Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Ring around the rosey, pocket full of poseies, and we all fall down.

I've decided against using heroin when I get paid. I have to pay my parents 300$ in rent, and that leaves me 400 and some dollars. I'll put 200 of that in savings, and the 200 and some dollars I will use to buy cigarettes, snacks, books, music, and I really can't wait for the film adaption of The Hunger Games which is in theaters March 23rd.

I've gotten a request from a reader to write about my thoughts on suicide and what I believe the afterlife (if there is one) would be like.

I often mention suicide in my blog posts. I sometimes write out my plan, even once faked my suicide on my blog. Almost all of my idols committed suicide, and my grandfather offed himself in our garage when I was 7 years old. A year after that my babysitter blew his brains out in front of me and my sister after his girlfriend broke up with him.

As much as write about suicide I never talk about it to anyone. Almost every attempt I've made was on a lark. Two of them were planned. Two of them I came very close to death. Every time I've woken up from an attempt I am angry. I feel like a failure. I can't even kill myself properly. I've hurt my parents and scared them. I've always ended up in a mental institution for at least a week after an attempt.

I ask myself why I don't have the guts to just put a gun in my mouth or to my heart. Am I really just crying for attention? I'm not crying for attention unpurpose, but subconsciously I must be. I don't feel I'm crying for help. When I have attempted suicide I have always meant to die. When I faked my suicide here on blogger I did it to end my blog. Then I realized I can't end my blog, I love the attention I get from the readers.  Be it bad or positive attention.

I do plan on ending my own life after I've failed at everything I've done to be remembered for. Not just remembered by my family, but by the public. As if by some miracle I'll do something of importance in my life bettering society in some way. If I die before I've failed at everything, I've tried, then so be it. I do not fear death, nor the unknown.

Right now I would not say I'm depressed, but I do hate myself. I have self no esteem. I get my self esteem from you guys and gals. Usually the comments left on my blog are full of hatred. I'll admit I do get some positive comments. As we all know we believe the negative said about us rather than the good. It takes something like ten compliments to make up for one negative comment.

The fact is that I'm a realist and realize that in reality I will never accomplish any achievement worth while. Nobody will remember me 50 years after I'm dead. Most people can live with this. I just have feelings of grandeur as if what I write is something special. Then again I am self loathing. I hate myself and want to die by my own hand, but not until I'm satisfied I've done something to be remembered by. Contradictions. I know I'm going to be forgotten, I feel I shouldn't be, I know I have nothing of any conscience to leave behind for futer generations. I'm not Hunter S. Thomson, I'm not Virgina Wolf, and I'm definitely not Kurt Cobain the one person I look up to most in this world. I was not born with any special talents. I am in no way extraordinary. I'm just a piece of mold on cheese, scraped off before the real celebrity (the cheese) is eaten.

Two people in this world would be affected if I were to die right now. My parents. In thirty years my parents will be gone. Hopefully they have more than thirty years to live. I don't intend on dying young so much anymore. I'll be thirty next year at this time. Hunter S. Thomson lived a long time, and ended up killing himself. Same with my grandfather. Well he was only 55 years old, but he wasn't young. His last name was Young, so in a way he did die young. I'm getting off track.

That's as well as I can explain my self hatred, and my death wish. In conclusion I hate myself and want to die.

As for the after life I have no idea what will happen. The one thing I do know is that energy cannot be created nor destroyed and we are made of energy so in a way we are never really destroyed. If string theory is correct there are more dimensions, who knows what exists in those dimensions. We do know that we decompose and our matter becomes apart of the universe, just not in the form we are composed of now. Dust to dust and we all fall down.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Do it, and do it again

I just re read my post entitled Obituary Birthday, and wow! Its all over the place. I remember when I wrote the post I had been inspired by a documentary called "Beautiful Loser". It was about street artists, "taggers" aka spray painting buildings, and really anything they can. The world is their canvas.

