He said... I've no feelings no more,
I'm just bleh.
I said...
That's okay, darling...
Bleh is not that bad,
Bleh is good for us.
As long as we bleh together...  (^-^)/

yeah... and i started mastrurbating when i was 8... just before my testicles started producing *****... so an ****** was a muscular reflex... talk of abortion? i don't know what that is... a musuclar reflection, that's transcribed into a woman talking? i hear this stuff online... the whole m.g.t.o.w., but i'm only 30, and i haven't been asked for divorce... monk?! monks?! what's the whole abortion argument? to be honest? i really, don't want to know... queen sheba knew: the world would be populated by olives, copper skinned people... pro-life seems to me, like the reverse of ****... men need to be ***** by the state, to provide for their ******* children... oh wait... you didn't sign and legal agreement akin to marriage? and your a british citizen, and she's russian? what sort of legal requirements are there to bind you down to make the stated reperations? any? none? i remember a finnish girl running around cow gate (street in edinburgh) like some sort of hajar, running between al-safa and al-marwah... i gave her a glass of *****... her friends simply told me: she's looking for her boyfriend. girl was mad! like hajar!

me? i was a trained monkey up to the age of 21...
                                        prior?         a brilliant cinematic out-take
of my now, day-to-day...
                  god, what a brilliant memory bank...
i think of psychiatrists, and their *regression
tactic as: sawn-off shotguns, and intimidation...
regression? planting false memories into you head...
some, really didn't take to the hippocratic oath...
i'm pretty sure they didn't.
                       they seem to assume they have
some sort of diplomatic immunity...
                                      like a bull a china shop;
i'm like, you're mincing beef?
and they reply: yeah...
          make sure my ego doesn't go into the mixture,
so we can "admire" the numbers,
and use phrases like: dodo, project, species...
    nuclear family...
                                   given we're playing something
akin to poker?          i fold,
                 there's a billion chinese, extinction
of the human species, isn't really on the cards...
       white people say: shouldn't have taxed us so much;
wait, is that even a vailable statement to make?
          not really, no.
                      i couldn't stop laughing at the following
observation though...
you hear it all the time... i was doing this that and the other
aged 4...
            i was a child genius... but ended up as a supermarket
cashier...
                  people get this mozart complex...
         they think that if they did something aged 4,
or any age pre-teen... they're somehow: the genie
conjured from aladdin's lamp....
                     people always want to cite themselves at
a very young age, to argue: here i am... and i am, genius!
     try telling mozart to write a poem...
that trained monkey couldn't write you a word...
    he could knock-down-ginger (an english game) any day of
the week... but writing a poem?
               if there is such a thing as poetic genius (which i earnestly
doubt that there is) -
                    it would, or rather could only manifest itself
   in a teen environment...
              prior to? bleh bleh bleh, bleh... hotel transylvannia...
that's why i'm laughing...
         oh ****... my stomach, my cheeks... i'm starting to think
i need to put matchsticks or cotton buds into my mouth,
since the smile is joker-permanent... it's ache! it's ache!
                                                           ­    (h)ey-k(hhh) - static...
why try to impress someone by saying:
   oh when i was four... i could plagiariße a rembrandt...
sure... and who's the cute coo-chi-goo-goo?

p.s.
"sharp s"... that's a zee... ß...     s? straightened out
    and told to walk into a mirror: z...... S   Z:
  chiral dynamism, non-superimposable... well, unless
  the mirror            | is ß...     but that's not english, so... m'eh.

primarily because of daylight, and younger brother's
song: evil and harm; and last night.

