i'm fucking lying to you.

i've never felt so big before. i used to fit right on to your lap with room to spare, but the last time i was near you i felt tall and lanky. can you explain that?

can you explain to me why seeing you is perfectly normal now? seeing you with someone else is second nature, rocky but possible, like switching hands after shattering the one you were born to use. the product is often painful and sloppy, but eventually it'll improve and i'll be able to use any hand i want!
i can't wait for that day.

i'm obviously retarded.

once during the summer i thought it was the end of the world because all the moths in the world were falling from the sky like snow.
if it is the end of the world, i am coming after you.


a year-leaf clover

I know what she'll smell like. You and Peanut and clean sheets, newly rented movies and peeling stickers off of fruits. Bad food and old guitar strings and open windows. A little bit of technology, nothing fancy. Sex juices. Nothing fancy.

Sometimes I can go a day or two without thinking of you, at least conciously. It's amazing progress for the year that it's almost been. I think I'll throw myself a secret little party in May for surviving what I told myself I wouldn't so many times.


i've never seen so much blood before

things have been crazy. i'll update as soon as i have time.



domestic wildlife.

ohh, faithful.

really. honestly. i am faithful because there are so many different sides of me to satisfy. i can't help that. the only way to help that is to suppress myself. and i've realized that the only way to do that is to kill myself. and i'm most certianly not going to do that. therefore, i can't help it.

this one, he smokes pall malls, like my good friend bukowski. he lives up north, so far up there that Canadian wind blows in through his window. he told me. i've never experienced it, but i can imagine that Canadian wind is distinctive. i'll take his word for it. i'll take his word for a lot of things.
i'll just take his word.

he is a pisces and i am a cancer. we both live in the water, but the thing is, i can go to land whenever i want. i have legs. claws, too. and i know how to use them. you're pretty helpless when you're a fish.

riddle: how does a twin and a crab get along?



a text-message relationship.
mouth says: i love you starshine penis pie baby deathcake <3.

r says: i love you too sexy tits genocide kitty litter pants raspberry scented lover cake<3.

mouth says: goodnight sugar c*ck sexdroid pumpkin tooth muffin <3.

r says: night night cheetah cat sex mittens tits <3.

mouth says: night cosmic c*ck yummie yumcake extremo <3.

r says: night night little sex movie twinkie pie <3.

mouth says: love you yumpop flavoured d*ck move machine g-spot hitter sparklekiss <3.

r says: love you vagina cream pie panther scratches <3.
you know it's cute ;)

growing up

I was lying in bed, next to him,
talking about music and such. "I miss the old days," I told him.

How cliche that a independence-craving seventeen year-old female misses the simplicities of life, right? You win, Tracey. I'm just a statistic. I miss car rides (for free) and not being involved your ridiculous and childish "adult" business. I miss not knowing the difference between the two, or actually, knowing that there is no difference at all. I miss when foreplay was satisfactory. I miss when thoughts of "job" left me with images of briefcases and desks and a (much) older me. I miss writing notes and letters, and I miss receiving them. Butterflies in my coat pocket. I miss when staying up late at night entailed imagining things, not a mental-note of all of the upcoming tasks. I miss when a favor was a favor, not a "contribution to the family (what family?)." I miss when I could be content with the fact that my weekend plans were "Cartoon Cartoon Fridays" and ONE Saturday Morning. I miss when I could look up to almost anybody older than me, and now there's just nobody at all. Just me and my responsibilities.

"Yeah, me too," he said. We stared at the ceiling.


i deleted this one because it was dumb.


remember: viva lotus

camel crush will supposedly be the death of me. you know, the bipolar cigarettes with the visually attractive box, black and cool, like you. i slid one cylinder out from beneath the others right before someone called over to me, "HEY, YOU SHOULDN'T SMOKE THOSE BECAUSE SOME GUY IN INDIANA (or was it illinois?) DIED FROM SMOKING ONE OF THOSE!!!!!!!"
"okay," i said, and took a hit longer than i normally would have. i crushed the filter between my thumb and pointer (hence the trendy name), and let all of the menthol-tasting liquid release into my lungs. if this is what death tastes like, it sure is satisfying.
but that poor man from indiana (or was it illinois?).

Broadway and Kossuth

"And even if we never speak again after tonight, please know that I'm forever changed because of who you are and what you've meant to me, which -while I do appreciate it- I'd never need a painting of birds bought at a diner to remind me of. " i drew this picture a very long time ago.
(from the film Chasing Amy)

'Ive been in a coma."

it's funny watching us. we're all still here, keeping tabs on each other via Internet posting. updated photo alerts, statuses for every moment of every day, accessible from mobile phones. wouldn't want anybody to miss anything, would you? wouldn't want anybody to miss every place you go,
every thought you think,
every think you thought,
every physical condition you've ever been in,
every time you're taking a shit. it's our business now. it's everyone's business.
(don't make it my business).

i wonder if it would be easier to send letters. to write them, with curves and curls of hand-writing, fold neatly and anticipate a reply.
wait by the window on a rainy day, you know? i miss you.


on another note,

I guess you could say I'm grateful. I mean, it could be worse. I hope she still wants to be a stay-at-home mom, likes polka-dots and reading the bible. I hope her ambitions are the same as they were in tenth-grade gym class, cookie cutter. Clear like glass and the opposite of me. That's the point, isn't it? I'd bet she's a good driver and I'll bet she likes reality television, but that's just me. I can already see her carrying around diaper-bags, driving minivans, and wiping colored goo from ceiling fans and marble surfaces. Faces, little faces. But that's just me. I hope she still has bad skin and a telephone-operatorlike voice. I hope you know that the only reason why you're with her is because you know you'll never get hurt. And you know you'll never get distracted from what you really want. We all know what that is.
But I guess you could say I'm grateful.

walka walka walk- letters that never get sent.

