My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** *****. Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”

I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ******* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.

"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"

4 harmful foods that benefit us too
Maintaining a healthy diet isn't easy as one has to be careful of every morsel of food or sip of drink that they consume. So when research reveals a positive angle to some harmful dietary habits, what should one do?

A recent study in London showed that those who increased their coffee intake by more than a cup a day were less prone to have Type 2 Diabetes. On the other hand, caffeine is known to increase blood pressure and isn't good for the body in the long run. Here is a list of food items that are considered harmful, but benefit us in some ways as well...

WHITE BREAD

Why it's bad: For a while now, white bread has been pushed to the back seat due to the growing notion that it leads to increased blood sugar and can ultimately cause obesity. The grains are processed in such a way that it strips the bread off all nutrients. Scientists at Tufts University in Boston also found that eating white bread increases your waistline, when compared to brown bread. Fitness expert Wanitha Ashok adds, "Eating white bread makes you hungry in an hour or so. When it comes to nutrition, it doesn't get the top slot."

Why it's good: Eating white bread isn't necessarily a bad thing as long as you eat the enriched variety that contains nutrients, especially those that are topped with oats and nuts. Research done by the Irish University Nutrition Alliance showed that white bread contributed as much iron and fibre to an Irish diet as meat or fish. Nutritionist Ryan Fernando says, "The only time we recommend white bread to anyone is after a good workout. Sports athletes, especially, eat white bread as it helps replenish glucose faster and it's beneficial for the muscles."

FROZEN VEGETABLES

Why they're bad: It is believed that fresh vegetables are better than frozen ones because of all the processing that takes place to freeze them and keep them fresh. A study done by the Department of Nutrition and Dietetics in Turkey concluded that thawing frozen veggies before cooking them led to the loss of Vitamin C. "This is just convenience food. Anything you store for a long time begins to lose nutritional value. Also, in India, there are so many electricity fluctuations, so it's better to keep fresh vegetables," says Wanitha Ashok.

Why they're good: Lately, a lot of reports say that frozen veggies are better than the fresh variety because they are picked when they are most ripe and frozen so none of the vitamins are lost.Also,a study done at the University of Chester shows that there was a decline in the nutritional value of fresh veggies when refrigerated com - pared to frozen ones.

EGG YOLK

Why it's bad: It's known to increase cholesterol, which is why people with heart conditions avoid egg yolk. It also contains a lot of fat,which isn't good for people who gain weight easily. A Canadian study says that regularly consuming egg yolks can lead to plaque build-up in blood vessels. Why it's good: "Egg yolk has essential nutrients and vitamins, especially when compared to egg whites, which don't have as much. One or two eggs yolk a day are recommended for children, whereas adults should have one to get their intake of necessary nutrients," says Ryan Fernando. The cholesterol in the yolk is needed for elders and children who have adrenal issues.

CHOCOLATE

Why it's bad: Not only does consumption of chocolate gradually increase one's weight,but people tend to cut down on it because of its caffeine and fat content. "Children get addicted to chocolate when their consumption is not moderated. It's harmful for diabetic people and the sweeteners in it are bad for the teeth," says Nainatara S, a consultant nutritionist. The high oxalates in chocolate are known to cause kidney stones. A study by the American Society of Clinical Nutrition showed that the higher the consumption of chocolate by elders, the more likely they were to be affected by bone disease.

Why it's good: Nutritionist Murali Subramanian says one benefit of eating chocolate is its antioxidant content. A study in the University of Illinois showed that consuming dark chocolate helped lower cholesterol and blood pressure. The antioxidants in the chocolate also help reduce chances of obesity and Type 2 Diabetes.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

To beat the blues, declutter the mind and trim that waistline... there are far more reasons to stay hydrated than to quench the thirst. Here's how to do it...

Hydration is central to the most basic physiological functions of the body such as regulating BP and body temperature, blood circulation and digestion. But having enough water is one thing and keeping the body well hydrated another. Hydration comes not just from sipping water but from a diet high on water. One needs to have a variety of fruits and vegetables that have a naturally high water content to replenish the electrolytes in scorching summer.

EAT YOUR WATER

"The primary way of hydration is drinking plenty of clean water ******, but about 20 per cent of our intake comes from foods, especially fruits, vegetables, drinks and broths. Hydrating food not only corrects the water balance but also replaces essential salts and minerals," adds Manjari Chandra, therapeutic nutritionist. Aqua foods provide volume and weight but not calories. Grapefruit, for example, is about 90 per cent water and half a grapefruit has just 37 calories. High water greens and fruits contain essential vitamins and minerals, bioflavonoids (compounds believed to prevent heart disease) and antioxidants that slow down the aging process. They are also high in fibre, which keeps you feeling full for longer and helps the digestive system run efficiently. They can provide al most all vitamins and minerals and correct nutrient deficiencies.

WEIGHT WATCHERS

If you thought the list of hydrating foods ends with the usual suspects like cucumbers, watermelons and tomatoes, you are wrong. Some offbeat natural hydrators include leeks, spinach, peppers, carrots and celery. In fact, celery comprises mostly water... qualifying as a great snacking option. It can also curb sweet tooth cravings, which will help you stay slim and keep away from acidic sweets. "Eggplants are a fabulous weight loss kitchen staple. This versatile ingredient has low calories and is rich in fibre that boosts satiety. Grape fruit has been hailed as a weightloss superfood globally for its cardio protective, antioxidant and appetite-sup pressing qualities. This high fibre, juicy fruit has the ability to lower blood sugar levels and control a voracious appetite," says Jia Singh, travel, food and wellness writer.

MOOD AND MIND

People usually don't consider water as a mood enhancer. However, studies have proved otherwise. Even mild dehydration can alter a person's mood, energy levels, and ability to think clearly, according to two studies by the University of Connecticut's Human Performance Laboratory. Mild dehydration is defined as an approximately 1.5 per cent loss in normal water volume in the body. It is important to stay properly hydrated at all times, not just during exercise, extreme heat, or exertion. This is because water gives the brain the electrical energy for all t, its functions, including r thought and memory processes. When your brain is functioning on a full reserve of water, you will be able to think faster, be more focused, and experience clarity and creativity.

