ily ily ily

2005-04-22T09:48:00.000-05:00

Toby and I, making love. Soft breath and damp hair and my nose pressed against his throat to feel his voice. His hands on my hips. Me, drowning, separated from reality, my growling stomach, my aching head, the burn of tired muscle.

He pulls away, looks at me with sober eyes. "How much have you lost?" he asks. The sudden loss of his touch pulls me back long enough to say, I'm not. I'm not losing.

His hands again, skimming the instrument of my ribs under fat and pale skin, touching the point of hipbones beginning to reemerge, touching my lips. "I'd guess about five pounds," he says.

I stare back at him, silent.

After a moment he breaks my gaze and leaves the bedroom.

I can't stop shaking and I tell myself it's from the sex, but there are no excuses this morning, twelve hours later, when I miss the doorknob by a mile.

masochists and narcissists

2005-01-28T23:27:00.000-06:00

Also posted here. How annoying.

No writer escapes the craft without becoming (or maybe he was to begin with?) both masochistic and narcissistic. I'm not talking about staring at himself in the mirror all the time or asking his lover to whip him (though I'm sure plenty of writers are those types as well). It's a bit more subtle than that.

You find it in all kinds of fanfics. Author's notes. Lengthy introductions a la Orson Scott Card. References to "the first author" in textbooks. The beginning of an internet publication with "I know I haven't written in awhile, but..." (see previous post if you don't know what I'm talking about).

See, authors are always a bit crazy. We know we're irrelevant and we know that no one cares how long it's been since we wrote or what kind of great excuse we have. All they care about (if they do) is what we've produced. If it's good, they will read; if it's not, try again.

The writer is both the ultimate extrovert and introvert, all in one package. To the writer, every piece of work is achingly revealing of him; to the reader, every piece of work is either irrelevant or achingly revealing...of the reader. People do not gaze upon a piece of art and say, "I think the artist was trying to tell me that he feels ____." Viewers look and say, "I feel ____. That is what the artist was trying to say"--even if that is the opposite of the truth.

Face it. People don't care enough about others to read in order to learn about other people. We read to learn about ourselves. We both read and write to look in a mirror, to see our own ghastly features reflected back at us. When we write we are forced to understand, and that's the scariest thing about it all. Once you've seen what you really look like, you can't turn back. Even if it hurts.

sincerely

2005-01-17T14:24:00.000-06:00

Dear (I forgot your name again):

I only think about you when I dream about you and I only dream about you when I'm crazy, so I don't know what that says about You-And-Me, except that we're obviously not going anywhere good.

I mostly crash and burn when I try to have this conversation with anyone else. I hope you're following.

I read the most amazing things last night, had the most amazing nostalgia about the look on someone's face when they kiss you for the first time and how falling in love is more about a smile than sex. The eyes widening, mouth open in a soft "o."

Do your hands feel numb when you think about me?

There's a dead yellow rose on my desk that helps me remember that nothing lasts forever. Eventually we all wilt and decompose and there's not really any part of us that really survives, at least not in a way you can touch. You can't touch a feeling. You can't touch nostalgia. Memories are not stable matter.

Am I making any sense here?

If not, I guess I know why you weren't The One. If you know what I'm saying, then I have no idea.

Signed, sincerely,
Me.

early morning friday cat blogging

2005-01-14T02:25:00.000-06:00

I like to call this one "super freaky":

Turtle kiss

Relaxing in front of the fire

"i'm like a...."

2005-01-13T01:18:00.000-06:00

It’s the moment right after the moment his hand met your face. Not a shocked palm-slap in movies or the backhand of a betrayed husband, but the sharp mountains of knuckles. Starting with that moment where he raised his hand in the first place, threatening you, you didn’t believe this was happening. Later on you’ll miss the bliss of not knowing, of thinking this must be a dream while he screams.

Right now, right in this moment, the nerves in your cheek are sending blips to the pain receptors in your brain and it’s getting real pretty damn fast. For the rest of your life, you will be defined by the moment. You will, from this moment on, be the kid who gets hit by people he trusts. You are this moment, through and through, and nothing will ever erase it or conceal it or make you ok with it.

You didn’t say anything. Everything was quiet, just like always, just like normal. He was angry, just like normal. But your heart was pounding, your breath fast and sharp. He’d never hit you in your face before. He never made it that personal. Today is the day. He tells you, you better get out of this house before that bruise heals. Or he’ll kill you. He says it like he’s been thinking it awhile.

And maybe you leave, maybe it only takes three days for you to get the hell out of there and never look back, but home is where the heart is and every night you dream his face and every day you are still in that moment. You still are the moment.

worst conversationalist ever

2005-01-12T01:03:00.000-06:00

That's me, by the way.

(I'm also a terrible writer/blogger, obviously, but I keep repeating January is a bad month and it keeps me sane while I'm going insane.)

better late than never...life swap

2005-01-06T13:59:00.000-06:00

Too late to actually join, but the idea is the same. In no particular order:

"Enemy" - Eve 6
Can't get this shit off my mind/I just wanna be all right/So just tell me nothing's wrong/Then get undressed and spend the night

"Where is My Mind" - The Pixies

"Should've Been a Cowboy" - Toby Keith
Haven't you been told?/California's full of whiskey, women, and gold/Should've been a cowboy/should've learned to rope and ride/wearing my six-shooter/riding my pony on a cattle drive/stealing the young girls' hearts

"I Touch Myself" - Eve 6
We definitely don't condone or promote masturbation in any way; we definitely don't do it ourselves. I personally find it disgusting. It grosses me out. I just don't get it. Maybe if I got it, that would be one thing, but I don't understand it. I understand the bottom line though, I always remember the bottom line. I want you. I don't want anybody else, it's just the way I am. And when I think about you I tend to...

"Lie to Me" - Jonny Lang
Tell me that you'll never leave/I'll just try to make believe that everything you're telling me is true/Come on, baby, won't you just lie to me

"The Calendar Hung Itself" - Bright Eyes
Does he lay awake listening to your breath/worried you smoke too many cigarettes/is he coughing now on a bathroom floor/I settled for a telephone saying into your machine/You are my sunshine, my only sunshine/You make me happy/when skies are gray/you make me happy/when skies are gray and gray and gray

"Dust on the Bottle" - David Lee Murphy
After all these years there's one thing I've found/some say good love is like a fine wine/it keeps getting better as the days go by

"Anyone, Anyone" - Dashboard Confessional
I must be out of touch/I won't ask you to give up on the things that seem to keep you gone/but I could be gone too/feel a little sorry/sometimes you're not here when I am writing/feels a little awkward/sometimes you won't talk but we're not fighting

"Red Light" - Jonny Lang
You think of home while sitting at a redlight/Too slow to roll, put your life on hold/you start to wonder why you're sitting at a redlight/You could run a redlight/Give up at a redlight/Speeding through your whole life/A chance to breathe while sitting at a redlight

"Holy Water" - Big & Rich
Everything would shine wherever she would go/but looking at her now you'd never tell/someone ran away with her innocence/a memory she can't get out of her head/I can only imagine what she's feeling when she's praying/kneeling at the edge of her bed/and she says, "take me away"

"Defying Gravity" - Wicked
Dreams the way we'd planned them/if we work in tandem/there's no fight we cannot win/just you and I, defying gravity/they'll never bring us down

"When I'm Gone" - 3 Doors Down
There's another world inside of me that you may never see/somewhere in this darkness there's a light I can't find/maybe it's too far away/or maybe I'm just blind/so hold me when I'm here/love me when I'm wrong/hold me when I'm scared/and love me when I'm gone/I'll never let you down/even if I could/I'd give up everything/if only for your good

"Sincerely, Me" - Better than Ezra
And I miss you/and the things you do/the time we had, the good and bad/the day we met that I can't forget/Signed, sincerely, me

"Open Fire (Ana's Song)" - Silverchair
You're my obsession/I love you to the bones/and ana wrecks your life/like an anorexia life

Toby maintains that the only songs on his would be Lit's "My Own Worst Enemy" and The Angry Worms' "Canada is Really Big." I keep telling him that a satirical song about Canada can't be about him. He says, "Metaphor, duh." (Favorite lyric: When you get down to it, you'll find out what the truth is/it isn't what you do with it, it's the size that counts.)

i knew i wasn't the only one who noticed a whole ton of bipolar kids on the internet

2005-01-05T21:41:00.000-06:00

Rum & Monkey's fuckin awesome LJ entry generator

Today was really tiring.

I feel sad, because Sarah and Britney are complete bitches. They told everyone I have an STD, just because I slept with both of their boyfriends on Saturday night.

I'm so hardcore. Me and Buzz went to the mall today, and I stole a whole heap of stuff. I got a Good Charlotte CD, a couple of DVDs and some new boots. Buzz got caught, but he fought his way out, and then we stole some lady's car and smashed it into a phone booth.

Last night I had to shave my entire body. Apparently, the lice that I caught from Amanda's friend are really hard to get rid of. I look quite strange with no hair and eyebrows. I'd post pictures, but my webcam is broken.

I want to tell the world that I'm gay.

I am making this journal friends only because I don't want the world to read what I'm writing, even though I'm posting it on the internet.

Today, I got a digital camera! Yes! Here's ten thousand photographs of my cat.

I went to the doctor yesterday, and he said I have bipolar disorder, which makes me different enough to be interesting, but the same as all the other cool people with bipolar disorder.

You should all do this quiz! It's amazingly accurate. You just put in your name and birthday, and it will tell you you're a moron.

That's enough for now. But I'll leave you with this poem I wrote. It's about my friend Robert, who has bipolar disorder. Just like me. And Heidi.

-

I was once diagnosed bipolar, several years ago. I was also diagnosed with diassociative identity disorder (multiple personalities). That would make sense, though, wouldn't it? I have one manic personality and one depressive personality. Because I've actually had non-drug induced mania. (Noticed confused look.)

I also think the "friends only" thing is bullshit. I mean, come on--if you wanted to speak to a few friends about your life, send an email or a letter. (On another note, I am so grateful that I only got one of those Holiday letters. You know the ones. "Dear Family & Friends: This year has been so eventful..." You know it's written by the mother of the house, but she still refers to herself in third person and reintroduces you to her entire family by their key characteristics. Yeah, Jenny, I remember that you're a young, beautiful teacher; I remember that your husband, Brandon, is also young and beautiful and is my cousin; I remember that you had a baby a couple years ago, and no matter how cute little Jason is, I don't care to hear stories about his teething adventures.) "Friends only" also takes away my ability to spy on you. If I say I haven't read your stupid Xanga or LiveJournal or Blogspot (all with lame templates and uber-cool graphics stolen from somewhere else), I might not have. Or I might just be saying that so you'll be more likely to write something about me. If I knew how to hack people's email accounts, I would do it. If I could record their phone conversations, I would do it and listen to them (that poses another problem, but while we're dreaming). I'm nosey and think I deserve to know everything about everyone's life, just because I'm me. I'm getting off topic. Don't put your blogs, journals, diaries, whatever, on friends only. It makes me cranky.

I once shaved my entire body in an effort to deny lanugo. It was a good tactic until people started wondering why the hell I would shave my entire body. I'm not a swimmer. Obviously I was hiding something. Like hair caused by not eating.

making amends, part I

2005-01-05T13:39:00.000-06:00

I had a dream where I got a strange email from Michael, one that was not even addressed completely to me. A group rejection. It listed several (ex) boyfriends (in the dream I didn't take much time to feel betrayed; been there, done that), and told us all that he would no longer be speaking to us with the implication he was returning to the lovely ex-gay ministry.

