Warcoholics Anonymous

The 60's are making a come back. Working at H&M, I've seen a revival of trends made popular by Warhol and his cohorts of The Factory. Royal blues paired with light pinks, greys, and creams. Oversized tops with a tailored skinny bottom. Navy, peach, magenta. Chunky geometric jewelery and especially boyishly short pixie hair styles. 

Which I am positively STOKED about. I'm knee deep. I'm also reading Janet Fithc's Paint It Black, in which the main character Josie has a Warhol revival herself when acting the part of a 60's IT girl in a student film. (Highly recommend that book. I've been in bed sobbing for weeks over it. Which believe it or not is a good thing)

For New Years this year I scored an amazing dress from St. Vincent DePaul. Very Twiggy-Nico-Edie and all that jazz. I just have to alter it. The best part about it? It's black, white, short, and after cutting it to just below my ass has a huge upside down cross on the front of it. 

and now I will leave you all with the perfect sound track for a 60's revival 

The Dandy Warhols- Smoke It

Resistance is Futile

Inspiration for the winter. Lately I've been so busy with school and exams and work and trying to maintain somewhat of a social life between all that. But I'm over it. Schools over so thats one less thing to worry about and now I think I'm just gonna worry about doing well at work and my hobbies. I have so many ideas for clothes I want to make, and I have so many Christmas presents to make. So I think I'm just going to do that for now, and worry about social life later. Winter makes me a hermit. I'm working full time at H&M during the winter break too, which is going to be AWESOME. Because maybe I'll have enough money to be a real functioning human being. I feel like I need to recreate myself.

CALLING ALL KITTENS.

So, I posted a while ago that I was going to start a weekly feminist bit and as we all know that never happened. Because I just can't keep up with expected bull shit like that. However, although its not all that academic and although I haven't reported anything I've been studying up. Mostly on feminist angsty grunge bands thanks to feminist angsty grunge Eric from The Palm. Just last night he gifted me with the vocal miracles of Giant Drag, Katie Garside, Cat Power, and Electrocute. Thus! Bringing me to my next point, I've decided that although I have no specialized skills in singing, or playing any sort of instrument, or writing songs I'm going to start a feminist grunge band.

I've always wanted to be the frontlady of a band. I feel like I have all the qualities besides actual musical talent. Which, how hard can that be to learn? I guess we'll find out. But for now I must recruit.

Ladies full of anger and oppression come one come all

Be cute and learn to play an instrument

come be in my band.

For real though, come be in my band.

We are also seeking management. So, if you think you can teach me to write a song or strum a bass guitar, get ahold of me on facebook or twitter or one of those things. 

Double Dogg Dare

I Dare you
I Dare you to see
I Dare you to hear
I Dare you to look through another's eyes
& speak with another's mouth
I Dare you to love
I Dare you to love everyone
Not for your god
Not for your faith
Not for your idols
I Dare you to love for your eyes
I Dare the quarterback to kiss the faggot
I Dare the dyke to hold his hand
I Dare you to shatter your boundaries
     I Dare the saints to sin
                the virgins to fuck
                the men to cry
                & the devil himself to say 10 hail mary's
For it is the blind who see the most
The deaf who truly listen
& the mutes who scream the loudest
I Dare you to forget everything
I Dare you to lose your identity
I Dare you to lose your religion
                            your race
                            your sexuality
                            your gender
I Dare you to lose your eyes
                            your tongue
                            your ears
& I Dare you. To see.

General Psychology

Fruit of knowledge Good and Evil

I'm already ruined so tell me your secrets

The saints come to me for confession

The sinners to me to advise

Everyone flock to my garden

To which no one enters with eyes

I sit with my glass by the screen

A shot and a puff as you join

A penny for thoughts as admission

You leave your eyes covered with coins

For behind every window lies morals

And as we all know I was born blind

I beg you to hand me your burdens

And in turn I will open your mind

Sing me your sins I am deaf

And a mute cannot repeat your rhymes

A window is never a vessel 

Every window will close given time

I am the fruit of all passion 

A flame of indulgence I rise

I am plagued I am roaring I'm ruined

but smoke only trails from the wise

Apple of knowledge Good and Evil

Adams and Eve's both will come

I'm already ruined with secrets

Without eyes Without ears I've no tongue

The Man in the Iron Mask

In the beginning Circa June West 6th

I wake up and I don’t know what to do. There are a few emotions that immediately pass over me. Just like they do every morning. I wake up, I open my eyes and pull the covers toward my face, I squint. I’m a bad person. That’s the first thought of the morning. I’ve ruined my life. There’s the second. I wonder if Travis is awake. I look to my left. He’s never out of sight. Comatose. It’s bright and its hot and I moved my car three hours ago. I look around. The frog’s looking at me. How the fuck did I end up here. My hand says 24, my leg says Scandalous Bitch. My foot has been tattooed to look like a hybrid alligator pit bull. Luck. That’s the third emotion of the morning. I feel lucky. I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I look up and I pop open the window, push open the screen and look at the prostitutes house and I feel lucky. And then I feel guilty. That’s the one that never fades. I always feel guilty. Because I am a bad person.

