Posts Tagged ‘Sad and Stupid Crazy People’

Two Self-Portraits

December 7 2009

two self portraits

1.

I am a drunk old man

getting into a shouting match

with an empty, unlit house

(that isn’t finished being built yet)

2.

I am the type of guy, I finally figured out, whose thought process (often) goes not if we will get together nor when but that I hope my skin clears up (because) I’ll have to give up on my acne medication (then) because otherwise her mouth will taste gross (when she covers my face with kisses) as we are falling to sleep.

This is both a good and bad thing.

– March 22, 2006

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I Felt Alive For The First Time In Ages

September 25 2009

I ran down a bus and– when I caught it– killed it, cleaned it, ate it
Piece by piece; I felt like a human being for the first time in (at least) a week.

Probably month(s).

August, earnest

September 10 2009

Some Pick-Up Lines I Wrote For You (A

Little Drunk) On A Flight From
D.C. To Washington
August 7, 2009.1

 

  

❤  I would really like to kiss you.

❤  (Even though my arms are incredibly weak) I bet I could carry you.

❤  How’d you like, five years from now, to have kids of slightly above average height and insufficiently satisfying girth?

❤  I wink at you and then creepily (redundant) try to touch your face. Probably stare a little.

❤  Someday we’ll be dead (and I’m pretty sure I don’t have strep throat)!

❤  If we were rich we could just get on a plane just to get drunk together.

❤  If we get drunk (and a familiar song is playing) there is a 1000% chance I will sing to you.

❤  That’s more a promise than a pick-up line / “Worryin’ about the – common decency = when it is only a – question of frequency”2

❤  Hey– just call me John And/Or Paul, ‘cuz I wanna Hold Your Hand!

❤  Hey– just call me Ringo, ‘cuz I wanna sink my Yellow Submarine in your Octopus’s Garden ew.34

❤  Hey– just call me George, ‘cuz I wanna be Within You and Without You. No wait: that would just leave me Gently Weeping. … Something.

 

❤  You wear those [object] and I’ll touch your [somepart] as much as you want– guaranteed.

 

❤  Don’t think, know!: My rhythmic– if spastic– dance moves portend well what awaits you in the bedroom (at least insofar as effort will be involved, also sweating)!

❤  _____ / _____: two families, a dozen aunts and uncles, forty-ish cousins: no retards, no crazies.

❤  Can I get your autograph?

 

❤  Can I trace you? Like a chaste Leonardo DiCaprio?

❤  Can I cover you with numbers so I know where to paint (once it gets a little less chaste)?

❤  You can have the inside of the bed if you want.

❤  Or the outside– I’m amenable.

❤  Can I protect you from ghosts?

❤  Let’s interlace our fingers like a bodice, or a pair of impractical shoes; let’s stitch them together and wait for the sutures to dissolve.

❤  Ew? / I bet my clothes would probably fit you.

 

❤  You make me want to floss regularly.

❤  You make me want to shave my neck.

❤  You make me want to obey traffic laws.

❤  You make me want to chrome wheel fuel inject.5

❤  You make me want to write a musical – version of As Good As It Gets =

❤  So I can tell you that “You make me want to be a better man” – without really plagiarizing it.

❤  I genuinely find your half-abashed [trait]– not charming, because that would be condescending– but telling of an authenticity that is exceedingly rare in a culture of tedious, cowardly, and garishly strident uniformity, in which shame and guilt and self-denial are considered personality flaws, signs of abuse.6

❤  You make me want to be able to actually hit on people like a human being might.

 

 

 

 

 

1And one I already had, two since re-written.

2“For-e-ver – doesn’t mean for-ev-er anymore…”

3Why is it yellow?

4“It’s leaning more towards pink– so I think it’s ham” – non-sequitur overheard on the plane (that seems to fit here).

5You make me want to contradict my previous statement(s).

6Even though it, you know, was just handed down to you by your parents.

You Are The Protagonist: Yakov Smirnoff Edition

September 9 2009

In Soviet Russia, Yakov Smirnoff does a hack impression of you (as, nested inside the folds of his mind, there still exists a to-scale and sub-nano mini-version of the ex-empire). Although physically real, it is manifest exactly as he remembered it, portrayed it, to spec except now he is King.

Except now his thumb directs traffic to the gulags.
Except now his visage fronts flags, his hands hold childrens’
hands.
Except now when he makes your impression, his impression makes you.
Absolute control: in that tumoric corner/that polypy province of his brain: He is the protagonist.

