when i die, i hope to be a better man

blood is not blood. it's not made of oxygen and cells, it's composition is not what it appears to be. it's made of clover honey, thick and threatening, bringing toxins and love to your extremities, keeping you slow and sluggish but ready for a knockout blow or it's vinegar, thin and sour, keeping you limbs ready to move but slow on endurance and easily blown over. it carries ideas, some foolish some brilliant, into our minds and when our lips caress, it's the metallic honey i taste, and my lips remind you of summers on the coast, picnics with fish brining in special tins your father made for the occasion. he's dead now, and so are we, but, our blood pools around us and tells a story our love never could.

i finished the savage detectives.

You're good at talking shit. Let's see how good you are at backing it up.




Someone tried to take my photo at work today. I heard the fake "camera" noise from the phone but I think all they caught was my turned back and the fist-raised-with-the-middle-finger. I hope, if it makes it on the internet, I can make it my default picture.

this line is metaphysical

We danced. It was the last time I would see her, but, neither of us knew it, and, visions of gaudy, expensive rings and dresses ruined by salinity danced through my head. She clung close to me, her head resting on my protruding sternum and I moved more fluidly than I ever had or have. It was a song by Serge Gainesbourgh and, ocassionally, his daughter would chime in with lilting, etherial notes and in those moments, she would cling even closer, her small breasts crushed against my chest and the blood rushed to my head. The drinks we were using to bring us to this point were quickly discarded, our bar tab forgotten in the sweltering heat of the top floor of this old warehouse-turned-dance hall. I can't say we were in love, but, who knows? Maybe for those few moments, our legs intertwined, thigh against thigh, maybe we were. Maybe love is never a permanent feeling, maybe love is not a birth-right, maybe it is just a few fleeting moments that remind us that we really are fucked from birth to death and we might as well appreciate the few small blessings we're given and not try to manufacture something divine in nature.

I left the next day for the sweltering green and she stayed where she was and we never answered each other's phone calls.

a real revolutionary

According to List, who was personally familiar with the brothel, mi general liked to screw in the most out-of-the-way room, which wasn't very big but had the advantage of being at the back of the house, far from the noise, near this courtyard where there was a fountain. And after screwing, mi general liked to go out into the courtyard to smoke a cigarette and think about postcoital sadness, that vexing sadness of the flesh, and about all the books he hadn't read



Roberto Bolano, The Savage Detectives

Why can't I meet a girl who takes themselves as seriously and everything else as ridiculously as I do? other qualifications: she's a babe.



sorry world. i am still shallow.

did i make me up

This is gay. I mean, you know, slang gay. It sucked. I had a good time last night. I got dragged to a strip club. I turned down a threeway. I have my reasons. Happy 4th, fuckers.