Fuck fuck fuck a whooooooole bunch of stuff right now.

A time I don't want to admit happens.

A moment where every asshole I've ever known's face appears, and the strength of their maxilla are only slightly, ever so minutely, weaker than the force at which my carpals give.

Fuckittfuckitttttfucktittttttttttt I'm done.

Honors Comp II: A
Trig: A
Jazz Band: A
Musicianship: B

What the fuck?

Is this how I look as a cylops? Here, I'll save you the trouble of speculation; I'll just give you the anatomy you were looking for. Bye bye bifercation. I stand behind oh so many doors. I have keys, all the keys, but I only get two tries for each door ( Read more... )

A photograph is beautiful.

This photograph is not particularly nice on the eyes. An awkward figure expresses a panic-stricken sentiment, which surely she will regail to her friends as 'stoked' or 'excited' in months and years to come, as adventure matures into insurance, and aegis fades to age. But right now, without the explanation/fib, it's just ( Read more... )

I hate not getting the answers I want. I could tap the sky's veins, inject sodium pentathol (a little truth never hurt any atmosphere), but that would get me nowhere.

For alas, the truth I want lies here in this earth. Terra firma, forsake me again.

Bleach. Exfoliate. Rinse. Organize. Sort. Wrap. Repeat ( Read more... )

The diety handed down the libation ( Read more... )

I want potent images to spill effortlessly from my head. I wish to remove the lid, that my thoughts may approach the ceiling.

I want fluidity in sobriety, a scalpel lining every petal of every thornless rose; give me beauty and give me death.

I love Christina Sanson. Who is this person? She's one of my student's mothers. In her forties, perpetually Liz-Taylorish hair and rouge. Plays accordian. Makes cookies. Always black clad with hot pink trim ( Read more... )

A standing volunteer army, and here I am holding a fucking draft. Nincompoop.