NO PICTURES, JUST KIBBITZ---beware
I really love sipping a glass of wine while resting my palm against the side of my neck. The pulse of my blood flow delicately hits my finger each second.
While slicing red onions, the blade jumped and cut the shit out of my finger. I'm now missing 1/8 of my left fuck-you-finger. The cut was so precise, blood began spraying on the walls and cutting board. Tonight, I ripped the loose skin while showering, before dowsing my finger in rubbing alcohol. That wasn't the best of times, nor the worst.
I'm currently drinking a glass of cabernet, which seems ironic considering the previous kibbutz. Metaphorical Blood/alcohol is pouring down my throat, as my lonely fingers sits splashed in rubbing alcohol and blood. I treat my addiction far better than my maladies.
Let's call today Manic Sunday.
Things I purchased:
===Xanax for tomorrow morning's dentist appointment
===a sculpted face from the art fair for my mother
===$40 worth of SHIT from this god awful website
===a $15 cd from some DIY online distro
===two rolls of sushi from some dive bar
===a seared salmon salad from some hoity toity restaurant
===two bottles of wine (one mysteriously gone
===a plethora of bandaids for the previously mentioned wound
===cigarettes
Guess how much I make an hour? nine fucking dollars
I fucking hate these mood swings!
15 minutes ago, I registered for my final two courses needed to graduate this December. If anything, I'm pissed for obtaining a degree that means shit, while also requiring mature responsibilities. I'm an English major; i.e. starving artist. If anyone needs a sit-in houseboy, please make your request. As long as you're outside the MidWest, I'm fucking game.
My Qualities:
I can cook, clean, watch kids, make kids, do laundry, run dishes, vacuum, dust, and all that other shit. And by the way, when I say cook I mean I can fucking cook. None of that leftover meatloaf bullshit. Wasabi Seared Tuna, pilaf, mussels, salmon with a caper sauce; the works. Please! Steal me from my mundane existence.
I've returned to reading poetry, which means by next month I'll have carved one of your names in my arm.
Phillip Levine, mostly. He's a Nobel Prize winning black man from Detroit who writes about, well...being black from Detroit.
Ain't it funny how we always hate where we were raised? I'm currently trying to find teaching positions in Jersey because it's lucrative business out there. Fuck. I'm passed that whole punk "I want to squat in some abandoned building and drink Busch for the rest of my life." But all the people I met in Jersey fucking despise the place. Some transplants who've ended up in Detroit love the shit out of this place. I suppose it's all in our tiny craniums. Whatever. I want enough to live on, but not enough to live here. Dichotomy.
Speaking of squatting, however, I'm able to occupy this 1700 dollar apartment till August, while my mother's out East. I will admit, the downtown area I live in is the cat's fucking pajamas, and I'm totally spoiled for obtaining the next four months, but I just want out of this goddamned state. I want to start afresh, for better or worse. Whatev.
Capitalism stole my virginity, but at least I wasn't raped.
Sorry. My journal's boring without pics.
I really love sipping a glass of wine while resting my palm against the side of my neck. The pulse of my blood flow delicately hits my finger each second.
While slicing red onions, the blade jumped and cut the shit out of my finger. I'm now missing 1/8 of my left fuck-you-finger. The cut was so precise, blood began spraying on the walls and cutting board. Tonight, I ripped the loose skin while showering, before dowsing my finger in rubbing alcohol. That wasn't the best of times, nor the worst.
I'm currently drinking a glass of cabernet, which seems ironic considering the previous kibbutz. Metaphorical Blood/alcohol is pouring down my throat, as my lonely fingers sits splashed in rubbing alcohol and blood. I treat my addiction far better than my maladies.
Let's call today Manic Sunday.
Things I purchased:
===Xanax for tomorrow morning's dentist appointment
===a sculpted face from the art fair for my mother
===$40 worth of SHIT from this god awful website
===a $15 cd from some DIY online distro
===two rolls of sushi from some dive bar
===a seared salmon salad from some hoity toity restaurant
===two bottles of wine (one mysteriously gone
===a plethora of bandaids for the previously mentioned wound
===cigarettes
Guess how much I make an hour? nine fucking dollars
I fucking hate these mood swings!
15 minutes ago, I registered for my final two courses needed to graduate this December. If anything, I'm pissed for obtaining a degree that means shit, while also requiring mature responsibilities. I'm an English major; i.e. starving artist. If anyone needs a sit-in houseboy, please make your request. As long as you're outside the MidWest, I'm fucking game.
My Qualities:
I can cook, clean, watch kids, make kids, do laundry, run dishes, vacuum, dust, and all that other shit. And by the way, when I say cook I mean I can fucking cook. None of that leftover meatloaf bullshit. Wasabi Seared Tuna, pilaf, mussels, salmon with a caper sauce; the works. Please! Steal me from my mundane existence.
I've returned to reading poetry, which means by next month I'll have carved one of your names in my arm.
Phillip Levine, mostly. He's a Nobel Prize winning black man from Detroit who writes about, well...being black from Detroit.
Ain't it funny how we always hate where we were raised? I'm currently trying to find teaching positions in Jersey because it's lucrative business out there. Fuck. I'm passed that whole punk "I want to squat in some abandoned building and drink Busch for the rest of my life." But all the people I met in Jersey fucking despise the place. Some transplants who've ended up in Detroit love the shit out of this place. I suppose it's all in our tiny craniums. Whatever. I want enough to live on, but not enough to live here. Dichotomy.
Speaking of squatting, however, I'm able to occupy this 1700 dollar apartment till August, while my mother's out East. I will admit, the downtown area I live in is the cat's fucking pajamas, and I'm totally spoiled for obtaining the next four months, but I just want out of this goddamned state. I want to start afresh, for better or worse. Whatev.
Capitalism stole my virginity, but at least I wasn't raped.
Sorry. My journal's boring without pics.
VIEW 12 of 12 COMMENTS
soleils:
You have to go through the homemade gifts first though. You know the ones kids make in grade school....the ones that are made out of love more than any good colouring or cutting skills. 
sweet_evil:
I have lots of love to give... 