testing testing.
this is an attempt to make something happpen. my fingertips are moving on their own and i am not controlling them them them them. it is all just spilling out of me. i can feel nothing. i cannot feel anything. i feel everything all at once. my waist is three inches too big today. tomorrow it will be something else. tomorrow will not happen for you or for me or for you or fuck you. it is incredible how much you have hurt me. there, that was something logical for ya. hope that is working out for you just nice. my veins, their blood, i feel it moving right now. it may be the caffeine or it may be the fact that i cannot remember what the drugs are supposed to fix anymore or if there was anything left of me to fix when i started them so long ago. how many years has it been? well i havent eaten any meat for a while. before that i had to go to the hospital for not having enough iron. i was lifting weights and telling everyone at the gym that i had found the man i was going to marry. i was thirteen going on blind dates with every teacher i ever had. you were the seventies, with your shaggy blonde hair and prettyboy blue eyes. lots of talk and lots of polyester, it makes you hot. it made me sigh. it made us think twice about what was going on, who i was, who you were. what we were. what are we, anyway? i am in love with you. no i am not. i love the fifties and you are trying but that is not you. you are san francisco, a city confused by all the glitter. no, san francisco knows what it is doing. you are just lost amongst it all. this writing bit was an attempt to purge myself of a parasite that i think i have. i really think i have it. it is eating all of me, and speeds up my blood to my heart. which is dead anyway. it does not need all that blood. maybe send it to my brain, that way i can actually do something right for a change. i have fifty cents in change right now, today i bought a ripped chair. it was rippped. curly moustache asked if we would reupholster it. maybe it is fine the way it is. it was more beautiful than that bullshit white one upstairs. there was nothing to that one. nothing at all. just a lot a whole lot of white emotion. i used to love you because i thought we made a tragic pair. we were green and black and gold and shades of pink that had never before been seen. and now we are nothing, and that makes you happy because you knew that with me you could never get what you wanted. whatever the hell that may be or was or is. i am glad. i am glad it is done, for once i can breathe. maybe hope that i can love myself again. i spent so much time loving you enough for both of us that i forgot who i was. i love fashion, not all fashion, only the kind that dares to speak the words that can never be said. i love the drama to an outfit that makes people stop. it makes people feel a certain way. whatever that may be, it is extreme. writing helps me cope. i took a class on coping and what i learned is that class cannot teach you anything that writing cannot. that probably doesnt make sense because my mind moves faster than my fingers can type. and i am just typing. like kerouac was alleged with. typing typing typing. how i would love to throw my type writer at something fragile. old glass, perhaps. watch it shatter. watch it crumble.