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04:35pm 01/10/2009
  My Poem

I am not myself
I fulfill different roles in relation to different people and things
yes, you guessed it
I am a broken coffee maker in the trash
an unreliable old friend
in relation to the coffee drinker
but a new and interesting guest
in relation to the trash
this is so relaxing
10:10pm 24/09/2009
  An overhead projector at the back of the car projects your view of the road on to the windshield which is lit from behind by the sun. At your current speed it seems that you are unable to move beyond the horizon so you step on the gas pedal and accidentally drive the car through it's windshield.
You step out of the car to survey the damage. Things don't look good at all. The windshield and all that had previously stood behind it lies yards behind the car, shattered into countless little fragments. You are way ahead of yourself.
The overhead projector has been jostled a bit and the image it projects now seems off compared to what it was before the accident. The sun is setting whereas earlier it had been noon. Since there is an image before you despite your windshield being broken, you realize that you must be looking at the projection on another windshield. There is a town on the horizon which must have an auto parts shop. Things are looking up.

You pull into town and park your car. You intend to look for the auto parts shop but, since you skipped lunchtime and lunch along with it, you wish to eat beforehand and there is a restaurant conveniently located within your field of vision. Since your car has no windshield and could therefore easily be broken into, you ask for a window seat so that you can keep an eye on it.
You open the menu and are immediately overwhelmed by the myriad of choices with which you are presented. You can have soup if you are sick, wine if you are romantic, oysters if you are not currently in the mood but would like to be soon. The menu lacks a test that you can take in order to find out what you should order so you ask the waitress what she would recommend. Her eyes dart from side to side and she giggles before she leans over and whispers her recommendation in your ear.
You welcome her advances and suggest the two of you blow this joint in favor of a more romantic one. You look out of the window and see that your car is gone. You panic. In the backseat of what are you two going to make out now?! You are terribly upset and embarrassed but she strokes your hair and tells you it's going to be okay. "There's a go-kart track just down the block," she says.

You both climb into your respective go-karts at the same time but she quickly drives off, leaving you behind. You don't know where to go. After you check the go-kart for any flaws, you realize that you were unable to drive because you intuitively knew that this go-kart is devoid of both a windshield and an overhead projector.
The waitress goes all the way around the track and meets you back at the starting line. She asks what's wrong. After you tell her, there is a period of ineffable silence in which she gives you a very peculiar look that you only know how to answer with mimicry before she asks you, "Why in the world do you think that you need an overhead projector in order to drive a go-kart?"
12:10pm 20/08/2009
  I threw out a lot of old artwork yesterday because I did not like the memories that I recalled when I looked at it. Considering the time and emotion that I put into those images, I was almost reluctant to get rid of them. However, I soon realized that, even if I threw them away, they had still been worth my energy to make.
I seldom look at my artwork after I've finished it. What is important is that I made it at the time because I felt compelled to. A lot of what I make only really matters to me before and during its creation. When it's finished, I still have the thoughts connected to the creation of the product- the product itself is of no use to me personally but I can use it to communicate with other people.
Most of the stuff that I threw out was pure "art therapy." Even though I showed most of it to other people, my only intent while making it was to help myself cope with and gain insight into problems that I was having at the time. Looking at it yesterday, I saw that it had clearly long since served its original purpose. The only thing it had left to offer to me was bad memories.
Admittedly though, I did keep some of the stuff which was particularly soulful and or well executed(I mean that in a very vague way, nothing that I make is actually well executed.)
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07:28pm 15/08/2009
  Saying "thank you" is so easy and worthwhile!  
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11:26pm 18/07/2009
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a scene   
10:46pm 11/06/2009
  She touches the hollow between his clavicles. It's slightly dirty there. "It's slightly dirty here."
"Oh, well-"
"You know," she interrupts, "when I was little, my grandmother used to entertain me by not washing this space. Then, every hour on the hour, she would press her fingers to the skin below it..."
She slides her fingertips down an inch, up until now they had not moved from the hollow at the base of his throat.
"... and swing this patch of dirt back and forth, counting the hours."
Her pressing fingertips feel hot as she swipes them, and his skin, back and forth, uncomfortably, across his sternum. He doesn't know how to feel.
"Sounds like you had one hell of a tedious childhood." He smiles nervously.
She is too absorbed in her memories to notice his comment. "If she were her husband, she would have been a grandfather clock. My grandfather was a violinist in his spare time. She served as his metronome. The procedure was essentially the same as the clock one, just sped up. It's so funny... she could become his metronome and yet he couldn't become his own violin."
She watches her fingers as she lets them trail slowly down to where his shirt is unbuttoned. She then withdraws her hand.
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12:33pm 30/04/2009
mood: optimistic
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04:35pm 23/04/2009
06:03pm 18/03/2009
  I am becoming very intimate with Borges. I read him while eating chocolate ice cream. I read him in the steaming bath tub. After my bath, I slather on lotion with the faintest scent and read him as I lay soft and nude beneath the covers.  
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01:08am 13/03/2009
mood: cheerful
So today I popped an interesting blackhead. Usually my blackheads are mushy below the black part. Much more rare for me are the seed-like ones with a semi-firm shell encasing the mushier sebum. I was very pleased and promptly moved into the sunlight to examine my find. I flattened the casing with my right thumbnail; the soft contents were excreted onto my left thumbnail. I was reminded of trapping my dog's fleas beneath scotch tape when I was eight years old. I would run them over with my fingernail or the side of a paper clip with enough force to burst them. If they weren't gorged with blood, it was apparent that their insides were white. The fleas were similar to this blackhead in size, shape, and in the color and consistency of their contents.

