Writing from a few months between grad school.

I’m a sucker for the pretty words put together in a cold way. The ugly words put together beautifully. I’m a sucker for the honesty you write because you can’t say what’s on your mind.

It’s easy to be self-deprecating. What seems difficult for people is outwardly expressing any love that they feel for themselves.

I

know

I’m

a

kind

person

because

I

often

want

to

put

people

out

of

their

misery.

In a room full of crazy people,

you are the crazy one.

Someday my prince will come make me a burrito.

Took a cigarette with me on a run

and then I realized

I wasn’t going for a run.

I

just

N

eed to fi nd a kind, compa

ssionate guy

who hates people

as much as I d

o.

I wish

I had a little owl

to deliver all

my important

messages.

We are a culture wobbling timidly on the edge of apathy and apophenia.

What if

the best day of your life

was a dream?

Sometimes the quietest people are full of the

most life,

and are patiently

waiting

for the right moment to share it.

You’re close to my heart,

like an uncomfortable bra wire

I have to cut out and throw in the trash.

Called my mom because I can’t remember all my problems by myself.

When you love someone

you say his name again and again

like a mantra, but real,

like an odd thing you can pick up

and put in your pocket.

My last meal

would be a cigarette

and a gun.

P

L

E

A

S

E

,

t

a

k

e

a

p

i

e

c

e

o

f

m

y

c

l

o

u

d

.

I can tell you’re hungry,

but I’m an acquired taste.

How nice it must feel

to be swallowed up

in someone’s mind.

I try in my art and in my life to peel off the layers of people and see who they are beneath the facades and the personalities and addictions and role playing. It is important for me to make art as an extension of my life, not just as a maker of art or an artist. I don’t know what is most true and real, but I can explore honesty, layers, intimacy, and dialogue and the things left said and unsaid in my art to try and understand it and myself.

The world is hard for dreamers,

especially those who are awake.

We forgive one person and damn another for the same flaw or sin.

Really it all depends on how happy it makes us to have them near.

You can tell a lot about a person by their shoes. Also laugh lines; the way they say your name; the distance they’re willing to travel to meet you.

Relationship status:

watching a buffalo eat a wolf.

About a certain look.

Some people have this look in their eyes like they have seen a lot and they don’t trust many people, or believe in the world. They look resigned and almost at peace, and wise to what they know. But what they know varies. This look could be from living in a place and understanding it and all of the people in it. But this place could be no bigger than a small town, or a job, and a family, and a few friends. This is the world through which all of this face has been carved into resignation that this is all there is. That everyone else has grown and developed relationships elsewhere that have roots and ties and that there is no chance to leave one world for the other. And this face gets more entrenched in its all knowingness. But I think this face is false. This wisdom is limited, and it comes from a transient sphere of experiences that will dissipate, like all of the other spheres, until new relationships are built, and roots found, and ties knotted.

If a guy I liked looked at me

the way my dog looks at my dinner

I’d probably marry him.

I hate feeling tied down, that’s why I’m floating away  in a cloud of balloons.

I thought I loved you but I was just on my period.

You’re like a Picasso.

I look at you and I don’t know

what the fuck is going on.

drop dead,

not bombs

I had a crush on a boy and he said he had one on me.

So I cut my heart out and he ate it.

Sometimes

I feel like

I’m in a silent

film

except

people

won’t

stop

talking.

Fisherman used to throw back into the sea all of the crabs that looked like

they had the faces of samurai warriors. So over time, due to natural

selection, more and more crabs started to look like samurais. Essentially,

the direction we take in our evolution is a reflection of the outside world.

Learn to see people and notice their differences.

You are not that different and they aren’t all the same.

Things people say to me about my melancholy.

You will grow out of it. I used to be like you.

I was sick of hearing about it every day.

your art is so down; it will turn some people off

You will stop questioning everything some day

Gain more self awareness

You know yourself so well

I wish I was as poetic as you, I love your melancholic nature

You make visible the best kinds of stars in the sky

Why can’t you let somebody in?

Boys.

One boy played soccer best. One boy aced all the tests. One boy touched my silky hair. One boy saw my underwear. One boy stole my school lunch. One boy held my hand a bunch. One boy called me names. One boy taught me games. One boy said he thought I was sweet. One boy kissed my blushing cheek. One boy bit my tongue. One boy ate my gum. Another boy called me chia pet. I never could forget that. And another ran track with me, and rubbed my feet at every meet. One boy had shining eyes, and eventually would tell me lies. Another boy was pretty short, but we made out when I was bored. I kissed one boy though he was gay, I kissed him in a different way. I kissed another boy I brought home, and he cut his Achilles, bled and moaned. I sold my guitar to see one boy, unfortunately that was a fleeting joy. Another boy made mix tapes, and so we drove out to the lakes, and at the lakes we lost our clothes, and later he picked a rose, and after that his uncle came and got us drinks, and talked of fame, and after that he drove me home, and called a girl on my phone. There was a boy from a store, who checked me out when I came through, and gave me things when I was blue. And later on he bought me drugs, and ate me out, and pierced his dick, and played around and couldn’t stick to me. In the end he wanted to be free. So another boy got me high, and we snorted coke all night, and talked of Nietzsche and Marx and Jung, and stayed in separate empty rooms. When morning came I wanted to die, and he decided he would save my life, and I told him to just be my friend, and he left and never came again to me. One boy walked with me each night. I liked him most, he was so bright. He moved to Oakland when I moved east, and he moved to Boston when I moved west. I thought he planned this out in jest. One boy had a hot tattoo, we walked under the full moon. One boy fucked me on a beach, he turned out to be a leach. Two days later I met a boy who worked in a bar and said I was coy, and we went away and came back, and I scraped my arm on his mat. One boy I met when I was low. When I could hardly feel my soul. And months went by and he talked to me, and said sweet things and I felt free. And when we were finally together, he was the one I thought I could weather. But that changed, and more boys came, and left, and never headed west. One boy licked my spoon, one boy trashed my room. One boy almost married me, I’m glad he didn’t what a dweeb. One boy had a giant heart, but was the most torn apart. I guess there were others, here and there. Nobody I’d like to share. That one left, that one too, they all had girlfriends and empty rooms. That one wasn’t ever mine, he just made me feel real fine. They all have names, it doesn’t matter, they all played games, it doesn’t matter to me. We were all waiting for someone to set us free. Someway looking to survive each day. Heartbroken anyway. When that’s the case there’s never a beginning, because every beginning is one long ending.

