PUNK'S NOT DEAD ITS JUST RESTING

I am the general average crazy kind of citizen,
Spiked denim jacket (covered in patches) wearing denizen
Minor threat and Nathaniel Hawthorne in my head again
I am anti-authoritarian and pro-gothic romantic literature
I am worried about the same exact things you were:
My poetry, my east side and central reputation, my silence;
All the letters I'll never send,
And never get,

And my goddam Instagram.
I'm spending my Friday night
French-press-coffee-staining a new white shirt
But a coffee stain is a minor threat-
The safety and sanctity of a shade so pure was never a safe bet
Not my money not my problem
A pill-popping, Pepsi-rocking society stuttering over its own ADD
Long live overcaffeinated generation RX
In the other corner, weighing in at one million pounds, team X-X-X
What a shameful lackluster lack of a legacy
The generation that never broke anything.
You know how many girls I wanted to marry?
Three,
But it doesn't matter because they all left me
Absolutely crazy

In love,
And though lying with her was my absolute comfort,
One changed her mind like a lying politician
And the next so skinny with boy hips and berry lips,
We ruined each other and still hoped to kiss again
In young hallways, and anyway, she found another redhead.
I found a blonde earlier this year and ran scared
Ran to a bespectacled and mustached man
Only to be butchered by his calloused hands-
ome looks; they were killer.
He was filler

He was offended, when I called him a joke
A "laughable mistake" what actually exactly what I wrote
And I wish it didn't hurt him so
All I was trying to say
Is that he once made me smile.

I swear

Tiny rabid wolf in my stomach howls
Louder than Allen Ginsberg stuck in an elevator
Sweating harder than a pedophile on an escalator
Descending slowly into hell
Dante had to exit through the gift shop
It's a little known fact
Like the fact that I can quasi-speak Spanish
Or that I am allergic to penicillin
Orange juice makes me vomit and I am
Allergic to the fine line between truth and lies
My father lied by omission
Like ravens lying, crying by omens
No lime trees bloomed when I was seventeen - thank God
I couldn't make monsters with you and I couldn't
Eat anything but drinking
For years, four years, four score and fingers and legs crossed for high scores
Dropped out like the turbulent sixties

The world is my pharmacy and
There's no need to talk when we have medicine
And my mouth tastes like rotting celery
And its not a pretty picture but realism isn't all flowers
And cotton candy,
Carnival rides and smoke and mirrors have made up my bones
And clown fake red joker paint has covered my body
Silly how we all think that blankets will keep
Us safe from murders and I keep my room messy
In case anyone tries to kill me
He will trip over just one size six expensive platform stiletto
And his knife will never reach me

Yes I assume this killer in question
To be male
Because girls kill me every day
I wrote a poem at the bus stop
For this girl whose looks just wouldn't quit
She was black and white striped under the shade of a tree
But in my head, she was stripped
Her wrists were tinier even than my schizophrenic heart
She was thinner than a piece of paper
I swear

The North Star: Violent & Graphic.

Every Monday I spend an hour in Switzerland:
Recount blood on bathroom walls and your calloused skeleton hands on me
Dissociate and turn everything into a dream,
Chemically manufacture insomnia ingrain it into the gray matter of my brain
There is no more black and white its all so dusty and unclean like a burnt out light bulb
Ashes everywhere like concrete before its concrete
Whats black and white and red all over?
Your chemicals pouring forth alchemy and I was your dalmatian
I had one hundred and one lives, and you ruined them every night
You struck me in the face with a newspaper three times, three strikes I was out
Until the next inning, but you were always on the mound
And I was always on the cross and you said,
Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face, the kind you'd find on someone I could rape
If they don't put me away, well it would be a miracle
And now I don't believe in anything anymore except impossible lies
But everything was possible before all my time was completely wasted
Drunker than you laughing in my face, like some bashed in, lumpy jack-o-lantern
Grinning and empty and dangerously on fire
I was dangerously still, dangerously quiet
Like a corpse in wait like rocks at the bottom of some dirty river
I was quiet as a candle, there were
Fireworks on your face and hurricanes caught in my throat
I choked back fear and love and pride
I choked on my existence and swallowed it whole
Squeezed my eyes shut to stripper music and red lights red lights red lights stop
Stop the movie stop the show stop traffic don't let it hit me
I'm not here, this isn't happening.
I'm not here, this isn't happening.
Your piano hands grabbed at what was left of me,
A bag of bones fit to be buried and forgotten, and unmarked grave and unmarked face
I would scrub it like meth heads scrubs the space, in between bathroom tiles
The longest shower would do nothing
The longest nightmare was lived in waking
Left my innocence
Like some voodoo doll, all scarred and stuck with needles
All stuck in the middle
Replaced my innocence with smeared bitter anger,
Lack of cognizance lack of sense lack of respect
For anyone who is lacking in plans to ruin me
If I could go back armed with the knowledge of knowing what I know
I'd end it all when I was sixteen years old,
You'd French kiss my fingertips and I'd wave them goodbye.

