Mary

Dear Beth and Manly,

No one reads this anymore. I don't write here anymore. But since last night generally felt like the biggest digression of this past year, an example of a social situation I generally prefer to avoid, why not do something I used to do to deal in the old days? I don't do well with "reunions." I like unions while they're unions. And when they're over? Onward!
I only ever feel compelled to write about my feelings and complicated thought processes when I'm in the kinds of contemplative moods that I currently am in now.

Do you know exactly when you lost your innocence? I don't even want it back; but sometimes I find myself wondering what I'd be like if I lost it the way everyone else usually does. One of my friend's said to me everyone should get their heartbroken to know love. I've suffered from a broken heart (I arguably still do some days) but not in the same way she was referring to. Does it still count? Do I know this "love" she is referring to? Or do I know a different kind of love? A love that isn't transparent and clouded by the innate need and desperation to consummate.

A boy has never broke my heart. I'd like to know that pain. One day, no doubt. But not yet. And not today.I'm in no rush. This is not a race. Until then, I have Caleb Followill's voice to do for me at night, what I suppose your significant others do for you.

People in relationships can be hard to be around. I hate people feeling conflicted because they feel the need to entertain me while also stroking their significant other. Just let me be. I'm a big girl. I'm just fine on my own. Finer than you even.

December, no doubt, is always the hardest. Oh yearning, you are my most painful and yet most favourite feeling.

Love Always,
Lola Anarcha N.

It started and it will end with a film. Trust me.

October 23, 2010

I alienate people. It's one of my many talents.
I can't let others who feel hurt just because I don't fulfill the idea of me that they have created, affect how I feel. Because right now I feel like it's truly unfair and it's upsetting me. I wish I knew other dedicated writers. I wouldn't feel so alone. But all I know are hacks who chase boys for validation (as opposed to love.) Why do I feel alone? Because I have a sick attachment to my art. And I want to know that I'm not the only one with this sickness.

Fucked up and as happy as ever,
yours truly,
Lola Anarcha N.

Creamsoda and Illinois

I have a crush on this guy that works at this coffee shop I frequent. The kind of crush where I only know his name because of the label maker print on his name tag.

I haven't had a crush in years. The thing that is as equally exciting as it is infuriating is the very fact that crushes generally evolve from little to no interaction. Most of the time we don't even know the people we have these little emotional things for. The funny thing about this crush? After he served me 2 or 3 times in a very short timespan (of which one of these times I was with my sister and immensely hung over and looking like a rancid courtney love) I stopped seeing him. And it's important to mention that non of these interactions were particularly flirty. I didn't feel any sort of vibe from him, and as the Libra that i am, I'm pretty sure I acted surprisingly reserved (always consumed by copious amounts of scripts to read, or the need to absorb alcohol).

Once I caught him (or the idea of him) crossing my mind as I passed by this coffee shop as I so often do every now and again, I stopped seeing him in real life. He disappeared. He no longer served me my large blacks. It's as if he is no longer employed by said coffee shop. I don't think much would come of this unrequited "like" anyway if I ever do end up seeing him again because it's just difficult to connect with a stranger and progress that connection into a potential and eventual friendship. That, and I'm afraid of "the chase." It's intimidating and vulnerable. And as a self-proclaimed feminist the very thought of appearing vulnerable sounds weak and I'm anything but.

But if we were to ever meet again and maybe even become acquaintances, I think he would be a choice companion to see films with. At the Royal... the Bloor. Pretty together. If somebody were to ask me what I want on a "social" level - just someone I respect and actually like and find interesting to accompany me to interesting films, concerts. Someone to dance to MSTRKRFT with. And roadtrip with to Illinois if I wanted to.

It is quite rare when I actually attend movies with a "friend" and it's because several of these people in my social circles are people I find it challenging to connect with creatively and spiritually. There's a lack of spirit I can really get behind. That's why when I think I can see something good in someone, it's exciting.

I'm in a good place right now. And soon enough, by the new year, I'll be someplace even better. This I know. 2011 afterall was my family's Bonanza Video pin code. And that to me, means something.

You took me to see the Cleveland Indians and left ME at the stadium

I just found out some news about you. And I'm quite disturbed.
You better have acted out of intimidation.

And I segueway, as the queen of segueway that I am... If you've ever wanted to know anything about me... you can learn everything from The Little Giants. All quotes - MEMORABLE.