This is not so much a dream as a prediction of the future, but stay with me here.

In the dream I was someone else and told him everything that needed to be said, words and hands flying that I can't remember now that I've woken, but when it was happening it was all true and deep and maybe I would make him see. (That's why this is called a dream and not something that could actually happen.)

I told him, as someone else, that he could just say goodbye to any chance he'd had of winding up happy and in love and blissfully naked in bed with Toby and I, which may or may not have ever been a possibility. I told him as someone else that he could just say goodbye to me as me, that if he didn't think he'd lost it all before he's surely lost it now.

I woke up with aching teeth and clenched fists and Toby looking over from his desk smiling and blowing me kisses Mean Girls style. Dreams fade real fast, I say, and then I fill in the holes myself with wouldacouldashoulda.

the way to start off the new year

2005-01-01T16:38:00.000-06:00

We decided to go camping. We took our farm kart out to a secluded piece of land. Set up our humongous tent, built a fire, had some grape soda, and waited for something thrilling to happen. Nothing did, so we cooked some hamburgers. The good thing was, I didn't eat any. He smoked a few cigarettes (I was good and abstained), talked, and decided it was about time for bed at 11 p.m. We sat in the tent with our crappy broken lantern and kissed and talked about farrier school, babies, and how this whole experience would be better (for me at least) if it was about 20 degrees warmer.

At 2:55 a.m. I wake up to him stumbling out of the tent and go looking for him after 20 minutes, he's leaning against the truck appearing to be throwing up his intestines and other vital internal organs. He says he's fine and we go back to bed, but when he's up again five minutes later it's about time to pack up the trusty farm kart and go home. It's less than ten minutes back to the house, but we have to stop a few times for him to be sick. He looks like he's about to die. Lovely.

We don't get to bed until around 6, I'm curled up in the corner of the bathroom with him, handing him a glass of water and a pillow for in between. He smiles a little and says he didn't think Normals got as sick as I do. I said he was delusional if he thought himself a Normal.

It also rained all morning.

Yeah, 2005 is going to be good.

anger management needed

2004-12-31T14:01:00.000-06:00

This cat has some issues.

i don't think we're in kansas anymore

2004-12-30T23:04:00.000-06:00

Today was windy with a high of 70 degrees. Yes, it's December 30th in Kansas; the average temperature being 28 degrees.

Because I watch too many movies like The Day After Tomorrow and Deep Impact, I think this has something to do with the tsunami. That's the only thing I can say on the subject. Every morning he gives me updates on the death toll and I pretend I don't see.

Either way, it was a beautiful day to fix the fence that blew over during the night and fall off my horse. I hurt my knee and she pulled a shoe. Maybe it wasn't such a beautiful day after all.

Keith: two of his songs got on my coveted Life Swap list (don't ask what a deaf kid is doing with a soundtrack for his life). Download "Lie to Me" and "Redlight."

this is about self-deactivation

2004-12-29T14:47:00.000-06:00

It'll get trite really fast, so bear with me.

Four Diet Dr Pepper's and one three-mile run later, I'm feeling a little woozy. I'm reading poetry about bad friends and good tragedies. Cursive teaches us that artists have to starve, if things aren't bad a masterpiece won't come out of it. Palahniuk's Diary teaches the same thing, I think, with a little bit of handwriting-analysis mixed in.

Reading a book that starts with someone trying to commit suicide (but only ends up in a coma) and then has his wife bitching at him for 200 pages, well, that just doesn't do much for my current state of mind. Like Beau Sia, I wonder if they'll publish books full of poems I hated when I die. What I wrote when I didn't know better (like what I'm writing now). Maybe someday I will write something like Marya's Wasted only better, but for now I'm completely useless except for...this. Sitting. Reading. Picking scabs.

I'm sorry I'm so "emo." It was nice for that short period when being depressed was a fad, so at least I didn't have to pretend. Now I cover it up with fake smiles and lots of lies. January is a bad month for me. I thought my world was over telling me that my feelings were irrelevant. Everything comes back to invalidating me, because that's the worst thing in the world.

Wait. People all over the world are dying for what they believe in, and I'm just dying to believe something. I'm starting to sound like a Jonny Lang song.

For something more cheery, Wednesday horse blogging.

destruct

2004-12-29T13:21:00.000-06:00

Two red lines below the crease of my elbow, the width of my arm and perfectly spaced. Trotting poles. One, two, three, jump. This is so teen-angst, so a couple years ago, you remember when it was cool and hardcore to cut. I didn't expect it to be sixty-one degrees today, a beautiful day for t-shirts and everyone creeps out of the cracks to ask what happened. It's not bad enough, really, for any concern. I just thought it was about time I took a more active role in killing myself.

where i've been all week (and will continue to be until it warms up)

2004-12-23T13:57:00.000-06:00

Ahhh.

Yes, the Santa is terrifying, but it was my grandmother's and so has a certain amount of sentimental value. I get nostalgic about being terrified of it as a young buck.

Happy [insert whatever they say on that T-Mobile commerical here]!

friday cat blogging (RIP version)

2004-12-17T11:41:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas!

from the archives (when i get manic i write long emails)

2004-12-16T22:31:00.000-06:00

(It really bothers me that I don't remember who this originally was to. If you are the person I wrote this to, let me know. It might not have actually been to anyone. It sounds like the kind of thing I would just make up.)

Dear _____,

On friday I got told TWICE that my life was "boring." Who are these people, and since when was it their business whether or not my life is boring? I guess I never really thought about it before. I'm rarely (if ever) bored, so wouldn't that mean my life isn't boring? Apparently not.

Of course, the two people who told me this think that you're not having fun unless you're tripping off acid (on acid? can opposite prepositions describe the same thing? how strange), so I suppose their opinions don't really matter. Also, they're homophobic and I hate them anyway.

But seriously, boring? I don't think anyone's life ever SOUNDS exciting. The basis of human existence is: eat, sleep, work/school, watch tv; repeat as necessary. (Hey, 1 out of 4 ain't bad.)

Have you seen "A Beautiful Mind"? If so, remember the part where he's decoding all the stuff from the magazines, and he has all these magazine pages pinned up all over his walls and on his desk? I've cleaned up all my shit and ended up taping most of it to the walls, because I think I "NEED" to keep it but don't know what else to do with it. Staring at a TO SCALE version of my "dream barn," I'm feeling a little weird. Maybe I'm crazy and imagining everone, too! I'm just not smart enough to find "codes" in magazines.

I had a very interesting conversation with Toby about the effects of cocaine, and he was laughing because I was being manic and he says, "What you're feeling right now? That's it." On top of the world. Sounds good.

Luke's been listening to David Sedaris. Davy's boyfriend's name is Hugh. That cracks me up. What kind of name is Hugh? If my name were Hugh, I might be tempted to shoot myself--or get a name change. Or move to Colombia (for the men and a "fresh start" where I could be known as HOOLIAHN). Oh, yeah, Davy and speed. That's Luke's favorite part, so far. He talks about how he becomes an artist (except he's not a very good one, just likes to say he's an artist because it sounds cool) and starts doing some meth and is basically nuts, calling people at 3 in the morning. Toby said: "Sucks for you. You get all these fun psuedo-drug symptoms but you can't piss people off calling them in the middle of the night!" (Ten points for using "psuedo" in every day conversation.)

I miss you. Last night I had a waking dream about you. I won't tell you about it; I'm sure you can imagine for yourself.

I'm reading this book called "Stop Pretending" (subtitle: "what happened when my big sister went crazy"). It's a bunch of poems. It's interesting. You can be like Marla--I dated this guy once with a split personality. Except I don't really have a split personality, not in the sense that I think I'm two different people, more in the sense that....

Oops. I went to pet Rio and lost my train of thought.

I miss you. I already said that once, but I guess I think repeating it will make you remember. Don't forget about me when you are busy with all your new friends. :) I haven't forgotten about you with all my...ok...I don't have any friends...but I still haven't forgotten about you! It just doesn't sound so impressive anymore. Damn.

I have to go WORK in the COLD now. Pray that I don't get frostbite and have to have all my limbs amputated.

I love you.

(I'd give it all away/to have someone to come home to.)

-jd

more cyber adventures

2004-12-15T23:18:00.000-06:00

TrthUnspkn: pics
TrthUnspkn: s2n
still: n?
TrthUnspkn: s2r
TrthUnspkn: sorry
still: i got really confused there for a second
still: how are ya?
TrthUnspkn: good how are you
still: i'm ok
still: i just watched a plastic surgery show for an hour
still: and i feel a lot better about myself
still: because i may be ugly, but at least i don't wish i was a woman
TrthUnspkn: lol thats funny
still: because then i would be an ugly woman
still: and there's nothing worse than an ugly woman that looks like a man
TrthUnspkn: nobody is ugly////
still: i am ;-)
still: and then i spent some time being really, really uncomfortable as my boyfriend tried to find my plastic surgery scars. anyone under that much scrutiny is going to feel a little squirmy.
TrthUnspkn: surgery scars??
still: yes, it's kind of like "where's waldo" where you think you've found him because of the red and white stripes, but there's a whole shitload of things wth red and white stripes
TrthUnspkn: lol
still: so, i'm sorry, what can i do for you?
TrthUnspkn: i need pics
still: of what?
TrthUnspkn: men
still: that's pretty broad
still: i mean, men do make up about 40% of the world's population
still: that's like over 2 billion
TrthUnspkn: hahlol i need naked men to get my dick hard enough to where i can jack the shit out of it
still: wow, sounds like a personal problem to me
still: check out ratemyboner.com
TrthUnspkn: you cant direct any to me right now
TrthUnspkn: i was looking foward to the shit you have
still: i have no shit
still: i'm a bulimic, food never gets that far
TrthUnspkn: no pics??
still: i guess that's what i was getting at
TrthUnspkn: ok then
still: what's your favorite scary movie?

everything i know about gay sex i learned from a palahniuk book

2004-12-15T17:07:00.000-06:00

He's listening to the radio and starts laughing. What? I say. He explains to me that one of the DJs, meaning to say "farting and belching," instead said "barting and felching" and the DJs had been laughing about it for a good fifteen minutes. And they kept repeating the phrase without any sexual innuendo, leading him to believe they didn't know what 'felching' meant. Sure enough, someone calls in and says, "Do you guys know what that means?" Lots of bleeps and embarrassed laughter follows.

Just so you aren't ever in this situation, I bring you a passage about a lovely family Thanksgiving dinner, courtesy of Chuck Palahniuk's "Invisible Monsters."

