Plathological

here, have a graeme on cheap drugstore film:

here, have a typical day:

"It's a junkie dream makes you so up tight," Elliot Smith

A dying day of application(s) and fixing my breasts all the way there and back. I left my deoderant uncapped for hours and can't quite tell if any soft scent has left it--how will my sweaters smell like girl now? I have to stop listening to this creepy music--it doesn't belong to me--hello friend; it’s staining my face, reek of raw, oiled carrots. No more sleepless nights! As if I’m not horny enough already, first class needle in the hay. Regulation one: headphones give it too much air.

(I'm feeling flashy only because I'm tired, and I'm sorry)

A creamer is a creamer is a creamer

I'm out of fucking milk again. I said, “What, you think objects change names in context? You can put a blue-jay in a gravy boat and it’ll still be a gravy boat."

oh no not done with that yet

This is so much better than line art and applied sociological research.

larger amounts

We speak to them like children, cats who take to unmade beds and people living out Goya’s use of colour too much, mouths saying carefully, folded unexpectedly as pjamas on the top shelf of the closet. Sunday morning we sleep through the second half of a holiday parade marching just past the perimeter of my roof-top courtyard—the first half waking us with band after American high school band. A night later and it’s Buffalo ‘66, rum and cokes, left over shrimp chow mein and beef chow fun from the night before, reheated in the oven, amber glass. Another night and two Boston cream donuts—, we're sober, minus the pot, my smoking both kinds, him only one. Fucking on pot, tight joints, is for pin points of interest, localized body. Well, any opinions?

The other side of the trade

I bring my dehydration home. On the wall of my cubicle, a pasted muttering phrase about adopting daylight time. All in all: charitable: actual time differences between areas. Sounds like a tricky line of credit, the beginning and end of the silver certificate. Each day, the numbers in my pool eventually hit upon the following machine (ans.mach/vm/code 04/pooled):
Yogi & Booboo are not home . . . (the infinite picnic) or Fey, with a new recorded thought every day, right on the nose, the mouth of her bulbous tongue, her thought for the day is: . . . the direction of your sails--!, her lookout for wind. & furthermore, time for work, the next voiceover, she's audible, I'm Full Time; have yourself a good day, she says.

recent photo of me taken from Godfrey's LJ. Did Kate take it? Lucie?

Am looking for a suitable birth certificate: I moved into my new apartment almost exclusively via help from sally-ann homeless people and public transit--fuck the man, man. Still no desk chair, am sitting, currently, on the box my ibook came in (also doubles as handy table for Turkish tea and garlic naan breakfast, holds baroque ashtrays just fine). Draped with pink scarf from Oaxaca. Huh? Oh wait--am dutifully distracted by all this personal space:

1) B-A-N-G-S!
2) New Apartment/furniture, including: painted vintage cars (1904-1918) on handsized tumblers. Water carriers, putt-putt--so: drinkable vrroomm. (finally)
3) Currently finishing water from 1908 Model-T FORD (so says black print beneath the car).
4) 2 more nicknames!
5) (an) "S.O. Nouveau" (not trying to be obnoxious with "quotation marks")
6) Yellow flowers, typed Baudelaire quote seared onto pot.
7) _ _ _ _. i.e.: no longer ridiculous, absurd. Tho'--
8) on my roof, we have throaty pigeons--
9) call them Avian, (when talking to birds, seagull bellys, wings outstretched to tips illuminated from white glow of insurance logo)
10) Well, might as well (say as much, dirt-caked cooing).
11) Otherwise: holy danger post. (!):
12) Paranoia of a thirteen year old--jampacked locker, top shelf.