They all had this punk attitude towards life. They were from NYC, and started a movement back in the 90's. They were skaters, who tagged, and just lived. They admitted they were lazy. Not really lazy but board. Not enough money to really do anything. So they hung out, made art, and music. Now they are adults, and they are still living the lifestyle of a loser. I felt as though I would fit right into that crowed.

In truth I fit in nowhere. I am a loner loser. I am lazy. I am vain. I am an addict. I have no will power. I have no talent. I look up to drug addicts and or drunks. I fantasise about suicide, glamorizes suicide, and heroin use.

 If there is one thing heroin addicts like to do more than use heroin, its to talk and write about it endlessly. Romanticizing everything about it, even the ugly things that come with it. Aids, prostitution, stealing. Glamorizing the fact that heroin always comes in first, no matter how much you love your family and significant other, heroin will always come in fist, and everything else a distant second. Heroin addicts will read and watch anything that has to do with heroin. I'm willing to bet that almost every junkie's favorite movie is Trainspotting. Even though in the end Ewan chooses life not heroin.

As for myself I am always looking for a good heroin novel, memoir, non fiction. All my favorite movies or almost all have something to do with heroin. Drug Store Cowboys, Jesus's Son, Trainspotting, Requiem of a Dream (which I'm not sure is about heroin as they never say what drug it is they are using, and when they show the eye's pupil expanding instead of constricting leads me to believe it's Meth) My favorite blogs have to do with heroin. Every aspect and perspective there is on the subject. I love songs that are about opiates, directly or indirectly. I look up to famous heroin addicts. Not coke addicts, not meth amphetamine addicts, not alcholics, not sex addicts, not huffers, just opiates. Not to say I don't like almost all shows about drugs, but when I watch Intervention I'm always hoping its about a heroin addict. If not a heroin addict then an opiate addict.

I wonder what non heroin addicts like to read, watch, think, talk, write about. I've noticed that people with kids like to take pictures of their kids, and post them on their blogs, and they write about parenthood. They read books and magazines about parenting. Watch family movies. Talk about their children every chance they get. Hmm, I wonder if what I feel about heroin is what parents feel about children? I wonder if I were to have a child if I would become one of "them"? Would heroin come first or would the child? I'm not about to test it. Children are way off in my future. Most my readers would rather I not reproduce.

I maybe on methadone, but I still find myself day dreaming about getting high. There was a few months were I was dead set against using heroin ever again. I thought the methadone would hold me. I was in a good mood, felt adequate, was at peace with my lot in life. Now...not so much. What changed? The chemicals in my brain.

How can I complain? I live in paradise, I get to lay on the beach and swim in crystal clear warm blue water. I get to spend my days reading, and from now on blogging a thousand words a day. I can watch anything I want at the touch of a button, btw the show New Girl is seriously funny. Nothing to do with heroin. I wish I was like the main character, Jess on New Girl. Tuesdays on Fox at 8pm Hawaii time. Or you can watch all the episodes you missed on Prime time on demand if you have Time Warner Cable. Off subject, but had to get it in there

I know I wrote about HeroinHead yesterday, but I have more to say about his blog. His blog is perfect or in my eyes perfect. He has over 400 readers. 90% of his comments are praising him. How he is not a published author yet?I don't know. How  is he not a famous artist? I'm sure he'll be sooner or later. Someday I will be able to say HeroinHead (Shane) follows my pitiful blog. Right now I'm amazed that he's a follower. I'm not sure he reads my blog any more. After I admitted that I had lied about a relapse, and then faked my own suicide. Now even though what I write is true my readers can never really be sure. I always admit when I lie because its hard for me to keep up the lie. I feel guilty and as though I wasted the readers time. Of course my lies were always peppered with some truths.

Moving on. Suicide, its always on my mind. Right now I can't kill myself. I HAVE to become a better writer. I do plan on abandoning this blog in the future and moving to Start over, find a new audience. Maybe an audience who's comments are 90% praising my writing. I might even post my second book, Beautiful Words, on my new blog. After I feel I've achieved all I possibly can literary wise then I will waste myself.

