Unattractive, yet “Beautiful”

23 Oct

it’s unattractive, of course – 18

Date: 2010-10-15, 1:02AM EDT

to be depressed, or slightly depressed. to shy from clinicians, to be unable to write,
to feel lonely, to not have the confidence to flirt
this early in life, to feel already the burden of time
while simultaneously missing so much the sensation of giving, of kissing the neck,
of bestowing unto another,
of holding another in one’s arms, of being needed, of supporting.
can you relate?
potential for symbiosis is everywhere,
even in the most pitiful places.

you need not be “beautiful”
because it’s inherent, dear. we all are,
maybe even the most broken is the most beautiful.

Imagined Subtext:

i cut myself
i am interesting and deep
i cut myself 
all the time

my dad is a total asshole
my mom doesn’t understand me

okay fine
i don’t cut myself

but i would
i totally would

i would like to 
the type of person
who would cut herself
and so i

i hold a very sharp pin
very close to my arm
and press down
and feel the burden of
the weight of
the pressure of
the millstone of
the heaviness of
the darkness
that is about to
 consume me

the pin is sharp for real
i am seriously troubled

i own a hayley williams poster
i buy pants at diabolik

the black dark darkness

do you have low self-esteem?
do you want to enter a co-dependent relationship?

i secretly think
i am smarter and more fascinating
than everyone around me


look at my brain
look at my words
so broken, so “beautiful”

i am eighteen years of age

i long to escape
to hogwarts
and soar in the night sky
like a crying owl
whose feathers pain her
i am so sad

little crystal owl tears

the sad sadness is so sad
it doubles back and
brings me sad joy

my love, do you know of sad joy?

i like gummi bears

oh, sarah kane
oh, sylvia plath
oh, anne sexton
these are writers i am aware of


how it hurts
the painful twisting of my specialness
so deep
so deep
inside me

tell me i’m pretty
read twilight to me
with hermione’s accent


Star Trek

16 Oct

Assorted Star Trek novels – (Dublin)


Date: 2010-10-13, 12:40PM IST

Collection of 25+ star trek novels for sail. Prices negotiable.

Contact for more details


Imagined Subtext:

Do you want to read about Star Trek?  If so, I have twenty-seven books you’ll enjoy.  I used to be deeply into Star Trek.  In fact, I still have a full Degra costume, complete with the world-weary multiple forehead wrinkles he acquired when his wife contracted Anaprolean fever and his third child, poor little Trenia (still in utero), died.

You didn’t know?  Degra’s the Xindi primate from Season 3 of Enterprise.  To be fair, it is a somewhat obscure reference.  I don’t expect you to know everything already.  I’m not a snob about it, like some fans are.  I just like Star Trek a lot.  I want you to like it, too.  You don’t need to own the toothbrush, or the USS Enterprise belt buckle.  You don’t need to have constructed detailed fantasies about Seven of Nine and then have shared those fantasies on various fan fiction sites.  In time, you will.

And you know what?  If you don’t have a lot of money and you really want these books, I’m sure we can work something out.  It’s not about the money for me.  It’s about parring down, and moving forward.  It’s about the love of the trek.

See, I have a plan.  And for that plan, I need to be unencumbered.

I’m going to get a boat.

Yes, a boat.  I want to sail around the world.  As I see it, it’s the next best thing to exploring space.  The ocean is amazing.  It holds creatures we haven’t named yet, creatures we haven’t even seen.  They’re like aliens.  Some of them have skin that glows.

So, I need to get rid of my things, starting with the Star Trek novels.  Then, I get a boat.  And yes, I’ll need to learn how to sail and how to keep from vomiting.  But I know I can do it.  If Star Trek has taught me anything– and believe me, it has– it’s that I can have a dream, and then “Make it so.”

You will love these books.

Perfect Amp

1 Oct

rockford fosgate amp – $40 (canastota)

Date: 2010-09-13, 3:31PM EDT

I have a perfect working rockford fosgate car amp $40 firm or will trade for hunting or trapping stuff model is a p300.1


Imagined subtext:

I had this girl.  She was perfect, man.  Perfect.   Little nose like that crazy hot Mom off Weeds.  That was the first thing I noticed, that little nose.  And I’m not saying she doesn’t have a great rack, because she does.  My girl, I mean.  Well, and that hot Mom off Weeds.

We used to drive out of town.  That was our thing we did.  Out on those shitty, bumpy roads.  We’d crank classic Van Halen and just drive.  What kind of girl you know does that, that you can do that with?  “I get up, and nothing gets me down!  You’ve got the tough, I’ve seen the toughest around!”  She’d air-guitar in the passenger seat, even the hard parts.

I bought her a promise ring, a diamond chip in 14k gold from my friend Tommy, who said he got it from a guy who has a friend who knows a place.  The night I was gonna give it to her, I had it all planned out.  Drinks at T.G.I. Friday’s, then dinner at Red Lobster.  I even picked a night they had one of those all-you-can-eat shrimp specials.  Any kind of shrimp she wanted, all night.  Fried, scalloped, garlic butter sauce, whatever.

