Budlub(this was a comment on someones page, but it's great and so I am claiming it in this place.)

see I, myself, used to love a girl who called herself 'artist' and 'lover of God'.

she had beautiful hands. I remember that now; she had beautiful hands. She was nothing like anything.
everything like anything.

she was pretty, brains, brawn, and brunette (blonde when she dyed her hair.)
She was so beautiful. and my oh my, she could write too!

I remember one night,
she came into
the church,
and i told
her
how beautiful
she looked
in her
sweatpants and T-shirt
get-up.
No makeup needed,
instant beauty is here,
just
add
ME.

But of course you know, she
didn't catch on,
she didn't play ball,
or bat flies,
or really anything.


And so now we are just friends,
although sometimes i can hear the
distance herding us farther apart
then when i was chasing her,
down the street with a
paper hat and
my love.

We are not really friends though,
we are awkward embracers
of hugs and smiles
and cell phone text messages.


But i say to you here. She has never once called on the phone to talk.

Well... she did call once...











to ask for directions.

sinafee aqua

Writing is like bike riding.

no, not because once you do it, you always know how.

Mostly it is for the simple reason that you will always find more adventure by yourself,
in the middle of a trail that you didn't know existed.

And if you were biking with someone else they would either be too afraid to go on, or they would be leading. It would not be your bones, it would be something else.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Separate thought.


We just painted our dining room in a really cool bright aqua blue and a yellowish creme. It's pretty far out and it looks good, but my whole house is set apart.

It reminds me of when i saw a literal wrecking-ball going through the side of my old house. We demolished that old rusty red house to make way for the new one.

I was sitting in the backseat of my moms car with a cookie and a hot chocolate that we got from the Holiday gas station. I just remember that feeling of being totally dismembered but being totally okay with it, and being more than happy with my cup of boiling hot lava hot chocolate and chocolate chip cookie.

And that's how i feel now.
I feel like a child, with some new sense of adventure.

And I don't want to lose it by choosing to live in the same way I have been.

End Of Transmission.

Mark the spot.

I don't want to bury you.
In the ground,
dirt is red and
worms crawl
around.

I had a dream in which
you died.

I took your wife and we married,
but she wasn't happy.

We never made love
in the light.
Only in the dark,
and so i killed myself.

So don't worry, friend.

one thing led to another

I am such a fuck-up and when i die, only the people that I hated will have anything to say about me.

So the moral of the story is this: Hate everyone, so they will at least show up to your funeral drunk and angry and have something to say about you.

Or,

Hate no one, so that when you die, you can go in peace. Just like going to the bathroom or eating dinner. (although, they are both on different sides of the time continuum)



Separate subject.

Saying the phrase "one thing led to another" when your talking about how you got married to some girl named 'Yolanda' or joined the army or had a kid, is a horrible way to express the way in which something happened.

It's basically like saying, "I lack so much ambition that i let things literally just happen to me and then I hit the 'accept' button"

"Hey bill, do you want to join the army with me?"

"eh, yea, just leave me alone, I'm trying to watch Seinfeld"


"Hey bill, do you want to go on a blind date with this girl named Yolanda?"

"eh, yea, just leave me alone, I'm winning at this online poker tournament."


"Hey bill, do you want to have a kid with me"

"eh, yea, just leave me alo- wait, what?!"


It's all exactly the same as saying the phrase "one thing led to another"

"Ah Shit"...

Those were his last words before the gunman busted in through the window and shot him in the head. He didn't just shoot him in the head though, he really shot him. "He shot the fuck out of that motherfucker!" people would say.
He fired and fired and fired into your chest and head and neck.


If i could have told the future and was standing in the room, i would have told you to put on a different shirt because the one you were wearing was about to get dirty.

"don't wear a white shirt" i would say, "your going to get brains on your shirt"

And you wouldn't listen, because you're a degenerate and a fool.

