Thursday, September 30

The truth of the matter is I'm not that strange.

People glare at me and acquaintances hug me to check for bones. They aren't disgusted; and if they are, it's only digusted at themselves for being jealous.

This isn't arrogance. This isn't weird anorectic thought processes. This is truth.

I try to hide going on nothing, but it's rough and they are jealous of that, too. I know they watch me drink diet dr peppers like water and curl up against someone, too tired to move.

They want what they think I have. Control. Thin. Social standing. A body I'm dying for. They think if they had my will-power they could stop before it got this bad.

The truth is they don't know anything. They have no idea how lucky they are to have a body that cooperates, that works like it should. A body that knows how to digest food and build muscle and fuel the brain. Don't fuck it up.

what he's singing even when he's not

let his flesh not be torn
let his blood leave no stain
though they beat him,
let him feel no pain

let his bones never break
and however they try
to destroy him
let him never die, let him never die

elecka-nahmen nahmen ahtum ahtum elecka-nahmen
elecka-nahmen nahmen ahtum ahtum elecka--elecka--

what good is this chanting?
i don't even know what i'm reading
i don't even know what trick i ought to try
where are you?

already dead or bleeding?
one more disaster i can't add
to my generous supply

no good deed goes unpunished
no act of charity goes unresented
no good deed goes unpunished
that's my new creed

my road of good intentions
led where such roads always lead
no good deed goes unpunished

one question haunts and hurts
too much, too much to mention
was i really seeking good
or just seeking attention?

is that all good deeds are
when looked at with an ice-cold eye?
if that's all good deeds are,
maybe that's the reason why

no good deed goes unpunished
all helpful urges should be circumvented
no good deed goes unpunished
sure, i meant well but look what well-meant did

all right, enough, so be it, so be it then:
let all oz be agreed
i'm wicked through and through
since i cannot succeed in saving you

i promise no good deed will i attempt to do
again, ever again
no good deed will i do

(To download: "No Good Deed" from the Wicked soundtrack.)

Sunday, September 26

I spent Friday night in the ER. I got thrown off a horse. I wasn't hurt but he decided it was a good time to threaten to put me in the hospital. It was not nearly as thrilling as the television show. The nurses seemed utterly bored and the doctors were uninterested. There was a little excitement about my lack of BP, HR, or hydration (been bad--nothing but diet coke for a few days, which explains the bloating). I just laid there.

We got home about three in the morning. I went to bed. I'm one huge bruise from the fall, but I'm used to it.

I wish I could make this a more exciting tale, full of intruige and all that, but I'm too fucking apathetic to care.

when did this happen?

Andrew Sullivan in Time:

In an era of polarized debate, the truth has never been more available. Thank the guys in the pajamas. And read them.
I don't read Andrew. The writing style of this article kind of irked me, but I get irked really easily. Back to the question: when did this happen??

When did Andrew Sullivan--or any other blogger--go from some " his pajamas" to writing for Time magazine? When did Time start making references to blogs in other articles? When did "blogosphere" become a word you can publish as if it actually is a word?

I'm blown away.

This is so Peter Wiggin. We're taking over the world.

Sunday, September 19

kittens are the footsoldiers of satan

Friday, September 17

who isn't less fortunate than i?

I've taken to reading diet journals for uh 'fun.' (Not exactly the right word, but can't think of anything better.)

The surprising thing is, they really don't read all that different from ana diaries.

"I messed up today, ate a piece of chocolate, I'm such a fat pig," blah blah blah.

"It would break my diet to eat a muffin so I licked it." (That is so...tippy! That's the kind of shit you hear on ******, where they like to teach you how to be crazy, fucked up, and dying.)

In other news, I almost cut my thumb off making a salad and then passed out. I knew it was coming so I sat down real quick. Blacked out for about three seconds--long enough for him to get the bandaid on--and then I was back, swimmy head and throbbing finger.

They're listening to Wicked around here today.

My pulse is rushing
My head is reeling
My face is flushing
What is this feeling?
Unadulterated loathing.
For your face,
your voice,
your clothing.
Let's just say I loathe it all.
And I will be loathing you my whole life.

*I edited out the name of a pro-anorexia web site because, well, it's just stupid to advertise that type of shit.