you know what i keeping conjuring in my head?
     stapling the cheat's *kippah of a pope,
to his head... and then tugging him by it through
the streets of rome...
                  i'm way past jokes,
     i'd literally staple the hierarchical to old alec baldwin's
head, and then tow him, drag him... through
                the streets of rome...
                                 i mean... you make the pope a saint?
well... that's a first, why would popes be saints
          if they can't decide upon being a pope, emeritus?
pope ratzinger (benedict XVI) is the only saint...
                 with what grace! with what grace he settled
for a nunnery!
                      **** me!        but he's not considered a saint!
that's awful, really, that's absolute filth!
    oh yeah... double point: the pope's "kippah"
                                                    (so called) -
               like these fake jews ruling over us with an iron
grip?           ever notice the ****** on the top of it?
     no? never noticed the ****** on the "kippah"?
                        it's not even a ******* kippah by then,
but a....
                                                 béret français:
and if you're into linguistics, try these alternatives:
               bə'rā (bé    ray)       thrą'sé
                                            bé'ré            φρąsay -
parle poo?
                                qui, parle poo, anglais - on-a-glare...
with! with! with a glare!
                                  oh ******* 'ell...
                          the french aesthetic for spelling: λoγoς...
and then the actual pronounciation, i.e. the φoνoς?
                                                         miles apart!
they're not as bad as the english, but they're ******* worse
than king arthur's sons.
       the comparison?   you see an aeroplane in the sky...
and then you sort of see the shoom five miles back...
                    you have to remember two languages...
the french and the english are naturally "bilingual" -
               it's not that you say one thing and mean another,
you have to ******* write one thing, and say another:
      so the λoγoς is the aeroplane... and the shoom?
                             that's the φoνoς... or the once fabled television
static being the remnants of the big bang.... well, isn't
that an ingenious name for the beginning of everything...
     big... bang...     and a ******* firecracker whilé you're at it.
so yeah, if you never experienced an asiatic invasion
   akin to a mongol horde... you will not have clear, distinct
syllable distinctions...  you'll be like a vampire saying:
   blah, blah blah, blah.... or bleh bleh bleh, bleh;
minus the hatch? hetch? hay't'ch?       blá, blá blá....
                                              alt. blé blé blé, blé.  
considering style though? reading heidegger
     is, seriosuly, sometimes akin to
                                       watching liberace play the trombone;
all those italics and non-footnote dittoes...
       a bit like watching an apple balancing on a watermelon
                                          and calling it tango.

Bleh.
All this I feel is pain.
All I want to do is ****.
This pain turns to anger.
Anger which then turns to hate.
All back to the beginning.
A continuous cycle.
Never stopping

Don't you just feel like that sometimes
Like you just want to fall over dead
bleh
But it's not that easy
Nothing is
Well, except pulling the trigger :]

why is etymology so entwined with ontology?

