NOTHING TO SAY

If I Could Watch You. Please Let Me.

2012-01-29T10:39:00.000-08:00

Don’t you hate when you look at the toilet paper after youwipe your asshole and there is, like, tons of blood and shit all over thepaper? Like, enough to spackle a wall? Like, ‘did I shit myself just now’ thick? Andyou keep wiping and the tons of shit is going away but the blood is not? And all the blood on the tissue is soakingthrough to your fingers? And you think,What the fuck? And then you feel maybe you should call the hospital becausethere is no more shit and only blood and you are feeling sort of light headed? And the toilet bowl looks like a miscarriageis happening but you have a dick so that is impossible?

Man, I hate that.

Private parts are disconcerting sometimes. Dicks are like odd snowflakes. Vaginas, open wounds. All of them ugly people in a police line upof pinks, blacks and tans. An entirely separatespecies of flesh and folds we only look at when we choose to. Not like faces and elbows and eyes. Is mine pretty enough? Is the dark tinge on the edge of the pinklips normal? How tight is it inthere? Do my balls hang too low? What about this weird tonsil of skin underthe head of my dick? What are thestandards? The standards are there areno standards. We just create them in orderto feel insecure about ourselves. Oursheltered parts. Let’s keep the lightsoff.

Right now, my pussy smells like a garbage can. No, more like the pile of used adult diapersI keep in my “cat room.” No, my pussysmells like an old man being slowly cooked in a room with no ventilation duringa record breaking heat wave. No, more like that time I pulled the lid off thatancient tub of sour cream that one time. I mean, it’s an ambiguously disgusting smell. Like that one time my dad forgot to take thedead deer pieces off the grill of the truck. When my brothers and I would play that game where we’d sit and guesswhich pieces belonged to what parts of the deer. The game of who could get the closest to themess without covering their mouth and nose. That’s maybe what my pussy smells like.

Whoops! My pussy?No. I mean, my breath. I need to brush my teeth like a motherfucker. My pussy smells like angel hairpasta smothered in peaches and strawberry crepes after a 3 hour shower. I would eat my own pussy if I could. All bendy and shit.

I think if you know what a person looks like when they aresleeping, that is one of the most intimate things to know about someoneelse.

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.”

I wish I could say this to more people.

There are some people in this world who I really want towatch sleep. I want to be able to saythat to them.

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.”

I want to say this to others.

“I know what he looks like when he is sleeping.”

Or she.

I feel it’s a secret,privileged power thing. It can never betaken back once it’s given.

If you let me watch you sleep, I will know things about theheart of you.

I want to know so much about the hearts of you.

I keep being a part of moments I want to tell youabout. I repeat what the moments are andhow I will tell them to you. I repeatthem in my head thinking I will remember them, but I never do. I should take more notes.

Like, this morning, I wanted to tell you about this momentwhen I came into a quiet house. Thehouse is so very big and therefore, the space you walk into has this “extra-ness”to it that, when so very quiet, you feel this pressure to fill it withsomething, but withholding the “filling” has a certain power to it. So, I didn’t fill it. I walked into the extra-ness of the quiethouse and I let it give to ME. I wantedto tell you about this. About thegurgling in the sink that lasted for a long time. Like the thirstiest monster was downthere. It was not enough to fill theextra-ness. It was just a piece ofparsley on the edge of a plate that was waiting forthe main course. I wanted to tell you about the way I movedthrough the space. Through thequiet. How the light came through thewindows, softened through fog. How thedogs’ toenails sounded on the stone tiles. The wispy sounds their tails made through the quiet. The way nobody was seeing me. How, in that moment, in that movement, it wasall for me. Only for me. And I wanted towrite it all down as it was happening. Because, it felt…important. Worthsharing. But I did not. I lived it instead. But now I am writing it. Too late. I think it was more then. Butnow, it is now. Time fades and changesthings. I am a writer.

FRiGG

2012-01-26T13:30:00.000-08:00

FRiGG is a magazine that I love, that always brings it, and has one of the best designs out there, so when, after 3 years of submitting to it and getting rejected, I got AN ACCEPTANCE, I am completely stoked to finally be published in this Winter issue of FRiGG!!!

Special thanks to poetry editor, Sean Farragher, for making this happen.

Read the poems HERE.

Read the entire issue HERE.

And if you found me at FRiGG, liked my shit and have found your way here, please buy the fuck out of my books:

Normally Special

He is Talking to the Fat Lady

You won't regret it. Or maybe you will. Whatever. Live dangerously.

In the Dense of Things I Will Destroy You

2012-01-25T08:15:00.000-08:00

Guess what guys? My mom likes my writing!

Remember when I told you I gave her some of my writing overThanksgiving and she never said anything about it? Well, she randomly emailed me last weeksaying how she’d love to read more of my stories so I sent about four to herand she emailed me two days ago and said that my writing is “brilliant!” She used about four exclamation points and allcaps. It made my heart full. My mom liked my writing. My mom is proud of me I guess. It felt good. Not gonna lie.

One of the storieseven had jacking off in it!!! My mommust love jacking off stories.

I love my mom.

Also, I am now beginning to get awp anxiety. I think it’s because maybe a lot more people seemto be going and maybe because a lot more people know I will be there. Last year I never really said that I’doutright be there and maybe nobody was looking for me. Now I feel like people might be wanting tomeet me and I will just disappoint them. Maybe they have a certain image of me and maybe the real me will tarnishthat image and they’ll be all, “fuuuuccckk….” and, “loser” and, “gross.” I know these are irrational fears. I would’ve probably heard something last yearthat I was “fuuuuccckk….” “loser” and, “gross” but I didn’t (to my face at least). So, I think I’m okay but still, the fear….

Also, (I start lots of paragraphs with “also.” Annoying.) I have a really sucky memory. I “know” a lot of people on the internet viaan association of their Twitter handle/photo or Facebook photo/name. If you present yourself to me in person andyou don’t have a little square with your icon innit and your name printed nextto it, I might be confused as to your identity. I feel bad that I might look at people in aconfusing/befuddled/embarrassed way and make them feel bad. This happened a few times last year and I felthorrible. Therefore, if you want tointroduce yourself as your twittername or facebook name (if not your real name)go right ahead. Just please understand Iwill probably be drunk and confused and caught up in the awp whirlwind so, don’thate me.

Just kidding about all that awp stuff. I’m hiring that samegirl I hired last year. She had a greattime. If you have any problems with her,remember it’s not me, it’s her.

2012-01-22T08:26:00.000-08:00

Fried chicken and chocolate cake. They taste like donuts. In space. If you want to have fun, come with us. Tell the waitress it’s Vagina Day and watchher tattoos melt off her body. It’s a way you can see. It takes a village. A village populated byvillagers. Villagers hungry. Helmet-haired wives. New sinks. Yesterday I pulled every hangnailoff my body using my teeth. A new systemfor drawing blood. High heeled shoesthat continue not going anywhere. Aleather couch that doesn’t want me anymore. Ryan Gosling should have a thing for me. Life is unfair when it should be topsy-turvy. I am one day away from desperatemeasures. Do you know how I know I amsafe? I see you are at a tattered farawayplace. I breathe a little easier. I stop looking over my shoulder. I like to know what to expect. The thin of my skin. A wayward son. How the laundry loads will be lighternow. How you always pay me no attentionuntil you do. Do me a favor. Tell me how good I am every day. A yellow wall behind me, no lightbulbs. My feet wrapped in cotton. Dog blood. A semi-circle of cops is a place I want to walk into. Skim of my teeth. Wherewithal to have the wherewithal to havethe wherewithal. I am a balancingact. You should see me dance. It’s the saddest thing you will eversee. When you hold me I will takeeverything out of you. You are alibrary. Fried chicken and chocolatecake is a shame in my living room. Mybody is wrong getting wronger. A runawaytrain. I liked a black ladyyesterday. She reminded me of my mom andmy mom’s friends. My mom got drunk. I wish things didn’t happen sometimes. Replace got with izza. No. I want things to change and I want things tonot be real. Sleeping is sometimesbetter than awaking. Lonely is the nightis a song by billy squire. Half the goodrock stars are dead. My dad isfootball. Planes take people awaysometimes. Half sentences are fine rightnow. Random words. I am ugly. Do not expect more. Pay less. I will boil eggs today. I will feel scared. I like to count on things. Squirrels and birds. My diaphragm. What the fuck with this noise against the walls. Nature is revolting. They are coming through the walls. If I try and stop them maybe I can bebrave. I would never throw away 60,000words like some people can. Everyone isbetter than me. Do not think I amanything because I am not. I am nothing. A smear. I made the coffee tooweak this morning. See?

2012-01-17T15:52:00.000-08:00

Having sex with Zach Galifianakis is weird and slow…if mydream last night is to be believed. Helikes to play with nipples and he has lots of “stuff” stuck to his penis thathe has to pull off with his fingers. Ihad to wait a bit before we got to “the action.” He was beardy and roly-poly, and had a wayabout him that was slothfully awkward and apologetic. Blue, cotton boxers, stretched loose.

I’m not entirely sure we consummated fully, but I can tellyou that I am pretty sure it was going to be as disgusting and degrading as Iwas hoping for.

Dennis Cooper is not disgusting or degrading. He is a niceface. He "talks about" Frank’s book and my book on aday where, coincidentally, our books are being re-released.

Last time my chapbook, “He is Talking to theFat Lady” went on sale, it sold out in less than two days. Now it is back, reprinted, with two addedstories and blurry naked photos of myself just kidding about the photos andthere are BUNDLES! BUNDLES! BUNDLES!

Orders will ship January 31^st.

Be awesome and spread the word. I want to be a sell out again!

2012-01-16T09:12:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I do this thing with my mouth that makes a smallsound like, “BEE BO, BEE BO.” I do itbecause of the mouth shapes it makes. Maybe I am also trying to be a little like a robot. BEE BO BEE BO BEE BO. Pretty sure I look like an idiot when I dothis. Glad nobody sees me or knows I do this sometimes.

People with drinking problems sometimes try to grab yourboobs in a dark bathroom. They wont remember it in the morning but I will stillremember it.

