if i wrote you a song with all the things i said that weren't true , it would be the shortest song in the world , because i meant every word , and it could never compare to the novel you're writing me this very second .

he didn’t notice that i skipped tracks 4 and 10 on the cd player , waiting until he was out of the car so as not to ruin the poignancy of the songs , and he wouldn't know why , nor would he care . there’s a lot he doesn’t notice . maybe i’m only ‘pretty good’ because i don’t want to be here .

the mother hands the girl at the register her credit card and notices how she grits her teeth as she slides it through ; bites her tongue to keep from crying . rolling her eyes , she puts away the credit card , thinking how easy kids these days have it . and as she pulls out of the parking lot , a young woman hits her toyota with her mercedes sl 500 , bursts into tears , hands her the information , and pulls away . the beautiful blonde with the bruise on her arm , who traded her tank tops for long sleeves with collars , even in the ninety degree weather . the mother gets home , checks on her sleeping children , notices the different perfume on her couch cushions , and sprays them with febreze before the company arrives . the girl gets home to change for the party but instead throws out the half empty bottle and changes her screaming baby sister’s diaper before calling to cancel her plans . the young woman gets home to a surprisingly peaceful apartment – the calm before the storm – and hurries to make dinner before he gets upset . and they all do this day after day after day , year after year . so why celebrate tonight ?

THIS IS A ROLLING EMERGENCY !!!
ohh man . MY CAR is so hot . i got a white 98 nissan sentra gxe , it's so fucking beautiful . i am like obsessed ! so everybody , now that i'm not worthless , let's hang out ? mmm in my hot car ! the only rule is , you can't get out of the car . or you can , but i refuse to , because i am in love with it . actually , i am sitting my car now haha just kidding <3 bye ladies .

this one goes out to the friends i've never had.
so maybe i’m a little rough around the edges … maybe if you grab me a little harder next time it will smooth me out . is it so wrong to want your touch to sting a little ? the next morning when i’m cleaning myself up with alcohol and band-aids, i’ll think of you. the next night when you don’t want to see me because of the state i’m in, and because you don’t want to hold me so tight, i’ll think of someone else that will.

Less than five hundred feet away from my house, my cell phone rings. I pull it out to answer and it's my mother, at 1:02 a.m.
"You're not home yet … it's past your curfew, and you're always home on time. Is everything okay? I was waiting for you to come home; I brought you cheesecake." I'm rolling my eyes, because it's two minutes that I'm late, but I can't help laughing. My crazy mother, who argued with me about how baggy my pants were minutes before I left the house, is ready to make up and sit down with me to hear all about my night. I walk in the house, on the phone with her, halfway through my account of what I did, and we both hang up our phones and sit to talk and eat dessert at one o'clock in the morning.
Three o'clock rolls around and we're still sitting there, tears rolling down our cheeks from laughing so hard. Each time we attempt to go to bed, one of us comes up with another anecdote from last week that somehow made it this far without being recounted. As we finally stumble upstairs, sleepy-eyed but animated nonetheless, we say our good nights, not even remembering that we were fighting just hours ago, and will probably be arguing about something equally trivial in the morning. However, she is always quick to come up behind me with an apology and a chocolate of some sort (because she knows it's my favorite). Ever since I was little, when she'd brush my hair and tell me how pretty I looked in my dress, we've always been close. Now, 17 years later, she is my constant source of inspiration, my therapist, my cook, my tailor, my maid, my chauffer, and my best friend. And when I tell her good night and that I love her, words seem ineffective, but I know she knows how much I mean it.

susanis a winner (10:40:18 PM): i;mon my own i cvan't see straigh t.
susanis a winner (10:40:26 PM): deep inside cause i'm so stoned i can't see straight .
WunderBrat (10:41:02 PM): hahahaha
WunderBrat (10:41:12 PM): susan owns
susanis a winner (10:41:41 PM): hahaha why ?
susanis a winner (10:41:48 PM): because i'm so stoned i can't see straight ?
WunderBrat (10:41:50 PM): because she always makes me laugh
WunderBrat (10:41:52 PM): hahaha that too .
susanis a winner (10:41:52 PM): i am putting that in my journal .
WunderBrat (10:41:57 PM): oh yea let me send you this stuff
WunderBrat (10:41:59 PM): hahha okay
susanis a winner (10:42:00 PM): but i cam going t5o stpell ever word right .
susanis a winner (10:42:01 PM): okay <#
WunderBrat (10:42:07 PM): No no
WunderBrat (10:42:26 PM): thaht wulod taek laa the unf out of itti.
WunderBrat (10:42:30 PM): see what i mean ^
susanis a winner (10:42:31 PM): hahahahahaha
susanis a winner (10:42:36 PM): hahahah where the fuck are we ?!?2
susanis a winner (10:42:37 PM): 1 '
susanis a winner (10:42:38 PM): 4#et4#^
$%
susanis a winner (10:42:40 PM): \
susanis a winner (10:42:40 PM): haha
susanis a winner (10:42:43 PM): i loooove marijuana .