seems natural to ask, etymology: the origin of words -
                                                             and ontology: how we behave?
      they seem to be knitting partners...
           the origin of words, and the nature of behaviour...
given that language is god... and we're asking the same
question, i.e.: the genesis?
              never mind...
                 i'm drinking, and i'm starting to think
the sweat oozing from my arm-pits, has a tinge of onion
in it...
      right away i'm thinking *booker t. & the m.g.'s:
i.e. spring, spring onions...            green onions...
and then the word, i have no etymological clue, into:
  szczypiorek...   alt.?        sh'chýpíorék -
                                pióro:    a quill...
                                      derived from: a bird's feather.
the "aesthetic" (orthography) states:         ó = u...
                    but what a funny word... szczypiorek...
                   szczyp: pinch...
                                           in terms of vegetables?
                    pluck early...   hence the notion of a spring
onion... apples? they're autumn fruits... like pears...
                         or at least late summertime fruits...
       why did i write sh'chýpíorék, i wanted to show
    the punctuation principle to diacritical marks...
                         sh'chýpíorék...
    there's no known accent for the acute y...
             but there's a need to segregate the sz (sh) from the cz (ch)...
             and, lo! and behold... no macron to be added on
the h...        the best we can do is write: a "hush" as shhhh...
                 and then the waterfall:
                       chý... said a bit like chai tea latté...
   without either (a) or (i)...
                                a bit like u, falling into the depths of hades
that's y... or growing a leg, and dancing on it, via hop.
                            sure, curves and v.
                                  diacritical marks are punctuation marks...
  might as well compare it to matchsticks: | | | | | |
                     sh'chý'pío'rék how many is that?
        ' + / + ' + / + ' + / = σ                  (6)...
                               it's still, just a bunch of spring onions...
         or a case for etymology scaring ontology...
                          how else, am i supposed to juggle, the current
state of affairs, while inheriting the past, and leaving no explanation?
i can't explain the present...
                  at least the past, i can, "somehow" deal with...
          either that, or it's me bewilderment, stated as:
why don't i have an immigrant's accent?
        is it, because, just maybe, i noticed that the english
language has no accent enforcement tactic in encoding the spreschen?
         hence the linguistic "darwinism" of the biodiversity,
   of so many accents, but actually null count of diacritical marks?
       you can speak sloppy english, but still speak the ****** tongue...
   i tried learning french once... **** me... turned out to be a disaster...
german? that's like talking chemistry... the germans have
   not concept of syllables within words, e.g.
                            polymethylsiloxane polyhydrate
thank god there are two words, rather than one, a tangle of spaghetti.
    a bit like intimidating a vampire with: bleh bleh bleh, bleh.
   but that's what english has provided,
         it's hard to not speak with an accent, if the phonetic
encoding doesn't have intra-word syllable distinctions,
  or scalpels, or diacritical marks for that matter.
      the russians were just as lazy, they made the ь into a letter
rather than some economic "punctuation" mark:
   i.e. if language and trigonometry? the russians never managed
to reach the concept of the third... i.e. tangens...
  they place the diacritical "mark" (i.e., it's actually become a letter),
side by side with all the other letters;
   ******* retards... like gay hebrwew... with its two adams
     א‎ (alef)       &      ע (ayin)...
     it's not gay? the prefix and suffix principles...
       and a bunch of castrato boys singing in the vatican the alpahbet:
a- (prefix)  what's left when you cut the a off? -lef....
           the same with a-        and         -yin...
             it's gay... two adams.... vowels that have a higher status
above all the remaining vowels (e, i, o, u) -
                         no other hebrew letter begins with a vowel...
         if that isn't gay, i don't know what is.

When does strength mask emotion?
I'm so in control I don't feel the need to write.
Yet, I want to.
A place for me to admit my short comings,
A place to merely be real with who I am becoming.
A woman who doesn't settle,
but hides behind her face.
No one will see this pain.
Suicide before they see me cry...
No. That's silly.
Life is a bigger and better adventure than that.
Then why is it still on my mind every week?
At some point I'm alone and something happens...
It points out a fault, a short coming, a failure ..
Then my mind wanders to all the pain,
the lies, manipulations, loss..
and I can't hide from that truth.
That behind this mask,
no one knows me.
This too, is my fault.

when i write in english
or remember the fact
that my mother or
father spoke it first,
i tend to stick my tongue
out, and...
look at the
belly-button of greenwich
of the supposed worth
of the world's magnetic
interests...
anyone not speaking
english always speaks
of the english as:
you always think you're
the belly-button
of the world!
    well... not after hong kong
you're not...
leeches of america,
             americancan-nah;
always with the new york
always with the l.a.
always with las vegas...
**** me!
        what's wrong with
the bible belt
and hefty steaks?!
                or anchorage?!
that's what the english-speaking
world doesn't understand...
    the entire world thinks
of them as the belly-buttons
of the entire human organism...
centre of the world
they say...
    pompous internet brats
they say...
   am i willing to defend them?
on the principle of
simply speaking their tongue?
no... not really...
   there's no infection of
american patriotism
   in europe akin to speaking
this tongue...
    it's only second...
           the english are patriotic
about football,
whim-blee-don...
     bleh bleh bleh bleh...
             st. george neutral:
it's called being polite to the point
that you'd rather a punch
in the face...
      or at least that's
                    what it feels like...
i have one disneyland in
mind at this point...
          ssss-witz-er?-yep-land.
      of no mortal, to no immortal's
gain.
they're still minded
                     as the belly-buttons
of the world...
  i swear the roman empire didn't
last,
   and the ancient greeks didn't last...
in terms of a subjective angle,
  you can almost taste the object
decaying in the study of history...
       within the orbit of repeat...
     that's how the english
are known in the continental world
of europe:
  you always think yourself to be
          the belly-button of the world;
watch the panic, when
the centre of attention shifts;
complete political paralysis,
                     and the ageing queen,
who, if celibate, would have
created a revival...
  but now the joke in the family,
or rather the ghost of diana
runs in the family...
                   that accursed family.