Sorry about that.  Had some shit fly in my eye.

Anyways, before we even left T.G.I. Friday’s, she goes, she goes, “Mike, I gotta tell you something.”  Like that.  And she said it serious, so I’m thinking, “Oh, great, it’s pussy cancer or something.”  But I’m getting ready to basically propose to this girl, so I’m listening, you know?  And I’m thinking, “You know what?  It doesn’t matter.  Whatever it is; it doesn’t matter.”

Then she tells me it’s over.  Fucking over.  No reason.  Well, no reason she’ll say.  Was I pissed?  Yeah.  Did I throw my Ultimate Electric Lemonade at the wall and get it all over those stupid fucking novelty license plates?  Yeah.  Am I banned from going into the T.G.I. Fridays in the greater Syracuse area?  I’m pretty sure.

That doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try the one in Sherrill, though.

The point is, I’m done, man.  I’m done.  Getting rid of everything that reminds me of her, starting with the car amp.

Then you know what I’m gonna do?  I’m gonna do the kind of stuff a man can only do alone, with no chicks around smelling nice and having shiny hair and cute noses.  I’m going back to the woods, dude, trap some squirrels and raccoons, shoot at a few deer.  Who knows, maybe a bear.  I’ll shoot at a bear.  I don’t give a fuck.

So I’m asking $40 for the amp, not a dime less.  Unless you want to trade for some decent hunting stuff.  That ring cost me $175, and those were friend prices.

Holy shit.  Tommy.

Do you think she’s fucking Tommy?

Holy shit.  I’ll kill him.

The Mouse

27 Sep

mouse cage, nessesities and extras (lucien l’aller)

Date: 2010-09-08, 7:31PM EDT

mouse cage(medium), house, wheel, bedding, food, timothy hay chews, treats, food bowl, salt and mineral licks. all free to good home. comes with albino male mouse


Imagined subtext:

Yeah, I know you’re probably judging me.  I’m not an idiot.  I know how these things look to the outside eye.  Hell, if I saw this ad eight months ago, I’d be thinking the same things you are.  There I’d be, wrist-deep in a bag of Lay’s Dill Pickle flavored potato chips, feeling superior.  I’d be thinking, “Dude, what’s wrong with you?  Don’t you understand the concept of responsibility?  Are you familiar with the term loyalty?  Have you never heard of a little something called fucking commitment?  Apparently, a little rodent’s too much trouble for you, you selfish prick.  What are you gonna do when you have a wife?  Kids?  Are you gonna dump them, too?  Put up a Craigslist ad?  I see that ‘good home’ bullshit.  Go ahead, try to mollify your guilt, but you’re not fooling anybody.  Hey, asshole!  Man up and take care of your mouse.”

I understand.  I know how it sounds.  But you don’t know me.  You don’t know my mouse.  And I doubt you know the word “mollify.”  So don’t sit there and judge me.

Let me ask you something, Big Shot.  Have you ever loved a creature so much that you would do anything for it?  Have you?  Have you ever risked getting bit and getting shit upon to hold that creature in the palm of your hand– the god damn palm of your hand– and whisper promises into its downy fur?  Have you ever examined that creature under a powerful magnifying glass to ensure that it would not fall prey to mite infestation?  Have you ever spent days exhaustively reading every thread in the forums at www.petportal.com/mouse-keeping/community/forums in an attempt to better understand your beloved’s habits and digestive system and needs?  Have you?

Then you don’t know what it’s like to have your heart, still beating, gnawed at the edges. You don’t know what it’s like to have your heart bruised, trampled upon by tiny little mouse feet.

I treated Marcel like a king.  I gave him everything, every material comfort a mouse could want.  How many mouse-keepers do you know who go to the effort to install a small house in the middle of a cage?  Most would say a cage is enough, wouldn’t they?  Most would proudly stand back, hands on their hips like a super hero, and consider the job done.  Most would quietly utter to themselves, “Well, that’s quite a cage.  Now I will lift my mouse by the tail, dangle him over the top, and plop him down into his new home.”

I’ll tell you what, Chief.  I’m not most.  And you NEVER pick up a mouse by its tail!  Think about doing that with Marcel, and I will show you how it feels when I pluck your ass up with one of those huge construction vehicles with steel pincers on the end.

I made Marcel a house.  I know you’re asking yourself why.  Mice have very sensitive eyes; they need a dark respite.  Bring your albinos into that equation, and…well, I don’t throw around the phrase “potential eye damage” lightly.

I bet you didn’t know that, Cowboy.

Most people wouldn’t go out of their way to put a house in a cage, let alone build that house out of used popsicle sticks and non-toxic glue.  Do you know how many popsicles I had to choke down to get those sticks?  Thirty-seven.  That’s four boxes, Mr. Know-it-all.  Well, three full boxes, plus one from the fourth box. That leaves eleven unwrapped popsicles in my freezer.  Popsicles that will remain, until the day I die, frozen reminders of my dedication to Marcel.

