September 27, 2005

why i dont write about politics

or care about them much either. i know i know this is so stupid i should get involved with my country to make differences and get rid of our crazy ass of a president but i can't, because i was. at a young age i became inthralled with politics, by young age i mean 8 ish. i used to go visit my god-mother in Washington DC for at least two weeks every year and she would take me around Capitol Hill and talk up the page program and all this stuff. it seemed so glamorous and amazing. I mean really what 8 year old girl wouldnt want to be involved? well then i fell in love with President Bush senior, and i mean in love big time thrid grade kinda crush. my hippy parents thought i was crazy but cute, and they handled it by laughing at me and saying "well you'll figure this out later." well here comes later, I'm still summering in DC and getting all this Hill knowledge that most kids in California knew nothing about and i get to be "the youngest page ever" (13) for my local congressmen, so he tells me, but on the hill. i had to do stupid duties like pick up his cell pohne he left at home or go get muffins for the workers at first but after awhile they could see i was probably more capable then some of the people who were actually hired there. so i got this assignment, write a constituent letter and then we will stamp it with the congressmen's name, so write it like you're him. at first i was so excited, oh yeah role play sure i can get into this. but then i came home and grew up and started to think what a lying shack of shit the entire political system is, whether they are democratic, repulicans or thumb-up-their-asses. so i changed my mind, i no longer wanted to become the first women president or your local lying congresswoman no matter how glamorous it looked from the outside, these people had no souls, not that i do now, but they were making choices for some people who do, and bad unrealsitic choices at that. now i will admit i do have one last huge politcal crush on our first president, George Washington, this affair has been going on probably since the fifth grade when my class did a play called, "Let George Do It!" i have since done reports and even written a sonnet about him for a high school assignment. Oh G.W. you're just so powdery!


so thats why i dont like to talk about politics, it maybe stupid and juvenial but i hold grudges and i got a big one against our government.

September 26, 2005


i just read my first rio post and as i came to the last line where i thanked you for being here, tears stared to well up in my eyes. i dont know if was the honesty which is infrequent around my literal life or the fact that last night i had this dream in which i had no one, no one to talk to, no one to run to and i was crying in my sleep. while i was sleeping next to the boyfriend, the one that i had given up on, his love, our love because i thought he was moving away, and now hes not and im so lost, so caught up in our love. his sister got married on sunday, everyone looked to us as being next, it was very intense his cuban grandparets kept hinting a tit, the groom was expecting to be the best man. I just kept nervously laughing because i'm not getting married for like 8 or 10 years still. but then we were running in the wet grass towards the sunset and the cliffs at the edge of the ocean and laughing so hard, it was sureal, i'm sure the wine helped, there were these split seconds where my mind almost said ok we are next but then i shut down those thoughts as i am terribly afraid of any kind of actual commitment. but now two hours away from him and probably two weeks away from the next time i see him i am sad, i miss him, this him i can not commit to, this him that i contemplate as the one, this him that i have secretly cried about in his back seat while coming down from ecstacy hoping he would not hears my sobbing breaths, this him that i have grown to love and this him that i may have forsaken all others for. shit what has become of my bad ass self? obviously this him.

September 18, 2005

maps II

You see the answer has been here, writing here, typing here and I cry because I am here alone and I ought to go for a drive but to where? In four months I am afraid that drive will take me to drunk-land, bars and cars and boys and men that don’t know my name but there is the slightest chance they will hold me for one split second afterwards and that will make me smile, make me laugh at the absurdity of me and my wake of lifelessness I leave behind. The typing takes away the tears and the more i write, the more I write and yet I am afraid to write things with meaning things that affect me and yet I will not let them penetrate my psyche while I will allow penetration to my soul and else where by the evils that be those evils that I languish in. those evils that have taken me in and made me one of there own and i smile to them because I know I would rather be me, be myself then some sister, some nun who has none but some figment of religion that I cant bring myself to look at, to look into for fear I would fall into this unfathomable trap that has no light that has no end. I cant not see the truths in your beliefs but I am glad that they give you some sense of comfort I can not find in translated words, translated by those who were there to sell their ideas to us in the name of some kind of hierarchy. And stop please stop your slamming your questioning ideas and blank stare into the screen the held my attention for so long . I cry, no I don’t, I don’t cry, i lie much better then I cry and the majority of the crying I do do is in direct correlation with the lies. And so there I am splayed for you all to see. And thus my spirit is not so pure, not so white not so spirit.

