The Joker

Fuck. It hurts. Maybe, I snapped. Perhaps, I lost. By chance, our paths crossed. I would've kept up with your dance but my shoe- it fell off. I was too shitfaced at the time, as well. You know, to care. Unfortunately for me- i couldn't let you go. I fell in love with your thousand yard fucked up stare. My train was heading North, full steam ahead. burned coal for war paint. Spitting whiskey into the fire for some warmth. Staring out the window, but only at the moon. i really wish I had never met you. there you were, standing on the side of the tracks. A DERRANGED soldier, on a new warpath. I liked your scars- i liked that you never mentioned mine. I hated your tears, they collected on my thighs. As you drunk walked across the room and landed, staring up into my eyes. You splayed out, back in your own personal hell of death and glorly. I sat there, like a girl, twirling my hair weaving our own story. i'm sick of this shit. You gave me the opportunity... So i quit.

no camera, just FIRE

So I'm 24. I moved south, a little. Spent 6 months in Canada. Man, that was fucking nuts. Snow, bitches, pastry school... I felt like I lived in Soviet Russia. Lost my best friend. Lost my lover. Shit happens. I haven't gotten over getting my camera gear stolen and therefore, my posts here won't be as visual. I got a diploma in french classic baking + patisserie. Now I am halfway done with my french classic culinary diploma. Food is my life. My life is love? Love of food? I am the only girl in my kitchen. I feel like apologizing for not having a penis, most days. It just doesn't make sense. I am my own worst critic- and hearing that from my chefs. It makes me feel better. No one is meaner. Just..me. My arms move like a robotoic mechanical system. My burns heal. My cuts bleed. Sometimes, that pain gets me through service. Sometimes, it gets me through LIFE. but, it hurts. With gloves on, one hand behind my back I peer into my 7 pots and pans fires blazing flavors reducing my burns burning the clock ticking hot plates, perfect cuts steam, garlic, red wine LOVE? I must be crazy. "Photo journalist" "EMT" "Editor" "Dog handler" "Baker" "Grill/Ice cream bitch" "Stylist" "Pastry chef" "Chef" ... STUDENT. I am not a master of my craft, but I am close. I don't give a fuckkkk.

At night... at night, I cry alone.

I was up to no good, as usual.


But I'm still behind the wheel.
Its always up to me to drive.

Let's go crazy.

Never always believe what you think.

Its been awhile. Its 2011 and everything has changed. I'm 23 now. About to enter my quarter-of-a-century life crisis.

Doing an internship this semester with a non-profit doing my photo journalistic thing. Realistic? No, but its what I'm good at.

I've been painting. I've been making a book. I've been actively creative with a productive mind set. There's a 500lb gorilla on my front porch doing push ups.

I've realized already this year that life is best kept simple. Everyone fucks each other, jobs are scarce, friends come and go, good friends are forever and nothing is ever as it seems if you're tripped out on drugs and booze all day.

sOBRIETY IS seXY./

....

Get your mind in the fucking gutter
spit some truth
never tell lies, unless you really don't give a fuck
never back down
always feed your brain like it has a voracious appetite
color is your friend
there are always new lessons to be learned
+ a situations to be avoided
Be a juggernaut of love
+ other things.

At the end of the day, 80% is just showing up.
So show up, grow up and be yourself.

Am I me?
All of these different clothes, colors, hair-do's, etc.
Are all of these moments in time my evolution? Are they?
Is that girl with the frosty glare always me?

Who the fuck am I.

I just want to be me!

there isn't anything between the lines but blank areas of paper

I have my next tattoo all planned out. I'll be getting it after my birthday.
I just might send him a picture mail photo of it. He's probably deleted my # now, or put it as some random other name that isn't mine so his new chick wouldn't notice. But would a rose by any other name sound as sweet?
Bzzzz goes the vibrate. Or blink, blink, blink goes the silent mode.
I hope the sounds of my sweet victory over the release of his death-grip on my soul sound sweet to him. But I know it will either merit a sly grin and a push of the "end" button to cover up the evidence, or perhaps he will spend his next sunrise contemplating the end of the world and how he'll find me in the chaos. My little black heart hopes its the latter.