Why I Can’t Get Over You

September 3 2009

Why I Can’t Get Over You

 

$ An accrued immunity to booze, pills

$ Haven’t had sex in two years

$ What You Can’t Have = (What You Can Have)1/2*[4/3(Missed Opportunities + Blown Chances) / Moments Seized] / (# People Slept With/Age)

$ You’ve planted your feet and I already have 5 personals

$ You ate my leg, capsized my ship, are filled with sperm that should rightfully be mine

$ Diagnosed RCIBPD– Romantic Comedy Induced Borderline Personality Disorder

$ Mutual love of Turner, pants-suit-sort-of-things

$ Strained calf

$ Socialized into a culture of idealized romance and all-consuming erotic regret, live-in nostalgic desire

$ Was wronged while alive and cannot ‘cross over’ until satisfaction received

$ You can only climax ‘reverse cowgirl’1

$ Q-tip can’t quite reach medial temporal lobe

$ Have become unstuck in time

$ Am an abuser

$ A ghost warned me not to

$ Stockholm Syndrome– can’t bear to leave Sweden23

$ Still flossing you from my backmost teeth

$ Nose just passed by the head of someone who uses apple shampoo

$ Zeno’s Paradox

$ You were The One (Jet-Li exes only)

$ Recovering from stroke, re-learning my own stupid life

$ Recovering from stroke, nanomachines that clean clotted blood from my stupid brain won’t let me

$ Recovering from stroke, haven’t wiped up yet

$ Your tasteful nude/boudoir calendar still hangs in my veranda: it will always be 2003 in my heart, all over my hands

$ Lucrative contract for anti-narcolepsy drug contingent on continued ability to convert relived ‘missed opportunities’ into insomnia and en-capsule it

$ Our song was the National Anthem

$ 40, fat, and balding: running out of chances

$ Had spell put on me, now Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’s

$ Fucking Thetans!

$ On death bed, don’t want to

$ These Stupid Things (Remind Me Of You)*

 

 

 

1Sorry, that’s “Why I Can’t Get On Top Of You”

2Alt. “Contracted Stockholm Syndrome from wearing Nobel Prize without shirt”

3Alt. Alt. “Contracted Stockholm Syndrome from dirty Nobel Prize”

I Thought I Was Being Romantic

August 28 2009

I Thought I Was Being Romantic

Pathetic tales of misguided sincerity

I Told my boss she could adopt me and then everyone started joking around and laughing!”

– Barry, 49

 

I Called my teacher ‘mommy,’ now everyone is calling me ‘faggot’! And laughing!”

– Li’l Keith, 8

 

I Tried to caress my girlfriend’s face while gazing into her eyes; she laughed so hard I slipped out! Again!”

– Arnold, 23

 

I Bought her eight white roses to celebrate the eight months we’ve temped together. And when I watched the FedEx guy deliver them to her house, she and her husband laughed so hard I dropped my binoculars, almost fell out of the tree! (They broke on impact! Just like my heart!)!/.”

– Martin, 36

 

I Sent sheep to the slaughter, thinking that that must be love. I told her that I told her that I loved her because it was easier than saying goodbye; I told her that she was playing out of her depth, akin to a little girl trying on her older sibling’s wardrobe. And then I laughed at her!”

– Elvis, 261

 

I Wrote her poems: three hundred and seventy nine poems! One haiku each day, one major work each month, one year long epic in blank verse. And when I handed them to her– in calfskin, bound– on the occasion of our last day of High School, she laughed at me! Now she’ll know I was real! Threeee Huunnndred Aand Sevvventyyy Niiiiiiine! It was a leeap yearrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrr!rrrrrr! rr.”

– Brian, 17, leaping

 

I Baked a cake in the shape of her childhood photograph– the one where she didn’t know how to swim. It was a real cake, too– not one of those spun sugar sprayjobs that look like they’d dissolve in the rain. I baked a three-going-on-four dimensional cake in tribute to that one moment: solid, and real, and to quintuple scale. Each detail was re-created in minute perfection and even the air. I baked the air. I baked a perfect simulacrum of that tinge of chlorine and sunscreen and inflatable swimmies and spandex. I baked her father, off to the side, not-pictured; I baked the score of that days Yankees game. And Then Later, when I had finished baking, I remembered that I was trapped, and that however desperately I tried to eat my way out, I would be here forever, accompanied by the dim echo of splashes, and the unmistakable sound of a child’s  laughter!”

– Doug, Infinity/R.I.Cake

 

I Asked her to dance; she said no! Then she laughed and then I laughed! Now we are married, except she is dead.”

– Ed, 79

 

I Thought at you so hard every time we caught eyes, sat near, talked, or typed. Whenever we occupied the same (or similar) space a song would play in my head, back of the neck, heart, and bones, and– by thinking it hard enough at you– I thought I could somehow convey exactly, precisely what I couldn’t say!

It didn’t work!”
– A Sad and Stupid Crazy Person, 1,878

 

 

 

 

1“I Made a “Brilliant Mistake,” although, at the time, it was a fine idea; a woman on the news was really dumb!”

– Declan, 31