My mom says, "Do you know what the AIDS memorial quilt is all about?"
Jump to how much I hate my brother at this moment.
"I bought this fabric because I thought it would make a nice panel for Shane," Mom says. "We just ran into some problems on what to sew on it.
Give me amnesia.
Flash.
Give me new parents.
Flash.
"Your mother didn't want to step on any toes," Dad says. "With gay stuff you have to be so careful since everything means something in secret code. I mean, we didn't want to give people the wrong idea."
My mom leans over to scoop yams onto my plate, and says, "Your father wanted a black border, but black on a field of blue would mean Shane was excited by leather sex, you know, bondage and discipline, sado and masochism." She says, "Really these panels are to help the people left behind."
"Strangers are going to see us and see Shane's name," my dad says. "We didn't want them thinking things."
"I wanted pink triangles but all the panels have pink triangles," my mom says. "IT's the Nazi symbol for homosexuals." She says, "Your father suggested black triangles, but that would mean Shane was a lesbian. It looks like the female pubic hair. The black triangle does."
My father says, "Then I wanted a green border, but it turns out that would mean Shane was a male prostitute."
My mom says, "We almost chose a red border, but that would mean fisting. Brown would mean eather scat or rimming, we couldn't figure which."
"Yellow," my father says, "means watersports."
"A lighter shade of blue," Mom says, "would mean just regular oral sex."
"Regular white," my father says, "would mean anal. White could also mean Shane was excited by men wearing underwear." He says, "I can't remember which."
We're supposed to sit and eat with Shane dead all over the table in front of us.
Dad looks down at his plate and says, "Do you know about rimming?"
I know it isn't table talk.
"And fisting?" my mom asks.
I say, I know.
"Would you pass the butter, please?" my mother says. To my father, she says, "Do you know what felching is?"
This, it's too much. Shane's dead, but he's more the center of attention than he ever was. All this sick horrible sex talk over Thanksgiving dinner, I can't take this.
..."Felching," I lower my voice. I'm calm now. "Felching is when a man fucks you up the butt without a rubber. He shoots his load, and then plants his mouth on your anus and sucks out his own warm sperm, plus whatever lubricant and feces are present. That's felching. It may or may not," I add," include kissing you to pass the sperm and fecal matter into your mouth."
Silence.
My father clears his throat. He says, "I think 'fletching' is the word your mother meant." He says, "It means to slice the turkey into very thin strips."
Silence.
I say, oh. I say, sorry.
We eat.

extended family christmas email "saga"

2004-12-10T10:01:00.000-06:00

First of all, let me express my severe shock in being included in this at all, though mostly just as a spectator. I didn't even expect to be invited, much less kinda-sorta involved in the planning. Here we go:

As far as the gift exchange goes . . . my gift will be my presents, but my presence may not be a gift . . . ponder that for awhile.

I'm hoping B and Jenny can bring the fudge just to see if it makes them break out in hives or something. What would Christmas be without Chocolate? I'm not sure how but I think Chocolate used to be part of the the name of the holiday. Somehow we got left with just the Ch.

[Paul] is the kid who waited up till Gary was ready to do Santa and he wanted to ride along that year cause his friends said that Santa was his dad! When told to go to bed, he said “But Dad I’m going with you to deliver the gifts to all the boys and girls!”

Patrice, I think Deb was trying to impress everyone with big words. She meant that as a compliment. Infamous: Known widely and favorably. We were never real good with vocabulary. That's why I mostly stick with four letter words. I know what most of them mean.

Rule #394: You all have to stay until my lights come on. You might want to bring a book to read or something.

I think they are all old enough (and mature enough) to do a Dirty Santa
type thing...(oh did I say "mature"...based on observing the older adults in
this activity, I might consider taking "mature" out of the requirements!)

Ok, I hope the "mature" comment was not aimed at me. . . cuz if it was
the next time I see you, Susie, I'm gonna sit on your fat little head until
you say your sorry, then if we get into a fight and Mom catches us, I'm
gonna scream, "Susie started it!! Susie started it!!" and you'll be SORRRRRY
then, for sure.

You may think you're hot snot, but you're just a cold booger in a heat
wave!!

This explains the whole event perfectly:

"Looks like Christmas threw up in here!"

weird stuff i find in junk drawers

2004-12-06T19:13:00.000-06:00

I am not concerned about anything
I am ready to take over the world
All realities began with a dream of surreality
The Matrix can't take me because I am too strong
Oprah holds the key to national immortality
I drink caffeine to keep my mind sharp
All denial eventually leads to addiction
Psychologists take your money to buy more Prozac
Life is better when the gas tank is full
The open road keeps no promises
Algebra won't help you write a book
The world is one big multiple choice test
Peter Wiggin didn't know his place--and it worked
Pronouncing "crayon" correctly will not make you president
Accents make appearances in times of intense emotion
Never trust an artist
Don't believe everything your role models tell you
People who try to be different are all the same
Eating never made anyone fat
Remember: the predominant ingredient in Oreo cream is lard
If you stare at floor tiles too long they start to move
Don't be afraid to look stupid in front of anyone
When given a choice, always choose the right one
Don't fuck with Tyler Durden
If you learn to like lemon flavor, you'll never be without a Jolly Rancher

john stone

2004-12-06T01:05:00.000-06:00

Stumbled upon this guy's weight loss site. He's lost a lot of weight, buffed up, blah blah blah. Pretty amazing, I guess, if you're into that kind of thing. Looking at the pictures I immediately noticed a) way too muscley, kinda grosses me out and b) wtf he lost a lot of chest hair and gained a lot of arm/leg hair. (Testosterone shots, you think?)

The daily pictures are kind of an anorectic's dream. I mean, if this guy is normal and he does shit like that, what's to say I'm not normal when I do shit like that? I may not take pictures but I do a lot of examining. And I love that you can see an actual change in his body every day. But what I love most is the part (about halfway down the page, I think) where one day--hairy chest. Next day--no hair, some very apparent irritation in the area. Check the next week, after the irritation has cleared up, and he's got a very noticible shaving cut. I'm easily amused, but I definitely thought it was funny. Apparently it's really important, while you're losing weight and working out, to shave body hair that may distract from your muscles. I'll keep that in mind.

edit: Ah, shit. I can't link directly to the daily photo page; it takes you to the main page and wants you to register. You don't have to. If you are really interested, click the "picture archives" link and go to the "daily" and "front" options. If you have a lot of time on your hands like me. Err. *cough*

happy birthday, nicholas

2004-12-05T11:45:00.000-06:00

(and kegan, but that's a long story)

(i don't know if this is good or not, but it was all gloomy and raining when i woke up this morning. my favorite weather.)

how's that for logic?

2004-12-02T22:12:00.000-06:00

One for you, Keith:

her: [god] didn't make [people] to love the same sex
me: ok. cool.
me: i just think there were a lot of things god didn't create man to do that man has done anyway
me: walk on the moon, for example
me: the way we are talking right now
her: yes but man also created things like this as a distraction
her: and being gay is a distraction to people like me

Not only is space travel a "distraction" created by man (I assume to distract from God?) being gay is a personal distraction to "people like" her.

Chalk this up to another "errr....pardon?"

EDIT: Libby, yes, I've got plenty of rational ones.

him: hue are you/
me: do you mean "who"?
him: your a fucking dumbass
[got blocked]
me thinking: "you're"

one good trip

2004-12-02T16:28:00.000-06:00

He is in the bathroom shaving while I take a shower. He is shirtless and leaning into the counter, the mirror fogging up quickly. I am watching him like the poem--water becomes an erotic passageway for him--and loving everything about him. I look away to wash my hair and by the time it's rinsed clean, he has joined me. His body is slick and his face is smooth when he kisses me.

Before I can think of a really good reason to stop him (really, it's difficult when he's so willing), he's got me backed up against the wall, biting my lip and shivering at the sudden cold air while his lips, tongue, hands, and eyes gift me moans to stifle.

After he holds me against him, under the water again to warm me up. "You owe me," he says, "later. You've got to tell me what it is I did so good this time." I giggle, he kisses me again and slips away. "Gotta go. Love you."

I stand in the shower until the water gets cold, a lot delirious as I come down. And some people think you need drugs to get high.

seeing the circumcised in a whole new light...

2004-11-30T21:03:00.000-06:00

Eeep.

dear ____,

2004-11-29T01:07:00.000-06:00

Eat shit and die.

Yours,
mr. dean

inspiration during a snowstorm

2004-11-25T09:27:00.000-06:00

Avi was an avid church goer, not because he believed but because he was seeking passion. Some churches didn’t have it, but the small southern Baptist church on the outskirts of Kansas City did. What it lacked for in size it made up for in devotion. The parishioners of this church were the kinds of people who attended at least three times a week, volunteered with a mission group, and watched evangelical tv while eating dinner. Their answering machines said “Don’t forget that Jesus loves you!” and they told everyone they met that they were Christian. They were truly and fervantly passionate about their beliefs.
Every Sunday Avi would sneak in, take a seat in the back, and watch as a hundred people praised, sang, worshipped, and prayed. It was amazing to him to know how strong the connection between all these people were, to see their threads of life stretch upwards and meet together, all loving God. It was the ultimate groupthink.
Usually, his timing was perfect: step in right as the service was starting, leave as soon as it was finished; no one had a chance to notice he was there and speak to him. He preferred it that way in most situations. When people spoke, they asked questions. When people asked questions, he had to answer them—and it wasn’t always pleasant.
It was late November and someone new was at the service. Avi noticed the moment he walked in the building; the dynamics were different. There was a boy, front row, 18 years old, senior in high school, birthday was yesterday, son of Mary—probably the most passionate and involved member of the church—his favorite color is orange and his cat’s name is— Nice kid. Not religious. Avi sifted back through the information to find his name. Daniel.
The reverend talked scripture and morals for a good two hours like normal. When the final prayer had ended, Mary stood. “I’d just like to remind everyone,” she said, “that our Thanksgiving potluck will be tomorrow. Please bring a side dish or desert, and of course your love of Jesus. God bless.”
Her eyes caught on Avi and she immediately hurried over to him, her son in tow. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before,” she said. “I’m so happy that God has brought us a new brother in worship. Aren’t you, Dan?”
Daniel mumbled an agreement as Avi offered his hand to Mary. Instead of shaking, she wrapped him up in a hug. “Jesus was a hugger,” she said, smiling. “Nothing so impersonal as a handshake for a brother.”
“I’m Avi,” he said. “I’ve been coming to services for awhile, but never really met anyone. I’ll be coming to the dinner tomorrow, though. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know everyone.”
Mary’s grin grew even bigger. “Do you hear that, Dan?” She elbowed her son out of his stupor. “Someone your age will be there!”
The reverend approached at Mary’s side, and she excused herself to talk to him. Daniel and Avi were left on their own, to Daniel’s obvious discomfort. “Well,” he said after a few seconds of silence, “I better get going.”
Avi looked at him pointedly. “You have plans after the dinner.” He tried to say it like a question.
“Yes…”
“You probably shouldn’t come. It’s supposed to snow. Could get snowed in.”
“It won’t snow.”
A smile touched the corner of Avi’s lips. “It will. See you.”

christmas list

2004-11-22T13:12:00.000-06:00

I'm browsing State Line Tack and have an ever-growing list of things I absolutely need. For example:

The Blok Training System

A new saddle pad (orange, of course)

An English bridle for Aster (horse size, though it may be a little too big)

A new crop since mine met an unfortunate end (green)

This thing because my spot in the tack room is way out of control

Not to mention a couple rubber buckets, bucket hooks, stall signs, bridle holders, maybe a couple of these, and don't forget a trunk for everything else I have.

And people think horse ownership is expensive!

i need a new project. must start writing again.

2004-11-21T22:14:00.000-06:00

I've spent a couple hours reading through pretty much all the documents on my computer, all the stories I started and bad poetry from 2002 and shit I thought was important enough to save. I find a document called "lanie" and wonder what the hell that is, I've never had a character named Lanie and--

Lightbulb. I once had a reader named Lanie.

The document is password protected (once upon a time I was hiding everything from people, what was up with that? I'm such a paranoid depressive) so it takes a few tries to remember what my password was back then, but after all I've used the same two passwords since I owned a computer so it's not that hard to guess.

