serial killers & fudgescicles: random musings

No one cares if you lose 5lbs… not even 10. When you tell someone that you’ve “lost 10 lbs” they just sort of look at you, apologetically, thinking about all the times you’ve lost ten pounds. Even 20 pounds for me is ridiculously subtle because I’m an Amazon woman. Only other weight-obsessed people notice and are pissed off.

I had a great “photo shoot” with this gorgeous girl, Elaine from high school. I’m pleased with the outcome, even though the only people who commented on my Facebook album were Dr. Taylor and my mom… Edwin Serrano (the stereotypical short, angry kid who rides around on a scooter and relies on his artistic abilities to gain fame) complimented me on my lighting though, which must count for something. Now I KNOW I’m legit!

I dog-sat this weekend and came to the realization that I’m secretly afraid of animals. I mean, I love pets but there’s always an underlying fear that a dog is going to turn on me and bite my face off while I’m petting it. My mom is to blame for this, of course. I remember as a kid, having her scream at me while petting animals and freaking out. It’s now deeply embedded in my psyche like my fear of serial killers… (my mom used to tell me stories about the Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez who ripped out little old ladies’ eye balls when I was around 8. She claimed to have seen him outside her window and she told me that he killed people in yellow and blue houses… our house is bright blue.)

I had this CRAZY dream last night that I was a stand-up comedian, and I sucked. I also had a dream that I was grocery shopping in Russia with these two guys who were both madly in love with me. I was a midget in this last dream, and really, really hideous. (I watched this show on this midget who was getting married to the man of her dreams– maybe that’s why).

*section taken out* (secretive, eh?)

Jesus Christ, I need a fudgescicle.

Cutting through static night

Cutting through static night, a plane flies

while you mumble breaths and

think of scenes with someone else.

In solitary sleep, bareness engulfs me

and you too are soft; unaided and striking;

on your own, and yet how ironic it all seems!

This fleshy arm spun around a tired, frumpy

clump of nothing really, save some

weathered down that seeps through little

holes you meddle with mechanically.

Who am I tonight? It’s your pick between

characters who beat and touch–

the ones who ignored you and the others

who never said much. I’ll just let you

do the talking and help you forget

those doors that quietly unhinge in tip-toed

stillness– the 5-o-clock get-always and

sad hours when we wake at once together again,

empty. You’re mine, and despite gentlemen

who gruffly grab and push us to

the side, tomorrow evening, alas,

it’s me with whom you’ll sigh, and say

“good night.”

He looked so different

He looked so different online; Jesus Christ…
with clichéd spiny hands and beady eyes
that detail of his drive and Northern Lights; 
“While here the chicks wear short-shorts and get high”—
Again there’s coffee and another lie—
our angled photos, fiercely hiding truth.
 I can’t get over chin and mouth that spies 
my own (a grotesque notion.) Quite uncouth 
for someone like me… Grinding grinds and tooth 
we sit and talk about our lives. I leave
and yet we both feel less. Here’s solemn proof:
still driving home to cats and empty sheets…  
And yet, despite the fickle web I spin
I know that I am lonely, just like him.