MUSCLE POWER

We all know the importance of exercising, getting enough protein, calories and rest in order to build muscles.But water consumption is as important for muscle wellness and lubrication of joints. Water composes 75 per cent of our muscle tissue! So, if your body's water content drops by as little as 2 per cent, you will feel fatigued. If it drops by 10 per cent, you may experience health problems, such as arthritis and back pain. When you're well hydrated, water provides nutrients to the muscles and removes waste so that you perform better.

TOP SUMMER HYDRATORS

Strawberries: They rank highest in water content in comparison to all other berries. Berries are powerhouses of antioxidants that are cardio protective, good for your eyes, skin and nails and even help prevent inflammation and chronic illnesses.

Carrots: They are almost 90 per cent water, are rich sources of vitamin A and C and have tons of betacarotene that keep cancer at bay.

Zucchini: Zucchini is a popular summer squash made of 95% water. It is a good source of dietary fibre, vitamin A, C and K, folate, magnesium. It is best to use it fresh and raw in salads because cooking leads to loss of water.

Bell Peppers: Sweet bell peppers are amongst the veg gies with the highest water content. They are also a great source of vitamin C.

Iceberg lettuce: Health experts often rec ommend substituting it with darker greens like spinach or romaine lettuce for higher amounts of fibre and nutrients such as folate and vitamin K. It's a different story, however, when it comes to water content. Crispy ice berg has the highest amount of water amongst the lettuce family.

Spinach: It may not be as hydrating as iceberg lettuce, but spinach is usually a bet ter bet overall. The leafy vegetable is rich in lutein, potassium, fibre, and brain-boosting folate.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

Devised by Cosmic Boss
Sourced by parents
Aided by obstetrician
Nursed by pediatrician
Nurtured by nutritionist
Counseled by sexologist
Treated by orthopedist
Stressed by physiotherapist
Directed by dietician
Nudged by nephrologist
Nerved by neurologist    
Contained by cardiologist
Consoled by psychologist
Interspersed by dentist,
Sighted by ophthalmist
Conditioned by physiology
Terminated by mortuary
The inexorable Lifeline Express
Of hospitalized hospitality

Diagnosis: Anorexia Nervosa
Status: Recovered.

So my point in writing... am I doing this for myself? Maybe... or to inspire others? Maybe...
Or to simply just show and say, that I am through this. Through what? Through all that growth that you encounter when you truly engage yourself in recovery.
This does not mean I will not grow further, learn more. Develop and engage. It doesn’t mean I have been able to shut the door once and for all on my mental health struggles (I was trying to be as politically correct towards myself using that term).
It means, I trust, I believe, and not naively, that I have done the hard work.
I have stepped outside of the mirror.
I no longer believe I can only live half way, a half life, between sickness and wellness.
It means, I know, I will never, get sick again.
Many may laugh, or shake their heads at that. And yet, what I am writing here is filled with so much faith and trust, that I can be sure of myself. Even if no one else in the world believes it, I do. And I know it, because I have made a choice.
There were some backwards and forwards, to relapses and re-growths, but each and every fall, I chose to learn. I chose to take to therapy. I chose.
I choose life.  And so that means, the commitment to life, to myself, that I will always take the route that leads to more life, or to more hope...

And so getting well. What happened there? Well, after years of self abuse, of anger turned inwards, after trying to destroy myself in every single way possible... I wondered, inquisitively, what would happen if I used all I had learnt in hospital, all the positive energy directed at me, the words my therapist would say to me... I wondered, what if?
That if, turned out to be the most amazing curiosity. It is why I am safe, well, “recovered.” I don’t use the term recovered lightly. I recognise that my whole life will mean being mindful, it will mean self awareness, it will mean vulnerability. But what I am certain of, is that each year that passes, I grow and gain strength in ways I never realised I could.
I use “recovered” because I don’t believe I am “in recovery.” I have done the recovery. I have done the putting food in my mouth, consulting a nutritionist, the ridiculous amount of weight gain that allowed me to be healthy. I am done with the depression, the endless anxiety, the self harm.
I say “recovered” because as Marya Hornbacher writes: “I mean flat-out eat-normally stay-healthy get-comfortable-with-your-body-and-actually-like-it recovery.”
Few believe it exists. In fact, I was told my numerous doctors I would never recover. I would always be chronic. Sick. In need of hospital.
It exists. I know that. Because it exists for me.
Recovering has meant finding a voice, and using it. It means putting food in my mouth, it means seeing friends, engaging in life, seeking out healthy ways of coping when I feel overwhelmed, scared, anxious...

I live.

© Sia Jane

Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis.  The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands.  She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!

Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill.  Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.

Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag.  From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.

Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.

Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.

Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip.  That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.

Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom.  The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.

Pretty Princess knows how to see it.

Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.

Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.

In the 1970s there was a wave of soft pop that struck America
one band at the crest of that wave was The Carpenters
formed by Richard and Karen Carpenter
they were wildly successful
their song We’ve Only Just Begun is still a ubiquitous wedding song
Karen’s smooth and pure voice drew giant crowds
but despite how timeless her music is
it is equally contrasted by the briefness of her life.

Karen captivated a worldwide audience with her music
but some people just can’t be reached
indoctrinated by our superficial society
thinking every celebrity should be a supermodel
critics made snide comments about her being Richard’s chubby sister
even though she wasn’t overweight
and Richard was addicted to Quaaludes
but even more important than the public was Karen’s own mother
who worried of the public’s feelings more than her own daughter’s.

Karen felt pushed to lose weight
so she hired a nutritionist
who loaded her down with carbohydrates
which obviously made her fatter
crushing her faith in nutrition
turning her towards unhealthy methods
...which worked...at first...
but unfortunately it kept working
and she refused to change, unlike her body.

Fans who once cheered for her
now gasped when they saw her emaciated skeleton take the stage
they thought she might’ve had cancer
and were concerned about her weight
but to her it was the same crowd telling her to lose weight
now telling her to gain weight
she was done hearing it
and stuck in her ways.

Her friends were worried about her
and pleaded for her to seek help
but her mother’s profession was repression
so Karen hid her depression
while her mother told her psychiatrists were for crazy people.

