tonight, for my standard retiring meal, starting promptly at 2 A.M., i had a calzone. it was cooled off from having sat in my refrigerator for something close to 4 hours. the ricotta was congealed into a white ball, little bits of pepperoni hanging the sides, screaming to be eaten and consumed for my sustenance. as much as i may try, dipping the baked sandwich into marinara sauce, covering it in grated parmesan, it would not pass the treacherous depths of my maw. so i made pbj and i might return to the calzon evening next. the first sentence in this paragraph was a lie.

laetitia you destroy me.


mix 16 parts turkey juice with 1/2 part turtle claws. combine with 18 oz. ground cumin. boil in large pot of battery acid. remove turtle claws. add 1 package taco seasoning to acid. bring back to boil. remove from stove and poor into non-stick plastic storage bin. throw storage bin away.

hooray!

 old men crying
a dog all alone on the street at night still wagging its tail
a dog, moments before dying, bleeding from its mouth, stretching its eyes open at the sight of you and still managing to feebly wag its tail



telephone calls. fighting fighting fighting. woohoo. moments before hanging up feeble attempt to make up. boring. jealousy is covered in jealousy. if you try to diffuse it with sarcasm it just denies itself.

fuckin' a.

fuckin THE DISTRICT SLEEPS ALONE TONIGHT is stuck in my head and i can't get it out. ben gibbard is too fuckin good at that whole music thing. catchy riff catchy lyric silky smooth delivery catchy easy message.  ayiiieeeeee.

firenze. whatever. sleep. firenze. wine. FUTBOL. wine. sleep. trains. pasta. trains. europe. spring break. photography. lenses. trains. plains. forgots. forgets. lost love. long lost love. firenze. fuckin' italy. wine. sleep. america. love. love lost.

and that's my next year.

"you seem so out of context in this gaudy apartment complex."

fuckin' a man, fuckin' a.

drinking coffee at 9 p.m., while very hip, is not particularly conducive to healthy sleep patterns. i drank a mocha something at All Saints and it was so embarrassingly chocolate-y that i had to down the whole thing to hide the evidence that i drank such a pussy drink. my hands were so shaky that i had to put down the Yeti i was reading and just look at them for a minute.

the coffee house was good though. it was cool enough and laid back enough to actually get shit done without being so pretentious as to seem like i came to the coffee house just to do work for 2 hours (which i, in fact, did). i'm not really sure what i mean by that.

i'm really really having a good time writing this extended auto-biography/fiction thing i'm calling, for now, THIS TIME FOR SERIOUS (TTFS). it feels like the most right thing i've done in a very long time. the problem is that i can't sometimes tell where my voice is or where its going. like tonight, i read a whole lot of LESS THAN ZERO and started writing and i was sounding a lot like the narrator from that, but it worked, so i kinda went with it for a while. but where the hell should that voice stop? it's my voice, it's just a little tweaked. shit. whatever.

i think i might be bipolar. in fact, i think a whole shitton of artists are bipolar. that whole "extremes" thing, pretty sure medicine has started calling it that "bipolar" thing. shit. whatever.

why am i on livejournal again?