it is foggy in here

My phone is silent, not even doing that irritating bleating to signal a text message coming in. I console myself by reminding myself that i have no reception in the hobbit hole I call home, but I know the truth: he is not picking up that phone.

When you love someone, really and deeply and pathetically, you do not raise your voice to them, so I am told. No swear words in your dialogue, even when they are a drunken mess you wouldn't serve another drink to in real life, let alone share a bed with.

No, love is a many splendor thing which we must endure so as not to end up alone and unlovely, because our friends are surely never enough. My world shrank a bit yesterday in that regard. I am sure that my skin will begin to melt and my hair will fall out in chunks if I do not soon find another worthy of dating me. i am so precious.

It shant be hard, and i shall have my pick. roaming around a bar in an apron and a short skirt should work on those moronic enough to tamper with girl pouring the drinks. That failing, I guess a late-night birthday shindig and a party celebrating absinthe will have to do. If not, well fuck, don't I have some exes I can call who will prop up my ego? Some male friends who have always been curious about seeing me naked?

I hope that someone, somewhere will enter or reenter my life so that it will have purpose and meaning once again. The center of my universe finally took the hint and fucked off, so there is plenty of prime real estate ready and waiting for the next unsuitable match.

now taking applications for the following positions:

semi-employed pothead with the sex drive of an 87 year old.

frantically employed coke dabbler who will pay for everything but will only be around once a blue moon. again with the ailing sex drive.

moody music maker who will get drunk and fuck you but then blame you for all of his problems.

gainfully employed paranoid with low self esteem. will fuck you whenever you want but will assume you are fucking every man, woman and dog you encounter.

artistically employed borderline alcoholic. wants to fuck you, but can't because he is still married.

Sporadically employed aging hipster. Great in bed, but terrified of waking up his ten year old daughter, or having you stay for lunch.

If you feel that you have what it takes to fill any or all of these positions, please feel free to castrate yourself and be sure not to infect the dating pool with your excessively bad traits by breathing next to humans. I would recommend a lobotomy.

oh baby

i have touched and tasted every inch that i can reach. you have looked at me with those big dead eyes. through me to some other whatever i do not want any part of. the sands in your life, they keep shifting. your face drifts toward sleep, leaving and letting go. you stand and cling, then fuck away, i have no idea who you are. i stare through the ceiling until i can feel you.i prefer the fucking to the future because most days my future evaporates anyway and we can stand together forever, at the gates. sad that is the most romantic moment that i can think of. break my heart and throw it away, why would i need it, i am not planning to see the light of a lot more days i am Young and dumb and have a future that will burn out and make peace with no one.

the best worst days in the world

i spent a day rolling around in a bed that is scented with my lotion streaked with mascara from last night. i could not keep my eyes open, but i will be damned if they would stay closed. i should be doing big bad terrible things right now. night off, whoot. would rather just enjoy the sounds of disembodied television voices and let sappy music break my heart.

the days are a bit blurred. i exist in a purgatory of happiness that keeps me from having to

sleep

eat

think

breath. but we come up for air sometimes and then, here we are, blinking in the sun. we don't know each other without the veil of darkness, inebriation.

so we fight cuz we are frustrated.

i think i gave myself food poisoning.

i have never known how to make a damn omelet.

i will find out very soon that that word was spelled incorrectly and that eddie vedder will live a long happy life writing music for popular movies, but the one time he made me cry was with that cover of Last Kiss.

new man, so unreliable, i trust him. don't I?

 too tired to care. ode to the summer fling.

unsingable name

met a guy with a truly unsingable name. won't spell it out, though. jinx. broke it off with another just days before. so underwhelmed. can't spill enough words between us to fill the space of a quarter of an hour. his body shocked me in it's girth. i like my men stringy. not squishy. you who have had me buzzing in your ear, know this to be true.
so i met a boy, a man, who i thought so familiar and realize now it is because he looks like someone else, someone i wouldn't fuck with your dick, but have known a few good girls who have.

i digress.

