Monday, May 17


Art fucking sucks hard on the ninth package of ramen noodle soup (yeah, i'm binging again) and I've got this terrible song drifting through my thoughts, his smile and "shit, emo is boring" and "this shit sounds like the Monkees."

My eyes and hair are bloodshot from a drug of another kind, I write bad poetry to keep my thoughts under control and talk to people who turn me into a child again, "mmm you are soo cute." It's all I can do to keep the rest of the world entertained and aroused, because you know that's my job here.

I revisit Nick Black's list and wonder what all these markings mean, I know they meant something when I wrote it down, but I can't remember, I still make lists like I'm afraid someone else will decipher them because my unconscious is still hiding a lot from everyone.

We don't have sex anymore and he just breathes nicely across my neck until I fall asleep, the cold metal of his ears pressing against my shoulder.

In the barn we are singing, save a horse ride a cowboy, the new baby licks my elbow like a salt block while his mother searches my pockets for treats. "I don't have anything," I say, and her eyes say, Don't lie to me. You're a bad person. Damn you.

On TV the twitchy guy solves a crime very nicely but I'm bored to death. Criminal intent my ass. Let's talk about my own criminal mind, that Toby and I both walk into a store and assess how easy it would be to steal a carful of stuff, but we never do it. It's too easy. It's too easy to be charming like Leo and walk out with pockets full of binge food.

I have a movie night with a friend. We cook hotdogs over an open fire and go to bed at 10. The next morning we wake up and watch Peter Pan flirt with the girl with the huge teeth, and we decide that we'd definitely shoot down the Wendy bird and kidnap Peter all for ourselves. My friend bites my fingers and says I'm the only guy she thinks is sexy. I ask her to move in. She says, "Maybe. I'll definitely buy your car though."

Zing, zing.

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