Drink per chance to dream

From my observations, perhaps somewhat limited, but not that limited, I’ve seen that when dudes, (especially but not only cishet dudes) get Very Drunk, (like…Ratty as a jay bird, lit up like a Hanukkah bush, studying snakes drunk) they often get withdrawn and angry, antagonistic and aggressive, and even sometimes straight up violent. But when women (especially but not only queer women) get Very Drunk (like… Stewed to the eyebrows, absolutely Moulin Rouged, watching the ant races drunk) they shower each other with love and validation, and tell the secrets of the deepest pains they’ve known, and cry and hug and fucking laugh at how absurd it is to be a person. And maybe the next day you wake up sore. Sore in your body from giving piggy back rides and picking people up bridal style, to prove that you’re strong, and you’re strong. And maybe the next day you wake up sore. Sore in your heart because it’s all so fucking much, to witness and take in, to talk about and just fucking think about. It’s sick whiplashing joy and sorrow. It’s a coven and a cloak and a concern. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll be able to uncurl.


Burn out my bad luck on the small things

Steal my money, scorch my food, Lose my rings

Moths can dine on my very best clothes

Split my lip split my hairs bleed my nose

Stoplights go red and my breaklights burn out

Break my dishes, sunglasses, and boughs

Burn out my bad luck on the small things

So maybe the big stuff will pass me up clean

95 Black

Hello (love). I’m getting my life together this month. It’s the month and i fucking have to and I’m doing it. So fucking weak the last couple days tho it’s bullshit. Just want to sleep. Sleep and read and lose myself in silly little fantasies. Sometimes, not very often at all, but once in a rare while, reading will feel the way it felt for me as a kid, as a teen. A real escape, an obsession. It leaks colours and flavours and scents into my life. Cherry and something dark. I understand things about myself, but i also don’t. I simplify myself to myself because it’s easier, or at least i mostly think it is.  Yeah. I dunno. I don’t always know how to use my voice, or how to use it for good, or what good is. Every word is the string for a light and the spring for a trap.  Name things with caution, say “i love you” often.


I get in spots where it’s so hard to move. It’s so hard to want to and so hard to do. I get into spots. I want that job, or really any of these semi decent jobs. I want naltrexone HCI / bupropion HCl. I want the brave streak to fix my body. I want the slick steel strength i feel in a scene to live inside me always. Party in a party. Keep my build me take me. I love you.

I’m not afraid of ghosts

I’ve never felt reluctant to leave a job before, or like I’d miss it. It’s weird. Every day that i have to go do a tour, it feels like the last fucking thing in the world i want to do. I dread it, I’m so over it, but there’s still something about it that i love. Something weird and small and magical about it. being a part of this bizarre, dysfunctional group, doing the most random job ever, it’s cool. It’s special. It’s an elite club and i could explain what it’s like all night, but if you haven’t done it you can’t really know. we know. We’re there together, and we know. It’s also an 11 year old girl walking up front with you, asking you questions and telling you in confidence that she thinks her room is haunted. It’s the look of wonder you see in her eyes and you fed that. You stacked the wood and stoked it. The world is still magical for her and you made it that way. I’m ready to be done, I’m ready for a new chapter, but i think i might miss that.