Yesterday I found a bottle of “gourmet” margarita mix from2010 in my liquor “cabinet” which is actually just the floor of my pantry. So, really, it’s my liquor floor. I was like, hmmm…I need to dump thisshit. If it was 2011 I could’ve takenthe chance, but 2010 is kind of pushing it. So I threw it out.

This morning while a pot was trying to boil I thought I’dlook in my pantry to see if I had any other ancient shit waiting to killme. Oh man. I found a cylinder of Quaker Oats thatexpired in 2010 AND THEN I FOUND ANOTHER CYLINDER OF THE SAME QUAKER OATS—WITH SLIGHTLYDIFFERENT PACKAGING---THAT EXPIRED IN 2009!! Omg, I suck at life. Then I foundan old opened box of Tapioca pudding and a half empty bag of soy flour fromprobably 2009. It’s been a while since Iwas on that organic soy flour kick. Wow. What an eye opener. I am going to go back into that pantry with afine toothed comb and I am going to comb the shit out of expiration datedthings.

What a loser. How amI even an adult?

Standards

2012-01-13T08:31:00.000-08:00

You are all crazy. Thereis nothing wrong with old people fucking. I am happy when senior citizens get together and bone. I am not at all disgusted at the thought oftheir papery, wrinkled, sagging skin—like the thin skim of fat over a room temperatureconsommé—smearing against each other in a rhythmic fashion. Heck, I want to BE that old person stillconcerned with orgasms, with the sharing of pleasures. I high five every 60-80 year old who stillloves mouths on their private parts. WhenI am (more) old, I want to be able to hold my grandchildren with hands thathave just helped get off their grandfather because I was too dry and hadforgotten to pick up a new bottle of KY at the market. I want my grown sons to walk in on me andtheir father and be scarred for life but secretly proud and hopeful that whenthey reach our age, they will be getting laid too. However, I will still not watch grannyporn. That’s unbecoming and not lovelyor beautiful at all.

Francis Skeeta

2012-01-11T13:26:00.000-08:00

I just got winded from helping our “disabled” postman carrysome boxes to his truck. “You look ableto me!” was maybe something that should’ve been an inside thought.

My chest heaved mightily. I felt muscles burn.

There is a thing with my neck area with a word that scaresme. I cannot say the word because itfeels like lead on the tongue. An anvilof a word that does not burn, it’s just very, very cold.

Yesterday, a lot of blood and hair. There is a smell that comes from a lot ofblood that has flowed and dried that stays with you for hours after you havewashed your hands multiple times. Ithink it harbors in the nose. I think itsinks into your brain. I think it wassoaked into my clothes. I am tired oflow injuries while simultaneously wanting things to die.

I feel so much shame at these thoughts. A comfortable shirt.

Eleven days into the year and my judgment is benign.

Spork Story

2012-01-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

I wrote this story. Here it is. In Spork.

2012-01-06T07:52:00.000-08:00

I saw a blurry photo of Shakira’s ass this morning and itspoke to me. It woke up what I did notknow was asleep. It knocked on mymorning wood. I rolled over. I put my pillow to where I could grind it. I rode the pony.

I said, “Hello, Shakira’s ass. You look so nice and soft and round. I like how the brown color fades to a lightwhite as the coverage from your bikini bottoms lessens due to yourbending/lounging position. I want to putmy face there it and try to die.”

No response.

In the quiet grunting of the pony ride, there was a moment inside of me that wanted to lay my handson Shakira’s naked ass even though she might start screaming for help orfighting me off like she doesn’t like it. The moment was called, “I Understand Rapists.” But it was just a moment. A moment that wanted to grope and grope whilewhispering, “Just hold still and this will all be over before you know it.”

The Ways

2012-01-04T07:42:00.000-08:00

The ways I had a chapbook released a long time ago. The waysit sold out in less than two days the ways frank’s followed suit. The ways things come back. The ways of second chances. The ways you can win a contest. The ways you can buy my chapbook again on January3st. The ways it has new things insideof it. The ways it is a newer, prettiergirl that wants to sit in your lap. Theways I love you for listening.

The ways you can hear me here reading something from thischapbook. The ways I say “shit” and “cocks.” The ways you can find fault in me: they aremany, but they are mine.

Let It Be is not just a song by the Beatles.

2012-01-01T19:31:00.000-08:00

Let’s take a minute to reflect upon who we are. Sit. Breathe in all of the things you needto. Never mind there are couches. Nevermind the reflecting letters, how the walls sulfur and blow. Pay no mind to the way your little sistercried under the slaps of your father’s belt circa 1987 while you hid in thebathtub, head between your knees, rocking like a retard. Just breathe and let it all fill in thechinks where the light comes in, disrupting everything you were meant tobe. Breathe and wait. When nothing happens, when no answers comeand you don’t feel a bit of difference, you are done. Tell the polar bear to leave. Kick his flabby ass on his way out thedoor. Say, “That’s right you fuck,” anddon’t even bother slamming anything, polar bears can’t hear worth a shit. Instead, think about fingering the girl atwork you hate so very much. Think aboutfeeding her her own cunt slime while you half choke her out MMA style, yourerection burning a hole in your fist. Then, once you come down from that high, call me. On my cell, not my house phone, I don’tanswer that shit. I’ll lie on my backand listen to everything you have to say. I promise. If you need me to talkback, I will, just don’t ask me to come over, there’s not one part of me thatever wants to see your face.

Here We Go Again...

2011-12-29T07:33:00.000-08:00

I have a hard time doing these end of year recap thingsbecause I have the worst memory but I kind of feel compelled to do them becausemaybe it’s nice to have a point in life in which you stop and take a look backat what has happened for you over a certain period of time. Reflect andwhatnot.

Like I said, I have a terrible memory and I’m not about togo back through the months of my blog to figure out what I did and didn’t do. Ithink in 2012 I will keep a list somewhere. A list of milestone things or the books I read, new music I fell in lovewith or discovered, etc. I kind of likereading everyone’s lists and it sucks that I can’t remember past last Tuesday. Ugh, and I KNOW I will forget something afterI hit publish. Argh.

Anyway, here goes.

---I made a pretty monumental trip this year to AWP and metinternet people and did a reading and got drunk and danced and met internetpeople and felt awkward and met internet people. It was the most surreal experience I’ve everhad. People were treating me like…Idon’t know…like I was a special person. Important. I’m not used tofeeling that way.

I finally met my internet bro and good buddy, MelBosworth. That was a heart fulfillingthing. He was exactly what I expectedand awesomer than I expected. It was thegreatest.

I also met my longtime internet friend, Robb Todd, in asurprise moment I will remember forever. Drunken hand holding never felt so good. A tremendous human being.

But the best thing about that trip was finally meetingRoxane and sharing a hotel room and every day with her. Sometimes you make ‘best friends’ online andwonder if IRL it will be the same way it is through this little box. What if the vibe is not there? What if yourbest connection you will ever have with that person is only fortified throughdistance and separation? Reasonablefears. Luckily, there was none of thatfor Roxane and me. We hit it off likepeas and carrots. And then we hit it offmore. Like strippers and poles orsomething. Words cannot express the feelingsI have of our time spent together at AWP. All I will say is I ripped off a piece of her frayed jeans, something ofsomething she had worn a lot that I felt was a part of her, and kept it in mypurse just so I could have something that came from something that was close toher. It’s still in my purse. Right nowit’s in my purse. I take it out and feelit with my fingers every so often. It’slike a touchstone. I can say so muchmore but I think that might say it all.

---Early this year I ran a really long race. I am not a runner. I am a walker. It was hard. I spent months training and when the daycame, I ran that race. I ran that wholerace without stopping or walking. It was the furthest I had ever run in mylife. Eight miles. When I began training, I couldn’t run for even oneminute. It was a huge thing for me. It made me change the script I had alwayswritten about myself. It made me believethat things you thought were impossible for yourself can be made possiblethrough lots of hard work and determination. I will always be proud of myself for this and use the knowledge of thiswhen I run into the next thing I feel is impossible which is

---Writing a book. This year I haven’t been writing as many short stories because I spent alarge amount of my time trudging through what, hopefully, will become anovel. Not a collection of stories, butONE story. It’s fucking hard as hell. I’ve been drawing from my race experience andapplying it to writing this novel. Onefoot in front of the other type of shit. Don’t give up type of shit. Look,you’re doing it, you’re really doing it type of shit. I am on a break from it now, but I will pickit up after the new year. It would be soeasy to give up on it. So damneasy. Like how it would’ve been easy tojust stop training for that race. Butthen I never would’ve run that race or finished it like I did. I know I can do the same thing with thisbook. I know it will be long and painfuland shin splints and rain and cold and sweat but I also know there will be joyand elation and pride and happiness and that, in the end, I will have a fuckingribbon and medal and giant cardboard check made out for $333,333,333 dollars inmy real name because, folks, this book is not for xTx, it’s for the girl thathides behind her.

---There was a pretty huge thing that happened in my privatelife this year. A life changer. That’s all I will say about that.

---An incredible human being in my real life died earlierthis year. It was unexpected. He was ajoy to many people and I will miss him. His death reminded me…reminds me…that life is short and you only haveRIGHT NOW so don’t waste it.

Miss you, man…

---Back to the writing, I probably published half of what Ipublished the year before. That’s okay. I didn’t submit as much. I got solicited a lot and the places Isubmitted to and AM submitting to now are the bigger journals which are more ofa challenge. Lots of fucking rejection. But if you don’t push yourself to aimhigher, reach further, where is the challenge? I can’t keep submitting to the places that have already published methat already ‘like’ me. I think that’slike a kid showing her artwork to her parents and grandparents all the time andgetting the same praise over and over again. Some people probably find comfort in that. But, for me, it’s too easy. Take that fingerpainting out on the street,get some real opinions. Ouch—yes. Butthere could be praise waiting as well. Might make you work a bit harder on those paintings though… Might end up with a fucking masterpiece.

I want to make masterpieces.

Segue.

