For privacy reasons at my job at NARAL, it has become absolutely essential that I stop using this journal. Basicly, I am creating a NARAL blog and have made numerous referances to the popularity of livejournal in order to get a publisher for the site. Please, if you have any respect for me, add armyofme_ to your friends lists ( Read more... )

I have a new livejournal. There are too many users on this site, and, since EVERYBODY knows I'm a blogger, it's best for me to change users. I'd continue using _rottenapples but I'm ready for a new start. Anyway, the new name is armyofme_. Or, if that didn't work, armyofme_ ( Read more... )

Love can only exist as a fabrication or wishful illusion. Not to say illusions aren’t part reality. ‘Reality’ is so subjective; there is never a definitive. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when teenagers devote themselves to their hubbies. You can believe that it’s love all you want, and it probably is, but love is just another force thrown ( Read more... )

And

When the day is over, the day is done. You’re eyes will stay open and you’re eyelashes will tickle your brow and you won’t know where this sensation came from. The roof of your mouth will start to itch, and you’ll be unable to eat. Or sleep, or dream, or think. But it’s better that way as a vegetable - a carrot perhaps, ‘cause you know you’re ( Read more... )

Fact is too often implemented. Rather than linear time, there are leaps from one concrete notion to another. Between memories are vast gaps of ambiguous space. Although I have developed comfort with these gray areas, I cannot help but quest and fear what my future will bring. My personal time, rather than continual, is a series of cause and effect ( Read more... )

These thoughts should manifest themselves into scattered predicaments. Instead I’m like an open sore, barefoot in a sandal. Such intensity’s re-figuring…it freezes the second you walk through the door. You perch up beside him, but the comfort’s only coming from yourself. It’s the kind of day these you hunt reflective surfaces to match the often ( Read more... )

There’s a H A U L T on the pavement

Blinking flashes of orangey red (the red itself encompassed

by the fog they call pollution)

but man, there’s really no pollution

just indulgence…

when the homeless man eats bagels off the street

Then again, he carries twenty dollar bills in the Gucci bag he keeps in his ( Read more... )

Poetry

Letter To My Future Self,

At seventeen, you were passionate. You had enough experienced to have achieved some wisdom, but had yet to let that knowledge transcend into a restrictive apathy. If you just read that last lesson and thought to yourself that this is merely an idealistic illusion due to my youth, you no longer ( Read more... )

“What keeps you here?”

Well I don’t know what keeps me here. I suppose that there will never be one definitive purpose. I live for each eccentricity.  The mosaic of rose-colored lights on the George Washington Bridge.  The men who’ve told me I’m beautiful. Each metallic melody of a casual rain, the cameos of sunshine in a putrid, cold November.
( Read more... )

Irate. It was burning - I splashed water on my face. It worsened the strangest form of awkward irritation, fighting at the antidote. I’ve felt this before. It happens every season. Diverts attention, diverting heat. For instance, my feet are cold. Along with my fingertips. My torso, scorching, hates these clothes. Claustrophobia.  Makes me fat, ( Read more... )