Yuck, I have been /reallllly/ tired lately, and feeling kinda depressed today.
I'm hoping it's just cuz I'm on the rag.
[Edit: Mmmmmmmm a big ol' chocolate bar...this will help with half of my problems...
Also, I just had (for all intensive purposes) my first cigarette in a week, and I didn't really like it that much and didn't even finish it. I think I may just not smoke until I go home.]
I don't want to go to class, ugh. At least it's actually nice out today!! It's like 56 degrees or something.
Random thing I found that I wrote about the wife over the summer:
Me and Jane, we are a poem. We are a poem, but we have no morals. We make Aesop roll in his grave and the pope shiver under his hat. We eat our blasphemy raw, heart still beating, teeth ripping up the veins. I roll its sweaty copper around in my mouth all day, while we talk about masturbation to Polaroids of Jesus and rearrange church bulletins to say Hail Satan and God Loves His Pussy.
She calls at night when Im already in bed and I grumble about putting on pants to cover up the cheering in my throat. We are the home team. Pulling bags of bagels out of dumpsters and cursing in front of little girls, we drive my mothers station wagon to the water to pelt seagulls midair and eat stale bagels.
We are the kind of poem that speaks in riddles only we understand. Reduced to laughter by the cock of an eyebrow, or one of my bad jokes. She keeps me in line, beats back my bad ideas to replace them with her own. She stole a crucifix from a graveyard once, bought a puppy without her parents permission.
We lay on her bed hot afternoons and let her snakes wind all over our bodies and through our hair. I watch their patterns merge with her doorframe arms, notched for every inch shes grown, parallel fence posts dotting her horizons. Vult carved into her arm, Ardeo on my chest. She wants, I burn.
She is a witch, room all full of snakes and spiders, putting her spell on all her friends to make them buy her bourbon chicken at the mall. I sit and wait for the phone to ring her name, then we go and eat fast food and complain about our parents. Hers are always drunk, mine are always stupid.
She comes with me to get my nipples pierced, makes fun of their pinkness. You silly Caucasians, she says, while her mother screams Korean in my head. Jane calls my mother Mother and I gave her a key to my house. She wears a bright yellow shirt with a silk screen of Jesus on it or a black one with a picture of a dead bird or a white one that says Zombie Squad. She tried to bring me to her other friends once, but I was tired and awkward and slept in her mothers SUV for 4 hours, ever the old woman, while loud music pounded through suburbia.
Sometimes we make chocolate chip cookies or yellow cake with chocolate frosting, but mostly we steal blackberries out of my mothers fridge and eat grocery store sushi and frozen drinks from Applebees where we sit and smoke and watch all the people we never want to be. Sometimes we go to Chik-Fil-A and bitch about supporting the Christian Coalition, but their chicken is just so damn good we cant resist. She steals a hundred dollar bill from her parents and buys a bigger tank for her snakes. I watch her arms keep healing.
THE PICTURE THAT WOULDN'T DIE!!!
I'm hoping it's just cuz I'm on the rag.
[Edit: Mmmmmmmm a big ol' chocolate bar...this will help with half of my problems...
Also, I just had (for all intensive purposes) my first cigarette in a week, and I didn't really like it that much and didn't even finish it. I think I may just not smoke until I go home.]
I don't want to go to class, ugh. At least it's actually nice out today!! It's like 56 degrees or something.
Random thing I found that I wrote about the wife over the summer:
Me and Jane, we are a poem. We are a poem, but we have no morals. We make Aesop roll in his grave and the pope shiver under his hat. We eat our blasphemy raw, heart still beating, teeth ripping up the veins. I roll its sweaty copper around in my mouth all day, while we talk about masturbation to Polaroids of Jesus and rearrange church bulletins to say Hail Satan and God Loves His Pussy.
She calls at night when Im already in bed and I grumble about putting on pants to cover up the cheering in my throat. We are the home team. Pulling bags of bagels out of dumpsters and cursing in front of little girls, we drive my mothers station wagon to the water to pelt seagulls midair and eat stale bagels.
We are the kind of poem that speaks in riddles only we understand. Reduced to laughter by the cock of an eyebrow, or one of my bad jokes. She keeps me in line, beats back my bad ideas to replace them with her own. She stole a crucifix from a graveyard once, bought a puppy without her parents permission.
We lay on her bed hot afternoons and let her snakes wind all over our bodies and through our hair. I watch their patterns merge with her doorframe arms, notched for every inch shes grown, parallel fence posts dotting her horizons. Vult carved into her arm, Ardeo on my chest. She wants, I burn.
She is a witch, room all full of snakes and spiders, putting her spell on all her friends to make them buy her bourbon chicken at the mall. I sit and wait for the phone to ring her name, then we go and eat fast food and complain about our parents. Hers are always drunk, mine are always stupid.
She comes with me to get my nipples pierced, makes fun of their pinkness. You silly Caucasians, she says, while her mother screams Korean in my head. Jane calls my mother Mother and I gave her a key to my house. She wears a bright yellow shirt with a silk screen of Jesus on it or a black one with a picture of a dead bird or a white one that says Zombie Squad. She tried to bring me to her other friends once, but I was tired and awkward and slept in her mothers SUV for 4 hours, ever the old woman, while loud music pounded through suburbia.
Sometimes we make chocolate chip cookies or yellow cake with chocolate frosting, but mostly we steal blackberries out of my mothers fridge and eat grocery store sushi and frozen drinks from Applebees where we sit and smoke and watch all the people we never want to be. Sometimes we go to Chik-Fil-A and bitch about supporting the Christian Coalition, but their chicken is just so damn good we cant resist. She steals a hundred dollar bill from her parents and buys a bigger tank for her snakes. I watch her arms keep healing.
THE PICTURE THAT WOULDN'T DIE!!!
VIEW 25 of 32 COMMENTS
Please email it to voice@dnac48.dabsol.co.uk with something like SG in the subject line.
[Edited on Nov 12, 2004 10:42PM]