I guess the biggest thing for me this year is I had my firstbook published. I’ve received primarilypositive reviews and feedback on the book. It currently has a Goodreads rating of 4.48 if that means anything. I’vesold a fair amount of them and none to any friends or family members becausenone of them know the book exists. (sadface) This means hundreds of people I don’t even know are buying my book.HUNDREDS. I think those are all greatthings. I am proud of this book and itwas a great experience…having a book. It’s a nice little book. If Icould write a letter to my book, I would write the following letter:

Dear Normally Special,

Thank you for being my first book. I know one day I may look back at you andthink different or new things about you, but right now, I am proud of you andwhat you’ve accomplished. You are notthe best book that is out in the world, but you are a good book and you can holdyour own with your little head held high. Feel good about this. I know Ido.

I’m sorry I maybe put some ugly things inside you, but Norm,we all have ugly things inside of us. The ones I put inside of you are just there for everyone to see. So, I hope you aren’t upset over that. I think maybe it’s the ugly things that helpsendear you to readers. Watch theireyes. I bet they do not look away and ifthey do, it’s only for a moment to catch their breath.

It’s been a great first year and in the years to come I hopethat more people find you and find things inside of you that find things insideof them. That’s really all I’ve everwanted for you. For us.

I love you.

Regards,

Mom

Lastly, but never least, thank you to all the awesome peoplewho read and liked my writing this year and any year. Thanks to all the people who read myblog. Thanks to everyone who linked myshit, pimped my shit and commented on my shit and tweeted my shit. It all matters to me. It all means a lot. You mean a lot. Special thanks to my new friend,Casey Hannan, who was the nicest surprise for me this year, Team 369–GFYMB, MelBosworth, Frank Hinton and Roxane Gay who I couldn’t have made it through thisyear without.

Have a great holiday. Have a great new year. Let’s allmake things that count next year. Let’sall be better than we have ever been and help each other in that endeavor. Let’s all try to rival the stars.

xoxox

OMG's

2011-12-28T11:18:00.000-08:00

OMG Dennis Cooper, said he liked my story at EverydayGenius.

OMG a nice book review of Normally Special!!!

Book Review

2011-12-26T20:21:00.000-08:00

A handsome bum, street scum scrubbed off in a claw foot tub,the head of his huge erection submarining above the suds. We share a glass of wine while he soaks. I have a terrycloth robe rolling around inthe dryer readying itself for him. Ishave the bum in between his talking. Hewent to college. He loves his mom. He is funny in a Steve Martin meets MelBrooks way. He hates dogs, loves cats,etc. When I talk he really listens,stroking himself in an absentminded fashion. I like watching him as he does it.

bob

Later, after the bath, after he kisses his thanks for therobe all over my cheeks, we sit on the couch and I get a fire going. He tells me of the three men he’smurdered. I’m scared, but only becauseof what happened with the second man, but I’m only scared a little, morefascinated. I hold his hands. Reallylook at them. He asks me to tell himabout all the dark things I’ve done but then says, “Wait…let me eat your pussyfirst.” It’s the best head I’ve ever gotten. It’s not hard to confess after that.

When the house catches on fire, we don't even leave.

This sort of sums up how I feel about reading New YorkTyrant Volume 3, Number 3.

If you haven’t gotten it yet you are missing the fuckout.

First, Let's All Agree That xTx Is a Stupid "Name"

2011-12-23T09:10:00.000-08:00

i dont think you've noticed, but I've sort of fallen into a 'thing' for chubby girls.

lately, all i can do is click through tumblrs of sexy curvy chicks with my eyes full of their skin.

i like them in black lingerie the best.

Things

2011-12-20T07:37:00.000-08:00

There is a review of my chapbook, “He Is Talking to the FatLady” over at Rumble. It is reviewed byJA Tyler. JA Tyler says some nicethings.

Remember when this chapbook sold out in less than two daysand you couldn’t snag a copy? Well, thatproblem might be able to be solved for you shortly. (that is a hint of thingsto come!)

Today, I am finally published in Everyday Genius. I love Everyday Genius. But until this final attempt, it seemedEveryday Genius didn’t love me. Now theylove me. Or at least this little story. It’s called, “Things You Find on a Train” and you should read it here.

Lastly, Ani Smith has been posting some beautiful thingsabout Very Beautiful Women over at We Who Are About To Die. Ani Smith was one of those beautiful womenand this is what EYE have to say about her piece in Very Beautiful Women:

"Thereis so much here. So much. A bouquet of images.

I am here. Havebeen here. Have been there inside of these words, busting them out. Myself. A yearning to communicate by touch minus skin. Many times Icould’ve fallen, cracked my head on the pavement and out would’ve spilled thispoem. But instead, I lick it off the shoes of this American girl inLondon. Tell her I like it. Look up at her like, believe me. A plead in my eye. She looks back, holding my eyes with hers, communicatingnothing. Holding me there.

The same way she doeswith this.

Read those wordsagain. How she knows what she wants. Can tell it to us. Drawsit for us on our screens, on our souls. Makes us live it. This iswhat these types of words are supposed to do and she does.

I let her crumple meup in her fist.”

That is all i have to say about that

It's All Me

2011-12-18T08:14:00.000-08:00

My face is peeling away. Someone asked me what I left all over my chin. I said, it’s just me.

I have to go to the grocery store today but I want to wear aski mask. But that would be weird,right? If I were dressed all regular buthad on a ski mask? People might think Iwas there to rob them. I would probablytry to smile at them reassuringly through the ski mask and that would probablyfreak them out more. Ski masks areunsettling in non-ski situations.

Seriously though. Iwant to wear one to the grocery store. Ifeel very elephant man. You know,because my face peeling away and all. Iknow if I wore a ski mask I would bring more attention to myself than if I didn’twear one. Sigh. I will just have to keep everyone at a fivefoot distance from my face. I guess thechecker who will ring up my groceries and possibly the bagger will be the onlytwo people to be disgusted with my face today. I wonder who they are. Luckythem.

Favorite Time Saving Meals

2011-12-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

Okay, maybe I wrote some pervy poems, but UP is the one whopublished them so don’t blame ME.

Stop looking at me that way.

Tonight I could’ve got murdered in a blackdark stretch ofwalking. I saw the black. I walked intothe black and I said, very quietly, I could get murdered here. Then I just walked and held my keys like comeget me.

Rusted lockers.

My dinner was a fried egg eaten while standing up in thekitchen. I ate that egg all hot andouchy in my mouth because super hungry people cannot be bothered to wait forthings to cool off. Why I didn’t eat itstraight out of the skillet gives me hope for my humanity.

Yolk totally dripped onto my shirt. My thought was, “chicken come.” Which makes no sense, I know.

I hear the dryer going in the other room. Intermittentclanging on top of the hum. I washed abunch of dishes. I am wearing socks. Later, I will take out my contacts andwash my face. I have a “face regimen”now. Some sort of burning lotion I applyto my skin where I don’t want to be old anymore. The lotion doesn’t actually burn because Iwas lied to. I wanted it to burn.Expected it. Figured that would mean itwas really working. Now I just have toput it on, feel nothing, and hope it’s taking the old away

Sal Pane recommends me to his students. This makes me feel like I am maybe important, or at least my writing is. In all my life, I never thought I would everfeel that way. I want to cry.

2011-12-12T19:53:00.000-08:00

Do you know the whirlwind feeling after the hospital? After the nurse stands you up and recitescare information that you cannot write down? You look into their blonde American face and their blue eyes triple insize over their smiling mouth while they say things with their voice like it’snothing special.

I stood there nodding, like I understood. Like I was takingit all in. They forget how this happensevery day for them and only just now, for me. I walked away with a handful of paper full of instructions, some pillbottles and fear; my head spinning.

I stood in my kitchen for a while knowing I needed wine.

Then I got the wine.

I sat on the floor for six minutes with an ice pack a whitetowel, some blankets. I felt like I wasdoing something good. I sort of sunkinto the moment of not doing anything but what I was supposed to be doing and Ifelt like one of those good mothers. HowI think that they are.

I thought, this is what it is supposed to feel like. And then I kind of understood the mothers whomake their children sick just so they can make them well again. There’s something to being needed, togiving.

I can feel like a mother once in a while. If I want to. Just once in a while. Becausenobody wants to feel like that. It’s ahard, hard way to feel.

2011-12-11T14:50:00.001-08:00

I was just watching a show and saw a woman with theskinniest legs ever. Her thigh wascalf-sized. I was all, “How do thosethings hold her up?” Now, my thighs,they are calf-sized. But like, cow calfsized. Like, my thighs cause smallvillages to quake when I walk by. I haveto always tip toe past small villages or I’m just saying sorry a lot to thevillagers and feeling bad about their houses. Like, if you cut off all my thigh meat, you could make areasonably-sized pair of new thighs. Ifthere is some sort of thigh transplant place, someone please hook a brother upwith that info. I would like to savesome thighs with my thighs. If you everneed to get between my legs, you’d better bring along some ropes and pulleys.Hoisting devices. It’s a bit of work,but once you get the path cleared the rest seems to go pretty easily.

I don’t know, you know, about like, you know, like peoplewho wear blinking Xmas ornament necklaces to Christmas parties. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I look at the blinking Xmas ornament necklaceand the person wearing the necklace and I wait to see if I start hatingthem. I did this last night. Nothing really happened. The jury was out. Maybe this means I am ambivalent. What I know I don’t like is people who wearChristmas sweaters to Christmas parties un-ironically. People who wear them on the serious. People who wear them on the serious who areNOT over 60. Like, my mom is over 60 butif she wore a Christmas sweater on Christmas I would probably have to push herdown some stairs and shit. BASEMENTstairs cuz you know there’s no soft landing down a set of basement stairs. My poor dead murdered mom. Matricide, right? Dead in a fucking Christmas sweater. Who does that? I mean, seriously? I would stand there, in her very own kitchen,eating her fucking sausage stuffed mushrooms while the paramedics try andfigure out how to get the gurney down the basement stairs. Hopefully there would be a hot paramedic who wasn’treally that committed to his job and I could offer him some xmas egg nog and wecould party maybe. I’d be all like, “Yeah,it’s sad, but did you see that fucking sweater?”

Did you guys know it’s December? For like 9 days it’s been December.

2011-12-09T13:43:00.001-08:00

I have a little thing in The Fiddleback but don’t bother toread it, go straight to this piece by Robb Todd that had my heart in a way forabout an hour after I read it.