You asked me how I am doing
and I said “Good”
You asked me to be honest
and I said “I’m fine”
You told me to expand.
I replied,
"I'm not good at all.
And I want that to be simple enough.
I'm not being exaggerative
or selfish
or birthing drama for drama's sake.
It's just that I am here.
Here on silly earth,
And I feel alone at crossroads in my life.
I am under no illusion
of my incredibly blessed
or undeserving existence.
But that's just the problem.
LIFE is starting now.
And for the first time,
I have had to make choices
choices on my own
choices
that
(according to mother)
will shape who I fundamentally
become as a human.
So that's a bit distracting.
‘You need to remember not to let people down.’
‘You should consider how you love someone, not just when to.’
‘You ought to be more assertive or it'll all come crashing down.’
She reminds me of my
uncontrollable imperfection
on a daily basis
Not necessarily through her words
I doubt she wants to inflict this on me.
But the way way she stares at me sometimes
from across the room.
Silently.
Like she’s trying to admire a painting
that secretly
no one quite appreciates
or understands
but everyone seems to find profound meaning in it
so you go along
with the show.
Which I wouldn't have a problem with
if I could wake up refreshed in the
morning.
And not tired
like I am.
All the time.
I’m tired of being fifteen.
Because inside,
I don’t feel fifteen.
My mind turns on fifty year old gears
churning up one hundred year old
philosophies.
But
The age in which I currently must suffer through
is misunderstood
and incorrectly represented.
Teenager is a word parents
shudder to hear.
A word elders instantly accuse.
A word authorities doubt without reasonable basis.
The drum pumping my soul
is in fact a solo ensemble.
But
I am naturally clumped in with the lot
of marching bands
that clash and crash,
stomp and slam their drums
as they parade the flag
of fickle rebellion
into the air they barely know.
Don’t get me wrong,
the stereotypes of my age and time
are drawn up
from some truth,
but one truth shouldn’t result
in one outlook.
You don’t roll dice with
only threes on the faces
or only ones.
So it is hard to watch as
everywhere I go,
titles and labels
are being stuck into me
like toothpicks in a fruit salad.
And first of all,
just because society cuts me up
and breaks me down like a pineapple
you can buy with leftover quarters
doesn’t mean that I’m up for grabs.
And secondly,
No one should be branded
simply because
it is easier to ignore them
than to know them.
Don’t hear this as a “oh she’s a teenage girl” moment
hear this as a “she’s a human and wants to be heard without your filter over her words” moment
So, I’m having a hard time with that.
Not to mention the rest.”

“The rest?” You asked.

“You know,”
I said,
“How I have to decide what school
I am going to commit to
which is slightly like choosing
between your two parents.
You can’t pick one happily
and freely
without knowing what could’ve been
if you lived with dad instead.
It’s tricky to wake up in the morning.
It’s tricky to get out of bed
because I know that sooner than later
I will either be moving
that bed into the basement
or into a dorm
which won’t be on the campus I really desire
because God knows I didn’t
save enough pennies for that.
My whole future is before me.
Almost literally
considering the number of pamphlets stapled
over the dreams I carved so meticulously
out of my ‘mind wood’
with my ‘What do you want to be when you grow up’ knife.
So that’s intimidating.
And all those “it’ll work itself out” speeches
that surround me
don’t make the choices
suddenly blare across the radio
or start blinking from neon signs
telling me what to do
what to chose
what to be.
In the end,
all those “don’t worry about it”
and “you’ll figure it out”
do nothing but put a knot in my gut
that no amount of research
or interviews
or Friday night pig outs
can untie.
Because this stuff,
these moments as I build my foundation
for my single LIFE with little slippery Lego blocks
are not made with cheery hand-outs
or inspiring quotes.
LIFE is formed by me
choosing which Lego brick color
choosing which Lego brick shape
and of course
choosing which people will
help me to construct it.
It’s tricky
It’s messy
It’s loud
and it makes other things
hard to focus on.”