September 15, 2005


And I sat there staring at my steaming muffin wondering was this it? As I often do, as I often do. Was this it? And what was the alternative? Drinking myself to sickness or selling myself for drugs that in turn took me, drove me, farther away from you as you stay here, sit here, walk here, talk here, telling me, “ if that’s what makes her happy, that’s what she should do to be happy.” Shit, happy this and happy that. What is happy? Where is happy? Is there a map to get there? No, no there’s no map and I know, we all know this. There is no formula or set of logical directions that will take us there… it is merely the second star to the right, the glass slipper and poison apples that take us to our dreams so that we may sleep. And I wonder would a bath solve my problems? Would the confusion between steam and fog through the window make me smile enough to say that I am happy? No and no bottom of a bottle would either. Not this muffin, not puking up this muffin or erasing this muffin entirely would make me happy either. No slamming doors will bring back fathers and no sorrowful faces with take away the last three years of depression. And so I snicker at the absurdity of my muffin and myself. Where does it end? Where did it begin? And no, there is no map.

September 12, 2005

a can of worms

Somewhere there is a tally that lives within my brain the kind of tally that varies upon whom you’re talking to. To share this tally would be like opening a can of worms. Have you ever really thought about that? Opening a can of worms. Do you think the original person who said it was speaking of those spring-loaded worms or actual worms? I like I imagine actual worms and you open this can, now that’s with an can opener, and inside there are all these long worms writhing and squirming and the can is full so they can barely move but the entire can is a body of wormy mess, not to mention those worms that got cut in the process of opening the can. Dear me, you could see how this maybe a problem and a good metaphor for a problem indeed. I miss looking at the stars, my mom recently sent me one of those survey emails about yourself and one of the questions was do you wish on stars. I do, but my mother doesn’t. That was kind of sad to me. My mother who taught me about everything magical doesn’t wish on stars, and suddenly everything comes into perspective.

September 11, 2005

true sounds

My heart was hurting, where had I gone? I was hiding from you, hiding from me. I never had a boyfriend I didn’t cheat on and I never had a boyfriend that I didn’t fall in love with. This is some kind of sick pattern im sure. Sometimes I couldn’t believe myself sometimes I hate myself but mostly I wish there was another one of me so we could hangout and and ruin our lives together and laugh and spin all day. I like to listen to the sounds of our house, here, I sometimes whisper inside my head so that I can be quiet enough to hear everything. Sometimes im the sounds of our house and then I don’t listen and my voice inside my head screams so theres no possible way I can hear me. Right now I can hear a plane it sounds like the earth is roaring. I would roar if I was the earth but then again if I was the earth I probably would have given up on us a long time ago. A friend and I were discussing how my roommates girl friend is rather weary of me and then my friend said “well I wouldn’t want you living with my boyfriend,” I realized I agree, im pretty much evil and a boy friend stealer in my own right. The pictures of him were beautiful anyway hopefully so is he, so is he.

September 08, 2005

the perfection of pencils

I love pencils, I prefer them over pens and have begun to collect various different ones. All those that can be sharpened of course, none of this mechanical bullshit, although they do have a nice tip. I have a black round one and triangular shaped yellow ones, one with a black eraser that says “Xtreme rollerbladin” and one the says “happy birthday” as that is one of my favorite phrases. I made a list in class the other day of the reasons I love pencils. This list included but is not limited to the following ideas. The vulnerability of being erased. The old fashioned-ness of writing on paper, rather then typing. The organic sense of using parts of our breathing system (trees) to communicate, to me writing is like another sense of breathing. Not having the messiness of ink. If you write on the back of a piece of paper you already wrote on it goes through to the next page of your note book. Its like an imprint that you were there and you were writing. How the dullness can be so easily rejuvenated which a quick sharpen. I like to bite them and the wood is so impressionable, almost na├»ve. The loss as you sharpen and how your good friend begins to dwindle. At the same time however the comfortable of a short pencil that has written many things and withheld the test of time versus a new pencil with length and perfection. The phallic-ness of it all (of course this could be the sole reason) it reminds me of writing old letters and the kind of people that wrote them. The satisfaction of a perfectly sharpened point, I always have at least two perfectly sharpened pencils in my back pack for school, I sharpen them the night before. The way that the wear down of the lead affects your penmanship whether good or bad. I guess I have become some kind of pencil romantic but I really recommend breaking out a good old No. 2 and giving the fellow a try, you wont be disappointed, ok I guess I wouldnt be disappointed.