Junior Floyd: You wanna learn how to kiss?
Becky O'Shea: No. Why, do you?
Junior Floyd: No. Eeww I just got that vomit taste in my mouth.
Becky O'Shea: Come on, you gotta learn sometime. I mean if you wanna get a job and have kids and stuff.
Junior Floyd: You can have kids without kissing...
Becky O'Shea: Yeah, but you can't get a job. You know, for scientific reasons and stuff.
Junior Floyd: Well... become a teacher.


[receiving their uniforms]
Tad: Death shrouds
[flips one around]
Danny O'Shea: They've got your names on the back.
Jake Berman: So the guys at the morgue can identify the bodies.


Karen O'Shea: Kevin, this is pee-wee football. It's supposed to be fun.
Kevin O'Shea: Not fun anymore. See, all the fun is gone now. See now, It's WAR!


Priscilla: God bless family, friends, flowers, Nickelodeon, fuzzy little kittens, Pez, Mr. Lerenzo, the school janitor 'cause he's so hairy.
Kevin O'Shea: He's an unfortunate man Priscilla.


Spike: Look, you berzerko Barbie doll, when you mess with Spike, you mess with death.
Becky O'Shea: You can talk the talk but can you walk the walk?
Spike: Try me!
Becky O'Shea: I will!
Spike: Let's go!
Becky O'Shea: Right now!
Jake Berman: SOMEBODY CALL 911!



Becky O'Shea: What a hunk. Wait a minute? What am I saying? I'm the Icebox. Icebox doesn't like boys. Except for that one...

Fresh Skivvies and a Map of the Goddamned World

I either need to have sex or go to Europe. And seeing as though I can never make it past second base without suddenly becoming utterly repulsed by the gentlemen to whom with which I am "getting bad" - I'd say I'd have better luck in Prague.

Luck with what?

I don't know. Feeling alive. Feeling pain when I prick my finger, feeling numb at the sight of my own blood pearling up, tasting the salt and not liking it as much as I do now. I should recoil at the taste. And I should feel sadness when someone's relative dies other them complete lack of remorse. Other than "oh that's too bad, a million babies are starving in Africa." Feeling lust for something breathtaking instead of something mediocre we give way to much credit to. Feeling like there's a point to all this. There must be a point and I think I'm doing a prince of a job missing that point.

Match point.

Yes. Match point.

You like to win?

Love it.

And losing?

Not anymore.

How can you be so sure?

Trust me.

2 magic words and suddenly I'm sure? I believe you?

You can be as sure of me as you are of the world without God.

What?

Have I confused you?

Completely.

Well good, I wasn't born to make your life easy. I was born to do something grand.

Go to Europe or have sex?

Precisely so.

Hmmm.

Will you excuse me now, I must retire to my room and pack.

Bring plenty of fresh underwear.

I shall.

And a map.

Of course, the last thing I want is to get lost. ....Unless it's all on purpose that is. Than I'd really feel alive.

xo

forget that you know me

it's not that i don't want you to know me, because it's more that I don't really want to know you. but it's more than that; it's that i don't like when my old world and my new world collide and create another world in effect. in fact, go ahead and create a new world and i just won't be part of said new world's species. i'll live on another planet, preferably all alone. except i'd want their to be time... and smoothies. an innumerable, inexhaustible amount of smoothies. but not for you. or you either. but for me. all for me.

LO!!!!

iambic pentameter

Shakespeare, you are the man.



BIRON: How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

LONGAVILLE: A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

BIRON: To hear? or forbear laughing?

LONGAVILLE: To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to
forbear both.

BIRON: Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to
climb in the merriness.


lo

to the Lions.

After a week of 9-7s dedicated to the beautiful insanity that is my daily grind, I will no longer sacrifice my 7 to midnight hour on aimless thought. Yes. Spare the Christians I declare; throw the aimless to the lions. Once again, I will slay the sleep that burdens me and burn the brain inside.

Wordily yours,
Lo

women, i've had enough

Women, I've had enough of how similar you all are. Of how cookie-cutter cliche your truest of true ambitions are. Suddenly you turn 30 and no longer are you competing on how hot you look, how nice your clothes and accessories may be, but on how many kids you have and how cute they look in baby polo. It makes me want to gag. It's not even that you let your dreams fall to the waist-side. It's that you never really cared to have dreams in the first place. It's all very disheartening and hard to take. I'm glad my happiness lies in the satisfaction of my obsessive compulsions and addictions as opposed to the fulfillment of standards typical of the modern woman (which, more often than not is hinged on the presence of a man.) No thank you.


