i think i'm still here....

i feel like i am living in a dream. no, i did not steal that line from my favorite novel. i dont even know any lines from my favorite novel. how amazing is that.

i dont know anything about my body anymore. i feel like it's some old lover that got up and left me one day, but we're worthy of each other and we're moving on from old dogmas and we're sharing life again. only, i am the one who never answers my fucking phone.

my best friend has been calling me, and i wont answer. i know why i wont answer, i just pretend like it's not my choice and that i am so busy, or stupid, that i can't reach the fucking phone whenever she calls. i will call her in the morning. i think she loves me.

i keep rubbing my face. it feels good. my hands smell like salt. ive been masturbating all night, but i keep floating away from the sensations. i can't feel anything. i finally took out a tampon.

i know, i should find a new obsession. preferably in the legible category. what am i now? a legislator? i dont even know what that means. all i mean is my fascination with physical prescence digusts me, because its cliche and i dont believe myself when i crave it........i feel like a poetry book published for the sixth grade self-esteem/human development inklings, a two dimensional rehab pamphlet that they pass out in class, and then you have to pass tests about knowing yourself because the psychologists, they're actually perceptive now, not lunatics that practice mind control. now we can all trust each other and prove our relationships with linguistics and say semantics is fake when we create it to be real ourselves and the words, they're prewrapped. the ideas are prewrapped with saran shit. that stuff reminds me of wrapping my own self when i am physically wrapping the sandwhiches i am physically thinking of suffocation, because i have to examine myself and what i am really trying to say when i say thankyou outloud to the store clerk or i wrap the sandwhich several layers tighter than what is absolutely necessary, before i begin to wonder why i need the wrap and why do i pretend to care about the garbage killing the earth if i really dont and if i love honesty so much why do i lie all the fucking time and no, i dont want it to make sense, i really dont, but i cant stop thinking about it. i guess that i know there is always some way to make it make sense but the sense doesnt exist in a literal, all encompassing way. it means, i can make my brain shut up for a little while so i can sleep.

i cant sleep.

i am trying not to mention names, but i want to talk about people and it sounds stupid for me to use pronouns, like i am trying to make an artistic statement in the midst of my art that isn't quite intellectually probing at me already. stiff. stiffness. i have been rubbing my clit all night and i can still feel it but like i said, not the sharp, satisfying pull i yearn for. it doesnt matter. i am bored, and i am trying to create meaning and religion out of my masturbation. but it's not masturbation, i swear. it's.....a nervous habit. i dont do it because i feel like fucking. i do it because i dont feel like doing anything else.

i am slightly embarrassed right now.

i think i am paranoid because i am fucking tired. i love this realization, this sense-making, sense-cumming. laugh with me.

i feel like i arrived home wreaking of

health and now i have spread dirtiness and irresponsibility and it's all because i left my treatment center. they fixed me, but now i am evil again. honestly----

i love the idea of dirtiness and irresponsibilty in the light of the morals that i actually have. no, i can't pick up my clothing, because there's a bunny bleeding all over the SUV. that SUV was fucking beautiful before it met me.

no. do you know what i mean? i was being sarcastic. so, my dirtiness is not acceptable because it was a sign of me being near death. i could say insane, but that rings positive, or stupid, but that doesnt exist usually, or sick, but that doesn't quite cut it. so, considering i dont want to die prematurely, because that would be fucking irrresponsible on my part, i shouldnt be dirty.

my back hurts. jeremy, i love you.

i found some books to read. the red tent has a scene where the man dies after they've made love and she wakes up covered in his blood. i feel like that happened to me. maybe that's because i read it in a book. and no, i don't live my life through books, it's fucking impossible, you perceptive hypocritical thing-a things. i dont know what to call you. i feel judgemental, and i begin to judge myself. so, no, i haven't ever woken up to a corpse of the person i love. i have woken up to them breathing, snoring, whispering, groaning, splayed on top of me. i was lonely. i felt alone, but i also felt loved. it's difficult to accept love. yes, it is, i know it is because i am doing it.

i should probably masturbate again now. i dont know what else to say.