Monday, February 27, 2012

My shit is her milk. Her milk is my shit.

I'm lying on my bed. Wearing a button up, white starched collar shit, my plaid skirt is laying in a heap on the floor of my bathroom. I've been wearing the same underpants for days. I haven't showered in weeks. I have swam in the ocean almost everyday this week. My hair has that salt water curl to it. Its getting too long, and I want to cut it off and go bald. I know that I'm too vain to do it.
 I have a copy of my book lying next to me. I look at it and am instantly ashamed. I wish I had put everything I had to offer literary into it. I didn't. I'm ashamed. That's all I can think of. I want to open up Microsoft Word, and begin another story. I'm scared. So I just lay here. The sun is shining in my window and landing on the wall to my left. Hitting my painting of poppy plants just right making it look like a dream.
I imagine myself in the movie Wizard of Oz, as the four of them run through the poppy field, and find themselves dozing off to dreamland. I then begin to think about the process of turning the poppy into black tar heroin. I feel my heart begin to beat faster. The beginning of the month is coming up. I will have money to spend. I had planned on buy five books at least with this months checks. I am working my way through a list of one hundred books everyone must read (according to the person who made the list) now I have naughty thoughts racing through my mind.
I'm convincing myself...really what is so wrong with my wanting to escape reality for a while? Everyone has a vice. Right? Some people go to church and fall in love with their pastors. Some have sex with anonymous people. Some look at small children in pornographic photos. I myself prefer to inject myself with heroin. Its better than getting turned on by small children. Then again who am I to judge another person. I won't lie I do look down and am disgusted by pedophiles. I wish I could castrate all rapist. I want to show the racists that they are wrong to look down on a group of people because of their color, or religion. There are people out there that think all addicts should be shot.
I've convinced myself, on the first I will go downtown and buy four bags of heroin. I turn on my side and sigh, the beginning of the month is days away. What am I going to do till then. Can I get some on credit? Unlikely.
Fuck my father just walked past my room, I just want to be left alone. I want to sink into my thoughts and get lost. I want to become the ocean, and just follow the tides. I start to think of Virgina Wolf and suicide by drowning. I've herd that drowning is a comfortable way to die. Once you take in a lung full of water your brain begins to help you relax and die peacefully. I don't know who knows this, that is alive, or if its even true, but it is something to be hopeful for.
My parents haven't taken to my whole uniform yet. Its like a catholic school uniform. The skirt is just above the knees. The white starched collar oxford shirt, with a tie. I kept my converse shoes. I look anything, but sexy in this outfit. I want to buy an identical outfit so I can have something to wear while washing my uniform. I almost positive I'm going to cut my hair into a bob, and dye it blue. Katy Perry blue. I will just use blue Kool aid as the dye.
My mind is starting to think about me again. I think about me too much. I know I'm a narcassit. I hate naracssict people. They say what you hate most in other people is what you hate most about yourself. I hate HeroinHead for being an amazing writer. I hate reading his posts, because I realize just how untalented I truly am. When I read Shane's posts I think of writers like Burroughs, Burkouski. When I think about myself and my writing I think of Judy Blume on drugs. Pitiful. I don't really hate Shane, I'm just jealous of him. I love Shane, look up to him.
I feel the only way I can have anything in common with him is if I use heroin again. So as I said before my mind is made up, I will buy heroin at the beginning of next month. I wish then forget about how I can't write for shit, and how Shane can conjure up the most brilliant posts. You should read his comments. People want to wash  his feet. They eat up his words like opiate laced candy. His readers truly admire him. Mine truly hate me. Now I'm crying. I must stop.
I really do Hate myself and want to die. That is my ultimate truth.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Obituary birthday

I've been inspired. Its been a long time since I've read or seen something that has inspired me to be an individual, to make my art, and to write again. I've realized that my book is unimportant. All I am is dust. I'm energy and as we all know energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Life its self is not important.