"i'm on my own, i can't see straight. cause deep inside, i'm so stoned i can't see straight."
incubus "deep inside"

hahaha <3

can you stab me in the front so i can see your smile one more time ?

WELP LET'S DUCK.
Untie the bonds tightly wrapped around them.
Binding ropes, shackles and chaines,
All carefully, deliberately knotted, word for word.
In sickness (but I booked this business trip months ago)
And in health (you watch them, I'll watch the game),
Till death do they part, averting their eyes,
Avoiding the other woman in their bedroom.
It's not for them that they remain one,
But for their three perfect, innocent, wide-eyed excuses.
They live their life blink by blink,
Teaching their most precious possessions not of unconditional love,
But of the black contract that ruined her life,
Unifying the better and the worse,
(the latter more prominent),
In a glowing example of society's demise.

The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople.

--it's no use trying to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs.

Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively ultravoluptuous superpalazzo, and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice they'd improbably call it dying.

you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:the mystery which happens only and whenever we are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now;and now is much too busy being a little more than everything to seem anything.catastrophic included

Cummings, 1935.

the subconscious stream of 

letters forming words forming phrases forming poetry formed from nothing. 

all my pain and anger and frustration misre present ed on a page full of 

crossed out lines 

and scribbles 

and 



nothing . 

exploiting my sadness and memories for another [half-filled] sheet of paper . 

blush

ing at the mention of my own work then frantically churn

ing out piece after piece for my fifteen minutes [seconds] of this f



		i	c	k

	l	e little community’s fame . yet i bring myself into it, 

d r a g g i n g my feet, but 

moving them nonetheless. until i find my other form of 

temporary satisfaction 

with myself, 

Save Drugs ,  

then it’s back to the drawing board,

pen aimed at paper,

stabbing out my disappointments

neatly organized and publicized and sealed with approval. 

Nacho Boy 3 (10:41:57 PM): STONER MCBONER!
Nacho Boy 3 (10:42:00 PM): ahahahhahahahahahahahahha
Nacho Boy 3 (10:43:45 PM): and you have any reply to that?
susanis a winner (10:45:14 PM): not really . i tried denying it but it didn't work so i'll just settle in my inadequacy ... when in reality, i like to think i'm smarter in various ways than people who don't smoke marijuana or take mind-expanding drugs such as mushrooms . you can insult me in your close-minded ignorance, but i like the way i live my life and feel that my reply is much more intelligent than "stoner mcboner", your original insult.
susanis a winner (10:49:59 PM): i hope you're spending these four minutes using a thesaraus to combat my intelligent reply .

i rock so hard. there is no denying it. man.

i love everything.
so yesterday i finished this paper i was writing and got in the shower like at noon and i was in the shower and the shampoo bottles on the floor started moving towards me and back and then i saw like things growing on the walls and disappearing and when i looked at the floor it looked like it was thirty feet down and i got out and went upstairs and andrea (i was at her house) was lying staring at her ceiling and we talked and talked and stared at her ceiling for like more than an hour and it was growing and shapes were coming out of it and she closed her eyes and saw a baby’s foot wrapped in a plant and stuff and i went out on the balcony and i felt like it was a boat and it was taking me away and there were these rocks that i fell in love with and the stuff in the bathroom scared me and i couldn't go in and all we said was "i feel ..." and then "i love everything" because we LOVED EVERYTHING and everything was perfect and beautiful and nothing was ever bad and there was a piece of paper and it was the most beautiful piece of paper i have ever seen.

The red, yellow, and green pepper never looked so radiant in the glare of the yellow lights, or so blurry from my reddened, tear-filled eyes. As I keep walking, I turn my face down and unravel my hair from the messy bun so it tumbles over my cheeks and covers my eyes, defending myself from the curious stars the father with his two young sons is shooting me. He turns the little shopping car so that his two (maybe two and a half) year old faces the milk, unconsciously, or maybe consciously, shielding him from the dysfunctional mother-daughter relationship he was witnessing. With a “Watch my purse” that’s harsher than any supermarket lighting, she retreats to the cucumbers (pick long, thin cukes with a healthy, dark green skin) as I hear a husband asking his wife if they need any tomatoes for the salad tomorrow. I don’t even like peppers, but I pick one up and go pay for it (taking the purse with me so it doesn’t get stolen) so I can have it in my room and remember this next time we’re on the up side of this recurring cycle. By the time I return, yellow defense mechanism clutched in one hand, black purse in the other, she’s looking for me, and I return the purse, from which she counts the money in her wallet. None is missing. None ever is. I don’t know why I keep convincing myself that it’s worth the arguments to keep a good relationship when we can never keep it long enough. When we reach the checkout lane, and she recounts to me, ever unresponding, how her appointment with the lawyer went, I know why. I know why we fight and I know why she half-swallows her pride and talks to me, choking on the mix of words and dignity. What I’ll never understand is the pleasure she derives from seeing me lend a helping hand only to step on it and watch the tears fall. Lately it seems that’s the only way to calm her, so that’s what it comes down to. Watching my wall of apathy crumble before her eyes to reveal that I’m about as strong as she is.