Tick tock Ocean Vuong won’t stop.

Casey Hannan is the boss of my book, Normally Special, overat The Lit Pub.

what else? nothing. go away.

2011-12-08T10:01:00.001-08:00

I GOT YELLED AT. I WANT THAI FOOD. I THINK SPICY GIRLS ARE DREAMY. BEING YELLED AT IS NO FUN. ANYTHING IN A THAI RESTAURANT HAS POTENTIALFOR GREATNESS. IT IS AN EXPERIMENT IN DECORATIVE MOUTH SPLATTER. THE YELLING DIDN’T FEEL LIKE ANYTHING ATFIRST. SPICY GIRLS HAVE SKIN LIKE FETUSFEET. THE YELLING FEELS LIKE A LOTNOW. YOU KNOW HOW WHEN YOU FALL DOWN ANDYOU SAY THAT’S GONNA LEAVE A MARK? THEYELLING HAS LEFT A MARK ON ME. LIKE PADTHAI AND THE TUREENS AND THE CHOPPED UP NUTS AND LITTLE STICKS OFVEGETABLES. HOW ONE BITE CAN HAVE TWELVEDIFFERENT FLAVORS? THE DOLL-LIKE WAITRESSES. PURPLE WALLS. TATTOOS IN THEPERFECT SPOTS. I COULD NEVER BETHAT. WHERE CAN I WASH THIS OFF?

2011-12-07T07:39:00.001-08:00

Don’t you have some friends you want to sequester? Like inyour pocket or glove? I have a few. They are like these cool shirts I want to bethe only one to wear. I am selfish. I think if they change their facial hair thatI should be the one that is their supervising, ready to catch any blood shouldit fall. That I should be the first oneto see them in the new face, that I ampart of every significant moment they will create. I want to be the only number in theirphone. When Tinkerbell tells them togather their happy thoughts, I want to be every single one of them. I think I am a secret obsessive. I think if it showed on my skin they wouldrun away. These words are my skin, thisscreen, this page. YOU are a friend Iwant to protect. I want to flamethroweryour enemies. If that is okay with you,nod your head. I am shitting in the sinkof your life. Look away.

2011-12-05T08:05:00.001-08:00

The only apron I’ve ever willingly owned I won at a churchbazaar. I forget how I won it. All Iremember was that it was homemade and hideous and I knew it had to be mine atany cost. I imprinted with that fuckingapron Twilight style. It had so manybright flowers. So many it became asuper power. I wore the fuck out of thatapron. Everybody loved it. That apron. I never wore it when I cooked though. Didn’t want to get it dirty. It got holes in it because of all the wearing—bighexagon holes, but floppy. Also, it startedto stretch down from the hook I kept it on; this black, rubber hook on the sideof the cellar door. There must’ve beenmore gravity in that spot because it seemed like the apron just kept gettinglonger and longer like an old man’s balls. Eventually it pulled the hook down. Eventually it became too heavy to wear and the holes did not stretchanymore, they just stayed open and frozen like some sort of weird playgroundequipment. I was scared to wear my apronthen. It didn’t conform to my body likeit used to. It felt like a dead thing’sshell, like I was wearing some morbid Halloween costume while not waiting for anycandy. It started to get scary, standingup in the corner of my kitchen with its back to the wall, quiet but expectantlike my mother. No apron does that. I ended up burying it behind this one Costcoin Victorville. It was the only one Icould find that had soft enough dirt.

I am so old, the only naked photos of me are Polaroids.

2011-12-01T08:15:00.001-08:00

There are themes in our work. I think if you make enough work you begin tonotice them. I am noticing mine and I thinkI ignored them for a long time. “Nawww…those aren’t my themes!” It’s hard to ignore them when you sit down towrite and they come out from behind larger things, take your hand and pull youtowards them. Nagging children. I am tired of them. Lately, I have been trying to pull away myhand. “What do you write about?” I told you I told them “sad stuff.” Lately, during the hand pulling away trying,I suggest to myself to try to write happy. I sit. I think about it. Try tosettle myself into that space. Wait forsomething to show itself. But all I seeare my themes, peeking their heads out from behind the larger things, wavingtheir hands to suggest, “We’re still here. Reliable and ready.” And I just keep going over and taking theirhands. Letting them take mine. It’s so fucking comfortable.

Unfair that it’s so comfortable.

Speaking of themes, I have a new story in Pank’s justreleased 50 Word Story issue edited by JA Tyler. It’s pretty amazing what people can do in 50words or less. It’s a quick andbeautiful read. Go.

Thanksgiving is gone now. I’ve been through more Thanksgivings than most of you. I’ve been through decades of Thanksgivingsand most of those decades with the exact same people. People that once seemed very big and painteda picture in my mind—once upon a time—that they were so charismatic, sopowerful and handsome. But timeeventually erodes people. Time makes some people that were small, bigger andmakes people that were once so very big, small.

Now that I’m big, I sometimes look at those people and thinkabout things. Then I usually writeabout them.

Themes.

Baby Steps

2011-11-29T07:47:00.001-08:00

Something new happened in my life. It happened three times. Each time it happened I felt veryuncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable now.

But I know it needs to keep happening.

I would say that 99% of the people in my “real life” don’tknow I write. The other 1% have known Ienjoy writing but don’t know about the publications. NOBODY IN MY REAL LIFE KNOWS ABOUT XTX. When I have had small successes with my book,or the fact that I HAVE A BOOK, I could not tell anybody. Have not told anybody. NOBODY WHO LOVES ME OR WHO I LOVE KNOW ABOUTMY BOOK OR KNOW ABOUT MY CHAPBOOK OR MY EBOOK OR THE NICE BOOK REVIEWS I’VEGOTTEN OR COOL STORIES I’VE GOTTEN PUBLISHED IN COOL PLACES OR PUSHCART NOMS ORBEST OF THE WEB NOMS, ETC. I just keepswallowing it all up and jump around in silence asking myself what the fuck am Idoing and how long am I going to keep doing it and feeling like a double-agentor some shit.

I know I need to begin to merge my “two lives” so I’vegradually begun slowly “sharing” tidbits about my writing with real people inmy life. Usually it’s when I’mdrunk. I only offer it when I’m talkingthe ‘down n dirty’ with true friends…about “life purposes” and “soul-fulfillment”shit. Then I let it slip out. I WRITE. I AM A WRITER. Then they go alldrunk-batshit on me and I immediately back away from those statements. I makethem very small and insignificant. Almost like, “just kidding” because when youtell people you are a writer, I am finding, they get very animated and startasking you a shit ton of questions you are not prepared to answer. Or, at leastquestions that EYE am not prepared to answer. Some questions I can’t answer.

One time I just pointed off to the corner of the room andwent, “Look over there!” and then I skittered away. (escape plan win!)

Twice last week, during such an exchange, two differentpeople asked me, “What do you write about?” I did three things in response: shrug my shoulders and shook my head whilemaking a gah-gah-um-uh-ber-neer-neer-uh sound. Surprisingly, people don’t accept this as a real answer. They want a real answer. They keep asking and I keep doing that same awkwardresponse. Seriously, these two peoplewere practically in my face FORCING me to supply them with an answer. (they were also a bit drunk, so let’s givethat to them) They started throwing outsuggestions to help me: “Werewolf vampire love stories?” “World War 2 stuff?” “Horror?” “Romance?” And the more I heardthe suggestions the more I realize that the literary world I live in thatsometimes has writing that cannot be classified so simply like a section atBarnes & Noble is such a different world that the people in my life aren’tfamiliar with and it’s hard to explain to them without getting into a longdiscussion that I’m not prepared to have.

I eventually just said, “nothing you’d want to read” and “weirdstuff.” Oh, and I said, “sad stuff.”

One guy strong armed me into sharing some of my writing withhim. He begged and begged me telling mehe wanted to read some of my stuff so I finally broke down and emailed him afew word docs. That was onWednesday.

My mom did the same thing. “So when are you going to let me read some of your writing?” I printed out a few stories, handed them toher, said, “Read them when I’m not around.” That was last Sunday.

I haven’t heard anything from either of these fine folks.Nothing. Nada. Silence.

I guess part of me feels relieved I haven’t heardanything. But part of me fills in theblanks with all the negatives; “They think I’m weird now.” “They don’t like mywriting.” “They hate it and don’t knowhow to tell me.” Etc. But part of me wants to get an email thatsays all of the opposite of that stuff. No I don’t. yes I do. Alkdsfja;ghj FUCKIT! I DON’T CARE! GAH!!!!!!

These exchanges make me highly uncomfortable. I am not used to sharing my writing withpeople in my real life. I know you guys “getit.” I am comfortable with the internetknowing I am a deviated, wacked-out, sexually fucked up, weirdo. But having my writing “evaluated” by peoplethat have known me for decades, well, it’s a whole new ballgame. Like, I feel so naked and exposed. And like, there are no blankets nearby that Ican grab. Or I grab for them and theyare all the size of napkins.

2011-11-25T09:57:00.001-08:00

I have something wrong in my mouth. A small hole that got bigger and bigger. It seems bigger now. Today. There is apain. I can look for things in there. Sometimes I find things. Things that smell bad. I want to become very tiny and goexploring. Mine the inside of the holewith scrapers and fluoride. Die under a floodof pus.

I think I exploded veins in my face. It looks like my eyes are leaking a fan ofblood. I hope it doesn’t spread. Did vomiting do that? If you vomit in the dark, would that make itworse? I do not know what is happeningto what I live inside of on a daily basis.

Somebody needs to take all the footage from the past four days and breakit down frame by frame. Analyze. Formulate. Theorize.

Feel like I’ve lost interest in a lot of things. Like, being away from my normal environmentshook everything I look to for worth loose. A rake of leaves. My insides arelike, shit and food and piss and liquids and blood. Before this week they seemed like more thanthat. Now I'm scared that's all there was.

When I become that tiny miner and crawl inside my mouth holeI will look more around. I’m going to try to get to my guts. See if I can find all of the swallowedwatermelon seeds. See if I can find thattiny plastic horse. See if I can makeout the edges of where that ulcer healed up. The ulcer that made me not want to eat for a long time a long time ago. I think that if I can find these things Iwill feel better, like finding proof of things I was starting to believe neverhappened.

