Tumblr Blog

I doubt anyone still reads this, but in case you do, I have a new blog at www.americanoctopus.tumblr.com

It is very different, you cannot make comments, and I post a lot of stupid stuff as well as my writing. If you skip through it (especially the more recent idiotic stuff) you can find a lot of my writing in there as well. It is also not at all anonymous!

I just dont think that I will ever get back to seriously posting on this blog anymore, so I thought I would give you a headsup.

I would really love it if you would email me with any comments you have at foreverand4on@hotmail.com, and I really like Tumblr and would suggest you create your own! And maybe even follow me?

I also have a formspring! Which, if you dont know, is like an honesty box or a truthbox except that it is open to anyone and is hosted by a site not affiliated with any profile I have. That is at http://www.formspring.com/forms/?663543-CURUNdJIxr
So if you have ever wanted to say something to me anonymously (preferably not mean things) that is the place to do it!

Again, I sooo doubt anyone still reads this but, if you do, thank you so much for sticking through all of the shittier parts of my life and writing with me so far and I hope you continue to do so.

Love from,
The Anonymous Bitch

Doodles of the Anonymous Bitch

Mexican Girls

The house is empty

Mama is down at the expensive, healthy grocery store – aptly painted green, full of its clean organic foods. It’s all the way down in the classy minimart in Almaden, which is a good 30 minute drive from our house. My mama, though, would drive any distance to shop where all the rich, classy families live. I wonder if she pretends we live there when she pushes her cart and click-clack click-clacks her shiny black shoes through the isles.

My mama believes in organic apples like some people believe in antibiotics, in vitamin pills like some people believe in chemotherapy, in no-sugar-added juice like some people believe in vaccinations. She lives, I swear, to fill my sin-ridden body with clean, clear nutrients. “Don’t you want to be pure inside?” She likes to ask me, as though unsoiled, un-tampered celery will turn me into the Virgin Fucking Mary. She forgets that my heart needs to be fed just as much as my stomach.

Her food, her nutrients, may be clear of all pesticides and chemicals but my mama’s not. She washes down her lemon drenched apple slices with diet pills and energy pills and medication for her cramps, her migraines, her nerves, her joints – her boobs, even, but I don’t think that one’s FDA approved.

She doesn’t know that the only thing feeding my small, organic heart is her. Whatever she contaminates her body with, contaminates my heart.

I only really live with her – Dad’s nearly always far away. My brother’s at the university, but he’s an even bigger problem that I will deal with later.

So when she’s away at the grocery store, the house is empty.

I stand in front of the mirror and mimic the Mexican girls from the public school, who I see loitering outside my campus on Friday afternoons, waiting for their boyfriends.

At my school, the rich respectable boys have white girlfriends who straighten their hair and go to weddings in pastel-colored dresses; the poor respectable boys have Asian girlfriends who play bridge with their grandparents on Sundays; but the cool boys, whether rich or poor, have Mexican girlfriends.

Of course, being poor at my school means being middle class, and being girlfriendless makes you a fag.

Being boyfriendless, however, makes you respectable.

And I am a respectable girl.

None of the Mexican girls have ever talked to me, and I have never talked to the Mexican girls. We aren’t the same kind of people, not at all. They were educated by their mamas, who taught their daughters how to speak and how to love and how to fuck and how to believe in God. Thank Goodness I’ve got a classy school to teach me things – my mama doesn’t know anything that can’t be learned from a pop-up ad: sex and drugs and games.

I pretend I am talking to the Mexican girls, I pretend I am a Mexican girl. I retell the story of my Biology teacher, Ms. Brion with the curly black hair and the huge yellow eyes like a feral cat, who – yellow eyes ablaze – handed me back my essay with a B+ smeared in red ink across the top on Tuesday.

“That fucking bitch don’t even know what she’s talking about. I don’t fucking need that shit, no way. She got a stick up her ass or what, huh? As if I give a fuck! Bitch can suck it.” I say to my imaginary comrades. I roll my eyes and hips appropriately, leaning almost painfully to the left and gesticulating wildly with my pale hands.

I don’t come off sounding like the Mexican girls, though. I just sound like a bitch, and I look like a crazy white girl talking to herself in the mirror.