Karen tried using a man to make her problems disappear
and married Tom Burris two months after meeting him in 1980
he would verbally abuse her; calling her a bag of bones
then he’d *** money off her; amounts up to $50,000 at a time
needless to say the relationship was ill fated
and they divorced in 1981.

Finally Karen’s friends convinced her to see a therapist
who brought her family into a counseling session
and urged them to tell Karen they love her
of course Richard was willing to say so, they were always really close
especially after Karen had helped him with his own addiction issues
but Karen’s mother refused
berating the therapist for using her first name; Agnes
and informing him that wasn’t how their family did things.

Karen Carpenter passed away February 4, 1982 at the age of 32
she died from ipecac poisoning
she used the substance to induce vomiting every day
and it slowly dissolved her heart.

Richard was devastated.

There’s not much I can add
I guess Karen’s story speaks for itself
it just ****** me off critics jeer with impunity and without empathy
they’re free to cajole great artists while having no value themselves
driving artists away until we’re only left with negativity
it makes me want to cut out all the demons’ razor sharp tongues
before they get a taste of another angel’s wings
but would that really protect those angels
if they’re born to demons?

Halfway up a mountain
on an ice-bound January day,
I sought to reliquify
a few calorific assets.

I am no fool -
I had been carefully investing
a portion of each meal
in certain holdings
(mainly around the waist).
Of course, I knew the safe route:
balanced diet, carbs, fruit, veg;
but a venture nutritionist such as myself
pays little heed to such extravagant prudence.

Fried breakfasts looked like offering
a quick and reliable payoff
and sure, for a while it worked.
But guess what:
Just when I needed the big windfall,
nothing.
Not a sausage,
if you'll pardon the pun.

"Sorry," a regretful body explained,
"I know you'd think you could call on your investments
"at the drop of a hat,
"but actually they're kind of clogged,
"a bit like your arteries."

Wheezing, waiting
for the mountain rescue helicopter,
I spared a rueful thought
for the taxpayer -
the reluctant buyer
of my safety.

You might imagine I owe something in return,
but I watch the news
and I reckon
I'll get away with it.

The first time I knew I was fat I was five
When you told me not to eat the other half of my food
Because it would make me bigger
As if I was large to begin with
A perfectly normal, healthy, happy child
Saw the light flicker in her eyes
And eventually, burn out.
From then on, you kept attempting to be my nutritionist
Where you had no place to do so.
I kept learning to restrain myself
To eat when I was hungry
But when I was hungry, I was told not to eat
I kept wandering around within myself
A stray dog, a lost thought
The candle in my mind never stayed long
Somehow, you thought shaming me would help my hips to stop protruding into the atmosphere
Would help me shrink wrap my body
To become dust, like everyone else in our thin town
Thin high school
Thin media.
When I fell in love with those hips, those thighs, that stomach
I was told to become a ghost again
Even in the wake of my eating disorder.
What no one tells you about shame
Is that the end goal is never attainable
It's like helping someone breathe
By suffocating them
It's like teaching someone to swim
By drowning them
You told me it was never about appearance
I believed you
Until you made a comment about self-mutilation after I got an ear piercing
Knowing I used to cut myself.
Making me think of all that was said and done
Since I was five years old
When you bought me gifts if I lost a certain amount of weight
When you insulted my hair, my clothes, my makeup
I learned that my body
Was nothing but a canvas
That I was supposed to erase the picture if you didn't like it
And that I was nothing by my body.
I now have a plan to get healthy
But I don't intend on telling you what it is
Because it has nothing to do with weight loss
And you will simply undermine it
As you undermine me
Every time you tell me I will fail.
You told me you did not want me to be like you
Since you let yourself go
So I keep sinking
But at least at the bottom of the ocean, dad
I can drown out the chance
That I will ever be like you.

may i ask, which pronoun are you searching for, and if in which model, which pronoun-verb in the Cartesian duo function could you ever ask me what pronoun occupies f(∴)? you see, mathematics doesn't sincerely pledge i think with i am, given dues to f(∵), given geometric intersection, both are Gemini, unequivocal, David's abstract.

perpetually open eyes, never acknowledging a blink,
Venetians cascading on Byzantium, near blink near conscience,
but never near an Ottoman consequence;
how ***** into role of Janissary: fear the impaler and all
who reign in his caste disguised... yet you encourage
that they come.... what tailoring of suit
so well disguises the blood? a heavy collar or the lightly
mandated to feel a "conscience"?
i like freaks like him, i too cared to wear many
masks, is that worth a psychiatric evaluation,
you spared me no trust,
your secret dealings could have spared me
my health, what you fear is double-jeopardy,
including a seclusive f.b.i. reclusive supposedly paranoid...
please leave all your badges of officiation to
an affiliated organisation of governance behind
including your firearms, and other scientific
conditionings prejudiced against the church v.
Galileo... please leave dogmatism to students and
anomaly encounters to professionals as stated by
the entitlements of doctorate...
the plot has no identifiers worthy of investigation,
unless everyone was brainwashed into thinking
that goldfish held a greater memory span in a
fish tank than all the people in the world, atmosphered,
and later impregnated by nothing other than
vacuum and astronomical interactions of simple
alphabetical greek into complex chemistry? or
could a world conspiracy come about as simply
the words: she was worth a 1000 Greek ships
worth of **** to later ascribe the capital
of love as Paris? the raw animal is worth more in
his ontological environment than in a zoological one,
cages enliven violence rather than envision them
in either subject or the culprits mind...
it's the added prospect of seclusion that animates
a piquant status of memory to a kindred
fingerprint cloning deviation, a susceptible replication
environment: esp. through no familial motive, other than an
individualistic swarm-like reaction to an insecticide:
however much the individual invigorates a
suspect accommodation to an equilibrated pluralism
within a status ascribed to an: individual.
i admit, the psychological rhetoric is the new
invention of the wheel... it goes on and on forever,
i fear for those hapless idiots studying the logic
of excluding soul (as an absence of thought), god,
and free will to ever return to the rational / sane world
of afternoon tea, given they specialised in these
specified wording to a rubric equatable to 1 + 2 = 3.
you'll learn no more human secrets than that of
a *sloane's viperfish... otherwise you're entering a realm
of perfected adaptability with some quasi-science
via fiction and conspiracy, that leave you no more than
an agent of the priesthood and a loss of a good
niche of ******... well, is't the priesthood
pathetic so jealous as to have lost the reigns having
kept them for so long? oh yes, the public will react...
regarding the next nutritionist's fact...
it's called adaptability i may say, leave them to it,
you kept to your symbolism for too long,
we learned the crux like we learned to say X
three times ensuring we watched ****...
oh i'm not jealous, i won't be the one having to
orphan the ******* sons, as your church had to keep
them to keep up pretences... all they have to keep
up is the stability of universally recognising a
centimetre, which, like satan said of the kingdoms
to be given, the Orientals sort of ignored with
the grievance demanding an explanation for
the ineffectiveness of thus said temptation.