temporary bondage of bodies

Princess/Prince: Nerys Jepson
Imani ruth
Clemency reba: Heroine. Free prisoners of the temple. Sister of Noam.
Tordis Ladislav.
Noam brunhilde
Senka alina
Callias Monroe: dark skinned, hopeful noble. He hopes he was abused as a child. He makes lipstick. He makes poisonous lipstick.
King: Odovacar ambrosia
Queen:
Bertha wulfric
Ekkehard phoibe
Heron clovis: Cousin of the princess Nerys.
Clodovicus
Zotikos: Life-bringer. Discovers talent when he brings life to Noam.
Eunike gunnvor
Timothy (son of eunike)
Godafird or godafrid
Conigunde henricus
Erminlinda hartmut
Theophilis
The guards: All different minorities, sizes, genders.
The nobles: all different minorities, shapes, sizes, genders.
Camera in a dark room with canopy bed. Focuses on man with long dark hair sitting cross legged in bed. He bites his fingers. Song playing: Blue Orchid by the White Stripes. When he lays down the music changes abruptly. He closes his eyes.
Focuses on bright blue eyes opening terribly wide. Move to lips with smeared red lipstick. He says: You are far too LOUD.
Camera focuses on a crowd of drooling nobles. They are all holding novels. They chant: We are just going through a phase. We are happy in our own world.
The man with bright eyes and lipstick is called Callias Monroe. He sits in a folding chair and his emotions intensify when his tape malfunctions.
There are servants, meanwhile, who are naked and painted gold and doing backflips. They stop to stare at each other over teacups every few seconds, like making small talk with the eyes. They have trained long and hard for this. (Perhaps a flashback of their training sessions on hot metal.)
Callias chucks his tape at a woman holding a toddler. It hits her in the head, and she swears: Mother of motherless cookies.
Callias: I can’t see you. (He looks straight through her.) I can not hear you. Nor can the king and queen, I daresay.
Callias: What a small world we live in.
Callias takes some tape out of his pocket that has teeth marks on it. He sniffs and tapes the woman’s mouth, who screams.
Toddler: screams.
Callias takes a cookie from his pocket and offers it to the toddler, who sniffles.
Callias: Good boy. Run along now. Play with your little toys.
Callias: Rise up, Inventors.
The troupe of servants: Give us the keys, Callias. (He does not hear them. He is licking his fingers.)
Callias: We have lost so much of our culture, friends. (He brings plate of cookies.)
The nobles pass the tape, taping their mouths, spilling wines. Mascara runs deep down the face, and they are all freaks. It is a freakshow.
Focus back on the pale Prince/Princess. He sits straight up, and his back cracks. Music stops. Camera zooms on eyes, brown. Then on mouth, pink. Not chapped.
It is daylight. His cousin Heron Clovis enters. She is dressed in white. She crawls dramatically onto his bed, purring.
Heron: It is sometimes based on assumptions. (she pouts, then laughs.) That’s what they tell me. I shoudn’t assume the potatoes are poisoned, because that’s only half full of poison. I’d rather the bottle was half empty. (She leans on her elbow, twirling his hair.)
Nerys: (Catches her hand and smells it. Wrinkles his nose.) I’ve been dreaming of you, Heron. But now you’re here, and you smell like life. Not of potatoes at all. Not even empty.
Heron: You only say that to please me.
Nerys: raises brows.
Heron: Do you want me to leave?
Nerys: (strokes her arm. Leans back into bed, closes eyes.) No.
Heron: Hmmph. (She rises out of his bed, hops to his wardrobe. She proceeds to undress.) You know what they call me?
Nerys: (looks at ceiling, touching his hair.) No.
Heron: (Opens the white curtains.) User-friendly. But I don’t need them.
Nerys: No.
(The door opens.)
Noam enters: (head lowered. Short hair pulled out of her face. Wears pants and lipstick and short cut shirt. Carries tray of cookies and lipstick. New music plays.)
Nerys: (turns head, but does not move body. Zoom in on eyes, mouth.) Mouths: poison.
Noam: (Sets tray of cookies on the large table, looks at him.) I made these, Sire.
Nerys: Join the circus with me. (He sits up and touches her arm.)
Heron: (meanwhile, calling out the window to nymphs.) You aren’t knowledgeable, are you? In a world of my own, darling, I’d give up Nerys for your bodice and smell……….
Heron: (giggles. Stumbles back, face flushed, bare breasted.) Nerys, they’ve made me drunk. I am the drunken bastard of the family.
Noam: (turns.)
Heron:(Puts arm around bedpost, stares at Noam.) She’s delectable. Has she poisoned your cookies?
Nerys: Stay….