Wednesday, September 15

google culture

ily is a young woman who has made her own way in a world that has been less than kind to her
ily is techically a worm
ily is een afkorting uit de gebarentaal
ily is a lost soul looking for stability in her life
ily is widely distributed in china
ily is obsessed with this chestnut stuffing they always make
ily is willing to be ruled by a dog
ily is necessary
ily is ill
ily is a comma
ily is full of hard
ily is ver y cl earl y ev iden t in s crip ture
ily is fighting for the television

Monday, September 13

i know it's trite but fuck it

please die Ana
for as long as you're here, we're not
you make the sound of laughter
and sharpened nails seem softer

and i need you now somehow
and i need you now somehow

open fire on the needs designed
on my knees for you
open fire on my knees desires
what I need from you

imagine pageant
in my head the flesh seems thicker
sandpaper tears corrode the film

and i need you now somehow
and i need you now somehow

open fire on the needs designed
on my knees for you
open fire on my knees desires
what I need from you

and you're my obsession
i love you to the bones
and ana wrecks your life
like an anorexia life

open fire.

Thursday, September 9

election analogy made in anorectic heaven

Wednesday, September 8

cause and effect

"You couldn't make something happen to me before you knew me," I say, but you could and we both know it.

My eyes are fake like colored contacts, they are so real and talking. I'm not sure you're listening. You grab my hand which is full of tendons and bones that are twisted from holding the pen too tight writing, you kiss my palm with soft lips. "Maybe I didn't do it," you say, "but I'm still sorry."

I choose not to tell you about the dreams.

Monday, September 6

"the secret" by denise levertov

Two girls discover
the secret of life
in a sudden line of

I who don't know the
secret wrote
the line. They
told me

(through a thid person)
they had found it
but not what it was
not even

what line it was. No doubt
by now, more than a week
later, they have forgotten
the secret,

the line, the name of
the poem. I love them for
finding what
I can't find,
and for loving me
for the line I wrote,
and for forgetting it
so that
a thousand times, till death
finds them, they may
discover it again, in other

in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,

assuming there is
such a secret, yes,
for that
most of all.

Friday, September 3

five hundred words

It’s something you have to think about without thinking about it.

Heels down. Head up. Shoulders back. Elbows bent. Straight line from mouth to reins to hands, whose thumbs are on top with fingers loose but confining.

The animal beneath you: 1000 pounds of flesh and bone and muscle, an animal that could kill you with one blow or buck or bite. She has big brown eyes and small perfect triangle ears that are flickering here and there. Always returning to you.

You think without thinking the command. Click. Heel scraping along her right side. Leaning forward, ready for it. It takes her a moment and then the rush. One leaping bound and she’s quicker than the truck you’ve got parked in the driveway, indefinitely if you could ride her to the store and the doctor and into the sunset.

The wind in your face. You aren’t thinking about your weight in your heels or your arms pushing forward and back again with the movement of her head. She’s so fast and not even straining. It’s only been ten seconds and you’re almost at the fenceline at the other side of the field.

Entwine your fingers in her mane, which is part blonde and part brunette and rough with knots. When you get to the fence she will spin on a dime with nothing but your voice as encouragement. She does. You stick with her like the two of you are one being (you are). On the way back you lean into her neck, which is damp with sweat. She changes leads.

This is the point in the race where the crowd goes wild. She’s in fifth gear overdrive, running like she’s winning the Kentucky Derby or saving you from outlaws.

This time you stop her at the end. It takes nothing but sitting deep in the saddle. Saying, Whoa. Whoa, baby. She slows, reluctantly. To a trot and a walk and finally a stop. The both of you puffing.

You ride back to the barn with your feet dangling. You were too busy flying to realize your legs hurt. When you slide off, you have to lean against her. Your calves, inside of your thighs, are shaking that badly. She turns her head and whuffs your back.

What you want more than anything in the world is to sit down and drink a big glass of water, but she comes first. Bridle slides over her ears. Halter on. Saddle, girth loosened and then pulled off her sweaty back. Drop it on the ground; worry about it later. She follows you back to the pasture and after a carrot she’s gone, whinnying to her friends.

Monday morning at school they ask you why you weren’t at the party. You say, “I was with my family.”

And you were.

hey, redesign!

