Filed under: memories
I danced with the vegetables tonight. I tried to eat them before they went bad, half were bad all ready, and this made me feel guilty. I ate a dinner of two week old veggies that had been sitting on my doorstep. In the end, it wasn’t bad, well I guess it’s not the end till we see if I get sick.
Tomorrow I will make banana bread, and maybe zucchini bread too, zucchini is tricky to spell.
I want to start eating what I buy, it’s the little things that make a life, it’s the little things that save the world.
You start at the beginning, and when you get to the end- stop.
Filed under: pretty words
oh don’t bother, it’s all ready quite still.
there are no vibrations meeting my inner ear, save for the sound of the keys clicking. it’s soothing.
two years nothing more, soon we’ll be done.
hush hush.
there is nothing here.
I want to feel peace, nothing is all I can muster, I think that’s not the same, but at least it’s not bad.
don’t move. use only lower case letters. is that one word or two. look, it’s me in real time. don’t you feel close now?
Goodnite.
I am so happy to be here in bed.
Yes, you do appear to be so.
I would like it very much if I could never leave.
Well, that seems a bit extreme don’t you think?
No, when I was younger girl I used to make a circle in the middle of the room. There was only one room, if you don’t count the kitchen or the bathroom because my mother lived in a studio apartment; anyways, I would make a circle in the middle of the room out of my toys and stuffed animals, and I would stay in the middle of the circle as if the boundary of my things were the boundaries of a ship. I would wear this shirt of my mothers that made me look like a flower child because I thought it made me look like a witch, which I very much wanted to be. The point is I liked to be enclosed by things I liked, it made me feel safe.
I think I lost you.
My room makes me feel safe.
Do you feel unsafe outside of your room?
I am unsafe outside of my room.
How do you mean?
Well, there are Very Crazy People out there, and they are just waiting for some reason to unleash their unpredictable ways on unsuspecting rationalists.
This is a very strange dialogue.
Yes, but I like it’s pace.
Do you think that this fear will grow until you are one of those crazy people who are afraid to leave the house?
I don’t think those people are so crazy.
That’s not my point.
I don’t really know, as things stand, it would be quite impractical for me to indulge my desires to stay in bed. I mean, I need to earn resources to retain the location of my bed.
What?
I need to make money to pay for my room, BUT if I were a rich girl it is likely I would be an eccentric rich girl.
In what ways.
In that I wouldn’t leave the house.
Hmm… So in some ways your lack of resources keep you from going completely insane.
I wouldn’t put it that way.
No, I doubt you would.
I think that a desire to avoid irrational people is rational.
-But impossible.
Well, if your going to insist on being so negative…
Congratulations!
On what?
On getting to be in bed right now, even if not forever.
Oh! well, Thank you. I suppose you’re right, enjoy what you have when you have it, because you never know when someone’s going to start harassing you with fallacies, and Loud Words
Filed under: blood
biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn’t failed to follow so far…
and you might say it’s self-indulgent
you might say its self-destructive
but, you see, it’s more productive
than if i were to be healthy
& pens and penknives take the blame
crane my neck & scratch my name
but the ugly marks
are worth the momentary gain…
when i jab a sharpened object in
choirs of angels seem to sing
hymns of hate in memorandum
and you might say it’s self-indulgent
and you might say it’s self-destructive
but, you see, it’s more productive
than if i were to be happy
and sappy songs about sex and cheating
bland accounts of two lovers meeting
make me want to give mankind a beating
and you might say it’s self-destructive
but, you see, i’d kick the bucket
sixty times before i’d kick the habit
and as the skin rips off i cherish the revolting thought
that even if i quit
there’s not a chance in hell i’d stop
and anyone can see the signs
mittens in the summertime
thank you for your pity, you are too kind
and you might say its self-inflicted
but you see that’s contradictive
why on earth would anyone practice self destruction?
and pain opinions are sitcom feeding
they dont know that their minds are teething
makes me want to give mankind a beating
i’m tried bandages and sinking
i’ve tried gloves and even thinking
i’ve tried vaseline
i’ve tried everything
and no-one cares if your back is bleeding
they’re concerned with their hair receding
looking back it was all maltreating
every thought that occurred misleading
makes me want to give myself a beating….
copyright 2002 amanda palmer
You, who Love to be meaningful at the expense of my existence.
You, who Loved to be Loved, no matter your true feelings.
Sex feels good when it’s dirty, but when it’s over, basking in the indecision, the rot begins. Somewhere near my lower intestines, I start to decompose.
You, don’t Love dirty things, now finds me shameful, won’t kiss me in disgust.
And I hate you more than you matter.
He, drugged me, drug me here, and insisted on doing what he will.
No. We, came here on drugs, and slipped into doing what we did.
We, burning with pharmaceutical passion, writhing on the bed, touching tentatively, disgustingly, with sweat, dirt, and very dry mouths.
Passion sounds too intimate, too sexy, desire too specific, Need, desperate need for physical contact, insertion, consecration. But I let you go, and you pulled me back, or just pulled my hair.
You, made so many assumptions, and
I assumed you were sane.
Assumed we were living in real time, real lives, with real consequences.
But reality wanted no part in this sordid affair.
Dramatic words.
I apologize for the dramatic presentation, but plain words won’t do.
They can’t convey
a warm motel room in the snow,
while God watched on.