For my sake, I hope mama comes home soon.

Red light district at the Boundary Peak Motel

You said to meet you in motel room seven,
but the door’s already open and
red light pours from its weak wood frame.

I wonder what you’ve prepared for me,
perhaps neon lights in the color of love?
Would you stack chocolate boxes in corners,
illuminate mirrors of our tantric sex? I think
once you said you would show me how
they fuck on television, with the lights and the mirrors and the
artificial bits –
But, no,
you aren’t neon colored when I look in your face so

maybe you’ve already slit your wrists and let
blood pool on the floor where the motel maid found you,
searched your pockets for money,
and called the god-damned police with their bright, bright lights that
reflect off the red and emit an
eerie glowing rouge –
tint to a blushing night.

Or is it that you have
prepared some portal to the underworld? Deep cavern where the fires are not fires,
but rather fake glowing coals from the fake glowing fireplace
that your fake glowing mother bought because you cant afford a house with a real one and
she wouldn’t want you to burn your delicate fingertips
on the true thing anyways!

I near that dull, beaten number and
it’s people that I’ve never met on those crisp cold beds,
with their black lights and strobe lights and neon red signs singing,
screaming come in, come in! and you’ll never be in! and
their whores gyrate uselessly, sweaty hips like mounds of
poorly tanned desert and sticky hair already
mussed, fuck-ready, fuck-worthy and fucked.
They don’t hear my head snake round the corner,
nor can they feel the pumping of my heart,
blood as red as their heat but, now,

I am sure one of their sluts with the blue streak that
runs from earlobe to breast hears my mind clink, clank,
whir and then snap into place and
Oh!
You must have said room eleven, for I often don’t listen right and
already down the hall I can feel your scent being uttered
by hot waves of wet air but,
before I leave, she looks, blue streaked mound of desert whore and,
with her eyes like pools of lye –
she knows me.

Outgoing dialing prohibited

A bible simmers silent on the nightstand by the telephone
where the light dances on lean wall by murky mirror and
love laughs at muddy moments like this
with his twisted smile,
shrieks profound profanity at my buzzed brain
while my heart tangles,
twists, like his smirk, and through his
sideways teeth there comes a mumbled
memory.
I tumble, roll ridiculously into bed,
though the bible hums me quiet hymns,
that two-toned, taunting telephone
mocks my aching fucking face and
without reason, rhyme or firsthand rendering I
laugh languidly an air-sucking silly laugh about
god-gives-a-fuck which foul intrepid memory of my
useless youthful insolence. You can
call me, cringe at my violently crackled voice but,
ring, ring, ring till that red button lights like a lantern and
the judgment of Judas will not be mine.

If you're reached this point by accident, I suggest panic

Laura shifted, seated neatly in a sticky seat, its attached desk pregnant with a mound of multi-colored gum wads turned dust-grey by time. A swastika tattoo had carved itself persistently on the shoulder where she rested her arm. She feared touching its sharp indentations as though it could spread up her elbow and into her deep wide chest.

There are wholes in the sky, proclaimed the crayon mess below her, where her son had scribbled in dots of yellow amongst the black of a night sky. Though his portrait of night had escaped the light pollution of the city.

She hardly stopped to wonder whether he meant holes or wholes. But it didn't matter anyways, because there's a bible on his bedside table and he knows, he knows, he knows. There's nothing spelling can teach him about what's in the sky.

Her heart thumped a beat like a nightclub floor, and beside her the woman in green delved into her neon orange purse for a pen, and the smell of cheap lotion and breath mints consumed her brain.

Memory is like a bathtub, murmured the twisting, turning wheels in her mind, but only God controls the spout and the drain.

The scent tumbled blindly from the faucet of her mind, boiling her tub of memory.
Dolls - their eyes like searchlights and their lips like the stain of pomegranate juice on white linen - lined the walls, up high where small hands could not wander – the gods of nick knacks and toys.
Useless dolls, pointless dolls, breathless dolls, heartless dolls. Unreachable. Unbearable. Girls so young could not touch such priceless lovely dolls, her mother said. Laura’s fingers were harsh then, still are, and too blunt to touch the faces of the gods.

