danielle.

i have felt completely dead since july 14th, 2008. i don't know if i'll ever feel alive again. my heart fucking died that day and a huge part of me went with it. i guess pharmaceutical drugs can get you through the rest of your natural born life. great. a life without any sort of love is not what i ever could've wanted.

1. in the next few days i have to make up my mind whether or not i want to go on an archaeological dig in southern transylvania.

2. my relationship has completely fallen apart, but it's okay because:

3. today i noticed that my father is growing a weed plant.

4. if someone offered me a room anywhere in the country right now i would take it. no shit.

5. if my existentialism class hadn't been cancelled today i would done a 10 minute presentation on how famous whiners like dostoevsky made it possible and even fashionable to be a total useless putz for me. can't wait for monday. i'm blowing academia out of the water.

i'm believably happy.
things are fucked, but it's okay, and i don't really care otherwise.
please find me an apartment.

love ain't that hectic.

19 years down, a few more to go, and then we all bite the bullet. buy me some shit if you give half a rat's ass, i'm not picky. but i am extremely unhappy. also buy our goddamn cd. i want your money. let's hope this year marks the return of ebola, nucleur holocaust, or my unavoidable death by freak accidents. pray for my imminent murder!

come see hot dog is my hero play! we're in serious need of moral support, the hook is scary, stages are scary, and flashing lights while you're drunk and trying to play your stupid songs are freaking terrifying. guigro on the flyer is supposed to be guignol.

ALSO:

for the first time ever, me and charlotte are getting off of our lazy asses and DOING SOMETHING! aka: recording something including new songs. so on wednesday we'll have cd's, and you should freaking buy them because we are broke and doing all this computer shit is emotionally taxing for us.

ALSO:

please find a record label for us to put this on, we have absolutely no social finesse. and get us some shows before charlotte moves away in a few months and the band is finally utterly irrevocably dead.

I NEED A FREAKING APARTMENT

johnny put his hand up to the lightbulb and pulled out three rubber bands, a nice old journal and a bucket of dried peach pits. i peeled the paper from the walls, hopping from one chair to another, wood grain seeping and bending and pulling from the waist. there were cluttered hands, a forest, i said. there was something beating like foreign drums, the sound of an old western, with one ear to the pillow and one to the ground below. we are always waiting for footsteps louder and more impressive then our own tinny echoes.

later, at dinner i heard a man talking to the waitress of the weather. he said he felt the lightning in his chest, and i on the soles of my shoes. i met a student, and a drunk. i asked of what they studied and one said topography and the other, the blues. johnny said it was a riddle and i said, so am i.

where my fingernail ends, there is a recognizable ocean, a tiny ordered map of moles and joints and fatty bone. and another begins, dragged through the surf by a mess of jellyfish, through coital swamps; through hot seas and bad breath morning cups of tea. you washed up on the beaches and the fishermen brought you home, filthy and tired--- they said you fell asleep in your beer.

and now that we're drunk, we're dancing and making up the words to the longest song our hands can sing to. my socks slip on the cold tile, and i fall to the ground. you drag me from the kitchen, the cat sits on my shoes, you've got a new cut on your knee and a back that never breaks. your feet tap the floor and the harmonica wheezes away like a dying dog.

some mornings you expand like a stain, a moving pile of ash over the wind and i sneeze you in like a fever.

i am currently grumpy, feeling pretty used, and generally unimpressed with people.

baghhhhhhhhhhhhdhAGHHHHDDHAJHJDAHHAHAHHHH

countdown resumed to dying cold and alone starts about now.

this is puerto viejo (on the carribean coast), where we stayed at the best hostel ever.
( Read more... )

that was silly.

top five sentiments of the year:

1. this is one big fucking white box.
2. can i get beer delivered?
3. eviction is k-e-w-l.
4. i never want anyone to even remotely spoon with me again,
if someone even touches me i'll probably be disgusted.
5. i need to be comforted, bigtime.

i am really just very very sad and tired.

A,C

slumped slipping---
slumbered mess of plaid.
an urbane mountain;
lone and organic.
meaty palms
swollen, pockmarked, absurd.
a modern pearl.
blue and well kneaded and
inches from tile.

in other news, this week i went to the 99 cent store and i bought two vases.
work is work and i'm fucking boring.

so if running out of places before i have an anxiety attack or start crying becomes any more of a fucking habit, i've seriously either got to move out of this city or cut ties with everyone i know.

in other news;
denis bramley was my platonic valentine and bought
me drinks and chicken fingers at a bar.
this weekend;
friday i went to a party
got really drunk
saturday i went to the bike messenger prom
and got really drunk
and danced with no shoes on

so the moral of all of this is:
i shouldn't drink, ever, unless i am alone
i am not allowed to sleep with anyone until i can
fully seperate emotion from just plain doin' it
because EMOTIONS HAVE NO PLACE IN ANYTHING GODDAMMIT

isn't it funny how one fucking phone call can ruin your night
from someone who ruined this whole fucking year

when i am this upset i just want my best friend to pick up her phone.

i am so drunkw i cam't sea yessssssssss

i forgot to mention that two weekends ago running around washington dc with a megaphone, prowling the streets for some after-"riot" beer was awesome

i have a terrible stomache ache right now but i'm starting to figure my life out a little bit so that's not really that awful

things may not be getting accomplished but you have to find ways around feeling useless.

work schedule this week BLAHHHH
tommorow 1-4 @ the gallery
sunday 12-5 @ the gallery
plus registering monday @ 10am at school
monday 5-10 @ mama's
next friday 5-10 @ mama's
next saturday 5-10 @ mama's
next sunday 12-5 @ the gallery