“Other things?”
You said.

“Other things.”
I reply.
“You know,
those books I have to read
those graphs I have to draw
those tests I have to study for
those miles I have to run
those words I have to memorize
those labs I have to finish
those annotations I have to complete
those poems I have to parse.
Just THOSE.
Don’t get me wrong.
I don’t mind school
Unlike the kids who complain
that they are forced to educate themselves.
I have no problem learning.
In fact, I want to
long to.
TEACH ME, WORLD!
TEACH ME HOW TO UNDERSTAND YOU IN EVERY LANGUAGE I CAN!
It’s not the books
or the deadlines.
It’s the people.
Bleh.
The people.
The cowardly childish people
with their smug clothes
and horrendous attitudes
that you can smell just over
the stink of their pomp.
Truthfully,
I feel for them
because they don’t feel for themselves.
and because there is little way to prove to these kids
that they can be them
not doctored them
or decorated them
the “them” they thrive to be
not the “them” they try to be.
So I’m surrounded by people
icky people
whose glares and stares
and whispers like cold ghosts
leave me too feeling torn between
being myself
(whatever that even means)
and being accepted.
I want to be free
to try new things,
but new things are poison here at school
new things are demeaning
because they’re demanding.
So,
I have moments where I say
‘Be you. What does it matter?’
But then when I am alone
at the table
at the only open table
with the last chair
the one that squeaks if you
rock to the left
when I am
listening to the music no one knows
and reading the book no one chose
thinking about the movie even no theater shows
that’s when moments of guilt ridden
loneliness bring me to say
‘Put yourself away for now.
Put in a pin in it.
Come back to what you want
after you’re done being what
society thinks you need.’
Because
it is hard to be loved
by one sided people
it is hard to be loved
when the world wants you to say
what it wants to hear.
Us teenagers think we wear invincibility cloaks
So we never have to see those under the invisibility cloaks
‘Don’t question it!’
seems to be the motto of most I meet here.
Because who wants to learn,
who wants to try
if it makes them question their comfort?
And of course that all just touches the surface
of that other thing.
The thing I don’t want to really talk about.”

You pushed me to tell you.

So I did.
“I’m afraid
of God.
I’m afraid
of Death.
I can’t go off of blind faith
like I did when I was young.
I can’t accept ‘Jesus loves you
this I know’
because this I don’t know.
And no one
Not my parent
Not my mentor
Not even my Bible
can give me enough hope in this regard
to bring me to accept not knowing.
This amount of stress is me
Sits as a damp frog
Pestering me to choose
Croaking up unformed opinions
in the form of tar
that I get trapped in.
How can I believe in something
How can I devote my life to something
How can I pray to someone
that I am not even convinced has cared
for a thousand years?
I want to think God knows my name
that he is above me as
those shiny, divine painting portray.
But they’re lies.
And people expect me to believe
that he is smiling down on me like
a new daddy over a crib.
He isn’t a father to me.
So, I feel lost
and confused
and scared that I’m wrong
and even more terrified that I am right.
I’m scared of
God.
And I’m scared
to die.
I don’t quite think I even know
how to live yet.”

“Oh,”
You said.

“Yeah,”
I whispered.
“I know.”

We both paused.
Remember?
My arms rested
at my sides.
Heavy.
Yours swung across
your chest.
Nervous.

“So you’re doing great then?”
You managed to slide through a smile.
“That’s good to hear.”