8x8 is 4

the air is so heavy and hot I feel it dragging me down with each step…I wish the sidewalk would just open up and swallow me so I could get some rest but the sidewalk doesn’t want me today.

no one wants me today. especially not me.

last nite I passed a woman sitting off to the side of a huge, ritzy apartment building. I almost didn’t see her in the shadows, perched delicately at the edge of the marble planter, the top of which had jagged metal teeth sticking up out of it in an attempt to stop people from sitting there. But she was so skinny that her boney bottom was able to fit in the teeny tiny length of teeth-free space. There was the telltale overstuffed bag at her feet. She was wearing a thin leopard skin blouse and a matching scarf around her head—despite how it sounds it wasn’t over-the-top or garish. In fact there was something glamorous about her, like an antique watch with a cheap, replacement wristband in the bottom of a dusty drawer that still keeps perfect time. Her black eyes were large and perfectly round, the way eyes get when they are brimming with tears that refuse to fall, not for years. As I watched she undid the knot of her scarf, stretched the thin material over her head and retied it under her chin as a sigh shook her slight frame.

This was her home for the night…and no one cared…no one was going to step in and put a stop to it…no one was going to tell her it was going to be better and hold her in their arms.

no one was going to try. especially not me.



meanwhile, above our heads the director pumped purple smoke into the sky to play the part of galaxies spinning in time…

Wait...that's not true...i've never suffocated any love or fireflies. Im the only bug here...

"danny carlyle"

(after vic chestnutt)

all I’ve ever wanted to do was play make believe.

a lot has changed since I was a little girl.

my curiosity was returned with violence. my trust was ambushed.

my innocence and my ideas were stolen by best friends and professors.

the potential I paraded around like a brand new backpack on the first day of school has turned into a sack filled with rocks, the kind a mute, symbolic character might carry in some asinine modernist play.

I’ve ruined the loves i gave myself over to, suffocating the beauty i found like a well-meaning retarded child cupping a firefly in his fat, murderous hands…

I’ve recreated myself. I’ve taken on the parts that others were too lazy to play…

I’ve been beat down, locked up and sold out.

but, after all this

still I’d rather dream, dream, dream than fuck.

Lemme tell u i've met people who drink the way I do and they rnt writing about it on their blogs fek yr mams.

Lemme tell u i've met people who drink the way I do and they rnt writing about it on their blogs fek yr mams.

Anonymous if u don't fukin save my life right now i'll fukin kill u.

Old meat

I guess on some level I wanted to fuck-up.

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person



u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person



u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

u r u r

a wonderful wonderful person

Yellow cab is my fave way to travel

3/3 don't really know it until one day it doesn't go away.

2/3 again...

Now I can feel the chemical-filled, air conditioned air seeping into the microscopic cracks in my shoulder blade.

pain is pain...u

1/3 I've got this thing with pills that as soon as I take them I forget that I have and only remember that I wanted to take them, so I take them

the dreams in which i'm dying are the best i've ever had.

this is from a short story called, "Gomez Palacio" by Roberto Bolano.

I found it hard to get to sleep at night. I had nightmares. Before going to bed, I would make sure the door and the windows of my room were securely and tightly shut. My throat always felt dry, and the only solution was to drink water. I was continually getting up and going to the bathroom to refill my glass. Since I was up, I would check the door and the windows again to see that they were properly shut. Sometimes I forgot my fears and stayed at the window, looking at the desert stretching off into the dark. Then I went back to bed and closed my eyes, but having drunk so much water I soon had to get up again to urinate. And since I was up I would check all the locks and then stand listening to the distant sounds of the desert (the muffled hum of cars heading north or south) and looking out of the window at the night. And so on until dawn, when I could finally get some unbroken sleep, two or three hours at most.

that's like, exactly how it is for me with my nightmares. except i don't get out of bed cuz i'm paralyzed with fear.

i take micro sips of water from the bottle i leave by the bed and i hold in my pee so by the time it's morning my tummy aches and is puffed out like a balloon.



the past is like a movie that plays in my mind. it doesn't seem real but i can't turn it off.

u play the part of the hero who is always already too late.

i play the part of the girl who chews her leg off to make her escape.

Im gonna have a huge fuckin dinner.

Im also gonna get some plain m & m s.

and maybe some purple gatorade.

U don't have mexico

..u have me.

MC FAKER

the story of TRUEBOY is the story of an MC who fakes it so real she is beyond fake.

the first hip-hop songwriter

whose psyche was unceremoniously broken into pieces 10 years ago

but whose soul is made whole when other people rap the werds she writes...

Fuck me, Amadeus.

Don't kill yrself...yet.

NYC EVERYTHING.

quarlo

There’s a new Japanese Fusion place down the street from me called “Wasabi Lobby.” Ha. Last nite I smoked and stared at the menu they shoved under my door and imagined an art decco building lobby made out of wasabi. The walls and floor and ceiling would all be that hideous bright green and spongy to the touch, and I’d come gliding in on my bicycle made out of spicy tuna rolls.

Ha. Wasabi Lobby. I love this City.

New York Fuckin City. Where fatherfuckers like me talk a lot of shit cuz we can back it up.