I've bought a catholic school uniform, and I now wear that everyday. I am making a statement about society, how I'm confined by consumerism, and corporations. How I feel when people look down on me because in society's eyes I am a loser. I am an outcast. Not even the majority of people who read my blog like me, much less find me interesting.

Those of you have read I Hate Myself and Want to Die know the book ends very abruptly. That book was written when I was 26, and dealt with matters that had happened in my early 20's. Now I'm 29, and think I can see the importance of words. Words can destroy as well as give hope. Words can hurt. Bottom line. I've written three books, I Hate Myself and Want to Die, was my first. Beautiful words is the title of my second book. Part memoir and part ficiton. The third book is called Wasted Beauty. As close to full fiction as I've come to. I'm not the main character.

Being a female in the world is unfair. Life is unfair. Men, sex, the weaker sex... women. My next book will touch on this subject. I am in the middle of reshersing why women are rarely considered great authors. All the authors I look up to are male, aside from two. Lydia Lunch, and Sylvia Plath. I will throw Anne Sexton in there too. Sylvia and Anne are poets. I'm not a poet. I'm a contraction. I let men take advantage of me. I look up to Gloria Steinem. Her raw sexual magnetism that she put to use as a feminist. I look up to Courtney Love, she's crazy, but very intelligent. She might be a bit narcassitc but so am I. Virgina Wolf is the female writer I feel a great connection to as well.

Note: I do not blame my parents for my failures. The fact that they refuse to give me back the money I lent them, and won't let me leave. If I dare to leave a guilt trip is just around the corner. I understand why they don't want me to leave the pack, they lost one daughter. They want me to count. Not that my sister Angie didn't count for anything. She counted for a lot. We were very much alike, and at the same time very different. She like CL had the gift of gab. I myself refuse to make small talk. I get straight to the point, and often make people feel uncomfortable because I don't dance around a subject. I ask straight out, why, what, who, how did that make you feel. I want to know. I rarely in real life situations talk about myself. On here, my blog you would never guess this to be true. I go on and on about myself.

Andy Warhol said, art is what you can get away with. I bought myself a hand held camcorder. I have been making family videos, and videos on the streets. Just watching people I admire. I set the camera to make it look like the video was shot in what I think 8mm film looks like.

I have made up a quote. "Heroin is for artist for whom the world is too painful to life without." ~Anna Young~ So many artist get caught up in drugs. I think we feel life on a much more raw level than others. I don't blame my past for my use of drugs. I was just rebelling. Found solice in opiates.

the media trashes Courtney Love. A media whore. She likes attention. Who doesn't, Unfortunately her attention is considered not so flattering. At least she is who she is. Not compromising because the public does not get her. Sure the only good albums she's made, Beautiful on the inside, and Live through this. Live through this may have been helped by Kurt Cobain her dead husband, who may or may not  have helped to write this album. It is her poetry in the words, the music was enhanced by KC. We all take from people we admire. I took the name of my book from KC because its how I felt. How I feel.

I may not be an educated writer, I'm a self taught writer, and every day I work on my art. I read. I read contemporary, and not so contemporary books. I'm working my way through 100 books everyone should read. I've only read 7 books on the list. When I get my SSI check which this month I'm keeping half to myself instead of giving it all to my parents as I have been doing for the past four months. I plan on buying 5 books on this 100 books everyone should read.
I've read the book, How to Read like a Writer. What I've gathered from How to Read like a Writer is read the book slowly, taking in its structure, how words are added, and deleted. How each sentence is a string of words that can have too many words, or not enough words. You have to make a choice and study the element of a sentence. Some books, for example The Hunger Games Trilogy I read fast, and didn't take much time to look at the authors sentence structure. The Mocking Jay is a metaphor for the capitols inability to control the people at all times. The Mokinjay represents the chance to overcome the Capitols atrocities. Jabber Jays sent out to spy on the rebels, and ended up being used against the capitol, the capitol leaving the Jabber Jays to die out in the wild when instead of dieing out they mated with mockingbirds, and become a new species. A cross bread if you will.