It's an instant messanger conversation from August 7, 2002. With Lanie. Discussing something that I had recently finished writing, this 30-page monster that was True Sins of Everyday Men (the title started out as a joke and never got changed, though it has little to do with the story). It took me a year of unbelievable sacrifice. Yes, writing is hard! I don't care what you believe. That was back when I thought eventually I'd write something to be published, eventually I'd write something novel-length and it'd actually make sense. It's not that I've given up on that, I just suddenly attained other ambitions and Zoloft so I don't write as much anymore.

Anyway, here's the line from Lanie that made me want to start writing again: "you come for the porn, you stay for the story." She also says (yes, I'm just repeating this for an ego boost), "I read your stuff and I'm sitting there in awe" and "Do you know you're just wonderful? I want you to know that."

I miss people who cared about my writing. I miss caring about my writing.

I'll think of a new project soon enough. Maybe something more real or gritty or something. Maybe that musical about the hack group. It'll be good and worth it, I hope.

jane's rough touch might break them

2004-11-19T15:30:00.000-06:00

Those of you who know me know that I hate apathy more than anything. Apathy in regards to me most of all: loathe me, love me, be disgusted by me, worship me; I don't care, just respond in some way. Show that I have touched deep enough for you to react, I have hit a nerve and parts of you are numb with the intensity of it.

Nothing is real to me and so I feel free to push your buttons, challenge your views, turn your life upside down as long as you return the favor. But most are too focused on the silliness in their own lives, the irrelevancies, that they can't even consider that none of it matters--at least not in the way they think it does. It doesn't matter that your girlfriend has dumped you, really, it doesn't. In the scheme of things it's just another choice someone made, just another variable in life for you to solve. Life is a learning experience. All of life is creating yourself, learning who that person is, and it'll never happen when you are concentrating on sex and drugs.

Yes, I'm bitter that people don't meet my expectations.

Once upon a time I knew better, because I didn't believe a challenger existed. But now I know he does, how perfect we are for each other and how perfect it is to resist, argue, debate, make 180 degree turns, change our views, laugh at philosophy, create our own and then disagree, affect the lives of people around us with our hands and our minds and our hearts. And so I yearn for every interaction to feel as good as this one, for me to be a changed man with each person I run into, but everyone is cloaked in a thought barrier I can't seem to pass.

And to try to explain would be like the Hive Queen putting things in human terms; it is too difficult and my attention is busy on other worlds. My conversations don't come in English anymore, can barely be translated, because I have moved on and found my home. I am touching the gossamer web, have been for so long that I can't imagine anything else, and it isn't breaking. I have found my will and my heart and--I've found my body. On the outside I am cold but on the inside I'm warm with my found adulthood, my Third Life. Welcome to it.

peter wiggin is hot

2004-11-18T23:09:00.000-06:00

You know how writers are. They create themselves as they create their work. Or perhaps they create their work in order to create themselves.

svu

2004-11-17T20:06:00.000-06:00

I watch only for Olivia. If I weren't gay, I swear I would stalk her and marry her eventually. She might be too old for me but our children would be beautiful. Thank God for women with guns.

(I also like the red-headed lawyer, though I don't remember her name.)

2004-11-14T21:57:00.000-06:00

I was thinking about something important a moment ago, and then I forgot what it was. While I stared at a cardboard Red Lobster coaster (I stole it), I remembered that that something was sex. Sex isn't important but my thoughts about it certainly were. Unfortunately, they were in another language and my hands are too cold to translate right now.

You have permission to think about sex and say something really profound about it to me. I want to know. I want to hear your deepest secrets.

(He smoked some pot today and told me that I am the most beautiful person he's ever met. Then we went to bed to thaw. It got really cold really fast in Nowhere.)

a well-bred woman

2004-11-14T14:12:00.000-06:00

by Mervyn Taylor

She leaps to her feet
condemning the cops
who shot her son.

She turns into something
primitive screaming
the American word for

a man who sleeps with
his mother, whose mother
is a female dog.

She puts her hand over
her mouth as she hears
the keys rattle and they

are let out to walk free
on the green grass outside
the courthouse where

no lion is waiting
to eat them though she
prayed for one, no owl

hooting at the noonday
sun, no calamity like a
building waiting to fall

on the black sedan
that drives away
down the highway.

The reporters ask and
she tells them Amadou
is a common name

in her country, it is
like stones on the road
and there are many

fathers named Diallo.
They all rush out when
they hear the drums

saying your son
your son your son
Amadou they look

everywhere in the home
in the compound
in the cassava fields

down by the riverbanks
where the crocodiles
steal the goats

They search until
they remember the one
who went to America

Then they hug
the remaining Amadous
and weep

why am i doing this to myself?

2004-11-11T21:08:00.000-06:00

I don't have an answer, but I'm about ready to give up.

This is not getting me anywhere. I can't pretend that I am achieving anything.

I want some fucking pizza and I would seriously kill someone if I could get some and not gain weight.

I haven't left the house in days and it's killing me just to be awake, just to be sitting here with a tiny bit of soup in my stomach and twenty empty diet cherry coke cans in front of me. My heart hurts and my arm is numb. I might've had another heart attack, but if I did I don't even want to know. If I go back to the hospital they'll give me IVs and a stomach tube and Ensures and 400 calorie cookies.

I can't do it anymore but I can't get away from it either. Stuck. Weighed 81 this morning. I promised myself I wouldn't go below 83. Oops.

Today I thought of taking a bottle full of Stackers. I don't want to kill myself, I don't really want to die all that badly, but maybe an accidental death would be ok. Maybe it would be ok to get swept up in a tornado or run over by a car or get confused about how many pills packed full of stimulants you're supposed to take, yeah, it would be real nice to swallow 23 of them and go to sleep in a twitching stupor and wake up in the light.

Ok. That was pathetic and I'm done.

why i don't eat

2004-11-11T20:18:00.000-06:00

Just kidding. People like this are more likely why I hate everyone and would've made a great MSNBC special about people who shoot up schools. Ok, that was supposed to be flippant but I don't think it turned out that way. Sorry.

StatueInAnHour: I am easily annoyed by gay men who seem to think they are more intelligent, intersting, deep, and important than the general population...
StatueInAnHour: Especially when they dont have the looks to back it up.
StatueInAnHour: Later kid.

And to think he quoted Wicked in his profile like he was good enough for it.

in my head today

2004-11-10T13:24:00.000-06:00

"13" by jennifer murphy

you cannot fall
in love with a man
who has HIV
she said
you cannot fall
you cannot fall
you cannot fall
in love
and statistics
and statistics say
he is doomed
but
he has been positive
13 years
he is 32
he is covered in tattoos
and when he moves
he looks
like a living painting
he looks
like a chunk of the Sistine Chapel
he burns like shrapnel
through threads of my skin
and HIV and HIV is
fatal
and so is cancer and I
am in remission and it
could come back
and kill me
and life
is also fatal and you
could be hit by a taxi
or my fist
flying across this
heap of vegetables
and he could be alive
for another
13
years

thy kingdom come

2004-11-04T09:36:00.000-06:00

All night I am plagued with dreams of death and dying, and he wakes me up several times to hold me close and kiss me. He thinks the dreams are about my death, which isn't that unlikely, but when the phone rings we know better.

He says nothing but "yeah" and "ok" until he hangs up the phone. He switches to talking with his hands. "Grandma died," he says. He isn't crying yet but just wait.

Grandma, the beautiful, strong woman who first got past all the bullshit and politics to welcome me to the family. The woman who fought cancer for thirteen months when she was told she only had six, only because she knew we weren't ready to let go. The woman who taught me to play "chopsticks" on the piano despite knowing I was deaf; she loved music so much she wouldn't cut anyone out. The woman who took us to church services and then told us to ignore them, our love was the real thing. She is the woman who gave me something to go home to--a home at all.

He didn't ever cry. We both know that she's not really gone. Because of all the methadone and the million other drugs she was on to control the pain, her mind was already not with us.

Those of you who pray, please keep her and our family in those prayers tonight. For those of you who don't, mention the passing of a great woman to someone you care about. And, of course, don't forget to say that you love them immensely. She deserves that much.

what this election means

2004-11-03T18:32:00.000-06:00

Said eloquently and beautifully (as always) by Trey.

I stayed up late last night chain-smoking on the porch with my boyfriend and a radio. We talked a lot and were quiet a lot, him interrupting with updates on "decision 2004."

We were chain-smoking because we agreed to quit smoking all together if Bush won. I don't know why we agreed this, but we did, and while we both wanted very badly for re-election to not happen, we were rightly afraid it would. And what the hell would we do with a carton of cowboy killers then?

I woke up at 9 o' clock this morning with no decision yet; Bush still 20 votes away, Kerry right at his tail. By the time I got out of my first class it was over.

The hack group had a couple heated arguments, but mostly they were ambivalent arguments because a bunch of stoners have a hard time being heated about anything. Toby and I and Johnny Depp sat in the corner in the cold, holding hands and watching our breath. This day felt momentous, yet at the same time it felt like nothing. Every other day, except better because I'm back on my medication.

Toby says something with the quiet of his hands that hits hard and where it hurts: "I may never be able to marry you."

Thank you to the 51% of Americans who thought with their Bible instead of their humanity. That is what this country was founded on, after all.

slipped

2004-10-31T15:15:00.000-06:00

I haven't eaten for a few days so I'm dropping weight again. Dropping, like I can just bend over and pick it up again. Not losing because it's not something I want to find. Subtracting because that makes it math and therefore the right answer. The only problem with that is numbers are never wrong, so I'm just long-walking myself closer and closer to the finish line, which isn't some huge prize like I want to believe but is more like, well, death. I apologize for being so depressing. It's Halloween and probably a good night for a binge.

wow, and i almost went x amount of years without seeing that

2004-10-28T23:48:00.000-05:00

I just saw a vagina.

That is precisely why I hate spyware.

fabulous by choice

2004-10-28T23:43:00.000-05:00

On the ana boards a boy has the signature "born gay, fabulous by choice." His goal weight is 120 pounds. He is the same height as me. I almost puked and then killed myself when I read this.

I don't approve of people who think it's ok to use the word "fabulous" as an adjective to describe a person or thing. It is an adjective to describe abstract things if you have to say it at all--fabulous weather, fabulous mood, fucking fabulous day. On rare occassions, you can use it to describe sex, but only if neither of you are fairy gay.

It's ok, though, because in the ana world his idiocy doesn't matter since I weigh 35 pounds less than his goal weight (putting me at a good 70 lbs less than his current). Now I just have to survive it.

another one of those 'you know you're anorexic when...'

2004-10-28T01:29:00.000-05:00

By October, you are incredibly adept at getting in and out of gloves quickly. This being because you practically get frostbite not wearing them; your hands are so cold you can't move them to manipulate objects, but with them on you are also clusmy. So off they go when anything needs to happen, and then back on again so your hands will be useful for next time.

Also if you buy your gloves in the little kids' section of the store.

You know you're a little on the strange side if you get excited about them having a Spider-man hologram on them. And yes, rubber spiderweb grips on the palms to help you climb walls (don't try this at home, kids).

if you don't have a pop-up blocker...

2004-10-25T23:31:00.000-05:00

You might recognize the image on the new banner.

Yes, it is definitely from your lovely friends at iFriends--the "I could be porn, but maybe I'm not, let's see if you can guess from our ads!" site. Half the time it's "Live webcam fucking!" and the rest of the time it's sweet pictures of men and women hugging with muted hues that say things like, "Meet your life partner at iFriends."

