I have a girlfriend named "Bailey." Mmmm. The name of this photo is "lushy." Doh! I tried to get my webcam to work and put in "ftp.suicidegirls.com" but failed.
So yeah, I might just be the only girl in the world who is about to prep for receiving a literary award and watching lesbian strippers afterwards after receiving a yellow belt in Tae Kwon Do. Damn. That 100 buck prize is really going to come in handy...the English department is unwittingly buying me lap dances o' plenty. DOOD! I COULD BUY A BOOK+A BJORK CD+A LAP DANCE!!!!
My friend Linda, a fellow English major, was drunk at 12:30 in the afternoon today...we had a long discussion about how English majors are the best lovers. We are so romantic and poetic, we never hesitate to hurl 42587423509 sestinas about your "fairness" at you when we truly dig you. We are almost always drunk and pouting outside in black smoking cigarettes. Every English major, at any given time, is debating what constitutes love or God, or writing a piece about their heart being broken. We are ALWAYS wounded.
I had a flashback to a moment shared with my lesbian poet friend Alyson who left town. We laid down on her bed and got stoned out of our minds around this time last year, writing poems about our girlfriends' lips and hair and eyes. I exhaled the pot smoke and looked at a picture on her wall of a campfire. "Alyson, I see myself going into the flames," I said. "I'm never coming back." I was hallucinating somehow.
"I just wrote this poem about Celeste having five women living in her that come out when we sleep together." She said.
"I just wrote a fragment about Natalie. It says, 'You don't know love; you want a vibrator that laughs at all of your jokes.'"
So we laughed.
I observe little things and go into them, like the campfire. Today in Tae Kwon Do, I was matched with a scruffy looking, long haired boy. As he punched me, I saw the ridge of his sleeves pushed back by the motions.
And I saw that there were two deep, black scars along the most vital veins in his wrists.
So yeah, I might just be the only girl in the world who is about to prep for receiving a literary award and watching lesbian strippers afterwards after receiving a yellow belt in Tae Kwon Do. Damn. That 100 buck prize is really going to come in handy...the English department is unwittingly buying me lap dances o' plenty. DOOD! I COULD BUY A BOOK+A BJORK CD+A LAP DANCE!!!!
My friend Linda, a fellow English major, was drunk at 12:30 in the afternoon today...we had a long discussion about how English majors are the best lovers. We are so romantic and poetic, we never hesitate to hurl 42587423509 sestinas about your "fairness" at you when we truly dig you. We are almost always drunk and pouting outside in black smoking cigarettes. Every English major, at any given time, is debating what constitutes love or God, or writing a piece about their heart being broken. We are ALWAYS wounded.
I had a flashback to a moment shared with my lesbian poet friend Alyson who left town. We laid down on her bed and got stoned out of our minds around this time last year, writing poems about our girlfriends' lips and hair and eyes. I exhaled the pot smoke and looked at a picture on her wall of a campfire. "Alyson, I see myself going into the flames," I said. "I'm never coming back." I was hallucinating somehow.
"I just wrote this poem about Celeste having five women living in her that come out when we sleep together." She said.
"I just wrote a fragment about Natalie. It says, 'You don't know love; you want a vibrator that laughs at all of your jokes.'"
So we laughed.
I observe little things and go into them, like the campfire. Today in Tae Kwon Do, I was matched with a scruffy looking, long haired boy. As he punched me, I saw the ridge of his sleeves pushed back by the motions.
And I saw that there were two deep, black scars along the most vital veins in his wrists.
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95% of all poetry sounds the same, in my opinion. Either blank or rhyming verse about how sucky one's life is, how one's love is like a red, red rose, or is just so plain weird that it is impossible to understand it without the poet there explaining it to you.
bah. I'm bitter, sometimes, when it comes to writing.