Appetites are arbitrary, almost subjective. Growing up, my appetite was like any other kid’s: chips, chocolate milk, maybe an apple or two. My mother was a single mom who worked two jobs, so more often than not, my dinners consisted of a McDonald’s happy meal. What my insatiable hunger lacked was in sports. I had always been more interested in chocolate muffins than playing soccer or soft ball. This may have been supported by my heart condition, but in reality, I knew I just hated sports. So, in turn, most of my time was spent on the couch watching cartoons and eating my bore away.  Eventually, my lifestyle caught up with me, and at the tender age of nine, while in the midst of my cardiac surgery, I had doctors and nurses telling me that I was fat, heavy, obese, and just too big for my age.
​For a long time, these statements did not curb my appetite, they actually reinforced it. Food was the only constant comfort for me, and so I would indulge in almost anything and everything, mostly to the point of sickness. I would binge and binge and binge until I didn’t feel bad anymore, until I felt like my mother liked me, until I felt some of the self-hatred go away. My mother observed my weight gain, and introduced me to a nutritionist in an attempt to understand and maybe find a balance of my caloric intake. But, that was the thing about my eating disorder, it was never in the grey, never faded or opaque. Even in my astrology, I was born as an all-or-nothing soul. For me, it was always black or white; binging until the point of physical sickness, or eating so little that I myself became brittle and grey
​My freshman year of High School was when the starvation really set in. I had finally gotten my first boyfriend, a frail boy who was about 125 lbs smaller than me. My appetite dwindled and faded as did my sanity. I had been in the hospital for suicidal ideation and attempts, and as I dealt and weeded through all of the twists and turns of my mind, I had finally decided that being fat was not going to be my life. Of course, as a recovering self-harmer, my mind thought the only way to fix this was to stop eating all together. But, to be completely honest, it didn’t start out as a bad thing. I tried to just reduce my calorie intake just a bit and maybe go for a jog once in a while, I tried to be smart about it. But my polarized personality quickly took over, and before I knew it I was counting not only calories, but breaths.
​At the point where I had lost almost half my original body weight, I had also lost my appetite for food, friends, family, even living. The hunger I was consumed by could only be satiated by the poignant shadows of my cheek bones, by the dips and valleys of my ribs, through the feeling of leather skin stretched taut over brittle bone. I wanted to be small, I needed to be weightless. But the only ******* tongue would implore for was the taste of stomach acid kissing my lips. The only sustenance my stomach would have was the crisp air of cigarettes and coke zero. The only thing my mind would give me was a quiet attack and endless assaults on my psyche.
​I used my friends and family as a tool to substantiate my fatal way of life. Because of my lifelong struggle with my weight, the photos depicting my weight loss progress were bombarded with comments congratulating me on how great I looked, on how proud of me they were. But what they didn’t know was that they were patting me on the back for not eating for days and days; they were complimenting me on how my sinewy fingers would crawl down my throat and take the little nourishment I had given myself from my stomach; what they didn’t know was that they were happily watching me slowly **** myself.
I knew I wasn’t okay, I knew I was just waiting for rock bottom; I knew I was a dead girl walking. At this point my joints would groan and weep when I walked, and my stomach practically rejected anything I’d give it. I had learned to deal with the hunger pains, and I learned how to hide the scars on my body that my relapsing mind would leave. I was a ghost trapped in a bag of dry, cracking skin beside a pile of fragile, toothpick bones. I believed that I was to die sooner or later, and that that would be it, the pain would be over. But I guess the universe had a different plan for my time on earth.  
It was cold outside, and I had layered myself in cardigans and jackets and parkas. I was walking home from school, to burn a few extra calories that my mind deemed to be immediately terminated. It wasn’t a long walk, maybe twenty minutes if I didn’t stop. Just as I reached the open field, about ten minutes away from my house, it began to snow. My eyes darted up,  too fast for my feeble mind to process, and everything went fuzzy. I knew this meant I was going to pass out, so I hurried home. My feet were able to carry me to the sidewalk before my house steps. But before I could even reach the front door, everything was suddenly black, my eyes rolled back, and my knees fell from underneath me.
My eyes fluttered open as I felt a sharp pain under my head. I look around and see that I have a light layer of snow covering most of my body. I saw that there was blood seeping through my white coat, and that my legs were numb. As I sat up, I realized that I had hit my head, and that there was blood on the ground. My fingers prodded the chunk of skull that was throbbing, and thankfully only found a small little wound. Finally, my legs woke up and I was able to hobble inside, but not without covering up the mess I had made.
When I got inside, I peeled off the layers of cloth to tend to the bruises and scrapes on my arms. What I didn’t expect was the multitude of red lines across my bony wrists, all varying of size, age, and severity.
This was my rock bottom.
I hadn’t even remembered doing it to myself. I did not recall taking that razor from its secret home and running it across my skin. My mind could not pull up the images of red-dotted paper towels and carefully placed band-aids, and this is what scared me the most. The fact that I had been living in such a fog to the point where I could not even remember my own self-mutilation pierced itself to my core, and I began to cry. I cried for myself, I cried for my mother, I cried for my life, because this disease had taken all of those away from me. It dug its way into my brain and fed upon the very core of my being, not giving a **** on the consequences my soul would suffer. It tore out my lungs and veins and flesh, and most importantly my heart. My eating disorder turned me into a vessel. My eating disorder held me captive in my own body for years with the only solace being coke zero and granola bars. My eating disorder took everything away from me, and I willingly allowed it.
​The only appetite I’ve ever had was the desire to be impeccable. I wanted to be perfect, I wanted to be good enough. I wanted to be wanted. But, what I learned was that bones cannot keep you warm in the bitter cold, that the skin I drew so tight over my hollow heart would not hold me together in a tiny little bow, and would eventually break. Finally, the appetite to live was greater than my appetite to die. I learned not to just live but to thrive, and accepted my body with all of its curves and slopes, and even still remembered the sharp corners and valleys that were left behind. Not only did my appetite return to me, but I returned to me, and I am so hungry.

