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Hit The Lights

A Preface
Before I tell you anything, I have to wash my face, take out my contacts, brush my teeth, take 1,000 milligrams of vitamin C, and put the dogs in their room. Rituals are important and also unimportant. The former because they reveal neuroses, the later because repetition imparts no meaning. That's where Stein can take a fucking seat with her making of Americans a hundred and one million times. You want to know about the making of Americans? We start with a middle class Catholic family. A dad, a mom, five kids who are going to grow up to hate each other. Who are going to grow up and not talk. Who are going to grow up and fight over things like fucking lawnmowers and marble end tables one day after they put their father in the ground. I remember waking up to snow in May and feeling just like you're supposed to feel, second floor of a house that belongs to you, belongs to you, belongs to you in those little girl nightgowns with a bow at the neck, and some lace. Long-sleeved for decency. Because you're a little fucking girl. Upstate New York, I miss you. And Susie Asado was not a fucking flamenco dancer.

[insert nightly ritual here.]

Intimacy feels like two thousand dollars in your hand.

The last time we spoke, kissing close under covers, he was sorry, ravenous. Hunger always sounds savage, thirst always sounds like lust. I was staring at my desk, thinking of ways to make it even more intelligible. I admit to doing it on purpose; one million and one reasons for you to look the other way. Now, look the other way. Ravenous, like he couldn't believe he'd forgotten what the inside of my mouth tastes like. Licking always sounds pornographic, lapping always sounds like promiscuity. It is inevitable that if you have a door under your stairs, I am going to ask if Harry is in. It is inevitable like the end of them is inevitable, exploding all the time on the periphery like optical illusions, cops, and after you've been on meth for too long.

Can't hold a charge. Doesn't stand a chance. Makes me think of Yeats. THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD. Because things do fall apart and the last image, all the time forever, slouching toward Bethlehem... that stays with me. The impetus, the coming (the second), the inevitable. I keep coming back to that, like Donne talked about, and it can mean so many things: buzz words, seeds planted, perversions of the intellect. It's all intellectual, isn't it? The sex, the fucking, the way I lead you all on like it's something easy. NOTHING IS EASY. If you think it's easy, then you aren't thinking hard enough. Think harder, look closer (love hard, live hard). At least I don't feel like a Dr. Dre song about it anymore --"Now you wanna run around talkin' 'bout guns like I ain't got none. What, you think I SOLD 'em all?". It was a nightmare then. Again, now. I'm still laughing at you, sweetheart.

I was trying to explain that grad school was MASTURBATION and theorists and scholars sucking each others' dicks all the time like it was a fucking orgy of original thought. I don't think anyone got it.

At least he was sorry for it, though. Real sorry, not fake sorry. How can you not forgive someone you love? It's an impossible task. Because it becomes a non-issue. They don't have to apologize because it doesn't matter. This is all idealism. It wouldn't happen in the first place except by accident. THAT IS NOT A FUCKING ACCIDENT, BABY. Even if alcohol is involved. (Zexion, the prodigal roommate, is going to have an Adios Motherfucker because the color is nice and so is the sentiment--head down at Hollywood Billiards, underage and feeling up a fever). Listen, I don't blame you. But how could you, baby? We go back to why this doesn't work: it, theoretically, would never happen. Not if it was TRUE LOVE.

True love true love true love. Yes. Yes, I fucking do.

This is forever boring now. Epic waste of time when I could be jacking off or finishing that prompt or editing that piece of shit chapter or sucking face with someone gorgeous or insufflating Vicodin or mixing a White Russian. Noticing the veins in my hands and wondering why they are so blue today. Or yesterday, whenever that was, sitting there and thinking... whoa. Look at those veins. (We are so mortal.)

In short: drama, and I'm feeling sort of uninspired.

FUN FAX OF FUN:

• I spend a lot of money when I'm bored or overwhelmed by bullshit.
  
• Plums are pretty good, but only the good ones.
  
• The trick is to keep going even after the come hits the back of your throat.
  
• I know a whack ass story about pineapples.
  
• Shit, I'm still wearing those earrings.
  
• After you have thyroid cancer and they cut you apart to save your life, you kinda talk like a funny alien.
  
• Technically, SORA IS AN ALIEN. This is unrelated to thyroid cancer.
  
• Gato told me she shot heroin through her eye ducts.
  
• I hate sleeping with blankets or a top sheet or or a duvet or anything like that. In short: COVERS. FUCK THEM.
  
• Pug pug: to beat something (rug, child) or smack something so as to remove detritus (ass, shoes--both after being at the beach). Maybe only filipinos will understand this.
  
• Fuck you, Amazon, for e-mailing me in the middle of the night. I'm like WHOA, SOMEONE LIKES ME. Nope. Just Amazon.
  
• This isn't actually a list. Can you tell?
  

Ugh, I'm tired. I didn't really talk about anything here. OH, there's one I forgot: Reviews Really Do Give Me Anxiety, But I Love Them, So Keep 'Em Coming (400 Is A Really Nice Number). Was that shameless? Don't give a fuck. Ariza is really growing on me. I'd hit it. Don't even get me started on my boy, Sasha, with his three of AWESOME. I'm not technically a basketball fan, but damn. I find that changing topic in the middle of paragraphs does wonders for confusing the fuck out of people. I remember drinking some Carnation Instant Breakfast shit right before hopping on the shortbus to take me to high school. "High School." I'll tell you all about it in images and half articulated memories that you will never be able to piece together, sitting in trees and footballs landing perfectly in tomato bisque. Mmm, bisque.

In theory, mozzarella/tomato/basil sounds like a delicious sandwich, but mostly it tastes like nothing unless you do it right. Who can do this for me? Porto's makes a soul destroying feta sandwich that costs $4.50, but... oh my god. WE SHOULD GO TOMORROW! Wham was dying for a turkey sandwich today, so tomorrow we decided to try that deli that we used to harass when we were in high school. But we should go to Porto's! There's one in Glendale and one in Burbank. And I'm talking about food because I had a lollipop, a lime, and a couple kuftehs today. And about 85 million pretzels while I edited M's paper. Does this mean I'm starving myself? I dunno, 85 million pretzels is kind of a lot. It's four o'clock in the fucking morning (the Used), and it's clear that I need sleep.

I used to count questions (and stars, and on my fingers).