i feel like having sex with a drum machine.


you sat alone.
maybe it's three hours of sleep finally coming down like heavy rain clouds upon my eyelids and my shoulders. i am oh so tired. i grow to be more introspective, more caught up in the cracks in the sidewalk.
light is so subtle and beautiful. i filmed fire and ashes and curls of smoke. the boy ryan created a structure of hanging tissue paper boxes surrounded by long strips of more tissue paper. he then proceeded to pour the liquid from glow sticks. rivulets of glowing green streaming down the sides and dripping into puddles on the floor. it was probably the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.
we danced up on stage during the ice of boston. i can really shake it.
last night was a late night in which one created songs about ponies and hamburgers or the speed of light with sheel on kvrx and listened to him sing with a voice that was prettier than jesus on a sunday.
am i being selfish when i ask a boy to just be friends? i met my conor oberst look alike last night. after twenty minutes of coy glancing and shy smiles, i leaned over to talk to him. i've got digits. and it's not that i'm not attracted. nor is it that nick is standing in the way of anything. he seems cool. i want to hang out with him. and it's not very often that i'm feel so right with someone. some sort of new age insta-bond, something that is brought up in girl talk over dr. peppers in clear glasses and pink nail polish being painted onto toenails. curses to me overanalyzing my fairy tale dreams. arrr. i would find someone to be attracted to in the midst of dating a winner. i like nick a lot (as previously stated). and i want to figure things out with him.
why must i perpetually look like a bum?
that singer of international noise conspiracy is a real political rock star crack head. i kind of dig it.


so maybe i don't put out on the first date, but i think i'm still classified as easy.
i spent thirty minutes crimping my hair with a pink boss crimper from the eighties. high side ponytail in place and i keep tugging at the top of my black sequined top. this dress is easy access. flip it up for some sweet candy. ahaha. jukebox socks layered with hot pink sparkle socks. benny cut out rainbow letters to spell out the name marcel, his flaming alter ego. pre-party music selections included the police and seventies r and b. blake is drunker than a sailor and higher than a kite at 3 in the morning.
i miss lady. very much.
i guess technically i'm too easy b/c i put out before the first date.
i like nick. a lot.
i took some ibuprofen about half an hour ago. it still hasn't kicked in.
friday night was sweet. and i stayed in his bed under the covers close to him. he likes that i'm tall. and when i told him i was into him he replied with a yeah tell me about it. i snorted, it's b/c you're so sexy and you put out. he laughed and told me that he was talking about me. i like when he uses intricate science vocabulary to explain what his write ups are about. he was wearing his glasses and a button up shirt, unbuttoned. i told him i felt like i was fucking the professor. he told me that's what he was going for.
of course when i type this van halen's hot for teacher comes on.
blake told us he wants to have a beach party when it gets cold.
quaker oat squares with milk in a styrofoam bowl for an afternoon breakfast.
we stayed in yesterday watching robin hood and harry potter instead of the ut iowa state game. funny thing is i feel as if i haven't betrayed my anti-harry self. actually scratch that. you could hear the cheers.


i've driven myself to exhaustion with under eye circles and tired body moving from place to place.
on monday, benny and i shared a wonderfully romantic dinner in the trolley at spaghetti warehouse. oh darling, how you put away the bread and oh, how you stepped on the red gummi worm residing next to your chair legs. a year in review and tomato sauce filling our tummies. i think we creeped our waiter, douglas, out just a little bit. but benny is darling and we dressed up nice to talk about pussies rather than wearing our normal slummy clothes. i giggled excessively and spooned wedding soup into my mouth. we are so soul twins, cuddly and cute until the very end. (insert babysitter's club the tv show theme) i don't even want to go into the kiss. photobooth, kiss, reaction. yowza. ridiculous. there was no aftertaste of the coffee ice cream with strawbwerries we had eaten earlier nor any slickness of chapstick. just two sets of junior high lips and blushing faces. don't ever slip me the tongue, or i'll slit your throat.
the pattern and the hot hot heat. the tres hot dance party. apparently my weave goes crazy when i bust a move but at least i don't hump people like aaron of manatee. i would whisper secrets into stinky's ear and she would either piss her pants laughing or give me disgusted looks. kevin is by far the most rock and roll boy i know. he's got stealth moves like your very own personal new wave dance party. and i tied my swetshirt around my knockers while scrubbing the ground with ben. and johnny's fro hit people in the face while the two of us ballroom danced. and benny and i recreated junior high with mumbled words and lack of eye contact. it was electric candy for the body. we made fun of the drunk indie girl and the boy with goth hair and drank lots of water. jealous much? i think so.


