ground up
there comes a point when you have to just let the blue bloods eat in privacy. i am sick of lesbian culture and the women's movement and the victimization of class and status and gender and sexual preference and skin color. but most especially the whining of the bored upper class.
show me the color of your sin.
i want the blood coursing through you veins, as it curdles, not the lineage of genetic predisposition. not the pedigree or the degree on the wall, or your family name. and god, not the ennui of privilege. it rips my heart out to see perfectly good white boys wasting themselves away on self-hatred and existential malaise that neither offers reward of pain & torture or the desire to slum it up. for fuck's sake, SLUM with purpose at the very least. but it comes as no surprise that the overly self-absorbed are willing to slum for reasons like "research methods, low culture experience or good old fashioned well-born rebellion.
i get off on these types as they seem to piss in the wind, and i the faces of an underclass woman such as myself. but i am, for the most part, over it. i have not found a true heart in that shit yet. it's always back to competitive dick-pulling and situational relativity. put blue very close to magenta, watch how the relation to color changes each color. we are not always synonymous with chakra color theory, but for the most part it is truth to be slightly discolored by another human being. priggishness isn't a sin. i want the sin much closer to the ones you hold dear at night in a comfy bed, with high thread count sheets and neutral, tasteful colors further stereotyping your muted existence.
do you not like me because i was imperfect in a perfectly constructed paradigm of lusty hillbilly meets impoverished sophist? My fallacy is having a shitty, piss stained carpet while drinking from Waterford. Well, hell's bells, sweetheart. Don't let me ruin your running paradigm. how about i go crazy from your mysterious brooding self-imposed listlessness while I text you every 30 minutes in a panic that i feel unloved and alone. or would you prefer an overly-clingy, even more world weary ex-punk rock chick that will cut her thighs and send you bloodletting pictures so that you might find yourself pulled into the web of the wounded bird, forgetting your own tight-assed proclivities for the evening?
maybe you think you can fuck the pain away? or maybe buy the pain in the form of designer bags and la perl a lingerie for a sweet girl who doesn't even know what the fuck la perla is? no, i think, you'd further sank to the idea of it being completely pink box, victoria's secret, ripping off the scabs of inertia for a night or two, to really put a nice, fucked up girl in her formal role as slutty socialist, freedom of the people, by the people, to exact a perfectly slut-born underclass sexy. barbie doll sexy.
but wait, you seem more the intellectualized version of what you need to partake of. you want to eat well, but you also want to drink your beer from a can in a shitty motel on the side of a desert town highway, becoming less than nobody. that's more suited. "look. look at these times, the ridiculous things i must do to escape my aristocracy!" i am drinking beer from cans and my slutty girlfriend grew up in a trailer park. look at this really awful victoria's secret butt-writting pair of knickers on the floor. you read the "I HEART ME" ring in collegiate block letters across the ass & think "she no more loves herself, than i love myself." she smiles and laughs politely. and you feel like a sinking hot breath pull into your lungs as you gag from her cigarette smoke.
this, too, is empty.
it always comes up empty. for you, for the rest of us. for the movements and the politics and the little puppy dogged rich boys who can't get a break with the hot, taftooed girls who real, want a bearded, similarly tattooed boyfriend their sure to be fucking on the side, after you've toddled of to work. another day of empty cans and bottles and tearfully, it's not even regrettable. it's just perfection because it's humanity. the whole of it. the whole fucking lot is a waterford crystal wine glass smashed on the floor of a shitty hotel room floor. it's fucking, god damned perfect. and you're too bored to see it.
trappings. i say here, hold my hand. but i trap you, also. builded cages are not always made of gold. sometimes they are made of dreams. and stars. and mysterious women who do not fulfill all of your preconceived expectations of that running paradigm. we are not always from trailers, though perhaps, the best ones are. we're not gypsies or white trash, but some of us are that, as well. we're well-fucked and full of joie de vivre. some of us are well-spoken, have histories, personal mythologies we cling to in the same exact way as you, sitting there in your clean hushpuppies and cardigan. some of cling to unfairness because the world has been unfair. some of us don't give one fuck about any of it and prefer to live on the edge of a suicide note, one unflattering chipped tooth and bad hair dye job at a time. it's whatever gets us by.
i write because i want to fuck myself in many ways. i want to meet myself 20 years ago and say "you should probably set some goals and stop this pen is mightier than the sword folktale and get a fucking job." but instead, i see men like you and i want to lip into your skin and heal and nurture your scars like a determined existential nurse. truth be told, you no more want to be healed than i do. and that's the glory of living. why sully ourselves with unrelenting stagnant happiness when we can quietly, creatively suffer and yearn. someone once told me that was toxic, but i think better of myself and my tragic narrative than that. i know, as you do, that what we tell others, we need to hear. it's a nice calamitous dialogue we can cling to when we realize from the moment of birth, we've been auctioned. we're coldly sold off to the world of adults and cars and four bedroom homes and jobs that keep us in a deplorable state of spiritual deadlock.
it's not a competition. it can't be when we're all waiting in the bread line. just because you got curtsies, oh polished one, doesn't mean you're not exactly like the rest of us. it is fine to be the shiniest jewel in the box, but just try and hang on to the beauty of tarnished choices. they happen. they are no more mistakes than having a really farty lunch before a board meeting.