Hell's Got Talent.

This move is an operation, just like the board game. Anything to keep from being bored. Operation search and destroy. Operating under pressure from the planet Mercury. Operating under the motivating motive of my motor-mouth curiosity killed the cat but not this time.

Hips swing harder than hippopotami but trumpets try harder, telling secrets in tercets with wet whistle lips but hips don’t lie- just swing. Pinnochio’s nose knows what I mean, when it comes to this one. & those chain links around those swings they came undone covered in rust like everything in my car covered in cheap glitter dust. It never goes away. A call to arms written on the back of a postcard postmarked LA. Post Script: I miss you. A call to arms, I fall for your charms and bracelets made of medicine, of the bones of medicine men. She and I we curb-stomped them into dust to dust, ash to ashing out onto the concrete, discussing the concrete and the intangible. Two existentialists brought up with God,  thrown to the opium wolf dens choked out with overgrown weeds. Cigarette in my mouth to slow down my selfish speech. If the tiara fits, I make someone polish it for me. Second prize low price silverware cut up California pizza and divvy up Ego evenly as the little squares on an Eggo. Here's to you and me. Here's to learning to read and write and pronounce inferi. Here's to learning how to sing. Windows down & defying gravity. Here's to mornings screaming telling me I couldn't wear that. Here's to cutting it shorter. I just drank an entire bottle while waiting for Godot, Goddamn cheers to getting in and out of trouble. 

Three cheers for the past three years and only getting homesick once. Here's to happily before and after photos of my teen-angst finally has a haircut. The body count in the paper was just too much. The best person ever, table in heaven, party of one. Tattoos for all the right reasons for all the right people. Home is where the heart is, my evil is your evil. Building forts in purgatory with little black Pekingese. Playing Lion King, oh I just can't wait to be queen of silicon & collagen valley. Save a hamburger for me. Plane tickets are  the only thing that calm my heartbeat.

"With little or no wherewithal for being left in alone in a room, Mary Jane stood up and walked over to the window." - Nine Stories, jd salinger

I Love You But I've Chosen Disco.

Oh to be young. In the grand scheme of things, we're all young. Because young is bland, and broad, and ultimately, subjective.  I'm in my early twenties, and as they say, twenty-two is the new four. Four year old little princess that I am, my favorite game is dress-up. Dressing up is like drinking. Special occasions need not apply. I need no occasion. The Hallmark card company feels me on this one, with their new, and brilliant,  slogan: "Life is a special occasion." So fuck yes Hallmark, bring out the glitter and the Jameson because today, I am alive.

Being alive, however, requires no time and place. I am as prim and as proper as the next charm-school brat, but I turn it on and off. I pick and choose. I do this with my Catholicism, or my Quasi-Catholicism. Yes, I do observe some semblance of a religion, but its less about religion and more about faith. This extends to all things. I say, let's just not get weighed down in the semantics. Take Kerouac, for example. If he went through his writings saying, "you know, I really have got to cut it out with these damn run-on sentences", I wouldn't love him the way I do. Those cracked-out, stream-of-consciousness rants are what kept me going on some strung-out and strung-along heartbroken nights. Its his dismissal of the rule book, in lieu of his uncompromisable lust for life. That's why I feel justified wearing fishnets at ten o'clock in the morning. Growing up, one of the small admonitions from my mom included, but was not limited to, "that outfit looks looks a little... nighttime, sweetie". I love her. But, maybe life could use a little more nighttime: a little more daring, and mystery, and boldness and adventure. That unabashed recklessness of youth that runs through the streets with eyes wide open and fingers crossed tightly.