But the gunman, he would listen.
He would wait until the last word came out of my lip-sticked mouth.
-"shirt"
and then the gun would fire and fire and fire into your chest and head and neck.

And me and the gunman would leave to go have dinner. And the gunman would tell me how pretty i looked, and how poetic my writing was, and we would fuck in front of the fire.

The End.

But really, all that happened was a friend turned on a friend and fucking shot him in the foot and then riddled his body with red lead, and I was there to catch it on home video.

"Say cheese," i would say, "Your on candid camer-" and the gunshots would cut off my sentence.

The End. (really)


List of characters by un-alphebetical order:

"I" am Cece-(L)
"You" is me.
And "the gunman" is 'the reader'

Webster has dyslexia.

In my modest career of 6 months at Wendy's where i work, I've touched more hands than i would have liked too. It happens when someone gives you $10 and you give them $4.76 in four dollars, three quarters and one penny. It's the change that get's you. If you want to touch someones hand, give them your spare change.

You should know that touching someones hand when your giving them their change or their food is a lot different then touching someones hand in a high five or even a handshake.

It's almost like you don't exist. You're just a robot that they get their food from. Just an orifice, if you will. you're not their friend, or even a stranger. you are an employee. You say "welcome to Wendy's what can i make fresh for you today?"

Like this one kid i know, he came in and was standing in front of the counter looking at the menu for at least 10 seconds before he recognized i was the cashier. 10 seconds doesn't seem like a lot of time, but it is when your standing there waiting for someone to think of what they want to order. It wasn't that he waited though. I've had some people take like 5 minutes to figure it out, blocking the line in back of them and slowing everything down.

No, it was the fact that he didn't even look at me until that time. He didn't even recognize me as a figure, otherwise he would have seen it was someone he knew.

I mean, realistically, he could have been just looking at the menu intently, not even noticing. maybe it had nothing to do with me.

But it's not the first time.

Maybe they are getting back at me for feeding them their deathfood.

I should just say "welcome to wendy's, how can i make fat for you?"

upsilluo

Something happened today at work that i feel kind of weird writing about. I was working the front counter at Wendy's and this girl came in. she was wearing a blue shirt i think, and she was kind of tall and looked to be around my age. She was pretty in some athletic sort of way but in no means was she the prettiest girl I've seen.

I took her order, and she handed me the money. We may have touched hands when she gave me the various bills that make up a burger, fries and a soda, but if we did, it was a regular, unimportant touch.

and then i gave her back her change. (It was a few bills probably and some coins) but when i gave her back the change, our hands actually touched and i felt the inside of her palm. It was warm and moist but not sweaty. It felt like the hands of a child, actually.

The way all the children you know have weird warm hands. (It's like they have some sort of moist hand disease up until they hit puberty and grow testicles and breasts.)

I looked at those gentle child hands and i glanced 4 inches up to see her wrist. On her wrist she wore a flat blue ribbon that was tied on the underside. It was all so sensual and immediately i was attracted to those hands whose wrist was wearing a sort of ribbon lingerie.

All of a sudden i felt exposed and hot.

Usually i can comfortably hide behind the veil of my Wendy's counter and not feel any intimidation from girls much more pretty then I would deserve to talk to.

But now, i felt exposed, like i was touching this girls hand in the middle of my 3rd grade english class.

Anyways the moment soon faded. it did only last however long it takes to give someone some bills and the change.

when i finally gave her the food she'd ordered she just laughed and said "thank you".

And I stood there and squeeked out some sort of "have a good day"

Adam and Isreal had a fight, but none won.

Do you feel fucked up?
Because i do.
I am drafty windows and some stupid lame surprise.
What are you?

"Hey, who turned out the lights"

That's what i said
when the moon stopped
working.

When the bulb burnt out,
when the old man gave his last words,
and when the tides turned around.

Oh, you should have seen the peoples
eyes pop out.



Now i just ride my bike in the darkness of the winter night
instead of in the glow of the still dark moon.