Asked Caroline. She always asks that before a crucial day.
The person mentioned here would look like a short, petite, two pony
tailed girl but this picture was a wasted frame
With bad hair and bad clips she wanted to gain my attention
Wait, bad everything. That is Caroline.
Instead of saying “No, I don’t think I would want to give you my book, because nobody really talks to you, so will I not.”
I say, “Sure! Of course! Do you even have to ask? You can take my book any time!”
Why, isn’t sharing a good deed than to just show yourself
to be an ignorant bitch because that’s what the world calls ‘cool’
and you feel a tremendous pressure to achieve that level of ‘coolness’. They say. Everybody says. Sharing keeps you satisfied and full.
I say to myself when Caroline asks for my notebook.
The notebook thankfully consists of blank pages and few doodles by
my ex boyfriend who is not a living person anymore because he had to ‘find his way’ and this life for him held nothing. I sometimes think he
did some sort of voodoo? Is that possible, I think. I only live on his suicide letter his old grandmother passed down to me because she
saw me crying one afternoon when I was holding my abdomen and looking myself in the mirror. Stomach cramps. Not him. Who’d tell
the old lady?
And that evening, I asked for fried onion rings and chicken
lollipops because you know, why not, food. It was overdone and oily.
Just how I like it. She, the old grandmother of my dead ex boyfriend, asked me to get some tea and I broke her chinese teapot.
"This is not my home, I need to rush!"
I wanted to blow my brains out and think about a white
page and few blobs of ink on my face covering certain spots
on the face, its extremely weird and casual if you think.
"Banks are extremely depressing." I say.
Now I see blobs of ink on people. The sexy woman from the neighbourhood, with her unimaginably horrible push up bra
(that her breasts didn’t seem normal to me) and blobs of ink
pasted on her nose, cheeks, lips.
Or the schizophrenic kid from the third block who once threw a shoe
at me because I refused to kiss his neck.
He says, “Yo, stay away maybe.” and handed me over a perfectly
That’s all right, I realized its only a way of caring. An elusive form of sharing.
My friend, I.
I live with my puffed eyes and warm mouth.
I live inside. An abyss.
Rainbows and crooked lanes, the abyss.
Hard potatoes and loose jeans, dark abyss.
Forget figures in between, forget things that feel.
Just high speed and incessancy.
And no end. So always.
So. A Sauvignon on toast. For my friend, I.
Or warm milk.
Anonymous said: Send yourself anons?
That’s a fucking brilliant idea!
Count from December to August man. Look around a bit.
Stalk away tho. ;)
Anonymous said: What makes u smile?
I recently got to do something like this with unknown friends. It made me smile. Then, I ate bad sandwiches.