Display and Discuss (the "show and tell" edition)

What is it about us, to what level of degeneracy have we declined, that we import cases of water from military juntas in Melanesia just to let them sit outside of our gated driveways?  For one whole fucking week, I tell you, there has been a stack five feet high in the alley that backs to the fanciest grocery store in the whole world.  And I swear to god, I nearly stopped and loaded them up just because that kind of shit needs to be called out with some petty theft but as I stopped at the T, thinking about whether or not one statement was worth however many months of probation and however many years of social pariah getting caught would earn, I noticed there were some men.  A number of men who all looked different but kind of the same somehow.  They all wore shades and they call had earpieces, dress code was generic casual, and one was talking into a microphone that was invisible to me.  And as I decided to let North Dallas have its Fiji and me whatever social standing I have, I realized there were some too generic cars with dark windows strategically parked at the points of ingress and egress.  This was no ordinary mall cop detail.

I've never been in much trouble with popes, except for being where I shouldn't sometimes, like sober at a HoJo with drunk teens or purging the lines in a deserted office complex with ricers or walking the streets of the Big City with e'd out club kids, and I did once trip an armored car guard on purpose while he was carrying his duffel bag and I only felt a little sorry (okay, almost no sorry at all) and I straight up bribed HPD once and batted my eyes and unbuttoned my shirt a little more out of many, many more.  But these guys, they were not like those guys.  They looked like they knew what the fuck they were doing.  And as I rounded the corner, I realized who was inside the fancy grocery store and that the airspace above was almost certainly being monitored, and how with her secretest security perimeterizing, I was rill rill glad I thought better of stealing a rich asshole's water just for smug self-satisfaction reasons.

That said, I really am sorry you were born in West Virginia, West Virginia, and maybe you should've thought about getting conceived by your meth head teen mother elsewhere, some place more civilized, like Texas, where we choose people like Pick Rerry and David Dewlily and, of course, the Bum Cruz Missile, to represent us in our foreign affairs with the rest of the untied states.  But enough about the bugs under Trendy Davis' heels, because I got more bubbles to pop, like how even the Mexican help drives nice cars around here and how we won't be happy 'til all our trees have placards that tastefully shout our fucking importance and how we can tell a school is excellent if they have peacocks that seem to care not very much at all about the Ranges in their range.

I'm sure there was more to this than that but I gotta go play alarm clock with my mouth.

we wear our hunger in our haunt

Now shake me off your knife 'cause I want to go home.  And then the words were gone and I felt so much better, upon regaining composure, and can there be anything worse than feeling foolish?  Well, I can think of plenty.

I came home to a bunch of mean empty, crawled into bed and dreamed for two hours straight about playing this game, a partners game, like some strange mix of spades and pet rescue saga, and every time I thought I was doing it right, that I was on the right track, that I was on to a winner, my partner would tell me how insignificant I was, in the grand scheme of immediate things, and then blocks would fall, and the trick would get trumped, and I'd be set, and the pets would fall out of their pet carriers, and I played hand after hand after motherfucking hand of this sisyphean game.  And I know that this dream lasted for the whole two hours because when I woke up, I was certain I had fucked my jaw up for good and for real. Dad says they make something for that, some kind of a bite guard that I can't spit out, like a retainer, but I am afraid for the places to where that clinch would run, best to keep it in my mouth and close to my brain, where I can keep an eye on it.

He said, "Oh my god, in four years, I'll be fifty."  I said, "Let's take it one day at a time, Mister."  He said, "Yeah, 'cause you're so healthy."  And I said, "But I haven't been as rough on my body as you have."  He said, "Maybe I've lived it crazier, but you've lived yours harder."  And then I was a little embarrassed, how his overall rightness proved my overall dumbness, because, we're all adults, let's be honest: I, who gets penetrated nearly daily, have never penetrated anyone else.


I have been thinking about writing another sex thing.  I was thinking about describing in excruciating detail how we, how you, then how, ah, sleepy time, nap time; is a springtime for hedonistic hitlers everywheres.  And he never disapproves or judges, he just reads it, his face makes no tells, he turns off the screen, and then he goes back to doing whatever it was that he was doing before.  Sometimes I think about making a mistake on purpose and putting it right in the middle, some real lorem ipsum get-down shit, just to see if he is listening, and it is my darkest brightest hope that he will say:

the manner in which

you thump out the notes

without the slightest thought

to their meaning

is unforgivable

and your lack of passion

is unforgivable

I shall have to beat you

And then he will, and I will know that, for sure, that I have captured his attention, if not his imagination, at least for a little while.  But he won't, if historical record provides any sort of reasonable basis for probability theory.