LO
My ocd and I had a wonderful weekend, stereotype free.

if i was good to you

i was at the computer, reading lyrics from the screen. I was singing star spangled banner. I wouldn't say I'm much of a singing talent, but the american national anthem is my exception. You were in the kitchen - probably stirring sauce or cutting apples. These actions will forever be synonymous with you (the feeling of you nearby).

and you were listening. and you liked it. you hummed along. i did everything around you. you saw me do and say the most vulnerable things a person could imagine. the most embarrassing. it astonishes me how any of us function without you? you may have been losing since i was 8 years old, but you were the rock. you were our rock. oh captain, my fucking captain.

i had a thought that maybe i wouldn't. but i knew i would on this day, ask the questions that rape me continually. (probably voluntarily too.)
i had a thought that maybe i wouldn't. but i did anyway.
how many times did I yell at you? how many times did I grab you by the wrist and say, "fuck off and die"?
how did I do it? What's wrong with me?

i never meant it. not once.




http://www.poetry-online.org/whitman_o_captain_my_captain.htm

Columbine

In the past year I've deleted almost 150 "friends" from Facebook. And every time I log on, which is rare nowadays, I peg off a few more. And for various reasons. At first it was mostly because if I refer to you within quotation marks, you're not really my friend - nor do either of us care to make any effort. But now it quite simply could be because of an annoying post, an inexcusable use of an emoticon, your display picture with you and your boyfriend (by the way I'm glad you're no longer depressed) or especially this new trend of using only your first and middle name. These middle names are always so unbelievable too. Like "Kylie" or "Ryanne" - as if kids born in '87 have these new-age names? It's a little confusing, and a whole lot unsettling. And I'm into healthy digestion so I'm just going to avoid these 21st century trifles because I have the control to do so.

I haven't deleted it yet. But oh, I'm close. And each day each and everyone of you "cool people" push me closer to the edge.

A simple bang BANG. And it'll all be over. And I won't say goodbye to any of my facebook friends.

Lo
Final thoughts: Could Facebook have prevented or contributed to the shootings in Littleton?

Danny, the Irish Bar-Tender

So it goes like this.
Not to degrade this serious medical condition, but I suffer from some sort of acute bi-polarity. We all do to a certain extent – mine just seems to be more extreme and more at random than several others. It’s often difficult to explain my change in moods towards certain people and I’m forever apologetic. I don’t ever want to be the bitch, but sometimes you’re just born with bitch inside you and when it rears its ugly head (and it is ugly as you can see from previous posts) you get hot and bothered and jealous and again, you have no reasonable explanation as to why. It’s a chemical jealousy.

But I refuse to censor myself to myself – hence I will not take down or delete any incriminating, self-loathing, or “bitch-driven-against-those-i-love” posts because I’m a big supporter of the honesty-party (however contradictory that allusion may be).

That said, this week has been considerably wonderful regardless of the storm cloud above my head. And to be honest? I blame it shamelessly on PMS. It seems I have intense attitude every so often (like clock-work) when it’s a full-moon or there’s a high-tide or whatever you call it.

xoLola

I'm a fragile egomaniac.

Why do I do the things I do? Why do I help people?
Because helping people is good and I will forever try to make up for the bad child that I was. But what I need to learn is that often the "good things" I do are not good for me. Why would anyone in their right mind do things that work against them for the sake of making up for some void that is gone and will never return and that I'll never be able to help. Why do I help you? Because sometimes I like to.

Well I hope you have a good weekend. I really do. Cherish every God-for-saken moment. Because one day you might see her die. Lliterally. You'll be holding her hand and singing Day Dream Believer. And the smell. It'll be unbearable to say the least.

Things change. Thank you Eye Weekly for making me feel better after this week of being haunted by some skeletal fiend of neorosis who burns allllllllllll calories by 5 am and loves it. Absolutely loves it. Envy is a dangerous thing. It's like I'm envious of that ambition, but would never EVER want to trade places. Oh my God, never. GAG ME.


Libra (Sept 23-Oct 22)
What's this? You don't have to drag yourself out of bed and cry your way through your morning coffee? You actually smiled on your way to work? (Yup!) Energy levels are rising and so are your spirits — and those of everyone around you. It's like you finally figured out that you're the star of your life and that it's about time you started to act like it.