Only two  people in this world don't judge me on my looks. They embarrass my new uniform, and loved me when I was fat. They love me when I'm medium, and when i was so strung out that I looked like I could fall through my asshole and hang myself. My parents. I trust and love my parents. I went through a fase where I thought they were the reason I began using drugs. The infidelity, the denial of my drug problem. I understand now that they just did not want to believe that I would do something so drastic and perhaps even stupid. Risking my life, whoring myself. Sharing needles. Contacting Hep C.

Let me emphasize that you should believe nothing you read, and only half of what you see or hear. I am a lier and a thief. For my family who reads this, I understand that its really the only way you get to know me. Since I refuse to attend any and all family functions. Right now I'm in Hawaii so I have a reason not to interact with family, outside of my immediate family aka my moms and pops.

I intend to write. No matter how well received they are, or how hated they are. I intend to expose myself to random people on the Internet. Tell them my inner most secrets, and my inner most fears. I must begin to write at least 1 thousand words per day. Read a book per day or two depending on the size of the book. Anna Karenina has taken me 4 full days of reading. When I say days, I mean until the sun sets.

We all have creativity, some a bit more than others. We may not all be talented, but its all about what you can get away with. I'm about to get away with whatever I can.

Oh yes, and just because I'm a woman, does not make me less of a human. Just because someone is gay does not make them human. Just because there are people of different races does not make them less human. Poverty is our real enemy. Bigots are our real enemy's, sexism, racism, all the isms, I don't stand for. I might or really probably will write my next book under a pseudonym and leave out pronouns when it comes to the main character. Revealing at the end I am a woman. I will use an unisex name.

Of course I've been sending my new books to agents, and have been accepted by one. Thank you god. I got the local newspaper editor to edit my book, and he did a great job, a better job than the New York editor who edited my first book.

I encourage you to make art today. Release your creativity, Its all beautiful because it comes from an individual. How do you see the world. Put it in a painting, a short story, a poem, tagging, movie making, You are a beautiful human being. Don't let anyone tell you any different. Those of you who hurt children, and animals, well you can cut yourself open and explore yourself. Have sex with women who look young, but are adults and are willing partners. Rape is not creative. Sometimes two evils do make sense. Such as a young defencless woman is raped by a trusted person ment to have her best intrest in mind, well you are the scum of the earth. Casteration is what we should do with you. Not just casteration, but also cutting of the penis, and giving them a hose hooked up to the existing uruthra and let your bladder evacuate into a bag on your ankle.

riddle me this.

Friday, February 10, 2012

Throw down your umbical nuce so I can hang myself

(a + b) (a - b)  =  a2-b2 + 1

Above is an absurdity, because no solution exist. I've immersed myself in difficult equations, I understand very little, and am just getting acquainted with mathematical symbols. I love to look at websites that show equations and the solutions, with the work to show how they achieved that solution. It is very stimulating. Perhaps I can get better at mathematics than writing I will have new form of stimulation. Since I suck at writing, and so far really suck at mathematics, unfortunately I'm self aware enough to know I have zero talent in any field.

I'm starting to get an enough awareness of equations I can now follow interesting books about science, such as string theory, and loop theory.

I'm always so much more productive when I'm on methadone, and not abusing benzos or heroin or
even crack.

I've been thinking about my book, and how it ends so abruptly, not really explaining how I turned myself in and did my time in jail, how I got right back on methadone straight out of jail because I was facing another charge in a different county and I was sure I was going to get probation, so I got the "done" because I didn't want to even chance a relapse and more jail. Plus I was so young when I wrote that book, am still rather young. So I'm going to go through my journals for the past almost 3 years since where I finished the book. A lot has happened. Nut houses, suicide attempts, relapses, living in a homeless shelter, letting a guy live with me who ended up coming armed robbery. Now I'm back in Honolulu which always yields tons of material.