**** me, what a... "predicament"... i'm applying myself to, eh... "cultural relevance": whatever the hell that means, even if enclosed in "misnomer" bracketing... but... of late, hell, more recently than "of late"... i am applying myself to a culture, a people, that's, simply put, a dodo-project... i'm not going to mind my contemporaries, i have three structural dynamics, all three are negations, i.e., since my grandfather died i have: NO peers, NO contemporaries... NO elders... i do have a graveyard of necromancy to deal with, i.e. my own private library, of actual, physical, stinking books... minimalist man and his ******* shortcuts, 'links in the disclaimer' blah blah blah... to write this worth of *******... while surrounded by a culture that, clearly, is hell-bent on... at best: shooting itself in the foot, at worst: committing suicide... because? oh.... universal suffrage... women... the instigators of downfall... women... whatever man built... has to topple, on the whims of a woman... it's not longer: woe to man... woman! it's... woman?! run! hide! save yourself... hunt a, ******* mammoth while you're at it! what the **** happened to romance? that ******, flimsy, whatever it was that was sold to us when growing up nearing the year 2000? gone... ****! in a flash... a droplet of water in a frying pan with a puddle of hot oil... in the meantime the ol' lovely jukebox that was once youtube was hijacked, circa... whatever year prior to 2020. I'm here, sort of waiting for death, death: by that i implore: release... as i also invoke the question: why do crows fly in pairs over England, while  on the continent they flock? huginn! muninn! truly, crows congregate in flocks on the continent... clouds of them... messerschmitt clouds or black, iron, crosses: looming shadows... yet over England... happy to see one sit it out, croaking, some the sunset, bound to find a crow paired... not paired up with a hooded crow, ever see a raven mingle with a magpie?! me neither... ever see crows display ****** attraction in a way that's atypical to pigeons, i.e. the whole routine of courting & subsequent failure? no... i guess crows do their "****" at night, in the forest, donning, for ****'s sake... leather S&M suits, gimp gagging *****, etc., no? no... i'm not writing this because it's pleasant, it's funny as hell (though)... but i'm sort of part of a culture that's dying... it's a dodo-project... this might be seen, if i am allowed, the same status as a mummy can... there was a man alive at the turn of the 21st century and he wrote, this... well... i'm all for hope... slowing down on the intake of alcohol too... i switched from whiskey to cider... her presto! i find myself animated... like cider was mixed up wit amphetamines, or caffeine... i raise my emptied bottle of cider like it might be a horn awaiting / celebrating a procession of a god through an avenue of spectators... i can't possibly here to "save" a culture, that, inevitably (however that might be phrased otherwise) is not willing, is making too many "anschluss" decisions... **** it... let it rot... let Pakistani men run rampant in Rotherham...  i'm just weirdly here, while it happens... Pontius Pilate once didn't say, while washing hi hands: i'll have nothing to do with this... let the dice roll... there's nothing to upkeep, there's nothing to conserve... questions, question: all that ought to be addressed by some supposed variation of an Elder... no elders though, just Alzheimer buggers... unto the youth, strain their shoulders.. perform the Atlas pose... ****'s sake... no! i will not defend this culture, i'll fake being part of it, sure... who wouldn't... thank god i didn't invest in carving replicas of DNA into this schematic... i'm happy not having children... oh i love the children of strangers, esp. toddlers... i can "talk" to them in onomatopoeias... that's fun... i can't disagree... no... beside this... no ******* chance in hell... hell first... my engagement in this world, second... i'm out... convince someone, otherwise, to take a spin, on your current variation of a carousel... what once there was, is no longer more, or for that matter is... sure... i will die childless, but also freed from the looming responsibility of the world in which, i left only words, but not a dire imprint of physicality having mated with someone, producing offspring... oh how glad i have to be! what relief! what release! if the structure of the argument follows its logical conclusion, one less of me, or a Russian.... then the Tutsi, Twa & the Hutu weren't slaughtered by Rwandian militias? my my, almost like the Yugoslav debacle, remnants of the Ottoman Empire... after all... it's not like the macaques staged a war against the baboons... come to "think" of it... i only visited Kenya to, "make-sure"... that the macaques were as boring, as easily spotted, as easily available as... pigeons... not a lot of birds in Africa... plenty of primates... falling asleep outside while those little rascals ravaged the possibilities of existence in the trees... perhaps the croaking of crows at night during winter is, some sort of "compensation"... but, not really...

my next door neighbour "thinks" it's necessary
to start rapping in the dark,
rap, or rhyme, whatever,
what a waste of breath...

there's a passage in Plato's Theaetetus
where Socrates
arrives at something
resembling a Japanese unit of language...
a unit of syllabary...
i.e. consonant + vowel...
why oh why does Japanese
allow for the stand-off with
the five vowels and one consonant (N)...

ΣO... something about knowledge,
so what?

don't ask: i'm grooving to...
Alphaville's Big in Japan...
to be a teenager in the 1980's...
going to the cinema with a sweetheart,
going to the cinema to watch
a horror movie...
hell... what a time to be alive!
Duran Duran, A-Ha... Roxette...
the Cure, Depeche Mode...

we don't have any cultural ref. markers...
Tool? seriously, o.k.,
i can give you that one...
i'm not even going to mention
the Comic Book film adaptations...
Unbreakable... that film consolidates
all the rest of them...
the soundtrack is tantamount too,
more a bonus than anything...