LOOKS LIKE I'M GOING TO BE REALLY LATE TO THE PARTY ON MONDAY

christmas night, 2004, 2:45 am: me, lilith, and audrey in some dive bar on seventh street and avenue a wasted being showed baby pictures on a cellphone by a drunk irish father, sitting next to a full table of kids who graduated from my old high school a few years before me.

congrats, danielle. you have reached a new fucking low.

ps.
for those of you who were wondering, i did in fact EAT the chocolate ipod.

only nine years after john had moved out of his parent's house, he had a near ex-wife, a drinking problem (which he approached with the levity and acceptance of every great writer), and a job picking up telephones at the hospital on seventh avenue. john lived on the fourth floor of a rent controlled apartment in a neighborhood that he didn't quite belong in. when john brushed his teeth, he would chew on the toothbrushes; rendered useless after about a month or so. every morning john woke up at 8, no- 8:16 am. the snooze on his alarm went off every four minutes. he walked to the bathroom, chewed his toothbrush, and took a piss. the carpet smelled like mildew. his socks, too.

john had habits. he couldn't smoke before he ate. his feet always wore away at his socks. he liked to leave pages from his old journals stuck with gum to the underside of diner booths. he was very nostalgic about the friends he thought that he had when he was a young man. john didn't like to talk to people that he didn't know. he could not order take out or call friends. his work made him nervous. he didn't have a telephone at home because he associated communication with sickness; with death and disease. john wanted very badly to be liked, but he didn't know how to go about it.

marisa had moved in on april 17th, 1999. john remembered the newspaper headline that day. they had met that winter at a bookstore in the travel section by the college he was getting his masters at. she had started speaking to him about going to france. john thought france was typical but he hadn't been with a women in a while. marisa had red hair that engulfed her face. sometimes it reminded john of goya's "saturn devouring his children." once he told her. he burnt the dinner that night, too.

john didn't normally take women home, and marisa seemed like she often didn't not go home with someone, so john figured their abundances or inadequacies would make up for eachothers. he sprang for a bottle of okay wine; his knees touched hers on the train ride back to his house.

when marisa saw john's apartment he knew that she was making an effort to keep her face from showing distaste. john hated her for that. he also hated her because she listened to phil collins. fucking phil collins, john always said when he walked around their bedroom. his bedroom. they fucked on the couch and john washed his face three times before he went to sleep. he noticed that he had forgotten to shave underneath his chin. his feet smelled like the mildew from the carpet. marisa moved in on april 17th, 1999. their wedding was dismal and stressful like their short lived, unimpressive marriage. john still wore his wedding ring. john saw one of the bridesmaids from their wedding at the gym his mother gave him a membership to, and she said that marisa was seeing someone. john always envisioned this man as either an investment banker or as fucking superman. maybe a sculptor. john didn't have much faith in marisa's taste in men.

john picked the dullest color of sheets they had in the store. his mother bought him plaid sheets three years ago. the packaging they came in called the pattern "lumberjack". john was not a fucking lumberjack and he felt innappropriate laying on sheets named after male identified men with large muscles and axes. his mother was always buying him things. he always put them outside his apartment door and waited, staring at the crack under the door until he saw shadows. then he would run into the bathroom.

john wanted to be a writer so he bought a typewriter. he had a computer too, but computers didn't scream literature to john. sometimes he wrote about marisa. alot of times he wrote about grocery shopping. john never showed anything he wrote to anyone. he would buy a few beers, or a bottle of whiskey and read his poems outloud to himself. john didn't like to call them poems. poems, like france, are typical. john was a terrible speaker, but standing on top of his bed with a bottle in one hand, his glasses slipping to his nose; john was his own favorite fucking poet--- maybe his own favorite priest.

alot of nights john slept on the floor. he always laughed about it in the morning. when john drank whiskey he slept on the floor. when john took pills he fell asleep on the floor. sometimes when john drank beer he made it to the bed with the most unremarkable sheets he had ever seen. john always laughed the most when he was by himself.

marisa was an administrative assistant and whenever she talked about her job john would think about the way marisa would unbutton the top button of her shirts when she got to work. in 2001 at her office christmas party, john caught marisa and gary from human resources on a desk. gary's hand was up marisa's skirt so john tied his scarf around his face and left. sometimes, when john was alone he would laugh loud about gary from human resources. john hated human resources. when he showered drunk, sometimes he screamed a poem he wrote about gary from human resources; it went like this:

dear gary.
thank you for screwing my wife that night.
i got the whole goddamn bed to myself.
dear motherfucker from human resources,
you look like a terrible lay,
thank you for that.


on christmas day john woke up at 8:16 like every other fucking day. he put his socks on and walked to the bathroom. he put his head into the sink. he could smell the mildew even there. like a machine, john lifted and lowered his teeth onto his toothbrush. john liked the sound that it made. he spit out some blood. he made sure his pants were buttoned and walked down four flights of steps. he took the train to his bank and cashed his check and bought a fruit basket from a store around the corner.

outside the elevator of john's mother's apartment building, john stopped. the cogs and chains and bolts and screws that kept john propelling further froze. he looked at the camera in the corner by the ceiling, pulled a bottle of early times from inside of his coat and took one long, adamant swig. he walked to eighth avenue and gave his seventy dollars to the teller inside the booth at the port authority. john left his cell phone and his mother's fruit basket on the seat of the greyhound bus, stepped off and smoked a cigarette. the truck stop played "oh silent night." other than that, john didn't hear a fucking thing.

i just got 1800 spending money from my college
they pay me to go to school
hahhhahaha i win motherfuckers
YES