For all the superlatives, the I Never and the I Always, and its always been so hard for me to take a flattery. I mean a compliment. Just kidding, I really did mean a flattery. Because I am no man's Garance, despite the fact that lots of men want to be the Criminal, well, except the Criminal, that is, but that's because he gets bored of everyone eventually. And I'm so fucking into ironic detachment and the womanly art of speaking only when spoken of and there are some days I wish that I wasn't an actress (with whom no one can identify.) Does there even exist a pet name that hasn't already been used on pets from the past? Because I don't like to think of who was me before I was and I don't mean that in a creepy religious way, either. And even secreter is this: in the escapism of rainy day traffic, I sometimes like to quietly pretend like there is no one else out there like me; or at least that I am not like anyone else out there. Luckily, I am super sane, otherwise the contradiction would kill me. And even though I wear prescription eyes, I see too easily the pockmarks and the seams and the prestidigitation in the commoditization of concepts like love, forever, courage, etc. et al., that is being hawked by the people, for the people. And we are all charlatans. All of us.

Why bother? I find that answering that question it is a task to which I must apply the same earnestness a moron adopts when running repeatedly head first into a brick goddamn wall.

Does it really make me feel better knowing that I tried? And, if so, what does that say about my sense of conviction?

Delete City

Its not that I, its just that I, I mean, I'm tired, you know? I'm so tired. And its not that there isn't anything to say. There are so many things to so, so many unwarranted opinions to trot out, and not enough angst, not nearly enough, because full is not so heavy as empty, my darling Criminal.

There are things, those things that stick, like those men that speak in slogans, and red Dodge Neons with "Porn Star" stickers on the back commanded by sad nineteen year olds with heavy-handed reddish purple dye jobs; and two occupied child safety seats in the back. And the brilliance and the joy, personified, by a six year old who is trying to figure out her place, and the little men behind big pharma and the quotidian effects of Moody and Fitch junking ResCap and brother bonds, like how am I going to feed and house my family because I only make $130/hr, and nono, is no typo, and what does the Yen surge mean to me, personally? And the burning in my throat from its closing, from its adjuration from my brain, a fear no prescription could heal; one panic attack away from a tracheotomy, from the pressure from an outage that is keeping my childhood memories dim which is keeping from reminding me of the selfishness of my anger over having to tell my child that another two have called it quits because hasn't she faced enough loss and grief and betrayal in her short life and how can I, in good conscience be a sympathizer and ... its just ... some fucking people, you know?

Listen up, boys and girls: do not spend your precious hours scouring the long list of people in your area who are lonely tonight. Not when you have a perfectly capable, albeit sedated, lover in your bed. But I understand, Criminal, I understand; what its like to have things incessantly chirping, ringing, crying, barking, yelling, and kicking: for your attention.

Promise me this: just before you die, insist to yourself that I, your wife, have loved you as completely as one person can love another. And should you outlive me, know that I, who, except for loving you and mothering our children, do not want to be remembered for anything else I have ever done while walking the surface of this abject, despicable, dirtball planet. Not that its the planet, per se.

That Fuckin' Guy (a love letter from my indie pussy)(what does that even mean?)

Momma, where is Hood? Don't have to look too far, Darlin', but I'll do what I can so you can live and die within the walls of a rural family compound and, failing that, a gated comm w/ common grounds maintenance and hike/bike trails; even if I am deeply saddened by their small-town minds -- for rill, there ain't nothing but crooks in here. Looking through a wandering eye that is sunken in and I just can't stop thinking about how I never learned how to properly do chiaroscuro and so many other things. Too many men are mannish and I think masculinity is overstated -- like a mid-cap's earnings -- and even when it isn't, its overrated -- like mortgage-backed securities -- because I've been used as a shield from both a snake and a wasp and I haven't known what it means to be "supported" since I was a child; or at least much, much younger. My, listen to my words! they are my disguise. Nevertheless, I don't believe in fate but what a happy accident that I was I and you were you; that we save our energies for things much more pleasurable; like braille in the night; feeling you out, so smooth and straight and hard -- and I won't misappropriate my gratitude for your cock to god, so thank you.