Sleep. Awake. Eat. Repeate. Get drunk. Fall in love. Come up. Come down. Sleep. Cigarettes. Salad-bar. Fight & sleep. Cry. Get high. Retreat. Sleep. Pancakes and more cigarettes. Pack bag & cry. Escape. Get drunk. Get high. Repeate to sleep. Fall out of love.
"This is the final boarding call for flight DJ482..."
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Be careful what you wish for.
I forgot how much worse unrequited love is than actually NOT being in love.
Think bitter almonds, benedrine and all that terrible writer shit.
- posted via drunken iPhone.
Think bitter almonds, benedrine and all that terrible writer shit.
- posted via drunken iPhone.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
a rainy Sunday night
You know that terrible feeling you sometimes get, where you crave something you just can't put your finger on?
I want lust.
But instead, I will dance and drink and wake up pressed against a bed full of friends and strangers. My only memories a blur of car rides and dirty toliets and maybe I'll tell you all about it one night over a cup of coffee.
Remembering when you were mine
In a still suburban town
When every thursday I'd brave those mountain passes
And you'd skip your early classes
And we'd learn how our bodies worked. - Deathcab For Cutie
I want lust.
But instead, I will dance and drink and wake up pressed against a bed full of friends and strangers. My only memories a blur of car rides and dirty toliets and maybe I'll tell you all about it one night over a cup of coffee.
Remembering when you were mine
In a still suburban town
When every thursday I'd brave those mountain passes
And you'd skip your early classes
And we'd learn how our bodies worked. - Deathcab For Cutie
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
One Year Without Light - an excerpt
“I know you will find some one to love you in ways I can’t.” It wasn’t exactly the words of Mr. Darcy, who she loved, whose male counterparts she idolised on the ancient television at the foot of her bed. But words spoken from the heart are often more simple, less eloquent than those we plan. They left me deflated, waiting for the next response from her, yet her freckled cheeks remained still. I left her there, sitting cross-legged. A stronger man would not have looked back, would not have hoped she would come running to my car, slide into the passenger seat and take my hand, the way she had after so many fights. Or drunk, slurring and hiccupping, reach across my thighs, and I would take back anything I had said to upset her wholeheartedly, not caring her makeup was smudging and her hair tangling in my palm. It was as if all the shouting, all the slammed doors could be summed up in one simple sentence. I felt those heavy words in my hands, weighed them a moment and drove home.
"Beyond Ink" - an excerpt
I THE DECLINE
She had become rather demented around the time her first novel was published. It was a dark, scathing tale about young women living in various poverty stricken conditions. It was hailed by critics, yet its apparent readership was limited to close friends of Madeline’s. Huddled in her loft apartment they lamented over the plights of the characters as if it were their own misery.
It was around this time that Madeline stopped paying her electricity bills. Friends who called often were only greeted by the constantly closed doors. No one had heard from her for several weeks. Not her mother, nor her sister, nor the married cartoonist for the New York Times with whom she was conducting an illicit affair. She had, in a sense, disappeared and no amount of phone calls, nor urging could woo her back. Her friends thought perhaps she was writing her much awaited sequel and as friends often do, soon lost interest in her.
No one remarked that since her book was printed there seemed a undefinable unease about her. No one recalled at the dinner parties where her whereabouts was often discussed quite rabidly, the glint of something-not-quite sane in her pale eyes, that she had lost weight. Or perhaps most disturbing and obvious of all, that her apartment had become filled with notes, taped over doorways, across each inch of her mirror and one solitary note wrapped tightly around her toothbrush. Perhaps they had not noticed, or did not want to.
She had become rather demented around the time her first novel was published. It was a dark, scathing tale about young women living in various poverty stricken conditions. It was hailed by critics, yet its apparent readership was limited to close friends of Madeline’s. Huddled in her loft apartment they lamented over the plights of the characters as if it were their own misery.
It was around this time that Madeline stopped paying her electricity bills. Friends who called often were only greeted by the constantly closed doors. No one had heard from her for several weeks. Not her mother, nor her sister, nor the married cartoonist for the New York Times with whom she was conducting an illicit affair. She had, in a sense, disappeared and no amount of phone calls, nor urging could woo her back. Her friends thought perhaps she was writing her much awaited sequel and as friends often do, soon lost interest in her.
No one remarked that since her book was printed there seemed a undefinable unease about her. No one recalled at the dinner parties where her whereabouts was often discussed quite rabidly, the glint of something-not-quite sane in her pale eyes, that she had lost weight. Or perhaps most disturbing and obvious of all, that her apartment had become filled with notes, taped over doorways, across each inch of her mirror and one solitary note wrapped tightly around her toothbrush. Perhaps they had not noticed, or did not want to.
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