Anyway. Change is good and all that. Tired of that depressing after diana died shit.

(This sounds like a Xanga entry. Shoot me.)

p.s. I also thought putting breasts on my site would increase hits. Just saying the word breasts will probably increase them. I also think it'd be a good irony for some horny straight guy to search for "knockers," show up on my site, and then find himself reading about (shhh!) gay sex.

If you are that straight man, you are probably saying "holy shit!" while I am laughing.

This really is just a plot directly from the homosexual agenda to convert red-blooded American homophobes into musical-listening fairies. (Tink's an ass, guys. Stay away from her.) And, um, your homework is to be attracted to a man tonight!

women who hate men

2004-10-25T01:00:00.000-05:00

I spoke to a girl today who had a lot to say, mostly including such quips as "well of course you'd feel that way, you do have a Y chromosome." She informed me that men were all arrogant assholes, that we thought she was a whore if she fucked us and a bitch if she wouldn't. I looked shocked and told her I wasn't interested.

I asked her if she was a feminist and, like the fucking situation, didn't know which answer I wanted--either way she lost. I crossed my fingers she would say no, because feminism doesn't need any more man-hating to bring it down. I prayed she'd say yes so I wouldn't have to point out that she was an idiot.

She told me she hated men because they were sexist. I pointed out that if she hated men for being sexist, she was being sexist and therefore hated herself. She said she was not a feminist. I told her she was stupid.

She corrected my grammar on more than one occasion and I asked her why she was so insecure. She told me she wasn't, but you only get nitpicky like that when you have something to prove. I reminded her that I sign, therefore I'm dealing with different grammatical rules on a regular basis and get to have some confusion. "That's something you learn in third grade," she said, and continued, "and if you call me stupid again I'll really make you feel like a moron."

I asked her if she learned that in preschool, the false bravado and threats, and she corrected some other grammatical error. I bid her goodnight. She called me a jackass, the kind of man that treats women like doormats, and used that little "warn" button that AOL thought was such a great idea but I've never seen it used for good.

And so I sit here, blinking in total confusion. I was a good sport through all the man-hating, but everyone-hating (anti-feminism) is just something I can't tolerate. I would apologize for it but I think it's a fairly standard view.

Looking for intelligent life is hard work and I'm exhausted.

truth or dare

2004-10-24T01:02:00.000-05:00

I don't think it's a good sign for the relationship when your first kiss with someone is because of this game.

Made my heart pound anyway.

I am such a girl.

perfect fantasy weather

2004-10-20T14:39:00.000-05:00

why he won't kiss me II

2004-10-19T14:36:00.000-05:00

Wrapped in coats in the back of my truck, signing angrily: Why can't anyone ever do the right thing? Why?

He smiles a little bit, glances at the SUV across the parking lot. His hands are hesitant tonight like he doesn't remember what he's doing. His hands have forgotten a lot of things, but who can blame them when it's been so long? "What do you base your 'right thing' off of?"

What do you think.

"Hey. If I had not made that choice, if I was still getting fucked up every night, would this--" (IX, eyes cutting towards the SUV again) "--bother you so much?"

I lean my head on his shoulder and sigh.

"You know what comes next."

I nod, he says it anyway.

"I did the right thing for me and for you. I made sacrifices for you and I would again. You're worth it. It's--"

about priorities.

"Priorities. His are getting fucked up. My priority is you. Yours are horses and people who don't deserve it. That's who we are."

So beautiful, I sign half-heartedly.

"He is. But so are you."

to bum a fag

2004-10-09T02:00:00.000-05:00

Quick note: If the phrase "ass fucking" ever comes up in conversation, make sure to sound completely disgusted and put a lot of emphasis on ass.

"Bumming a fag" sounds a lot like an euphemism for ass fucking.

Asking a gay person to bum you a fag will offend someone.

I personally see it as much more productive to "take back a word" blah blah blah, "make it yours" by switching to Brit slang than by using it on each other and therefore just agreeing with a bigot's view of your subgroup ('friendly' use of nigger, anyone?). Agreeing with KKKers or lung cancer, which is better?

(No one would bum me a fag. They just laughed. Seriously, though, all bumming aside--I needed a fucking fag.)

why he won't kiss me

2004-10-09T01:52:00.000-05:00

"You're too young for me. And I'm straight."

That's never stopped anyone before.

But really what we're coming down to is mincing words, because when he says it's not a kiss it was a "lip sucking," I get a little confused, because last time I checked there were mouths and tongues involved and that's pretty much what a kiss is. I don't think you get much more kiss-like than that.

Mostly we just go to the non-cool college kid hangout. He sings pirate songs with friends and I nuzzle against the vibration of his throat. Cold cold cold, I'm signing, and he wraps his arms tighter around me. "I'm totally straight," he tells me for the millionth time (I'm supposed to have the bad memory) and we laugh but his smile is much prettier.

"Let me tell you about him," a mutual friend says. "He's just one of those people that has smoked so much weed and gone to so many Phish concerts that he operates on a totally different frequency than the rest of us. To him this is straight behavior. Don't sweat it."

Of course I'm not sweating anything, it's 49 degrees and I have bad circulation. He can tell people whatever he wants, but that doesn't change sweet nothings in my inbox (and by sweet nothings I mean it. Emails usually go something like "Good morning. Thinkin about you. Sweet nothings--Justin") or calls like, "Yo yo, are we going out tonight because I sorta had plans but I'd rather be with you so I need to know so I can think of a way to blow off this other thing, get back to me and don't forget the nose nuzzles."

Andre just got a totally gorgeous girlfriend and tell us he'll have a party when he sees us kiss for the first time. He says he's going to buy a noise maker and carry it around with him until it happens. Maybe this is why Justin won't kiss me, but it really doesn't have to be that public. Maybe he's just waiting for me to get the mattress in the back of my pickup truck.

2004-10-07T14:23:00.000-05:00

If you are unmotivated and hate school, taking online classes is not really a good thing. Much too easy to forget about it or brush it off. That's my wisdom for the day.

Otherwise, someone left me a comment signed "you know who" and I don't know who, but I rolled my eyes a little bit because either I think of you or I don't, and I suspect you know the answer. There's not really a need to be all melodramatic about it. And if it is who it might be and you're pissed because we haven't talked in awhile, well, get over it. Sometimes life takes up time. Sometimes I'm too apathetic to care. And the next card--the ace of Guilt Trip--I'm fucking sick, ok? Some days I can't get out of bed so get the hell off my back about it.

blah blah blah

2004-10-02T13:14:00.000-05:00

High-schoolers amaze me. I don't know what it is about college, but there are very few college freshmen that are as stupid as high school seniors. I think over the summer, the government abducts all graduates to do a brain-swap that allows them to appear intelligent, versus a bunch of assholes who create psuedo-relationships just to break psuedo-relationships by creating another one with someone else. Or, whatever. The drama is just way too complicated to even delve into. (And for the record, people who cheat will always cheat. The end. It's not that he cheated on his girlfriend because you are so much better than she is; he cheated on his girlfriend because he's a lying fuckface and you were available.)

At college you can bring your guitar and sit around singing musicals all day. Class is a mild irritation. But you go, and you pass, because after all you are paying $60 a credit hour, and what's the point of failing when there's that much money involved?

There's also the sudden realization that the only reason relationships need titles in the first place is to assure you that no one is going to go away on you, that you have a little bit of control in the situation. All his attention is for you, even if it's not. Essentially life is a lot better when you know by his actions that he is yours instead of just empty words. And when you know it, really know it, then it doesn't matter if he does go away for a little--because he'll always come back.

88 pounds does not feel as good as it should. Doesn't feel like much of anything. I'm alive without really being so.

He ran away for a couple days, just to get some alone time. He needs a lot of that but it's the last thing I need, so I'm deciding if I'll spend the weekend with Justin or Pretty Ryan. So many pretty boys, so little time.

2004-09-30T14:05:00.000-05:00

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

2004-09-30T13:35:00.000-05:00

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
again.

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

2004-09-26T10:46:00.000-05:00

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?

2004-09-26T10:43:00.000-05:00

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 "guy...in 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.

kittens are the footsoldiers of satan

2004-09-19T23:41:00.000-05:00

Actually, I--this may sound a little Feline to you, but I like it. When I'm talking about--when I'm talking about kittens, and when he's talking about kittens, all of us are talking about evil terrorist communist gay kittens.

who isn't less fortunate than i?

2004-09-17T22:43:00.000-05:00

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?
...
Loathing.
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.

google culture

2004-09-15T01:11:00.000-05:00

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

i know it's trite but fuck it

2004-09-13T21:52:00.000-05:00

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.

election analogy made in anorectic heaven

2004-09-09T16:38:00.000-05:00

Whose meatloaf is better?

cause and effect

2004-09-08T23:59:00.000-05:00

"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.

"the secret" by denise levertov

2004-09-06T13:27:00.000-05:00

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

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
lines

in other
happenings. And for
wanting to know it,
for

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

five hundred words

2004-09-03T23:39:00.000-05:00

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!

2004-09-03T21:52:00.000-05:00

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.

ily.

back to your scheduled programming

2004-09-01T08:16:00.000-05:00

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

2004-09-01T02:34:00.000-05:00

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.

Me: GRRRRRR

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.

2004-08-30T02:25:00.000-05:00

on the phone he
says he loves her
but the words are meaning
less than a slight whisper of air,
the subdued

grey of winter
brown of autumn
and i hate
you ruined my life of spring.

she listens with a deaf
ear and makes vibrations with
tongue and cheek.

she doesn't understand that
concept that mystifies most,
anyway she asks the interpretor
what? what? no under
stand up, his chair
falls backwards
with a strangled scream

before she finally gets it
this thing that makes life unbear
able to survive all day and night,
despite the dark and cold and

hunger that she fights tooth and
nail, like the way she's strung across that
cross that bridge when we come to it,
ok?

2004-08-28T11:51:00.000-05:00

I got a little bit of reason for everything I've done...

I might just serenade the moonlight.

misinformationland

2004-08-28T00:29:00.000-05:00

Aka Ask the Couch.

Our particular assessment of the foreskin is, whack it off at birth. It's more trouble than it's worth and all the research says circumcised men have a greater and more varied sex life.

Uh, I thought someone finally figured out what a load of shit that was? I guess I'm reading the wrong research. (Not to mention my own personal research being completely off-target. I think I need better regulations on my experiments. Yeah, that's it.)

what i'm writing while i'm procrastinating

2004-08-25T01:50:00.000-05:00

In Kansas it was thundering loud and long, the kind of thunder that shakes houses and wakes the sleeping. In Brazil the moon was dim, shaded by translucent clouds. Perfect weather in both places.
Eben listened to the phone ring in between cracks of thunder. It was the middle of the night—two hours later in Brazil—and he expected to wait a couple of rings. It took five rings, but the voice on the other end was surprisingly fresh. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Wiggin.” Eben smiled. “How are you?”
“Is this urgent?”
“Yes.”
Silence. One, two, three, wait. Eben counted seconds off in his head. Peter gave in first. “What can I do for you?”
“I have a proposition.”
Peter did not sound particularly interested as he replied, “Yes?”
“You aren’t the smartest little boy in the world. Or the meanest. We never got to play games, did we, Peter?”
This disconcerted Peter a little, which was obvious from the change in his breathing. “That’s classified information, stranger.”
Short laugh, like nothing was funny. “Russian military movement is also classified, but we both know that. Your phone number is classified. Your identity was, too, for awhile, but I knew.”
“I suspect you’re bluffing.”
“Mr. Wiggin, I’m surprised it took you so long to figure it out. The nets, I mean. I’ve been doing it since I was eight. Longer than you and better, because no one ever knew my identity.”
“And who’s nominated for the hegemony?”
Eben laughed, for real this time, because Peter had let his arrogance get in the way. “Games, Peter. A test of wit. Forty-two games, to be exact, you pick the first one.”
“Forty-two is an even number.”
“I have no doubt there will be a winner.”
Lightning struck then, half a block away, severing the phone line that connected Eben to the would-be Hegemon. Didn’t matter. They’d talk face to face in two days.