And if I ask him, "did you read it?  And if so, did you like it?"  And he will say, "uh huh" or "sure" or something to that effect and then I'll say something else and then he'll ignore me and then I'll get real tired of all that bullshit and make a quick noose out of words, and then I'll push, I mean, he'll fall right into it, but I'll help him down before he turns too blue.  And then, with his head hung low but his eyes looking up at me, he'll rub his neck and smile at my comedy, and he'll say, in a way that pardons all of the badness in me: Long Hair don't care!  And then he will probably fuck me senseless if there is no life getting in the way, and, ha ha, I win, because that's what I was going for, anyway.

Every time I look at the David's body I think how striking the resemblance is, scary similar, if its cock were about ten times bigger.  You've got the body of an old master's god and a heart made out of marble and I'm glad modern cocks are bigger than the ones that existed during the renaissance, because I have to say, the David would probably not do it for me.  Not that I'm a huge cock kind of girl, but they don't call it a G-spot for no reason.

Learn To Breathe Fire In Five Easy Steps

Smile for the money shot!  Yes, because snapping always works, for summoning the hypnotized and for waking the bored and for applauding the poetic.  But what does it do, for trying to make the over-educated and under-fucked get over themselves?  Bitch please, nothing (and no one, no where, and at no time); it does not a fucking thing, 'cause our types can't hear it, on account of our tinnitus, which we acquired by standing too close to some IED somewhere far away, in the Helmand provinces of our mid-century kitchen's imagination.

No, shrapnel does not a good earwax make. "But the colors so pretty," whines our inner pyro, who always loved nothing more than setting fire to flames, to smell the chemistry, to hear the hiss, to scorch our thoughts; to make us hard or wet over the graceful arches that push back the night, to get us into trouble, for playing with fire.

Sure, I could say that it is the combustion that takes my breath away (and that wouldn't be a lie) but it is more like that the ignition knocks the wind out of me, a kind of blowback if you catch my backdraft drift, whatever kind of word you like that means the thing that causes all the sick feelings we get from too much or not enough oxygen, which seem to sneak up, come creeping all around us like an incoming tide.

Lucky bitch at John Peter Smith, my brain is dead, too, but I ain't got no advanced directives, only a precis of past precepts, penned on papyrus.  And it, too, is falling apart, worn at the creases and folds from one hundred hundred thousand times of my mind opening it, reading it, re-folding it, and burying it back into my back pocket.  The more effort I put into trying to keep the peaces together, the more they crumble, and I know even less than I did before about where all the pieces fit, if they ever did have a jigsaw rightness, I can't really say that I recall.  Puzzles are his thing and remembering is not mine. 

Fucked, Rubik's-style, and scared, but maybe not as much as I should be, about: what it means to not be able to make sense of your past or of your present, about how to make them cohere, to follow, one square right after the other, about how to make it seamless, so that I never have to see the guy wires keeping them weakly staked in the shifting sand.  And even more about: what it means to look always and in every place and in everyone for patterns, and about how, when I find them, I can never trust that the rows and columns or the alternating colors actually exist somewhere other than as a pretty little needlepoint my mind has stitched together for its own satisfaction.

Hm.  If I thought you were half-crazy, would you want me to half-tell you?  He says, "would you like for me to stomp your other foot, so this one hurts less?  'Cause I can."  Symmetry arguments notwithstanding, I shake my head no, keep my eyes on my cripple, and leave my mouth closed.  Uzis: pull down and to the left, lying eyes: up and to the right, and he, always.


But here is one funny thing.  When I looked up IED, which I do all the time, look shit up, idk why I do, I'm just a looker-upper, call it an optimist if you want but we both know what I mean.  Anyway, when I did, Wikipedia said IED was not to be confused with IUD, on the disambiguation page.  Uh.  I may not know up from left or down from right but even I know better than to use an IED as a contraceptive.  Oh, Wiki.  You so cray cray.  Maybe that's why I love you so bad.

He walked into the room and out in three strides and I broke my neck, just trying to watch him.  He made a face at me and I said, "Wha???" and he said, "your face."  No wait, he said, "that face."  Definitely, it is time to go find some war footage that will get me off, so that I can get some sleep, so that he can snuggle up to his coozie and take his medicine.

