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"i hate nostalgia. it's laziness with prettier accessories."
shoot me
engulfed


LET IT BE KNOWN THAT just because i'm not all up in your shit bringing the sweetness & light 24/7 doesn't mean i'm on a dream-date with death. but if it were suddenly reported that i died, what would be the immediate suspicion of All Whom It May Concern?
a) murder/intrigue [incl. suspicious "accidents" reeking of Foul Play, etc]
b) OD ["we never should have gotten her that Tickle Me Overdose doll, ted!!!"]
c) someone let that bitch get behind the wheel of a car again
d) self-immolation as "art project"
e) boring old REAL accident of some kind
f) doesn't actually die / spends rest of life riding the subway swatting imaginary bats off herself [we all make fun of hypothetical bat-lady because a lot of us fear becoming her some day, & i blinked an L train car full of bustling vaguely menacing prohibition-era travelers into & out of existence one night last week when the real passenger count of the train car was around 5, not 200, & it's only one small step for mankind from there to imaginary bats. who are all these people & what are they doing inside my eyelids]
*disclaimer: killing people is wrong!!!!!



reality + i are still at war but i'm going to win this based on the fact that reality doesn't know it's a competition. & won't until it's TOO LATE. go on & call ignorance bliss until all the oxygen abandons your lungs in disgust, but for example wouldn't you rather know about that guy behind you with the machete? & while you're looking over there...EXCUSE ME MISS WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THAT HAYSTACK sorry, thought i dropped something...

i have finally found a job; being off tour & unoccupied was going to kill me, & still may if i can find the time to be killed. applying to grad school because my brain is rotting in my skull & i am incapable of rescuing the poor beleaguered thing, instead sleeping with the proverbial enemy, busily lining up the neurons for the firing squad & handing out last cigarettes like that one cheerleader who periodically nods off & catches her hair on fire. so: an attempt to plug the ever-expanding burning hole in my pocket/head/alibi by "keeping busy." stalking another train, playing detective through elaborate daydreams. have a fountain of rocket fuel now available in new legal flavor thanks to the unlikely wonders of wondrous unlikely things, & JUST IN TIME because i need to accomplish everything five minutes ago. or else. when there are at least three tasks at hand at all times & unmultitasked hands are the devil's playground & who let that BEAST loose in the pharmacy can someone call security--oh wait--we are security, & we are 100% fucked

ladies & gentlemen please be patient we are building the rocket ship that will get us out of this hole. we expect to be finished on approximately 17 september 2012. watch this space, cuz it's watching you & a watched plot never spoils. we are methodically replacing the butterflies in your stomach with pterodactyls, & it's going to get seriously meteoric in here. b.y.o.bathos or sidle up to the bar & ask for a gin & catatonic courtesy of the host body, it's going to be a loooooong night.



[& for those curious, CLICK+OBSERVE, this is your bonnaroo on _____]

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i have well-hidden career aspirations as a journalist, so not really any effort--just made sense of the notes i took while i was there [the ones i could read, at least. free vodka + notebooks = snarly mess masquerading as 'handwriting']
& most of those death options are pretty damn embarrassing. i mean, is there any way to die that isn't?

while flying through a fiery ring on a motorcycle wearing a skelaton suit

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