show me the color of your sin.
i want the blood coursing through you veins, as it curdles, not the lineage of genetic predisposition. not the pedigree or the degree on the wall, or your family name. and god, not the ennui of privilege. it rips my heart out to see perfectly good white boys wasting themselves away on self-hatred and existential malaise that neither offers reward of pain & torture or the desire to slum it up. for fuck's sake, SLUM with purpose at the very least. but it comes as no surprise that the overly self-absorbed are willing to slum for reasons like "research methods, low culture experience or good old fashioned well-born rebellion.
i get off on these types as they seem to piss in the wind, and i the faces of an underclass woman such as myself. but i am, for the most part, over it. i have not found a true heart in that shit yet. it's always back to competitive dick-pulling and situational relativity. put blue very close to magenta, watch how the relation to color changes each color. we are not always synonymous with chakra color theory, but for the most part it is truth to be slightly discolored by another human being. priggishness isn't a sin. i want the sin much closer to the ones you hold dear at night in a comfy bed, with high thread count sheets and neutral, tasteful colors further stereotyping your muted existence.
do you not like me because i was imperfect in a perfectly constructed paradigm of lusty hillbilly meets impoverished sophist? My fallacy is having a shitty, piss stained carpet while drinking from Waterford. Well, hell's bells, sweetheart. Don't let me ruin your running paradigm. how about i go crazy from your mysterious brooding self-imposed listlessness while I text you every 30 minutes in a panic that i feel unloved and alone. or would you prefer an overly-clingy, even more world weary ex-punk rock chick that will cut her thighs and send you bloodletting pictures so that you might find yourself pulled into the web of the wounded bird, forgetting your own tight-assed proclivities for the evening?
maybe you think you can fuck the pain away? or maybe buy the pain in the form of designer bags and la perl a lingerie for a sweet girl who doesn't even know what the fuck la perla is? no, i think, you'd further sank to the idea of it being completely pink box, victoria's secret, ripping off the scabs of inertia for a night or two, to really put a nice, fucked up girl in her formal role as slutty socialist, freedom of the people, by the people, to exact a perfectly slut-born underclass sexy. barbie doll sexy.
but wait, you seem more the intellectualized version of what you need to partake of. you want to eat well, but you also want to drink your beer from a can in a shitty motel on the side of a desert town highway, becoming less than nobody. that's more suited. "look. look at these times, the ridiculous things i must do to escape my aristocracy!" i am drinking beer from cans and my slutty girlfriend grew up in a trailer park. look at this really awful victoria's secret butt-writting pair of knickers on the floor. you read the "I HEART ME" ring in collegiate block letters across the ass & think "she no more loves herself, than i love myself." she smiles and laughs politely. and you feel like a sinking hot breath pull into your lungs as you gag from her cigarette smoke.
this, too, is empty.
it always comes up empty. for you, for the rest of us. for the movements and the politics and the little puppy dogged rich boys who can't get a break with the hot, taftooed girls who real, want a bearded, similarly tattooed boyfriend their sure to be fucking on the side, after you've toddled of to work. another day of empty cans and bottles and tearfully, it's not even regrettable. it's just perfection because it's humanity. the whole of it. the whole fucking lot is a waterford crystal wine glass smashed on the floor of a shitty hotel room floor. it's fucking, god damned perfect. and you're too bored to see it.
trappings. i say here, hold my hand. but i trap you, also. builded cages are not always made of gold. sometimes they are made of dreams. and stars. and mysterious women who do not fulfill all of your preconceived expectations of that running paradigm. we are not always from trailers, though perhaps, the best ones are. we're not gypsies or white trash, but some of us are that, as well. we're well-fucked and full of joie de vivre. some of us are well-spoken, have histories, personal mythologies we cling to in the same exact way as you, sitting there in your clean hushpuppies and cardigan. some of cling to unfairness because the world has been unfair. some of us don't give one fuck about any of it and prefer to live on the edge of a suicide note, one unflattering chipped tooth and bad hair dye job at a time. it's whatever gets us by.
i write because i want to fuck myself in many ways. i want to meet myself 20 years ago and say "you should probably set some goals and stop this pen is mightier than the sword folktale and get a fucking job." but instead, i see men like you and i want to lip into your skin and heal and nurture your scars like a determined existential nurse. truth be told, you no more want to be healed than i do. and that's the glory of living. why sully ourselves with unrelenting stagnant happiness when we can quietly, creatively suffer and yearn. someone once told me that was toxic, but i think better of myself and my tragic narrative than that. i know, as you do, that what we tell others, we need to hear. it's a nice calamitous dialogue we can cling to when we realize from the moment of birth, we've been auctioned. we're coldly sold off to the world of adults and cars and four bedroom homes and jobs that keep us in a deplorable state of spiritual deadlock.
it's not a competition. it can't be when we're all waiting in the bread line. just because you got curtsies, oh polished one, doesn't mean you're not exactly like the rest of us. it is fine to be the shiniest jewel in the box, but just try and hang on to the beauty of tarnished choices. they happen. they are no more mistakes than having a really farty lunch before a board meeting.