A Lesson on Girls

Ugly girls hate pretty girls.  Pretty girls hate smart girls.  Smart girls hate pretty girls.  Dumb girls hate smart girls.  The really dumb girls, pretty or otherwise, just feel things and they don't know why, but this holds for stupid boys, too.  Not everything is about your private parts.  But the point is, you might think that smart, pretty girls are the kind of girls most hated by other girls but you'd be wrong.

I don't want you to get the wrong impression, smart, pretty girls are hated because they know that they are pretty and smart, and they know how to work it, and they do.  Because they are smart.  And I assure you, there are distinct advantages to being both smart and pretty.  And no one likes to see anyone else get anything, least of all an advantage, but that is kind of human nature.  Anyway, the important thing to remember here is this: in a culture that values the appearance of intelligence (not the existence of it, the appearance of it) and physical features that conform to whatever standard of beauty is that culture's present standard, a girl without an obvious deficit in one or the other is definitely going to be hated.  But some are hated more than others.

Since we have already established that girls hate smart, pretty girls that know they are smart and pretty, it would be natural to think that we hate, and maybe to an even greater degree, smart, pretty girls that do not know they are smart and/or pretty.  Imagine any strong, endearing character played by Jessica Alba or Megan Fox.  Her precious insecurities are so charming.  Her beguiling humility is sublime!  She can't even see how lovely she is and that is what makes her so irresistible!

I can see how you might think we would hate those kind but I should remind you that, in real life, if a smart, pretty girl doesn't realize that she is pretty and/or smart, she stands in stark violation of our original assumption of intelligence.  No, in real life, to say that a girl is smart and pretty but unaware of either is a contradiction of terms.

But you've met those kinds of girls, you say to yourself.  Wrong.  Those are not called smart, pretty girls.  If a truly smart and pretty girl says things or does things or behaves in ways that make us think she sincerely does not realize that she is smart or pretty, well, there are only two explanations for it: either she has deep, cavernous void on the inside (think the eating disorder types) or she is a fucking liar.  In either case, we call those types sad, pretty girls and we mostly feel sorry for them.  Even those of us who are not pretty and those of us who are sad ourselves, we don't hate them.  We feel sorry for them, which is, in many ways, a stronger indictment.  It is complicated.

So, I submit that the girl most hated by other girls is the smart, pretty girl who doesn't give a fuck about being smart and pretty.  Of course, she isn't self-loathing, because that is sad and disabling.  And neither is she proud of being smart and pretty because she could never value herself for those characteristics.  She finds it vacuous and tedious and she doesn't value it, doesn't trust it.  She simply don't care.  And nothing drives other women to a more shocking and dizzying madness than a pretty girl who is above beauty.  She doesn't deign to enter the fray and that makes them crazy.

Of course, virtually none of what I've discussed has anything at all to do with how the girl feels about herself; and that has everything to do with genuine attractiveness.  No, I suspect attractiveness derives directly from how a girl feels about herself, regardless of her prettiness or smartness.  How many ratch girls ooze sex appeal?  How many dumb girls feel like they are fucking brill?  How many bright girls feel dull from the gaping black holes swirling around their brains, stretching everything inside all to spaghetti?  How many beautiful girls feel unattractive?  And doesn't that make them unattractive?

Well, I have all sorts of tired going on in my head and it is time for me to drink a coke and throw a trick or two and whistle into the wind and ca-ca-cut to the chase:

It doesn't pay to cross no kind of girl.  You should leave them alone.  And boys, fuck me, they are even worse!  They never met a nuance they didn't like to squash with their testosterone and on the inside, they all look like those dead-eyed cymbal-clanging monkey toys.  But don't take my word for it because I eat pork in my dreams and dine on human flesh when I'm awake and I am only an authority on the things I am, none of which are: pretty, smart, sad.

Mutually Assured Fuck Fest

And I'll be launching on warning and I'll even decorate with crepe paper streamers if you wish, I just want to party (on your pussy, baaaaby) with you like it's 1999 and I was 19 then, at least towards the end, and though they say you're only young once, I can remember way, way back to a few hours ago, when I was 33 and young and dumb and full of come now, Mi Puerco, everything's gonna be just fine, I promise, shhh, I'm on it, so no rush, just hush, little baby, don't say.