he came into my work and sloshed around for a few minutes. he caught my fancy good and proper, but i was tired and spark free. sober and the night was winding down. still, i spotted his pack on the bar, so called to the bartender that i was out after a smoke. well, what do you know. he followed me, though denies such things. talked at me and around me and about me for the length of that cigarette. i was wearing interesting tights and a lot of curly hair. he had on a hat. names exchanged, he and some other boy left eventually. i orbited their bar stools, empty of focus, plot, point.

i wondered after him for a moment, asked after him, too, no avail but no matter. more fish to gouge. so a friend and i set out for a bar the next evening outside uptown. we are greeted at the door and sit down at the bar. i order without looking up. he asks me if he had not just met me the night before. i look into his eyes. cold and clammy, my hands become. he is so good looking. i think about my frumpy jeans, tangled curls, lack of makeup. i am no match for this charismatic bartender.

so i retreat, slightly. bizarre men dance attendance and are thrown out. bartender and i commence chatting. and drinking. he is so lovely. my head is light with the knowledge that i might not know this guy, ever. alcohol gives me courage, anyway. i pass on my number at around 2, apologizing for being that girl who hits on her fucking server. rule number one, and i shattered that shit.

the next day, my phone is painfully silent. until about 145 am. and then the inebriated texting begins and off we go. 2 hours later and i am asleep on my friend's couch with monday and this guy on my mind. hold your breath and hope the water is warm.

where'd we go?

I can't take a nap today. my head aches. i got not a wink last night among the fucking and the fueding. no, really. tossed off all my clothes after one rousing round of scrabble. he put down ex. i added the s and we decided that indeed was a much better game. this bottle of vodka has lasted for awhile. i haven't been here. i have been drinking princely sums and not cleaning my apartment in favor of this boy. this pot smoking prince valiant. the rebel, the joker, the villian all rest in one body, til we meet again in 4 hours. he gives me less than nothing and i take it and pay. meanwhile where are things going with this new golden boy. he seems genuine but what the fuck does that mean after a week? birth control and a move back uptown, i guess. for now. passed out at around two only to be woken, fucking 3 hours later. awake again at 8, i start things this time. with love of the feeling, the only one i can touch anymore.

brand new man

he is tall and touches me often. these are the things i noticed first. i communicate in code, without eye contact, head bent slightly away. it took me forever to see his green eyes.his straight nose.the smile. he looks familiar.some actor from some movie, some long time ago. some crush. dont tell mom the babysitters dead, maybe? i saw his curly hair, how he sought out my attention. leaned in, leaned out. kissed me. dry wit, smile at me. we are towering over the evening. swapping stories, holding hands. my skirt is short. i take the stairs slowly, in front of him. sex is not on my mind. sex is always on my mind. we buy gummy worms and have some wine.

he speaks in absolutes and tells me about us in six minutes, six weeks, six months. i am afraid because i have been down every road and every road ends with me picking up my paints and my pot, cutting across the grass,thumbing for a ride back to the beginning.

if i were a boxer

if i could tell you everything i would never tell you anything true. i wish with all of my heart that you, whoever you are, did not exist so that i could float here like the rest of them, content to be on the verge, a breaking point of madness and lack of wonder. everyone flirts with this cliff, this bottomless empty bowl we fill with charms and gods and nameless fucks. some story. some game. whatever creates the art that they buy that they want that they love that reflects them. these mirrors for the narcissism. hold yours up to me, fall in love, you will not be found wanting.

wait for it, sad prince, whatever reason i look tarnished. stare me down,then, when you think i am less, when whiskey makes you more. i will shimmer and sigh, sauntering over to you. what do you wish, what is your want? i will take off all of my clothes and still be dressed. you cannot come inside, despite your hard pounding. you will try. i will show you my back, as it is said, what you see as i am breaking your heart. the fog in which you will exist should part some day soon, i will be a mirage. you will think i never existed at all. until you see me again. until you spy my breathing on someone else's neck. someone with a no better than you ever were, only not you, and that is enough.