October 11th

At the bottom of the sea is where you'll find me.

September 29th

I watched them kick her in the face; we all did. She moaned as she writhed on the floor, but I could tell from the way the blood dripped from her nose--she deserved it.

That plum was a mistake. It was the straw that left me with a broken camel, if you will. Or if you won't. Either way, I feel unwell.

September 25th

"It becomes harder to climb out, the more effort you put in. It's designed to emphasize its futility," he scribbled this in the little notebook he'd always kept in his back pocket. His thought being, he'd keep a diary of the disaster. He'd always been troubled be the difficulty of "its" and "it's" and so it was funny that now, given the circumstances, his understanding finally bloomed. There isn't much need for that sort of knowledge at the bottom of a hole. But it brought him comfort--for a time.

September 19th

The roof of my mouth itches. It's become a serious ailment. It itches all the time. The only way to scratch it is to make this weird retching noise from the back of my throat. A sound not unlike contemporary zombies.

It is no longer clear if my underwear is going to make through each fart. With each fart, the danger must be continually re-evaluated. Tricky, tricky, tricky.

I want to make magic with beets. Boy. I love beets.


kmc

September 11th

It feels much later than it is. The bugs are louder than I think they usually are. There's ice cream in the fridge, but my belly is full-full-full-full (full). With each click, tap, click, it is more apparent that my click, tap, clicking isn't going to accomplish anything. I've been sitting here for a few hours. When I sit here like this, this warm but not positive sensation of patheticyness starts at the ends of the few hairs on my head to the tips of the many hairs on my toes. The type of shame that the kind person who wets himself feels. I haven't wet myself, and I'm relatively certain that I won't. But I feel like a strange connection to this kind of person in these moments. But. At least this kind of person has accomplished something. He's pissed himself. And there is an implication that he will clean up after himself eventually. That's more than I've got. He's got verbs and all I've got is clicking noises. And some ice cream in the fridge, but I'm not going to eat that.

I know the house is fully occupied, but I might well be on the surface of the moon. Midnight shouldn't feel so lonely. I shouldn't feel so lonely. Sometimes when you go somewhere and you have to go to the bathroom, somewhere public--store or a restaurant. And you find the bathroom, and it's one that is totally private. The kind that you lock the door. Not just, the stall... the whole door. You're in there by yourself. And. And your adrenalin is pumping because you have complete bathroom freedom. You can pull your pants all the way down. You can spread your legs ultra wide. You can hum if you'd like. You can let your butt make the noises it was born to make, and not feel self conscious or pretend to cough or flush the toilet every time you make poo noises (and maybe get a little toilet water spray on your bottom parts). I mean. You could do that if you wanted, because you're in an unregulated zone. But as your going to the bathroom (pooping or peeping... depending on the context) a sharp pain of loneliness stabs you. You are the only person in this bathroom. There is no one choosing paper towels over the electric hand dryer (unless it's the Dyson one, of course). There's no one next to you flushing the toilet every time their butt makes poo noises. If you had an attack in this bathroom, like Elvis or non-famous people who've died in bathrooms, it's possible you wouldn't be found for hours. Days. There's a loneliness to be found in singular bathrooms, despite the freedoms they promise. These midnight moments that I'm typing from, they feel like the loneliness of a singular bathroom. It will pass.

I think I'm gonna eat that ice cream. But you knew that all along, didn't you?


kmc

"It's not, insanity!" says Vanity Fair

September 6th

The jicama is slimy and I don't know what that means. I'm eating it anyway because there's a cilantro sauce that's delicious and since I am still capable of feeling shame, I need something to dip in the sauce. Slimy jicama is all I got. And carrots. But I hate raw carrots. They taste like flowers. If I wanted to eat flowers I would eat flowers because they're way prettier than carrots. Cooked carrots are more acceptable, but I'm not going to cook three carrots just so I can dip them in cilantro sauce. I'll stick with slimy jicama. I hope the slime isn't something really bad. Like. Mold. Or AIDS. The cilantro sauce is really good, but not AIDS worthy. For sure.

My head hurts really bad (I don't think it's AIDS-slime related). For some reason, I think it's because I ate crappy food. I'm eating vegetables to compensate, as if my headache will go away because there's three snap peas in my belly. Oh well. The cilantro sauce is good.

My feet hurt really bad. I bought inserts. But I don't understand inserts. I bought my shoes that fit my feet. But now, I put inserts in. And my shoes don't fit right because there's less room for my feet because the inserts take up space. So. Do people really buy there shoes a size too big so they can put inserts in? That's like buying shoes and knowing you're going to be disappointed. When you buy shoes, shouldn't you do so with the understanding that they will be comfortable? Aren't inserts some sort of last resort? Or am I really supposed to be satisfied with my shoes that now feel nice on my soles (but not, like, amazing) but sort of hurt on top? Regardless, I paid $10 dollars and I'm totally Gellin'



kmc