Ice Age Heat Wave

in another part of cyberspace;

2010-05-12T10:23:00.000-07:00

http://sososadbuttrue.blogspot.com/

thank you for everything.

XOXO

She started having cold sores and unsightly rashes.

2010-04-25T23:31:00.000-07:00

Mommy didn't protect Anita. Couldn't wouldn't. Turned the old blind eye. Anita's eyes changed from velvet brown to black lakes.
Bottomless lakes where dirty secrets sank through to the sludgy end. She started having cold sores and unsightly rashes. She would wake up in the middle of the night screaming so the nice china in the kitchen cabinet almost shattered. Mommy just rolled over and reached for the ear plugs. Sometimes Anita wet her bed. That made mommy furious. Because she hated going to the laundromat. She would say to Anita: You're not a child anymore.

Anita was twelve when it started.

Later Anita started smoking cigarettes and hanging out with boys who drove stolen cars and drank beer and sniffed glue.

Mommy liked to watch TV. Mommy liked to drink white wine with an ice cube in. She liked mail-order catalogs. She liked her boyfriend. Or she liked the fact that she had one. That made her feel lucky, she said. But if she really would have thought about it, about him, maybe she would have come to the conclusion that he really didn't contribute anything but troubles.

Sometimes he would pick Anita up from school. That was the one good thing he did. So why the hell did Anita complain about it? Especially since he would buy her ice cream and soda?

She had just turned sixteen when she finally called the police. In mommy's boyfriend's computer there were many videos that he had made when he raped her in stairwells in public buildings. When he had brought friends along. When he forced her to perform oral sex on him on a polluted beach, behind some shrubs, under a cloud bursting with rain.

I told her that I had hoped we'd maybe make out while watching the ducklings frolic in the pond.

2010-04-22T00:53:00.000-07:00

It was all carefully orchestrated. That's what I tell myself when I sit in my apartment, crying into a beer and heating up fish sticks in the toaster.

I am but a puppet in someone's master plan.

So it's OK that I smeared an inch-thick layer of cream cheese frosting on my vegan carrot cake and ate until I had a belly-ache. And it's OK that I said Fuck You Asshole to the Vodafone-guy who refused to help me sign up for DSL in English.
I have one more wall to paint in the livingroom and I've called in sick to do it. I decided to have a crush on the girl at the café. Just because the weather was so lovely and I had been shopping and drinking and felt so alive I didn't know what to do with myself. Carbonation in my bloodstream. Shoes made out of marshmallows.

And then. Disaster. Failure. Rejection. Mega-rejection. We rode our bikes to Treptow Park. They have this really cool Russian monument there. A giant bronze guy stabbing a Swastika with a sword. Then, as we sat in a beer garden, she started lecturing me. Said I was so American. That I always should ask if someone speaks English, before I just order a beer in American or ask for directions in American.

Sure, I said. I should. But as soon as I do that person looks at me like I had insulted them. Because everyone speaks English here. Except for the Vodafone-guy.
Then she said that by asking her out on a date I was acting no better than a dude. I was making her an object. I was copying fucked-up heterosexual behaviors.

Maybe that's how you do in the States, she said, this gorgeous café latte-skinned girl with dreadlocks and a pierced septum. But that's not the way it's done here. The world is big, you know.

I told her that I had hoped we'd maybe make out while watching the ducklings frolic in the pond.

Then she got up and left me with the bill. Just like a fucking girl.

Now Volcanic ash is clouding the air. The temperature has dropped and the skies are gray, gray, gray.

But there's still a light that never goes out. I will eventually wipe my tears, blow my nose, band-aid my wounds.

call it by its real name

2010-04-19T02:12:00.000-07:00

There's a fox on the run. She has a bushy tail dipped in white. A small shy face.
She's on the run along the canals. I can't tell what she's looking for, if anything. Love? Food? Just a distraction? A nice way to kill some time. The moon is but a sliver, but through a rift, on the outskirts of the horizons, there's some navy blue spilling out, as a premonition. The fox cuts across Greifswalder Strasse and starts following the street car tracks.
You've got to keep moving, right?

(He doesn't speak, he screams, when he's on the phone)

She sometimes talks to me as if I was an idiot. I guess I am when it comes to certain things. I am at a remedial level when it comes to faking a smile. And it's nearly impossible for me carrying more than two soup bowls without scalding myself, or leaving a trail of carrot-ginger splashes on the tiled floor. I hate that tone in her voice, that look on her face. Hate it. But then again, other times she's very sweet. Tells me how much she likes me, and says I am a good worker. A good worker?
I know she drinks too much red wine upstairs and that she makes expensive phone calls to her Psychic friend. That witch tells her that soon she'll meet a tall, handsome man and she won't be lonely or confused anymore. That love really is a miracle, and that her personal one is just waiting in the wings. The dollars go tick-tick-tick.
She's a fool because she allows herself to dream and to hope.

(He thinks I am unfair. I think he's unfair. He says I'm selfish. I say the same thing about him)

I stopped and watched the fox disappear down the soft slope leaning towards Alexanderplatz. I suddenly ached to be in a forest, and to see her there, threading confidently over roots that beckon for a human stumble. But not a fox one. I dreamed, for a short moment, of those dense pine tree fairytale forests that I think could only exist in Scandinavia. Where distant snow-covered mountains poke star-hung skies, and elves flow-dance on misty meadows.

The sum of the problems is always constant.

Satan if you're there, please touch my shoulder

2010-04-14T01:13:00.000-07:00

I didn't remember any of it until recently. Or, I guess I just stopped thinking about it.
But my cousin Claire was a truly wicked one. And then she jumped off a hotel roof in New Orleans. To pay for the life she took. Or at least that's what the note in her pocket read.

Her mom (my aunt) started dating this beautiful black guy from New Orleans. He had chocolate skin and sexy teddy bear eyes. His legs seemed to go on for miles and miles. He was an artist. So was Claire's mom Kate, although she'd only ever shown her work in local coffee shops. But she was definitely a social genius who knew everybody in Sacramento. When she had parties and Claire happened to be there with her braces and bad posture, guests would sometimes ask her: So, how do you know Kate?
Claire resented her mother, because she had more friends and more lovers than her. And she was beautiful in all the ways Claire wasn't. And Claire wasn't very fun to be around, even I, who was six years younger thought her games were childish and that she always smelled like milk gone bad. Maybe that was the wickedness leaking from her pores?

Around the time that Kate started dating Derek, the guy from New Orleans, Claire changed. Almost overnight. Suddenly the braces where gone, and her skin was pimple-free. And suddenly she had breasts that she accentuated with lacy push-up bras. She plucked her eyebrows into delicate arches that framed her green eyes in a way that now you suddenly noticed them. And there was a pretty power in them that hadn't been there before. The same boys that up until then had treated her like stale air started to twist their necks too far when she strutted by.
And she definitely didn't want to play with dolls anymore. Now she wanted to put on make-up, smoke pick-pocketed cigarettes in the upstairs bathroom and talk about the birds and the bees. She said she was no longer a virgin, because she had penetrated her hymen with an eyeliner. There was one gooey drop of blood.

Kate told Claire that it was serious this time. She said that she and Derek were really in love, and that she wanted to marry him. And that she wanted to have his child. And that child would have the most luscious cappuccino skin tone.

One night Derek came over for dinner. Claire wore her shortest skirt and her most effective push-up bra. She kept hitting the champagne pretty hard, especially since Kate was pretty relaxed about underage drinking. The tiny potent bubbles went to Claire's head. She kept on pretending to accidentally brush up on Derek, and she tried playing footsie with him under the table that was set with the nicest cutlery and lit with candles. But he tried to dodge her sock-feet attacks by moving those long legs out of the way.
After about the fifth glass of champagne the dining room was spinning out of control for Claire, the wallpaper became a kaleidoscope and she was trapped inside of it.
I am going to get sick, she said and grabbed Derek's wrist and asked him to help her. Or at least to hold her hand. In the bathroom, after she'd thrown up, she sat on the tiled floor with her legs spread and her panties on display. She took Derek's hand and placed it on her milky thigh and asked him if he liked her.
He patted her thigh in what he thought would seem a fatherly way, and said: Of course I like you, Claire. You are a sweet girl. Let me help you off this floor.

But Claire wasn't sweet. She wasn't a good girl. Because a couple of months earlier she had been in that windowless upstairs bathroom. The one with the linoleum floor that mold grew under, where we used to get dizzy on from stolen menthol cigarettes.
She had switched the lights off and she had said out loud: Satan if you're there, please touch my shoulder. She waited. And waited. Then she said it again. And she felt a chill between her shoulder blades, like a block of ice was held an inch away from her skin. She wanted to bolt out of there, into the safety of the rest of the house drenched in the remains of the day. But she clenched her teeth and whispered through them: I'll sell my soul to you, do whatever you will with it. But in exchange I want some beauty and some action.

She begun pursuing Derek. He wasn't interested at first. I mean she was a child. And he was in love with Kate. But there was a pull in Claire's gaze and a heat to her touch. He found himself swayed. God help me, he thought. Because his parents were good southern baptists.

One day Claire took the city bus to the industrial area where Derek had his studio. She chugged a wine cooler on the bus. She wore a dress than clung to her body – that was becoming more voluptuous by the minute – like saran wrap. He didn't expect her, didn't want her. Well, only a little. Only in the unlit, filthiest corners of his brain where dust bunnies celebrated two-digit birthdays.
She found the building. She found his door. She pounded on it with a fist made of lead. When Derek opened Claire threw himself at him. She hung her arms like a chain around his neck. Squeezed her thighs around his hips like a fox trap. Derek stumbled backwards and pulled her down with him on the Jackson Pollock-splattered floor, And that's where they did it. And they did it again. Kate called several times during. They both heard her lovesick voice on the answering machine: Honey, sweetie, where are you? I miss you, I need you.

And then the affair spiraled out of control. Derek was hexed. Or so he said. And then one night Claire told Derek that Kate was in San Francisco and that she wouldn't be back until the following day. But in reality she was just having dinner with a girlfriend who she'd neglected due to her infatuation, as one tends to do. But now she wasn't doing so good. She was constantly having bad hair days. She felt that Derek's kisses had started to have less tongue in them. She feared he was falling out of love with her, and that she wasn't going to have a beautiful café au lait baby after all.

After dinner she came home and walked in on Derek fucking her sixteen-year old daughter doggy-style in her bed, on her satin sheets.
There was a terrible racket in the hallway and then Kate ran out of the house and back into the car. A strange ice rain had started to fall from the pitch-black sky.
How it happened we don't know. But Kate drove off the road and the car turned into a pile of scrap metal. Inside it her body was twisted into a shape not even a senior Cirque de Soleil dancer can pull off.

Claire stalked Derek to New Orleans. He stopped making art. He started going to church again and grew a beard and a belly.

Claire eventually went on a booze and coke-bender with a male stripper she had met on Bourbon Street. When that came to an end, like all things come to an end, she jumped from the roof of the Omni Hotel in the French Quarter. The security cameras caught her hesitate for just one frozen split second of eternity.
She had this story written on a napkin folded into her jean pocket and soaked in blood.

serial killers read me bedtime stories sitting at the edge of my princess bed

2010-04-12T10:36:00.000-07:00

Sometimes melancholy creeps up on me when everything seems to be going my way. And this just happened. It almost feels chemical. I am not heart-broken. I haven't fought with daddy. I found this great new apartment and have been enjoying going to flea-markets to hunt for furniture. I am going to school and making friends.

But despite the sunshine and the baby-blue Berlin sky. The extremely cheerful birds chirping from their nest outside my kitchen window. And the perfectly moist lemon poppy cake I over-indulged in.

It's like the curtain dropped. And I am choking on musty and dusty red velvet. The air feels sandpaper-y to breathe and I am just too tired to keep my eyelids hoisted. Instead I fall into a half-sleep state where serial killers read me bedtime stories sitting at the edge of my princess bed. And I masturbate myself raw with a spiked dildo. And tear the wings off dragon flies.

I still haven't been able to create sufficient meaning to sustain my pitiful existence in this cold galaxy.

the so-called feminist ones wearing sandals exposing yellow toenails curling around calloused toes in desperate need of a pedicure.

2010-04-09T03:44:00.000-07:00

something anise wrote in my comment box made me think.

sometimes i get totally disgusted by men. the macho, homophobe assholes with tufts of monkey hair on their chubby shoulders. the so-called feminist ones wearing sandals exposing yellow toenails curling around calloused toes in desperate need of a pedicure. the hot ones who use girls to massage their inflated egos. the psychopath ones making decisions, in their roles as governors, college professors, bosses, that affect the world in an ugly way.

But more often I feel ashamed to be a woman, when there are so many women giving my gender a bad name. I am talking about women who let men walk all over them, and claim to actually like it. Women who get breast implants because they think they won't get a husband with small titties. Women who act stupid. Women who think that a fat diamond ring will solve all of their problems. Women who complain that their boyfriends treat them like shit, flirt with other girls right in front of them, never cook, never clean –– And then STILL not DUMP their lame fucking asses. In those cases I sympathize with the douchebag dude rather than the bimbo Barbie girl. It's a dog eat dog world.

I want women to be strong, to speak their mind. To kick ass. To lay down the law. To use men as sex toys. To be proud of that extra roll of fat. To not take shit. To kick their lame-ass BFs to the fucking curb.
This, of course, applies mostly to hetero women. Of course there are homo girls that suck too, in a myriad of ways (believe me, I am dealing with a sucky lesbian as I type this) but at least they don't tend to fucking crawl in the gutter for dudes.

Shit, I got really worked up typing this. But really, today has been a perfect day.