Everything is wet outside but I’m not sure that means itrained.

2011-11-22T08:45:00.001-08:00

All of this white is forcing me to be extra careful. I have to move slowly. Very slowly. I do not want to spill. Youshould see how my feet go. I creep.

{image search}

I don’t get what everyone is doing on his Facebookwall. “Oh poor you! Oh we will miss you!You were such a great guy! We will pray for your wife and kids!” He did not get hit by a bus. He swallowed both barrels of a shotgun. And right before Thanksgiving, no less. What a giver! Ruining a holiday for years tocome! You think you had your family in ahole before you took the easy way out? Well, now they are underground.Forever. That’s what EYE want to say onyour facebook wall. “Do not come in.Call 911” At least you tried to sparethem the horror. I wonder how good yourwife was at following directions. Or didshe think, WTF and open the door? Guessthey will have to hose down the shed. Ortear it down. I mean, it’s become amonument now, right? Way to go. I am mad at you. Maybe I will be sad later, but not now.

2011-11-20T09:02:00.001-08:00

New Dogzplot
Lit Pub Shizzz

All of these stairs are forcing me to be reminded of howshitty my knees are. OMG they make so much clicky noises with every step. I flinch. I’m like, “how do I get up thestairs without using the stairs?” I try to walk up without bending my knees, straight-leggedand that is hard to do. I feel like I keepinjuring myself by just walking up some friggin stairs.

How do I get up the stairs without using the stairs?

It is raining.

I just saw a cat walking in the rain. I stopped and watched it walk in the rain. Iwatched a cat walk in the rain.

I played motorcycles last night. It was an Ironman motorcycle. The floor was hardwood. Do you say “played motorcycles” if it wasonly one motorcycle you played with?

I have two new tattoos this morning. The exciting one is a sparkly star that is bymy eye. It’s like unicorn thug. “Does that mean you murdered one person whenyou were in prison?” “No, it means Ibludgeoned a fairy to death because she fucked with my Hello Kitty thermos.”

I will go out in public today with my glittery star facetattoo and when people give me a wide berth on the sidewalk I will stare themdown like, “yeah, you made the right choice there, bucko….”

Because, you know, anyone who uses the term “bucko” is aforce to be reckoned with.

Homeward Bound

2011-11-17T14:45:00.001-08:00

Today I am all tits n hips n ass n hairdo. A caricature of womanhood. It’s turning me on.

Dental floss underwear. There is only one real point tothem.

Everyone is taking things away from me and nobody knowsit. Bob Barker shouts, COME ON DOWN andI wish. Man, I wish.

I like that whole phrase, “come. On. Down.” It says somuch. It can mean so many things. It can be said many fine, fine ways. I want to hear it from the mouth of a man.

There is a large part of me that wants to try the new vodkatampon thing. I know that says somethingabout me. I’m not sure what. When I get home I am going to check if I havevodka. I think I do and if I do I willdo this thing. The vodka tamponthing. I want to do it because of whatit is. I want to experience a new lowpoint. My old low points are so every last year. Iprobably won’t do it tonight though. I have important meetings to attend. A roomful of women, one of them a butch dyke who wears these cowboy boots. Something about her… I think I will sit in a closer chair to thatone. I hope she smells of leather. I hope she looks at me twice..

Sometimes my friends are so bright it hurts to look at themand because I am an empty vessel that needs constant filling I can never getenough and things that should only normal hurt end up hurting more and why iseveryone I cannot see so very beautiful? So very bright? Sunglasses don’t help and here, take thisknife, it’s sharper.

You stab in the dark and it feels like you are hittingnothing, right?

That’s what you think.

You are all better than me. I am by your shoes and I can barely hear you laughing and shit. Oh wait, now there’s piss. It’s okay, I will play in the mud. It’s whatI usually do.

How come not getting what I want is my lot in life?

Just know that you can never hug me hard enough or longenough or tell me you love me strongly enough that I will ever let myself believeyou. Even if you scarred it on yoursoul, even if you bled it into your skin. Doubt is my constant. I knowthere are more important lives in everyone’s lives except mine.

My truth is so ugly it’s hard for me to type it but typingit is about the only thing I can do.

Something Wrong With Me

2011-11-15T08:51:00.001-08:00

My fingers can’t stop smelling like onions or garlic. My mouth smelled like them too, for awhile. Then I washed my mouth. I washedmy mouth out. My mouth is fine now. It tastes like my mouth.

I am not sure why. This thing. The explanation wouldbe that I did things with those things but I did not. There was not a way with them. I only have this buried smell.

I find myself smelling my fingers when I want to be reminded,when I want to see if it’s still there. I put them to my face like they were just in bad places. I close my eyes. I inhale. I hope for clues. The rush back of an explanation. So far there is nothing.

It might be disease. A condition. A phenomenon. I should feel special. Chosen. And I do. What can you say about yourself this morningthat is something you could not say yesterday? Today, I have that. Tomorrow Imay not. Let’s wait and see.

When the surface is clean that means it must be inside ofme, right? Inside my skin. Cellularlevel? I do not understand biochemistryor things of that nature. I just hope Iam not becoming an onion or a garlic. Abig, aromatic vegetable thing. I do not want to die that way.

There it is again. It’sstill there. Don’t you believe me? Here… smell my fingers.

Perineum Cyanide Kill Factor Ken

2011-11-13T19:22:00.001-08:00

Oh jeebus! Oh jeebus! Oh!

Cornelius walking. Friend me on facebook for lyfe. A feffineffer. Cogitation contagion. Sanctimonious.

Do you hear me when I walk? It’s inevitable. This feeling offeeling. How many omelets do you want meto eat until I look pretty? I will eatcorn ones and cheese ones. The regularkind and also irregular.

Pasta primavera headcase.

There is a winch in my spine and it cranks the dawnaway. Carve a small boat out of mynipples and place it in the It gutter river. Tell Pennywise I said hi. Fill inmy nipple holes with sodomy.

Birdcage freedom.

I got horny for cops today. Pull me over with your bullhorn and be wrong with me. Sorry, officer, I have no pens. I texted to ask if I should pull over and buysome. She said no. She said, “Rude ass.”ZOMG, right?

So many transsexuals.

Get defeated. Buy aspartame. Twinkle my dutchies. Feel my perpendicular. When you hit cervix,turn back. You’ve gone too far. Or waita while, see what happens. There could be piñatas. There could be whippoorwills.

A slammed doorface

In uvula becomes you. Hold my hands and let’s do spins. Acartwheel mantra. I fell off the swingsonce. Landed on my mom doesn’t care. Ahopscotch bandaid. If you keep lying tome I will maybe start believing you.

A disgrace from outer space.

A time cavity in my head for a wheelthing. Carl came carving carcinoma. A suntan spectacle. Who wants cake? Who wants all the cake in the world? If you say, “That guy!” I will kill you. I will give you a tsunami of pain.

Wench trenches.

Personal space becomes you. Have an olive. Have a case of beer. Come over here. Don’t be queer. Yousnow crows and it shows.

Habitrail habitual.

Tangible spikes made of ledbetter. Bleed me from the vines inmy veins. Jungleman transposition. Trips triptych. Tangle inside me. Wrap around and twist.

Flarfbarf.

Conception contraception. A plum stain under my elbow skin. She needled me. Took blood. Her stern eyebrows. Can you dig? Can you dig it? The Doors.

Mesa Arizona.

Big metal chairs. Skin graft sunshine on the water over rice take my wife. Please. Circumstantial evidentiary claustrophobia nickelbackdimestore hoodwink. Yes. Exactly.

Time cop. A hulk Hoganexperience. Retail store retirement. Dove body spray. My nose hasn’t stopped running cocaine addictstyle since before noon today. Some semblance of semantics. I know you can see me.

A virtual virgin.

Fire away. Take it from me. A gathering in. Adult swim. Let’s begin. The beguine. I have so many eggs I could lay you seventeentimes.

Spinach hands.

Form fitting from French feeding. Pretzel twists. A cake with a fish on it. No,a LIVE fish. A cancer girl. Awidow. A cranky newborn. Nasty Nancyrides again.

Crackle the crackwhore.

Where in the world is a girl with an ethnic name? Must everything be puzzles? Can’t we all justtie one on? My thighs haven’t stoppedrubbing together since the day of my birth.

Lying liar. Flat tire.

A case of beer to the first person who is nice to me and howI hate myself constantly. Drudgery fudge. A common denominator of filth.Butthole pleasures, colon, infinity.

Take it away. Burn it down. Consensual sex.

Minors have so much sex. I think of pretty things. A way tobe. Gargantuan gargoyles. Lemonadestands. A almost empty jug of SWEET ICED TEA TAKING UP AN ENTIRE SHELF IN MYREFRIGERATOR.

I just want to write my own Oh Comely. Oh come all ye faithful. Come on my face. Come sit over here and Iwill pet your dog. Let’s own a car. I will bead fantastic. I will take umbragewith two splendas and some half n half.

Touchdown there.

Lick your fingers first. One. Two. Three. Me. Catch up, you. Mock smock, cereal frock. I have so far to go before I can go anywhere.I am arrested. I am a prisoner in a cell made of my brain. Coat check dreamsong is a song by bright eyes. Methaddicts do not rule.

Wear my tshirt. Tell me you love it. Tell me you can still smell me in it and itmurders you.

Can’t not you like all about me? A one upmanship upmanship. Cradle babies withskullcaps, wandering. A blasphemybladder party where all everyone has is a handful of herpes. We dance in the center. We pass her around.We take turns. It’s okay, I’m from Los Angeles. It’s okay, I have nothing elseto live for. I am a dead thing. Justlike you.

Hold my hand until we are bones. That is a big please. That is a big please in a font that dwarfsthe universe. Because, you know, science.

My pulse. My pulse in my throat.

When You Want a New Landscape

2011-11-09T07:36:00.001-08:00

Picnic under my left breast.

My neck the place you repair your car.

Jump the fence at the top of my thigh.