The flight was long and boring. Eben had brought reading material, but his eyes could see and memorize while his mind concentrated on other things—except there was nothing to think about. Except Peter. What to expect? Eben had seen vids, newscasts, interviews, stock photos. But he imagined Peter smaller in person, his words softer and less rehearsed. He imagined Peter in jeans instead of pressed suit-pants.
Even imagining was getting boring. Eben folded his legs under himself and looked out the window. The sky was clear and below him he saw cities, villages, crops, pastures pass by. They were high enough up that even going 500 miles an hour things going by did so slowly.
He pulled out his desk and read, again, Peter Wiggin’s personal corrospondance over the last few days. Except there was something new—a request for information about one Eben Kaplan, resident of 611 River Drive in Kansas City, Kansas. In Peter’s signature telegraphic-style, he finished the memo with, “Dangerous?”
Eben smiled. He had rattled Peter. It was a lot easier than he expected.

Upon arrival in Brazil, Eben switched to Portuguese mode. It was one language of many he spoke; he couldn’t count them all on two hands. Sometimes there wasn’t much to do for a genius except learn new languages. He had several Ph.D.s in foreign languages as well as interpretor certificates in three of them.
His accent was flawless, and as he checked into the hotel the receptionist asked him if he was in the process of moving. In his own signature style, he said nothing. Her chatter soon ceased and she handed him the appropriate forms in terse silence.
Eben dropped some things off in his room, but kept his desk tucked under his arm, no matter how unwieldy it was. This was probably not the time to get things stolen. It was mid-afternoon, right about fiesta hour—though it didn’t exist in actuality anywhere in the world. Too many things to get done, too many people to see, to spend an afternoon napping and eating.
Which reminded Eben that he was hungry.
At a small family-owned (wow, they still exist? he thought) café, he ordered foods he didn’t recognize and asked a local if they knew were Peter Wiggin was living. “Pensa América.”
Eben didn’t show his surprise. There wasn’t much of it to show, anyway. Apparently only people in-the-know knew that Peter wasn’t living in Greensboro anymore—hadn’t been for at least a year—but Eben knew just about everything, short of if Peter wore boxers or briefs.
As he was eating, he logged on to his desk and called up a triple-passworded file. Peter Wiggin’s location. He realized with an internal grin how one-tracked he’d been lately, how stalkerish. “Dangerous?” Peter had asked, and if Eben hadn’t known himself, he would’ve answered with an affirmative. He wasn’t obsessing, he told himself. Just keeping track of things. If Peter couldn’t handle hegemony, it was better to never let him have it. That’s all Eben was doing.

A short walk later and he was at Peter’s house. It was quaint, with no visible security system, and there certainly weren’t any in Peter’s bank statement. Eben figured Peter had done the same thing he would’ve: install it himself. Fool-proof.
Eben pulled out a device he had put together and turned it on. It redirected the security system’s attention to nonexistent movement in the vicinity for thirty seconds—plenty of time for Eben to stroll up to the front door and walk in, unnoticed.
Peter noticed. Something Eben didn’t expect: Peter, in boxers and white ankle socks, splayed on the couch and staring at the ceiling. Until the door opened.
Well, that answers the boxers or briefs question, Eben thought, just as Peter thought, Oh, look, an assassin. He did not get up.
Eben took a seat in the recliner across from the couch. Peter sighed. After five minutes: “Kill me or something already, eh?”
Eben curled his legs under him. It was clear Peter didn’t have any urge to attack him physically, so why be so tense? “I never said anything about killing. Just games.”
“Lesser things have killed a man.”
“Boy.”
“Adolescent.”
“Acceptable.”
Peter looked at him, something he hadn’t done since he first walked in the door. “I expected you to look differently.”
Eben, quick: “I expected you to wear briefs, if anything.”
“I didn’t,” Peter said, “expect you to be contemplating my underwear.”
“Non-assassins contemplate all things, Mr. Wiggin.”
“And seem to have very extensive access to very protected areas, how did you manage that?”
“Computers are infallible at whatever you program them to do—they are only machines. What many people forget these days is that they can be reprogrammed, if you know how.”
“No one can reprogram security systems so complex—“
“You may not be able to reprogram that kind of code.”
“If you were smarter than me they would have taken you to Battle School, regardless of how ‘mean’ you may be.”
“Yes, well, that’s why I refer to Battle School as BS.”
Peter, despite his depression, couldn’t help laughing. “I was too concerned about not getting in to think of how ridiculous it was.”
“And jealous?”
“You can’t know things I don’t send through the nets. Stop fishing.”
“Fishing is only useless when you don’t catch anything.”
Peter was quiet for a long time after that. I don’t feel anything, he reminded himself. I am the person that Valentine and Ender always believed I was: powerful, terrible, a killer. Like the buggers.
Of course, a small voice said, the buggers turned out to not be like that at all.
“About the games,” he said.
Eben smiled.

Peter chose Risk. “World Domination,” he read on the box, “I need the practice.”
Eben watched his hands as he set it up. “I assumed we’d be playing on our desks.”
“With you, the master programmer? I don’t think so.”
Eben smiled for the second time in his life. “I have honor, Mr. Wiggin.”
“What is honor to you and I and what is honor to other people are two very different concepts. I’m sure you knew that.”
It was midnight, August 24, and Peter was in only boxers again. Despite his career in sitting around, playing with his desk, he had a surprisingly fit body. Not ripped, but not flabby. The hint of the abdominal six flexed under browned skin as he reached across the board to place pieces. Eben did not watch. He was sizing up the game, coming up with hundreds of strategies in less than hundreds of seconds.
Eben crossed his legs. He knew it was the most childish thing about him, preferring that position, but he liked people to underestimate him. Peter moved first. They played in silence for awhile, neither one gaining or losing much.
And so the game went in silence. Every night, midnight until one of them was too tired to stay awake any longer (usually Peter—he spent the days writing and working his way even more surely into the public conscience, while Eben slept off the night before), every night until the game was finished nearly 14 nights later. Eben won.
Peter stared at the board for a long, long time. It had been going badly for a couple nights, looking worse and worse for his troops as they shrunk and shrunk—but to lose? He had never expected it could actually happen. He finally let his eyes rise to meet Eben’s. “Congratulations,” he said.
Eben nodded. “One down.”
“I hope the others go faster,” Peter started,
“Or you’ll be hegemon before we’re done,” Eben finished.

2004-08-23T01:16:00.000-05:00

Can't sleep.

Hate it.

Blogger tells me this is the 101st entry, maybe I should celebrate? (Ain't nothing until you get to 500-something.)

I'm feeling like a drunk tonight, as in maybe I should become one. So many calories though. When they invent Vodka One, I'm there. (Just kidding. I don't think I like vodka. I don't even know.)

Went to IHOP, ate a lot of pancakes, purged until it hurt. I'm surprised John didn't say anything, because isn't it always obvious?

I really wish I could sleep.

2004-08-20T12:53:00.000-05:00

Playing with the layout. It's distracting, I know, so I'll try something else later. (if Libby's still around: recognize it? ;) Recycling is good, I hear.)

2004-08-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

I'm a member of the community [anti_feminism on lj] you're talking about, and while I whole-heartedly agree/accept gender equality, I'm against radical feminists- the women who lead the movement. That's the reason I'm a part of the community, and while you as an individual probably don't have a hidden agenda- a lot of leading feminists do.

Because it's usually a really good idea to a) assume that people have hidden agendas that you know nothing about and b) be against an entire group because of a few weirdos.

If I thought that way, I would be anti-feminist, anti-Christian, anti-religion, anti-man, anti-woman, anti-gay, anti-straight, anti-white, anti-black, anti-.....oh, that list will never end.

I wonder if they see the irony? They are saying that feminism is baseless while giving a base to it by discriminating against women who seek equality.

(Alas, a Blog pointed me to the anti-feminist craziness.)

And another nice tidbit from anti_feminism:

I'm a chicka, but I think women just need to realize men with always be the dominant sex and stop complaining.

2004-08-18T12:55:00.000-05:00

So I'll go ahead and plug another site. I was looking at my own and going, "wt[Sam Hill] is all this [stuff] doing [sitting] around on my [...] site?!!" (Hey, someone told me I cuss too much. Blame it on Toby.) Anyway I'm about to clean up some links that I don't visit anymore and all that. So before I do it, go visit Gay Penguin for America because I laugh everytime he updates, which isn't often enough for me to really care that much, but it's still worthwhile.

Gay Penguin walks away from loud, scary people, as well as any natural predator, such as the terrorist Leopard Seal, which eats penguins alive because it "hates freedom".

Those damn leopard seals and their freedom-hating!

(I will not comment on the punctuational error. Seriously. I will control myself. I will I will I will.)

Two posts in five minutes. I think I deserve another gold star!

i am special

2004-08-18T12:52:00.000-05:00

This gold star is clearly proof of my psuedo-intelligence.

I don't want to tell you where it came from because then everyone will want one, but I'll tell you anyway.

See Keith. See Keith say smart things. Learn much. Kill Bush. Wax on, wax off.

2004-08-17T14:19:00.000-05:00

He catches me touching myself in the shower. He laughs and says, "Glad to have you back." He joins me and we make love like we haven't in weeks (which we haven't) and afterwards I am shaking too hard to stand so he holds me and even though the water is warm and he is warm I am cold to the bone, which isn't too far to go. He presses his cheek in my hair and says he loves me more than once.

2004-08-16T23:37:00.000-05:00

Women (and men who act like them) have this habit of, when things are going pretty good between all parties involved, saying something really shitty and BAM. There it is.

No, this isn't only about who you think it is. Depending on who you are, it isn't about who you think it is.

It's probably all just me. But really, this is one of those things like: how stupid can the general public really be? Don't call an anorectic fat; don't brag about how much weight you've lost (especially if it's of questionable nature as well); don't talk about your great new diet and how much weight you're about to lose. Just don't even go there.

Maybe it's just because the closest friends of mine are happy being whatever shape they are (like I'm in a proper mindset to label it) and eat whatever the hell they want and can then say without being a hypocrite, Eat! Don't worry about it! You're perfect! No one cares!

In the real world people care and I'm not as sheltered as I should be. So as long as the first ad I see is a weight-loss one, I'll be in the competition. As long as people who 'care' are talking about how small their clothes are, mine will be smaller and as long as you are telling me how much goddamned weight you've lost, I'll lose more. Not so hard to understand, is it? Anorectics are a bitchy bunch. All the estrogen.

Still 30 pounds to go.

2004-08-16T22:25:00.000-05:00

Sitting in a chair with my feet on the desk, striped socks normally halfway to my knees but pooled at my ankle after a day of sleeping. When I hold my leg like this he stares at the curve of knee bones. When I stand up the muscles in my calf flex and change under light skin and he is watching. When I run my leg along my inner thigh he pretends like he isn't. Boxers are black and leave red marks below my bellybutton, elastic too tight. Want to fix that?