Now I want to know what Y'all think?

Sunshine Award

2010-04-08T03:29:00.000-07:00

I also got a Sunshine award from the very clever and sweet Cleo over at Youth Is Wasted On The Young

The rules of this blog award are:

1. Post this logo within your blog or post

2. Pass the award onto 5 fellow bloggers

3. Link to the nominees within your post

4. Let the nominees know they have received an award by commenting on their blog

5. Share the love and link the person whom you received this blog award

So I will pass this award onto:

1. My girl Tessa over at Apparellel

Because she has style galore and is both super hot and super sweet.

2. Left Hand Cuts The Right

for an endless supply of awesome images

3. Heather at The Dream Machine

because she seems to be an extraordinary ordinary girl and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.

4. The one and only Anise at sometimes i am made of light because she knows how to string words along to form the most beautiful sentences and express very personal innermost thoughts.

5. Hope Chella

another great and inspirational photo blog.

XOXO, Kim

Why have I snorted heroin? Drunk myself silly? Woken up covered in vomit and bruises? Fucked boys with bad breath?

2010-04-08T03:15:00.000-07:00

This is spring as they know it here. It's high time to shed the cloak of darkness, in order to see clearly. To not think sullen thoughts. I am sitting in a café called St.Oberholtz in Mitte, Berlin. Twenty years ago this was part of the GDR. Now it's filled with hipsters and Spanish tourists. And Americans like me, disenchanted and disconnected. Accident prone and curious. Love-sick and occupied with various substitutes for God.

A caravan of sirens just blew through the sunshine on the street below the big panoramic windows.

My love interest has been hitting the crack-pipe. She moved out of her home and into a squat-like, crumbling apartment with vomit-looking murals painted on the walls where black mold grows like a cancer.

She was writing me, she said, when she was high and lonely and confused. She was typing in a trance in between hits on the pipe.
She wrote that she couldn't stop thinking about me, and that she longed to trace the lines criss-crossing my palms. She wrote that she wanted to hold me all day and night. She wrote about my eyes; green like pools in tropical forests. (That's when someone should have slapped me hard. Because my eyes are blue.)
All these sappy love-emails, asking me to come back to Berlin and to be her star-crossed lover.
And I imagined us walking hand in hand through this city, where people don't seem to smile out of courtesy, and where psychic echos of past atrocities can come out of nowhere – like tumbleweeds on a lonesome Texas highway – at any point in time.

And now she's high all the time. Her skin is ravaged by pimples and weird scratch marks. She smells worse than teenage boy foot sweat. She doesn't want to fuck. I don't want to fuck. I don't even think I like her. I think I just wanted to do something crazy, something that would mythologize me and sound good in my memoirs. Her voice is shrill and she talks with food in her mouth. She owns several Alanis Morrisette CDs, and that is cause enough to end this 'thing' before it even started.
So why is she smoking crack?

Why have I snorted heroin? Drunk myself silly? Woken up covered in vomit and bruises? Fucked boys with bad breath?

Is it all about the substitute for god? The hole that can't be filled?

I am filling it now with work, with the apartment I rented and that I will have to furnish. With my new friend, Michael. He works with me at Sandy's place. He's a really good waiter. He's from Georgia via San Francisco and London. He has a really interesting story I will tell you soon.

P.S A lot of my pix come from here: http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/ awesome photo blog!!!

You will find me making voodoo dolls. You'll find me drinking JD straight outta bottle.

2010-04-05T23:50:00.000-07:00

I know you can't run.
But have you ever thought about reinventing yourself? Shedding skin? Coming out shiny and new?

I have become another person. When I come home (read: if I come home) you may not recognize me. And it's not because my hair color changed or because I gained or lost weight.

I get up early. I work as a waitress. I take walks in the park. I don't drive anywhere. I drink Apfelshorle. I signed up for Deutsch classes.

But keeping the darkness at bay is a full-time job even for a cheerful person like me. When I let the guard down an unexplored part of the gray scale blindfolds me. And that black hole makes me a little lopsided. And then the vertigo comes.

You will find me making voodoo dolls. You'll find me drinking JD straight outta bottle. You'll find me stoned and playing scrabble. With myself. Because I am a sore loser. Don't ever take me on a mini-golf date. You'll find me speeding down Mullholland Drive, momentarily intoxicated by the SoCal beauty, but mostly not caring about the outcome. My outcome.

But now I suddenly have a job. As a waitress. I've never done it before. But this American lady, Sandy, hired me for her American-style restaurant.
I like working. It's sort of new to me.

So there's already trouble in my paradise.

2010-04-04T23:28:00.000-07:00

Morning is gray and crisp. The pollution is but a distant unpleasant thought, fading fast from my muscle memory and cells.

I will shall must look on the bright side. I must trust that there's a sun beyond those curtains of death gray.

The birds are chirping cheerily. Longingly. (If I say lovingly am I guilty of anthropomorphizing?)
The GDR vision of space age; The Fernsehenturm is beaming dull aluminum through the 8 am haze.

I came with a suitcase, the laptop and a guitar. I am a walking, talking cliche. The young American girl taking on Europe. Who doesn't speak the language beyond: Entshuldigung, sprechen sie English, bitte? Far away from home, brave with the visa card from daddy safely tucked away in my fanny pack. Ein beer, bitte!

She is colder than I expected her to be. There's no tongue in our kisses. And they don't aim for the lips either. The embrace is tense and doesn't rub off. She has bags under her eyes. And tales of trouble.It's not you, it's me.

I never learn not to have any expectations. And now I try to look for the signs I missed while being blind-folded by my silly desired to be loved. And I am not even getting fucked.

So there's already trouble in my paradise.

P.S My blogger acts buggy. I hit return and nothing happens. I click the italics button and nothing happens. Advice? Help!

Said that black lipstick wasn't flattering

2010-03-31T12:41:00.000-07:00

Drowsiness washes over me like black waves. Threatening to pull me under and push my body down onto jagged rocks wrapped in seaweed. I feel jet-lagged, but I haven't traveled anywhere. Not yet. I haven't even left my room. I can't but surrender to the poison.

Once I sat on a jetty with my feet in a predator-fish infested water. It was a dare.

I was born this way. I should know better than trying to change.

They used to be concerned. They used to feel sorry for me. I used to see worry cloud their eyes like Los Angeles pollution clouds the California sky. I was a lost cause even then. It was much worse than they ever could have known.

I dreamed about wild horses, dark waters and dark boys with eyes that could suck the light out of any room. Any day.

I wrote letters. Typing away until my wrists were aching.

Still, they just worried and worried. Said I changed too much. Said that black lipstick wasn't flattering on nobody. And not scar tattoos either.

I've always done it my way.

And I like danger. I like fucking.

2010-03-26T00:25:00.000-07:00

I am about to do the dumbest thing. My friends tell me; Oh, you will come home in crutches, Kim.

But I am a romantic. And an idiot.

And I like danger. I like fucking. Here, my life has become dull. The sunshine and that special California light has started to bore me. I act and react on auto-pilot.

I don't need time to think. It was thinking that got me into trouble to begin with. There are deep groves in my brain made by having the same thoughts over and over again.

Today I bought several grocery store rags, drove to the nearest Starbucks, sat in the antiseptic AC-air and looked at celebrity cellulite while gagging on a Venti Caramel Frappuccino. In the corner of my evil eye I watched the tanned blondes hurry by with their car keys and Blackberries. I felt like vomiting in one of those un-offensive Starbucks armchairs, designed not to irritate anyone. But they irritated the hell out of me. Had I carried a knife I would have stabbed that piece of generic furniture dead.

An old flame says she hasn't been able to stop thinking about me, that she can still feel my feverish touch on her skin.

And I am eating it up, sucking it down.

She lives miles and miles away. I am going. And I am staying gone. Come visit me in Berlin!!!

This house is haunted, right Ashley?

2010-03-23T08:52:00.001-07:00

The first cut is the deepest. We all know that, right?

On the jagged coastline of Oregon. Where trees have been forced, by the wind, to become prematurely crippled and hunch-backed. Where sharp black rocks stick out of the cold sea.

That's where the dull knife cut into me for the first time. It left an ugly scar. That looked as if it was purchased in a Halloween-shop.

She was my cousin. I know, this is getting gross. She was 21 and I was 14. We had been visiting for the whole week, my dad and I. It was all in the family. Card games and Sunday roasts every night. My dad and my uncle and his wife hitting the whiskey pretty hard. Me and my cousins sneaking away to smoke stolen cigarettes.

I would mostly play with Ashley, who was my age. Her sister, Heather, was hardly ever around. She was going to college in Chicago.

One night we locked ourselves into the walk-in closet with some dessert wine and a Ouija board. Heather was a beautiful goth-girl and looked like Satan's bride already; her skin so pale it was almost translucent. And gray eyes that would quickly shift into black if someone said something stupid or tried to contradict her. She would beat up Ashley all the time. 'Just because she was annoying and used to eat boogers.'

We are going to talk to spirits, she said. This house is haunted, right Ashley?

Ashley nodded and took a swig from that sickly sweet wine, and passed the bottle to me. We had everything set up and I was starting to get that warm, tingly feeling of alcohol. The candles cast mysterious shadows on us and made us feel really daring, cool and adult, in the best meaning of the word.
Meanwhile, I hadn't even gotten my period yet, and Ashley wore braces and had blunt features and a weak chin that would forever condemn her to be invisible.

So who wants to ask the first question? Heather asked. We all had silly drunken smiles hanging onto our faces. She poked me in the crotch with her sock-foot. I don't know if it was on purpose, but I felt a surge of electricity tingling its way up my spine.

OK, I said, clearing my throat. Who are you? We had one index finger each on the glass. Nothing happened.

What do you want? Heather asked, looking around the dark closet filled with mothballs and unfashionable coats.

And then the glass started to move across the Ouija board, spelling out: I w-a-n-t t-o c-u-r-s-e y-o-u

We giggled. But I could tell Ashley didn't like it anymore.

Why? she asked faintly.

The glass begun to move, faster this time: B-e-c-a-u-s-e.

That's not an answer, I said and pretended to accidentally stick my foot into Heather's crotch.

Then the glass swished away and wrote: K-i-m i-s g-a-y.

Ashley stared at me. Then she started to cry, and bolted out of the closet.

I went down to the beach with Heather, where we polished the bottle off. Our parents were smoking bong hits on the porch, but the wind was roaring though the hills and whipping up dust clouds that covered our tracks.

Don't ask me how, but in a way I knew she was just toying with me. But seduction has never felt so good. Hazy with wine pumping through our veins and blood throbbing between my legs, we tumbled around in the sand.

After she had seduced me and I had gone down on her and was totally blissed out, we slept for an hour or so, wrapped tightly in each others' limbs, underneath her long, black cardigan.

She said I was good and that I was pretty and that she liked girls.

Me too, I said.

And the next day a bunch of bullshit happened that I'll tell you about another time. We never visited Oregon again. And Heather never wrote me.

But I still think about how perfect that time on the beach was.

Where's the burning bush? I wondered.

2010-03-22T01:48:00.000-07:00

She came to me. Waxy wings sticking out from her bony back. Hair like a fiery halo hovering about her.

Where's the burning bush? I wondered.

But I was on the boardwalk at Venice beach. Some muscle boys in track suits were seducing an audience of fat mid-westerners with their gleaming chocolate skin and back flips.

Nobody noticed that she sat down next to me. She looked like she hadn't slept for centuries. Neither had I. Daddy is suicidal again. My best friend let me down. I have existential anxiety again. And zits. I don't know which is the worst. (I pretend here to be a goody-two-shoes kind of girl, but I am vain as hell.)

Like; where are you going and where have you been?

And this is what she said to me. My jaw fell down and hung open like a broken mailbox.

She took my hand in hers and my fist melted into her palm and became a soft goo.

Fool's gold glittered on the pacific ocean. One of the regular freaks strolled by, lost in the symphony inside his head. His shoes beyond repair, his head beyond repair.

You and I have always been here, she said.

And I knew that was true. Her cool fingers touched my blushing cheek. Her flip-flop feet inched closer to mine.

Would you like to come home with me and check out my collection of maps? Maybe we can at least figure out where we are going next?

And Hurray for Obama!!!!!

and thanks to Tessa and Anise for being two of the awesomest blogger-women I've met in the vast cyberspace. I wish for them to feel better, to feel like the heroines they are.

lit like a fucking kerosene torch and talking the coke-talk

2010-03-19T00:52:00.000-07:00

I am just finally able to see a corner and not slam into it. I am just finally done puking through my nose. The poison has left my body, and I don't feel like poisoning it ever again.

But you know I will.

The moon seems neon-lit outside my window. The neighbor is having a party next door. Kesha is blasting on the stereo.

Last night I drank up and snorted lines and let some guy stick his tongue into my mouth, and pull my crotch up onto his. On the dance-floor, flashing and bleeding technicolor light all over my electric body. He whispered generic sexy come-ons into my ear. I was mostly interested in the sack of snow he said he had in his car.

I don't know how, but somehow I ended up in Malibu, lit like a fucking kerosene torch and talking the coke-talk on some veranda with some people I had nothing in common with. But we pretended to share our deepest secrets and most profound ideas. Drinking Maker's Mark and whatever was on hand as the sun rolled out of hibernation and the ink of the night sky faded into blue.

Then the drugs stopped working. They always do. I felt so alone and purposeless in this world. I felt as if nothing was ever going to change. That all the bullshit was just going to repeat itself endlessly.

And that's hell, my friends.

She dated asshole-guy after asshole-guy. They made her the town-mattress, the ho.

