checkin in

just checkin in. life is pretty damn good. enjoying my summer hard.

DIRT.

I am drawn to dirt.
How many times do I need to be facedown in the mud before I get up, rinse off, and say "good riddance"? I did always like getting my hands dirty, but it's time to clean up my act.

oh home sweeeeet home.

433 wilson ave ; being home, cat blankets, 1.25 $ tall cans, breakfast foods, lacking a bed and sharing a bed with 3 other people still, cold feet, unlimited fresh coffee, being around my bed friends, yellow bed room, having two bathrooms, still lacking a bike, rainy weather, finally having a HOME.

i have a amazing apartment in bushwick with my best friends. life is good.

mom

my beautiful mother when she was 21.

summer please please please.

ah, i'm back in new york. apartment hunting and running around. i feel as if my friends have been thinned out. i somewhat feel like an outsider. i'll get used to it. it's been rainy and dark...it's kind of nice although all i can think about is getting an apartment, wearing cut offs, having nate in new york city, flowing dresses, endless cigarettes, riding bikes everywhere, hangout outside on stoops and roofs. please...just make it summer already.

home is when ever im with you.

lately;

ah, i just made a french press of fresh speeder and earls coffee and i'm smoking a camel light sitting on a dirty porch in burlington, vermont. i've been here for quite some time and i'm not sure if i'm taking a step backwards being here or moving forward. i feel like i can finally think although i've been moving around like a slug while my brain is exploding with ideas. i need these trips to vermont or else i go insane in new york. i miss new york lots. i miss my friends mostly. i sometimes just cant deal.

i need out.

waiting, waiting, waiting. going through the motions. missing my best friends and brooklyn. but also dreaming of california. soon everything will fall into place. thank you for being so kind and always taking me back when things fall apart, vermont.

-

shit hit the fan.

before.

I am the girl you met once, the one with the slightly crooked nose. The one you fell in love with because of her laugh. The girl you met once that had somewhat curly dark brown hair and full slightly chapped lips. She didn't seem to mind much that you smelled of weeks traveling by train in late August. Nor did she mind when you placed your foul smelling arm around her thin, slightly tan, exposed neck. She laughed when you did this, proudly blushing. She seemed to know she'd never see you again, and yet, didn't seem to mind. That girl you met that when you walked into her back porch, you saw her sitting there, sucking down a cigarette, blowing smoke rings and breaking them with her outstretched pinky finger.

so true.

Beer

I don’t know how many bottles of beer

I have consumed while waiting for things

to get better

I dont know how much wine and whisky

and beer

mostly beer

I have consumed after

splits with women-

waiting for the phone to ring

waiting for the sound of footsteps,

and the phone to ring

waiting for the sounds of footsteps,

and the phone never rings

until much later

and the footsteps never arrive

until much later

when my stomach is coming up

out of my mouth

they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:

“what the hell have you done to yourself?

it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”

the female is durable

she lives seven and one half years longer

than the male, and she drinks very little beer

because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad

they are out

dancing and laughing

with horney cowboys.

well, there’s beer

sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles

and when you pick one up

the bottle fall through the wet bottom

of the paper sack

rolling

clanking

spilling gray wet ash

and stale beer,

or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.

in the morning

making the only sound in your life.

beer

rivers and seas of beer

the radio singing love songs

as the phone remains silent

and the walls stand

straight up and down

and beer is all there is.

-charles bukowski