My head, my heart, my hips: different planes. I know things, I feel things, I want things.
I can keep myself from doing things. I can deny myself. I can live as a nun. I can know that everyone around me is terrible for me and not touch any of them. My will is strong. I use reason to argue myself out of things and people.
I left someone when I was still in love with him. My heart still burned for awhile. A couple of years. Then it was dead coals for a couple more. It took a while to get up and clean out the hearth.
But I cannot stop my body from its twinges. I can’t help what appeals to it. I love sweets and fats and salt and creeps and sleazes. I love long stringy tall angular dark men with weird mannerisms that seem dangerous and odd. Unsafe. Think Kafka’s Soldiers and Inspectors and Guards. That reads even more terrible than it was in my head. But unfortunately, accurate. (Gross.)
Someone got mad at me the other night for some fucking bullshit. She doesn’t know me well, and she’s been sending me hella text messages. That’s fine. Do that. Well, until you send me one Friday night that says, “Sweet Dreams.” That’s kind of crossing a line. That’s when I’m going to leave you a voicemail that says I don’t really answer text messages, and you can leave me them, but I won’t answer them unless you make it clear that you need me to, and that it isn’t personal, because my lover is the only person who gets a text back, really (this is true), and the best way to reach me is to call me. I was super tired, and this may not have come across the way she wanted to hear it. But if she’s sending me “Sweet Dreams” text messages, nothing may have come across the way she wanted to hear it.
Yo! Yeah, I been away. I’m in school, and I got a ton of people calling me all the time, and I have a boyfriend for the first time in so long I can’t fucking believe it, and I’m trying to write a novel, and I’m still not moved into my apartment because I had bugs follow me, and I haven’t sufficiently killed them, and and and. So no time for blogging. I decided talking smack about people at school wasn’t cool, so sorry, everyone. You can’t get that here.
And tonight? Like last night, and the night before, the baby upstairs is rocking the fuck out! Oh shit. Look out! Yes, she likes to rock and roll all night, and her older brother likes to party every day. Throw the goat, bitches!
This is seriously the best thing I have seen all week.
I love the some of these comments on YouTube as well.
“If you go to this store, you will be murdered. And that’s a promise.”
“Dadaism as television advertisement.”
“He sounds and acts like he just smoked a joint full of hairballs.”
“You can count on his name being Mark!”
I want to see!
So I know a lot of people are concerned, or excited, or just having feelings about the result of the straw poll that just came out. You may be looking into Vivos Shelters (which side of the door do you want to be on? I choose this side. I’ve been in the nuclear bomb shelters under the UCLA library leftover from the cold war, and I can’t go for that, no, no can do), or having a custom structure built. You may be considering emigration. Or joining or starting a UFO cult.
I’m here to give you the straight facts before you give anyone your money, blood or stool samples, or allow anyone to lay his/her/its/their eggs in your chest cavity (babies are forever!).
I’m not a Reptilian or Amphibioid, Seer. I am a mammal. We don’t reproduce like that.
Back to our irregular series of shit that freaked me or you out way back when. So: why are so many children’s antagonists very pedophile-like? Really, I mean this. This isn’t a rhetorical question. Because for reals for reals, they seem like people who like to hurt children in sexual ways, document the hurting, and then cook the wee ones in exquisite ways. Not that we all knew that they were pedophiles, just that something made us feel more icky than just afraid when we saw these monsters on the screen. They weren’t like sharks or snakes or giant squids (I had nightmares after riding the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea ride at Disneyland, no joke) or other things that might scare you. There was something that smelled off about this kind of scare.
I can’t be alone in thinking this.
I really love disco. I love everything about it! Yes, one of my inner personalities is the catty Disco Queer, and that’s because he loves, loves, loves disco. He moonlights as a go-go dancer, and wears hot pants and boots. He prefers a little cage to a platform.