i'll let you know when i get there

I'm pretty sure nothing means anything, really. interpret as you will. 3 hour assembly. all of then are starting to blur. they all wear ridiculous heels. girls winning more awards than they can carry. who are these little robot children? these little doers? what will they need in ten years? nothing. they will never need anything. they will have ski weekends with their ivy fiances and take the lift up. of course, they will take the lift up and admire the view where the trashy men and coked up women in the city are smaller than little snowflakes, and really all the same. people die. pain is relative. people can be kind. poor people rich people. so what. mountains don't give a damn.

because the pendulum is tiring. terrifying in its slow consistency. the middle just never sticks. of course, when we have to, we do. do you even know your own glow? you must. just stuck on the shadow at the now. that's what's so irritating. there is only substance and shadow. there is only ever the something and the nothing and I hate that. i am angry that we only ever get one shot. that i will only ever be me. not that i don't lovemyselfyaddyyaddy... it's just... unbearable lightness. i am angry about ugly babies. i don't know what to think about the fact that we will all be robot cyborgs someday. these things matter to me. because i don't know what matters. i don't know what is substance. where to while my hours. where to place my bets. isn't it pretty? it is nice to share a shadow.

THE STAKES ARE EVERYTHING. SO, EXECUTIONERS, STATE YOUR INTENT. full of holes, she wobbles- to-walk wobbles-to-walk almost brave almost what does enough feel like? the passing lane's a dangerous and difficult place for those who secretly want proof. all living along the fault line, careful planners and mindless dreamers constantly collide-- and ricochet. and i-- i throw my fate like confetti; because uncertainty is time and i was always last in line when it came to making plans and contingency plans caught between the picket lines of wanting solid ground and room to move around. is it the longing or belonging-- which is the mistake? armed with losers' luck and a gambler's smile, squandering chances & weathering (whethering) loss alone, and all the hunger it implies, bred and butterless. freefalls and u-turns midwiving seedbeds of altering trajectories---> Let SEEM Be The Operative Word! Let Seem Be THE...

You know what bums me out? Thoughts like, "What about the ugly babies?" There are ugly people in grown up form, and there are some seriously ugly babies. And that is just the way it is. And you know what? Even when they're babies, they get talked about for their ugliness. I know. I've done it. I, a full grown woman, have snickered and psst pssted about a number of small ugly humans. And that baby is just laying there being ugly, or all smush faced in a picture with no idea that a whole lifetime of discrimination is lined up to meet them just as soon as they reach self awareness. And this is not fair. Something about this is stupid. Something tears at me when I think about how someone can live their whole life focusing a ridiculous percentage of their attention on a particularly hideous body part (that the whole world is focused on too). It depresses me that there are people who will never have a comfortable sexual encounter. ever. Because they are ugl...

you do when you have to.

"We are here on earth to fart around. Don't let anybody tell you any different." -Kurt Vonnegut

russian woman with nine teeth and a cart. needs directions. walks with me for four slow blocks. she doesn't need directions. you have a warm aura. this location is not for you. when i smile she inspects my gums and derives from their shade that god has saved me many times. picking up little scraps of paper along the way. messages, they're all messages, love. jesus cured her cancer. he told her in a dream not to eat livestock and to preach. and to preach. when she preaches to people, she makes stalled busses start again. i remind her of her daughter sarah because i have dimple and a a vein on my neck. by the way, do i want to be her caretaker for ten dollars an hour? another russian prophet trying to tell me how i am. no matter how disheveled, i am apparently way too approachable to walk in peace.

humanity comes from fire, no metaphor. breakdown post apocalyptic scenarios challenge everything suicide or survival isn't suicide more practical? there is no argument. morality socially constructed and FRAGILE so fragile. yet we cling to it like it's solid concrete, a skyscraper landmark to buy souvenirs of and to look for on the horizon. There is no monument that cannot crumble. Find a shrine within yourself and navigate the streets, wary of cracks.

wants balance feels like crawling into some kind of den away from eyes and invitation whittle it down rest in peace we're all so beautiful we're all too beautiful and misunderstood let's get one thing straight: mobius strip paradox how can we ever judge? aren't we all responsible? probably capable. may or may not. we're all just army crawling through another fast decade fingernails clawing new terrors toward some distant answer to a familiar longing possible to gesture toward impossible to name

we both kind of each other what good is having got that? a powerful distraction unnamed friend you never took to titles and i could chase you, find you in the streets but that's not how the book ends. conclusion. resolution. "Oh, Jesus God" (109). gogogo heavy heart lightly like being free (unbearable) a different kind of freedom curled up next to a familiar fear. "love a wild thing, end up looking at the sky" i left the window open. the window was always open, my huckleberry friend. the mean reds. the book ends. google first link: breakfast at tiffany's critical analysis

liarliar, pants on fire that exact moment when tension moves to danger things we convince ourselves honesty has to be practiced in the smallest ways to be the first thought when it matters most. practice. let's not pretend let's not act like real life when it's only reciting lines while the truth curls into some kind of shell you tend the horse, i will grow a garden.