nothing like a good ol' shedding of the endometrium.

had a really bad nite last nite. i guess it was just one of those times where you really work yrself up over every little thing and end up blowing off all responsibilities, kami-kaze style. meh, at least i've been writing.

speaking of which, my school has a news show once every two weeks. i've never participated because their idea of breaking news is that orange is the new pink, but, for some reason, i found myself at the first meeting about a week ago. i was totally right about it, but afterwards, the faculty advisor asked me to be a feature writer and write something controversial and full of opinions for the next airing. i'm extremely excited. she sid she's glad that she has someone to talk about more than the oc (though i do LOVE the oc).

hey- if anyone knows of any job openings i could apply for for on the weekeds and after school that are in the north buffalo/elmwood region, please let me know. i'm very poor and have a smoking habit to support.

well, i'm off to write some, for the news team and ootherwise, cause that's what i do.

i found my ring! it is safe and sound on a fatter finger this time, so it won't go slipping off at outdoor parties.
just finished editing my last two writing posts, both of which i handed in today. if i don't get two big, flashy 'A's at the tops of them, i'll cry. a lot.

i think we should have a football party soon. don't those thigns go on on sundays? we could order chicken wings and drink beer and generally be men about the whole thing.
and i'll bring a book, because football is boring.



p.s. i've decided that the best way to handle school is to not face it sober.

(e:thecarey)'s party was a wonderful time. it was great to meet new people and see all my (e:peep) friends.
the past two weekends, we've had an (e:strip) event, and the one before that was anythingbutclothes. if no one has anything this weekend, i'll be really disappointed in our stamina.

anyways. the first two pictures are from friday nite, when i went to the albright knox with (e:tina) and (e:lilho). good times.

we are planning on maybe coming back and seeing this one while on acid.


i really liked this next one- it was just a room full of little cream-cups of paint. it made me want to nose-dive through them all and do some damage.



finally, this last one is from this morning, after (e:ladycroft) and i left (e:thecarey)'s.
... we were very hungry.

i do not feel well.

    What came first? Was it the burn or the smoke? Did she sit up in bed, stare down at her nightdress for a moment, then make a ring of fire in their room? I bet her sister heard it, woke up, opened her eyes quickly to waving arms and the light of my mother, up in flames. I bet their feet were hard and asleep, toes in shock, an inch above the carpet, trying to stop, drop and roll- silhouettes writhing across the walls. The cotton began to stink, thin and disappearing from her 5-year old body, leaving black in it's wake. Or maybe, was it red? Was she all red and her sister pale when they ran to their mother's room and screamed? And she, awakening to her daughters' dance, died some, maybe? I don't know what happened behind her eyes, even though they're my eyes now too. I couldn't even say maybe.

    So now I talk to a girlfriend quickly, ending conversation before I lose it, the slow creep of inspiration that doesn't visit my room near often enough. With an "I'm at the peak of my high and I've got a great idea for a poem!", I move, smiling with teeth glowing yellow, too fast and singe my pajama pants with a piece of my cigarette. No tissues for crying, I grab what I do have, a piece of paper, and rub the orange to black, not feeling any pain.

     Not like her, when her mother called her father, begging for a ride. Hot and wet, how did she sit in the car on the way? I think, maybe, she dreamed in her fever of firefighters coming to her gymnasium and telling her things. I think she dreamed of having fixed her mother's lighter and presenting it to her the next morning, showing teeth in pride. Maybe she'd just leave it on the counter, or in a purse, hoping her selfless act would stop her parents from the yelling. I've done that too, and I think both of us have learned that our smoke signals cannot reach the noses of our mothers and fathers.

    I always asked, in the supermarket, for candles. At the end of the aisle, coloring all four tiers with Christ and Francis and Mary, they stood like an unattainable realization, Eve reaching for the apple. At fifteen, I finally got a Virgin to guard my room. One turned to twelve and I am here now, lit up and shining and begging for a pen to write about the burns that told her she needed bigger breasts when she was thirty-something, when my then-father came back from Las Vegas with sequins and skin dancing in his head. I'm writing, now, about his mother, who told me that, when I think of 'Grandma', to think of she who maybe was listening to her country music on the way to the hospital, maybe telling her daughters to sing and forget. Because, my father's mother told me on the phone, that's the only grandmother I have now, now that my parents are finishing up their yelling for good.

    Finished up myself, blowing out the candles, I wonder if it's wrong to write about my mother, 5-years old and underneath a butterfly net for two months so nothing could infect her still-tender skin. Maybe it's okay, maybe this is my inheritance- the burn and the smoke, sitting up in bed.