I'm past the point of feeling pathetic. Of course I don't want a declaration of your love; I don't even want a response. I'm doing it for me this time I guess. For my sake. To clear my mind of what could be lurking in yours, and that sort of thing. So here goes:
Did you know that you're always in control? As a Libra, you are accredited for weighing the options (hence the scale), and making decision based on fact. You control many aspects of my life in that way, single-handedly. You decide that we're really over, you decide that we can't speak. You decide when you're ready to see me again and hope to (god?) you're really ready. You decide when you can speak to me and what you can say, and you decide when it's time to cut it off. What's frustrating is that I just go with it. An emotional wreck of a Cancer. I wish I were more like you in that way- able to think before I do, to weigh out options. I'd be better off, I think. I wouldn't have had you over, I wasn't ready. I wouldn't draw our tiny communications out 'till we're dangling from thin awkward threads. I would never have played that goddamned faulty traffic light of a CD you gave me- ONCE, let alone many nights before I went to sleep. Weakness. Being in love. Both. Whatever.
The thing is, I can't blame you for leaving, but I do blame you for coming back. For what? For your those speakers you GAVE you me what seems like years ago? I don't think it was the speakers you came for. Did you want to know if the rumors were true? To cure your curiosity of what I sounded like or if I smelled different, if I turned out all right, or on the opposite end of the spectrum, the miserable bloodydeadteenagealcoholrelatedcarcrashintodynamitefreightcaronthehighway mess you last saw me as. Well I hope it was satisfying. I hope your curiosity is cured. I knew that's what you were doing the minute I saw the number I'd been trying to forget on my phone for the first time. But of course the Cancer tendencies overruled what little reason I do have. After all, I was curious, too.
I am doing okay. At first I wasn't. Not at all, and it wasn't just a day or a week or a month or two months of not being okay, either. The kind of not-okay that makes your arms numb in this strange way, like they've been weighed down with such a huge gravitational pull that you forgot you'd ever had arms in the first place. The kind of not-okay that makes any place in the world, with anyone in the world-no matter how beautiful, or how much joy it would have given you prior-to- feel the same as anything else. Sleeping feels like working, working feels like talking, talking feels like listening, listening feels like nothing, nothing feels like television, television feels empty and that's all there is to it. It was the kind of not-okay where eating wasn't a necessity, but when it was, when it absolutely was, any food would do because the gigantic lump near the esophogus somehow interfered with taste. And I'm not speaking metaphorically. Not okay enough to fix your hair in the morning, or put on your lipgloss or tight jeans because you don't have anyone to impress. Not okay enough to lose interest in sex. Not okay enough to try to fit in, to feel out of place. To let people in. To not feel ashamed, even when you know everyone knows. To make new friends. To skip class. To write on the bathroom stalls everything you were promised until it felt better so you could sigh and leave and come back the next day to find it gone. (Thank god(?) for Smitty, right?) I am doing okay. Now I am. I can't put a finger on when, but it all did eventually stop. And gradually. For the most part, that is. That being said, the hindsight doesn't stretch too far. But from what I can see, I am happy with how I turned out, so I can never be bitter about the past. When I was looking for your forgiveness I found myself, and I think I subconciously thank you for that every day. I'm still the same me, but a me with a past. And it really does make all the difference. Although I hope it's a one-time kind of deal. Learn-and-go. You know.
On the third night in a row of listening to your "message", I felt the need to talk to you. To tell you all of this. To tell you I was sincere in the past and not just suffering from post-breakup syndrome, to tell you that I really miss you, and that I hope you are happy, wherever you are, whoever you're with and whatever you're doing. Also to tell you that I still love you, irrevocably by this point obviously, but in a lot of different ways, too. Also I would have told you my secret wishes to be friends, for the sake of conversation if anything; you are the smartest person I know. But this is planet Earth and I live here, so sometime I should start abiding by its tactless rules. I can't be friends with you. You gave me false hope- of what? That we could find a time machine or scrounge up the money to buy one from e-bay and then move back to our summer and forget about any of this? Or maybe that the past (almost) year of this didn't matter, and that you were willing to forget your current life to start a new one, with me. Yeah, right. I put the cd back into its case and moved it into storage. Maybe I'm too dense to understand the message; or maybe I'm right on the dot:
Rose meets Jack on the Titanic. By the end of the third night of their romance, Jack is floating to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Spoiler alert, but Cecilia and Robbie are never reunited. Months, if not sooner, before the war is over, Robbie lies in a tunnel with his insides eating him out, and Cecilia suffers a likewise fate.
Rose was only seventeen, but she is in love, and she wants to die with Jack. He wouldn't let her. She grows up eventually, falls in love with somebody else, and lives her life. Happily. Eighty-some years later, she dies, and her heart goes to the one that loved her best. She's seventeen again, despite all that's happened in her long life. Her Heaven is the Titanic, with Jack.
At least Briony gets to learn from the sob story she turned her sister into. She dedicates her entire life to writing one story, Cecilia and Robbie's story, and then she gets dementia and dies. Not everything could be like the Notebook, you know. When the girl can realize her mistake in the midst of making it, and when the guy is strong enough to take her back. You can't see shit till you're looking up at the water. You can't see shit till your fever has no chance of going back down. You can't see shit till you're wating for death in a tunnel. I'm sorry. But why'd you come back?