And yeah, okay, smart guy.  I gotcha.  I read you loud and clear, Boss.  Yeah, sure, I could have let the popsicles melt.  I didn’t need to eat them all.  I’m sure you’re thinking it.  I’m not an idiot.  I thought it, too, but not until day three, on my 25th popsicle.  And you know what?  I finished the job.  That’s the kind of guy I am.  Even if I have to make my way through three plus boxes of nauseating root beer, banana, and lemon-lime popsicles, I’ll finish the job.  Yeah, you heard me.  Root beer, banana, and lemon-lime.  I know.  I’m with you on this one.  There is no sensible reason for those three flavors to be in a box together.  I mean, you see brown and creamy white on a package, you think chocolate and vanilla.  But no.  Tropical fruit, tropical fruit, carbonated beverage.  It doesn’t make sense.

I’ll tell you what else doesn’t make sense.  The fierce love a man has for his mouse.

Marcel had everything, a two story house with Palladian windows and a miniature balcony.  A Silent Spinner wheel.  And the bedding…

Listen, any half-assed mouse enthusiast can shred some old newspaper and throw it in a cage. Any cross-eyed, ten-year-old girl can chuck in a couple of wood chips, unwittingly putting her mouse at risk for respiratory problems.  I’m talking bedding.  Bedding.  I’m talking a small hand-sewn sheet set and a fleece comforter.  I’m talking little pillows embroidered with blue thistle.  I’m talking two three-and-a-half by five-and-a-half-inch rectangles now missing from the lower left and right corners of my EasySleep All Cotton 700 threadcount bedlinen.

And hey, Professor, what do you know about Timothy hay?  Do you know who likes it?  Rabbits, chinchillas, Guinea pigs?  Damn straight. The big boys.  The heavy hitters of the rodent world.  Most people, they don’t buy Timothy hay for a lowly little mouse.  No, sir.  But I’m different.  I’m the type of guy that says, “Hey, buddy, whatever you need, I’ll get it for you.”  That’s true when it comes to mice, and it’s true when it comes to friends.  Marcel ticked both of those boxes.

I know what you’re thinking. “If Marcel was your friend, Jonathan, why did you try to train him?  What are those ‘treats’ all about?  Do you think you can just train your fucking friends with a block of cheese?  Why couldn’t you just let Marcel be Marcel, man?”

Okay, two things.  First of all, cheese is NOT GOOD for mice!  You so much as show Marcel a picture of cheese and I will come to your house and stuff your newly empty eye sockets full of sharp white cheddar.  Got it?  Second of all, Marcel was Marcel, “man.”  That was the problem.

Listen, we had good times.  I’m not going to deny that.  I wish I could.  It would make this a hell of a lot easier, I’ll tell you that.  Me and Marcel had a blast.  Go ahead and Google “mouse” if you don’t believe me.  See that Flickr photo on page nine?  The one of the white mouse next to the Mac with the caption “CORDLESS MOUSE?”  That’s him.  That’s Marcel.  He was a champ.  He held still for two minutes while I got the angle and lighting right.

Yeah, I know.  “If you and Marcel were such great friends, why aren’t you keeping him?  Is that how you treat your friends?  Just get rid of them, you self-centered dick wad?  Just cast them aside, you lowlife sack of unreliable shit?”

FUCK YOU!  Fuck YOU!  Fuck your whole family!

Let me tell you something, Sherlock.

Marcel and I, we used to do this thing, the moon walk trick.  I loved it, and I thought he did, too.  One day, I take a close look at his little pink eyes, and you know what I see?  I see familiarity.  I see low level comprehension.  I see reward-expectation.  But what I don’t see is love.  Most people, they probably wouldn’t notice.  Or they’d just get another mouse, fucking move on.  But I’m not most people.  And I can’t live like that, knowing what’s missing, knowing what we don’t have.

There’s this German guy at work, Hans, always prattling on about something.  He was talking about a book he was reading the other day, said he found out about it from “word of mouse.”  Word of mouse.  That’s what he said.  And I got teary at the mental image of ten little Marcels lined up, squeakily passing the news from one adorably translucent ear to another.  It was a full three seconds before I realized Hans said “word of mouth.”

So, Wise Guy, do you still think I don’t care about Marcel?  Do you still think this is fucking easy for me?  Do you think German people should try harder not to have retarded accents that confuse people and get their emotions all stirred up?

Look.  What I’m saying here is, I have mouse stuff.  You can just take it.  And take Marcel, while you’re at it.  Maybe he’ll be happier with you.  The least I can do is give him that chance.  You can have him.  You can have everything.

Everything but the tiny tuxedo outfit.  You don’t know how difficult it was to make a monocle that small.  Fuck.