Heron: Ooh, push and shove. Leave him alone, slave. (laughs.) He’s already gorged in his own lust.
Noam: That’s a lot of pressure.
Nerys: Tell me your name.
Noam: You would be disappointed.
Heron: (flops on bed.) Your life is dull, Nerys.
Nerys: You aren’t very clever.
Heron: Her, or me?
Nerys: (Sits up. Turns to Heron, finger on her lips.)
Noam: My name is Noam Rut.
Nerys: Here. (he pats bed. Bed is covered in roses with thorns.)
Noam: This is sensual.
Nerys: It’s a joke. My parents make love in this bed.
Heron: (rolls eyes.) This is disgusting. Nymphs want you, Nerys. She smells like wine. (She takes off her skirt, fiddles with jewels, sings loudly.)
Noam: I—(she shifts).
Nerys: (pulls her down.) Lay down.
Noam: I watch you often. Too much. All night. I have an obsession.
Nerys: I look in the mirror too often.
Noam: I think I love you, in an ironic way.
Nerys: Did you poison the cookies?
Noam: No.
Nerys: (Touches her hair.)
Noam: I have a sister. I have to go back to her.
Nerys: (Laughs.) Shy?
Noam: No. Sly. Well dressed.
Nerys: Go with me.
Noam: You aren’t going anywhere.
Nerys: Then you can go.
Noam: (stands, leaves, does not look back.)
Heron: She’s begging for you. She is on her knees, and you are her archaic princess. (She bends and kisses him, and he closes his eyes.)
New Scene
Voice: No one is welcome here…..
Voice: In that case, we are all united here! All invited here! No one means to an end—
Voice: If there is no interpreter
Voice: If there is no madness
Voice: This is no jest.
Voice: You are in your bed, at best. (Camera jolts to princess, sitting in bed. Skips beat; then laying down.)
Voice of Clemency: There is no revenge on the avenger. (Half her face is in the candlelight, the other half in shadow. Half her eyelid is painted in the light; her eyes open, and close.)
Clemency: (mutters) Excuse me. (In the crowd of nobles in the palace. Ballroom is lit up with floating candles and bubbles. Fairies smirk at one another.)
Clemency: moves through crowd.
Voice of Callias Monroe: I smell fish. (He peers through a circular lens at a man with the word newcomer tattoed across his forehead.) Cookies?
Man: I have to leave. I have to take care of my children.
Callias: Do I know them?
Man: Of course.
Callias: Have a cookie.
Man: (hesitates).
Nobles: tssk tssk.
Callias: This is incredibly rude. Not the fashionable, we’re best buds rude. The kind that induces compulsive stabbing. (He grins.) You think I’m kidding.
Man: Thankyou.
Nobles: tssk tssk.
Man: chokes.
Nobles: laugh.
Callias: Where the hell is the circus? Where are the freaks?
Clemency: (swears.) Figmont.
Clemency: (to teenage girls whom are grouped in a spiderweb: hisses) Hide. Hide. You’d be surprised what kills.
Voice: Still searching for the truth?
Clemency: (out through a small door that is hidden within the large one. She emerges into tall grass hiding a black stone path. There are bunnies eating flies. No music playing. Lake within sight. Many trees. Nighttime.)
Tree: You missing something?
Clemency: Where is she? Oh, she’s over there. Did she () the princess?
Tree: The princess is too smooth.
Clemency: Yes, well, so is Callias, and she took his birthright.
Noam: You’ve tried explaining me, I see. You laughing? (she squints.)
Clemency: Yes.
Noam: He wants me.
Clemency: That’s disgusting.
Noam: How do you know?
Clemency: It’s obvious. But still, you shouldn’t disappear anymore. (She pulls Noam to her.) I might be sympathetic. I might be scared for you.
Noam: Clemency! Stop crying. I’m fine. He won’t do anything to me. He’ll just adore me.
Clemency: I’m not crying, see? I never cry. (She looks across the lake.) There’s newcomers locked in the dungeon again.
Noam: It’s Mullings! (Snorts.) I woudn’t expect any less from Callius, especially with the Queen expecting.
Clemency: (Takes off shirt.) Okay.
Clemency and Noam: (Run to lake. Jump in.)
Noam: I’m not drowning tonight.
Clemency: Nope.
Noam: You are?
Clemency: No need. No need to say good-bye.
Noam: Save the poetry for our lovers.
Clemency: Or we could stare out the window, sister.
Noam: (laughs.) I hate to break the window.
(They swim underwater, past trees. It is dark. They sneak into a crevice, into a temple, and emerge. Sounds of grunted laughter not far off.)
Clemency: (grins.)
Noam: (grunts.) Hurry, before I forget myself.
Clemency: (zoom on her feet, slip into glass slippers.) Time is gone….
Noam: Cold.
Clemency: (Walks into dimly lit stone passage, leading to a foyer. Her walking style is noticeably changed. ) I smell fish.
Guard: I smell seamen.
Clemency: Seamen lay their sorry deaths on her shoulder. (She nods at Noam, who opens her mouth and closes it, in a stupor.)
