Hair talk

I have to say that the beginning of my pixie cut about a year ago was freakin' adorable. It was awesome. It was 22. But watching it grow an inch reminded me what it meant to look like a newly wed Meg Ryan in the 90s. After reviewing pictures I know what that looks like now. It was cute, but I have just escaped my adolescent and early young adult trauma years to enter a new kind of young adult trauma. I don't know who the hell I was kidding when I cut my hair off and my old roommate, who was obsessed with the "image" of adulthood said, "Oh my god! You look like a real woman now!" As if I wasn't an actual woman to begin with, instead, just a woman equivalent to a shaved vagina or something?

humph

I feel like this. This week is getting ever so closer to over and I am glad. It has been a bad week. I spent the beginning of it sick from trying to quit drinking so much coffee. My addiction was so bad that if I wasn't drinking coffee straight all day I would get a headache. And I did. And I threw up. And I threw up again from caffeine withdrawals. Finally this morning I made a pot and drank it after I found out that my cat was put to sleep and I looked like a fifty year old woman, no joke. It's the fifty year old woman days when people choose to talk to me and that's always nice. "Hey man, yeah, I know, I'm not fifty... I'm just, I'm just no, I'm not starving myself. I just threw up my breakfast because I didn't get my stimulant for the morning. No no, I'm okay. I know, it's weird. It's gross. But you know, mid-autumn cleansing and such. Yeah, I know, don't try to get me to speak logically about my life. It's just I uh yeah I won't smoke your cigarette."

When people say that I am as much of a god as god I think that it's funny. It's like, look, obviously I am not because the world isn't Akira, okay? Where is my flying, bouncing, fat creature to save me from reality? I don't see it anywhere.

Shakespeare blows more than I

I am not too happy because I think I may have a case of Swimmer's Ear but I am not sure how. My biggest fear at the moment is that it's some kind of spider that got into my ear and laid eggs or something, you know, that disturbing wive's tale about why you should keep your ears clean, etc. But it wouldn't even matter if I kept my ears clean. A spider can still crawl in, right? I don't know what I would do if I got a spider laying eggs inside of my ear but I don't think I can handle the thought of it. I am certain I would panic.

Does anyone know if this is actually possible? I refuse to look up things on the Internet because I know that there will be a ton of horrid stories about surgeries and what not. I could go to the doctor, and I probably should, but I don't want to get weighed or take a pregnancy test. All of these things are against my personal beliefs. I should not have to be weighed like I am in a scientific experiment. And forcing me to take a pregnancy test is sexist. Men don't have to ejaculate in a cup to see if they are fertile, right? If I am pregnant I will find out on my own. All I want to know is whether or not I have spiders in my ear.

Anyway, the rest of this week should be a breeze because I don't have any more tests until Wednesday. I blew the day today. I thought bitchy thoughts and didn't do very well on my Shakespeare test. Basically, I blow. The whole time on the test all I could think about is a spider in my ear. I tried to study but ultimately I need to pay better attention to Shakespeare next time, no matter how much I hate reading his work. I have the whole semester to make up for the fact that those history plays made me want to double knife myself. I know that it's cool, Audrey, that you're in the middle of five books and can seem to enjoy and comprehend and think about each and every one of them, but maybe you should save all of your energy on SHAKESPEARE THE GENIUS. Right? Oh well. I feel like I am dosed down with so much Anglo-Saxon white history garbage I could puke up spiders. I should do that, maybe rid myself of the spiders in my ear. Hopefully I can start writing some poems again this week now. I have a clean-apartment in the future, salad and hummus and a drawing with my name on it.

Crossin' my fingers,
Audrey

not the hell it used to be

I think that the one lesson I can gather from my daily experiences since well, I was born, is that the Universe doesn't give a shit about you. It doesn't care about love. It doesn't care about lingering dreams. It doesn't care about what you want. It doesn't care, it doesn't have the ability to care, or know who you are in the muck of working human ants that we are. So, my advice to myself would be to get off of my ass and do something about it because not doing so is just about as bad as staying in your frat house after college eating ramen at twenty-nine.

So what is happening now? Well, I am waking up slowly. This has been happening since the end of the summer when I rode back on the bus from Columbia and my intestines were in knots. I felt like I was going to throw up for an entire week. Then it occurred to me that it was either fight the demons off or spend the rest of my life feeling compelled to be pulled to the past no matter what the cost. Ultimately, I'd have to throw away any progress I have made. Which I never knew what that was, I still don't, and if asked what is different now I would say, "Well, I have more drawings in my portfolio and am a few months off from being done with school. My rent is higher and so is my cost of living and I am not getting paid any more. I am just waking up to see this after a long sleep. I have illegal things scattered throughout my home but none of the guts to take any of them. People are really fucking broke and a ton more depressed. I have a boyfriend who can stand my internal dialogue and conversations with myself for longer than a drunken lay. Oh and I have two Siamese cats that destroy my house nightly, catching bugs and such, but not the important ones that are killing my herbs."