2010-03-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

We became fast friends. I had a non-sexual crush on Troy. Her hair was truly the lion's mane with wild red curls, lashing out and pulling you in. Her smile slightly crooked and mild like yogurt. I didn't detect any darkness. Not at first.

She came from another world. The Valley via Bakersfield. The first time I stayed the night (hands on the blanket, mind you, I was still closeted), I woke up in the morning to find her mom chain-smoking, drinking beer straight out of the can and listening to Aerosmith in the kitchen. It was 9 am. Troy's baby brother, wearing a bib and eating Wal-Mart fish sticks, was trapped inside a cloud of smoke.

It was the first time I became acutely aware that someone's parent was a raging alcoholic. All the other ones, the relatives and family friends, did their boozing and escapism more elegantly.
They weren't Polish blondes with three inches of roots. They didn't wear Iron Maiden t-shirts. And they didn't drink malt liquor.

Later Troy told me about all her mom's boyfriends and how once she'd walked in on her mom getting fucked doggy-style on the living-room carpet, by a guy with a mullet and a hairy back. She said there was a parade of men like that. They drove pick-up trucks with bumper stickers and smelled of sweat and tobacco. The father was long gone, the mother wasn't even totally sure who he was.There had been so many of them, because her pussy was pure magic. At least that's what she had told Troy, and then Troy told me.

Troy started using a lot of eyeliner and getting more drunk than anyone I knew. She passed out in dumpsters. Woke up in parking lots with her panties around her ankles. She was the kind of teenage girl who always cries at parties. Saying nobody loved her, and that she was fat and ugly. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Once she threatened to jump out of a window.
She dated asshole-guy after asshole-guy. They made her the town-mattress, the ho.
But her heart-shaped face always had sweetness for anyone who would hold her gaze for a split second of our fucked-up eternity.
Then we didn't see each other for awhile. Turns out that during that while she cut herself really bad. Next time I saw her, her arms were striped by glossy scars, running all the way up to her shoulders. Some were so deep and desperate that they had cut into muscle tissue.

She said she had been home alone at the apartment. Drinking vodka and sinking a razor into her flesh. Time and time again. Crying and pacing. Crying and pacing. Cutting and bleeding. Swallowing the fire water.

Then, even later, we lost touch. What happened to my Troy?
Does anyone know?

i slapped her. i watched her face burn with the sting.

2010-03-15T12:03:00.000-07:00

I remember her nightgown. It always looked ratty, despite the cheery tulip print. I remember her soft doll feet. I loved touching those cool velvet soles to my cheeks, then covered with pimples.

I was desperate. And I had so much anger inside me. I didn't know what to do with it. Except keying cars and smashing telephones.

She had raven-black hair, so shiny you could use it as a mirror. (If you wanted to see yourself, that is). She would fall asleep outside my door. on the flesh-colored carpet. It broke my heart, but I was already to used to that sort of hurt, I guess. When i would wake up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom; there she would be, curled up with the door sill as her pillow, asleep, her features melting.

There was only sweetness in that girl, Carrie. She came from Chile. Had grown up an orphan. And it was possible, they said, that she had something wrong with her brain.

Who doesn't?

But she didn't know what to do with those toys that are supposed to teach you useful grown-up things. Like how to count M&M peanut-looking balls. Or to fit basic shapes into the right holes. One day I got so agitated watching her try to push a square into a star-shaped hole that i slapped her. I watched her face burn with the sting. Then I watched as the bottom lip begin to quiver, and those brown, sweet eyes that had seen fuck knows what, filled up with tears.

She cried. I cried.

Then I slapped her again.

Oh Carrie, can you ever forgive me?

Because I don't think I can.

wrong side of the morning

2010-03-15T00:27:00.000-07:00

a redder shade of neck on a whiter shade of trash,
and this emery board is giving me a rash

i'm flat out,
you're so beautiful to look at when you cry

There's the back pain and the heartaches. The acne and the belly-aches.

2010-03-11T00:56:00.000-08:00

I think there's something seriously wrong with our reality. and I am not just saying this because I stepped in dog shit today and then got shat on by a seagull with a tummy ache. (I had to stop in at H&M and buy a whole new outfit, and I am not even kidding).

I am saying this because everyone I know is so damned troubled. There's pills galore and razor cuts on soft thigh flesh. Scarring red, then fading to white. Always bearing witness to a psychic pain that became unbearable. There's the insomnia. Like the grim reaper he comes and puts match-sticks underneath the eyelids of girls and boys whose neurons really need to be wrapped in cotton candy for a good eight hours. There's the back pain and the heartaches. The acne and the belly-aches.

There's drugs. My friend, the crack-whore, had her boyfriend commit suicide a few days ago. He jumped off a bridge and the waves sucked him under and filled his black crack-lungs with polluted water. She's shooting heroin now. She is beyond caring, she says. Not too long ago she was a talented student at CalArts.

And many of the blogs I read here, detail the lives of bright young women who binge and purge, binge and purge. For what? To fit in some faggot designer's (please take this for what it is, I am a homo myself) sample sizes? Constructed why? And for whom?

And the violence we commit onto each other. The physical and mental kind.

And clearly, I am no better. I called a lady in an SUV a bitch today. I purchased a pair of sneakers I definitely didn't need. I felt happy with my new possession for about two seconds, then I felt empty empty. So I came home and ate a whole bar of chocolate. To fill the hole. When that didn't work I smoked a joint. It worked for awhile.
Now I have insomnia.

(but I should know. I saw something, felt something. In Texas and in Arizona)

I wish I had a dog to pet.
***

P.S This is a self-portrait from Tate Modern, London. Shooting myself in a piece by Jeff Koons. Wishing the world was as happy and colorful. XXX

You don't make out with friends. You just don't do that.

2010-03-08T23:16:00.000-08:00

I don't know how many times I have to make the same mistake before I make any changes in my behavior?

I keep on willingly laying down in the same shallow grave over and over. Sure, my thought pattern was blurry and erratic (and possibly even sporadic as I was swerving in and out of semi-consciousness). Sara had a birthday and we were all drinking JD. Avy was there and she seemed really angry. There were other girls and boys milling about like specks of dust on a map of the abyss.

I didn't think you could fall into a K-hole from just drinking? And I had just found out the day before that I am moving to the NYC at the end of the summer to begin an internship at a magazine. One with lots of pictures of half-naked, anorectic 14-year olds with heroin habits.

Speaking about anorectics ... I made out with an anorectic friend. Her eyes nearly drowned me in black waters, sucked me down and under. Her lips eager, her tongue hungry (no wonder really). But I should know I should know I should know. Now that I am rising from the pits with a throbbing headache.

You don't make out with friends.

She came back once. As a brunette.

2010-03-07T22:53:00.000-08:00

She came back once. As a brunette. She had a new man, but he waited in the car. Daddy's knuckles turned white, but his eyes couldn't help but sparkle with adoration. She was very thin again. We all went out onto the veranda. She didn't hug me, but she patted my head, and later held my hand. Her hands were cool and soft and I wished we'd magically become conjoined like that. She had presents. A Polaroid camera and a small gold chain with a heart.

Until about a year ago I wore that heart every day. And this is very strange because I tend to lose all jewelery all the time.

I asked her where she had been: Where have you been mommy? I said.

And she said: Oh honey, I've been working. A woman's got to work, you know.

I remember how daddy turned his face away but I still saw his eyes become flooded with tears, almost to the brim.

When she drove off again, with the mustached man by her side, I wondered why she had given me a heart when she didn't have one.

I rather would have been an aborted fetus in heaven for aborted fetuses

2010-03-05T03:21:00.000-08:00

My mother.

My mother left without a trace. I was still a kid, a cute kid (there are pictures to prove) with pig tails and band-aids on my chubby knees.

Still, she couldn't love me. She never wanted me. I was an accident, and due to her upbringing she was unable to see abortion as an option. It didn't matter how soft my skin, how blue my eyes, how peachy my cheeks and how dimpled my smiles.

Until recently I felt that I rather would have been an aborted fetus in heaven for aborted fetuses, looking down on the mess other people made (and keep making).

My mother had big dreams. She wanted to become a famous photographer. She wanted to sail the world. She wanted to make a difference for other people.

Becoming a mother aged her ten years in 9 months. Her once perfect breasts begun sag with gravity. Her hips and belly became branded with fiery stretch marks. Her face became wrinkled from frowning. And her mood-swings started tearing her apart. She couldn't stand my weeping. Said to daddy it was the worst sound in the world.

One day she drove off in the family car. She left a note. It didn't say much. It just said that she was sorry and that we shouldn't look for her.

p.s images borrowed (as often) from: http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

Like bird chirps, or baby giggles, only more elusive

2010-03-03T22:57:00.000-08:00

And then we steamrolled sedona. or sedona steamrolled us.
I got tangled up in the vortex, almost fell from a cliff so red it seemed like a figment of my devilish imagination.
I heard voices in the wind. Like bird chirps, or baby giggles, only more elusive. But still they spoke to me.
This desert somehow manages to be lush in all its dryness.

I tried meditating again, sitting on a flat-topped rock. I don't know how long I had to sit, but it felt like no time at all, and then, again, I was no longer trying. I was meditating. I didn't have to struggle to stop the thoughts from coming. There were no thoughts, just a tingly stillness and a glow. I felt a smile settle gently on my lips.

And I don't think I can eat another animal.

In fact, Daddy and I took a vegan vow. He says he will truly give up smelly French cheeses.

And then we talked about my mother. It was a heavy, but ultimately good conversation. I will tell you all about it later, beautiful beautiful people.

how can I tell this without seeming like a total douchebag or a lunatic?

2010-03-02T08:07:00.000-08:00

There are certain things that scare me. Of course. I don't like the shape of forks for example, and darkness can be eerie sometimes. But I am scared of axe murderers, sadistic rapists and rabid dogs rather than ghosts or spirits. Despite having a total angry New Age-man for a father, I've never had any religious leanings. But I have been thinking, at weak and desperate times, that it would be nice to believe in something other than that we'll all die now or grow older.

Yesterday evening dad and I went to a yoga class in Alpine, about half an hour north of Marfa. It wasn't my idea. Then we went to eat at the Reata Steakhouse. I gave into my carnivore urges and ordered steak. It was so rare it stained my shirt. I had really begun to wonder what this trip was all about, and the disappointment started to coagulate and harden into miniature fists inside me. I was looking away, looking bored, drinking my ice tea when dad told me we had an appointment with a healer and that we'd had to get going.

Again, driving south and turning onto a bumpy dirt road that seemed to lead us to the edge of earth or to a grave of quicksand.

And I kept getting angrier, because I kept thinking we were going to turn up at some red-haired hippie lady's house, and that dad would wanna do her and I would be left listening to the last sounds I wanted to hear.

Finally a faint glow appeared and then a modest house, that turned out to be completely powered by solar panels. A young guy, maybe thirty or so, came out on the porch to greet us. His name was Craig.

First we drank tea, then we ... how can I tell this without seeming like a total douchebag or a lunatic?

Let me just tell you this. For the first time I wasn't trying to meditate; I was meditating. And unless there was some chemicals in the tea Craig offered us, I was experiencing a natural high that sparkled and pulsated hot lava up and down my spine, making little supernovas go off all around me.

I fell asleep during the ride back to Marfa, with a big smile pasted across my face. The last thing I felt was the back of daddy's hand softly touching my cheek.

p.s took the photo of myself in the bathroom just as we got back.

and invited all his international art pals to make art in the desert

2010-02-28T23:18:00.000-08:00

The night here seems solid, as if it was made out of matte metal. The only sounds coming through are the wind whipping the corners and daddy's soft snoring from the other room.

Once again I left the country. Just because. But only for a few hours this time. We crossed into Mexico via Presidio. And we did indeed have some tacos. They gave me a bellyache. But there was no touching and no I love yous.

Instead there was a sullen man, trying to paste smiles onto his ragged face. Trying, but not succeeding, not to whine about his (lack of) love-life.

Do you fucking hear me complain? Do you know how long it's been? Soon I'll start doing the online dating thing.

We are in Marfa, Texa, staying at the Thunderbird

We did this art tour in the desert, like pilgrims. Famed, and deceased artist Donald Judd moved here in the 70's and invited all his international art pals to make art in the desert.

This whole place is pretty surreal, you should go sometime. Here you are in the middle of absolutely nowhere, you have been driving through a dirty desert for hours without even seeing a gas station, and suddenly you stop and walk into a coffee shop and you think you are in Paris or New York, because it's filled with good-looking people, dressed all in black, and rocking funky glasses that frame their intellectual eyes like an exclamation mark. Here they sit, sipping soy lattes while leafing through the latest edition of some obscure art journal.

p.s my photos.

and we'll laugh and eat burritos and i'll lean my head on his shoulder

2010-02-26T06:13:00.000-08:00

i can't sleep. and we haven't gone anywhere yet either. the surprise has not yet materialized itself. and i am not entirely unhappy about it.
but i don't feel happy. and i think that is my natural state.

there's drama among my friends. i didn't get this other internship i applied for.
daddy and I misunderstand each other. we accuse, talk in circles, shovel shit around. this afternoon we'll go. we'll drive into the desert in his jeep, and we'll find that unbreakable bond, constructed out of blood and time. and we'll laugh and eat burritos and i'll lean my head on his shoulder. and he will tell me he loves me more than anything. and all the stars will come out and sprinkle the black desert sky with fool's gold and a lonesome coyote will howl in the distance.

and all the pieces will fall in place and i will no longer fear the black holes gaping at the outskirts of the milky way.

I think maybe that's when I turned into a homo

2010-02-24T06:09:00.000-08:00

Oh jet lag, the constant companion of a glamorous globetrotter like yours truly.

