hahahormones

I love men. So much fun to play with. At least my father is…
Today I am wearing awkward non-fitting clothes so I can dye my hair and also so I can pack all my good clothes. My tank top is too small, with bleach spots, and my jeans are too big.
Him: “Where is your bellybutton anyways?” [poke, poke] “All the way up there? I let you out of the house dressed like that?”
Me: “I don’t really go out of the house dressed like this. I stay in dressed like this.”
Him: [noncommital ambiguous noise]
Me: “I mean, these clothes are gross!”
Him: [noise or equally fruitless words]
Me: “What? They are! Gross gross!”
Him: “I’m not arguing!”
Me: [humph] “Well, you should be!”
Him: “What?”
Me: “God!” [clomping upstairs]
Him: [confusion]

you’d think after fifty years, living with at least three women for the first eighteen and the last fifteen, he’d have figured it out. We can be crazy! We can even play up our crazy! We like to drive him crazy!
It’s fun.

fuck this

I don’t even know what “this” is, depression or just gray summer days or Wal-mart. Wal-mart gives me an uncomfortableness. I can smell the exploitation, or maybe that is just the tears of the fat, screaming children. I really intensely dislike that place. I also dislike the ugly skies and the way that the dirt smells as the steam rises from it. I dislike the fact that most anything will make me cry and the fact that only just now are people thinking I should be medicated when it’s been so, so much worse than this. I don’t even know if I qualify, now. I feel easy, and happy and not exactly depressed, not exactly like I should be drugged, but at the same time I don’t feel like rebelling or like it’s cheating or anything like people say – like I have said? I don’t remember. I’m just afraid that I am not bad enough to be made better or something like that, or that I’ll still be crying and cutting myself, or that it’ll go away and I’ll feel fine the way I always, always do and things will just be forgotten. I just want to sleep and sleep but I need to do laundry and chores and I need to pack and I really want to see my cherry bitch to say goodbye but I don’t know if I can or when, and I have to redye my hair and I just want to go to bed.

friends don’t let friends write about love campaign 2008

“I’m very much in love. Someone this morning asked me with what, with whom. Why one thing? Why one person?
I think if people read that I’m ‘in love’ they’ll think I’m taken. Why do people assume that love is a subtractive thing? If I’m in love with one thing or person, I don’t have enough love for something else? Bullshit. Utter bullshit.”

I am not in love with anyone. There just aren’t words for what I am, besides “overflowing.” You know the way that having one crush, one person you like who likes you makes you feel? Like there’s this stream inside you flowing at high speed of adrenaline rushes waiting to happen when they touch you, of words about them waiting to come out of your mouth, of smiles, of, uncertainties, of being known, of intimacy and strength. The more people for whom you feel variations on this theme, the more full of the stuff of this stream you become. At three it is not a stream it is a river, rushing me. I’m tempted to give in, to fall, but I don’t think I will. I think I will wade, frustrated, upstream. It’s kind of nice to be overflowing with feelings of affection and desire. It’s also getting me into deep shit, or something that feels like it.

I am really sorry. I couldn’t lie. I’m a fuckup, don’t know when to shut my mouth. I’m sorry but you know this and you kissed me. That was low and I shouldn’t say that. I just– “when a man engages in clandestine dealings, he has his preference for things bein’ smooth. She makes things…not be smooth.” I do, I do. You probably shouldn’t touch me, I might be contagious. Or you might be, your teasing addiction to humanity. Your fucking teasing. I would tell you to stop because I can’t take it but I think stopping might be worse… Anyways it is all partly my own fault. So here’s to us.

Here’s another snarkastical ironical (can’t decide, not enough energy) toast to the girl who doesn’t know what she wants from me but keeps coming back to try and get it again, and again…Dear girl, just ask. Just take. I like you, you’re pretty and sweet and your skin is soft and your words are so sincere. But it’s frustrating because no one wants to hear the ways that you are driving me crazy and I want you when you latch your body onto mine and I have no one to tell these words to.

On top of that on Sunday I think I will be tempted to just…run and hide because I am too nervous that I will make more of my usual mistakes. See? I’m crazy. I tell them all that I’m crazy and they tell me it’s cute and then decide not to handle it anymore or not to handle it right and everything comes a-tumblin’ down. I am honestly, honestly scared because we’ve built this invisible tower and darling, you haven’t seen the girl inside it in a year and what if the words that come from my lips are not the same as the words that come from my hands and what if … ? Do you see? Do you see why giving me the power in this matter might not work out so well, etc? Also…I miss you. What on earth are you doing to me, boy?! In your words…”get out of my head.”

Gushing with feelings like these feels so, so good. I really am an emotional masochist but loving them all is so wonderfully bittersweet!

“Teenagers shouldn’t write about love, ever. They sound like pineapples in a blender on Christmas morning.”

roll your eyes, teenage style

My attention span is equal to that of, perhaps, a hermit crab or chipmunk. I can’t get anything done, I never finish a project, my spaces are covered in half-finished jobs. There are canvases with paint and pencil lines, ambiguous shapes and colors. There are notebooks half-filled with half-stories. There are documents on my computer where the words stop flowing abruptly, midsentence. My nails are frequently half-painted, my room half-cleaned. I can’t hold onto anything long enough to make it real.
I’ve started sketching in red ink, the red ink I use for to-do lists and doodles and making notes in a pad on my desk. It flows wet and bold from my pen and the drawings I make are nothing, really, but I do finish them, or finish the parts I care about. I think it’s lovely that I am drawing pretty little schoolgirls and beat indie-rawk hippie boys and 60s semi-superheros and fat, disgusting women with rolls of flab. I think the more-or-less accurate line drawing of my camera is something special. It’s kind of a shame this pen is running out of ink.

never quite as it seems

Dreams, dreams…for weeks they have been crazy, vivid and intensely colored, strangely sharpened like Polaroids. They were balls of confusion and emotion and subconscience and meaninglessness, but I remembered every turn on every path, every word and every face. Last night I had a dream about that crazy boy in Charlottesville that I’m thinking it would be pretty nice to remember and, of course, I can’t. What is up with that, brain? Seriously?
Although I do remember waking up at one point and thinking “that princess larping thing so wouldn’t work…my feminist sensibilities would make me escape the tower myself…unless I was tied to it…but that’s different.” The sun kept rising and shining into my eyes and waking me up and maybe the constant interference is why I can’t remember. What’s up with that, sun? Seriously?

Oh well. Pretty queers today. I am excited.

The only words for this are my fingers in your mouth.

This is true, and, I have decided, my new answer to the question. The one that people ask but I just have no answer for.
310, I’ll say, and when they say what? I’ll reply “my favorite comic ever written!” “What?” “you’re such a black laquer table.” “What?” “Excuse me? You sure talk a lot.” And then they will be confused and go away and I can just go read my comics and talk to and touch the people I love because those things are right and true , in spite of their lack of simple definition.