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.

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.

Night stand

I’m beautiful.

It’s hard to remember, when you smell like cheap cologne,

and sting like the long drive home, listening to the sound of

unfulfillment swell about the car. Hard, while following

to some static room where SNL and infomercials sound

as he awkwardly fondles and frets and you wonder what

time it is… are we over yet? But it’s still there—behind forced

conversations and “what the fuck am I doing here?”;

limit the eye contact and remove your glasses for groping.

Polite moments, and then flash-forward to 3am laundry,

doused in rubbing alcohol and familiar thoughts.

An accidental catch-the-glance of an eye behind the glass

and it’s almost striking.