Maddy is in safe-keeping in Leeds, the armpit of the world, or at least the U.K. Her mother is a drama queen who spends most of her waking hours consuming services like manicures, facials and body scrubs. Nothing works though, the woman is chin-less and hideous. I hope poor Maddy won't age like her; gracelessly and undeniably. Her mother is probably filled with shadenfreude; rejoicing in her daughter's extra rolls of fat. She actually seems a bit like Avy's mother. Her father is a casanova with more mistresses than Tiger.

My own father is expected back at the Casa later this afternoon. He wants to take me on a trip so we can get to know each other. I guess it's about time as I have embarked on my 22nd year on planet earth. He wants to keep his plan a surprise.

I hate surprises, especially the planned ones.

Like the birthday (was it my 11th?) when he invited a snake charmer to our house so I could overcome my fear of serpents? I think maybe that's when I turned into a homo.

So I have 102 followers now. Wow! I am pathetically in need of love, affirmation, followers and comments. I worship you all!

XXX, your lovable fuck-up Kim

Toilet Paper Bandage

2010-02-21T23:30:00.000-08:00

I had finally just started drifting away, then the cat attacked my foot. I am starting to fear cats, I swear. I look them in their dengue fever eyes and can't help but see their possessed quality.

Last night was a disaster. I, of course, was only trying to help. I said to Maddy that she needed to wash the crusted chocolate and vomit chunks from the corner of her mouth, brush her red hair, put on a sparkly dress and come out with me.

She was rambling on about razors and pills and a never-ending hazy coma, but I still thought that a few pints could cure her.

I love London cabs though, they are so spacious and the cab drivers are totally polite and courteous. Not like the rude NYC drivers that argue with you about the best route to Brooklyn.

We went to a bar in Soho. One that Madonna used to frequent when she was married to that Guy guy. Or so I was told. I didn't even think bitch drank. Anyway. After a beer and a shot I could have a normal conversation with my friend. She actually laughed once, or at least she chuckled. But after three beers and three shots she was crying about the ex-asshole again. She wasn't just gently and discreetly sobbing either, she was bawling. People were trying not to stare, but the show was so magnificent that they couldn't help themselves.

I said; you need to get a grip on yourself. Get some perspective. She smashed an empty beer glass on the table and got a shard and scarped herself on the wrist. It wasn't a deep cut, but enough to draw blood. And that blood made a lady next to us choke on her peanuts. While some meatheads at the bar were laughing.

Out on the street, with a toilet paper bandage, she said she wanted to go down to the Thames and swim until she drowned or died from exposure.

I somehow got her home and eventually she passed out. And I am supposed to fly home tomorrow. I may need to call her parents.

P.S check this out; oneword.com

if she could only be a little thinner, a little prettier, a little nicer and better in bed

2010-02-20T12:49:00.000-08:00

Everyone in this world is obsessed with romance, and I am no better.

Sometimes these thoughts of someone that could save me consumes me. And my friend, Maddy, who kindly has been putting me up, is also caught up in the same sideshow circus. She is currently using food to dull the ache in her heart that pounds for an undeserving asshole. You've heard it before.

You've done it before.

She's been stocking up on chocolate bars, and candy hearts and sour patch kids and Salt and Vinegar chips. And she sits in her bed, in her cold and damp flat, eating and crying. And reading Vouge and Marie Claire. There are chocolate smears all over her pillows and greasy chip crumbles embedded in her nightgown. And the magazines tell her that if she could only be a little thinner, a little prettier, a little nicer and better in bed. If her skin could only be a bit softer and her complexion a bit clearer. If she could only be a tad sexier and have less cellulite, then the world could be hers. She could hover above it, whip in hand and force it serve her.

She vomited in the sink. Black mascara spiders climbed down her cheeks. Nobody ever loved me like him.

But he told you he didn't love you.
Well, it felt like he did. It felt so good. Better than a sugar coma.

Dad called from Sedona where he is staying with a healer. Probably some crystal-wielding psycho with wheatgrass juice in her fridge.

Before I head out to the pub I want to thank Vinda of Super stylish and fun Fashion Atelier for interviewing me and creating a portrait of how I would love to look. Vinda, I am cute, but not that cute.

And to all of you whose fab blogs I have been neglecting this past week, bear with me. I will catch up and I still adore you.

XXX

London (or You can call me Lucifer)

2010-02-18T15:44:00.000-08:00

the way you hit me is better than love

... and i am head over heals

and I saw Courtney Love and Hole and all is forgiven. It really is.

right now a big black cat is about to piss all over my Top Shop shopping.

More soon.

XXX

(Or why you are?)

2010-02-14T17:41:00.000-08:00

I hate what I've become, he said.

(you've always been that).

I didn't like to see him cry. Not because I didn't want him to be sad, but because he looked ridiculous doing it.

I am thinking about going to an Ashram. In India. I need to connect. Or, I need to find myself. I've never known who I am.

(Or why you are?)

Women always leave me, he said in between bites of cold chicken noodle soup.

(Daddy, you are not supposed to chew soup, don't you know?)

And you don't like me that much, do you?

Well, you are my father. I think I must love you.

At that he started crying again.
He hasn't left the couch since his suicide attempt. I've been going to Trader Joe's to pick up cans of soup and bars of soup. Because he likes to take baths. I don't really understand.

I always say the wrong things. There are thick green snot slugs peeking out of his nostrils.

I've decided to go to London tomorrow. I haven't told him yet. I'll cook dinner and then I'll inform him of my plans.

I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

2010-02-11T12:33:00.000-08:00

I know it's not even noon, but I am having a beer.

At about 6 am this morning I was puked on my own father. It was sort of my fault, but I was only trying to be of use.

I had been chatting on FB with some guy in Turkey, pretending I could be his everything and the mother of his children too. I fell asleep and dreamt that I was a housewife, and that I was baking a pound cake for the housewife next door, the one with the dreamy eyes.

I woke up to the sound of glass shattering on the tiled floor followed by a dull thud. I ran downstairs and there was dad. My father. I hadn't even known he was at the house. I thought he was in Topanga Canyon. He was on the floor among broken plates and cutlery. A few days worth of dishes I had left behind.
He'd swallowed pills, he told me. He wanted to die, he said, because there was no love left in this world.
Will you forgive me? he asked and looked at me with eyes like soapy water. A drama queen on his death bed.
I told him to go fuck himself and that I wouldn't forgive him. And then I shoved my fist into his mouth and tried to get my fingers as far back as possible.

I didn't get a chance to pull out before I had vomit on my hand and arm.

My father comes from a long line of pill-poppers, in fact we are citizens of a Nation of Pill-poppers.

He rests now.

His puke was rockstar vomit; there were pieces of corn and soggy pills swimming around in honey-colored bile. And one lonely gummi bear.

I want to thank the lovely and talented Erica Clay of alabastercow for giving me the Kick-Ass Blog Award. She's also a vegan. Check out her Blog Herbivorous for some cooking advice.

Triology completed

2010-02-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

She could barely make out its sagging contours, but it was a shed. His hand, that previously had been moist, had begun to feel like ice. The hold was beginning to chafe her skin.

We have arrived, he said but wasn't smiling.

She wondered about her cousin, if she was waiting for her. Maybe eating a corn dog or some stale popcorn. They had planned to go to a movie.

What are we doing here? She said and tried to find that flirtatious smile in her files. But it merely hiked the corners of her mouth up. No sparkles reached her eyes. Something wasn't right, she could feel it.

A moon sliver had appeared in the sky. It glared down upon them coldly and she could see that there was dirt under the boy's finger nails.

Don't play dumb, he said.

And that made her feel dumb. And suddenly every bone in her body knew what was going to happen.

She didn't resist when he pushed her down onto an old mattress inside the musty-smelling shed. Even though she was silent, he placed his palm over her lips. Perhaps he wanted to be ready to catch the screams he expected. His palm was sweaty again.

He lifted her dress, the flimsy cotton one that had made her feel so pretty just a couple of hours ago. He pulled down her panties and spread her thighs. She tried to think about technicolor cotton candy and Ferris Wheel rides. So she wouldn't feel him trashing inside her. His face was contorted. It looked like he was in pain. She didn't understand why he was hurting both of them.

But she tried to think about all the little things that made her happy; well-tended flower beds, juicy Sunday roasts, petting a cat.

The trashing wouldn't stop.

That's how my mother lost her virginity. I wonder how much it shaped the person she became?

images borrowed from one of my favorite blogs: http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho

2010-02-08T23:39:00.000-08:00

So before I continue with the story, the story that really isn't mine, I must talk about the party Saturday night.

Avy does know how to throw a party. Her humble abode was filled with pretty girls, good-looking boys, champagne and pixie dust. I brought Signe. As a way to celebrate her birthday and get her out of the house. She needed cheering up, and she needed cake. You should see how skinny she is. I would have liked to stuff her full of Twinkies and french fries, but I made her a vegan cake, so she would eat some.
Anyway, she used to date this guy Benjamin. At first he seemed sweet, but then he turned out to be a psycho. Sounds familiar?
He crashed the party. I don't know how he knew about it, but just after midnight he walked in.
I don't know how many gin and tonics I had had, but I was having a swell time. Miri was also there, and that girl is trouble. She's a lot of fun to hang out with, but something about her worries me.

Anyway, I started chatting up Benjamin. It was easy, I just asked questions and got him talking about his favorite subject; himself. Every now and then his eyes searched the room. I fed him champagne and compliments. I don't understand what Signe ever saw in him. His breath smelled like raw sewage, an extension of his soul, perhaps? But I still wanted to test out my pretty power. I begun to lean in closer. I found short-cuts to skin contact. Until I had my knee in his crotch. He put his paw in my hair. And pulled my head towards his lips. Toxic fumes engulfed me. Last minute I dodged his kiss, and gave him a peck on the cheek. He pulled me down onto a couch.

Did you really think I wanted to do you, man-whore? I said.

Signe was right there. She jumped up on the couch and started yelling that she was looking down on him. I wished she had kicked him in the teeth. But instead she trashed around and broke a vase. Like most things in life it was an accident. The vase was crystal. There was blood. I was dizzy. Benjamin cursing me out with his dragon breath.

And then this other girl, Aurora, collapsed and an ambulance had to come get her. I think she probably spent too much time in the bathroom.

I developed a pre-mature headache and was overcome by existential angst. The kind I get when I think about the fact that we're all going to die.

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing

2010-02-07T23:13:00.000-08:00

Instead he kissed her. There was no fireworks. But bombs going off. Big explosions in the distant and a faint, but unmistakable smell of dynamite. Imagined body parts getting torn into fragments.

She couldn't help but hold onto him. That close it was easy to forget cousins and uncles and the dull homework involving numbers that refused to do what they were supposed to do.

He said; let's go somewhere.

She felt a magnetic pull. And a throbbing.

He led her into the woods. It was getting dark fast. The sound of the people laughing and screaming on the rides was starting to fade out.

They walked until almost all the light was gone. His hand was like a mold on hers. But she did start wondering where they were going.

Almost, he said and turned around, but the shadows were so dark she couldn't see his face.

***

I brought my friend Signe to a party at Avy's house. It was fun until it wasn't.

He wasted no time on sweet nothings

2010-02-05T06:59:00.000-08:00

This is not my story. But it could have been.

It was at an amusement park. She was enjoying a ride. I think it was those tea cups that you sit inside and that spin you around and around until all your insides are jumbled up like stew.

It had been a nice day, but dark clouds were approaching, but she hadn't noticed yet. She'd had too many sodas and too much cotton candy, and she felt much better than she had for a long time. She'd almost forgotten that business about the uncle and the kiss on the cheek.

And she felt pretty in her flimsy cotton dress, and her hair smelled of apples.

Spun, she caught the eyes of a boy who stood watching and licking a giant lollipop that dyed his tongue blue. There was a colony of freckles across his pale face. After she caught his eyes, he wouldn't let her go.

She left the cousin and wandered off with the boy. Small clouds of steel-wool begun to drift in. They walked into a park where boom-box r'n'b floated through the air that was already thick with BBQ smoke and frightened baby birds.

They sat down on a rock. He wasted no time on sweet nothings.

Dear fellow Cyberspace dwellers,

2010-02-04T00:37:00.000-08:00

I hope your night is velvet-y and starlit, or, if you inhabit another part of this planet, that your day is filled with sun and maybe little cotton-candy clouds that sail by softly.

I am feeling strangely at ease. Although I have no reason to.

Tonight I am taking a break from blogging to pass a couple of awards along. It is the award-season after all.

First, sweet Sophia over at A poet's Circus awarded me with The Happy Award. I am now supposed to list ten things that make me happy; Music (right now: Fever Ray, Joanna Newsom & The XX), Mullholland Drive (both the movie and the street), LES QUEUES DE SARDINES, El Caminos, driving long distances, popcorn, friends, infatuation (but it makes me miserable too), coffee, cotton-candy.

I pass this Happy Award to:

1. Danica at A sight to be Seen: Her blog is the cutest sweetest thing ever.
2. Jefferson at I got the letter: because he's paying tribute to something we've almost forgotten about.
3. Courtney at Souljane because I love her pix and her style.

Second, amazing Eva who writes the darkly gorgeous Screaming Whispers awarded me with the Honest Scrap and in accordance with this honor I will tell you ten things about myself (and I hope I won't bore you to tears).

I am rarely of use. I like girls (but you knew that already). I've never had an eating disorder, but I do fear flying. I laugh at the basest things. I often go to bars by myself (Mainly The Red Lion, come find me there!). I am anal about flossing. I change hair color frequently. I am scared of the dark. I dream about bygone eras.

