Slumber Party? How About Party Slumber?

I fell asleep at a party in the west Bronx last night. In a room full of rowdy, none too sober people. I was sitting on a couch with my half empty cup of pale pink jungle juice at my feet, which hurt so bad from the ridiculous heels I was wearing. I just leaned my (only slightly spinning) head on Sean's shoulder and passed the fuck out. How does someone fall asleep at a social gathering? As my good friend vomited into a nearby garbage can I remained unconscious, sweetly oblivious. Apparently a few people approached me to see if I was alright. I guess I was snoring. So weird. 

candy bananas

i'm in library room 418 listening to neil young with the brightly deranged scent of yellow candy bananas in my nose. last night the entire kingsbridge area smelled like cinnamon sugar. it was so wonderful, i was like a little girl in my flip flops and skirt, gayly skipping past rape bar, also known as pauline's cabaret. life is good. 

Thursday

i am so sick of disappointing myself and everyone around me.

the kind of loathing that comes from the center of your chest and radiates outward until it pools in your fingertips. It stops in your knees,those little white dots of cruel energy that make you want to scratch a hole in your stomach, letting the better part of yourself escape, having a chance to be seperate from the weakly hued brown slime that you feel like, the color of the spit from tobacco, the filthy mouths of baseball players, all prone to lewd speech and plaque that plagues crooked teeth. you are in pain, and overwhelmed with the driving urge to literally climb out of your own repulsive visceral mass, getting caught in forests of flesh, slipping on logs of bone and swimming through rivers of hateful blood. 

i just want the aftershock of the fall. when you can't feel anything yet but the vibrations of the thud, limbs wobbling from the dive you've taken half a second ago and you know the relief of pain will be monumental, freeing in its stark red,in the stars that it makes you see. you know you won't have to live in crushing anticipation anymore because you've at last gotten what was coming to you, every single searing hurt that you deserve. your dad was right when he said you don't care about life. he was correct when he said you don't care about anything. so then why did you cry when he wouldn't stop yelling at you? why did your knees buckle and your vision fog when he drove away an hour into your first parent's weekend?

i am so sick of disappointing myself and everyone around me. 

where did it go?

Sometimes I know that I want what I can't have. When I'm riding the subway, all I can think about is the lives of my fellow passengers, and I wish that I was doing the best in my own. Sometimes I hate myself. Sitting in those plastic yellow and orange seats that have seen a world of filth and pain somehow conects me to the millions that have sat there before me. Being underground makes me want to listen to Simon and Garfunkel. I secretly feel like I'm a part of this club, a cult comprised of the teeming mass of New Yorkers, stoic yet vulnerably soft inside their puffy northface jackets. All trying to get somewhere, all unhappy with their own personal here and now. That's what the whole city was based upon, change and getting ahead, so I guess it makes sense. Sometimes I feel like my life is a series of mental blocks. I just want to be in the presence of those eyes, in those arms, that make all the tears, the blood, the fear, the slow crushing emptiness of 4:13 a.m. turn into nothing. I want to laugh in the face if my failures, roll away from the fast coming train of my future, chrome and steel, the inevitably cold metal and death bearing crunch with the subsequent loss of consciousness. He doesn't make my world spin or inspire me to write, bend my thoughts into spirals that sparkle in the sunshine turn an entire month into a gold cloaked vacation, dreamy squares on paper blurring into each other. I want so bad to be enveloped in that kind of warmth again.

thousand mile stare

Im staring at you from across the table. Not across, but diagonally. The fading edge of the Bronx is reflected in your eyes. You have the "thousand mile stare", apparently. That's what my father said about you. Addict's eyes. The funny thing is that I've begun to crave you, and the sins that I've tried to bury in hell rise like steam from the subway line, or water that's been boiling to make chamomile tea, yeah right, like dried leaves in hot water can make anyone feel less like shit. The sinister vapor comes up from the cracks in pavement into this little world of catholic education. Upstanding and all brick. Signs in green and white are so prim, regulations as an attempt to preserve the desperate image as a " fine LaSallian institution" are so blatant, but so was, I'm sure, the way that we fucked like rabbits in your room. I know that they could see it in the tousle of my hair, in your tired eyes. Do they know you're walking around with thousands of secrets, all those truths, the negatives to the positively thousands of lies you spew so readily from that boyish mouth? The mouth that I pressed my own to so many (too many) times. And now my addiction is solidified from every time we would lie on your sheets of innocent blue, now defiled by our actions, with the moon seeping through the slats of the cheap dorm blinds, plastically insipid and making a pattern on your named chest.