scribbles

i wrote this on tangible pieces of paper and i never finished them. i'm keeping them here for now.

- - -

i figured that if someone were to write a book about me, it would have to be in the first person. and that i would possibly have to be the one writing it. and that i probably wouldn't let anyone edit it. not even the publisher. fuck the publisher.

pardon me; i usually introduce myself before i let my tongue let loose, but you got it before the end of the first paragraph.

i won't tell you my name yet because it will reveal an unnecessary amount of information about myself: my gender, for one. and my assumed ethnicity, and thus my proposed culture, and thus the statistically-speaking city i live in, and thus my stereotypically favorite foods and thus my bookmarked-on-yelp store where i buy the crappy-collared shirts that i can't stop wearing even though they incessantly scratch the back of my neck.

if i were to reveal my name, it would reveal too much. to literary fanatics, it would reveal my deviously charming personality. to myspace addicts, it will reveal my sex life. to you, however, it will reveal the end of the book.

and if you wanted the end of the book, you'd just pick up the god damn newspaper.

but you don't want that. fortunately, this isn't the newspaper. this is a book - my book. my unedited book. and while reading this book, please take note of my apologies in advance: my eloquence is often hidden in between fragments and curse words.

- - -

the embarrassing truth is that some of my best ideas are scribbled on the back of receipts; in fact, this receipt is from the art store across the street. it's raining tonight, but i had to buy a pen there.

society continues to plead with me to do something more productive (sudoku?), or to finish/start something more important (wikipedia entries?). but how can i focus on anything when i'm busy deciding whether that pretty girl across the room is staring at me, my sandwich, my empty bottles of beer, my unwashed oily hair, or my insecurities?

guiness always exagerrates.

she's really not that pretty. she's just doing a good job of hiding her ugly parts. and i didn't want this seven-dollar sandwich. i just wanted an excuse.

portable lamp

before you go to sleep, a million things run through your head.

like the face of the person you're supposed to call back.

(sometimes.)

mufucka, i'm ill.

i am very frustrated, but i promise that this is not a cry for pity. i'm aware that there are millions of people that are enduring pains far worse than mine, but i hope that doesn't completely discount my temporary illness as a problem. 

i have not seen sunlight since saturday. or sunday. i don't remember. i was feeling a bit more energetic today, so i was hoping to muster up the courage of actually walking outside. but i can't find my keys. and searching for my keys made me irrationally dizzy. i just want to see the fucking sun.

falling asleep is the worst. i constantly feel like somebody is crushing my head. and i can't stop coughing at night time. my attempts at relaxation is interrupted by blood and phlegm. when i do manage to fall asleep, it's only granted in short spurts. i wake up from the slightest noise and i wake up from pressure building in my chest.

i hate waking up. i can't open my eyes because they are welded shut with mucous. whenever i wash my eyes out with water, my heart begins to beat rapidly, and it becomes very difficult to breathe.

i would like to eat, but the slightest thought of food induces vomit. rice seems too heavy for me. i have been craving a cupcake since tuesday, but i fear that stealing its aromas would make me throw up.

will this be over soon?

sup homie.

just wondering how things are going with those mediocre girls with mediocre lives who like to indulge in mediocre conversation. are they enjoying the restaurants that i've shown you? are they intrigued with the knowledge i spilled on you? are they aware that you still think about me?

poor girls.

so you managed to get in bed with a drunken girl who frequents the clubs every weekend? and you managed to convince her that she's intelligent, funny and beautiful? and you've seen her without any make-up on? and you stayed? i applaud you - it's a respectable feat.

we attract and gravitate towards those who are most similar to us. how painful does it feel to be average?

don't get fussy, sweetheart - you don't even know if i'm talking about you or not. but given the cringe of anger you felt slamming against your heart, perhaps you are the subject of this matter.

i'm only laughing because you're settling for less.

morning after

did you get lucky, baby?

hamster babies are all grown

one of them is crawling on my keyboard. he is about the size of 1.5 shift keys. or the size of my thumb.

i like his cheeks.

good night.

if i can make it there, i can make it anywhere.

the weather decided to delay my flight by two hours.

i trotted about the airport and found myself a year ago - that is, gate 33, continental airlines. i ordered a sandwich and an italian soda.