27.6.14

I've been bulimic recently.
I just want to starve.
i just want everything to be dreamy.
Alone in East Village on First Avenue with a fire escape overlooking everyone that moves their legs underneath their pelvic bones, they let their hips wander left to right as they throw their pickled heads back into the air laughing these laughs that only instill the romantic moments that they chase, but are they forever chasing in this city where everyone is beautiful but so empty that I find my short term attention span grinding dead into the bones that I keep trying to hold still and hold still, but my leg persistently shakes and shakes in order to maintain the same rhythm as my brain?
And I’m just two stories higher than the sidewalk that holds all of this supposed magic that we’ve all heard about in New York. The gum thats been stuck there since art was something that was fruitful and productive of some kind of career. Who am I when I’m uninspired and out of love. I was a drug baby, a socialite screaming when they find humor in something because damn it feels good to feel good can this last for a little longer I guess I’ll need more I’ll need more to sway in this way. I’m the same fleshy mass that lifts its head to the spinning planets above because I’m laughing I’m laughing I’ll hold my smile on my face after until the muscles melt back into my veracious silence that I swallow and swallow, it’s not that I don’t want anyone to know or see, it’s that I don’t want to know or see that I’m just so bored I’m so fucking bored I’m not making art, and I’m not making sense.
But I’m going to live alone. I’m going to live alone and take the yoga on St Marks for free and work out my body until I’m sweating out every anxious squirm that makes my sweat itch my skin that I scrub off with my pumice stone that I’m somehow attached to until it shines that raw bleeding patch that crackles and dries the next day, and I can feel it everywhere I go and remember that I’m uncomfortable and tried to rip my layer off due to the possibility that there was a fresh start underneath, but you know, I got the one I’ve always been stuck with. Your body ain’t a limb you could chop up only to receive a second chance, is it, is it, is it.
I’m going to live alone and hide inside of new walls until my lonely nights of a nice bottle of red wine that I’ll buy myself only to whipe my hands on the string of my guitar and record spurning music that you will hear. And as you pat my back and tell me that you love the way I spit my odious paste into words, but did you fall back into the devil again? But it’s okay because I’ll be painting paper until you see something that makes your chest dry up into dehydrated ice cream, and you’ll see what I’m trying to get rid of. I’m going to live alone, and I’m going to conquer this unstoppable sense that I’m a ghoul from the spirit world who tripped into this conscious state. What if this is what happens to people who off themselves. They wake up, and all continues as if you never left, but the one aspect is that you just can’t feel can’t feel there is nothing inside of you that can grab onto the whole part where this is supposed to mean something. I can look all of you in the eyes knowing that I’ll never look into them again, and it will never settle into my mind that it is reality. And I’ll keep finding myself in other cities in other countries in other parts of the world with other human beings that know nothing about all that is carried with my name. I can talk to anyone and believe that I care about them if they are the kind of kin that makes me feel like I can feel. The truth is that I can always run away, and I think that is what’s wrong. I want to be living a life that is so beautiful, I couldn’t dare consider disappearing again.

24.6.14

Also.
I met a boy one night.
He was playing a blues lick on the guitar.
I saw him at a party.
And he spent the whole night talking to me.

I am surprised.
I actually ordered pizza that day.
And threw it up.

Going camping.
With a girl.
Who had eating problems.
Mad me realize.
How foolish it is.
 I am trying to be okay.

I am never going to be thin.

And that.
Is depressing.

20.6.14

Stopped myself from ordering pizza and throwing it up today what is happening. 
Come home with the minimal yet satisfying state of insbriation. 
Have an orgasm. 
Have my last cigarette. 
Pet my cat.
Slumber. 



My friend was to have a party. 
But she went to the hospital because she passed out in a pizza joint. 
Because she doesn't eat much. 
I always wonder why people are so thin. 
Most of the time, it's because they don't eat. 

I spend time with the Pizza Sluts on these boy's roof. 
She is cuddling with him, and his thigh is touching mine. 
And I am reminded of the warmth and comfort that you gain from a man's body. 
He reminded me of how I met him. 

I now miss that comfort.
Watching them was sweet. 
I won't have anything for a long time. 
But I am patient. 

19.6.14

There is this image that I salivate for. 
It happens when I'm at parties, and the evil becomes a thick paste throughout my limbs and my mind. 
The dumb folk who talk and talk.
But I stare at their faces and imagine slitting their throats, reaching my hand down the esophagus and pulling out their intestines. 
Dragging them by their guts as if they're on a leash making a trail of blood that contains my anger and the insane amount of energy that bubbles inside of me as they bore me with their speech. 