ΔO? do i?
well... ***!
ΔO is more: ΔΩ:

to doo... otherwise, what's that?
DOUGH?
we're baking bread, now?
oh the dreaded return of the facemasks...
muzzles... how near are we to a gallop?
there's no silent H in Greek...
"silent", technically a surd...
no, there's no dow or dough invoked...

i've just spent an hour writing up
a writing assessment for an NVQ qualification,
i find relief in having abandoned
all that formal language...
in the first scenario i was writing
a newsletter for a local volunteer project
concerning a recent vandalism of the park...

in the second scenario i was writing an article
to reply to a nutritionist on campus who
spotted that only takeaway quality of foods /
fizzy foods were available,
so no salads etc.,
she also mentioned that the students
were not getting enough exercise...
i agreed with the hypothetical she on the grounds
of food... but i implored her,
as a nutritionist... to not meddle in affairs
of exercise, was she implying that she's a nutritionist
AND a personal trainer?
everything hypothetically staged, of course...

ugh... this dreary formal language when employed
to examinations...
does my head in... no knowledge of the three dots
as an authentic punctuation mark...
the hanging suspense.

how do the Greeks laugh? if H is the capital
ref. to eta... is eta less prolonged than epsilon?
oh i know that there are obvious similarities
between Omicron and OOmega...

do: pool, do i just pull?
omicron, omega, upsilon...
sounds almost the same,
how the meaning changes when written down...
excesses, "excesses" of the lambda...
pulverise... most certainly not pull-toward-the-averse...

come 2am... all is self-evident...
i can't possibly be an additional chapter in
this culture's self-expression...
it's the end... a culminating perspective of cul de sac....
bring me fire, bring me waves...
even those ethnic minority groups
who have established themselves
in the parameters of this languages
are... pretty much aware that...
they're not safe...
well... their status isn't...

            i might think of myself as an Anglo-Slav...
but... there are plenty that wouldn't ascribe those
words to themselves...
then again... most Polacks are staying put...
blah blah, one confusion after another...
here's to planning a ***** colony in
Botswana!
me, you... let's hire a dingy!
let's cross the Strait of Gibraltar!

we won't worry... we didn't invest in having
children... don't worry...
it's not like the culture we were leaving was
anything but fair to us...
it was willingly dying...
i stopped to bother about it,
when it stopped bothering about itself.

strange... of a people that most espouse this
whole Darwinism tirade...
all ******* theory: very little practice...
the English be ****** for their Darwinism!
seriously!
all their little explanations, their ergonomics,
their ******* sensibilities...
their cricket banalities...
yet when facing an immediate and obvious threat?!
where's the carpet? where's the dust?
the broom! the broom! quick! quick!
******* to Devonshire!
people ought to learn to be heartless...
then again... when was the last time the English
were asked to be heartless,
when was the last time they were subjugated
by a foreign entity, in a historically legal sense of
noting history?

so much for their pompous posturing within
the luxury of historically reading about the greatest
empire that could ever be envisioned...
i wasn't there for the partitioning
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth...
i'm so sorry that i missed it...
but i'm here for "this"... and boy... do i have a hard-on
for what's to come next...
i'm just waiting for the Welsh & Scottish nationalists
to put in some more momentum!

after all... if you're going to deconstruct Warsaw...
you need to do it: brick by brick...
so that... no brick stands on another brick...
here we go... looking forward...
a future: that wonderful plateau!

She pines for me to come back to her.
Her broad shoulders, loose lips that really do sink my ship every time she speaks
She makes me feel like a Barbie doll on acid
As she critiques every element of my appearance.
My eyes are too wide and inquisitive
My hair isn't quite straight
And my weight?
Forget about it.

Yes, Bulimia has a funny way
Of making me feel like a failure
And yet I still hear her invigorating voice
Every waking moment I live.
It makes my skin come alive
My body jolt
My mind rise and fall
Still dizzy from the high she gives me.

People think
Going to a nutritionist will take care of her
Going on a diet will absolve her presence
Sure, she gets jealous
But that just causes her to inflict more pain upon me.

We have been fighting recently
And I threaten to take care of it for good
By taking a handful of whatever pills I can find to shut her mouth
She dares me, defiantly
"Do it."
One time, I almost did too.
Toxic relationships seem to be the most prominent kind I have

My therapist says she's only around because my ex reinforced every idea she put into my head
And my father did as well.
But frankly, I think she was there long before
Anyone ever encouraged me to skip a meal
Before anyone ever told me that my stomach has too much soft earth within it
To make me lovable
Before anyone made me feel like I wasn't enough.

She has all the influence in my *** life
And kind of reminds me of a jealous ****
For she encourages me to be promiscuous
But then her beady eyes give way
Scrutinizing every inch of my thick body
She whispers the number on the scale in my ear
And so I tell him to turn off the lights
So he won't have to look at the abomination
That stares back at me every day.

As his hands glide over my back
His fingers slide into the grooves between each individual rib
I **** uncomfortably and awkwardly
Because the fear that he is looking at the person I see
Could not scare me more.
She tells me that this fear is rational.

She is the third lover you did not invite into your bed space
But to call her Mia
To grant her personhood seems wrong
It seems sick.

She has a personality of her own
That's for sure
And none of my friends like her.
When she hurts me, I make excuses
"I've got it under control"
I say
"I can fix her."
Sure it's a lie
But I've made a career of lying to myself.

She is not a person
She is a wicked spirit
With a black curtain over any trace of a heart that was once there.
She tries to control me
She tries to become me.

And so,
Over the past month I've gained a few pounds
And while it makes my vice
Bulimia
Angrier than could be
She likes me skinny, she really does.
All that weight
That soft earth previously mentioned
The vessel I carry in my belly
It's all me.
It's all me
And none of her deceit has permeated it's entirety
So it remains
Purely me.

