morning cup of anxiety

I am incredibly nervous. You know not the stomach kind. but the kind where there’s this plug that starts right above your chest. All the brain activity, the constant unfinished answers in there, stuck spinning around and around, causing the chest area to feel clogged, and it seems a bit harder to breath. So you breath faster, or less often. This is the cue to start taking in long, deep breaths. inhale, exhale. Why I forget to breathe:  I’m searching for the next thing to do, to finish, that is challenging enough but easy enough to feel some accomplishment for the day. usually, I use food to feel this accomplishment. Unfortunately, after you’re full, it does not solve anything. So instead of running around, barking at everyone as a way to let off steam, maybe I should draw that fucking picture.

American Apparel Ad

American Apparel Ad

Originally uploaded by TheresaKay

Is this for real?

Pink Head, White Hood

IMG_1184

Originally uploaded by mimi asexual

This is my friend, Hikaru. She offered me a pink icing topped biscuit from Japan. Her head was topped in grey, but the sun decided to bleach it.

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Creepy eyed

You got this creepy look about your eyes: almost a pedophile in disguise. But it’s the funny introduction. the crows feet stretch your eyes out to let out that sun in your eyes! They warm over, you squint which gets this crookster look, old-charm sparkle, and smirking cat/pink-eye. You’re an old man, shy, but living out loud ’til the day you die.

Leaving Sex Education & Other Spoils of Childhood

This is the year I am leaving sex education, and other spoils of childhood. Because, frankly, I am twenty-two, almost twenty-three years too old for my mother to insist that sex is bad. Bad for me, because no one wants to marry a used vagina.

I am taking my soap, dirty laundry, loud music and my laptop screen-time away from an older, more respectable generation. The unused mess of birth control pills can leave with its immoral, cancerous self; The fertile stink of overgrown teenager can blow away with its cloud of depressive self-doubt; The childish daughter can grow up, and come back when she is woman enough to represent her family.

The black sheep does not need sex education in the first place. She was born out of a black-hole. Literally, she is a black-hole kept warm by black fluff. She is the Boogie-Woman that everyone’s mother warns their children about. The perverse black-hole that eats nice boys who don’t know any better.

It is time for me to quit mother-tit-sucking and fend for myself. Time to stop leaching from all the sons around me. Create a universe to call my own; A home to fill groceries made of my brain sweat. Brain sweat, because it is not appropriate for a bright, talented girl of today to work traditional women’s roles; It is not time to wash dishes and have sex with a lover in return for survival.

Ex’s rise from dead journals

This is a young person’s post-breakup diary entry:

out [Jul. 15th, 2007|11:13 pm]
i don’t care for him much anymore. he is a running dirt string in front of the breeze through the door. i imagine him in that same house, in the same doorway: busy with his life: capoeira on the beach, his new best friends and his brazilian dream. At twenty-five, why would he stick around this retirement town. he has been on two continents, he has about five more to go. funny he is on his way to MY montreal, to MY brother, to MY third language. enough running across maps; as I drive through tunnels, i hold my breath and wish that the world given him all its secrets, so he would stop and remember me. maybe he has seen and felt my secrets, he’s afraid to look at the unmolded, rough sketch of me; young clay spun wildly a few rounds. he wants polish, shine and glaze. i am not a diamond.

the other boy, is convinced, singing, smitten
we both can’t help but move our bodies, stretch our legs out in rhythm walking, kneading granville street into laughable putty. he will start the funk funk mcing, i will dance and sing, weave inside-out the cracks and loops. if i was to grant him “permission” for me to fall in love, in bed: he would be the bone skeleton frame, i would be the soft, worn out, squeaky beat.
oh he was nervous, vanne taught me when he mumbles and talks forever and ever down the never-ending highway, he is nervous.
i know how it is, i scrunch my nose to my toes, bite down my jaw, flex my lips till they don’t water so much

i try not to think of him, though i roll up and down the street in front of his capoeira school peeking through the window; one of his fancy cars are there? now, i don’t even poke into his email anymore. because there is nothing there. my ex is just text.

Winter Finds Misplaced Boyfriend

I’ve been painting with warm pinks and beige yellows since that taxi scurried you away. Far away from the warm fleece blankets we were wrapped up in. You became a small yellow dot in a grey and white city.  I was left cold in a house with wind blasting through a large gap in the wall while the windows were being eaten alive. I almost considered boxing myself in that yellow cab with you, but I’d end up in the wrong place upon arrival to the airport, never mind naked under a red, fleece blanket.

Oh, how you were my fireplace, when I’d stick my toes by you. How do I follow a fire around? You cannot capture it in a briefcase, like you can with money, or your computer. Hugs hold tight and love frees its flame.

I imagined the abstract concept of days like blocks in two weeks worth of stacking. slowly waiting, to stack. And each mocking day is not getting any warmer.

House Keeping Time

Time could be wasted, drunk, poor and unpaid.
Time is spent, folding towels.
Time, counted in spin cycles,
counted in full, knotted garbage bags.

at the hostel, time is
foreign for a four-hour shift.

Love and Bio-Diesel

my mother
my father

are building a room in their house
waiting for when I will fill it.

Our house will be a bio-diesel tank

I will be thrown out vegetable smoothie spilling outta my guts
out that pretty Bistro on Main St.
that pretty pretty Bistro, circulating in and out
pretty pretty girls.

I will smell of kitchen – deep-fryer thickened air
I’ve been marinating in. I am soupy waste oil.

I’ve been at the cold Exit door once before,
but this time, Mom & Daddy’s diesel truck is waiting for me
A tiny little tank for me
for me to grow up in.

when I am one crying cricket
solo, out in a cold, unfriendly field