Whatever happened when I was asleep -- every insane story that I gauge I will not forget -- is something that still seems like a nightmare, but not of the worst kind, somehow I got away with none of that. I mean, once you're out you're not sure if it is as bad as you thought it was, or as it could be, no matter how close to death you were at a time. I'm also not even sure how I even handled as much on my own as I did. How I kept so much of it a secret and still am. But now I am awake and it was just a dream, that's what I tell myself. I recall it like a dream as well. So much of it was embedded deep enough that I may never be able to remember a thing.

Anyway, so here I am, waking up from something unexplainable. I can't say that I think it'll get any prettier, maybe in my own head. There I still have room for aliens with spirals in their head that are visible through a glass skull and zombies eating my chest. I still have room for a real capacity of love. I am still everything I know of myself to be. Somehow it's just not the hell it used to be.

I, I and wow

You know, it's fabulous that I am writing this paper questioning how writing is taught and all, but I think that it proves that due to my streak of being a mild-mannered hoodlum most of the time (asking questions), it's going to be at least twenty years before I actually buck up and excel at anything.

A lesson in check

Today I wandered out of my cave to walk three blocks to Broadway and avoid eighteen year old shank stares and thrones of judgment to pick up an iced Americano (not a toddy because more than one toddy a week heightens my caffeine dependence so terribly that getting rid of a headache is almost impossible). At the table towards the right of the cash register sat a blond woman and someone who looked like her dad or uncle.

So the blond lady was at a table talking about her roommate. I had to write about this story because it's something that I think is important for me to remember. Everyone else can remember it or not, that's not my business. Anyway, her words disturbed me because the way that she talked about her roommate reminded me of the situation I was in just a year ago. The only thing I could think was... well, that's going to turn out really terrible. "Oh, she's just really nice but doesn't make any right choices." Her dad said, "Mmm Mmmm, yes yes," in such a way where his satisfaction for raising a smart, normal and goal driven young lady was blatantly obvious. I wanted to ask the blond lady what the right choices were but it is not my business to ask a stranger a difficult question. I don't know the whole story, obviously, but I can only imagine. Her roommate is having a difficult time in her life and has not made this clear to blond lady because she wants her privacy and to get through it on her own. She may be in the midst of a transition. Blond lady is certain that she knows all of the answers to the external factors in roommate's life but has no insight into roommate because she's certain that she knows all of the answers. Blond lady butts in way too far, eventually causing a whirlwind of foggy misconceptions leading roommate to feel worse about herself. Why does blond lady hate the way I am? Why can't blond lady leave me alone? Why isn't blond lady concerned with herself? What is wrong with me here?

A short amount of eavesdropping brought me back to the perplexing time of last year and the certainty in saying that if things got any worse I would have been close to death (or someone close to me). That is no exaggeration. Looking back I know of all of the ways I could have stopped everything going the direction that it did. I guess naivete took over, per usual. So when I hear a blond woman stand on her soapbox and use an individual's life as her own scapegoat... well, it just makes me stand back for a moment and think. Sometimes, it's good to put yourself in check and keep in mind that taking shit about your character is never a good idea and giving unwarranted shit may even be worse because then you're just fucking with someone's (possibly fragile) self-esteem. And frankly, that person's self esteem and how "you can fix it" is none of your business. But, tell that to a controlling snake like blond lady may be. That world is a different one. It's not mine. Ya'hear?

Whatever you want me to be doing, I'm doing it. Whatever I should be doing, I'm doing it.

I am living in two black holes

The first hole a product of everyone's pinholes and perceptions of my character

The second being average city

putting them both together, I am just a baby maker with messy style and silent film eyes.

Gibberish

The last day of my summers ended yesterday while sitting on top of a double decker bus, watching the sun set and turn the world honey. I used just about every muscle in my body to keep my tear ducts from giving up the silence I had forced them to adhere to this entire weekend.

Now the next four months will go by like a blackout.