The ladder beneath her beat her feet while she stepped, slamming its hard polished surface against the arches as she marched to the rhythm of her racing heart.

A second left on the countdown and mother rushed in to diffuse the ticking bomb of her daughter, eyes wide on her face like an unblinking fish. One swipe of a small blunt hand grazing the smooth satin gown of a god and -

Later, her mother opened her purse of cheap lotion and breath mints, the smell of regret, pulled out those crisp pieces of paper with soft angry hands and ripped up the two theatre tickets for that night's ballet. The rift between woman and girl had been widened and Laura wept for a lost night with mother, for the fleeting innocence of satin gowns and the cold hard pieces of porcelain that father swept into a big black pan and threw out with old banana peels.

The bathwater cooled, Laura curled out of herself and lay down flat on her back in the lukewarm tub of memory and breathed out. Sometimes, she thought, it's so nice to breathe out.

She could hear the smooth sound of a neon green purse being zipped closed beside her, and outside the holes of the sky shrieked their hatred to the faces of the streetlamps.

"About your son," began the teacher, kneeling down like a teacher with her voice like a teacher and soft hands like a teacher. Laura bit her tongue.

End of

Its the end of finals. I didn’t do well, but I dont care.

I got a C+ on my Philosophy paper because it was too informal. I was so mad I had a fake conversation with Ms. Donlin in the mirror for about an hour. I know I deserved that grade since I wrote the paper in half an hour and didn’t edit it, but I will hate getting bad grades from incopetent teachers. I still have an A- in the class though.

Rachael and Peter wrote a song about me. Well, Rachael wrote it and both of them performed it. I am so happy about it! Its called “Gently” and she talks about chemistry class, and grey eyes and striped socks and poetry on my skin and braile and slamming my locker and calls me a rage studded girl. Its so lovely, and my whole day is about a thousand times better. I am so happy.

I told my mom two people wrote a song about me while she was getting ready for bed and she said she wanted to hear it. I went to get my laptop because I was really excited for her to hear it, but she noticed that when I took a nap in her comfy bed earlier I brought a blanket from the family room with me because it had been around my bare shoulders. She yelled at me for while, about how I can never just use what I am supposed to like the blankets already on the bed, which was weird and completely uncalled for, and then I guess she forgot about the song and I am too afraid to play it for her now.

And I really wanted someone else to hear it.

Looking back from the tip of infinity

I would like to say that

my life can now be separated into

two parts:

before and after, but,

it isn’t true.

As if some omnipotent,

time-traversing God,

I feel as if I experience it all at once.

If my life moved in some linear fashion

then you could say before and after but,

as it is there is only now.

With this in mind,

it becomes more and more apparent that

what I think does not matter

and what I believe does not matter.

What I meant to do does not matter

and what I would do over does not matter.

It does not matter what is right, or what is wrong,

nor does it matter which one I think I should choose.

All that matters is what I actually do.

I do love you,

and I do forgive you.

Turns out what you did was not unforgivable –

not because I now see what you did in

a different light, or because someone told me

it was not unforgivable,

or because God told me nothing is unforgivable –

but because I forgive you.

The words feel heavy on my tongue but,

that isn’t the point.

From the point of view of infinity what

I think I should be doing is useless,

superfluous.

In the end, the only part that counts is

that I do something.

he was a young philosopher

I do remember thinking once

“Well,

isn’t it nice that he

is not the other half of me!”

And its quite true,

so very true,

no part of me is missing

without you.

And when I placed my hand

on your sinewy arm

I was not saying,

“We are one, now,

we are one,” but

rather that I know you are

you

and

I am happy

you are you and

it’s okay for me to touch your arm

because

whether or not we are one is

not the problem,

not the question,

not the answer.

It’s simple:

I love you –

whether or not you do

anything you ever do or

choose to choose another thing

to do.

You are not any part of me,

and that should make it all the sweeter when

with my hand upon your arm I convey:

I do love you

in my way.

Dr. Livingstone, I presume?

It has been more than a year. If anyone is still reading, I would love to know. If not, I am still going to start updating again. Just because. I have things to say.

I have so many things to say.