September 02, 2005


Back at school back at school. I look in the mirror and know I’m the fool. Got my head mixed up and my heart stabbed through. I just can’t get over you. A fool for love. May god grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference, who will buy my strawberries? Red strawberries red. I just wanna love you baby, you dream in color my night comes in black and blue. I’ll send you postcards, oh how I wish I were with you. Leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when ill be back again. Cause girl you know I got to go and lord I wish it wasn’t so. So take this wine and drink with me, lets delay our misery. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. I hope you in a big red box. Why did you act that way? Why did you say its ok? You make me so happy I want to cry; you make me so hurt I want to die. She’s a good girl, crazy bout Elvis; she loves horses and her boyfriend too. But are you thinking of me when you touch her?

i wrote this about 3 years ago but just found it and thought it was interesting.

September 01, 2005

Graphic nature: please be warned

So I do this thing whenever I start school, its kind of unintentional but it seems to happen anyway. The first day of class I decide who in my class I would fuck, and work on it from there on in. I also makeup these scenarios of who I would be friends with but that’s another blog. So back to the sex business, it rarely actually works out because I’m rather shy but my freshman year in college first semester I had picked this one guy. He was dark and handsome kinda beefy but jovial as far as I could tell. My admiration grew as each day we had class, however as I am extremely shy and never got up the nerve to talk to him, besides I had nothing to say on the subject of logical reasoning which was our class. There was one day where my admiration floundered and I stared at another young man who I would later find out was his brother. Anyway so about three or four weeks in to the semester I got this idea, this awful idea that I would write him a note. The note said: “I think you’re totally hot” and then included my name and number. As class was dismissed I left it on his desk and walked out. Never even looking back. I often regret not leaving it on his brother’s desk, the very next desk over, as his brother was rather intriguing and had his tongue pierced. Anyway he called the next night and we talked for a long time on the phone as I paced about my dorm room with my roommate silently laughing hysterically at me. We arranged for a date the next evening. This was to be my first real grown up date, as previous ones were in groups or otherwise not dateish. So he picked me up, we went to dinner, I had steak, and then he proceeded to take me on a tour of the fine city I had recently moved to. We had amazing conversation on beaches and look out points, I found out he had recently lost like 50 pounds, which I’ll have to admit is quite a feat in itself. Eventually we had sex in the back seat of his car and then I did my sole appearance in the world of walks of shame into my dorm building with my shirt completely stretched out and various stains on my skirt I’m sure. The next class meeting he introduced me to his brother, like we were dating or something and then walked me to my dorm after class. He wanted to explain he didn’t usually do those kinds of things. Anyone who says that is totally lying, I know I am anyway. Well then he tried to kiss me goodbye, I gave a quick turn of the head so he got my ear. I about puked. I was over it, it was a one night stand kinda thing, I understood it, he was quite a bit older then me, but I don’t think he got it. He really liked me, these kinds of things happen, but he had been talking about his friends having kids and being married, this completely freaked me out, I had decided he was a weirdo, which probably wasn’t true at all. I was awful to him stopped talking to him, stopped taking his phone calls and stopped going to class. I would catch an earlier class, sit on the other side of the room or not go at all, it seemed he was doing to he same. I was awful to him. I still feel bad about it and often think I should look him up and apologize, but it didn’t really mean anything, it was a backseat tryst and lasted less then a week. So long story short after this awful trial run of my first day infatuations I’ve been wary to actually repeat such an act. However there is this one guy, I picked him first day and we actually have two classes together, cold piece is though he kind of looks like that first guy. I don’t know I hope for myself nothing happens but I’ve been giving him the eye, the playmate eye I learned from some former “Playmate on Sex” and I can’t help it, it’s completely unintentional… no I swear it really is.