Monday, December 21, 2009


when I am dying, just give me opiates. As you clean the shit from my already smelly ass, as you lift me on top of the fucking bed pan, as you insert one more mother fucking iv, as you take away my heart medication to help my lung functioning, as you take away my lung medication to keep my kidneys from failing, as you hydrate me for days and my wrinkles turn into bedsores and my bedsores give me nightmares, just let me go in a state of euphoria so the shit is funny and the meds are amusing and my kidneys keep my company when my feet remain uncovered.
Give me opiates when I am dying.

Friday, December 11, 2009


My stalker is something else. Scary, I know, but thanks to my borderline personality disorder, daddy issues, bulimia, years on suicide watch, ex drug addiction, a brief stint in the institution, and an obsession with reality television, I find my stalker not only good for my self esteem, but the greatest relationship I have ever been in.
Whenever any other man tries to talk to me, he either kills him, or beats him up badly enough that I wouldn't want to be seen with him in public anyway. Which works, because the guy was definitely NOT good enough for me (at last that is what my stalker says).
When I gained ten pounds my stalker didn't mind. He simply put me to sleep and carved the fat off of my body. But I definitely needed to lose the weight.
My stalker created an entire Facebook page just to keep tabs on me without his real girlfriend finding out. I don't mind. I NEVER get enough attention in relationships. I haven't had to worry ONCE about this.
Also, he took the liberty of introducing himself to my mother. How he knew where she would be tanning that night, I don't know, but it really saved me the trouble of my own awkward introductions.
Also, when I got into that fight with my dad, it didn't matter WHO was right, because he bludgeoned him to death, and I was right by default.

And whenever I don't feel pretty enough, I know my stalker is waiting out side my window, beating off, and I start to feel maybe just a touch sexier.
It took me awhile, but I am sold. I am in love.
And he is not going anywhere. Or I'm not, anyhow.
I mean, because I am locked in his basement.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Who the fuck is Corey Mesler and why does he hate me so much?

Look, I like poetry. I do. There are some things, however, that might be too good: Dicks over nine inches, Heroin, and Corey Mesler. Like, shit so good that you know if you keep doing it you just might end up killing him, stealing from your grandmother, or having to stop writing because you know you will never be as good. You know, like if I kept reading Corey Messler, I would have to kill my grandmother and stop writing.

"Some Identity Problems, " was sent to me yesterday. I took it to the old shit man's house today, and we ended up at the hospital because he vomited all over himself and passed out. Clearly, I had time to read.

I will assume the following about Corey Messler from this book: A. He would be annoying to live with, B. He would be great in bed, and C. He would dress funny and wear weird hats.

Also, he would vaguely and specifically tell you all about yourself, and you would be lying in the middle of his hard wood floors in a pool of your own tears, cum, and some flower petals he added for good measure.

His writing is painful. All things true hurt. All true things hurt. So does having an ulcer.

From Genesis, he writes, "On the Seventh Day God withdraws like a limp lover. This is the beginning of the possibilities of poetry." Are you kidding, Corey Messler? Who the fuck do you think you are writing something so fucking good that instead of lying round on Trazadone after a 12 hour work day, I am doing this. Also, I have gas.

And Corey also knows how it feels to be a woman. And he is not gay. And I don't even think he is sensitive. I cannot imagine him fucking a dude in the ass. I would like to, though. In fact, I need to take a break to imagine it. Blues for Wendy Ward..."After 20 years I find a picture of you inside a book of art. Your smile is patient: You were waiting for what life would bring you after me." I hate you Corey Messler, because you are a better woman than I am. Fuck, he even writes about childbirth in a way that makes me give a shit about his fucking kid, even though other people's kids are stupid (The Story of the Beginning).

Also, I am jealous of Lita. This bitch must be the shit. From Lita, "She still dazzles, and this, my friends, is just, like rain or death." Ignore the immature usage of commas. Lita is prettier than you anyway, which is the only reason you noticed the commas.

Someone on my facebook said, "You make me want to start and stop writing. He just makes me want to stop writing." This was not said about Corey, it was said about someone else. And he meant it to be shitty to the writer he thought was full (Canada) total (America) shit.

I am not going to purchase every single book Corey has written. I am going to flirt with him until he sends me all of them. And then I am going to stop writing poetry. Fucker.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

The Self

It was suggested to me by a sexy Italian that I should be posting my poetry on this blog. I'm not going to. I figured posting some links to my works would be just as good. Good. Goodness. My heavens. (Next to Guns)

That's what I have for you!!!!

Too Much Time With The Shit Captain

Most people think that because I discuss sex most of the time, it might make me a sexy person.

This is not true. The following things make me not sexy: I am lactose intolerant and have a bleeding ulcer. And irritable bowel syndrome. And I talk about shit all the time. When I am not talking about sex. And farting makes me happy...I'm not opiate high happy...I am an amateur plumber. It gives me joy to unstop a toilet. And I won't even mention the stretch marks. Or the saggy tits. There. Still hard? If you are, let's get married.

I have been babysitting an old man this weekend. For a lot of money and just because his family needs someone to keep him company. I am now spending 12 hours a day with the man who made millions off the Rent-a-John. How ecstatic do you think this makes me? Instead of Tuesdays with Morrie, I am going to call my time with Bill, "Too Much Time with the Shit Captain."
Today, Bill shared many things with me. Let me make you a list.

1. About his Sicilian friend who really was a nice guy, although he beat his wife, and eventually killed his son, and then himself, but he had the shiniest shoes.

2. About the prostitutes in India.

3. About which women in which cultures shave their pubic hair.

4. What happens when someone drops something down the rent-a john

5. How the shit gets sucked out

6. Why the mirrors look so "shitty" in the rent-a-john, because at least if I am humiliating myself in public, I should be able to adequately do my thirteen tons of makeup.

7. And why Canadians are weird but great to do business with. Also, he said I should marry a Canadian. I said I would but Canadians think all we do is eat at the buffet, and my recent ten pound weight gain would be evidence. I have low self esteem.

Today was a successful day. My excitement over those topics is further proof of my lack of sex appeal. Thank you.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

I need a fucking razor

I find a lot of things poetic. Men missing front teeth, getting my ass beat by a crack head neighbor that i may or may not have had sex with during a "bad time," opiate withdrawal, conversations about/actual anal sex, food, not having money...oh, the list is endless.

It really is endless. The time Renee shaved her pubic hair in the dark and it ended up looking like Hitler's mustache. I got like fifty poems from that pube design. Also, Renee is Jewish.

See? Fucking endless.

Something I don't find poetic? When old people give up, and stop warning me that they will spend the next seven hours farting. Out of their vagina. And I am left to discover this on my own. Painfully. And the fact that I could time each one (32 seconds, except every thirteenth one, which was closer to 53 seconds), was even less poetic.

The death march is painful. And smells like shit.

I need a fucking razor.

Monday, November 30, 2009

Should I say sorry for almost stepping on your foot?

I think falling in love with a poet is the most dangerous thing in the world. Well, besides maybe loving a crackhead. Or an athlete. Or a pilot. Or a musician.
Anyhow, I have decided that anyone so fucking great with words certainly monopolizes them, while ignoring action completely. Insert seventeen issues here (alcoholism, pillism, assholeism, fuckingyounggirlsism, fearofcommitmentism, blah, blah, blah). They can write about you, but loving you is a verb.
You move around me in the kitchen; I almost step on your foot. I am not quite sure if I should say sorry.
Should you say sorry for almost giving me everything?