i drove over to nick's yesterday evening listening to belle and sebastian as the clouds hung low in the horizon. a short trip to the grocery store with a basket filling up quickly. and back to his place where i rest my chin upon the lower palm of my hand, elbow on the bar while seated on a wooden stool. he's cooking for me. and while the music fills our ears, the smells of chicken and pesto and parmesan fill the kitchen. he's moving the knife expertly with swift cuts and stirring risotto in a pan with a spatula and complaining about the lack of a garlic crusher. and in the end, i have a black plate with parmesan chicken filled with basil pesto, risotto and steamed broccoli.
we stayed up watching lock, stock and two smoking barrels. kiss just a little bit longer. and then we fall asleep in seperate beds.


it's nice to see you after what seems to have been a long time. i think you're one of the few people i can be quiet with and feel nothing but good. as much as you'll want to punch my monkey face, it feels like a velvet underground song to be with you. i <3 you, kiddo.


one summer last fall by jets to brazil is a hot fucking song.
snot covered socks and news that gets old as the headline is dropped. i don't have the golden mane ponies wish for and the sheets are crumpled at the bottom of the bed, damp and heavy from the cold air. someone should make out with australia.
if i have mono, heads are going to roll. and i am tired right now. and somehow i think that in avoiding sleep i am avoiding the possibility of having mono. oh but it is cold in here. how would i have gotten mono anyway? no one i know has it and i've never had it. in other related news, i slept all day yesterday, i live off soup and i experiment in burning different types of paper for my future project. i think i'm starting to hear things, namely a phone off the hook that i can't claim as my own. last night i lay in bed with covers pulled up to my chin and i sang along to the song that would play out into the room. all by myself. the sun is out. the sky is blue. there's a not a cloud to spoil the view, but it's raining. raining in my heart. buddy holly is my new idol. there is still some lemon lime powerade in the fridge which i believe shall be finished. umm now.


alex tells me : i first heard this at a funeral of a piano player whose leukemia had taken away one of his arms and then his life. someone there played one of his songs, that he wrote for one arm.
"farewell to you and the youth i have spent with you. it was but yesterday we met in a dream. you have sung to me in my aloneness, and i of your longings have built a tower in the sky. but now our sleep has fled and our dream is over, and it is no longer dawn. the noontide is upon us and our half waking has turned to fuller day, and we must part. if in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song. and if our hands should meet in another dream we shall build another tower in the sky."
in a side note: i want to get married to a boy who wears cashmere sweaters and plays music in his head and hums softly through his lips. and he is pretty. life is pretty even when it is tragic b/c beauty grows out of tragedy. and someone told me tragedy is the best soil. and i pretend to hold hands. and type with five fingers on two hands. two pills of anti-knocking up hormones make me motherly and airy and honest. or at least i pretend they do.
i don't know how i feel about foghorn snoring.
"art washes from the soul the dust of everyday life." - pablo picasso
tell me tell me tell me what you are doing that makes you happy to feel the sun
watermelon chapstick is washed away with the intake of blue liquid mouth wash that gurgles in the back of the mouth. and the beauty regiment consists of a worn washcloth rubbed upon a face of soap. eyes are shut to keep the sting out and when they open the eyelashes are together in pieces. blink and rewet.


