But it can’t be! The Horror!

As I run to each corner of every street, desperately seeking for just a modicum of authenticity, the unforeseen dawns on me; no one is alive. I shake the bodies of every human that walks past me, but all they can do is regurgitate. Their reiterations begin to resonant off of one another. It is not their fault; they are only echoing the badges that have been delicately placed onto their shoulders and across their chests. They are the imposters of the soul-searching westward bound, the manipulators of plasma; a marvelous sight might I add, as their fingers intertwine a cyber dimension, they are the artificially interested, the contemporary collectors of Chuck Taylors and turn tables, they are the, Well-I-think-I’m-correct-without-any-sort-of-validation-generation. Fight for a cause for the sake of talking louder. They are all in a movie starring themselves and who’s to tell them they cannot be the only actor. 


I’m dating my remote control.

We have a love, hate relationship.

It shows me things I don’t really want to see and sometimes it surprises me with something on TMC, but for the most part we are never really in accordance.

I clogged the toilet but failed to unclog it, then proceeded to curse at it. I treat most things like a nuisance, including myself.

I know I must sound like something morbid or attention seeking, but I’m not. Then again you don’t really know me so my account of my own behavior is bias. I don’t think I’m some dilution of Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted or the facsimile of Marla Singer. That seems to be a rather popular stereotype. I guess I understand the allure of being misunderstood and alienated. However, having actually been admitted into a psych ward it’s really not all that dazzling. If anything I wish I could be akin to Doris Day or Audrey Hepburn. I want more than anything to experience life the way everyone else does, now how exactly do I think others perceive life? In a somewhat more positive ray of light than I do. I’d like to be able to take a walk and not think someone is following me or going to attack me from behind (this is a legitimate concern).

I feel like I’m just here. Just being. I’m sure I am not the only one.

May I ask?

Attempted Jealousy

What’s it like with another woman –

Simpler? – a flash of the oar! –

Did the memory of me

Soon fade off-shore,

Like the beach of a floating island,

(In the sky – not in the sea!)

Souls, souls! You’ll be sisters,

Not lovers – that’s what you’ll be!

What’s life like with an ordinary

Woman? Now that you’ve dethroned

Your idol (renounced the throne).

Without the divinity?

What’s your life like – occupation –

Shrivelled? Getting up – what’s it like?

What do you pay, poor man,

For endless triviality – the price?

‘I’m through with hysteria, convulsions!

I’ll rent a place, have done!’

What’s it like with a common

Woman, my chosen one?

More suitable and edible –

The food? Boring? – Don’t complain…

What’s it like with an imitation –

You who climbed the holy Mount? A strain?

What’s your life like with a stranger,

A worldly soul. Well? – Is it love?

Like the god’s whip, does shame

Not lash your head from above?

What’s it like – your health –

How is it? How do you sing?

How do you cope, poor man,

With the festering sore of endless conscience?

What’s life like with a marketable

Purchase? The price – terrible?

What’s it like with crumbling plaster of Paris

After the finest Carrara marble?

(The Goddess made from stone –

And smashed to bits!)

What’s your life like with one of millions,

You, who’ve known Lilith?

Does the marketable purchase meet

Your needs? Now magic’s dead,

What’s your life like with a mortal

Woman, neither using the sixth sense?

Well, swear, are you happy, then?

No? What’s your life like in a pit

With no depth, my love? Harder,

Or just like mine with another man?

19th November 1924

-Marina Tsvetaeva

Should we name the elephant?

The cursor is mocking me and miserly whispering insults. “Who do you think you are? You aren’t me, you don’t know anything! You aren’t even real!” Internalizing a conversation with your cursor is extremely cathartic, but you already knew that, after all you do it too. It keeps re-appearing and disappearing, reminding me that it’s still there but not for me. Should I even type anything? Should I even address you? Probably not, but I will anyway because I know you wont and then I won’t have anything to be upset about.

The elephant has taken his seat at our table for two. He has all his faculties together; completely composed. As he skims the menu, we’ll sit in animosity and share gazes of contempt. Although, I probably hate you more than you hate me. Then again I don’t really hate you it’s just something I like to believe. You play with your food to avoid another prolonged stare and I fume with anger because you will not participate in this childish conduct. The elephant peers over his menu, still awaiting to be introduced. We refuse to acknowledge his existence because in doing so we’ll be confirming a truth we rather not accept. Contrary to our treatment of him he proceeds to order his meal. Curiously enough his words are inaudible and I don’t know what he has ordered. It matters not what order he’s placed because we are not going to acknowledge him, remember? Now it seems we are all waiting for something. You break the silence and tell me I’m acting like a bitch.

“How dare you call me a bitch! Don’t you know what you’ve done?” You reply to my over reaction. “I did not call you a bitch, I said you were acting like one. And what have I done exactly? We’re dining.” I become even more disturbed and unsettled. Then I turn to the elephant for reassurance that my behavior is completely acceptable, but he barely looks me in the eye and cleans his monocle. I find this peculiar because he doesn’t have any pockets for this monocle, just a collar that one would see on a clown. I turn my attention back to you, except this time I am not fuming with anger or hatred, I just want to cry. It is then that you realize why I am upset and the elephant begins to excuse himself from the table. Now we don’t have to name him.

Oh, Judith

At 10:23pm on a Saturday I would imagine that most people my age are out being social and so forth. I am sitting in my green torn up recliner, watching judge Judy in the shirt I wore to work today and pj bottoms adorned with small sheep, floral sheep to be specific. I usually do not like to post unless I really have some emotion or idea to convey, but tonight I am beyond lazy. The thought of discharging myself from this idleness, forces my body to sink even further into my poorly upholstered chair; this is my citadel for the evening. I do not know if it’s exhaustion or melancholy that is accompanying me tonight; maybe a little bit of both and lets not forget Judy.