Oh the soft-core pornographic naked ladies you will find if you search "fishnets" on Google images. I'd really recommend it, if one were to have the time. A few images looked sexy, but none captured the joy, and the freedom that comes with suggestive leg wear. I found one of myself dancing in a club on Hollywood boulevard when I was nineteen or twenty. I'm not even wearing fishnets in it. I'm wearing a thrift-store skirt that set me back about six bucks. Black boots I found while thrift store shopping with my most recent ex's mom. She bought them for me. The necklace is a gold skull I found on something of my brother's and he let me put it on a chain and wear it. Who knows where the lace top came from. But that's the point. Not with dress-up, but with everything. Life is a process. Its about playing, experimenting, and learning. Its about making love, making jokes, making mistakes. Sometimes I reminiscence, on back when I was crazy in a way that felt okay. Now at times I just feel crazy in a more straightforward way. In a way that just feels, well, crazy.

I don't favor rhetorical questions in writing, but who doesn't feel crazy? People say we're all slowly dying, but I see the glass as half-full. We're all slowly growing up. If you're seventeen, or thirty-six, or if you're fifty-five, you are still slowly growing up. You still have time to go crazy in a way that's beautiful, and awesome and perfect. You can still dance all night and howl at the moon. You can finish your novel, or your dissertation. You can get your dream job, and your dream income.You can, and I swear you will, find someone to kiss you in the rain, to kiss your tears when you're crying, and to wreck all your bitter cynicism. You can solve a Rubik's cube. You can solve two Rubik's cubes. Apparently it just comes down to an algorithm. Don't dwell on your failures, because you're doing just fine. And I think I read somewhere once, "if you ever feel alone, just know you're not alone in that". Just remember that life is a special occasion, I guess. Its a celebration, bitches! Drinks on me.

"....not enough ecstasy for me, not enough life, joy, kicks, darkness, music, not enough night." - Jack Kerouac

The Girl with the Delayed Reaction

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, film version, came out in December of 2011. Technically, it came out in 2009, but that was the original version, and this blog mostly concerns the version that is spoken in my first language.  The film was directed by David Fincher and stars Rooney Mara, whom he had just directed in The Social Network. Yes, she is the conventionally pretty college girlfriend in the beginning. Who knew? David Fincher is one of my top favorite directors. Upon reading film reviews for Dragon Tattoo, I kept running into the words "violent" and "graphic", and kept brushing these words off. Fincher is known for works such as the Fight Club, and serial killer thriller Seven. With this guy, "violent and graphic", is pretty much a given.

Maybe this is why I like him. Maybe I consider the words "violent" and "graphic" to be substitutes for "cathartic".  This is arguably, why I go to the movies. We live in a high-stress society in which we are continually and ironically being instructed, not to freak out. If I don't get an A grade, I am told not to freak out. When there is no money in my bank account, even I am sometimes guilty of commanding myself not to freak out. We have even gone so far as to adopt that pinnacle of design, the wartime logo and slogan of England, "KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON." Ours is a twee society that reeks of cupcakes and lip gloss and ribbon and whipped cream-flavored vodka. What happened to blood and guts and glory? When I am watching Lisbeth literally sew the male protagonist's skin back together, no one can violate the sanctity of a dark theater by turning to me, and telling me to calm down. As much as I wanted to throw up my Alamo Drafthouse pizza during the rape scene, nothing could quell my sick smirk when she raped him right back. As it turns out, Lisbeth herself is graphic and violent. And good for her. She is one of the most awesome female characters that I can ever remember. I have always loved Scarlett in Gone with the Wind, and Marla Singer in Fight Club, but there has never been such a vicious heroin as Lisbeth Salander.

I am ready for the sequels, and may just have to brave the original Swedish versions in the meantime. Who knows, maybe I'll somehow find some spare time and just read the books. Either way,  I appreciate the darkest of fiction. I don't necessarily need everything sugarcoated like an M&M. Because what always happens with the sugar coating of M&Ms? It always gets messy. Sometimes, I just need to revel in directors such as Fincher and Aronfosky who skip straight to the mess. Sometimes I just need to be allowed to freak out.

"No, it's okay. You can nod because it's true. I am insane." - Lisbeth

The Perks of Being a Blockbuster.

There are very few material items I've possessed in my life that I've actually ever missed. No matter how many times I've gotten drunk and lost my entire wallet, I will always miss misplaced novels far more. The neo-classic coming of age novel The Perks of Being a Wallflower is probably one of the books to which I was most emotionally attached. Its reminiscent of The Catcher in the Rye, and as much as I value The Catcher in the Rye, its like Kurt Cobain to me. I love it, but its not of my time. I wasn't aware enough of the world to cry when Kurt Cobain died. My sympathy and sorrow surrounding Kurt is mainly retrospective. But Heath Ledger was mine. Was ours. The Perks of Being a Wallflower was ours.