A word?  I got more than one so dispatch with your singular articles (of clothing) and lay your pretty hand in my lap and let me stroke it how you like and let me coo them all into your ear, breathy and slobbery, while I chew on your (prefrontal) lobe, helping you differentiate between conflicting thoughts, like, good, better, fucking don't go there! and I'll just ask one thing of you: is it real, Son, let me know it's real, Son, if it's really real, and I'll carve my name into your chest, one of your many (life) tattoos, like that surgery scar there and that road rash here, and I have them, too, one perfectly Bic-sized, wish it had been in my throat instead because, show of hands, who else in here thinks tracheotomies are sexy as hell?

Hey, where'd everyone go?  No matter, I'll be over here, busying myself with orchestrating the next Now's apocalypse, and if the precolumbian were so fucking prescient, how did their doomsday scenarios not involve white men, variola major, and variola minor?

You made M glow; but I'll never glow the way you glow; though ... I could totally get into some crucifixion, so let's just let the jury hang on that one, k?  Our fail-deadly fetishism will draw blood yet.

Unassailable

He even puts the words "quit putting words in my mouth" in my mouth and now let's see what else we can fit in there, shall we?  Pabst Blue Ribbons in my hair, done up all pretty, all bangs pulled up gently with bobby pins, all mascara and batted eyes, all Gatsby all the time, all the galas we will never attend, and all their invitations getting used as coasters, are not half as fine as your frog hair, Friend.

And I'm definitely not thinking about you when I'm imagining the real part of complex plane integration and certainly not when I'm changing my tampon and for sure not when I'm checking out at the grocery store, and never while I'm twisting my hair around my finger, wondering if anyone else in here is as uncomfortable as I am.  And I assure you that you never cross my mind not even a single once when I'm in that sleepy twilight place that lies between watching BBC's WWII in RGB and my hand finding its way like a blind thing to my warm, waiting crotch.  But somehow, even with all that not thinking about you, I find you in my heated, padded wet dreams, still.  Besides, hands got their own sense of tunneled vision.

It is the hard and the soft kiss in the dark room, that pulls my body up to meet yours, your arm hooked perfectly around my ribs, that supports my increasing arching, that pulls my hips to yours by way of my lower back, that communicates to you how fucking turned on I am, that makes you harder, that makes my hip joints relax.  And even if the Bible was actually the Sutra or even the other way around, I still wouldn't worship because I gots no need for instruction with holy communion like that, transubstantiating all over my ass and back.  Things like that are the only things in which I have any faith at all; and I don't even need to know your fucking name when you suck me up into your silent vortex.

No, no magic sky fairies for me, thanks, I've got my own religion and narrative of reality, like: peak oil has passed past, people, 'cause if a treble can only make 12% say "Either love me or blow me, I don't really care which," ... well...I'll keep my Malthusian trap shut for as long as I can but, you know...I'm a talker.  And a lover.  And a blower.  And in my uterus, there is no keg.

Today at the grocery store check out, when I was absolutely not thinking about all the many ways I'd love for you to lay me, lay me down, lay me the fuck down, hiss at me to shut up, shut the fuck up, and pull my turned face up against your falling chest above, tell me to roll over, tell me to do it now, take me by the hips and roll me yourself and then, yes! the crop or your hand, again, again!, when I was not thinking about that, I was thinking about other things, such as how fucking bizarro plastic surgery is, and how, as bad as I hate my face sometimes, I never have the urge to invasively modify it.  And then I said something I should not have to someone who really was glad to hear it.

"Does rhinoplasty hurt?"  And then after I answered and saw her look, I said, "well, you shouldn't ask questions to which you don't really want to know the answer."  Of course, I said that last part in my head but some things just don't need saying, I guess.

Then I said in a stage whisper to the cashier, "You sure get some weirdos around here."  And then the cashier says, "Well, everyone is .... special --" and I finished her sentenced, " -- in their own fucked up snowflake way." She laughed and said, "I love it when people say the things we are thinking but can't say.  Like, the richer they are...." "...the harder they fall," I said on cue.  Then she says, "You are my favorite customer.  You made my night!"  But she made mine because we all need a little reminding, just a modicum of fucking validation, that we make things better for someone; even a stranger.

Two eyes made out of coal do not confess of a dead center, at least, no more than a nose nicely contoured from grafted cartilage belies one.

A(,)men.

A thousand hot breath, peanut butter pistachio sticky kisses blown your way, Mi Puerco.  Get well soon, sooner.