i rest my head on wooden door to support the weight of want and sorrow.
you are lovely and beautiful and sad.
we sit at a table on the roof staring at construction and cranes and gay men sipping on drinks under festive lights at the bar. colors pulse over the bodies of gay men, men dressed like women, benji, will and i and bounces off the mirrors. hips move with the beats and men dance like women. the strippers wear only thongs and get freaky for an extra five dollars. we keep moving and giggling and ben teaches us to dance gay. and i close my eyes b/c it's getting hot. "if i were more drunk i would have pulled that stripper down and had him dance with me." sure you would have. i am such a fag hag, i admit it. we walk home under street lights. hi i'm ben and i have a bushy pushy. mmm thanks bye.
we held hands over the mattress and watched hedwig sing about the origin of love.
johnny and i were silent for the first hour of the trip back. it seems like a dirty secret to know someone is so upset. it wasn't awkward silence but something we used to avoid things we didn't know how to deal with. he falls asleep in the passenger seat and the flaming lips sort of cover us while the outside rushes by. and finding out what you thought was wrong wasn't the real reason.
benny is creaming his panties over powersquid while he and nick and johnny and tash and eli drink terrible home-brewed beer. or that's what i heard. i was the sober driver that night. it was bad enough for some of it to be poured onto my bare foot instead of on the grass. and when i saw you again it was like something that had been missing was put back into the picture and i had to nuzzle into you. that or it was some sort of obsession for unfinished business. but know that i heart you. i run my fingers over the rim of nick's pants. and i smile and feel close.
leaving late but feeling happy. the moldy peaches sing about crack while we sing along with voices cracking and the doves croon about the man who told everything. johnny and tash and i talk about everything with scenery lit by headlgihts passing by. jesus saves crack addicts on the radio in san marcos while we look for a gas station that is open after midnight. we pull into a trucker stop to fill up and get a drink in a gray plastic cup (which i proceeded to spill three times in the next twelve hours), chocolate cupcakes and flaming hot cheetos. and johnny begs and mourns for quarters so he can buy a french tickler in the restroom. oh truckers, i wish you would buy me nudie trading cards at the truck stop. h-o-mother fuckin t. tash falls asleep in the back and we keep talking in the front.
themselves at emos. it's like pulling myself more inside of myself and stepping outside my body at the same time. i want your babies, doseone. subcouncious movement and illustrated pictures in red and black and movement and gestures with white boys dancing in the front in a way the black kids would make fun of. it's no lie, i heard people ragging on the white kids before and it was funny. even funnier if you had seen them dancing yourself. a plastic baby with markered mustache and goatee to look like alias. the room rattles with the bass. and you find yourself moving. moms and dads, what's up with that?
natters and johnny and i discuss pushy and pregnancy at wendy's over a delcious dinner. mom, i'm pregnant. again?! seven is alright but eight?? and then we talked about jc.as in jesus christ. mm mm good.
saved by the bell: the last dance...nuff said. ahahaha
p.s. ben still thinks i should be a stripper. to be frank, i wish he would stop giving michael bolton head.


