I want to plumb these depths, to drag my fingers through myself (again! again. again,) sluice for something fleshy or stiff and white like bone.
I want to find the place to stick my tongue, the spot that tastes sharp, bright with pain and vaguely metallic. It will set my teeth on edge, seal my thoughts within my skull, write them out in wires and pools of whatever strange electricity it is that keeps me going.
I want something to say, and I want desperately to just shut up.
And here’s the point: Now is not the time for tearing down. Now is the time to get
The fuck
Up.

People tell me I’m hard on myself – they used to, or they tend to. The truth is, I do so very little that I feel like an asshole taking credit for or feeling good about anything that I might do.

If I could shake this sluggish feeling from my flesh and from my mind, I could do absolutely anything.

Steal leftover chicken bones and skin into a pot, cover with cold water, add carrot, celery and onion ends and skins, parsley, lots of salt and pepper, bring just about to a boil and barely simmer for at least four hours, skimming foam from the top until thickened, strain, cool, and refrigerate.

Easy chicken stock from useless leftovers.

Plus it almost of makes me feel better about being a voracious meat eater during the holidays.

What the fuck am I doing, here?

In a past life, I mean. If I have to have had one. One message painted over another. Pasted. Posted. That is to say that I don’t know that I’ve ever had anything of my own to say, but I’m sure I used to be better at saying something.

Which is not the best way to start a comeback post.

And that is what this is.

I’m struggling with myself, writing this. My inclination is to write about other people.

About my interactions with J_ and how we’re continuing to make decisions to ensure our future as friends by distancing ourselves physically. How he doesn’t want to be Just Sex and how I am lamenting being Just Friends, and how neither of us is capable of maintaining Sex and Friends in a way that makes us both happy.

About my brother, who has so much anger where I have so much sadness. Who I want to protect and nurture at the cost of allowing him to protect and nurture me.

And my mother, about whom I worry constantly. I need her to quit smoking. I need her to be quicker. I need her to take care of herself. I need her to be who I want to grow into.

I want to write about these things, and I want to hold myself back from it. I want to gut myself open, but only if I bleed pretty.

Would you believe I am incredibly reserved?

Am currently starving, directionless. Full stop.

Real bagels are shiny on the outside, and golden. They are good cold, even after toasting. Even after many hours sitting out, sliced open. Real bagels are chewy and don’t taste like loaf bread.

They taste like bagels.

Note to self: do not settle for seedy imposters. And, if you must indulge, eat it while it’s hot.

Behance find: AORTA /Marco Grizelj. Swedish photographer who takes creepy cold portraits of real life mannequins (from the looks of them) and in this case some pretty amazing abstracted architecture photos.

This shot makes my brain happy.

On Behance here. Website here.

I saw the sun today! Mystery Google told me to text something dirty to (random long distance phone number). This is what I wrote:

It has been raining for weeks. The leaves have made a slippery pink paper pulp on the sidewalk.

No response. No soul mate. Which is something that I am apparently fishing for. I’ve met enough to know that they exist. Lost enough to know that it doesn’t really matter.

Everybody needs a hobby. Something to dress up for. Something to try for.

Short sentences make me happy.

Happiness is a state of mine.