He does't know whenever he's not in the room I take pictures of every inch of his home,
like I were a detective at a crime scene.

“What’d you write on your foot?” He smirks and his eyes are never open all the way. I don’t know what color they are because they’re always squinty. My guess is blue since he’s so blond. I’m flabbergasted though.

“You don’t know what swag is?” Only my personal mantra. That’s so hot. He’s so hot and old and intriguing. He doesn’t know what swag is. He’s stupid and clueless like a baby. That’s so hot. “You know like swagger?” I give my best M.I.A. attempt. Fail. He doesn’t get it. He’s so old. And foreign and obscure and sexy and he watches sports. I hate sports. He just smiles all the time because he’s high. He keeps saying he’s really high too. Which I don’t get. I’ve been smoking and I’m stone cold sober, prolly more than him too if you count how many hits I take off his bowl whenever he leaves the room. I look at my foot and I laugh because he doesn’t know what swag is and it’s all I ever talk about.

He’s wearing weird zip off cargo short pants. All his pants are a little above the ankle. “you’re better off getting bit by snakes then dressin for them” that’s the first thing I think of when I see them. Or Gucci Maine. He’s the only 30 year old that can wear those pants and it be okay for me. He has frat daddy boat shoes too. But they look worn and organic. Just like everything about him. Its all very worn and organic and that’s why he’s so hip. Not because he looks especially hip but because he’s so organic. And that is the essence of hip. He’s also wearing a Mexico soccer jersey. Because apparently he loves sports and the world cup was on this morning. Germany won against Australia. That means nothing to me but apparently he’s into it. He also has one of his fingers bandaged up. He went to the hospital for it. Which is silly. I bet he really went there to see if they would give him pain pills for it. Like Codeine. I love that shit. I bet he gave himself the cut. What a waste they didn’t even give him pills.

I’m only drawing on myself because I’m nervous and a little buzzed. I feel like it’s a flirty way to pass the time. Like here, I’m gonna write something on my skin. you can see my bare skin. Which is sexy. And I’m artistic so all I want to do is draw and write all the time anyways. And I’m bored and nervous and just keep thinking how much swag you have. So I’m gonna write swag on my foot. I know Travis will see it and understand me and think I’m funny.

He wants to give me a tattoo now. I’m nervous. I don’t know whether to be creeped out or flattered. I just always have to pee. I wonder what he looks like naked. Not because I’m into it necessarily but I’m just the most curious person that’s ever existed. I can’t help it. He looks like a soccer player. Maybe just because he’s wearing a soccer jersey but I feel like its also the underwear he wears. Its very Beckham. He was in his underwear when he tucked me in last night. I’m confused and somewhat creeped out now that I remember this. He’s going to just keep losing clothes the more and more we go over there. Why does he like pit bulls so much, and did he or did he not draw the faces on the rocks that are on his mantle. I swear to fucking god there is a bug on my left leg. I’ll tell you I’m 20 but I’m not. It’ll surprise you later I bet. Everyone loves surprises.

I should have climbed on top of him last night. How sexy and cool would that have been. Or creepy and weird. Or hot. I dunno. Hey tell me I’m smokin’ again. You can rub my arm. I mean I’m not gonna rub yours back or anything. I’m just gonna freeze up and turn into a robot and be terrified of everything around me. But I’m flattered. I’m flattered as hell and you’ve swagged my panties to ashes.

Red Ruby Ranger

“Rube bring me the ball!” He yells at his dogs without moving an inch. They are his little minions. His best friends. They’re the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen in my life. Pit bulls. Of course. Red Ruby Ranger wants to so bad. She wants to please him and bring him the slobbery nasty gross red ball. Why? Because he’s hot as shit and who doesn’t want some guy that’s hot as shit saying nice things to you. Even when you’re a dog. He keeps begging for the ball and its really attractive. Because he has this weird raspy voice. I’m constantly thinking three things whenever I’m near him.

You’re kind of creepy and weird and give me the uh-oh feeling

Do me

I wish I knew why you're so weird

Sometimes I totally get a highschool skate rat kyle-paul-brett-smith vibe from him. I guess cause he skates or whatever? But then he’s like this super classy weird ass bartender. He’s an international man of mystery is what he is. A man of mystery pit bulls and swagger.