Pick grapes that aren’t yours.

Plow the fucking fields.

My condition walked into a bar

2011-10-31T03:33:00.000-07:00

Thisis a guest post by Caleb J Ross (also known as Caleb Ross, to people who hate Js) aspart of his Stranger Will Tour for Strange blog tour. He will be guest-postingbeginning with the release of his novel Stranger Will in March 2011 to therelease of his second novel, I Didn’t Mean to Be Kevin and novella, As a Machineand Parts, in November 2011. If you have connections to a lit blog of any type,professional journal or personal site, please contact him. To be a groupie andfollow this tour, subscribe to the Caleb J Ross blog RSS feed. Follow him on Twitter: @calebjross.com. Friend him on Facebook: Facebook.com /rosscaleb

I have this problemwith feeling as though every single word I type as part of a blog post, blogcomment, tweet, or Facebook update must be either a punchline or must beleading up to one. This feels like a true mental/medical condition that shouldbe studied. I would imagine it to fall under the same umbrella as the Truman Show Delusion (which is a realthing...much like my video-taped real life exploits). See! See thatparenthetical statement just now. I had to weave a joke (funny or not, intentis what makes a joke a joke) into this post. I can’t help myself.

Oh,and the self-depreciation. I thrive on it. I learned at an early age that beingshort and frail is socially acceptable only when describing a lab-coatedscientist or a comedian. Professional, I am neither, but personally I’d like tothink I know my way around a joke and a Bunsen burner. My understanding of myposition within society, and my consistency in filling that role, has warped mybrain into being able only to produce humorous(ish) content.

Maybethat’s why, when I write books, I tend to skirt thehumor. Books are my safe space.

Whyis humor so powerful? The urge to be funny seems like a universal urge, right?We all eat. We all sleep. We all did Austin Powers and Ace Ventura impressionsduring those movies’ respective heydays. Humor, to me, feels like the ultimatedefense destroyer. A joke, even one not funny, tells an otherwise stiff andunapproachable audience that we have something inherently, though intangibly(which makes humor even more interesting, to me) in common. Humor, generallyspeaking, is simply a commentary on the invisible social structures that keepus aligned as a group. We are all spectators to these structures; rarely are weparticipants in their creation (even politicians and lawyers act as part of agreater structure).

I’vefalling victim to the inherent aversion to intellectualizing humor: too muchthought can make turn a laugh sour. So, for fear of souring you readers, let meleave you with this, my latest marginally funny tweet:

@calebjross:Please,someone write a story with an obsessive compulsive werewolf nun. Title:Creature of the Habit.

2011-10-19T10:07:00.000-07:00

Two more Lit Pub items, this time maybe more about me than my book. Oh gosh, interviews.

Now, in Robb Todd Corner, his new story and postcard up at Wigleaf. And you can now go order his book, "Steal Me For Your Stories" over at Tiny Hardcore Press. OMG.

Speaking of Tiny Hardcore Press, check out this video for Brian Oliu and Brandi Wells' books.

I can’t stop thinking about a black man. His stomach wavy and dark. How it contrasts with red. How it contrasts with the way it could be against me. There is a jutting swagger to his way. It yells man. In it, I cannot find any soft. I see debris. I see a charred wall. Hands through my hair. A beat made by bodies.

Do you hear this song? This song helps to unruin my day. It will be over soon. Fill in the blanks.

I can’t get any lower than this.

I can get lower than this.

Pour a bucket of sand into my throat. Ask me to swallow. No. Don’t ask me to swallow. Just tell me to.

Lots of Links and Then Lesbians

2011-10-11T07:43:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to Roxane Gay’s book, Ayiti, which officially releases today! So excited to read this! You should be too unless you are dumb. Get it here!

She also has a really great story over at Fringe called, Begin Chest Compressions. Makes me sort of hate her no I could never do that.

The Lit Pub continues to do some little things about my book. The most recent is this one, written by Sarah Rose Etter, about my story The Mill Pond and it asks about true evil. Robb Todd wrote some stuff too as did the aforementioned, Roxane Gay.

There’s also a cool thing about Blake Butler over there you may want to check out. I love hearing other people’s stories about falling in love with an author’s writing. This is a good one.

Also, WHAT WHAT?!?!

DJ Berndt, who I will hug the shit out of one day, just released an e-book entitled, “Very Beautiful Women” that includes the writing and artistic stylings of 36 lovely ladies, myself included, although I’m not sure how ‘lovely’ I am, but I am at least, nice. A nice lady. Ani Smith, Ana C., Brandi Wells, Frank Hinton, to name a few. It’s really very good. I read it all this past Sunday with my super secret link. Check it out.

In other news, I’m no lesbian, but DAMN if I don’t want to cross over from time to time and, manOman my current celebrity crush I want to throw my panties at is the girl from Two Broke Girls. Her name is Kat Denning or something and I don’t know where she came from or what she did before but she has lots of skin and these dark eyes that might be blue or gray or brown, I am not sure and when she does that goofy sitcom bantering part of me wants to shake her but part of me sees through the written dialogue to her soul and her soul is telling me that Kat Denning wants her boobs in my mouth. My hands yell back to her soul that they want them too, asks Kat, Please can we get to know you better than anything we’ve ever touched before? And then I sit back and think about molesting Kat’s breasts for at least a half an hour with my face, hands and mouth. I would look up at her like a helpless, shameful, child, like, it’s chocolate kat, I can’t help myself, I will eat it all if you will let me I will get sick on it until i throw up and she does, she lets me, and she strokes my hair and I never wipe my mouth, my chin, my face I reach down i rub myself to fruition my tongue pulling her nipples into my mouth like fruity candies and it’s the best autograph she ever gave she tells the guests at the engagement party and I finish, “…and the rest is history!” raising my diamond ring to the crowd.

You n Me Baybee

2011-09-21T07:19:00.000-07:00

The aforementioned Safety Pin Review posted some "action shots" of my story out and about, making its little way into the world.

The Lit Pub is back in action and in the upcoming days/weeks will be featuring my book, Normally Special and I am nervous and excited about that. I am asking you nicely to please check it out because that would make me happy.

We Who Are About To Die is asking former Pangur Ban Party contributors to review their own Pangur Ban Party contribution. Here is mine.

Safety Pin Review

2011-09-19T18:18:00.000-07:00

A nice young man named Simon Jacobs asked me to be the inaugural story for his new venture, “The Safety Pin Review” which is a pretty cool concept; wearable stories.

The stories are all 30 words or less and are written on a patch that is then worn for a week on the back of a jacket. It’s a portable story of sorts.

I thought it was a cool idea and I love the challenge of Hint Fiction…making something that has a strong impact with not a whole lot of words.

I hope I accomplished that.

Simon also does a weekly college radio show called "Centerpiece" and he was kind enough to say a bunch of nice things about the story and about my writing during this week’s show. You can listen to it here. AND he plays some NEUTRAL MILK HOTEL so, that is also a bonus!

Thank you Simon and to everyone else, SEND HIM SOMETHING! Get your words worn!

GUEST ANONYMOUS BLOG POST

2011-09-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

Today I realized that I have never been tested for AIDS. I'm unsure of how anxious I should be about this.

I don't have a complex regarding food that makes it an eating disorder, I just find it more convenient to not eat. The longest I've gone is 1 meal in four days.

I will look at pictures or videos of myself and wonder how anyone can make such an awkward or creepy smile. It's one of the things that makes me angriest with myself.

I have been growing more paranoid over time; at first, it was only when I was extremely drunk or ill, but now there are times when I will suspect a friend or family member of attempting to harm me in some way based on an unrelated, innocuous facebook post, or if they don't answer the phone when I call, or sometimes just based on memories that may or may not be fictional. I can build an excellent case regarding memories either way.

I never call people by their names. I've had multiple people ask me if I even know what their names are. Sometimes, I don't.

When I was little, I read a story about a monster that would eat anything that slept unless it was hiding entirely under a blanket, with no exposed parts or unsealed edges. I still sleep entirely cocooned in covers, although I no longer struggle to seal up every loose spot.

The one thing I will never tell anyone, no matter how long I know them, is my lifelong love of Roger Whittaker. I've already sunk into serious, multi-day depressions when I contemplate what I'll feel when I find out about his death.

2011-08-23T06:59:00.000-07:00

I am in Stoked. Tyler Gobble did it. Other awesomes. Go read.

Don't forget to buy my girlfriend's book.

Also, HOUSEFIRE!

Mel Bosworth's, Freight

2011-08-21T07:50:00.000-07:00

I loved Freight. I ate it up. Fast. I wanted to. It was easy. Such a tenderness. Such a way of looking at life in terms of carrying. Of putting down. Of throwing up. Boxcars and boxcars of everything we experience in this life trailing behind us like the heaviest of ants. Invisible, but so very there.

Freight helped me understand that I am not by myself in the carrying. In the putting down of things not always good for me, but yet, still choosing to put them down. Freight made me realize that as life gets longer and longer the carrying gets more and more and if you are smart, you can choose to throw some things up that you don’t need to carry around anymore or you can be really smart and not pick them up in the first place. Freight made me feel less bad about having carried a lot of heavy things in my life that were not my choice to carry. Sometimes kids are given the hardest, heaviest things to carry and do you know what that does to their little bodies??!!! It shapes them wrong. On the inside.

Freight helped me remember a lot of people in my life—both alive and dead—that I carry with me every day whether I know it or not. Like, yesterday, I walked into a bar I had only been in one time many years ago. I walked over to a tiny corner with a tiny table surrounded by stained glass windows where I spent three hours catching up with a dear, long lost friend one cold February night. We drank and spoke of everything in our lives, EVERYTHING, that had transpired since we had lost touch. It was pure joy. We were finally reconnected! I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I would ever see that person. Two months later he would never be 29. Two months later he was dead.

I still carry him.

I loved the voice of Freight. It was simple, sincere, kind, childlike, vulnerable and honest. I wanted to hold this book tight against me and tell it I understood. I wanted to thank Freight for reminding me—in such a beautiful, easy way—that I am not alone in all of the carrying. Even though my carrying might be different from your carrying or his carrying or hers, we are all still holding on to things, people, places, experiences whether we like it or not. All of us heavy with our freight.