2004-08-16T13:22:00.000-05:00

This is some of the stupidest shit I've ever heard.

Please, woo me with romance novels. I will be incredibly impressed with your cheesy dialogue choices and windswept golden hair. Not to mention sex that is unrealistic and scarily clean.

I've read Palahniuk's (what was that weird word they used? oh, yeah) entire oeuvre. I have also skimmed romance novels with a raised eyebrow. I'll tell you a secret: weird-ass Fertility Hollis seduction is much more likely to work on me than a Harlequin.

Call me and say, "Fuck love. Say something to get me off." I will laugh at you. But for entertainment's sake, I might do it anyway. (We both know it's easy enough.)

Call me and say, "If I'm ever going to do it, this just seems like a good time to kill myself."

Call me and say, "You're not obsese. You're not a whale, but you're too fat for me."

Call me and say, "I called because I wanted to get you off. Tell me what you want me to do. Make me do something terrible."

"Shit," she says. "That's the one I knew you'd pick all along."

2004-08-15T17:57:00.000-05:00

i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you i hate you

2004-08-13T18:42:00.000-05:00

It's day three -- three up, three down, but I expected to be down five at least. That's the unpredictability of the human body for you. (Oh, who am I kidding? Totally predictable. Dehydrated and that bit. The body is a machine and acts accordingly; it does what it is programmed to do when it is programmed to do it.)

Chugging water and tomorrow it'll be another two gone.

Already that flat stomach where it almost feels hard to breathe because there's not enough room to inhale. Admittedly that is just my delusions and has nothing to do with my ability to breathe or the imagined flatness of my stomach, but if wishes were horses...

Am I still disoriented?

We're going out tonight so he can kick my ass in pool. I can ask him to help me which gives him an excuse to touch my ass, him watching me slide long fingers up and down the stick and licking my lips in psuedo-concentration. His body is a machine, too.

disjointed thoughts

2004-08-12T18:43:00.000-05:00

I. This kid is so much like me it's kind of weird. I called him a kid, even though the person I am during this post is younger than him.

(What did I just say?)

II. I think my boyfriend has tapes of us doing things. You know. "Things." This bothers me a lot less than it should, so blame yaoi-loving hentai girls.

III. These are not the normal kind of disjointed thoughts. These are the disoriented thoughts of a crazed person on day two of no food. Capiche?

IV. One two three four I would kill for some pie right now.

V. (Edit) Blogger apparently doesn't like my html link skills. Funny, that's how they've been doing it for years, but Blogger wants to go and change the rules. Fine then. Be that way.

2004-08-12T10:49:00.000-05:00

P.S. If you guys were any good at references, which you aren't, you would know that I spelled Altairian wrong.

2004-08-12T10:44:00.000-05:00

So this has been an absolutely wonderful morning.

Note sarcasm.

I get up. It's fairly imperative that I go get horse food this morning. It's not that they will starve to death or anything, but it needs to happen. My horse is cranky because I haven't grained her in a few days; boarders are starting to complain; etc, etc. I'm dressed, hardcore in black jeans and green Chuck Taylors, and walking out the door late (late, you see, because I had to get there and back before a certain time). Just like a horror movie, what I see stops me dead in my tracks.

Fucking flat tire.

Again.

That is not fucking normal to have to fill up your tires every three days and then they go flat anyway!

When Toby gets back from work I am taking money from my bank account and getting four new tires, leaving me with exactly $3.38 to my name. It'll buy me a gallon of gas and enough left over for a McChicken, if I was still eating.

2004-08-11T09:56:00.000-05:00

I weighed myself for the first time in a long time.

I know it's dumb, but I did it anyway.

why i love kale

2004-08-05T18:18:00.000-05:00

Sailors G a m e: Part of me still believes that emotional attachments are equal to weakness.
hazeltwinkle24: hmmmm where does that come from
Sailors G a m e: That comes from the part of my life-story where everyone I loved died and I was left with nothing but debilitating grief.
Sailors G a m e: But they always skip that part in the slanderous biographies.
...
hazeltwinkle24: so you like control in life?
Sailors G a m e: Control is essential in my life.
Sailors G a m e: If I were not a conquerer I would have been killed long ago.
...
Sailors G a m e: There is one person in this world I have come to trust (which Is kind of strange, considering at one point both of us believed I was trying to kill him). He has a ridiculous amount of money, but his power comes from his compassion.
Sailors G a m e: People love him and serve him because he loved and served them first.
hazeltwinkle24: how sweet to hear
Sailors G a m e: He's also the only person I know who doesn't abuse the power he has been given. He might not even know he has it.
hazeltwinkle24: and that to me is the reason he has such respect
hazeltwinkle24: something money can't buy
Sailors G a m e: Yes.
Sailors G a m e: He is my opposite, I suppose. Next to me, he looks all the better, and next to him, I look all the worse. Maybe by ourselves we would just be two men, one nicer than the other?
hazeltwinkle24: sounds like you wish you were more like him in ways
Sailors G a m e: Everyone wishes they were more like him.
Sailors G a m e: He's happy. Who doesn't want that?
hazeltwinkle24: very true
Sailors G a m e: There are those in life who bring up every emotion you didn't know you had. Jealousy, fear, weakness, compassion...but most of all it's love. And you hate that you love them, because you wish you were them (or maybe you imagine that you are so much like them that it is narcisstic to love them). Zeke is that man. Jesus was one of those men.

(Maybe I should've titled this post 'why i love zeke,' but I really don't all that much.)

what i'm reading since i'm not writing

2004-08-04T14:58:00.000-05:00

Once you were rodeo, you were always rodeo. You got injured and kept riding. You got injured more and kept riding. Tex knew men who rode in constant pain, even with the high-dollar pain medication they were given. And if it got too bad for you to ride anymore (was there such a thing?) then you started your own rodeo grounds, taught lessons, bred horses, trained, something. You didn’t just say goodbye to the saddles and ponies and cows and move to the city and turn into some mini-van driving suburbanite.
---

By 1969, a study reported in The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf showed that 80% of high school girls felt themselves to be overweight. In another survey, done by Glamour magazine in 1984, 45% of the underweight women polled thought they were too fat. The numbers are always changing, but not positively: over fifty percent of the ten-to-thirteen year olds surveyed felt they were fat. A third of those were on diets—in elementary school....Not many people realize the physical effects of anorexia nervosa. 20% of anorectics will die from the disease. If women are 52% of the population, and 7% of those have an eating disorder, that amounts to aporximately 109 thousand women dying; society’s “collateral damage.”

---

"If you were to want to do something that you don’t want other people to see, here is the place.”
Avi blinked. “Sir,” he said, “I’m not sure what you’re implying, but I don’t think I like it.”
Juan laughed. It was a strange sound to hear coming from this serious man. “You know, I was in love once, too.”
Avi forced a laugh and shook his head. “I knew I wouldn’t like what you were implying.”
Juan dropped into a thoughtful silence, and they continued walking. The trail begin it’s circle to meet back up with the start. “Avi, I hope you remember that we aren’t enemies. Because if what your friend said is right—“
“All due respect, he’s never wrong.”
“—if your friend is right, we might be in for some trouble. All of us. And that means that the two of us will need to know where both our allies and our nemeses are.”
“I’ll remember,” he said. And, snidely, “I’ll remember about the woods, too.”
Yeah, right.

---

“Hey, dollface, wake up.” A foot nudged his ribs sharply. “Come on, you’re a wimp. You ain’t hurt.”
Tyler was awake, but he couldn’t seem to move. I’m paralyzed, he thought groggily. The food nudged him hard enough to be considered a kick and Tyler yelped. “You aren’t paralyzed, stupid.”
Tyler opened his eyes and saw the whisper of a silhouette.
“Fuckin idiot, get up. Get up!”
Tyler was kicked swiftly again, but he didn’t see anybody. “Ok! Ok!” He got up, his eyes following the glimmer around the room. Jesus, hallucinations.
The voice laughed suddenly; a rough, barking laugh that was more a façade than anything. “You can’t even see me. That bitch been chasing you around all this time and you don’t even know it.” A glacial feeling was spreading over Tyler’s ribcage where he’d been kicked; he began to shiver slightly. “Anyway,” the voice continued, “you better be glad I saved your ass, otherwise you’d be just a little glimmer now too.”
The glimmer’s face came into focus enough for Tyler to see the smirk it held. He. This glimmer was male, with a strong jawline and short tousled hair. Tyler felt exposed the way it—he—seemed to read his thoughts.
“I guess since you’ve got shit for brains I better be sticking around to make sure that bitch don’t come back with bigger guns next time. So let’s get aquainted. You’re Tyler, I’m Ryan, blah blah blah, I’d shake your hand but you’re being a pussy and I don’t want to make you cry or anything.”Tyler thought, dazedly, that he must be in shock. Maybe he suffered a concussion. Maybe he’d die right here, at the hands of this—what? Glimmer? Is that the scientific term for it? Tyler asked himself. His head ached something horrible, and all he wanted to do was drift away, even if it meant surviving the falling dream again. It was better than this confusion, it was better than hallucinations, at least it could be recognized as a dream, it was better than standing here swaying with dizziness, it was better—better—

---

I’m ashamed of the person I was, and I often wonder if, three years from now, I’ll be ashamed of the person I was in February of 2003. Will I look back on myself starving and always saying no to Falcon and wish to bury that part of myself away to never be found? Is this the kind of thing I’ll hide from people later? The person I am bears no resemblance to the person I was in high-school. I don’t even look the same anymore. Maybe the girls at the high-school reunion would look at me and not remember that they gave me their virginity (or I took it from them, depending on how angry you want to be at me for it).

--

“You’ve got to be an idiot, hanging around here,” Zeke hissed.
Kale whispered, “No one recognizes me. They’ve all forgotten.”
“I haven’t.”
“Kill me then.” His eyes seemed too big for his face, doe eyes, but it wasn’t fear that made them that way. His eyelashes were fluttery and blonde, giving him away as a fake brunette. “Or are you bit…?”
Zeke laughed. “You’d be bit.” He shoved him against the brick wall, hard, then stepped back. “Except you aren’t the only one hiding from old legacies. You tell anyone who I am, I’ll tell who you are; they won’t be as merciful as I would be.”
Kale smiled and raised his voice so the onlookers could here. “Sorry about the misunderstanding,” he said, offering his hand. “Name’s Kegan Aaronson.”

---

After checking the entire house for burglars and ghosts, he stood in the entranceway and stripped off his outerwear that never did keep him warm. He got smaller and smaller as each layer came off, and the pile on the floor got taller and taller until he was just a skinny punky-looking kid standing over a lump of coats and sweaters. The blue had advanced from only his fingertips to halfway up his fingers. He moved each of his limbs to find all of them tingling and numb.
He’d already done the house check and the numb check, so now it was time for the fat check. His wrists looked the same as they always did (sharp bone on the outside reaching for the tendons jutting out in his hand); he felt his collarbones and they were still there, all right, but not any more than usual, either. He pressed on his chest and found only the unyielding sternum and ribs (he didn’t believe it, though, because when he watched Pirates of the Caribbean he looked on jealously as Johnny Depp’s skin sunk in between his chest bones, and he looked nothing like that). He lifted his shirt to see a stomach, distended from the binging, but it still didn’t manage to go much farther outwards than his hipbones. He ran his fingers over the instrument of his ribs, counting in his head, and was relieved to find they were all there—none had disappeared under fat in the last few hours since he last felt them.