I woke up. There was sadness draped over everything like dew in the mornings. A wetness drizzled over the world, but the consistency of misery. The clock. Computer. Stove. Phone. Dead. There wasn't a time. Written on my arm in huge black sharpie MIDDLESEX. And I remembered. Her hands were so soft. For those few minutes I was so in love. And Her mouth. Where had the other one been. Where had we gone. Who was this invading my fantasy? Her home was beautiful. But I needed those hands. I was drinking blood. We all were. Happy. Fucked up. And all drinking the blood. I was vomitting in my cup. I'm fairly sure. I had to leave. I had to know the time. And I saw 4:17 and I knew there weren't any cigarettes, but more drugs. I cried the whole way home, and here they were to cradle my tears. The drugs again. But Her hands. They were so soft. And Her skin is so smooth. Her mouth. Big. Red. Perfect. Her frail ivory skeleton, silk poured over Her. Draped in pearl skin, She was a godess. My godess with lashes of lace. And all I could think was kiss & blow. I had to get out. There was no time. She wasn't there, and I saw it. That wretched place. Grease filled Hell. I was crying. Sobbing. Gasping. And the drugs are still here, but no cigarettes. How could you? Set fire to something like us. Spit on something so holy, send what we were up in flames. We'd made love there. So many times. But no more. Just like Her, and the cigarettes, and the time. Something like us. Its gone. And I'm crying and its so awful. And the drugs are still here.

A while ago I forgot how to like me. Not love myself, just to have a self & be okay with it. At some point I gave myself away. I gave myself to you & I'll never have that me back again. She's yours now. She's yours forever. You left me without an identity. I was a hollow shell of you. & I loathed you. I couldn't be you anymore. I wasn't you. There I was. Without a me. Without a you. Without me as you always wanted. & I told myself I wasn't okay. I told the skeleton I had become that I wasn't alright. I had to learn. I had to learn about learnin' & think about nothin'. I've been taught. Taught to see & think & hear & write & sing again.
I'm singing again.
I've learned to create & I've created. I've filled the empty shell you left me with. I've overflowed it & I'm a me again. I've made myself. I didn't create it, but it was created. I now see with you there can't be a me. & thats all I ever wanted. Was to be able to show you. To show you what I can create. What I know, my love. But with you there never was a me. & its so horrible. I know you'd love this me. & I know this me will always love you. But that just can't be. & I know you'd be so happy for me. I know you'd love me & touch me & want me. But that won't ever be. Because as much as I need you still. You're you can't be with my me.

Stop/Clear

Sometimes all you need is to know that you can still have control over something in your life.

I am Fire.

I am a spectacle. A show. Entertainment.

I am Fire.

I am fun to look at. I'm fun to play with.

Fire is captivating. Intriguing. Tempting.

Fire is a tease.

I am Fire.

You want to feel it. To touch it, just once. Maybe twice.

But you can never hold it.

You never leave a Fire unattended.

You can never trust Fire.

It is spontaneous, uncontrollable.

Fire is a burden. You can not sleep with Fire.

You can not take Fire home.

I am Fire

les belles égéries de la paume

"Have you read this? This is outrageous. I'm outraged. I can't believe our ignorant Landlords. Have they ever owned a fish? Do they just not understand? Eric, have you read this? I'm so worked up. I'm sorry, I'm usually not like this but this just really bothers me. Our idiot Landlord sent out this letter-And I have never seen any bugs in this place! I've never seen a roach or anything. I've lived here for two years and not once! And I tried to argue with him..."

Meet Jessica Corwin. Apt. 3 @ Le Palm. She like everyone else at Le Palm, is fantastical. She is scatterbrained, storming in first in her robe and glasses, briefly introduces herself, has some sort of revelation and scurries back across the hall to her apartment. She does this multiple other times throughout the day. Always remembering something she forgot, or something she wanted to show us. She could talk for hours on end and I could listen to her. Every story is an interesting as the last whether it be about where she got her shirt or how she and Eric met. Perhaps it’s not her stories that are so interesting as it is the way her face lights up and her smile so perfectly conveys every emotion she’s feeling.

"My little sister fucked my fuck buddy. That’s just like fucked up. And I mean, I tried not to be mad at her but it’s like... I have my friends you have yours and I'm not trying to fuck your fuck buddies because that’s weird and now I can't fuck my fuck buddy anymore cause he's fucked my little sister, like its gonna be the guy that fucked the Corwin sisters you know? And I was trying not to be mean..."

Everything she says blurs together in one run on sentence. She is deaf and had a cochlear implant at a young age. This means she can hear approximately half of everything you say and she articulates approximately half of everything she says. This simply makes her twice as adorable. Her enthusiasm is unmask-able. Her emotions are always evident; she is either smiling and waving her hands or furrowing her brow and still waving her hands. She's beautiful, and she tells me that I am several times while she is over. I quite enjoy her. I enjoy anyone that will sit and tell me a story for an hour and let me rip their bong.