Popping blackheads is a very personal and intimate experience which can even result in a nice trip down memory lane! It's funny that I even bother with salicylic acid.
11:16pm 10/01/2009
mood: annoyed
I was, sadly, just converting my pitiful love problems into some Nathan/Toki fanfic when I get hit with this: "You should watch True Beauty on channel 4 and stop making creepy witchcraft art of Luis."

Dexter's mom   
03:53pm 05/12/2008
mood: tired
A Treatise on Glenn Danzig and Vanitas   
07:57pm 30/10/2008
mood: I really badly need to pee
Danzig, the man with the heart of the devil and the voice of an angel (of death), is an old man. The hairline of his raven-black mane has significantly receded. He's losing muscle mass, he has a gut. His face has gotten puffy, the rounded contours contrast with and really draw attention to his rhinoplasty. His voice is still amazing, but not what it used to be. It can't make the world tremble and quake as it once could- individuals like myself, yes- but not the world.
Despite the natural degeneration of his looks, he still goes shirtless- if he IS wearing a shirt then it is probably mesh and embroidered with pentagrams. He conditions himself for eternity in the hot, harsh climate of the Underworld by stuffing his chafing thighs into tight leather pants. His evil, brooding, imposingly macho image has always been a transparent one yet somehow manages to wear even thinner than before. He is laughable.
I am aware of how silly he is- clinging to youth and evil ideology which he has seemingly forgotten the meaning of, yet it saddens me to see him getting made fun of all the time. He is old, and fat, and washed up but he is STILL dark, imposing, and evil! Here is why: Danzig (like so many of the other old metal Gods) is the ultimate example of VANITAS. He reached the peak of his talent long ago, all his new stuff sucks, he isn't sexy anymore... all that is left for him is to embark on an endless and futile quest to maintain the dark credibility he had at his prime. Of course he would have to regain it first, but he does not even realize it has long since died. Others may make fun of him but Danzig as he is now evokes more darkness in my own soul than he ever could have in his younger days. He reminds me that I'm going to lose my hot looks one day and that one day my creativity will reach it's peak and all my art afterwards will at least pale in comparison if it doesn't completely suck all together. I can see myself as a desperate slave to my ego as well, unable to admit I'm long past my prime, wasting away my golden years on that futile quest. It is really depressing.
Don't scoff at Danzig. He reminds us all of life's transience, of the pointlessness of our human vanity, of the true bleakness of existence and the inevitability of death! Danzig is the personification of Vanitas. This makes him darker, more intimidating, and more ruthless than ever.
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12:16pm 21/10/2008
mood: distressed

My first dream took place during my last week with Luis when I was packing all my things. Amidst my beat up cardboard boxes I found a large white gift box with a ribbon around it. I undid the ribbon and lifted the lid to find, neatly folded, a pale pink latex skirt and a slutty cropped pink mohair sweater that I wouldn't be caught dead in. Folded in half beneath these two items were a pair of high quality pink stiletto boots. In my dream, Luis had two dogs instead of two cats and when I tried on the mysterious outfit they started to bark and growl at me.
In my second dream I was walking around some fictional part of Los Angeles that looked more like a few of the grungier streets I'd seen in Honolulu with all the glossy tropical plants around juxtaposed against smog-dusted yellow stucco. I was uncomfortable from the heat and light. I ran into Luis and immediately began sobbing and begging him to take me back. There was an overpass ahead of us and I threatened to throw myself over it. The two of us got a hotel room. He lay on the bed with his head on my lap as I cried and petted his hair. The sun light coming in through the window was golden-yellow and nostalgic. I knew we weren't going to have sex and wondered why we'd bothered with getting the room. Luis looked annoyed with me and asked me to leave.

These were guilty dreams following some flirtatious advances I'd made on some guy yesterday night with the hopes of getting laid sometime this week. I don't know how I'm going to handle being free. I'm really struggling to get a hold over my slutty natural impulses but they're very overpowering.
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12:40am 18/10/2008

WHY NOT???!!!?!??
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08:25am 10/10/2008
mood: sad
The last time Luis went to Mexico he used my duffel bag. Yesterday I found he'd left his horse shoe crab necklace in it. Mine now.

I keep feeling like I made a mistake. I couldn't take the pain though. It was breaking my heart to live in the same house with Ivana and when he said he'd leave her it only made me worry. I'd looked through the many drawings they'd done of each other in the past and through all of their old photos. I couldn't trust him. I couldn't take the risk that someday I'd have to suffer the same fate which befell her- that someday I'd be replaced by someone younger, prettier, and more crazy. I might have dealt an awful blow to his heart but mine had been slowly breaking for a long time.
I can't say that we were mismatched but rather that we were too perfect of a match. There were too many similarities. Everything from the look in our eyes to our weaknesses to our eccentricities and even the origins of our eccentricities. Because of this we pleased each other immensely but there was only a short extent to which we could really help each other.
Anyway, even knowing these things, I am still sad and angry and bitter. There are so many good memories and so many streets in this big city make me ache with nostalgia. I want him more than ever.
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05:01pm 28/09/2008
mood: regretful
I'm trying hard to take this like a man but I can't seem to not take it like a woman... with hot chocolate and gallons of tears.
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Maggots In a Tin Can   
03:53pm 14/09/2008
mood: worried

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02:43pm 11/08/2008
mood: bored
Yesterday I discovered Metalocalypse slash and have since indulged in reading many Nathan/Toki sexcapades. If that's not a guilty pleasure, I don't know what is.

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09:30pm 03/08/2008
mood: anxious
Death and the Devil Take a Prostitute