Guard: And they quiver in fear, at the sight of her, in spite of themselves.
Clemency: Fear of the absurd. Here I come, closer.
Guard: Step right up here.
Noam: (sidesteps Clemency, takes her place in the line of fire. She walks toward the corner, where a guard sits lonely. She has a keen sense for loneliness.)
Clemency: (disappears toward the prisoners, who are crying, and silenced at her arrival.)
Zotikos: This is hopeless. Do you have any poetry?
Clemency: Why do I never….hold the guest….the same way…..every time.
Clemency: I’m sorry. This won’t take long. (She listens for a cue from her sister, places finger on lips.) I have been in this line of work for a while. I haven’t seen you.
Clemency: Wait—
Clemency: I AM DROWNING.
Guards: (Stumble over. Rush to her rescue, fumble for keys.) This is sad!
Guard: No more dead girls!
Clemency: (Is stifled by guards.) Oh. Fawn over me.
Guards: (unlock prisoners.)
Clemency: (to girl) They are more sober than usual. Easier to ply.
Girl: Thankyou.
Clemency: (wiping off guards, wrinkling her nose.) My pleasure, lady. (She bows.) (She looks over at Noam.) Oh. Oops.
Noam: (cornered by a guard wearing striped tights) Time for change..,, something that is outside of us……
Clemency: (Takes hand of guard, lays it on her breast.) This is mine.
Guard: I must leave. (Leaves.)
Godafird: (half smiles.) Need a smile?
Clemency: No! Never! (She hugs him.) Why’d you eat the cookie?
Godafird: Wanted to see you.
Clemency: What if I stopped coming?
Godafird: I’d meet someone here who behaved just like you. Bite your fingers, rub you poetry around my dead body like mildew on those figmonted cookies.
Clemency: Everyone left. (camera zooms out, and they are the only two in the chamber.)
Godafird: And suddenly I find myself…..
Clemency: Whatever. Shutup. (She kisses him.)
(Camera follows Noam, who watches the people go free, some vomiting into the lake. Change of music: Vermillion Lies: Louder.)
Noam: I don’t need him.
Tree: Nor do I. I need you.
Noam: I need me too.
Tree: Well, this is quite the dilemma.
Noam: I can be there for both of us.
Tree: I suppose that’s good enough for me.
Noam: This house looks evil. (She approaches the hut, made of cookies.)
Tree: The cookies aren’t poison.
Noam: Huh. That’s stupid. Cookies.
Voice of Nerys: Hey!
Noam: Princess? Sir? (She bends to meet him at ground level, where is he crouched, dirty.)
Nerys: Were you invited as well?
Noam: I don’t think so.
Nerys: You are beautiful.
Noam: What are you invited to? You smell good.
Nerys: I—I smell what? I mean, I was wanting of the palace. And I was given this by a fairy. (He shows her a piece of straight, shiny, and stiff paper) I mean, when I wan’t looking—
Noam: You are sweating profusely.
Nerys: Yes.
(They stand, eyes locked.)
Nerys: I don’t want to go.
Noam: Don’t, then. It’s probably a murder plot.
Nerys: (steps closer. ) Noam?
Noam: What?
Nerys: I had quite a lot of wine. Do you want some?
Noam: The wine……
Nerys: Come to the circus with me.
Noam: No, you come with me.
Nerys: (touches his own hair.) I can’t.
Noam: Please.
Nerys: What about your sister?
Noam: She doesn’t know you.
Nerys: Neither do you.
Noam: She knows me. She’ll be okay. We won’t be gone long, my princess.
Nerys: (leans in to kiss her.)
(They kiss, and grasp.)
(Clemency runs out from the temple.) GET OFF HER!
(They break apart, Noam coughing. She coughs blood, and the bunnies run to lick it up.)
Clemency: You! What? What are you? (she kneels by Noam, who is collapsed. Nerys kneels too.)
Clemency: Noam! Hey. What’s wrong? (She touches the blood.) What did you do? (to Nerys.)
Nerys: i—nothing. I don’t know why she is bleeding—
Clemency: Noam! (she is crying. Noam is bleeding from her stomach. She is unbelievably ill. She says, I love you, but it is not clear who she directs it at. Probably her sister and Nerys. Noam dies. Clemency breathes into her. She is blue.)
Nerys: (Stares at corpse. Touches his own lips.) Maybe the lipstick was poisoned.
Clemency: (looks up.) I have to leave. (she looks at Nerys.) I am going to kill you.
Nerys: I am sorry.
Clemency: (turns, runs. Someone is conveniently shouting her name.)
(She arrives at a gathering of bunnies. )
Bunnies: There is a ransom! (Point at spider, who grasps an ant.)
Clemency: (sits. Looks. Cries.) I have to go.
Tree: Your sister isn’t dead.
Clemency: She is. She is my sister, and she is dead.
Tree: We are talking of the same woman. She lives. I saw her following Nerys.
Clemency: The princess?
Tree: That one.
Clemency: (Runs, back to spot near lake where her sister’s blood soaks the ground.) She didn’t blow away.