Something that I can only execute by making a film. 
Bought ice cream and cookies
Drank water
Swallowed
Drank water
Swallowed
Threw up
Threw up 
Threw up
Threw up
Going to a party. 
Just caught myself thinking 
That maybe I should order pizza
And make myself throw up.

I'm still thinking.

17.6.14

A boy wanted to get drinks with me tonight.
But I already planned on eating ice cream and throwing up.
The truth is out.
And I already knew it.
Nikki said yesterday that I was obsessed about boarding school
in front of everyone.
And that may be true,
but I just feel like I am weird.
I am too weird.
And my stories are too weird.
And they're uncomfortable.
And no one wants to know any of these things.
And I am alone with everything I hold.
And I don't work in this world.
I didn't work in board school.
I don't work here.
I don't know what to do with myself.
I'm too weird in either direction.
And I don't want to go to therapy.
I don't need any advice on this.
It happened.
That's all. 
I just have to stop talking about it.
I don't think that I should tell people about myself anymore.
I don't know what to talk about then.
I guess things that are in the present.
Like oh I did this today.
Rather than something bad happened five years ago.
I feel really alone.
And like I'm never going to be able to speak freely without worrying about being too odd.
I don't know what else to say other than I just feel alone.
And alone.
And alone and alone.
And Eliza is so obsessed with boys that she gets weird in social situations and is mean to me.
And she is also becoming selfish.
I tried talking to her last night about how I felt.
And she just stopped responding.
But sends me funny cat photos today.
As if I'm going to care about that
when you won't care about something more meaningful that your ex boyfriends cat.
I can't call anyone to cry to.
I really am alone.
I'm alone here.
In this whole entire world.
I have to hold all of this myself.
I guess that's what all people have to do.
And I guess that's why everyone seems more normal.
Because they don't talk about the bad things.
And I guess that might be why I am so fuck.ed up 
And why everyone thinks I'm so intense.
And crazy.
I don't know.
At least I'm crying.
That's a big step.
But.
I feel so alone when I cry.
I wish that I could.
Not be so alone.
I know this is repetitive.
But I don't know.
That is what I am thinking.
I can't believe it.
That I'm just never going to work.
I'm never going to become re established back into the world.
This is why.
I'm never in a relationship.
Because I'm simply too odd.
It's weird to feel this way when you don't hate yourself.
I feel alone in loving myself.
I also feel like my friends al. talk about each other.
I guess that I'm a part of that.
But I feel like people complain about how fucked up my life was.
They complain that I talk about it.
I bet I'm just embarrassing myself.
I bet that I just make myself look like a fool all of the time.
I should be more reserved.
And more shy.
I'm too open and wide and obvious.
And everyone knows everything about me.
I'm not secretive.
And what you see is what I am.
But maybe I should hide myself.
And people would be more comfortable around me.
And someone will fall in love with this normal and beautiful girl.
And they will never know.
They will never know the truth.
And I guess they will be loving someone else when they love me.
Someone that I pretend to be.
But maybe it will be nice.
Because I won't feel so lonely; I will be loved.
Or I guess that's foolish.
I will still be lonely because they won't be loving me.
Well, I am fucked.
I am fucked with this diseased brain of mine.
Maybe it's true what they said.
Maybe I am just.
I don't know I'm trying to think of what they've said about me
that is true, but none of it is true.
I'm also frustrated because why can't I just talk about it, huh.
Why can't I.
Why is it so weird.
Who cares, it's the truth.
Why would I hide the truth.
Life isn't clean and perfect, so I'm not going to pretend it is.
And if you're uncomfortable, 
maybe you should be
because that whole time in my life was uncomfortable.
And I'll get over it.
Just let me talk about it.
I wasn't allowed to talk about it for so long.
So just let me say it.
Just let me acknowledge it.
And I just say things because memories come back as life relates itself to them.
I guess I could just write them down.
In a sketch book.
So I'm still remembering but not telling people.
Okay.
I guess I'll do that.

I cried.
So that is good.
I feel better.

Maybe I talk because I just want it resolved.
I just want someone to say they're sorry.
So many people did so many things.
And no one is sorry.
And I don't feel like I'm a bad person.
I did a lot of bad things.
But they were to no one other than myself.
But just so many people.
Saw something in me.
In which I deserve a lot of pain and punishment.

Maybe when I can actually escape the institutions in my dreams,
this can be over.


No one likes to hear about when it was all fucked up. 
But those are the stories I have. 

14.6.14

I Don't want to hang out with Liza.
She's going through something, and I understand that.
But she's starting to be rude to me.
I feel like she's trying to one up me.
Which is confusing.
Whatever, I'll talk about it more later.

Don't eat.
You're okay. 
Don't eat.
You're okay. 

6.6.14

But I cleaned the whole house. 

I also find myself on the right path to starvation. 
Thank you.