wishful garbage heartbeat, llc

March 17, 2018 § Leave a comment

i am going through letters and it’s awful. seeing my trashfire life through other people’s eyes. also it’s great to see and know that people still wrote to me and loved me through my trashfireness.

here are some phrases that i wrote on a piece of paper. i wrote them while driving to Gainesville from Sanford, FL  where the Amtrak dropped off me and my jalopy, The Mongler (RIP). the phrases were from signs i saw along the way. the paper is a print out of google maps. it is dated 7/31/2006.

Great food
Adult toys
Free truck showers
We bare all

The UN wants to take your gun away!

Cafe risque
Couples welcome

Heartbeat at 18 days!

Wishful Thinking Western Wear.

Chrome: passion or obsession?


entropy song

October 11, 2017 § Leave a comment

It’s finally fall, break out the pumpkin spice mothballs and the cinnamon heartworm meds

paint your nails with mauve formaldehyde and mash a highlighter into your corpse-like paleness, the blue grey undereye slices

recline on the floor.

I dreamt of New Zealand with the landscape of north Florida. Sandy soil and gravel, dry grasses and dirty lakes.

But IRL there was no fall there. I spent my days kneeling on the warm ground, snatching any bit of red, orange, rust, ochre, saffron, blood. I strung them up like clues. 

if there is an upside to this government nightmare, it’s made all of us more conscious of our side profiles. neck tightening exercise bands are selling like hot cakes, hot cakes are selling at an average pace.

My head has been hurting for a few days straight. our television doesn’t do dark colors well, so i can focus on the pixelated edges when i am suffocating under cousin Matthew’s smooth cheekjowls, waiting for him to die already.

If you try and think about your uterus stretching, your body sinking. I sing the body neglected. Why have children? Google it.

The bathroom feels dirty at all times. The ghosts in the crumbled urine cake floor. The family before us lived a joyful life and it did not involve sealing the tiled floor properly. 

each decision is a conscious delay: the floor will rot, the house will undo, the body will decay, but if we leave in time, we won’t have to see it.

high five so am i

May 22, 2016 § Leave a comment

Angel Olsen is killing me. today all of a sudden not really i remembered music and how that is. we drove to the library today. the whole ipod on shuffle, liberal with the skip.

the other thing was that earlier i looked through every photo of me on facebook in hopes of finding a new profile picture. to re-enter the fray. but why look to the past to represent the present, if a profile picture represents anything, anyway? no answer yet. i saw a picture i drew on mspaint of a moment i had with julian casablancas during a strokes show. we all agreed it was very much a moment, that his dead eyes and stylish husk stopped longer than normal in front of me, and the bouncer was very kind to let me touch his hair.

so today somewhere towards the library the strokes came on. that combined with the mspaint scene. i remembered who i was when i was 19. i am not that person anymore so here is an elegy to that scattered mess of a proto-woman who loved with her whole body but directed said love like an orange rolling blindly down a curb gutter. that person who schemed in her pea coat and new balances and crafted aim away messages for the boy in irish literature who never seemed to do any work but tucked his shirt in.

a person liberal with the eyebrow tweezer. dedicated to and untalented with her nikon camera, steadfast to film, not that digital crap. who tried on a cancer wig and saw the rough arc of the human experience in 7 months and rode the bus to the hospital. who illustrated vulvas on t-shirts for the upcoming performance of the vagina monologues.

that girl drank a lot of dasani, drank whatever else was available, wore a black tanga, made forts, slept on uncapped pens. feng shui-ed the dorm. schemed and schemed. signed an ex-nothing up for scat porn emails. lived in a thick layer of self-hatred, charmed her way around, begged for suggestions as to what to do with her appearance. saw silence of the lambs and secretary. none of her various idolized tools deserved her but she persisted anyway thinking perhaps the right man had taken the form of a pretentious gaslighting asshat.

she was an underbaked shiksa blogger (called livejournaler?) with doughy promise and such squeezing, pressing unmet needs. a sloppy wobbling superstitious ingénue. such an unrolled, obvious, glowing idiot. you were quite a sight.


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