When I was in high school, I took the IB classes. IB was described, "like AP on crack". World lit, British Lit.... and the books we read (or at least quasi-read, yet wrote awesome & original analytical papers on) were awesome. One year, I remember the normal English class (not that we IB kids were abnormal, but still) got to read The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Jealousy, I am. That book is touching haunting, and hopeful. It isn't difficult to relate to the adorable and naive narrator, Charlie. His group performed The Rocky Horror Picture Show and went to Bob's Big Boy after everything. I was in theater in high school and our post-performance spot was Denny's, for cheap midnight breakfasts. Splitting the check between around twenty kids was always a harrowing, but laughable ordeal. Also Charlie pines away for his beautiful best friend Sam, and if you've never done that, then you're probably lying. Mostly I love Charlie because his teacher tells him that he writes kind of likes he talks. The Perks of Being a Wallflower is a love story, and a life story, and one of the very few things that I am proud to claim ownership of, as a generation. Angry birds and Jersey Shore? No thanks!

So now they're making a movie out of it.  I'm not sure how I feel. I love books. But the book-to-film transition is always a little uncomfortable. Its like going to a new school where you don't know anyone. Actually, no, its like going to a school where you know a few people, but you have an odd past with them, and you spend every moment praying you don't run into each other. Regardless of the genre, every viewing  of a book-turned-film feels like suspense, like a psychological thriller. At moments you may find yourself on the edge of your seat, biting your nails in trepidation, hoping they didn't leave anything out. The author, Steven Chboksy is a goddam heartbreaking wordsmith. I hope they include all, or almost all, of the quotes that I've been doodling in my notebook margins since the age of fifteen. Quotes such as, "You accept the love you think you deserve", or "Not everyone has a sob story, Charlie, and even if they do, its no excuse". In my totally biased opinion, the best book-to-film adaption, is Fight Club. I love David Fincher,  I love Chuck Palahniuk. The fact that they worked together on the film, however,  is what guaranteed its success. This time, the author himself will be directing. I have my fingers crossed for awesomeness. I hope its excellent. Even if its not excellent, it will be important. Because it belongs to us. And also because Emma Watson plays Sam.



"It’s like looking at all the students and wondering who’s had their heart broken that day, and how they are able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report on top of that. Or wondering who did the heart breaking. And wondering why."

I Hope You Lose.

The headline read, "After Just One Week in New York, Tim Tebow Already Gay, Homeless, Crack-addict." Or something to that effect. I thought it was hilarious. This, of course, is probably due to the fact that everything in The Onion, awesome satire/fake-as-fuck news, is hilarious, Of course it is also, as I said, fake. Oh how I wish it were true. Tim Tebow. Tim Tebow is that swerving car that you really, really, just want to see crash. Funny how such a zealous Christian boy taps into my masochistic side. Zealous is a good word. That is what I always thought Tim Tebow was. Zealous.

From the beginning, Tim Tebow seemed more interested in simply being a star than in being a star quarterback. How many college football players star in Superbowl ads? And not even something fun and neutral like beer or deodorant. He chose something from the "Shit We Don't Talk About During Fun Activities" list. He chose from the TOP of the list. Who interrupts the nation's Superbowl parties to talk about abortion? RUDENESS.

Most people always assume this is a total fallacy, but I pray. I pray mad hard. Tony Dungee prays. Jeremy Lin prays. Tons of people pray, but they do so inside churches or in their beds at night etc etc etc. I hate to get all Christian on you, since its 2012 and we're all so cool and hip so none of us believe in God, but my argument is in The Bible - running around making a spectacle of yourself showing everyone how much you pray is the least Christian thing you can do. Right next to writing a semi-serious, but ultimately indifferent blog that half-heatedly tears down a fellow Christian.... My point is - tons of people pray. Tons of baseball players point of to God or make the sign of the cross, and every time, every time, I'm like AWWWWWW! This is because they're not sitting right next to the game, getting down on one knee, closing their eyes, and saying ten Our Fathers. I hate when he does that. If I was his teammate, and I looked over and saw Tim Tebow NOT watching his team play the game, I'd be so offended. I'd cry. And then I'd mess up and our team would lose. Once again, Timski, RUDENESS. Zealot. Which brings me to his new partner-in-crime, Rex Ryan.