I pass the Honest Scrap thing along to:
1. Signe at Just Another Fucking Blog because girlfriend is raw.
2. Anise at Sometimes I am made of Light because it's beautiful and powerful
3. Miri at California Noir because this girl's got it.

XXX

Painting by Gerhard Richter

Soda Feet and Soda Legs

2010-02-03T01:34:00.000-08:00

I found myself – this doesn't happen that often – blank. I had nothing to say, nothing to add. All my thoughts seemed too slippery or unfinished or thought too many times by too many.

I scratched a bug bite instead. And listened to Fever Ray. I browsed blogs. Fashion is seductive even for a slob like me. Still, I can't help but feel disenchanted by the frequency of blogs devoted to consumer goods; things that can be bought and sold. Or stolen.

Shouldn't we concern ourselves with bigger themes like love and death, creation and destruction. Veganism. (As I write this I have chili cheese fries swimming around in a puddle of Dr. Pepper inside my belly). And I can't stop thinking about a pair of French tights that I've seen in some blog or other.
But then I felt inspired by miri to write a druggy post.

The first time I tried acid was with my friend Tilo. He had gotten it from his older brother, the famous DJ. It was during the holidays and we were up in Oregon at his grandma's house. It looked like the fucking Bates Motel and I was terrified of the attic even before we swallowed the blotters. First came the giggles, the uncontrollable ones that had us tangled up and weeping on the floor that later turned into a candy bar. His grandma was luckily not that coherent, but she did wonder what was so funny. I think I told her that Tilo farted. She did not approve of toilet humor so she continued watching HSN.

Along with the giggles came the tingly feeling of little lightning bolts shooting up our spines. Soda feet and soda legs. Tilo's eyes lost all the brown and became black holes. Mine did the same. At first I remember feeling that every thought that came to me was so brilliant, but I could never finish thinking that diamond thought before the next brilliant thought came shoving the first thought out of the way. It was a bit frustrating, but after awhile I started feeling at ease, connected to Tilo and to the universe that rolled out like a star-strewn blanket. Everything made sense. I remember saying to Tilo:

This is dangerous, I am going to want to do this everyday now.

But after awhile the shadows started to lean in and grow octopus-arms. Maybe because it got dark and the grandma went to sleep. There was a fork on the table. I asked Tilo to remove it, because its shape scared the hell out of me. His voice dropped an octave and for awhile I couldn't hear what he was saying because all the words smeared together. But then I heard him loud and clear:

Kim, I've lost a chunk of my brain. We need to go to to the hospital.

Despite me hearing Satan beckoning us from the attic I knew that was a terrible idea. I remember hearing that alcohol could take the edge of, and I found a dusty bottle of brandy in the cabinet and we started drinking.

It wasn't long before we were wasted instead of high. That was familiar territory.

photo by Nan Goldin

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made

2010-02-02T00:05:00.000-08:00

I am determined to actually go to bed tonight. I am sick of the demons and the distant sirens I always hear during the witching hour. Sometimes a howl cuts through the night like a dull knife and my mind takes me places I don't want to be.
I have no control over it. Dad tells me to start meditate. But considering he's the biggest douchebag in Los Angeles I don't really want to take up anything he claims does wonders for one's mind and spirit.

I went to Bardot on Vine tonight for about two seconds. I went with Mark, this gay boy who knows a lot of "important" people. It was not my scene. The place was filled with rail-thin blondes staggering around on ridiculously high heels clutching their blackberries and their one-month's-salary-in-Watts-purses. It was such a relief to walk out into the cool night and to drive down Sunset, back to my hood where actual chicanas and cholos still live.

Monica sent me an email the other day. I am definitely over her now. Once again the world has been gifted with a seriously psychotic shrink.

Dear Kim,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing a lot better since I last saw you. My husband and I have truly worked things out, and we've rekindled the flame. The other night we had fantastic sex on the balcony. I am sure all the neighbors could hear us. That really brought us closer. My motherly instincts have also returned. I now love being a mother, making lunch and such. I see my future, our future (my family's) as bright. We have discussed moving to Pasadena. I think change would do us good. My therapist have prescribed me another medication. She took me off the zoloft, and now I take both an anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety drug. That in combination with regular work-out sessions (pilates and spinning) has really elevated my mood.

Kim, I think you are a sweet girl. I am really sorry about the mess we made. It was my fault of course, although you acted very flirtatious. I wasn't myself at all when you came into my life, that's the only defense I have. As you know, I am not gay, never have been, never will be. The thought of the female sex organ in that way actually repulses me.

Anyway, I hope you find love and that you have a wonderful Valentine's Day.

Best wishes,
Monica

Another voodoo doll apparently needs to be made.

photo by the one and only Dave Lachapelle

He makes her lunch and give her pedicures.

2010-02-01T04:20:00.000-08:00

these recurring themes have once again rendered me sleepless; lust, greed and cruelty.

I did pull the wings off a dragonfly once. And then I saved a bunch of tadpoles from drowning. I have so many evil thoughts that I don't want to own up to.

I want Veronica to fail. At least, I want her to fall down and get scabs on that super-humanely pretty milky white skin of hers. But I know that band-aids on her knees would only make her cuter. Have you ever known a girl that's just perfect?
Veronica is flawless. She's why-can't-I-be-her? She has the one relationship in the world I am actually envious of. Her boyfriend gives her rides and flowers. He's funny and gorgeous. He makes her lunch and gives her pedicures. When we were younger, and I would go over to her house a lot, I would often spend hours and hours hanging out with her parents. They are – despite being both rich and famous – super-cool. They give their daughter love, not things. They gave me love when I needed it. Veronica has natural strawberry blond hair in which a chunk of rainbow forever is trapped.
And just last week she got the internship that I had applied for and wanted badly. I almost constructed a voodoo doll of Veronica to stick needles into.

When she found out that I had applied for that too, she called me and apologized and then she came over with heart-shaped vegan cookies that she had baked.

And I just found myself imagining Veronica in a terrible car accident that had her legs twisted around her waist, her face a bloody pulp.

I don't know who makes me more sick; her or me.

Update: Neighbor denied ever seeing my iphone. His beast is too scary to deal with. Monica wrote me a strange email that I think I will post here. I may go meet Justin soon. I am not sure why I should. I figure: Say yes to life.

Images by badass Tracey Emin

The Kate'n'Steve game.

2010-01-25T23:14:00.000-08:00

In another place, in another time.

His name was Justin. And I didn't know much. We were just two American kids in Greece, on this island called Corfu. The water was postcard-turquoise, the waves rolled softly in over sandy beaches below a cotton-candy sky, in a landscape dotted with jagged rocks and goats. At least I think I remember goats and their weird satanic eyes.

My parents were busy getting drunk on Retsina and fighting in the hotel room. Justin's parents had a house that they returned to every summer for a month or two. His father was a writer and would sit typing on an actual typewriter, on the terrace overlooking the sea. I thought that was pretty badass, even back then. His mother, on the other hand, wore the apron as if it was tattooed on her body. And she always seemed uneasy, as she served us crackers and milk or Greek salads or whatever it was she served us. I remember thinking, even back then, that I'd rather die than be like her.

Justin and I spent the days snorkeling, reading comic books and perusing shops in pursuit of souvenirs that we didn't have any money to buy. One day I shoplifted a key-ring with a shell that said Corfu attached to it. I gave it to Justin. Maybe he saw that as a sign.
Because that evening – we were alone in their house for some reason – he suggested we'd play a game that he called the 'Kate'n'Steve game. Steve was his older brother. He had plenty of chest hair and a gold earring. And Kate was his girlfriend back in the States.

I said: Ok, let's play this 'Kate'n'Steve game.

Justin instructed me to lay down on the sofa in the living room. He went to get his dad's briefcase. Then he went outside. I lay there waiting for a moment. After a minute or so Justin opened the door and shouted: Honey, I'm home. Then he sat the briefcase down and came and laid on top of me. First he just laid there. I felt uncomfortable under his weight. Then he started to move up and down, rubbing his crotch against mine.

I didn't mind. I didn't mind at all. I felt carbonated and flushed.

After that we began to play the Kate'n'Steve game all the time.

Thing is, this Justin guy just showed up on FB. He lives in Los Angeles now.

Tabula Rasa

2010-01-24T03:37:00.000-08:00

Blogging while drunk is not something you should do. I am perfectly aware of that. I am also, as we speak, as I type, perfectly plastered. Bourbon is a beautiful thing. So is taxi cabs.

I called Monica half an hour ago. When the voice mail picked up I called again. And again. Then I threw my iphone into the neighbor's backyard. They have a Doberman who's Satan incarnated. One day that beast will eat me, I am certain.

And I loved my cellphone nearly as much as I loved Monica's kisses.

I promise all of you that by tomorrow afternoon, monster headache aside, I will be a clean slate; a Tabula Rasa.

Sweet dreams to anyone that may read this!

her new limited edition violet nikes

2010-01-22T00:30:00.000-08:00

I have a friend named Rita. She lives in West Hollywood. Her apartment has a walk-in closet filled with sneakers. She circles the globe on jet planes, dipping down in places like Tokyo, Stockholm and Beirut to get a hold of some rubber-soled treasures.

She's told me that she's spent many nights in the closet arranging the sneakers. She's tried organizing them by colors, by price and by names.

She likes to wear sneakers when she fucks. Which she rarely does, because she's also terrified of germs. She's one of those girls that has to use 15 napkins or so, when using a public restroom. First, she covers the seat with them, then she uses a couple to hold the flusher, then the door knob of the stall, the faucet and finally the restroom door.
Today Rita and I had lunch together at the In'n'Out. Except she only got a water. She was supposed to comfort me, but I ended up having to comfort her.

First, she talked about every square inch of her new limited edition violet nikes that she'd ordered off the Internet.

Then she told me that she thinks about dying all the time. That she imagines that dying would feel like the most intense orgasm, followed by a warm pool of soft darkness.

I asked her why.

She said that the anti-depressants only have caused her to gain weight and that therapy is a waste of time and money. And that the world is cruel and hideous. And that her parents never loved her.

I love you, I said. But it was a lie. A white lie, yes, but nevertheless a lie.

I don't love her. I don't even know why I am still friends with her. We've grown apart since high school. We have little in common apart from our age and hometown. She's boring and self-absorbed. And she's cheap too. The kind of person who says; you owe me a dollar fifty.

But still, I don't want her to think about dying.

As for myself, I need to stop sulking.

I've always liked crooked teeth

2010-01-21T04:52:00.000-08:00

It is the hour of silence. The night is a velvet hoodie, but there's also the premonition of light. That it will come again, and that it won't be too long.

Love is just a wish. It only exists in my head (but the touch still pricks my skin from when I was a believer). I often mock it, but when I dare to be honest, I want it; the romantic kind, the one that saves and damns.

Monica's teeth looked like a wind-worn fence. I've always liked crooked teeth. Her breath on my face was faintly perfume-y. And she could cause permanent damage to my inner organs with her thighs.

Right now I think that I'll always remember the moonlit walk along the beach. When we escaped, drove north after she fought with her husband, the editor, said she was leaving him.

But soon I'll think, what the hell was I thinking.

In the meantime, daddy is here, and he's having loud sex with this hippie-chick (not much older than me) that we met at a brunch spot in Topanga Canyon.

Image by simen johan

i like danger

2010-01-19T23:31:00.000-08:00

She took me to an Italian restaurant in Santa Monica. I should have known that our first proper date would also be our last.
In the parking lot outside, Monica lit a joint, and after smoking she called her husband and finished the phone call with sweetie.
THAT felt like a paper-cut.

Our nervous hands fidgeting above the starched tablecloths, our stocking-feet seeking contact below.

Pot makes me horny. I couldn't help but imagine me, Monica and the panna cotta starring in an R-rated movie.

But Monica had other plans; I have never done something like this before, crossing the line, that is.

And then; I am not even gay.

And later; You are so young.

After we finished pushing our food around the plates I begged her for a farewell fuck. She wouldn't. She said she would give me a referral to another clinic. And that she would work on her marriage and on being a better mother.

I came home and cried and cried.

Why do I let myself get so carried away? So tangled up in happy-ever-after-daydreams?

Daddy tried to comfort me. My wailing interrupted his yoga session. Dressed in tank-top and shorts he came and put his arms around me. But his hug felt like wrestling with a monkey, he's so goddamn hairy.

I texted Monica. No replies.

cul de sac

2010-01-18T13:52:00.000-08:00

i know this can only end badly. i can only end up broken and bruised. my deceitful (hateful) heart is leading me down this cul de sac. there is no turning back.

i hear daddy downstairs practicing the sitar. distant sirens wailing down sunset. i have my own emergency.

monica's eyes shift from chocolate to pitch black swiftly. monica has a child who destroyed her life, much in the same way as i destroyed my mother's.

Monica with the violent velvet tongue.

the throbbing we do.

I can't see you anymore. she said. And I shattered.

As your therapist I mean.

I could hear this shopaholic wife with sad eyes and dry skin cough on the other side of the door.

I still straddled her.

photos borrowed from bruno dayan and http://ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

Monday dread

2010-01-18T01:03:00.000-08:00

despite not having a job (but a decent cash flow), I always have angst on Sundays. Could this Monday-dread be embedded in my genes?
I mean, it's not like I have to be somewhere, do something. I can just continue to be useless.

Yes, I watched the Golden Globes. I do appreciate the crudest form of entertainment sometimes.

I engaged in extreme eating. First vegan pizza, then a whole bag of Reese's Pieces, 2 cans of coke, a bag of chips. Some cantaloupe. I waited and finally, an hour ago, Monica texted. We have a date tomorrow.