As he kept his mouth to himself,
convinced it was more honest this way.
As I slept with a man who carried himself as a prostitute
and in doing so, turned me into the same.
Filed under: rabbits
So I have been inspired by Baghdad girl’s blog. Her blog is dedicated to posting cute pictures of cats; so in addition to adding her to my blog roll I have decided to start posting pictures of cute rabbits, because rabbits, in addition to being clever and tasty, are incredibly cute. Here’s a picture of a bunny praying (that I won’t eat him) to whet your appetite (and mine).
I feel nauseous and short of breath, some of the lesser known symptoms of poverty. I just went online to pay a credit card bill to find an alert that I’m behind one payment. Not only is this a 39$ charge, but it also presents the threat that they will raise my finance fee like my other credit card did. This has the added effect of dampening my hope of transferring debt from a higher to lower interest rate card in some small effort to curb what is coming close to a hundred dollars a month in interest fees.
My hatred of the people who allow me the luxuries of this life is growing to ulcer creating proportions. And my debt load is small compared to most of my friends. These people, who allow us the simplicities of not hauling our hard earned cash from place to place, are making money on all conceivable ends. Not only do they get extra money for every month you put off paying for that burger you had last Wednesday, but they get a cut straight off the top from the restaurant who is charged a service fee for providing the service of allowing you to pay in plastic, and you know what else? You pay for that too. As credit card usage increases merchants are forced to pass that fee along to you in the form of more expensive burgers. You can see this directly reflected in a growing trend at gas stations charging more per gallon for credit card than cash.
People are making so much money off of money in non investment type ways it’s breathtaking. You pay for banks, and checks, and credit cards, and none of these things do anything for you other than allowing you to transfer money all over the place with relative ease.
My desire to pay off my credit cards and put them away has grown to such it can better be described as lust. But even when I get there I can’t get rid of them completely, no no, they are not merely conveniences anymore, they are how the world judges your worth as an investment. You need to show you can use these things wisely or you’re not only going to have problems getting a home, but you might also have problems getting a job. It’s becoming more and more common for employers to do credit checks on prospect employees.
Tyler Durden is starting to seem like a pretty level headed guy.
I’m filing this under bad sex cuz in sure feels like I’m getting f%cked in an uncomfortable place.
You don’t have to be born with a silver spoon.
You can buy one at discount.
And you can eat with it like it’s all you’ve ever known.
But then, when it’s dirty, you throw it in the dishwasher with everything else.
Soon it’s tarnished, the silver plating wearing away to show nickel underneath.
Somehow, you’ll always show.
Filed under: memories
So today I cleaned up this place, which had gotten a bit confused in excess categories. I decided to choose nine main categories, which may shift in the future, but there will always be nine. My desire for abstract titles has left some of my categories a bit obtuse, but here is a handy guide to what you may find inside these labels.
bad sex: This is a favorite genre of mine, and I write about it enough to merit its own section.
blood: This includes most of the bad or sad things, and all drunken pleas for attention. Basically it is where the self destructive thoughts go to die. I’ll also throw things directly relating to blood in for good measure.
pretty words: Mostly poetry.
lies: Mostly fiction.
right and wrong: Mostly philosophy.
the plastic spoon: On poverty and class issues, I hope to write more about this soon.
soft crushing joy: This used to be called Love, and it is the happy amazing things- where good thoughts go to thrive.
rabbits: Mostly Rabbits.
memories: Things that have happened.
Hmmm… now what to categorize this under, it should be meta, but that’s not an option. I guess it’s something that happened.
Filed under: memories
SO you probably don’t know about my habbit of finding playing cards on the ground in seemingly random places. Or that this habbit is exclusive to finding nines. Until today I had found, on the ground, four playing cards all of them nines. And today while walking to statistics class I saw a card on the ground face down, with no others in sight and thought “Oh, another nine.” then I thought, nu uh, that’s pretty unlikely, but lo and behold, it was another nine. So there I was feeling pretty mystified about finding four fives (at the time I thought I was up to four till I came home and realised it was actually five), and wondering what it means, and thinking it probably just means that the universe agrees that I’m special.
Oh, by the way, nines are important to me, they have been my lucky number since long before finding playing cards, when I was a young child I was into numerology and nine was the number that represented me.
Ok, so while I was walking I started thinking about the probability of finding five nines in a row (yah, I was thinking about 4, but were gonna revise history or this will get too confusing). And I was thinking it would be 1/13^5, which is 371,293. SO I texted Sean that: assuming that I was going to find five playing cards on five occasions by the time I was 25, and assuming that they were all nines, then the odds are 1/371,293, and he responded that yah, but if I was going to simply find ANY five cards of the same suit it would be 1/28,561. But I contested I wouldn’t have found five of just any card, because if I found a five on the ground I never would have noticed and would have left it on the ground, and since there has been a long period of time in which I found all these cards (btw, I’ve never found a card that wasn’t a nine) I might not have noticed the coincidence.
But, the truth is, there is one other number that I love a lot that I prolly would’ve noticed, and that’s nines square three. So the problem is now set up like this. If I were to find an initial card of a nine or a three, what are the odds that the subsequent cards will all be the same number.
The probability of finding five cards in a row that were significant to me are 2/371,293.
Oh, and I’ve decided that the meaning is that the universe is telling me that between nines and threes I should stick with nines.