2011-08-09T10:09:00.001-07:00

Pretty sure I cracked one of my ribs. I have one hell of a cough.

My strapless bra binds me extra tight. I’ve stretched it to the smallest setting. It is field dressing for my cracked rib. It hurts.

Whenever I cough it’s a sharp pain under my left breast, just off to the side, a stab wound with a silver knife. A pretty one, that only ladies use. Something they would impale through the flimsy bread of finger sandwiches or use to impatiently cut off a lover’s corset.

I grip my side, brace myself, cough. Grimace.

If you care, my book is now available in e-book format at Amazon. It’s also available in the UK and in Germany. Feel free to spread the word if you are in those countries. Pass out flyers, spam your contacts list, skywrite, etc.

LOOK AT THAT FACE THAT FACE!

2011-08-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

I WROTE A GUEST BLOG ENTRY AT CASEY HANNAN'S BLOG. YOU SHOULD GO READ IT.

2011-08-02T07:06:00.000-07:00

I am in the new issue of The Reprint with some amazing writers like, Roxane Gay, Adam Moorad, Brandi Wells, Aubrey Hirsh and Kirsty Logan. It has a pretty cool introduction by Sarah Rose Etter, too. Thanks to Richard Mocarski (handsomeface) for including my prosething from Pank 5.

Specter Magazine goes live with its first issue. It looks pretty fly which means good which is an expression nobody uses anymore I think. And also i had drinks with the dude there while he interviewed me. Nothing happened. Or maybe a little.

I have a story in Monkeybicycle.

Also, I read a pretty amazing book this weekend called, "Normal People Don't Live Like This" by Dylan Landis. Wow. Yet ANOTHER amazing book I've read this year by a female author. Beautiful writing. Beautiful book.

Also, stupid Casey Hanan is amazingly bright at Hobart right now. Go eat his eyes.

Fix It Broken #3

2011-07-29T15:37:00.001-07:00

New one in Fix It Broken. A little different for me. You may have to take your time.

Other nicefaces like Beeny and Tanzer and Compton and Oliu and Fowler.

Go read.

2011-07-25T16:09:00.000-07:00

If someone is leaving and you are worried, what do you do? I cannot avoid a wall. This shit is going to happen whether i like it or not. I am scared. (always scared)

I know. I know what I will do. I will turn off all my switches. I don’t know if that is a possible thing, but I will try that. Oh, I will also white light everything. I will blanket them. I will blanket them all.

I keep thinking about the dead father and how huge he was, lying prone, being dragged with his giant penis. I keep seeing him before hillsides. The hillsides are green, narrow valleys, breasts against blue skies. They rest beside a tree. They set out a picnic blanket. The dead father talks nonsense. I keep thinking about this today. I think about how the dead father must've been too large to sit beside the blanket. That always bothered me.

“Whatever you do, don’t look at that old man eating nachos.”

Maybe I am thinking about the dead father because, out of everyone’s hands, I could rest safe in his. I could float along safe in the wet bowl of his palm. Sometimes a big girl just wants to feel little. Wants to feel light and breakable. A lot of the times I just want to feel like my father will make everything okay. But you leave their house and you are on your own and then another man is supposed to do that. SUPPOSED to do that. Maybe I mean my mom. Maybe I mean being six and underneath blankets rocking back and forth trying to cry without noise. Maybe being an adult is not easy. No, that is the truth. It isn’t. Nobody tells you that. You just learn it as you go.

Not big,

2011-07-22T07:59:00.000-07:00

something small, like finding a fingernail on the floor of the hotel hallway; part of it painted red. Everybody is disgusted, but nobody moves to get up. That’s what drunk gets you.

I look at all of the bare legs crisscrossing, sandals, bottoms of glasses with melted ice, the smell of tired skin. I take my hands off the carpet. When we first got there I said, “It looks like a melted clown’s face,” and everyone agreed.

The hallway sits. One of the men reaches over and starts stroking my shoulder, my arm. His touch is soft and I want to close my eyes so I can feel it better. I want to close my eyes and wait for more. I want him to know that closing my eyes means I am giving him permission. I want to be alone with him, out of this hallway, away from all of the legs. I want this not to be a wrong thing. But it’s a wrong thing right now, I know, I remember. I feel her eyes almost as much as his fingers and I know I should wriggle away but why should I? I am just sitting here like everybody else. His hand heats up my arm. In the hallway. The hallway sits.

Everyone stares at the fingernail but I am the only one who speculates; making up tiny story after tiny story about the owner of the fingernail. They aren’t normal stories. Everybody is disgusted, but nobody moves to get up.

Three Places I Have Seen xTx

2011-07-18T03:33:00.000-07:00

(Guest Post by Casey Hannan)

1. I have seen xTx out of the corner of my eye. I remember watching one of those MTV reality shows where they go to a castle and tape stupid college kids sleeping in dungeons. The "spiritual expert" told the college kids that most ghosts manifest just out of the corner of your eye.

When I'm lying naked on my bed writing on my laptop that's sort of dirty with fingerprints, I swear my ceiling fan is a ghost/xTx. She says something about my penis and I pull up the covers and say, "Aw, Extie. Why you gotta be like that?" And then she's a ceiling fan again blowing so hard on my body hairs I think they might all come out. If I accidentally inhaled the loose hairs, I would be allergic to my own body like people who've inhaled sawdust sometimes sneeze around trees.

2. I have seen xTx at the Home Depot. I wanted to make a coffee table, so I went to the Home Depot to ask about lumber. The lumber lady was holding a 2x4 across her shoulders like she was about to go fetch water the next village over.

She said, "What do you want?"

I said, "Wood."

She said, "Duh, you want wood. What wood? My wood?"

I said, "Yes, I'll take your wood," so the lumber lady took the wood from her shoulders and placed it in my hands like it was a sacred sword. xTx's face was in the grain. I touched xTx's face and I got a splinter the size of a pencil.

The lumber lady said, "That's bad wood. I'll get you another."

I said, "This wood's fine."

She said, "No, see where it curves a little like a penis? You'll never be able to straighten that out. What I'm saying to you is xTx warps wood."

3. I have seen xTx put sandwiches in my mailbox. I confronted her about it and she said I couldn't prove it was her. She said it was squirrels, so I looked out for squirrels, but they were all up in the trees cracking nuts.

While I was watching the squirrels up in the trees, xTx put more sandwiches in my mailbox. She put a note in there too. The note said, "Ha ha. You were right. It was me. Eat up, queerdangle!"

I went over by the trees and started sneezing. When I saw xTx at the Home Depot, I inhaled a lot of sawdust and now I'm allergic to trees. Out of the corner of my eye, xTx was putting even more sandwiches in my mailbox.

I said, "Stop right there," and xTx froze in the corner of my vision where she has stayed ever since. Even the optometrist can see her when he examines my eyes, though he can't explain it. I tell him I'd prefer if he didn't try.

From Wrong Tree Review. Suckers.

2011-05-21T09:17:00.000-07:00

Choked

I’ve been choked by two men in one week. Both men were named Dave.

The first man who choked me was a thirty year old African-American man. I was sitting and he was standing. He came closer and closer reaching out towards my neck with purposeful zombie arms. His eyes met mine and I couldn’t say anything.

My eyes invited it, maybe.

I sat on my hands while his went around my neck. Huge and strong they squeezed and shook. My head filled, my eyes swelled. I suddenly felt like I wanted to be fucked and right when I opened my mouth to say stop, he slowly released and told me that I liked that. There were no words I could find to respond. I only could nod. He laughed in a way that said I told you so and then he left. I sat on my hands for a moment longer before bringing them up around my neck to investigate; so warm.

The second man who choked me was 66 years old. I was standing and he was sitting. He looked quickly from side to side before reaching up and putting his hands around my neck. I didn’t have a chance to say anything. My eyes met his; they looked both angry and satisfied. I held on as long as I could while my head throttled back and forth like a slippery fish.

I took it, and when he finished, I just nodded and he wiped his mouth and panted along with me.

The walk away was shaky and stunned.

One week, two men, two Dave’s, both choking and what does this mean? I am asking myself this when I am sitting. I am asking myself this when I am standing. I am asking myself this in the shower. I am asking myself this when I shake the bed with it at night.

I worry about riding the subway now, or getting my sink fixed, or asking for directions, or running into men named Dave or men in general; what if it’s Steves next or Jims? I stare at men’s hands now but it’s different. I study them. I commit them to memory; color, length, thickness, width. I hold my head higher, helping their target lengthen; the shortest skirt on stocking-topped thighs down the darkest alley, but still, I walk, and wait and want.

2011-05-19T07:29:00.000-07:00

Lots of things happen or need to happen and even if there are only four they will confound and overwhelm me.

Yes, I just used the word, “confound.”

I like to bury myself under things that are primarily transparent and weigh next to nothing.

I like to obsess on sex things and then write about them.

Last night I accidentally went on an old porn website I used to frequent. HUGE accident! Whoops! How did THAT happen! Silly me! So, WHOOPS, I typed in “amateur gangbang” (accidentally AGAIN because, well, force of habit) and this old clip I used to jill off to all the time was one of the thumbnails. So, FOR NOSTALGIA PURPOSES ONLY I watched it and I accidentally made myself have an orgasm.

But, you know what? Accidents happen. People make mistakes. People move on from them. It’s all good. I'm not about to beat myself up about this. Good thing I have insurance. Like a good neighbor and all that...

2011-05-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

Every day you promise to pay for them. Every day. Finally I let you. Because they are old, anyway. Because I can buy a new pair with the money and still have enough for two more. Because I need the money.

You stare with shopworn eyes while I slip them off, one at a time. Your mouth is an open drawer and I feel like I am performing. I wish I had done it slower.

“Pink…nice,” you groan. I shuffle my toes against the dirty sidewalk, suddenly ashamed of my peeling self-pedicure. The ground is cold but I don’t feel it.

I want to watch you with them, but I don’t tell you this. A man buying things from a woman he has worn down from begging is a man obsessed. How he must look when he takes them home, smells them, delirium drunk on his face, a hard on strong enough to break stone. This is something I want to see; him furious with his fist, face buried in my soles. Or will he sit with them as long as he can stand, sniffing. Savoring.