If you are like me then you were a little surprised when you got here. (Yes, I was surprised, even though I changed it myself five minutes ago.)

Everyone be proud of my mad html skills.

Anyway, since I redid everything...started with a brand-new template and all that, since I had made such a mess of the code anyway...the haloscan comments are no more. They sucked anyway. Now, sucky blogger comments for your enjoyment! I don't even know how they work, so maybe I'll go check it out and leave the first one.

So that's that. If you hate it, please let me know. I'll probably get annoyed semi-quick of how big the image is, but you know me: I never stick with images too long anyway, so just wait it out.


Wednesday, September 1

back to your scheduled programming

We are at Home Depot picking out things. Paint. Counters. Wood for jumps. Showers.

We want a big one so we are looking at shower/bath hybrids. "I like this one," he says. One with lots of lines, plenty of places to loose your razor.

"Hurt my back if you fucked me in that one," I say.

He looks at me with surprise (rare occurrance). He is thinking, Oh, shit, I don't think this is Home Depot conversation.

We move on. "Too small," I say, and touch my tongue to my canine.

He sees. We keep going anyway, his arm around me protectively. We don't find the perfect shower. It doesn't exist.

In the car ride home we debate paint colors. His hand is sliding up and down my arm and he asks what I want for dinner. I say something. He smiles like he's going to cry.

At home we don't go in the shower that doesn't hurt my back. We eat and we tease, and then we go to bed. He says he loves me more times than he needs to and then he leaves, I think he really is crying but I know he wouldn't want me to see.

you asshole you

So I just took one of my favorite blogs off my favorite list. (Not you, Keith, so don't get worked up or anything. :])

I felt very unappreciated there. I know that's kind of stupid considering it's a blog with a rather large readership, lots of comments, etc; but it started to get on my nerves that I would comment...someone else would comment after me, say the same damn thing I said, and they would get all the praise for the great ideas or whatever. Anytime someone actually responded to something I said, it was in a condescending manner.

So here's my apology: Sorry I don't have a fuckin Ph.D. and know everything about everything like apparently all of you do and sorry I apparently have terrible grammar and terrible spelling and all that shit (English is not my current language) and...oh yeah, I'm a faggot who didn't graduate high school so you are all so much better than me.

Now that that's over with.

I'm also pissed off at John because he continues to "correct" my signing. I haven't written about this before, I don't think, but here's the story. John took a sign class in high school. He didn't even know if he took SEE or ASL, but after watching him sign it's clear he took SEE. SEE (Signing Exact English) is just a visual representation of English, as the name implies. ASL (American Sign Language) is a visual language based off of French Sign Language. It has nothing, grammatically or vocabularily (I made up that word), to do with English. It's a lot easier to translate any kind of sign into a verbal language because they are two different mediums; you can associate a sign with a word instead of a word with an object (i.e.; when you do the sign 'cat' you may think of the word 'cat,' but you are more likely to associate 'gato' with the cat itself). That makes it easier for people to think that ASL is the same as English grammatically.

It's not.

English/SEE: "I am mad at John."

ASL: "I mad John I."

English/SEE: "I don't know." (Three different words/signs)

ASL: "Dunno." (One sign)

English/SEE: "Are you coming with me?"

ASL: "You come you?" (A question denoted by tilt of the head, eyebrow thing I can't really explain because I just do it)

You understand you? You better damn well because I'm getting tired of trying to translate ASL because if you are fluent enough it gets more difficult.

Back to John. Me and John, signing too each other. John [verbally]: "What did you say?"

Me [verbally]: "I don't know."

John: "No, it's [signs SEE I don't know]."

Me [signing]: No no no, SEE [his sign]. ["But" face] ASL, [my sign]

John: No no no, [his sign]

Me: You sign SEE you. Me sign ASL.

John: SEE and ASL are the same.


I explained to him two nights ago that they are not the same, and why they are different. Me: You airhead! Different, different!

John: No, you are wrong.

???? Taking a class does not make you an expert, eh? Using the language your entire life makes you more of an expert, eh? I told him that whatever the hell he was saying was akin to him saying to a Mexican, "You're wrong. It's not 'gracias,' it's 'thank you.'"

In Spanish it's gracias. In ASL it's you asshole you.