Happy Thursday!

xoLOla

Praying for some salvation, Cause she's just so bored

The internet is an infectious, evil device. It subjects us to an abundance of information we eventually believe that we need, because we have such infuriatingly easy access to it. The internet is a cornucopia of beautiful shit that says, "touch me." So we touch it and it feels good, and then we're left with poison ivy. Or worse yet, herpes of the melon.
If it's out there for us to see, hear, know, beat off to - what kind of lazy fucks are we if we don't capitalize on the freedom of such information and use it to satisfy some sort of hunger within ourselves?

You know what I really like? What really gets me going? That thrilling sensation of being teased by the idea of satisfaction... the possibility of opportunity dangling above my nose. I reach for it and it pulls away. Not yet... Not yet!

Just wait. Wait for it.

There will come a point where what I want could quite potentially happen. And I understand that in order for it to happen a lot of people's lives will have to change along the way. But then again, it's nothing that hasn't happened before.

I remember the days of having to buy postcards of my favourite band at the corner store in order to look at pictures of them. What!? What was that? We will never see those days again. My blackberry, after all, is synced to 3 different email addresses, all of which receive updates for various forms of fandom in which I so sheepishly engage.

Goodnight.

xoLola.
Favourite tune of the moment: Hole's "Skinny Little Bitch"

Note to self: block out the moaning, but not entirely...

Lo, this is a list you should refer to every time you need to remind yourself of healthy positive habits to nurture and assist in your aspirations to develop a prolific, mindful routine. Your friends probably won't mind reading this either.

1) Take your time and don't feel guilty for taking your time. Something that's rushed and "done" is the result of a neophyte.
2) Write EVERYTHING. All your thoughts. Every moment, object, picture, scene, line, word, look in the eye. Keep a hundred lists all over the place in no specific order of ideas about the same thing... Eventually you'll have to sort through all of this ramble, but it's worth it for the value of one of those little gems you'll rediscover when you start to really focus on your story.
3) Don't be afraid to chuck ideas or even reuse ideas! Remember, it's cool to be green. Thank the hipsters.
4) Write characters you want to make love to, it'll make the writing experience a hell of a lot more exciting. Trust me. Sometimes I have to take a minute and compose myself. Dirty girl.
5) Determine whether you're a masochist or sadist. This will help immensely. And if you're conscious of this while writing... it really will enrich your work with identity.
6) Your ideas are not always your own. So make them your own.
7) If people in the apartment above you sound like they're having sex and/or masturbating to bad trib porn and you're trying to concentrate - put on a song with a tone you hope to embody in the scene/story/post you're working on and listen to it on repeat. It will not only mask the sex sounds, but will inspire your work.
8) If you have friends who are bitches (and I'm not talking about any of you AM, AF or GC so don't EVER think that) cut them out. And don't feel guilty for cutting them out.
9) Don't feel guilty.
10) Lastly, spill your guts and then get people to read it. And don't feel the need to preface their reading with any sort of warning/clarifications etc. If you wrote it feel good about the fact that something's written and is clearly good enough that you're getting people to read it.

xoxoLo

- I think, one day, I'll write a manual.

pseudo-haiku

Will you leave too soon?
The garden, the grass left behind
You'll see her, won't you?

Health is an 'f' 'u' 'n' letter word

I wouldn't trade healthy for a superficial beauty beyond my natural control. Substance is the enemy.

Lately, I've caught myself thinking regularly about a certain someone(s). Thinking and feeling the way I did in high school towards this(these) individual(s). Call it silly, call it a meaningless crush. But whatever the condescending label - know this - this thing, this feeling, adds an energy to tedious daily routine that otherwise wouldn't exist. The lone, fleeting thought bubble or incredibly bantam possibility that I could in fact fling with this guy(s) injects a rush of adrenaline through my arms and coats my emotion with I guess what is often described as "thrill."

He (they) thrills me. And above all else it feels fun. I feel fun.
I want to have fun.
And I won't apologize for my means of fun because in the long run, as I have learned before, this will not hurt anyone except myself. And hurt is all a part of the health. Or so I'm lead to believe.

xo
Lo

Gem & the Holograms

So many people lack originality it pinches me a million times and makes me want to upchuck.
I shouldn't waste my insides on the dry, the flat, the moor.
I should climb a mountain. Or at least continue to.