He kneels down and takes them gently like a treasure. I wait for him to get up. I want to watch his eyes.

Please Send Me Large Sums of Money

2011-04-17T11:25:00.000-07:00

I’m going to make deli sandwiches or something like buffalo wings or onion rings or other things. Food that you eat while sports are on the television. Food that is aggressively not serious. Food that walks barefoot down the sidewalk with mickey mouse gloves on and a summer dress giving out high fives to anyone who wants to be awesome. I’ll make this food, all of it, as it turns out, and I will serve this food feast-style on a coffee table that is made to look like a picnic blanket spread out on a park lawn. I will drizzle plastic ants everywhere. I will open all of the windows in my house and bring out a bucket full of ice and beer bottles (Newcastle) I will do an interpretive dance before letting people ‘dig in’. They will not be able to stop laughing at me while I pour my heart out in movement until they DO stop laughing and then they cry because of how beautiful it (I) is (am). That’s when I know they will be ready to partake of the goodness and that’s when I will freeze my last movement like a record player coming to a stop; slow and deliberate. And after 33 seconds of silence and tear-wiping, they will begin the ‘slow clap’ that will progress into the ‘standing ovation clap’ and that’s when I unfreeze and bow and bow and bow and bow until the noise of their empty stomachs reminds me what they are here for and I tell them...using only my arms, hands and face muscles...to please go ahead and eat. And they do. Using only fingers that I will offer to lick clean while on my hands and knees at half-time.

2011-04-12T07:36:00.000-07:00

You want to see me

You can’t see me.

You can see this.

This is what you can see.

STUFF

2011-03-24T07:09:00.001-07:00

-My book got an amazing review at The Nervous Breakdown. I think he might've convinced me to buy a copy.

-An author named, Ashley C. Ford, says my book was the 'last good book' she read. I'll take it! Thank you Ashley C. Ford, whoever you are!!

HARD TO SAY GIVEAWAY

2011-03-04T12:54:00.000-08:00

Ethel "Real Deal" Rohan, has a book you need to buy. It's called, "Hard to Say" and it's available for pre-order from PANK books.

Ethel writes:

"I wrote Hard to Say to try and make of past horrors something meaningful and beautiful. The best way I know how to make meaning and beauty is through stories. Only time and my readers will tell if I succeeded with Hard to Say. Meanwhile, I hold hard to the surety that meaning and beauty are my intentions. Sometimes, the only way there is through the disturbing and the ugly and the terrible."

Because she was awesome and did a book giveaway to promote MY book, I'm going to do the same for her because, a) I like her b) her writing is INCREDIBLE and c) I want to give away some awesome books to people!

Here are the books you will win:

1. Artifice 3

2. PANK 5

3. Bad Marie (Marcy Dermansky)

4. Our Island of Epidemics (Matthew Salesses)

5. Normally Special (me)

6. He Is Talking to the Fat Lady (me)

7. Annalemma 7: Endurance

To enter to win, just buy Ethel's book, Hard to Say and forward me your receipt via email to notimetosayit @ gmail dot com.

The contest ends on 3/21/11 and your receipt must be dated no later than that.

I will pick a winner from all of the entries and send out all the books to that person.

Please tell people about this contest because you are nice like Ethel.

Good luck!

Shameless Self Promotion

2011-01-25T07:21:00.000-08:00

Time to stop fucking around and shout some shit about my book.

1. The author of Ever and Scorch Atlas who is a nice manboy with nice shoulders, Blake Butler, ever so nicely blurbed my book as follows:

“After reading Normally Special, if I knew xTx’s legal name, I’d file a restraining order. Maybe she’s Aileen Wuornos. Maybe she’s a wiccan living under A.M. Homes’s bed. I don’t know, she freaks me the hell out. “You should be glad I cannot tie knots or have access to a gun safe,” she writes in the last of these 23 texts, each somehow both demented and courageous, desperate and ready to brawl. I’d be glad of that if I believed it; you can practically smell the rope burn on the skin coming off these ransom letter sex threats. I’m leaving the door unlocked. ”

Sure, he could’ve made that up in lieu of actually reading my book, so it’s a 50/50 chance of awesome. And when there is a 50/50 chance of awesome, I WOULD TAKE THOSE ODDS!

2. The person who copy-edited my book liked my book so much one story MADE HER GASP! Wow! Now, that’s what I like to hear! The day one of my stories can bring someone to orgasm will be a good, good day.

3. Ethel Rohan, author of the amazing book, "Cut Through the Bone" is still having a book giveaway through the end of the month if you buy my book before Feb. Check the deets HERE or LOOK! A nice writer lady (Alissa Nutting) whose book is on my list of things to read is ALSO PROMOTING THIS CONTEST!!! Crazy nice peoples!!!!

4. Last night, J.A. Tyler at Big Other reviewed Normally Special in a way that made me feel swollen with gratitude and hope. I am proud to be the first launch from tiny hardcore press because what's in a name? In this case, everything.

5. Buy my book. It’s halfway sold out. A large chunk might disappear during Thurs/Fri/Sat of next week so, I’m just warning you….

6. If you already bought my book I would like to whisper thank you in your ear. Also, I’m now into smelling beards, so if you have one of those, I will also be rubbing my face innit. (not weird)

not good at a lot of things

2011-01-19T07:22:00.000-08:00

Bad things to do. In my head and in my heart. I’m feeling sick with it. It’s a tennis match I can’t get rid of. I am every day being told I won some foreign lottery. But I don’t want to do anything about it. It feels fake or illegal. Some guy re-emailed me about advertising his fashions on my blog and he upped the price to $80 from some lower number. I remember I had deleted his first email because it sounded not real. This time I just wrote him back, “Is this real?” and he hasn’t answered me. He also had offered me a free pair of boots. He is probably not real. I’ve been having a hard time sleeping. No, I take that back, it’s just the falling asleep I am having trouble with. That’s when the thoughts come. I used to just entertain masturbatory scenarios in order to help myself fall asleep because those kept the thoughts from creeping in cuz they were good movies to watch and play pretend in. Nowadays I don’t care to make the fake scenarios because I could care less anymore. I am tired of it all. Or maybe I am just accepting. Maybe it’s more like giving up. Like when you work out every day and your thighs are still huge floppy tumors that block the sunlight from your vagina.

On Sunday there was the prettiest cake and I wanted to eat it right away but I waited. When I finally ate it, it was pretty horrible. I was like, “looks can be deceiving”. It was as if this cake had boasted of the girth of its nine inch penis and then after I got it drunk and took of its pants there was a raisin that grew to a date. Either which way, I didn’t spit it out. That would’ve been rude.

2010-11-07T11:07:00.000-08:00

The checker girl had a hickey that she had muddied with makeup. The purple was now a weird sort of burgundy. Good for her, I thought.

I don’t remember the last time I had a hickey. But I remember when I used to get them, I’d wear them proudly like, Hi, I let boys do things to me.

Her fingernails were maybe two inches long and I wanted to compliment her on them so I tried to figure them out while she was scanning my items. It was hard because she moved her hands fast over my items, blurring any definition I was trying to make out. My pack of chicken breasts tripped her up as they wouldn’t scan. She had to punch in the upc code by hand and that’s when I was able to make a clear observation of her fingernails. They were green and ugly. Nothing I could compliment without being totally dishonest so I didn’t say anything.

She paused a bit on some bagged greens I had bought and then started telling me about an ad she had seen for ‘spiced salad greens’ that were somehow grown already flavored so that you didn’t need to put any dressing on them. “The people in the ad were eating them like chips,” she said. I nodded my head wondering how one eats bits of lettuce like chips. She went on and on about how she’d like to try the greens, but how she felt ‘suspicious’ of vegetables that were ‘genetically messed with.’ I concurred and asked her if she would eat cow meat that came pre-spiced because they fed the cow stuff to make its meat be flavored. She said, “No.”

Then she finished. Then she handed me my cash back and my receipt and my coupons and I left. We told each other to have a nice day. I like grocery shopping.

For The Girl Who Doesn't Know She Has Everything

2010-10-15T07:30:00.000-07:00

A part of me inside a part of you but you didn’t know it yet. Not then. Instead, you kept on crying whenever you felt so lonely it made you want to swallow pills, cut yourself, say yes to boys. If you had known I was there, waiting to be born, maybe it would have made a difference. But you didn’t. It wasn’t time. You had to keep falling down. You had to endure everything that would eventually become scars.

A part of you inside a part of me but I didn’t know it yet. Not then. Instead, I felt as lonely as you. I did my own crying, my own cutting, my own swallowing of pills; I was made to say yes to boys; all of them. If I had known you were there, waiting to be born, maybe it would have made a difference. But I didn’t. It wasn’t time. I fell down too. Maybe not as much as you - maybe only stumbles, bumps, scrapes, burns; but still they scarred.

Those times you put down the razor that was me forcing your hand. Those moments where you told them no, that was me giving you strength. Each time I stepped back from the ledge that was you pulling me back. Whenever I kept walking instead of falling down, that was you holding me up.

We were saving each other then

so we could save each other now

And so we do.

And so we are.

A Collaborative Experiment...

2009-09-21T06:33:00.000-07:00

SHUDDER PAGEANT

Back in May, Mel Bosworth and I had clumsily put together a piece of flash for the illustrious Brandi Wells Review entitled, “Flippant”. Just a bit of fun…vowed to try it again sometime.

Roughly two months ago we decided to give it another go. SHUDDER PAGEANT is the result.

It began as only words and ended up as words, pictures and sound. We each contributed photos and recorded ourselves reading the chapters. Because I am a techno-tard, Mel did all the heavy lifting on that end. (Thanks Mel!)

So, here you go:

PDF

MP3

(Left-click to view/listen, Right-click to “Save link as…”)

You can read it alone or with our accompanying voices (Sorry, there is no magic wand sound signifying when turn the page!), or if you are blind, you can just listen to it. (My voice is the stupid sounding one.)

I hope you enjoy it. I know I had a lot of fun (and hardship) writing it. I think Mel would say the same. Actually, go to his blog, he says it better than I.