confession

I found myself lucid dreaming last night.
I found myself dreaming of you.

I'm Only Drunk Because I'm Broke.

To preface, I am slightly intoxicated at the moment, and honestly, I will probably be prefacing every future post with that. Don't judge.


Have you ever had one of those experiences where you must sit down and have a chat with yourself, and you say, "Listen, me. This shit isn't good. It's pretty abnormal. Have you ever considered you might have, like, something wrong with you? Like a condition, or something?"

Well of course there is nothing wrong, you reply.

And then you start thinking about yourself, and the self you want to be, but you stop paying attention to your present self, and become obsessed with your Future Self. You don't fill the wine glass, you watch your Future Self filling the wine glass. It's much more enjoyable this way. You would much rather be watching your Future Self than looking through the lenses of your present self. You start engaging in this exercise more and more frequently.You realize you start looking different in the mirror. Your apartment seems modern and stimulating. You stop seeing your sink loaded with every single dirty dish and plate and glass that you own. Those mountains of cigarette butts aren't really in the ashtray, but for some reason you now deviate to ashing in empty beer bottles.

Work begins to feel important, even though it's reprehensible. And you live in that delusion until a Christmas-fueled co-worker goes on a jolly rampage against you. You cry when you get home. You look red-eyed and pathetic in the mirror. Your eyes are wet and red and your skin looks horrible. You go to the living room and you see not only the heaps of clothes, but the gobs of cat hair clinging to them that you are now finding your eyes able to focus on. You open the cupboard. Oh, no food. Maybe I should repaint these shelves now that they're bare. Refrigerator. Beer, wine, butter, wine, another bottle of wine, a jar of pickles, approximately 30 mix-matched packets of sauces from Chinese take-outs, and a rogue beer can in the crisper. You close the door, and are presented with the sink. Sisyphus would have cringed at the sight of this mountain. You sigh. Walk to the futon and sit down. You click around on the computer. You smoke a cigarette. You click around a little more. You put out your cigarette. You turn off the monitor. You lay on your back and light another cig. Smoke a little pot. Then you close your eyes, and find yourself smiling again. You daydream about the future you. She looks very confident and approachable. About 5 inches taller than you now. She's dressed up professionally, and you just *know* she is a woman of great accomplishment. Her dishes are stacked in the cupboard. Her cats' litter-box is clean. Her kitchen is a striking white and she is drinking tea and reading a newspaper. She's nice to look at. You like her hair. You want to have coffee with her. You want to watch her interact with the world. You want to be a permanent fixture from this omniscient but unknowing point of view. You don't ever want to go back.

Well what's the verdict. Condition? Or totally healthy and normal? Isn't there some type of vitamin for this sort of thing?

There has been a violent decrease in graphs that chart violent decreases

Upholding my unspoken obligation to keep this blogger-blog moderately up-to-date.

No, that's a lie. I don't really care about upholding anything.
Mostly I'm just a little buzzed and want to write something so I can feel moderately cool until I sober up.

Have you ever entered a distinct set of mind and feel the need to make some tangible expression of it? Like a disturbed beacon flashing. I find myself throwing up little flags like that all the time. In a "wow, this was hilariously paranoid" type of way.
I asked myself, why DO I habitually throw up these reminders of my substance-induced alter-egos?

...I think it's to make sure I stay insane!


I thought about this today: I have been a(n):
1) Mistress
2) Experiment
3) Monogamous Lover
4) Poly-amorous Partner
5) Rebound
6) Heartbreaker
7) "EX" (note the quotes)



Stop saying "correlation". I AM AWARE ALREADY.

My Body Is An Orchard of Rotting Fruit

I've had a perplexing fascination with fruit lately.

For lunch, I opened an orange, and thought of a past lover.
I sliced an apple, and regarded the mysteries of childbirth.

I peeled the skin off a grape with my teeth, and mused about the hidden textures of the body.

 

If I had a woman in my life right now, I'd want to open her like an orange and probe the softness of her insides; the ribbed skin, pliable and soft, white and sleek like silk.

What is my obsession with the human form?
Isn't the peel of an orange dead?

Strange to think the most common contact between humans is dead cells touching dead cells. Each pore is a portal into a deep pool of your essence.

I want to infiltrate you through those pores that decorate your skin. I want to swim upstream your blood and open my limbs to your currents.

Fold me into pieces, take small bites and chew slowly, thoughtfully. I feel like an undertaker when I look at your body. Nibble my tendons and lick my wounds. My body is a pillar on the altar of sacrifice.
The sacrifice is my dignity.
The appeased is you.

I rub my fingers deeply into my temple to relieve the ache but nobody is paying attention.
ENGORGED.

She stuffed her mouth with grapes and each puncturing chew resonated in my skull.
What is it about consumption and pain that seduce so fully?

I stick pins through your wrists and thighs like an butterfly on a slab of matboard.
You lay in front of me, spread, and confessional.
The scalpel trembles in my hand as I lower it to your abdomen.
I cautiously steady my hand with the other.
This is love, not an operation.
I just want to expose the insides of you, darling-- the pulsing flesh, the organs that dance between your bones.
I am tired of the shell, the peel, the dead-cell cage you exist within.
I want the juices, the components, I want to figure out what systems make you work.

I make the first incision with bated breath and you do not complain. Are you orgasmic, or dying? Don't the two look and sound strikingly similar?

Skin peels away from the blade and I unfold you and yours. Orange, I see, glinting and wetly gleaming in the lamplight. An orange, inside. You are composed of plump sections of orange skin and tendon cushioning the weight of its neighbor. Dare I...

 

... There's a slightly sick tearing sound as I remove a slice from your pit. I am overcome with the need to flee. Oranges start falling from above all around me, collilding with the floor, the desk, the armchair, my body, and I flee; stumbling through the tsunami of thudding ovaries filling the room. I collapse in the corner near a bed and am overcome and smothered by oranges. The lamplight shines steadily on your gaping body in silence.

I no longer have an appetite. How should I? I am immersed in the discarded womb. The sutured belly. I nip my finger and draw a dot of blood. I write your name on my stomach with it and realize that is the absolute extent of our intimacy.

 

My temples pound, still, like raining fruit.