There are a thousand moths in my belly. And the bruise is getting paler by the minute.

Monica

2010-01-17T01:01:00.000-08:00

Let's call her Monica.
Monica claims to be 41, but I think she might be a bit older. She's vain; I know this because I've rummaged through her purse once. It contained more creams than a Walgreens.
She's had some work done too. Her nose is a bit generic.

I started therapy just before I left for Berlin. Dad said I lacked direction and that he suspected I was suffering from a chronic dull level of depression.

So I went to this clinic in Silverlake. And I met Monica. She is an ex-Freudian, now a firm believer in cognitive therapy. And pills. She didn't want to hear me talk about the past. Stay with what's going on now, she said. The past has past.

She's married to an LA Times editor. They fuck once every two weeks. According to her foreplay consists of him asking her if they should do it. Then he kisses her, generically, and starts to unbutton his pants. They have a child. And a nanny to take care of that child.

I liked her from the start. Those legs and those baby-blue panties peeking out. But I didn't like therapy. I didn't like the way it made me feel self-indulgent. Paying someone to listen to my problems made me feel as if I had no problems (which I do).

Then, just before Christmas, I ran into her in the parking lot, and we got to talking. Just small talk you know, about what we would do for the holidays. She asked me if I would come sit in her car and listen to her favorite song. It was 'Maps' by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, which surprised me. Maybe I am prejudiced now, but she seemed too old to like it.

We sat there listening and the air was so loaded I felt I had to chew every breath I took.

Wait, they don't love you like I love you

images borrowed from super-cool: ghostwerld.wordpress.com/

I don't know, but she seems to like violence

2010-01-16T01:16:00.000-08:00

the first thing i noticed when i sat down on that couch – the color of unexplored parts of the grayscale and so firm it hurt my ass – was her legs. Slender but strong. Those legs were not just made for walking, but for kicking, trashing, hurting.

And do you realize how much I hurt now? If I hadn't lost my camera during our Moonlight drive along Mullholland Drive, I would post a picture of the bruise, mapping out only a tiny fraction of my pain. It's slithering its way across my lower ribs and around my back.

I don't know, but she seems to like violence.

Maybe it's payback time?

After our first session she asked me how it felt. And I said, a little like getting a pedicure.
At that I saw her jaw tensing and I saw her brown eyes turn black like those holes at the outskirts of the milky way.

Do you know how long I've been studying? she asked me. And when she re-crossed her legs I caught a glimpse of her panties.

I have never been kissed like I was kissed tonight. It really felt as if she was sucking my soul out. And I liked it.

I am having an affair with my married therapist.

the heart is overrated

2010-01-13T05:48:00.000-08:00

the heart is most certainly not to be trusted.
sure, it seems real and all when it trashes in your ribcage,when it yearns and shoots jolts of pain-infused desire down to your crotch area.
But it’s also the heart that makes you beg in the most unflattering way, the heart that makes you forgive the fist that gave you a bruiser. Because you love him, and lover conquers all.
It’s the heart that makes you smash your brand new iphone. because that text never came.

i think the heart is overrated. trust the brain.

that said, i am falling in love as we speak. And the object my heart has fixated itself upon is highly inappropriate. And I mean HIGHLY.
more on this soon.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything

2010-01-12T23:03:00.000-08:00

This was a long time ago. Back then I had even less of a clue. And i believed in Santa Clause. Because he would come, reeking of booze, and he would bring me books, the toy of the season and banana republic sweaters (way too frumpy to be seen in public in).

I fell in love with a boy retard cripple in a wheelchair. I was visiting my aunt and uncle in Venice. We were down at the boardwalk buying ice cream when I saw this boy all by himself next to some garbage bins. It was as if someone had just rolled him into the shade and left him there. He was wearing a visor and the ice cream he was clutching was melting all over his hand. His legs were super-skinny and twisted in a way that looked as if he'd a category 5 hurricane had had its way with them, and at the bottom of these legs were a pair of velcro sneakers. His face was dull and expression-less, in the usual retard way, but his eyes were electric green. Even the high noon sun couldn't wash them out.

I left my aunt and uncle in line and started walking towards him. I hesitated. He could have been dead had it not been for those laser beam eyes. There was a little pool of drool forming at the corner of his mouth.

Then he spoke, in a voice that sounded as if it came from a burning bush;
We have something in common you and I.

I took a few steps closer, not sure that I'd heard him right.

Neither of us are enjoying this sunny day. He smiled a bit and there was ice cream all over his crotch now – a whole puddle. His lips were really full.

No, I don't really like the boardwalk that much.

I know what you mean, all those fucking rollerblades. A bubble of spit formed and bursted as he spoke these words with venom.

I was really starting to like him, despite everything. But just then a girl in short shorts, hot pink lipstick and a blond pony-tail whipping her bare back came hurrying past me saying; we're leaving now, Steven. They said we have to go. And she power-walked south down the boardwalk, pushing Steven in front of her.

I couldn't stop thinking about him for weeks. I even went down to Venice Beach a few more times looking for him.

But that was it.

Beauty

2010-01-11T02:19:00.000-08:00

I knew this beautiful girl who felt bad about all parts of her body.

She said; my ears look like Jewish boy ears, that's why I can't wear my hair up.

She also said: I can only wear A-line skirts because my hips are too wide. And I must always wear high heels since my legs are too short. And not wearing pantyhose isn't an option, there are too many visible veins running up and down my legs.

Her neck was so hideous she had to wear turtlenecks always, even to the beach. She bleached her hair every other week, so that no roots would ever show. She also shaved off her eyebrows to 'feel blond in the way Marilyn did.'
Her hands were, according to her, unbelievably hideous, but there wasn't much she could do about that.

Her diet consisted mostly of carrots and cottage cheese. And cigarettes. Because they don't have any calories.

Then, this beautiful girl became a crack whore. I went to see her in her crack den the other day. Her hair was a halo of steel wool, her body unshapely with fat rolls and sagging, greenish skin. Her teeth had started to rot and her fingers were horribly nicotine-stained. When she greeted me at the door she said:
I am not beautiful anymore.
Well, I recognized you, I said.
Then she said: When I was beautiful I never felt beautiful, but now when I am ugly, I feel beautiful.

I am a writer of fiction

2010-01-09T23:13:00.000-08:00

I think I've finally decided what I should to with the rest of my life (however that may be now with earthquakes in the backyard)

i once dreamed about running away with the circus. i said I wouldn't mind selling cotton candy or corn dogs as long as I got to travel in a caravan with line dancers and midgets with webbed toes.

then I had silly Hollywood dreams. They weren't mine, they seeped under my skin through osmosis. I even dieted a bit and went to yoga. Had a facial or two.

My most recent dream was to be of use. Like a fork, a power-tool or a nurse.

But for now I've decided that I am a writer of fiction.

ghoul girl

2010-01-05T22:49:00.000-08:00

I was at the bar last night, doing the lonely-girl-at-the-bar-thing that I often do. I was writing pathetic poems on paper napkins when a girl from my waking insomnia dreams walked in. And I am not talking about THE girl of my dreams now, no, this person was a ghoul from nightmares. Maybe I have been obsessing a bit too much about vampires lately, but this girl made my blood curdle. She was tiny, thin and translucent with eyes so pale that they almost looked like white neon. For a while she just stood there, just inside the door, looking around. Searching for a victim. The strangest thing was that nobody but me seemed to notice her. Then she decided to sit down next to me. She smelled like a corpse, yet her clothes looked like pretty normal low-key hipster.
She sat there quietly and stared at the bubbles in her glass. But every time I looked away I had the feeling her eyes were tearing holes in my flesh.

my iphone means the world to me

2010-01-03T01:25:00.000-08:00

with my iphone i am never bored. i have the whole world at my fingertips. and there's an unexplored part of the milky way; and it's filled with all sorts of interesting and useful apps – many of them available completely free of charge. the other day I turned my precious iphone into a lightsaver and then I ass-fucked myself.

furthermore, with my iphone I am never alone. I have 614 good friends on Facebook. I can confess my dirtiest, most shameful secrets to them. I can cry on their soft yet firm shoulders. I can call them on desperate nights and purge my insanity with the help of the radioactive waves my beautiful, sleek iphone produces.

i am a very happy girl, indeed.

2010

2010-01-02T02:03:00.000-08:00

it's a new year, a new list and a new ailment. I have an ingrown hair in my groin.
And I didn't manage to leave myself behind this time either.

I hate party hopping. I always have, always will.
Just when you start to enjoy yourself somewhere, your friends drag you on to the next location. This constant chase not to miss a thing, makes you miss everything.
It's my eyes glued to the iphone that makes me miss the flicker of a soul orgasm flickering across a plain friend's face beautifying it beyond your imagination for a split second.

I was with Abby, Thora and Chris. We started out at a house party in Silverlake that Abby had been invited to. It was the usual area hipsters. Lots of crippling heels and nerd glasses (that's not a good combo, if you ask me. Which you don't). The Gossip and MGMT on the stereo. Champagne and snow. I was talking to a dude about starting a band together. It was just one of those snow-covered conversations, nothing but fluff, but I was enjoying it. Then my friends wanted to go to another house party in the Hollywood Hills. That party was terrible. Just a bunch of cloned blondes and their greasy male friends. I was poking fun at one guy without him realizing. That was hilarious. I was just; that is SOOOO interesting, that is SOOOO rad, as he talked about small parts in B-movies that he had landed. Then I stole a bottle of Dom Perignon from a cooler on the terrace before we headed to the next destination. We didn't make it there in time for twelve o'clock. Instead we shared the champagne with our cab driver, stalled in traffic on Sunset. It was the highlight of the evening.

We hit three other parties, none of them memorable. Conversations were dull, people strange and I felt numb.

i don't want it even if it's free

2009-12-31T00:27:00.000-08:00

once this girl told me that.

That night I was drunk, high and chemically happy and sauntered up to this redhead in a bar and said: Do you want to have intercourse with me?

I was dressed in tight jeans that showed off my (objectively) cute ass perfectly. My teeth had just been bleached to the hue of sugarcubes. I couldn't believe she didn't fall for my beauty and my bold come-on.

I have spent the evening picking on old scars. On my body. On my soul.

Once someone called me a bad kisser. Another time someone called me a bad friend. Somehow it was worse being called a bad kisser.

I think something is wrong with me.

Psychotic note

2009-12-29T06:02:00.000-08:00

This (ex) friend of mine sent me this psychotic note/holiday greeting. Girlfriend needs help, don't you think?

Happy New Year! I have attached some pictured on my house, my pet-rabbit Holly and a Christmas band that we enjoyed on Christmas Eve and were brought by my sister-in-law Patricia.

I have been celebrating Christmas with my family. First I went to my parent’s house on the 23. On the 24^th we started the day with breakfast together with my brother Mark's family (wife Susanne and the 2 kids Emilia 12 years and Ida 7 years). This has become a lovely tradition and we also share Christmas gifts. After they left we went out for a walk. The weather was perfect with loads of snow and sunshine. It was long since we had such lovely Christmas weather. In the afternoon my brother Robert and Aunt Elise came by and we ate dinner together. Robert's partner Patricia came later and we played some card games and ate a light dinner together. On the 25^th the weather had changed and as we expected a lot of snow I took off fairly early and had dinner together with John. On the 27^th my family came over and we had lovely time together. It is great fun to be able to house them all at the same time and also have some space for the children to play on. Also, I live only 40 min drive from Cleveland where they all are living.

All the best from me!

Ho Ho Ho

2009-12-22T23:36:00.000-08:00

I wonder what Santa will bring me this year?
Another self-help book perhaps? On home-kit colon cleansing?
A white Christmas courtesy Cocaine?
Another box of cheap pralines from Wal-Mart from my Trailer Trash aunt?

A drunken night with daddy?

Ho Ho Ho!

So daddy is utterly narcissistic

2009-12-17T08:34:00.000-08:00

So daddy is utterly narcissistic, and loves to put me down, in not so subtle ways: You look fat today, Kim. You have a giant zit in on your chin (Hey asshole, thanks for stating the obvious). He also has dragon's breath. How do you tell someone that?
But as fucked up and horrible as he is, he does give me money. He did help me with homework while I was still in school. He did (try to) comfort me during bouts of recurring nightmares involving transvestite serial killers with staple guns. He did take me to the hospital when I fell off my tricycle and dislocated my shoulder, and later, when I almost pulled a Jimi Hendrix and choked on my own vomit.
My mom on the other hand, decided that I was a curse. The breast-feeding was deforming and exhausting her. The diaper-changing was just plain shitty. She had gotten hideous stretch marks she'd never recover from. And surely, she was fed up with douchebag daddy. One day she drove off, into the sunset like a cowboy. She sent two postcards. I still have them. One was from Atlantic City, New Jersey and the other one from Hawaii. Generic greetings. No: I love you. Nothing.
But still, I really don't hold it against her. I probably would have done the same thing.

P.S Hey, follow my blog. It would make me happy.

XXX, Kim

... and then the pills wore off

2009-12-15T03:20:00.001-08:00

and when she woke up we did it again. and again. her lips like a plush sofa i wanted to make myself comfortable in. our limbs so tangled up i couldn't feel where i ended and she begun.

and then the pills wore off and the last of the booze left our bodies. it got a bit weird. she said: I am not usually like this.
what are you usually like, I asked her.
She said that she has a boyfriend.

and as always; it's the bisexual bitches that are the worst. the ones just experimenting, not til-death-do-us-part-committed to the puss.

she said she would call. and i really felt like a girl. a dumb girl (worth nothing but despise and fat free rice-crackers) hanging on to a flea-sized hope.