Been Rubbing a Bad Charm With Holy Fingers (the "too many epitaphs" edition)

Hello, everyone, I'd like to introduce you to my friend Polyethylene PAM.  She was just leaving.  Now that she's gone, I'll tell you, PAM is more closely related to Gause than Gauss.  Put it all together and you've got yourself some positively plastic assortative mating.  Polyethylene(plastic) P(ositive) A(ssortative) M(ating), goddamn you're slow on the uptake.  Just like me.  Just like J(Lennon): Hello, goodbye.  Now, shut the door, shut the door, shut the door, shut the goddamn door, go! Aaaaaand, we're off!

But then back on again 'cause bad girls are always bad girls and you should always keep always lettin' 'em come in; but keep out strange or strays.  And you should fall in lockstep behind if they are ladies.  And then you should lock the door behind me.  And then you should fetch your rope. Whoa, Cowboy, I think I'm starting to loose my grip on this ex-strap-elation, so why don't we get right to it and ask me: is there anything else that I think you should do?

Yes, as a matter of motherfucking fact, there is:

You

should take down

the old portraits of your aging masters

hanging in the dusty great hall of your mind.

You should forget the things you used to trust.

You should make a pyre from the artistic renderings. 

You should push off that pyre and let it float.

You should wait until it is far, far offshore.

You should shoot it with a fiery arrow.

You should let that fucker burn.

You should pour one out.

For your homeboys.

And girls.

-s

 
And I should stop preaching and start listening!  I know, I know, it makes you mad when I don't listen.  But I guess all you can do is tell me things.  And me not to listen.  He tried to shake my hand when we first met, you know.  He stuck it out for me to grab and instead, I kissed him.  I told him he was attractive.  He told me I was short.

There is some volatility in a smile for damn sure, more for boys than for girls.  And cute the profile pic switch ticking up some.  And cue Farmers and Bronys everywheres finally getting some.  And then repeat until tedium strikes, then go on and on and on.  And cue everyone living happily, ever.  As you were; as you wish, Mi Puerco.

Did You Mean, Like, An Actual Brownie Or Did You Mean My Butthole?

God, so crass.  Can't take me anywhere.  Not even here; or there.  What kind of parkour bullshit is this?  Run up in some still tighter, darker alleys and I will whisper it in your ear.

C'est vrai: Operation Mindfuck, a religion now canned for your convenience.  Why come everyone takes my names?  Cue Duly Noted/Legs Akimbo/Empty Again DDoS takedown!  Well, I was thinking about doing something new with it anyway.  Related, to everyone who loves me and also has a server, could you plz host the following website for me:

www.onlybadwitchesareugly.internets/firefox/google

It is true, I write in code, but I don't write code, and I don't keep servers just laying around because they sound like airplanes taking off.  Mostly on account of me not being into pedantic, boring ass shit, but also because of my closet Luddism (mostly on account of I think progress bad! (mostly on account of my sincere disagreement with what seems to be the majority opinion of what constitutes progress.))

Anyway.  When I die and whatever good parts of me remain get donated and the rest incinerated and then subsequently ground, I am sure there will be millions of you who will erect some kind of memorial to me, even though that is definitely against my wishes.  But when you do will you plz make it to say:

Martyr "they stole that from my blog, I swear to god, look at the dates, goddamn!" in Moderation

23 enigma, two truths doctrine
epistemological pluralista
Criminal-loving terrorist
diehard dilettante
tryer (?) trier (?)
one who tried
to adore
a pork
chop

As for the remainder of my remains?  You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!

Bitches, Man.

Men, bitches.

Integrate over my complex planes and I'll tell you a secret: we all have our own snowflake special brand of asshole and it isn't about finding the right mate or mat, it is about finding someone to take your bratty ways in stride.  And you gotta be able to take their ways, too, though I admit it is better to dish than 'tis to receive.

What does one week teach us, my darling little beastlings?  What it has always taught us: not a fucking thing, no how, no where, not now, not then, never did, never will, nuh uh, nothing, nada, bye.

Because the days go so slow but the years go so quick and did you know that we change our memories each time we access them?  What you should be asking is: do they change us?  Ask anyone, except those laying around after a bad maybe break-up feeling drunk for themselves.  The last time I broke up with someone I felt so much better the farther I got from it, in an n-factorial sort of way.  The color returned to my cheeks, even as I belly-crawled with a baby on my back under the electrified fence and into the Haslet sun.

Well, I love you all even if you don't love me and I wish I could stay longer to give you advice you didn't ask for, that doesn't apply, or is just completely wrong but I gotta go make someone laugh so hard their head explodes, soooooo...I'll be taking that, thank you!