---

April 19: the final day to back out of the Walk. It came and went with the country collectively holding its breath for their beloved sons and boyfriends. Neither James nor Damien mentioned the Walk or the date. They saw each other that day, and had a rare moment alone—under the willow tree in James’ back yard, they sat against the trunk and kissed. James put his hands in Damien’s hair and said for the first time, “I love you.”
Damien smiled. “I love you too,” he said.
“I promise, I promise I’ll come home to you. I’ll come home and you can have anything you want. We can get a house in Montana just like you’ve always wanted, we can be together and it won’t matter.”
Damien swallowed thickly.
“What, D? What is it?”
“There won’t be anyone to come home to,” he said.
James blinked. “Are you…leaving me?”
Blue eyes hit the ground uncomfortably. “I—I’m in it, too,” he said. “Prime.”
“What? What the fuck did you do?” “I took the test,” he said, “and I passed.”
“Jesus, Damien! Why would you do that?”
“To be with you.”
“There’s only one winner, D! There’s only one winner! One of us is going to die!”
“At least I’ll die with you,” Damien whispered.
“No! You can’t kill yourself for the sake of romance.”
“I just did.”
“You can still back out, go use the phone right now and call—“
“It’s 1:30. You have to call by noon.”
“It’s only an hour, D, they’ll understand.”
Damien shook his head. “No, they won’t. And I won’t anyway.”
“D! Please!”
“Together we can walk down everyone else. And then when it’s just the two of us, then I’ll just sit down and rest—and you can kiss me—and then you’ll win. And have everything that you want so badly.”
“Damien,” James moaned. It was a rough, primal sound of despair.

2004-08-01T19:21:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure what idiot decided I was mature enough to handle ventures such as Wal-Mart, because every time I prove them wrong.

It was going to be a quick trip. The necessities: milk, bread, toothbrush, sugar cubes, and a couple 12-packs of diet cherry coke (that should last me about a week). I'm calm and collected walking in. I see fruit. Ok, I say to myself, I could probably enjoy some bananas with my Rice Krispies in the morning. So, like the responsible adult I am, I pick out some bananas. Toby looks over my shoulder. "Those are a little green," he says, and picks out a different bunch. Ok, I say to myself, I can deal with being corrected by a guy who probably has eaten fruit three times in his life.

I check out apple prices. I wonder if I could get some rotten apples, you know the ones they have in a back room somewhere, really cheap. I'm only feeding them to my horses, after all. I skip over them because why would I spend $2.49 for a pound of apples when I can get 50 pounds of grain for $7.99? Horses like grain better anyway.

Everything's good and under control so far.

We pass by the condom/tampon aisle. I giggle over the boxes labeled "magnum" of both products. Toby rolls his eyes and says, "You've never used a condom in your life." Neither have you, I say, and he rolls his eyes again in a classic "I might be wrong but I'm still right" gesture.

Coke time. I panic, as usual, because I can't find my variety at first. (They always, always, always hide the Diet Cherry Coke and there's only ever two or three boxes of it anyway. Apparently Diet Vanilla is much more popular.) During my panic I'm thinking, I am so not ready to drink regular but I can't go without my Cherry! I sign, Shit fuck shit, and then I find it. False alarm; crisis averted.

I then spend ten minutes in the coffee aisle because Toby wants Yuban, and I don't know what the hell that means and he has wondered off to develop some pictures. Up and down, scanning rows and rows of shiny coffee cans, but no Yuban. What is wrong with Folgers, anyway? It's the best part of waking up. It's an American institution. When he comes back I say, No Yuban. He rolls his eyes and grabs Maxwell House.

All the way over to the school supplies, I am trying to get him to tell me what is so bad about Folgers. I tell him it's the best part of waking up, it's an American institution, it's the inspiration for terrible Pep Club diddies all over the country, it now comes in plastic containers with screw-top lids--that, my friends, is progress! He is not talking, probably too busy counting down the seconds until his next smoke. Or maybe just counting to ten and breathing deep to keep from killing me.

I don't buy a notebook, because I wanted one with some fun stuff on it (it is back to school time, after all, and there should be cartoon notebooks everywhere) but they are all out. I haven't written in a long time anyway.

Another five minutes looking through the toothbrush choices. There is quite a wide array. I usually prefer to let someone else buy my toothbrush so I don't have to make a decision, but I was there and so were the toothbrushes. After much deliberation, similar to that of a hung jury on a celebrity's rape trial where half of them are fans and half aren't, I choose. Yu-Gi-Oh. I probably just picked it so I could go "Yu-Gi-Oh! Yu-Gi-Oh! YU-GI-OH!" a lot. Try it. It's really fun.

I also bought three boxes of sugar cubes, a gallon of skim milk, and a new shirt. On the way home I drive, he shifts, at stoplights he bites my ear. I try my best to frown and be pouty (he only rolled his eyes at me five million times in an hour), but his breath is warm and tickles my sunburned skin.

2004-08-01T09:45:00.000-05:00

the vacation low-down:

good ball 66% of the time. got repeatedly cruised by a player's brother, jeremy from road rules (mtv lies about the "what makes him tick: women" bullshit), and toby (surprise surprise)...not to mention 100 teams of 16U/14U softball girls. denver weather in summer is awesome. i never wanted to leave. tourist attractions sucked. the rockies killed the dodgers in one of the most unlikely games since the royals had that one-game winning streak last season. my favorite softball player didn't do shit at bat, but made some absolutely amazing plays in center, short, and second (utility player, anyone?). sunburned legs. two new shot glasses.

oh, did i forget to mention the 1.8 million dollars?

dinner at the rainey residence

2004-07-21T18:40:00.000-05:00

Toby: "So this guy comes up to these women and says, 'you two are nothing but fucking lesbians' and tells them how much he hates gays and queers....and then so the officer comes and says the damn tags are expired on that hotline complaint--"

Me: "Wait, what the fuck are you talking about? How did we go from lesbians to hotline complaints?"

Toby: "That's how my day went, ok."

Luke: "Two chiggers got married on my penis yesterday."

All: "Shit, Luke, we didn't want to know that."

Phil: "If I get this horse, can you take care of it for me?"

Me: "I don't have the money to pay for your horse."

Luke: "Chiggers!"

Phil: "Guess that means we won't be having sex for awhile. So this horse is a buckskin with a palomino mane--"

Me: "That's a palomino."

Phil: "Well, whatever. It has four legs."

Toby: "No shit? Four legs? That isn't standard on a horse."

Luke: "This is a metaphor for our relationship!"

Phil: "What is?"

Luke: "The chiggers!"

Toby: "Jules, did you know that horses had four legs these days?"

Phil: "Are you going to finish that?"

2004-07-21T14:19:00.000-05:00

The warm breath on the back of my neck reminded me why I liked this so much. His hands spread out on my stomach, gripping me tight against him. He didn't say "I love you," but he didn't have to--it was there in the soft gasp as he came, the slow relaxation of his body, the bruise on my shoulder from his teeth.

I didn't have any nightmares.

2004-07-21T14:16:00.000-05:00

So I met this beautiful girl named Regan. I suspect she's entirely too rich for my tastes, but she'd never met such a clean man in her life.

i'm so punk rawk

2004-07-18T16:46:00.000-05:00

I just had my first hardcore punk experience.

I met a band at the mall. Well, more specifically, a boy from the band (James). He was very nice. They are on tour and need gas money, so go buy a CD (only $5). I gave him a small plastic pony, since I didn't have any cash, and he named it after me.

Two hardcore punk experiences in one day -- I also bought my first pair of Converse All-Stars. Green (tangerine doesn't come in my size, or I would've been rocking the orange). It took me a week to find the color and size I need in low-tops. (I met a second cute boy in Hot Topic, but that's not really unusual.)

This was a completely superficial entry, not unlike the last one, and I apologize.

2004-07-18T13:24:00.000-05:00

cut it out.
your self-afflicted pain is getting too routine
(the crowds are catching on).
here we go again.
yeah, what a hit.
you gotta sink to swim.
we all know art is hard
(artists have gotta starve).
keep churning out those hits
until it's all the same old shit.
tired of entertaining,
drunk and angry slurs,
still you gotta sink to swim,
immerse yourself in rejection.

the bottom line?
art fucking sucks hard,
i swear i'd live for the art
and the art alone and all that
noble crap-ass,
but college loans...
salmon teriyaki habit...
and i want some
motherfucking cable.

that's where emo comes in.

(lines from cursive's "art is hard," aka cry me a fucking river, and some beau sia poem about selling out. in it he also mentions "fucking like the kama sutra come to life" (or something like that) and "tell my ass where you want it and i will bend over." when performing the piece on hbo's def poetry jam, he wore a pink turtleneck and skin-tight pants. he's not gay.)

2004-07-16T12:38:00.000-05:00

It's thirty minutes after I spent an hour crying. Him and I are in a freshly-cleaned stall, my head on his chest. The mare we are sharing it with is heavy with foal; every now and then her stomach ripples with a kick from the baby inside her. She's been through all this before so she doesn't really notice, just keeps whuffling around her stall, keeping an eye on me and him. She has always taken care of me when I need it.

He lights a cigarette, knowing good and well how stupid it is to do that in a barn. We watch the smoke drift upward in the dull light. "What's your favorite thing about me?" I ask.

He takes a long drag, considering. "I have to pick one?"

I look at him, silent. My eyes and lips are red like blood.

"Your jeans," he says, "your inability to take a joke most of the time. Your laugh. Your reinactments." Pause to inhale more smoke, breathing tar towards his death. Smirk. "The face you make when you come...for the third time." Me, still saying nothing, just watching. His ears and teeth flash when the lightbulb flickers off and then back on. "The way you talk about your characters like they are real people."

I smile, just a little. He wants to kiss me but doesn't, because what I said is still in his ears: don't fucking touch me! jesus, don't even come near me. He squeezes where my ribs used to be and gets up to put out his cigarette.

Out in the pasture, Aster's call cuts through the midnight air. "Go tell Aster you're ok," he says.

I kiss the pregnant mare's nose, tell her thank you for sharing her home, and go outside. Aster is standing by the fence with her ears pricked and mane tangled. Her nose trembles in recognition as I open the gate. She steps towards me, puts her head over my shoulder so she is standing over me protectively. I lean into her. She smells like summer and happiness.

2004-06-28T10:43:00.000-05:00

I'm getting a tattoo.

This one is absolutely beautiful, but I don't want something that big -- so it'll probably be just one horse similar to one of those. A little black-and-white paint. Below my belly button and to one side a little.

But not for a few months, when I get some more money.

2004-06-23T22:58:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I get sunburned to blisters riding all day and today he rubs my back raw fucking me up against the wall.

"Shit," I say when it's over and I finally notice the fire starting at the top of my shoulders and running downwards.

He smiles half-heartedly. I lay in bed on my stomach and we spend the next hour with his soft soft hands rubbing aloe-infused lotion all over the pink and leaving kisses on the white.

After that the sun's started to disappear on the horizon so I throw on some jeans and hop on my horse to gallop around the pastures and stir up some trouble. He sits on the porch smoking and watching my silhouette as I ride, smiling and humming an old country song.

2004-06-19T15:46:00.000-05:00

I haven't been writing much (again) because...

I'm busy with my new horse, Aster...

She's perfect and beautiful.

And I will have many pictures to show you all soon.

But for now we're going to go ride.