I took Tommy, my neighbor's miniature pinscher out for a walk. We caught the sun setting into the ocean.

I do like looking into the eyes of a dog taking a shit.

Religious Night on the town

2009-12-14T03:40:00.000-08:00

Last night I went out cruising (stalking), ended up doing a little hiking too, before I parked my skinny ass at one of Red Lion's bar stool. I was wearing hot-pink crocs, a sweat-stained tank top, ill-fitting jeans and a jacket from Forever 21 (it has been washed more than once, so naturally it had lost its shape completely and resembled a pillow-case more than anything). The bag I carried was a classic and classy Third World bag in red (see the above picture).

And you know what, fashion douchebags?! I got laid. By one of the stunning bartenders. She was dressed as the St.Pauli girl, big boobies spilling over low-cut frilly blouse. She's enjoying her post-coital beauty sleep next to me as I'm typing this.

And Berlusconi was punched in the face. What a great night all in all.

perspective; out of the hole

2009-12-10T04:04:00.000-08:00

First, fucking the pain away really does work. Try it! (there's nothing like a hot and horny girl between your thighs. She doesn't have to be the love of your life, just into the moment.

Second, it's definitely necessary to put things into perspective. I did this by seeing an old friend yesterday. One that I hadn't seen in ages and only kept in touch with via FB. She looked good in her pictures. But she's also very skilled in photoshop.
The first thing she told me when I came to her door was: I am not pretty anymore.
I couldn't say anything. This former blond beauty was now 50 lbs heavier than last time I saw her. Her fingers were yellow from smoking crack. Her hair looked like steel wool and her teeth had started to rot in her mouth. She fell into a K-hole and by the looks of it, it's gonna be a long time before she crawls out.

shit weather

2009-12-06T11:59:00.000-08:00

shit city
shit life
shit girl
shit scrambled eggs.

not ever coming here again. the juice is watery and the eggs are rubbery and the cute waitress is not around

cold girl cold heart

2009-12-02T07:43:00.000-08:00

i ate a curry wurst and drank some glühwein. children high on cotton candy ran like squirrels between my legs.

i could tell it was cold but I couldn't feel it. whatever pills dealer-dieter gave me yesterday are working their magic, making me numb like a junkie.

where am i, and where the hell am i going?

duh, i am in berlin heading back to Los Angeles; my hometown of pearly white smiles that never reach the eyes.

these pills do something to my guts. i gotta go potty ... AGAIN!

auf wiedersehen, Berlin!

2009-11-30T23:09:00.000-08:00

sorry about my absence, but I've been to busy teaching myself how to hypnotize, how to cook a tasty meal and all about black magic.

the only thing I didn't try was baking a cake containing my period blood and feeding it to my lost love.

she probably would have refused anyway. she will have nothing to do with me.

the allure of this city is fading. this morning the sky looked like acid wash jeans. i think it's time to leave. back to dad and his patchouli stank and hurtful remarks.

menopause at 20

2009-11-26T03:11:00.000-08:00

is it possible? these hormons of mine i want nothing to do with them. they wreck havoc on my psyche. this carbonated being-in-love-feeling turned into a rage so black i was blinded. julia showed off her underwear at this party, and i turned into a jealous brute. i am not like this, I swear. I put my fist through a wall, plaster splinters flying and blood on my knuckles. julia was naturally disgusted.
she said: it's over.

before it even begun.

i wandered the whole night, feeling so lost until this gypsy lady saved me on a bridge with her accordion.

now i am conjuring a plan to get Julia back.

do you have a king? no, but we had hitler

2009-11-23T05:00:00.000-08:00

even though the germans indeed are very german i am liking it here a lot. they say it's like paris in the 20's, NY in the 80's. enjoy the crumbly buildings, doused in graffiti, smeared in dog shit. the witch-looking lady yelling at you for breaking the law, i.e, crossing the street on foot before the light turned green.

last night i caught up with matt r, a buddy from New Orleans that was here on tour with a band from Omaha, Nebraska, called The Box Elders. I think I fell in love with the drummer. But then I also fell in love with Julia, a raven-haired German girl who stood close to be and engulfed me in her cotton-candy breath.

Berlin

2009-11-17T01:05:00.000-08:00

hertha told me; it rains a lot here. last night I was jetlagged and woozy as we got caught in the rain on our bicycles. dizzily we cruised down Karl-Marx Allee, taking in the imposing Stalinist architecture and then, having cocktails at Café Moskva. The bartender was fat and bored. Then onto White Trash where we made out in the underground bathroom stall while Lust for Life blared from the speakers.

We attempted to fuck in her bedroom but all our limbs went limp and we passed out. This morning as I watched her sleep with an open mouth, I thought; could I be falling in love? And I started to plan our life together here in Berlin until she farted and my feelings evaporated.

therapy, travel and tramadol

2009-11-13T03:22:00.000-08:00

i went to the cemetery today. it's certainly not pere lachaise. not even minus the pathetic jim m-fans. but still, it's one of my favorite spots in this smog barrel of a town.

i left a sunflower bouquet on my mother's grave. then i sat down, cross-legged in the grass, and tried really hard to feel her spirit. i felt nothing but an unexplored part of the grayscale descending on me.

I've felt really lonely and I have masturbated a lot. So much in fact, that it's starting to bore me. I need triple action: therapy, travel and tramadol.

Off to Berlin on Sunday. Now I'll go cruising down Mullholland Drive.

stoned and touchy-feely

2009-11-11T06:10:00.000-08:00

there's only one thing that's worse than dad being unkind and insensitive. And that is when he's stoned and touchy-feely. the night before last he pulled my bra-strap so it snapped against my back. it echoed like an M-16 in my head. when I turned around he pulled me in for a hug and started talking about a cake I had baked, like three years ago. his one hand was like a windshield wiper on my back. i was terrified that his hand would slide down, as if by accident.

i got my passport. i am buying a ticket to Berlin in the next few days.

was supposed to go to a house party with s, but she stood me up. that hurt, and not at all in proportion.

i had this friend

2009-11-09T06:59:00.000-08:00

she was a good friend, a fun girl. a bitch you could drink jägermeister with until sunshine was ripping into the sky again. she was a fearless, unstoppable redhead who would stagedive head first at all ages shows.

she took pride in having the nastiest farts. she used to float down the river on pieces of styrofoam, giant mushrooms in her potbelly.

now she's a blonde. in love. she forgives her man any sin he's ever committed. she's like my dead mother.

she's demure. hides her sexy overbite behind her hand whenever she feels the need to smile. which isn't often anymore.

she's on a permanent diet. he thinks she's too thick. i think he's too thick. and now she is too, by default. for putting up with this low-life loser.

You give women a bad name!!

2009-11-06T04:06:00.000-08:00

You are needy. You let men step on you. Hell, you let them beat you black and blue. You love them anyway. And turning the other cheek is what you do. Where's your fist girl? WHERE'S YOUR FIST?!?

i should count beads and wishes

2009-11-02T02:47:00.000-08:00

when you are young, you should be able to bounce back like a rubber band. you shouldn't have wrinkles on your cheeks and big garbage bags underneath bloodshot eyes two damn days after a night of debauchery
my body is achy all over. even my toes hurt. i should check into an ashram.

i should count beads and wishes.

I don't want to shit corn. And I don't want to have warts on my pussy.
my bodily urges are leading me down the wrong path.

dad was here earlier. he is the expert at stating the obvious: you look like shit.

halloween was a blast though. met a Norwegian black metal band. They didn't need no damn costumes, but blended in just fine.

You know you need it: Halloween inspiration

2009-10-29T14:02:00.000-07:00

I know I should be thinking about my Halloween costume. But I am not. I don't give a fuck right now. I guess I'll join the ranks of MJs. Last night I was hell-bent on hooking up and I managed to do so. With a guy. This is what shots of tequila will do to you. Cute boy I thought, had he only been a little Indian. He kissed me hard in the parking lot.
And then in the morning, after a night of hovering in those black holes that swallow all materia, well, really only an hour ago, as I nearly choked on his morning breath, while being poked by his morning hard-on, he told me; Uh, maybe we should use a condom, I've had genital warts.
No, maybe you should get the fuck out!
Am I going to get warts down there now?
I am never drinking again. And this time I mean it. Not until Halloween. Promise.

Until then, I leave you with the best Halloween costume ever, except these were some rad bitches I ran into on Mardi Gras day in N'awlins: Ghetto Marie Antoinettes

Isn't it grand to be independently wealthy?

2009-10-27T23:58:00.000-07:00

So guess what? I am in Arcata, Humboldt County, smoking the kind bud with some hippies. Can't say I love white boys with dreadlocks and sandals, but this shit is good. They also have a sad peacock in the backyard. It comes at dusk, to hang out in the tree and mourn lost love by singing its heart out.
The bird may be my soulmate. I came here to mourn lost love. And of course, to devise a plan to find new love or to rekindle the old love.
I took a walk through the redwood forest today and that made me feel insignificant. In a good way. I am just a speck of dirt on this earth.

I wanna head back tomorrow though, and paint the town red. Starting at Little Joy. At least I should be able to find somebody with whom I can fuck the pain away.

Isn't Perez H just a mean fat Fa**ot who hates women who like sex?

2009-10-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

Hasn't Brad P started to look like an old man? Isn't Perez H just a mean fat Fa**ot who hates women who like sex?
Isn't fashion overrated? I'd like to live in a land where everyone wears unisex jumpsuits.
I dream about Utopia. This is what red wine does to me. That and blue teeth.
I drunk dialed HER last night. It was bad. She said something about another girl. Then I smashed my cellphone into pieces. Haha, just an excuse to buy an iphone. Cuz I'm a sucker too.

I think I'll go for a drive. Everything feels better when I am on my way. Even if the road leads to hell.

A day on the beach with S.

2009-10-24T05:25:00.000-07:00

We drove north. i wanted to reach Big Sur, but there was no time. never time. Always no time. Highway 1.
Hot day. Hot girl in my car. But her hands are always so cold. And she flinches when I try to touch her. And we are not talking sexual advances here. No undertones. No undertow.

I had made nice vegan sandwiches. Of course she didn't eat. I am still in a strangely dark mood. It almost feels chemical. Maybe those pills did a number on my system?

We talked. About her mother and about Sweden. All the things she left behind. And all the things we have to look forward to. We both agreed; it's not much.

Still a perfect day.

I don't know what I am still doing up at 5.

cotton-candy girl in a cruel world

2009-10-23T00:53:00.000-07:00

can you believe this? I am staying in tonight again. I did buy some yarn today. So I guess I am serious about this knitting thing. Plus I am planning on going to Berlin soon and I hear it's colder than a witch's tit there.

Dad is gone. Selling vacuum-cleaners or hydroponic weed, who knows, who cares? I hate when he shows up here, in full-on dad-mode. He's never molested me, but he is a molester. In his black heart.

Tomorrow I am going to the beach with S. Something to look forward to.

Tonight I am considering my options. And let me tell you: The future looks so bright, I gotta wear shades.

I could become:

A crackhead

Seller of cotton-candy at a Freakshow

Shampoo-girl in the Valley (at least I can spend my days making shampoo horns)

Suicidal

Hindu

I'm going to find a beginner's pattern for my knitting project. Any advice? L? Anyone?!?!

My friend made out with that guy from Arcade Fire

2009-10-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

I picked a bad night to stay home. Dad decided to come over. He's in the bathroom meditating. He's been doing the TM thing for as long as I can remember, but he's still an asshole. No golden light shining through him. I guess you're doomed if you have a black heart.
He told me I looked like I had put on weight.
(yeah, fuck you, I like corn dogs and that's none of your business)
And then he told me I had a zit on my chin. Like I wasn't already über-aware of that stop light and like that stop-light wasn't part of my decision to stay home, under the same roof as that asshole.
He said he would cook for me. Eh, thanks but no thanks. I've had enough soggy tofu casserole to last me a lifetime.
And before I had a chance to shut it out, he'd told me that him and Mag the Hag (one of his many incredibly lame lovers) had practiced sex sans ejaculation and that he felt the Oneness.

Terri called and went on and on about how she'd made out with one of the Arcade Fire members.
While she did that I was feeling up that giant stoplight zit, caressing and squeezing it.

I'll tell you all about how damn easy it is to be a groupie. You don't even have to be cute. Next time.

Over and out, peeps!

not E, not cool

2009-10-20T12:31:00.000-07:00

That was definitely not E. For all i know it was Viagra mixed with rat poison mixed with heroin. We were downtown at someone's recording studio when the fuzzy glow halo started hovering above my head. The room bathed in soft pink hues and then some transvestite that hadn't shaved her legs properly (wiry black hairs coming out through the fishnets) , handed me a bottle of champagne. I took a swig and felt the bubbles travel down to my gut and make a U-turn. I was cool like strawberry ice cream, and got up from the couch and zigzagged down the hallway. Bathroom occupied. I hurried down the stairs, my mouth filled with puke, and there on the street, next to a ridiculously large SUV, one that J surely would have keyed had she been drunk, and had she there -- I projectile-puked. There was a fountain of corn, banana mush and champagne but doing it felt like drinking coca-cola.
And during the night I threw up again and again. And it felt pretty nice. My body was like a sack of blood and guts but my brain was clear and pain-free like seltzer.
I didn't try to fuck the pain away. My libido has been strangely absent. Perhaps I should take up knitting?
And then, I AM embarrassed to write this, I drove home.

My damn cousin has been touched by the hand of God and that hand fist-fucked her.