I hope you’re having fun in whatever city you are in,

with whoever you’re with doing whatever you’re doing.

I still say your name to myself.

The year’s 2312.

All bees are dead.

America is dead.

All we have left is applesauce.

Reply to everything with “Heavens to Betsy”.

It will improve your life.

I love discovering someone. You know when you don’t even know how you first discovered them but there they are becoming magnificent in front of your eyes and you suddenly feel like the world is vibrant again? At that moment I don’t want anyone else to know that person, because here you go: I always want someone so special and unique that no one else could want them because they don’t get how damn special they are. But then I do want everyone else to know, at the same time. I want to tell everyone guess what lovely thing I found and don’t you think it’s lovely, you must understand how damn lovely it is. Some people will look for a second. Don’t look for too long. I think, though, that perhaps there is a point where that someone sees you back and you feel that gaze and you feel special too. You feel so damn special and unique and if they turn away for a moment then it is gone. You are just where you were before and what a sadness that makes you feel. Like nothing happened at all, and you were here alone all along.

People who don’t know what they’re doing like to tell you how to do it.

What about me?

Me on the phone with my mom: “What about me? What was I good at?”

I sound like a teenager looking for a compliment, but honestly for almost three decades now my family has been bragging endlessly about my brilliant cousin, and I’ve had just about enough.

“He was talking like an adult by the time he was 3”, “He was one of ten people to get a full-ride scholarship to Vanderbilt”, “he wrote a comprehensive essay on “The Prime Database: 7309*2^884430+1”;and I am over here twiddling my thumbs, and kicking a pile of trash on my floor, like I did when I was fifteen, except now I’m talking about Howard Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences, and how Einstein said imagination is more important than knowledge, and “mom, tell me something I did well when I was little, c’mon!”. “Well, you could always color inside the lines, and you liked to sing”. “What the fuck mom.” “Jackson was just brilliant.” “Fuck Jackson, fuck physics and fuck math.”

I wanted to mention that I was better with language but all I could think of was fuck this and fuck that. “And he could…” “I don’t want to hear it” And I don’t. Maybe he is a superbrain, but his mom and dad, (my aunt and uncle) have been bragging about him non-stop since I was old enough to talk, and old enough to argue with my parents, and argue non-stop until today when Jackson is again praised as the next Isaac Newton. Granted, out of all of the southern cousins, I always liked him the most because he was a sweet nerd.  But who cares! He also has a smelly beard and hair to his waist, and I still don’t know if he’s had sex with a girl, so I’m mostly just jealous of the intellectual pedestal he has been enshrined on since our births and I’m not afraid to admit it because it wouldn’t make a lick of difference in this strange web of paper-accomplishments my family holds in high esteem.

In fact, we had all carved out our familial roles almost before we could walk. I was the artistic, moody one. Jackson was Einstein’s apprentice. Another cousin was a wild rebel with a penchant for racing Mustangs too fast on the high way and talking his way out of tickets. Another was a great jazz saxophonist. We were placed into these definable roles that outlined the general direction of each future conversation about our well-being. And I guess it could have been worse. I could be a boring banker or a dimwitted trophy wife.

But I couldn’t help even all these years later to want to hear a fucking compliment. “Tell me what I was good at.” “You liked music. And you liked to see what would get me angry, always running up behind me and—” “Ok, mom, never mind. I’ll talk to you later…” I’m going to go drink a beer and color outside of the lines. I still think I’m pretty cool, even if I can’t remember physics, calculus or long division.  I did go to space camp and I can sing.

Do you ever watch certain movies or shows or read certain books or listen to certain songs

or cook certain foods because you know someone likes them and it’s the closest you’ll

probably ever get to them again?

Don’t tell me what I want to hear.

Tell me who you are.

Adult stages of crushing and why I hate when people have a crush on me:

1. Intrigue

2. Lust

3. Expectations

4. Nitpicking

5. Hatred

Life is a strange thing

because here I am.

Questions  I ask the most: “what should I watch on netflix?” and “what is the point of anything?” and “when will it all be over?”

The best things in life are freaks.

You say awkward, I say awesome.

If the conversation gets too serious take your pants off.

I don’t even think bees have knees.

I think of at least a thousand possible disasters before breakfast.

Putting my thinking slippers on.

I look forward to not having to look forward to things someday.

Nothing will get me down because I’m already on the floor.

I miss you. I hope you are well. Cows are awesome.

My unrequited love has an expiration date because I like myself sometimes.

I’ve never been used before to such an extent or betrayed with such forethought it’s kind of flattering.

My favorite pastime is thinking of creative ways to say I hate you.

So much surface so little substance.

I dislike when people overanalyze me through my words like they’re ever more than just shadows passively representing your own experience.

I sort of fluctuate between a state of manic creativity and suffocating anxiety.

I think the most important part of not forgetting is not trying to remember things the way you want to.

How do I live a happy, fulfilled life and avoid all people at the same time?

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