I went into the grocery store really scared. Or, I came out scared. Really is such an awful word. Awful is an awful word. It is so hypocritical. Hypocritical is hypocritical. I think I felt this nearer than usual, like it was fucking me slowly, in the--at the--grocery store location. Kroger. Monster. Or maybe I am just connecting the dots for my own lubricative approval.
Now I am thinking of who might read this. I am thinking of you, and you know who you are.
I should be a grown up now. I should. I could. I could go to the gas station and buy gas. But I don't have a car. Or I could rather insincerely put my brother to bed. What a put-off. I can't stop thinking about sex. I think it ties in with the fact that my memories are mixed in paint with my dreams. I thought so, that I had told whoever whatever and so whatever was sensible, but it was a dream. It was a waste. She didn't hear me.
So now, I forgot all my intentions. Or I just don't care.
I am afraid to really--the grocery store is, comfortable. I can say something that doesn't sound so narcississtic. What? There are people outside. They are horrible. They do not have pointy ears and I want to hit them. They could be my punching bags. Why can't they be gone? I want to say, quiet, or decent, but I despise both of those descriptions. Again and again. But I live here. I am living and they are just littering in the park and hurting girls and ruining punk and saying they don't care. They do, they do.
They don't. So, at the store there was this guy and I knew him and I think I scared him. I didn't say hello because I don't especially like him and I've never ever said hello and--i mean, he moved. He walked away. I'm a little self centered at the moment, but I am enjoying it so thoroughly. So what do meaningful people blog about? Probably meaningless shit. I mean shit is shit, and being a meaningful person does not include writing meaningful blogs. Note the sarcasm in my voice. I mean, relax, really, darling. They only see themselves when they look at you, right? Right?
I think I have turrets. I think I could be good at it. Trust me. No one would know. And if they did, I could love them.
This poem isn't very good, but I did write it ten minutes ago and that is called being Present. Like yoga.

