I am no art-ist, I am an art-bitch

All I know, is all around the nation, the girls are crying and the boys are masturbating.

"No matter what your feelings are, for whatever candidate, make your voice heard. This Presidential election is the most exciting one I have seen in my lifetime. Whether you are for Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton – or even (gasp) John McCain (who I wouldn’t want to vote for because I don’t want to see my tax dollars spent on Viagra) or Mike Huckabee (who I dislike so much I can’t believe it – I would rather go see his band “Capitol Offense” than vote for him – and that is saying a lot!) – whoever you may support, your voice matters. Your vote counts – it’s a big deal. It’s everything. Whatever you do, be sure and vote. I know it’s a simple thing, but lots of people ignore it and think everyone else will do it for them. They can’t – and they shouldn’t. It’s all about you" - Margaret Cho

I may be friendly on the outside, but I am not tame by any measure. This is one of my favorite videos of ALL TIME. Enjoy.

Pointless entry of everything and nothing. Lately my thoughts have been a rubber ball, bouncing off the walls, ceiling and floor with speed and purpose but not getting anywhere. School and life in general has lost its charm. It manifests as skipping several classes without remorse and essentially letting all my work this semester swirl down the toilet. I'm stuck in a boat with one oar and I keep paddling in circles.

Every night I tell myself I won't trek down to the liqour store, and every night I'm a liar. Perhaps the answer to life/a filament of inspiration/a cure for my poison is at the bottom of this half-pint of vodka. No? Oh well, I'll just try again tomorrow night. What's that they say in AA? Keep doing what you've always done, and you'll keep getting what you've always gotten? Right, I'll drink to that.

Now some purdy wurds
--------------------------
I am an artist
yards of alabaster skin my canvas
a sharpened edge my brush
I paint and
the ruby red mouth gasps
and sputters, vomitting excrement of the soul
droplets hang heavy as their bellies swell
pregnant with my spite til they fall
and stain all they touch
unforgiving as the bitch that birthed them
the Purging

If they answer not your call, walk alone: If they are afraid and cower mutely facing the wall, O Thou of evil luck, open the mind and speak out alone. If they turn away and desert you when crossing the wilderness, O Thou of evil luck, trample the thorns under the tread, and along the blood-lined track travel alone. If they do not hold up the light when the night is troubled with storm, O Thou of evil luck, with the thunder-flame of pain ignite thine own heart, and let it burn alone.

-Rabindranath Tagore

Typing this is painful. Not the content, but the physical act of striking at keys.

Even through the fog of my massive hangover, I believe I've had a revelation. There is rage in me that I cannot control. I thought perhaps experiencing love would soothe the beast, pull out the proverbial thorn from the lion's paw. This is not the case. Not to say that love has not lifted a heaviness from my heart, not that being in love and being loved in return has not shed light into the world and shown me that life can consist of the beautiful as well as the revolting. It has done these things, and I treasure them. It has put a song to the scream of my soul.

But it has not put out my fire. I am still crazy, and I now realize that I will always be so. I am violent, obscene, unacceptable. Luckily, I do not take out my unending flow of anger out on anyone but myself. I punch my desk again and again until my knuckles rip and bleed, until purple and green bruises flower across my hand. The wood won't give in as easily as the walls, which is why I choose it.

This makes people scared of me. My own mother has admitted that at times I terrify her. I can understand why such madness drives people away. They do not realize that I will attack only myself. I know that it will be the death of me. One day the anger in me will burn so brightly I will end up beating myself against anything strong enough to not break under the weight of my rage until I'm nothing but a bloody pulp, murder victim to my own brutality. Nothing can save me from myself, I finally understand this. I am strangely okay with it.

My only regret is that this will drive people from me. It will frighten them too much, or they will simply tire of having to deal with it. This is my only sorrow.

If you don't beleive me, take a look at this Axe ad:

It wasn't a good day to start off with, anyway.

With hopes of unwinding, I cracked open a book soon after getting home. A few pages in I hurled it across the room with a strangled scream. If I read one more story about fucking over decent women because of big titted bimbos, or every other line being about some bitch's ass and legs and the fucking insatiable, misogynistic tendencies of men I will gouge my eyes out. What pisses me off the most is that the author is a great writer, and still such a damn pig.

I stared at the book for a while before I had to leave the room where it lay. I felt guilty because it was a present that I had tossed and left to sit crumpled and sad on the floor, but even more ashamed because I felt no desire to pick it up from its dishevelled state. As if I could punish the writer by letting his book lay sprawled in a corner.

I had planned not to drink, but in my lividity I combed my floor, scrounging up $3 in change so I could buy some vodka. I can't take it, I really can't. Even the nicest guys have almost naked models plastered to their bedroom walls. Its always the same.

I'll never be like that. I'll never look like that. I'll never feel good enough. Women are so replacable, you know? Get a prettier one and men are prey to their instincts.

The man at the liqour store remarked on my tear streaked cheeks and I snarled at him to mind his own business and give me my god damn liqour. On the way home it began to pour. I parked my car in the driveway and stood in the rain while I cracked open the bottle. Just stood there, getting drenched and drinking my vodka.

Neither made me feel any better.

To whomever it may concern,

The products I purchased today were very unsatisfactory. In addition to not removing my "hardest to eliminate" hair, your product completely ruined the manicure I had but just a few hours earlier received. Thanks to your shitty wax product I now have to stay awake much past my original bedtime to re-do the damn nails your wax fucked up. This may not seem like a problem to you, but that's most likely because your retarded conceptual staff gets to sleep in until 11 or 12 in the morning. Unfortunately I am a college student that has class at 8 in the am. I don't generally set aside time in my schedule to re-paint nails that were fucked up while trying to use your damn hair removal system. I'm sure you can imagine my disappointment when not only was my "unwanted hair" not removed, but my WANTED nail polish WAS removed.

To all other ladies out there, never buy wax from Wal*Mart. Just don't do it. It fucks you over in the end, trust me.

getting married used to be a childhood dream
but what else does one expect when marriage and childbirth determins one's worth?
when I reached the age
to think for myself
and reject standard forms of "success"
at least as far as women are involved
and I asked questions like
Why do men get paid more
for the same fucking job
than women do?
people point their fingers
and say
feminist!
feminazi!
you hate men!
you're undatable!
unmarriable!
ugly!
hateful!
bitter!
perhaps I'm all these things
but that doesn't change my mind
that women are more than
brood mares
more than
housekeepers
more than the stupid bitches
portrayed in movies
portrayed in porn
ooooh baby, give it to me!
jerk off to it, man
but the girls are faking
and you'll never come close
to giving them
a true
orgasm