.monotheism suspected men, to be ontologically docile, autistic, solipsistic in terms of their relation to women... hence they provided an catalyst-esque solution... to shame, their ****** drive derived for an ultra-private expedience, and exploit it, toward a ****** drive... derived within the confines of a non-reciprocated ultimatum... monotheism, ergo... is... very much a religion for women... islam is, of course, part of it... the three strands of monotheism... are... m'eh... religions derived by women, for women, at the expense of male genital mutilation... thank **** that i was not circumcised... i'm over 'ere, with the ***** and the 'indu.

i'll sooner appreciate pushing out a ****,
than watching a sunrise,
custard mind all over again..

    and what's up with this,
background noise...
of either a train chuggling
into the "distance"...
it's already in the "distance"...

almost a thank god moment:
hercules went mad...

  counter the "train"...
i hear forses galloping,
like an entourage precursor...
i definitely "hear"
horses, galloping,
those are certainly hooves..

and the **** is up
with men, in western culture,
being orientated around
having to make priority
over ***....
       eh?
         you ****,
or...
     you don't...
and if you don't...
you find counter outlets...
t'ah d'ah...
  stay up all night
for a channel 5 movie
screening of neon demon...
just because:
you gorged over the sountrack...

a little bit of wiggly-here,
and a bit of wiggly-woo...
mike myers doing
the fat ******* "quiz"....
hey presto! some sort of sushi!

i always ask a sane person,
do you, do you,
do you hear that, that train?
the usual answer, no.
so i ask again,
do you, do you hear those horses?
the usual answer is, no.

should have sniffed lines of *******
and "elaborated"
on an eric clapton classic...
****, turn over,
next chapter...
   that sad sad story of
always and everywhere but
always and everywhere
provided, it happens in Yankee-town...
burp...
     as long as pweety gurl is
all gurl for girl groove...
and.. it's h'america...
   coolio.

****-hole town h'america,
where everyone minds their own business...
nope...
   hey pretty...
that's not on the cards...
     ******* giggles into the night...
which is the worthwhile
template...
a thumb's length of whiskey
in the afternoon,
english politics,
           fish & chips...
a bottle of wine,
a beer for the walk:
****! where's the dog?!
  and back onto the whiskey...

basics: you find me drinking in
the daylight hours,
you find me giggling...
ergo you find me in a good mood...

      i once mate an inmate,
a fellow, nutritionist,
of ethnicity, inmate,
by the name of Paul...
a dub-step d.j. pusher...
who taught me:
amphetamines give you
insomnia...
so i drank and i drank:
and kept on drinking...
and snorted very little,
and...
   "bias"...

                what?!
i don't have an idea relating
to tinder or
game of thrones...

zero, zilch,                 wh'ah?!

i hate to break it for you,
it's still a ******* train charging
in the background,
or three horsemen
looking out for the fourth...

   in terms of a train?
romford train station is...
5 miles away from my house...
visual hallucinations are clarity
prone...
   auditory hallucinations?
eh, come again?

           how advanced can
the faculty of imagination be,
when there's no walt disney,
and it's purely solipsistic
projection?
    how can my imagination
be so advanced,
so insular,
        and at the same time...
have a negative affect on me?

  trains, horses...

   point of a somewhat base
for "closure",
   when i told them:
i heard a choir, in a church,
heading up to camden town...
they presumed
the choir i heard
was singing latin...

      who the hell said
"they" were singing in latin?!
they, the psychiatric team,
simply presumed,
it was latin...
      **** on me...
what if it was greek?
    
            or hebrew?

or... occult zunge?
         when will it become necessary,
for people, to realise,
that... a projection of the imagination,
as a reply to genuine
symptoms of schizophrenia...

              does, not, exist...
if imagination was as potent,
as it, already is,
in the positive extracts of
the already stated examples...
you'd get a movie,
or a painting...
        but... in the majority of the cases...
projection of the imagination,
a free reign of the imagination
in reply, governed by a complexity
of thought, within
the symptom of auditory hallucinations...

you're serious... right?
you want me to be serious with this,
"theory"?
          
    perhaps dostoyevsky said the following:
    
   'to angels - vision of god's throne,
         to insects - sensual lust'

i can compensate,
      the thrill, a brothel, a period of
vomitting,
  nerves shattered, asking for a cup
of water,
   while sitting before Nazgûl "harem"
of ******...
and then back into the western
narrative of feminism,
and... forever unable to relate to it...
once every 3 years will do just fine,
for an hour's worth of *******...

      but this constant: yap-yap-yapping
about ****** *******,
or lack, thereof, this constant bragging,
compare little richards all you want...
you circumcised?
i said, are, you m.g.m.?
   male genital mutilation example?
yes, no? no? yes?
       you have a hoodie,
the jerking-off allowance "jacket"?
yes, no? no? yes?
      audioslave: miami vice sountrack?
bells, bells, ring any?
      oh, right,
so you're telling me she can play the *****-dodo
game over a web-cam,
with you, attired to, "express yourself"
with scented candles,
    a credit card,
               and a comfy chair?
    **** on me,
and i thought that baptism was bad,
i just "forgot" in being confirmed...
   too bad...
   given you can't exactly regrow your
*******...
        and it's not like you're going
to suddenly don a kippah,
     or... a tonsure...
                                        oops?!

well, yeah...
   why wouldn't it boil down to the genitals...
if there's such a concept as
f.g.m., then there's m.g.m.,
   why rob men of the requisite of
the ability of jerking off
without shaming via the act per se...
oh i'm pretty sure
  Onan was shamed...
once he performed the act,
after, he was circumcised...
hey, i'm competing with fweedom!
a gurly girl,
                  a *****, and a webcam!

bull: china shop...
   and by god i think...
this will morph, spawn...
       and become the awaited
form of abomination.

You are humanities angel,
as you walk on earth in human form.

You’re a gift to many
as you give aid to those who gather at your table.

You are like hug of air that caresses ones consciousness
to awaken to know who everyone is, divine.

You are a beacon for hope, prosperity, good health, and bliss
as your deeds enlighten.

You are the guides, ancestors, and beings of light who stand in dimensions ready to assist inside a prayer.

You are the Light-worker, Lecturer, teacher, Nutritionist, Healer, Star-seed and sage that has come to help all at this time.

I am grateful to those who have come.
I am grateful for those in different realms.
And I am grateful to you the reader who begins their journey awake alive and to realigned with the birthright of freedom.