I was sooooo happy to get the hell out of North Carolina. We took a cab from JFK, and I could feel something twist in my tummy as we raced towards Manhattan on the L.I.E. The traffic got crazier—the lights more numerous and the billboards turned into towering monoliths. There it is, there it is! I exclaimed, as I pointed thru the windshield at the sight of the skyline glowing in the hazy night sky. I felt a little like crying. It’s not an unusual for me to get like that, after I’ve been a way for awhile. Besides, I’d watched way too much HBO in my shitty, wood paneled motel room. They must have played “The Day After Tomorrow” a thousand times in 4 days. Of course, I couldn’t turn it off, on account of the tidal wave scenes, which fascinated me and filtered into my dreams. Again and again I watched as New York was destroyed before my eyes…my home swallowed up by water and ice and snow, just as countless times before I’ve watched as it was burned to the ground, vaporized by aliens, shattered by nuclear blasts, looted by raging crowds, terrorized by a handful of sadistic fucks, attacked like a drunken sorority girl…thousands and thousands of movie minutes and television clips and 9/11 on masochistic repeat…

I was so happy to see that it was OK. That it was still there…still happening.

You always hear about how New Yorkers are rude as fuck but really we’re just loud and up front about shit.

I’ve seen a zillion more displays of folks being down for one another than I have of folks being violent.

Isn’t it possible to be loud AND peaceful?



What I want is for Hollywood to make a movie about aliens attacking fucking Beverly Hills. I wanna see those mansions getting zapped…I want to see all of Rodeo Drive on fire while stringy haired, fake tan bitches go running down the street, waving their credit cards in the air…

Put THAT on yr HBO and overplay the shit out of it.






beef

Dub Magnificent

(taking drugs to make blog posts to take drugs to)



my love is like white shells, revealed in shimmering bunches when the tide pulls back.

i hide so i can be found.

and u scoop me up and carry me in yr hands

the sun and blue and green and brown and u and me

children forever.

a dub magnificent:

our feelings are amplified by the mics taped to the floor.




mastermind

U can git with THIS...

Now that I set up this post from yr phone thingy u can expect MORE frequent posts at a lower quality.

Just like Tony Pierce.

Dirty souf

Man, it kinda BITES down here...we shoulda just let those shits secede and never taken em back.

I feel like this is more of a foreign cuntry to me than freakin belgium.

Pssssh

yeah yeah yeah

i fukt up that last post and it seems that the only way to change it is to delete it and im finding all that random code strangely comforting...

like getting lost in a crowd

or when u realize u took something that wasnt what u thought it was and its starting to hit

i dunno...i'm gonna redo that post now.

america, america

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I wanna live on an abstract plain.

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Bonnie and Clyde

Hotel...motel...im on the road again, thinkin of life and how to live it.

Now that this is a "real" blog and im allowing myself to speak without the metaphorical marbles in my mouth lemme tell u that I love blogs and blogging and bloggers but I think my fave time in this whole shindig was when raymi and anti got together at her b-day party and ran away to a hotel and stayed in the hot tub for days "not letting real air touch our skin" as r put it. Werd...im not tryin to be sentimental or unearth some buried beef, but back then I was hittin their sites like a crackhead hits the glass dick...the end of the day came and id go home, deal with home shit, spark a philly and puff out the bathroom window, waiting till the stress that paralyzed my joints lifted off me in the clouds of smoke that i blew into the inner courtyard of the building that i lived in, where apartments stacked up all around me as far as the eye could see, like a panopticon or a scene from Brazil, and in the kitchen the dishes were waiting and on the table there were bills to be opened, and in my mind the clock kept ticking, cuz all i had were five minutes, five minutes to myself, getting high by the window where the early evening light shimmered on the sill like cobwebs as i let my pants fall around my ankles and i dont know if it was cuz the two of them are hot like bonnie and clyde or if the idea of freedom was even hotter but i'd touch myself till i came with a hurried, half-pleasant shudder that was usually followed by a few tears.

Hi. This is my blog.

i tried to show u who i am by dividing by 3 and serving up the remainder raw like sushi.

Dyslexic Drug Dealer

I have this habit from when I was running product of writing phone numbers on tiny scraps of paper, holding it in the palm of my hand, staring at it, memorizing it, and then throwing the paper away. To this day I don’t have a contacts list, or an addy book on my phone. Thing is, I’m dyslexic so sometimes I memorize the number with the digits the wrong way around. After a fucked up round of dialing various combinations, I’ll get the right one and make a mental note. The problem is that a mental note is like post-it that keeps falling off the side of yr flat screen—I will always initially remember the number the wrong way and THEN remember that I have to switch some of the numbers around, which works, but there will of course be a million times that I don’t remember to turn the numbers around, and I’ll dial the wrong number so often that I’ll get to know the person on the other end.

ha…yeah…I just texted with one now:

hey TRUE…me again...think u meant this for ____

oh. sorry man.

not a problem, grrly grrl.

Wrong number conversations remind me of some of the emails I get—they’re like, excuse me, I’m sorry to bother u, but I read yr post the other day and…

I love wrong number conversations.

I love emails from strangers.

When I was growing up our phone number was one number different from the chicken place down the highway, Cluck U. We’d get calls at all hours…

“Cluck U?” they’d say, with that special note of urgency that comes from the promise of honey dipped, fried chicken.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY?!?” my half-deaf father would scream back.

Ha.

I once started a short story about a girl whose number was one off from a suicide prevention hotline.

But of course I never finished it.




fancypants