"Find real meaning for yourself. Or find yourself first, if you need to. Find something you are passionate about--and I don't mean art or music, that's too easy. Unless you are creating it, there is no significance in having a love for art or music. The arts were created to instill a lust for passion in the passionless; there is no sacrifice in ( Read more... )

In a downstairs washroom, Katrya and I sit in an empty, grimy bathtub together, our thin legs kicked up over the porcelain rim, dirty bare feet jutting into the air. We are wearing just our panties and bras because we are as high as kites and have already soiled our dresses with our own sweat. The porcelain tub we sit in isn't cool but it isn't ( Read more... )

I think we are in Virginia, maybe the Carolinas.  I'm not too sure;  time is already beginning to lose meaning here on the road.  We are heading to the South and this is a good day.  The beauty of this landscape, this is a vaccine against impending dysphoria.

Coming out of the mountains, we see long plains covered in thick, branchy trees, shrouded ( Read more... )

The next evening, I'm vomitting up elephant ears into the moldy toilet basin of some shitty backstage bathroom in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  Begging to a god I don't even believe in, saying God, don't ever let me drink that much again.  God, don't ever let me see a funnel cakes again.The cracked mirror above the sink shakes and jives in time with ( Read more... )

Katrya, she's sex on heels. She wears these big brown suede boots that go up to her thighs. Boots so big her tiny body is disappearing in them. Dead animal flesh eating her from the toes up ( Read more... )

Mike bleeds ink. When his literary wounds are open, his switch is on and you don't fuck with that.

When he writes, it is an act of beauty and creation, pulling intangible thoughts from the air and positioning them, organizing them, creating a tapestry of love, fear, joy, and anger. This simple act of writing is more beautiful than any of the songs ( Read more... )

Mike says he wants to tear me apart like a stuffed animal.  He says he wants to pull my insides out like cotton.  He says being with me is emotional regression and everything we feel can only be expressed by physical acts.  To him, I am the end result of being abandoned by his mother.  I am the tears after a harsh spanking.  I am the supreme after- ( Read more... )

Heading towards my life on the road, I don't pack a justification for my existence. I don't pack my virtues. I don't pack morals. These will only take up valuable space in my suitcase, space I could be using to stow away more platform shoes. I'm going to a milieu that has no need for these ideals; I'd only be burdening myself ( Read more... )

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