no beauty there and is afraid. Pussy at least can be gentle, can be softedged, and that’s how I say it, knowing that the word is absurdly inadequate, knowing that it will take every word I will speak in this story of mine to be able to even draw near this place and begin to understand why I love it so much.”
Robert Olen Butler, They Whisper.
Not love-starved, not idea-starved, but romance-starved, the startling realization that a man can actually write so well fills me with sheer jealousy, but yet i remain in awe.
Filed under: muse
considering going to unimelb next year instead. so much paperwork, moving, conversions and stuff to be done if i want to move inter-state.
is it really worth it? i guess it might be.
and the grades, the grades, the grades. pekcek pekcek pekcek.
then all the emails i sent out on friday to uwa…. sibei waste my effort.
Filed under: deceitful
i’ll tell you a secret i will, in absolute confidence on the World Wide Web, just like my usual Modus Operandi where i never lie but i leave out pieces of crucial Information. on the day where mothers all over the world are celebrated and cherished i did something bad bad bad very Bad. it startled my poor starving heart when you said you knew of many things and i thought she had given you my secret my Shameful secret. did my impoverished heart leap when i turned back and saw everything. yes. yes. YES! i am not at all ashamed because it was within propriety and i am a decent girl yes i am my heart is pure and i would never do what you are thinking of in your filthy mind. oh no! the horrors! of a dark heart. a dark lying cheating heart perhaps under my pure heart i actually have a Dark Lying Cheating Heart but i am not capable of devious Behavior no i am Not! i’ll fly away inside my pink heart which beats for one before one comes to know.
heart heart heart let me ask you a question did you not feel any Guilt at all. no i did not i did no i did not yes i did oh what shall i do i cannot make up my mind about whether my beat quickened or not! but i know my mistress’ eyes were lowered and ashamed and wanting and angry and annoyed.
of what you Ask? inquisitive mind, i forgive Thee. because i am at Fault. and i shall treat this as my confession and i shall be Enlightened and one will not be angry.
lovelove.
Filed under: photos
boredom.
i feel like running away again. and having a girl-child to call my own.
except this time……………………………………………….
anyway. photos.
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