While riding home I used some time to reflect on my lack of honesty with myself and others and how the only thing getting me by lately is honesty. Now the more I am honest, the more I see. And within' myself, I am positive that entering Kansas City's skyline, reminded me that my soul entered some kind of prison phase. I came, I tried to rebel, I had to cut my hair, I lived in a cave. I mean, it's classic and all symbolic. *"As the spirit wanes the form appears." It's like I knew I was the kind of person that parents always try to raise you not to be. I am not violent but I am wrapped up in a foggy world only few allow themselves to be a part of. And when I think that I want to succeed like everyone I know, I adhere to a sentence that only I can adhere to. It's a death sentence. It wasn't a mistake, I had reasons. But now I see the last string of it and I do not know what will happen because when I am free, I will be free. It's that simple. Apparently I have some kind of duty that my old self was convinced would solve many of my problems. But they are still here and not subliminal. I've seen what I could become and it has already been done. What the fuck is going on? This is someone's story that isn't mine. This story has been lived. Why should the past repeat itself?

I picked apart my past again. It all makes sense. I picked apart my present. I can see through all of it.

And now for another four months I will fight for my conscience. I have these cards and I have to put others down because I have a gun to my head.

------------

*I think that it's funny that half of my life is all over the country and that somehow I am placed here throwing back java and thinking about Charles Bukowski punching out various men at bars. Thanks Kyle, the Bukowski was good timing. He's the only one who can push me through the next year.

Welcome, new hip-computer

What happens when you sing to yourself

I have been singing to myself lately.

Now, whether or not my voice is decent is not really important. What I have found is that tuning into this voice changes my writing voice in a way that I find to be incredibly helpful.

After all, I have not been able to write much at all (besides surface nonsense for a blog) since taking an Advanced Poetry class Spring '09 semester. It was awful. I had to transfer myself into a man who was grounded and had a distaste for flippant and airy writing. Whoever this person was that I had to transfer myself to was too heavily influenced by the crazy person I was living with, this professor who was teaching the class (so I could get a decent grade) and any other person I was having to lie to myself for in order to survive, basically. I had to play a role to realign myself.

Frankly, I was a shitty actress because I could not get out of the role without making a huge mess.

It seems, spending that much time trying to survive by adjusting the way that you speak and/or communicate is astounding. It's something that I am not sure if I will ever be able to explain to anyone else.

Regardless, I am finding my voice again and it's going to take a lot of work getting it back to decent pace. It's just that... when you are told, as a student, that the way you soak in information does not make you a writer and instead, some other kind of goon, it's a bit hard to swallow. For me, the only use of college has been to remind me that I am certainly not one of anything at all and that I must be a moron. I have always inputted and outputted my information differently and if I am going to be judged by a bunch of traditional rules (as usual) I will be pigeonholed always as something other than what they define as the tradition.

Anyway, so I sing to myself, not regularly, but sometimes. And then this person comes out that is entirely genuine but speaking a different language than before. Still, a different language, just spoken in English. I like to let her sit in and get fed with all that is Earthly before she emerges. This is just the "creator" in me, apparently. This is just another voice.

Frankly, I have many. Maybe this is why I can't bother trying to pin myself down as anything. That's the best thing, you know.

I am making little sense.

Bugs like my flesh

Last night was fun despite my forgetting the majority of it. I guess that's the point. I woke up in the morning and literally peed for five+ minutes. That is weird.

Stopped and got some good toddies, went to a gallery, am back home now and getting ready to put on a record and clean my apartment. My aunt and uncle are in town and will certainly want to come by and check out my place and my cats.

Now, none of that is important but this certainly is:

Last night my cats brought in a very large insect. It was brown with prickly looking legs. It had a good enough shell to shield itself from their abuse. I eventually saved him and put him back outside after a bit of fear because he was so frightening looking. I am assuming he was some kind of predator. I like insects but if they are on my physical body I do not like them. I am currently dealing with two mysterious spider bites... again. Spiders really enjoy my pulse, apparently. They must enjoy biting into my skin.



Anyone know what that scary thing is? I took pictures of it but they are no good. I went outside a bit ago to see if the bug had survived the cat attack and apparently it did.

Growin' out me hair

It's back to my color! Now a year and it'll be all long. Wee excited.

Earrings by Smetaldesigns. A long time ago a boy liked me and gave me earrings that he made on the condition that I wear them often. And I do, they're sweet!

Sunday morning, 2009

Wake up.

I find one of the reasons why I can't identify myself to anything right now (which, should be taken advantage of while it lasts, instead of loathed) is because nothing is being documented.

Junk Room, 2007

Preesh is a good word.

Feelin' just downright rumbly today.

Somethin' is a'happenin' today. My prophetic dreams are on repeat. I have been write, write, writing in my brain all day with little to nothin' to say.

Today is my dad's birthday and I hope it isn't a general disaster. They seem to come at the wrong times. The last time they came to eat I threw up after Blue Koi because I was a bit (that's an understatement) hungover and ordered the most obscure thing from the menu. It was not appetizing and tasted like cardboard. The woman who took our order kind of warned me but I thought, "Oh that's fine!" I came home and threw up cardboard water.