Arkansa and Reminisence

Glycerin is a valuable aid for chapped skin.



So it goes. And then there is mediocrity. Not passionless, not empty, but not clearly here. With me unclear. Just want to scream and she makes that face and that noise and I want to imitate it and laugh and that would make me clear, but no. Unclear is all right. I’m all right.

It’s all gone back. Two years and now I have gone nowhere. Happiest months of my life. Giddy. Oh so Partridge Family and I didn’t care! No.

“She’s so goddamn peppy.”

Me?

“She just goes through life and everything’s…sunny.”

Yes.

Yes I heard you. You are a beast and he has a big nose. Good cologne only gets you so far. Ruined it for me. Thanks. Reverted back and old fucking middle school is now and then I’m still screaming. Mediocre. Yes, I am probably afraid of success. And love. And boys. And short skirts. And dancing in public. Oh me, oh Life! How I strive to be a wallflower, but Walt Whitman won’t let me. Yes I will blame it on him and then I will not have to

Peach is by far my favorite flavor. Song, Steve Miller, peach shaved ice at Liberty Land this summer and I was happy. He had tiger’s blood and the roller coaster was an exhilarating memory. Termites. Ha! I want another one. Balloon tied to my rear view mirror. Was that then? Doesn’t matter.

I wish he’d stop calling. He keeps calling and I answer. I am not 14 anymore. You taste like smoke and I hate hair gel. Stop calling.

So here we go.


“You sing like a flute.”

Thank you. Corner to corner, please follow suit. Smile.



If I was to kill myself right now I wouldn’t even though I am now 14 again and want to kill myself. Shoulder length hair. Toe nails painted black. Should I cut it off? No. I look better this way. Barbie?


NO NOT AGAIN.

Sometimes the thought of someone is your mind playing tricks on you. Sometimes you must force yourself to breathe when your stomach knots and twists and your chest fills and stops. And I’ve stopped and curled and my body is playing tricks on me. Coke? No. Hey, don’t look at me.
Triangles begin to make my eyes burn. Jumping rope makes me feel like this: pathetic and frustrated and ready to demolish and break. Broken loser. No one wants a lousy sense of humor and self-loathing hatred.
My hair is dirty from blowing in the wind. I feel sick and disgusting like a carpet stain. Repulsive. What am I talking about? I AM FINE. Corners, I’m funny.
Sometimes the words of someone play tricks on you. Your paranoia comforts you by pointing the finger elsewhere. It doesn’t work for me. Why isn’t my finger funny? Why are my attempts not recognized? Goddamn it don’t look at me.
I can take that curve at 55. Fuck the goddamn recommendation! Fuck goddamn nausea. I refuse! I REFUSE!
Money- ooos and ahhs and concepts of capitalism. The raspberry candy cane colors my tongue and sugar coats the world. Cheap is good and I feel wealthy. A dime. Hah! Circus peanuts are like settling for less, even if they cost more. I can afford both. I can smile too, after I lick the candy cane. I bite and break and consume and it is gone and I have no more wealth.

When there is no paper, you settle for plastic.

No paper in the cave. Only rock. My cuts and bruises feel good. Five and a half hours of dark and a nap in the front seat lead me to a cigarette scented room. Floral patterns. Crsipy chicken salad. Needs almonds.
Barry Manilow goes on forever and so will I if I only consume 1400 calories a day. Maybe. Maybe I could. I won’t.



Marlon Brando died.