This is gonna be so awesome. While Tim Tebow is all about saving babies, Rex Ryan is all about kicking asses. Or at least, he's all about making empty threats to do so. I'm very excited to see what this dynamic duo will, or won't, accomplish. It's going to be soapbox city in New York now, with all those boys kicking-ass Jesus style. Kicking ass Old Testament God style? I can't wait for the interviews, and the quotable lines that will come out of each of their mouths. They are going to be like, the cutest couple ever. GO JETS.

"As much as I respect and admire Bill Belichick, I came here to kick his ass, and that's the truth." -- Rex Ryan

Cops vs Robbers vs Robots vs Salesmen vs Us.

I would describe our contemporary world as Post-Modern/Pre-Apocalyptic. Its a new time, and we are inventing new words accordingly. What I mean is, we Google things. Netflix is the new Google. Now we Netflix things, too. We walk around speaking nonsense that seems completely sensical to everyone around us. We walk around like we're goddam minor characters in A Clockwork Orange. We don't go to video stores and rent films or television shows. We "netflix" them. Well, I don't. Or at least, I don't yet. However, if you know me, you know I may eventually always break down and sell my soul for instant gratification.


My current love affair is with HBO's 2002-2008 drama The Wire. Chuck Klosterman once said something about Season 4 of The Wire being the greatest season of television ever, and what Klosterman says is gold. My favorite character, as well as Obama's favorite character, is Omar. A bad pun is the only way to say this - Omar puts the "hood" in Robin Hood. Omar has the best of intentions. Omar has cornrows. Omar has a shotgun. Omar has a scar across his face. Omar robs drug dealers and Omar is gay. He defies the stereotype and I love it. The show is progressive and makes some very interesting commentaries on society. The cast is immense and overflowing with diversity. Relations between different races, different sexual orientations, and between different socioeconomic groups are highlighted in almost every scene. The always subjective idea of anyone being "good"or "bad" is challenged and transcended in the show. I love it. Unfortunately, my episodes left are numbered.


So what's next? All my friends love Breaking Bad, but I don't want to make anyone start the epic journey all over again at Season 1 just so I don't have to watch it alone. I watched like, one episode of Weeds and it just didn't take. If anything, I should be watching The L Word from Showtime, but I've been tempted like many others, by the coolness of Don Draper. Ultimately, I know nothing about this guy but still. I am aware of the fact that he (technically/metaphorically/imaginarily) exists. I've seen him around. On the cover of TV Guide and GQ and stuff. Don Draper is the guy you keep somehow running into downtown but you refuse to speak to for fear of where the conversation might lead. He makes me question my loyalty. Makes me want to leave the TV show I'm already with just to be with him. I don't know. I think its just a matter of time, before I find myself embracing technology, decreasing US employment, and letting the robots win, just so I can Netflix the hell out of Don Draper.

"Mad Men's protagonist is Don Draper, a pathological liar who charms women by grabbing their vaginas in crowded restaurants." - Chuck Klosterman, Eating the Dinosaur

Rage and Stuff.

This is not a fashion blog, because I am not a girl. Indeed this must be a lie, because when I look down I see a vagina and when I look up I see a glass ceiling. So I'm a girl. I am arguably, "The Average Girl": I don't have very much money in my bank account, my feelings at times can only be described by song lyrics from the early 2000's, and I sometimes secretly dream of running away and being a painter/broke barista. If you added up all of the girls and divided this new-found sum by... all of the girls, you would get me. I am the Average Girl.

I bought a baggy crop top yesterday, because I love block print. Block print reminds me of hardcore, and when I used to listen to hardcore, and when I used to be hardcore. The aforementioned crop top simply says "RAGE". Thinking of wearing it for the rest of my life. I get addicted to the most excruciatingly life-ruining things. Not like, meth and hookers - there's a time and a place for THOSE - but things like processed carbs, for example, and running lights that have been red for anywhere from 2 to 5 minutes. I got a ticket for this today, and I had a shitty day at work. Today is one of those days where I believe that I will continue to have shitty days at work until I run away to become an artist/makeup artist/broke barista or until I become someone with more tattoos, someone with more courage. Someone with more.

"What most people in my situation would do is go to their boyfriend's house. They would go there and cry and be handed tissues and cry some more and never stop to think that they should really be laughing and smiling joyfully because their boyfriend is an actual physical being on the same plane of reality as them." - No One Belongs Here More Than You, stories by Miranda July

Tune in next time, when I write a film review or something. This is not a fashion blog. I am not a girl. These are not vicious lies.These are not vicious lies.