Working title another rip of from Kurt Cobain and Nirvana: Look on the Bright side Suicide

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Meat eating orchiceds forvige no one just yet

Hawaii is treating me well. I have a nice tan, I'm almost able to stand up on a surf board. Go me. My dad flew in two days ago. He's happy to back at his bar, The Hideaway. I've been reading, and I read the Hunger games trilogy in two days. They are easy books to read as well they should be since they are for young adults. Now I'm reading the Girl Who Played With Fire. I know I said I hated the Girl With a Dragon Tattoo, but I watched the movie and then read the book again and finished it. The book is actually a great book. He just took a lot of time introducing his characters. I understood why he did so after seeing the film. The Girl who played with fire gets straight to the story. There really is only two new characters and they get killed off. After I'm done reading the last book in the series, The Girl who Kicked the Hornets nest, I'm going to move on to some classic novels. Anna Karenina is what I'm probably going to start with. Did I spell the last name wrong? Reading here in Hawaii on the beach is like heaven. I've also found I love brain teasers. I bought a book of brain teasers, and found it passes the time I'm on the bus in the morning to the Methadone clinic. I've found time to work on my Grammar in my Grammar the idiots guide.

I've also found time for intercourse. I met a man in our buiding at the swimming pool, and he asked me to accompany him on a dinner cruise. I said yes. We kissed, and I gave him a great blow job the first night. He called me the next night and asked to go up to his apartment and watch The Life of Brian. Love that movie. Its hilarious. During the movie he pulled up my skirt, and of course I wasen't wearing  panties. He began to preform cunnaligas. OMG, he licked slowly at first around my clit, not ever touching it. He put his finger in pussy, and licked from my ass to the top of my labia. Then he opened my pussy lips and blew on my clit. After that he would touch my clit with his tounge really quick and then pull away, until I was begging him to lick my clit. When he started lick my clit he rolled his tounge around and around it. Then he sucked on it lightly. Just as I was about to cum, he took out his cock, and there was a little pre cum on the tip, which he used to rub my clit with. I was in ecstasy. I came screaming for him to fuck me and fuck me hard. He thrust his rock hard cock in wet pussy. He thrust hard and slow, and he was playing with nipples, I was rubbing my clit and I came again. Then he flipped me over and put his cock in ass. It hurt at first, but then he wrapped his arm around me and played with my clit until I came again. He started to really fuck my ass hard and fast, and let out this whimper and pulled his cock out of my pussy and came on my face and tits. I licked it up.  We smoked a cigarette, and I was still turned on, I was naked by then, and licked my nipple, he took the hint, and began to caress my body. teasing me his rock hard cock, slipping the head in just a little and then taking it out. I was playing with his balls, and I got on my knees and he stood up, and began mouth fucking his cock. I love the taste of my pussy juices. I would tease him like he did me, and would only suck on the head of his cock, after a few seconds of doing this I took his cock all the way down my throat. I sucked and stroked his cock. Then he picked me up off the floor and slammed me against the wall, and he was fucking me so good. I was screaming at the top of my lungs fuck me, fuck me. He had to cover my mouth. I put my hands on his ass, and was pushing him in and out. Again he let out this whimper and pulled out, and I got down and sucked his cock while he came in mouth. I had to go right after that, so I threw on my skirt and shirt and went back to my apartment. I gave myself a whores bath. I was tired from cumming so much, and still felt that glow after sex, so I laid my head down on pillow and re played the sex in my head. I fell asleep with sweet thoughts in my head.

We now pass each other in the halls of the apartment, and at the pool sometimes. I'm often reading by pool. Next time I see him by the pool I'm going to ask him to sit in the hot tub with me, and I'm going to pretend to be sitting on his lap, and take his cock out and put it in my pussy and fuck him right there in public. Then leave without saying a word. Yesterday he texted me a picture of his cock with cum shooting out. How he caught the cum just as it was shooting out was amazing. I would love to post in the blog, but I don't want to make him mad. His cock isn't the biggest, but it gets the job done. His tongue is the best tongue I've ever had.