StarBG © 2017

i came forget what i'm used to doing...
   what's the problem with wiping
your *** in a meticulous fashion?
it used to be something,
other than watching youtube political
commentaries...
and that's when, you little ****,
dried up on the missed focus
of ingenuity...
it used to be an atypical Sunday
after-affair of the day,
read the editorial, and then the news section...
******, tell that **** reading
a Monday's worth of the Daily Telegraph
on the Auschwitz-like crammed tube
carriages on the London tube
during rush hour...
       at least the Yids traveled across
fresh air... ******* Londoner *******
sardines, crammed into their sweat air-borne
virus cringe... like watching pigs die...
but a sometime of a Sunday came,
and i recanted my old efforts
of being informed...
    who needs to watch these videos
habitually... read a newspaper...
i basically skim all the article from Monday
to Friday anyway, look at the pretty pictures...
but some Saturday, but esp. Sunday?
newspapers become holy...
no, really, there's no other word for it...
the sunday times? on a Sunday?
entertainment of the day...
the article about
         anders behring breivik...
  entitle: a neo-**** attacks with bomb,
gun... and film,
by sarah baxter...
              no rhetorical dialectic point
to consider, for my part,
although...
        if he thinks he's the Knights Templar...
guess who "thinks" he's
the Knight Hospitaller...
   guess what?
          Crusades into Lithuania...
the grand battle of the newly wed
Polacks to Christianity and Rome...
and the Teutonic knights...
my story... not yours...
my inheritance... not yours...
        perhaps why the map of Islamic
terrorism is so much akin
to the map of the bubonic plague?
us Polacks have come to exist in a shared
romance of history from the middle-ages...
we're both been crusaded again...
maybe that's why!
oh... really... **** me!
i... never saw it coming!

  shame my half Egyptian half Iraniaan
friend (father the former, mother the latter)
saw differently...
  too bad...
which means i'm off circuit of playing
happy birthday on the guitar for
other... 22 x 1 day wankers....
       what?!

and now it really become entertaining...
lao che's song blasting into my ears,
about some, komtur...
   a rank in the teutonic order...
       and i finish the Breivik article...
past the editorial, the news review
articles...
   on the same page...

   (a) the GRIP of populism:
it's not the refuge of old white male racists,
Trump and Brexit have plenty of young
and affluent supporters,
  and they're here to stay. Roger Eatwell
and Matthew Goodwin demolish myths
peddled by comfortable elites

(a nutritionist and a successful gambler,
sassy read, it ought to be)

and...

  (b) taming the madness of queen Freddie:
walkouts, a *** scandal and the specter
of Harry Potter taking the lead role:
the new biopic of the band has been
struck by thunderbolts and lightning
for years, reports Tony Allen-Mills...

****, decisions decisions... done!
i'll read the article about the ****** first,
speaking into his grave:
don't you think the gays these days have
become... tame? marriage and all,
and so much in lacking the avenues of
former hedonism... or rather: fun?!
yes, the buggery-artist article first,
since i already covered an overt political
dilemma...

and then onto the main show...
plus i'd be two shakes more down with
the whiskey and mixer...
       how many orders of the crusaders
were there?

i'm asking... ha ha...
because i started to think...
is it more, pathetic to think you're
someone in preserving a culture...
or is it more pathetic to "be"  someone
you're not... like acting...
like Mickey Rourke playing
Hyperion...

     frankly? don't know where
the circus begins, or ends!

now... this is going to be... fun!

we have the Knights Templar sorted,
clearly...
then we have the
   Knights Hospitaller sorted... ahem...
by you know who...
so we're missing...
Order of the Holy Sepulcher...
Order of Saint Lazarus...
Order of Aviz...
Order of St. James of Altopascio,
Order of the St. Michael of the Wing,
Order of Calatrava,
    Order of the Holy Ghost,
"   (ditto the rest)           Aubrac
   "                        Santiago
   "          Alcantara
            "         Mountjoy
"      Teutonic Knights
Hospitallers of Saint Thomas
              of Canterbury at Acre          
"                       Monfragüe
  " Sant Jordi d'Alfama
Livonian Brothers of the Sword
Order of Dobrzyń:
     now that's an interesting one...
Militia of the Faith of Jesus Christ
Military Order of Monreal
Knights of the Cross with the Red Star
" the Faith and Peace
Militia of Jesus Christ
"                Blessed ****** Mary
  " Saint Mary of Spain
"       Montesa
"            Dragon (Dracula, Ottoman Turks
  scenario)
"     St. Maurice
      and some others, associated with
a king named: Alfons -
which in ****** language transliterates as...
****!

oh sure, i get it,
it's infantile... that's why i'm not an actor
in a game of reenacting famous
battles, at some medieval fetish fest
for wearing armor...
but the mere thought?
concerning.... (does squiggly lines
with his hands like a madman) this?
give me the right music...
and merely thinking about, all of this?
certainly more fun to entertain
than being fed, *******,
coming from a screen in a movie theater...
who would have thought...
seemingly... sterile words...
elevated to chess pieces
                when properly agitated.

i can understand why someone would
deem this mindset... infantile...
but... the sand truth being?

that film: three Lions... yeah...
those terrorists? not exactly smart,
where they?
  how the **** this one guy managed
to pull off that attack?
English jihad warriors unite...
but please, please... think it through,
yeah?
  it's like... the dumber you get
the dumber the whole message becomes...
this one guy did a *******
bomb attack... and then a shooting range...
probably practiced with paint-*****...
it's not funny, because it's not
supposed to be funny...
if some sunday times editorial columnist
want to see a movie about
Breivik, and she's named Sarah Baxter...
Jihadi dumb-***** should write
Breivik, endless letters of inspiration
and hope for advice...
    ONE man did, what several dip-*****
couldn't... talk about resolve...

anyway... yeah... Sacha Baron Cohen should
have played Freddie Merc...
perfect resemblance, after Borat...
now for that other article...
the grip of populism...
another drink...
the Highlander soundtrack and a jogging
tickle cackling at:
those ******* Jihadi wannabes -
wolf pack! wolf pack!
******* retards.

oh this beats gorging on political commentary
videos from youtube...
the right music,
and a sunday edition of the times...
it's like Chinese new year...
fireworks, dragons and ****!

Like you my muse has been lacking; distant
Like you
My muse went from lover to friend
Upbruptly and unexpected
Like you my muse is becoming less and less of someone I know very well and very fondly and more of a tense acquaintance I pass in the grocery store with heavy eyes and a forced smile
Grocery stores are the worst though
We're always forced to meet up in a different isle
And we continue this ruse of feigned "okayness"
And you take your handfull of items and emotions to self-checkout
While I'm drowning in a cart full of ingredients I can't feasibly make a meal out of
And check out with a clerk I pay a hundred dollars every visit
And meet a nutritionist to help me shop
And you
You just get on with your life