I hate plain and boring.
I hate that even over this annoying, accelerating volume I can hear your putrid voice and see that face that isn't yours.
I need a quiet space. And quiet time.
I need an oasis left of nowhere, full of somewhere.

I need prayer, however sacrilege my actions prove to be.

Where has all the unique gone?
Why are all the gems so far away?

xoLo

Hurt people hurt people

Every now and then I make it to a bathroom stall and curse to God not to cry.
I know I always say it hurts me most when I think I'm forgetting. (When I see it fading away.)
But, the truth is, it hurts me most when I remember.
My chest gets real heavy. I'm already hyperventilating on the inside. (I hide it well.)
And for a brief moment, fenced in by these makeshift seafome walls, I see it all like it was just days ago.
But that's not what really hurts.
What hurts is that suffocating feeling of being robbed without reason. Of knowing that what you once possessed for such a short short time (and it was a short time, we barely skimmed the fucking surface) will never return to me again. I can never not think that without feeling astounded. And angry.
I guess I'm still angry.
Or maybe I'm just now feeling angry.

However angry, however passionate, the (arguably) easier it's made being out for fucking number one.
Now I move on easy. Let go easy. Get bored easy.
I'll think you're stupid. Or superficial.
I won't call you back. Make promises I don't plan on keeping. I'll leave when I want to leave with no regard for your feelings.
I'll give short notice, and play favorites. I always play favorites.

It's often that I almost feel entitled to be a bitch when I want to.
And you don't have to call me out on it, because I'm well aware. I'll tattoo it on my fucking shoulder to remind you that I'm well aware. I never use this hurt as an excuse and I haven't to get me anywhere or sympathy or anything. Because a lot of people have their own business. Their own lives to notice. And that's ok.
It's ok that no one knows. No one knows the bad, and no one knows the good.
And again my self-righteousness faults me.

"Hurt people hurt people."

It's true.
And,
I'm sorry.
I am.
But, really,
when it comes down to it all...
no one's really that important.
Not anymore.

Call it punishment.
Call it regret.

But don't call me anything.

Lo

Jimmy Ruffin and the pursuit

And it happened yet again. The slow-motion moment in the midst of chaos.
I'm at Ultra on Friday night dancing like a psycho in celebration of, I don't know - life, when some guy and his slightly less attractive but equally coiffed campus-sheik, wingman approach.
It is clear these lads are not just passing by, but have stopped with purpose - a motivation as to why they choose to stand right there, where I in front of them am flailing so carelessly.
They lean in. My dancing tames however briefly, and I perk an ear. The boy starts, "How's your mother?"
And just as Kanye breaks it down, and the Brazillian dancers sh-shakin' it on the risers hollar a "hells ya", I get sucked back into the dance floor, with nothing more than a suspicion and a hope that I heard him wrong.

Later... in the haze, I consider to myself if this vagrant interaction actually occurred. And although only moments had passed, the booze and exertion distorts my internal clock. It could have been five minutes, it could have been fifty. Or even fifty-two. And as if I imagined it all, the two guys appear yet again, and just as I remembered them. Short and Abercrombie.
I close my eyes for a second, I need to concentrate on the question.
I look at his face, it focuses in and out. His lips are moving but I don't hear what he's saying. In fact, they're moving too slow for reality. It's stalled. A time-lapse. And that Kid Cudi song featuring MGMT starts playing, not in the club, but in a bull-pen circumferencing my head. Thick and stretchy, a theoretical mass that keeps me a foot and a half distant at all times. A foot and a half is a large space between my heart and the world. A terrible flaw.
"How's your mother?"
I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood the question, "What?"
He repeats himself, "How is your mother?"
My face falls. After I unapologetically answer with the simplest, although some would argue morbid statement, there are no other words to describe their reaction than bumbling. Fumbling. Morons. Full of sorries, inching away from the black hole that surrounds me, swallowed yet again into the crowd. Their faces barely making an impression in my mind.
I only remember the idea, not the face. Isn't that sad?
Even after the moment it happened. Isn't that sad?
And then I realize, Kid Cudi's become Jimmy Ruffin. Out of sync with the bumpers and grinders all around, but a perfect melody in my head. "Yes, Jimmy," I think to myself. "What does become of the broken-hearted?"
I stand there, as we slowly zoom out to a wide shot.

Indeed, one soul too heavy for a Hot Mess.
But nearly so.

Lo