2009-10-17T03:31:00.000-07:00

there's a lot happening. and it's mostly bad stuff. my intestines are tangled up in clumsy knots that grind and trash at my belly lining. I chase my vodka down with Pepto-bismol. S is starving herself and somehow in her nutrient-deprived brain she thinks it's good, what she's doing. I can't talk sense into her, she just says that I am the one who's fucked up and polluted. At least you can't use my ribs as a goddamn xylophone. When I first met S I had a crush on her. The way she closed her eyes when she smiled just made my whole body feel carbonated.

My damn cousin has been touched by the hand of God and that hand fist-fucked her.

My dad hates me and I hate him. He's a fucking scumbag Scientologist Casanova loser.

And she says I must finally terminally understand that she doesn't love me.

Bakersfield, CA or NO SEX DRIVE=NO PROBLEM!

2009-10-15T02:26:00.000-07:00

I have this cousin in Bakersfield, California. Her father was a preacher man that the good lord brought to heaven early. Perhaps to reward him for all the times he got wasted on moonshine in the shed out back and spanked his daughter with that belt he surely had bought in Tijuana, while he was there fucking hookers.
My cousin, L, is 21 now, and she's saving herself for her own personal prince. Maybe another preacher man with a stiff leather belt from Tijuana? She wears cheap Target sweaters in pastel colors and patent leather flats. She enjoys bible studies. And still, because we sometimes played as kids, she considers me her best friend. No one listens like you do, Kim. That makes me feel like drinking a tax-free size bottle of Vodka and float into oblivion.

Lately, she's been on anti-depressives. They give her a lot of anxiety and sexual thoughts. Or so she says. I thought they were supposed to do the opposite. No sex drive=no problems
She goes to a Christian College and told me she's had dirty thoughts about one of her teachers. She says she closes her eyes and sees herself grinding herself against his corduroy pants over and over.
Her mother hasn't left the bedroom in years. The curtains are always drawn and homo-erotic jesus pictures are plastered all over the walls. She doesn't understand, of course. She probably swallows a sack of pills every day. Poor L does everything around the house. And it is only because I feel sorry for her that I will drive through the burnt-out land to hold her hand and tell her it's alright to fantasize about dry-humping your teacher.

now it's cozy

2009-10-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

no, NOW it's cozy ... no, now it's cozy. when I buy that new rug it will be cozy.

went to see S at the coffee shop today. she seems to be thinking: just one more pound to shed and i will be pretty.

but tomorrow never comes.

S, if you read this, you need some In-n-Out in your life.

sexy clowns

2009-10-09T22:33:00.000-07:00

Tucson is kind of cool. Too bad people here are so ugly. It must be the the dry air. JT is only 22, but she looks like 35. It's not a good thing, but she's still kind of hot. The thoughts I had had earlier, about seducing her, where destroyed at dinner. Refried beans and green chili sauce did something unkind to my system and I have been bloated ever since.
We went over to one of JT's friends. He lived in the ghetto of Tucson. Lots of lowriders and Mexican thug boys. He was one of those gay boys that thinks he's straight. But worst of all, his whole house was covered in clowns. We were drinking wine out of clown cups, sitting on a sofa with clown pillows behind our backs. In the bathroom there was a clown soap dispenser, and on the porch an inflatable Ronald McDonald (who has given me multiple nightmares) was tied up with a string around his neck. Worst of all, in the kitchen, a painting of a clown performing oral sex on a raven-haired girl, hung above the kitchen table.

I would have freaked if I was alone at that Sicko's house. Don't understand why JT is friends with him. She must be terribly lonely.

I did the lonely-girl-at-the-bar-thing

2009-10-08T23:11:00.000-07:00

i could stay here, i love how quiet it is. but i have to go home. tomorrow i will drive to Tucson to visit JT. She's a total basketcase. Her closet is filled with skulls and bones and her relationship to her dead mother's horses is the only thing in her life that's sexual. She's not my type but maybe I'll get her drunk and do her, just as a favor.
I did the lonely-girl-at-the-bar today and some guy in a cowboy hat the size of one of Saturn's rings sat down next to me and bought me a Lone Star and started chatting me up. His teeth looked really sharp and he frightened me. When I said I had to go, he claimed to be more than happy to escort me home. I noticed that both his pinkie finger nails were long. I said I would be alright and left the cute indie rock Mexican bartender boy $20 for two beers.

They do have Prada

2009-10-07T22:39:00.000-07:00

in the desert. No tumbleweeds though.

But the sky was like a baby blue blanket. And I drove deeper and deeper into the desert and deeper and deeper into my mind.

Randomly, at this café, I met this older couple that said I could spend the night in their guesthouse. I looked real hard at the guy to figure out if he was a creep or not. But I saw no signs of it. And the guesthouse is amazing. They said it used to be a chicken coop, but now they've turned it into a southwestern-style dollhouse.
When I had washed the desert dust off my face I sat outside on a chair reading when they both came and joined me, and offered me an O'Douls. They told me that they were both recovering alcoholics and how they had spent half their lives running from themselves. And then they ran into each other and live happily ever after and everything was peachy.
They are total dorks, but sweet. The woman, Betsy, fed me pound cake, and told me that every other month she went to El Paso to have a botox injection in her forehead. What a waste, I wanted to say, but didn't. Her face was chubby, ordinary and criss-crossed with fine lines of time. Her eyes were baby blue like the sky.

Then I drove out into the night. The sky was an unexplored part of the greyscale. I went to see the Marfa Mystery lights.

2009-10-06T23:28:00.000-07:00

last time i was in Austin we ate pulled pork sandwiches at Whole Food's roof terrace. but now J doesn't wanna support the bastards. I want to, but I am unable to care about things like that.
instead, we ate at some dirt cheap Mexican place in East Austin. I want soap, perfume and shampoo made out of cilantro.

we went swimming at Barton Springs. the water chocked me into a sharp consciousness. afterwards J gave me acupuncture. I had needles in my ear and down my legs and was floating away on something that felt like a soft orgasm.
j asked me later, when we had tea in her parlor, if I thought of myself as a happy person.
I said: I am not sure anymore.
Not when I drink until I wake up with puke in my hair. Because that means I could just as well not have woken up at all.
but here in Austin, i haven't really been drinking. Just a couple of margaritas yesterday and today. And that makes people seem strange. When I am the stranger.
Anyway, j is asleep already. i wonder why she's my friend?
u have a long trip ahead of me tomorrow. LA-bound.

Daddy's Dollars

2009-10-05T12:05:00.000-07:00

so tonight I slept in a squat. At least that's what I think it was. I am in another universe and I have a blowdryer in my mouth and a tampon soaked in vodka up my ass. Last night, I couldn't stop staring at this hideous creature that sadly enough seemed to be a lady. She had stringy green hair that looked like cheap yarn and horribly fuzzy sailor tattoos splattered across her arms and her face. I stared and stared until she demanded I buy her a drink. It's a fee you owe me for staring, she said. So I bought her a PBR and a shot and she told me her name was Claire. What do you do, Claire? I asked. This was before all the words came out drenched in syrup. I am a dancer, she said. I stared at her in disbelief. You mean a stripper? I asked and probably did a terrible job hiding my repulsion, because she said it looked good on me. Then she also said she could eat fire with her pussy. At least that's what I thought she said. Right then it had gotten really loud (some Metal band) and all the pills I had taken at P's house started doing silly things to my head. We were, once again, in some dive on St. Claude.
You haven't seen bad neighborhoods if you haven't been to N'awlins.
P ditched me to have drunken fights with her boyfriend. I danced with an alluring creature in baseballs pants that later tried to choke me with a limp tongue.
And then I woke up on Claire's floor. She was passed out on a mattress with a 250 pound clown while that Almodovar flick, All about my mother, was playing on the TV. It felt like I was trapped in an art installation.
I had to get out of there fast, back to the Cornstalk that daddy's dollars paid for. Daddy who said I deserved to get ass-raped.
And now I am in East Texas, on my way to Austin to see J who studies there. I hope she has nice activities planned.

It's a bowl and it's going to fill up

2009-10-03T06:53:00.001-07:00

Haven't been back here since the days of Katrina – that wretched bitch. I remember the rude awakening after a coke-bender with Frankie. Waking up with black licorice vodka puke in your hair is not funny, nor is it cute. The air outside his air-conditioned sanctuary felt as if someone had shoved a blow dryer into my mouth. There were unknown chunks of recycled food stuff stuck in my teeth and to the roof of my mouth. On the radio the mayor kept on saying over and over: This city is a bowl and it's going to fill up.
We hitched a ride with some drunken lunatics, on the back of a baby-blue pick-up truck. We didn't know where to go, but couldn't go west so we drove north. And ended up, twelve hours later, at some crowded motel in Mississippi. Crying kids and trailer trash hussies with dollar bills underneath their well-worn bra straps.
I remember it feeling weird that people weren't staring at me.
The storm came our way in the morning. By then the sheer force had been matted by all the oak trees and people it had run into. The winds were still strong and unpredictable, throwing sheets of rusty metal and young trees into the street as we were headed for Dallas.
I hurt from letting Frankie fuck me that night. That sex felt more like exercise than anything else.
Back in 2005 what the fuck did I know?
And now, the air is still sticky. And I keep getting fucked up.
But last night I was so overcome by sadness. Too bad. It was a really cool bar in a sketchy neighborhood. There was talk of drive-by shootings.
Met up with R and O. They are still here.

Bourbon Street

2009-10-01T23:37:00.000-07:00

there's been tropical rain and hurricanes. friends don't let friends blog drunk, but since i don't have any friends to stop me right now, i am doing it anyhow.
checked into the Cornstalk hotel, blowing daddy's money. it's nicer from the outside. inside it's like a funhouse, with leaning floors and a faint mold smell. probably vampires in the attic.
i was in some whorehouse looking bar, off Bourbon Street when this girl said she'd give me a new wave haircut for $5. she was dressed in rags. well, boho chic or something. but she had beautiful almond shaped eyes, and a creamy dark smooth voice, so of course i said: yes, do with me as you like. i have bald spots now. cab you believe i still bought her a shot while fantasizing about molesting her?
in some dingy-ass sandwich shop i got a so-called po'boy called "disco." it had slimy shrimps swimming in mayo on it. and then, in a dimly lit alleyway, the kind you get mugged in, i thought i saw a leprechaun slinking away.

I also encountered these lovely ladies. I would have suggested something if I wasn't so damn wasted and cross-eyed from three Hurricanes.

this is so intense

2009-10-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

first time I heard about it, I just knew I had to come here. who are the people behind this? it's a true American mystery and i love mysteries. and david lynch. when there's a riddle to ponder I feel so alive.
but too soon I'll be dead. and that's a thought i am only able to shake when my heart is bloody pulp. only heartache cures existential anxiety.

maintain population under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature.

guide reproduction wisely – improving fitness and diversity

be not a cancer on earth – leave room for nature – leave room for nature.

i guess me, myself and I in one huge-ass gas guzzler is a cancer on earth

i feel like

2009-09-30T23:42:00.000-07:00

a vacationing satanist ...

2009-09-30T05:01:00.000-07:00

Shoney's makes me think about dying

2009-09-29T07:11:00.000-07:00

and how it wouldn't be so bad after all. Somewhere in Virginia I stopped. I had been cruising through strip mall hell for hours. The sky looked like it was slashed and bleeding. And I was hungry and seriously (what the fuck was I thinking?!?) thought it would be "hilarious" to eat at a Shoney's. Anyone that can make King Crab legs taste nothing and evaporate on your tongue should be pumped full of lead.
And not a cute human being in sight. Just the saddest, fattest people in America had all congregated here to celebrate or just feed the hole in their hearts.
The wall paper was so bland I can't possibly describe what it looked like. It was just a hologram of nothingness. And the staff with the service smiles and ugly polyester humiliation outfits. I barfed King Crab legs under hideous fluorescent lights, that – after a brief stint in my stomach – looked like q-tips.
Now I am at a Best Western down the road and there's a crackhead couple fighting next door. I feel so sad suddenly.
It's probably just a chemical mess.
I'm gonna watch TV.

Over and out.

oh, i found this in my temporary bed yesterday morning

2009-09-28T04:51:00.000-07:00

and i wish, wish fucking wish i could have been more excited about it. he was truly gorgeous, but alas, he was (a) he. chemically on another planet, but smooth pale skin stretching over bones so perfectly put together one almost had to start believing in god. he offered me some of his stuff. i don't think he knew what to make of me, but i don't think he cared.
we were at Santo's dancing our asses off. just me and him. don't really remember, but i think it was on the L-train from brooklyn we first started talking. he was giving some change to a gutterpunk on bedford ave and i told him what a waste.
i mean, gutterpunks can do their thing, i don't care. but i would never ever give them money. and I am not down with the dirty thing. in fact, there's hardly anything (except her) that I love more than soap, shampoo and bubble baths.

was on the guest list at Santo's. Darcy tended bar and she always hooks me up.

almost looks like

2009-09-28T03:04:00.001-07:00

her. I am not sure that she wouldn't be totally pissed if I wrote her name out. But this is kind of what she looks like. Except hotter. Way hotter. I love the way her collarbones jut out and the way her shoulders are like wings. She's always ready for take-off.
Ever since she found out what was in my pants, she keeps giving me the silent treatment. But I am NOT giving up. The kiss, the caress. The soft-cornered make-out session in the way too brightly lit MaxFish on Ludlow St. We'd been drinking Jägermeister of all things.
I'm gonna chase her coast to coast.
I don't care if she thinks I am not a real woman. At least I am not some bisexual bitch that's gonna rip her a new asshole in her fucking heart.

I am off now. Into rolling hills and out onto wide-open roads that will take me