Here we are again.

Oh fuck. It's 1:12 am and here I am again on the internet. It's so senseless what I do. I stay up lurking and absorbing all this stupid useless shit that gets me riled up for no reason before bed. I should have gone to bed hours ago. What the fuck am I still doing up? AND I have work to do. FUCK.

Oh, yeah, hi it's me again. Not that anyone's reading? I do it for myself I guess.

I'm such a scumsucker. I'm like searching the webzzz looking for a fight. I swear to god, I'm such a pugnacious prick. What am I trying to prove? Or, more acutely, what I am trying to say? I feel like me arguing is cathartic to a point, but there's a bigger issue. I don't have the brain matter for this any more.

Yes, the conclusion is that everything that's happened is my fault. Well, I'm getting over it.

Oh yes, I broke up with Dave and he won't leave me alone. Jesus Christ, he's whining like a 12 year old kid. What pisses me off the most is everything he says to me is about HIM, how he wants to prove HIMSELF to me, how HE can make me happy, and how he doesn't understand how someone who loves him won't even see him. Fuck, um, so you're not doing this in the prospects of loving me? Ugh. I'm so done. I broke up with him for ME. And it's wonderful. Bitter and lonesome. But wonderful. I got my girls, my drankkk and my two step. Fuck off.

PS, being Polish is so complicated. Me being Polish doesn't equate me to being "pro life" or any of that conservative shit. Plus, Catholicism is a sinking ship and deeming myself one is like tying a millstone around my neck and jumping into the Atlantic with my arms tied. Fuck no, thanks. So, do me a favor, and don't assume. Don't assume I'm Catholic, don't assume I'm straight, don't assume I'm gay, don't assume I'm a crazy liberal, don't assume I'm this, that and a fucking IQ point off of being mindless. Just, don't. I hate assumptions, you have no fucking idea. Yeah, I'm talking to YOU.

I've decided to be active and aggressive. I don't care where it gets me as long as it gets me out of here. PS, fuck highschool man. Because a telephone call, a fucking TEXT, would kill you? What the fuck, were you all fake with me to begin with? Ugh, over it. ON TO THE NEXT ONE. And yes, I actually do like Jay Z, I don't care what you think. He's the fuggin menggg.

OKay, bye. I have to do my CST proposal. It's due tomorrow. And, it's fucking awesome. Like me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


diseased fingers clutching backboned brushes,
your hair falls in clumps, and dumps, and lumps.
silly, we hold on to elementary school rhymes in hopes
of somehow preserving an
innocence
we shall never know. I am envious of those
learning to walk, when all I know is how to
run, run, run and fall. sewing buttons on this
jacket, this old musty thing, i try to piece
together something I knew of myself. I apologize.
What does that mean?
I am hungry. Hungry for a word.
But you are right not to feed me. I am a
traitor. Traiter? Traitor?
Spell that with an 'o'? I like the 'e' better, it's like a sharper
tone, a knife. Nevermind the buttons, I must plan on
escaping being a wife. Silly, silly rhymes...
Whatever happened to those days where the sun
beat hard on our freshly sewn backs
freckled in our mother's hue?
I liked peeling the burns off, you liked
stealing my shoes.
I was blessed and I took it for jokes,
or perhaps I am cursed, and was all along,
but was too miserable to notice.
Chalk dust. Sunscreeen. Powdered juice.
I'm so silly. So silly.
My back is hardened now. With scabs that itch.
The plague has come after all, these buttons,
these goddamn buttons,
are the first on the sacrificial list.