p.s. my computer gotz the klez virus so it is going to the comp doctor for a few. feel free to send me, er it some love.
well it was lame to begin with...the party on the roof. we sat in lawn chairs. so we ditched the highschool party for a prententious art/rock show at a gallery on the train tracks. as guitars distorted sound and trains meandered by and a guy pissed beside a cart, we examined painted pieces with blood and cities and slashes. and then a foreign guy had to get creepy on our asses. he took over a guitar and the mic to play songs our "parents played before they put [you] to bed", "before they touched [you]". and alyssa got brave and stood near him while he grabbed her so tash could take a picture. cuddles and i sang along to the strokes and johnny and i harmonized to bright eyes and apples in stereo and all of us sang along to the moldy peaches while passing green lights turning yellow and stop signs leading through frat central.
the make-your-own t-shirt-party presented the problems and the dance party. it was only after consuming a cup of trashcan punch that we learned it contained a hell of a lot of everclear. and i wondered if i was just out of it when it hit me after the first sip. i moved a lot and tash, clair, alyssa, stank-o and i rubbed up on each other dancing to whatever came up next. and then we'd collapse onto the couch with a beer in hand.it was fun giggling all night and pretending to be sexual deviants with benny and mike wachs. the t-shirts had sexual themes. ex. mike's sweatshirt commanded us to fuck his cvnt (greek style) or a girl's fancy a fuck?. and out of nowhere, jake and little man show up. little man and i are feeling the magic of the alcohol and the magic of each other. and i find myself sitting next to him and leaning over to johnny and drawling, "i could get laid right now if i wanted to and i don't know what to do about it." to which johnnny replies, "just take it easy." and sixteen year old sara is throwing shoes at sixteen year old carla who is grinding with some college guy. blake is hilarious..."who wantsss to light my cigarette?!!!" and when little man leaves for a smoke ben tells me to get little man to sit on my lap. and i do and somehow we end up making out and it was weird b/c everyone was cheering about it. and with eyes part open i see alyssa giving me that "hell yeah" look and jake's giving me thumbs up. and i feel stupid. but it's a nice release i suppose. i blame it on the drinks and the "oh my god first college party" attitude (to which i am ashamed to admit) and the overall rowdiness. i could have gotten laid but i was chill. sometimes i find things getting real and ridiculous and funny to talk about later. and johnny held my hand when i was sad about what was being said and i told him that he is wonderful and that i'm glad he's in my life again and i mean it all. the sadness sobers me up. and stink and i cry about the bullshit that happens when you're unhappy and when you feel helpless when we get back to the room. and we both know that we have each other and the people we love to make it better. and that the bullshit passes.
i woke up earlier than expected and i don't feel the ache until i take a shower. cristina and i talk until the wilco movie at the dobie. i am trying to break your heart. jeff tweedy is a funny person. black and white angles shot with beautiful cinematography that distracts us sometimes. but overall thumbs up for making us laugh about little kids and for making us think about bigger things.


think and act. there's no time to ponder in between. b/c that's when you'll regret it.
i like hot cocoa when the night air is colder than before.
last night. a small boy played music for us. and nothing has induced group swaying before, we were together and holding hands. bright eyes rimmed by blue light and pouring red wine down his throat. you will you will you will you will. and the tragedy meets the beauty. and love everyone. the lights coming into the audience causing us to blink with fresh sunshine. flute and harmony and keyboard with undersea colors or bassoon and guitar and trumpet in warm fire colors. he sings through the microphone and into bodies that are breathing. and you just get so lost in the feeling.
some things are hard to explain.
i wanted to cry.
and i wanted to smile bigger than anything in the world.
i asked conor oberst a question.
"will you cuddle with me tonight?"
and he blushed.


the clothes still smell smoky and the taste of coffee lingers on the tongue. we sat in front of a red wall. the light is dim and the cigarettes grow brighter with intake.


it's all about the belle and sebastian, the wilco, bright eyes (going for the gold), the rattly piano and acoustic guitars. the sun filters through clouds overhead and bounce off the green leaves. pour some liquor into a glass and sit on the porch, watching it go. i get letters from the nicest boy on earth and it's black ink scratched onto a white surface or black letters typed onto blue screen. it looks like sky outside. slide into a desk to write a page about renaissance portraits or engravings, tempera or oil. i'm working on it. waffle pockets filled with syrup. i'm subtley alone. i hate the word cuddles but that's what sounds good. jack played a good set on monday night. and we got milkshakes afterwards. there's not much to talk about but it feels good. like a friend feels sexy. b/c you know what i mean. and silouettes fall into place and i'm running forever. and you'd be there at the end. the you i don't know yet. the lithographs upstairs are amazing. and the colors pop like fruit juice between the teeth and gums. this friday this friday this friday you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place. and i wish i could string the words together that tell you what i mean. pink underwear is still hidden in the wooden dresser drawer and there is a pile of dirty laundry in a box in the closet. i can feel it melting away.