And as for the matter of factness that is your straight hair on your high cheekbones and
Long lashes
Like the right isn’t yours or mine
It just lies there
Waiting for someone to save it
For someone to say, fuck
You aren’t beautiful
And that’s okay
It’s okay to blame me
For any feelings you can’t say
Or noises that make you jump out of the sewer angry and alive and crawling out of your skin
How far can you go
lover of valentines
How far would you make
out of nothing like
I would when I am blue but at least I mean it when I screw you over
You are my four leaved clover
Nothing is so perfect
As you
It is nothing to me
And love comes in waves
Over the summer time I forget him and by the time I remember I can’t love him it is
Too late
I hear the trees banging on the window and I wonder how I feel about it
Is this what narcissism feels like and if so I think vampires could grow like the beanstalk in the story without any beans at all
Nothing is so perfect as the beanstalk and the fall dehydration says it all
Anais nin would love me if I showed up at the ball wearing nothing but my feelings and a stalker’s ritual
Is not born but cut off
Like abandonment of flesh
I guess it’s for the best
Amen

I want to make love to Anais Nin. No i don't. doesn't matter.

This blog is cold. It is good. It is everything you need it to be.
I suppose I could have a blog. I suppose I ripped my username off of this smart but human internet fanfic author. Like she, or he, was an it. I completely forgot.
I forget alot of things.
Like what it means to be pathetic. It's easy to forget things when you are living in the black hole phenomenon that contains them. I think me, as a person, achieves both apathy and patheticness. I don't know about you. I want to know.
So who will bother with this language. It's not funny. I'm not being funny, am I? It's not political. It's not thoughful.
I don't know that I really believe in freedom. But of course it's hard to tell yourself what you belive in, because the nature of believing in things is that it lies in the hands of the unconcious. A greater fucking power. I belive in that. I say I do.
I was at a bookstore and these people kept trying to help me. I wanted to hurt them. But I didn't want to deal with being proved wrong if I was a bitch, so I smiled and said no thankyou. It wasn't even so horrible, not to me. Not to the me of sometime or other. How bad is that. I am subservient.
I think I am always jealous of the people working at the stores because I'm like, great, you have a life, and I don't. How selfless is that shit? It's lurking. I think, this purchase has brought us closer in the way that it was so impersonal and now you have done a deed and I know it makes you feel good because you are human. It is doing the dishes. See, I enjoy being the know it all. No one talks back. No one feels our feelings. Get over yourself, pretty, pretty girl. Nice girl.
I fear that the only reason I've connected to Conor Oberst is because he is so attractive to me. He fits the ideal. There is no wrong in his wrongs. I want them. I want to smell his sweat. He can be beautifully egocentric. And then, at the bookstore, I didn't buy anything. I didn't agree with anything. Nothing was good enough. I have to have a right and a wrong. Maybe enlightenment is a beneficial choice. Oh shit. I mean, maybe it's worth it for the rest of the world? There is no way I am backspacing. I came into this labyrinth a crackwhore and that's how I am going to leave it. So just because I gave up on the real world doesn't mean it gave up on me; the existence of the internet is proof of that. It is a way to communicate and buy presents for yourself. I can't do that physically. Well I can. But more specifically when I am in a store I like to block other people out. Every glance is vital. The salsemonkeys are in love with the world. Why should I pity them? I think I am almost run out of ink now. I wish my family life was more chaotic. I mean, I don't wish on the star and poof, I don't want any poofing, I just think it would be okay. But I'm not--well, it's okay. That's not what I mean. I just mean I don't have my drivers license or a drug addiction or vocalized opinions so I'm going to wrap that emptiness up and give to you. Personally. Why would anyone want anything to be less than personal? Sometimes I get tired but I'm not like an insomniac enough to inspire sympathy, but sometimes I can't sleep and everything is really personal for me to say but I don't respond to anyone. Maybe it's always like that. It's like sleepwalking but not as nice. Not nearly. They're in the same family. Does happiness run in the family?
I think that was distaseful sarcasm.
Tallyho!
I can't just end this. That is so cowardly. I end everything else that runs me down. Cars suck. The vaginal envy scares me so much. I couldn't even be friendly with other girls for a while. I'm still no good at it. Hang me head. Plenty of hair. It may fall out.
If it wants. And then, I realized that my mother was in the same room and I started to feel subconcious.

There is no time to be alive right at this second. I am going on a trip. Any wishes? Any thing at all. I will do my best to include you in this whole---universal star wishing thing-fuck.

Best of luck, xxxxxx

do your own hair.

disordereddisordereddisordereddisordereddisordereddisordered. Thoughts on failure? Completely cleshe. Really close minded. I'd rather be fucked than be worthy.
I have an eating disorder.

hypocrite

I want school to end, but I wont get up.