This evening my friend and I sat in my car outside of a local bar in a town not too far away. The rain fell on us in our tin can lightly as the fog covered our windows. Music played in the background from the bar as a dull murmur unable to distract us. We sat there as anonymous alcoholics in a unspecific black car in a parking lot in the middle of nowhere. My friend had taken too much of a bad thing tonight, but my horned Capricorn mind was still open to her ideas. I was telling her how odd tonight was, as I was texting my other friend how I wished I hadn't left my house. We sat silently in our seats for a moment after she asked me about my love life. My silence must have been familiar to her because then she asked me a question I hadn't been asked in years.
"Do you love yourself?" she said. Her body moved like a rogue wave.
I tapped my cigarette in the crevice of my open window and I took a breath of mountain air. I decided to answer honestly to my inebriated friend.
"Not enough. It shows. I have to work out those kinks before I can take a step further."
"Knowing that is a good step."

We waltzed into the bar like two bombs with their wicks on fire with about a millimeter left to go. I took a seat at the bar next to her as I surveyed the crowd of frothy-mouthed werewolves. Tonight was the full moon, alright. Boom went the bombs and I imagined our body parts spread across the dance floor and all over the liquor bottles on the shelves and the wolves losing their minds. She took off her red coat, and I put my brown one on the back of my chair. The bartender took one look at my friend and decided he was going to play the asshole card. Not the, "get out of my bar you wasted cunts" card. The, "Here's your shot of tequila and your beer, miss" card. Such irresponsibleness in this town. Even the bartender was drunk. They gave each other some attitude and I had to cool my quasi-parental jets as I tried to lay low next to her. I heard three men behind me chuckle and make some sly comment about the girl. I turned my head slowly like an owl and looked them each dead in the eye just long enough for them to understand that I have ears and a brain and perhaps they shouldn't fuck with me. Not tonight. I was dead sober and I wasn't about to let some old hacks talk shit. The one in the middle made an audible shiver and they didn't muster a peep for the rest of the show.

Two bands later my friends started departing one by one as the clock struck twelve. Their pumpkins were probably waiting outside. It always stuns me how meager we can look at the end of the night. Previously detonated bomb shells, all dusty and worthless and smelling of impact and a war with no winners. Last but not least I drove her home with our other friend in tow. All the traffic signals switch to a blinking yellow this time of night. Not enough travelers for the daytime system to carry on through the night. I drove in a straight line through the alphabetic intersections. I dropped them off and put on a good album. I bugged one of my other insomniacs and then drove home. I spent the rest of the night watching pirated HBO and Showtime. I was about as exhausted as Gary Busey's liver. I shut my eyes for awhile and then I could sense the light pouring in from outside. It was finally really morning and I still hadn't slept a wink. I turned off my computer and laid on my stomach and traced the outlines of the patterns on my sheets. I reached out to grab the Sand Man's hand and drift into wonderland, and then I heard an owl's screech.

Predatory nightbirds and their death rattles after they eat.
When will I feel fed?
The day I die? The day he dies?
The day I get married and have a baby with someone else?
Or when I reincarnate and its me sitting up in that tree.
Knowing I need to love myself more is the first step to me reaching enlightenment in this life.
But all I know now is that I know better and I'm so glad I'm not his wife.
Its just me and the night. Drunk babes and werewolves. Full moons and monsoons. Birthdays and wishes. Broken hearts and tear-filled labels.
Good morning. It wasn't a good night.
Greet the dawn, and hope the next full moon reveals less.

I won't get the tattoo. I won't send the picture. I'll just turn my head one hundred and eighty degrees to the left. Next time I'll know better.