What do you think the most painful part of being beaten in the face with a hammer would be? There's the part where your bottom lip gets split wide open. And then there's your teeth caving into your mouth. Your gums separating. Your jaw bone collapsing. There's the part when the peen hits your nose and your septum crunches into your throat. When the bridge cracks into pieces. By this time, your face is decimated. You feel everything but nothing really feels whatsoever. Then you feel the singe of your burning cheek as the bone gets folded into your face. Your eye follows it inwards. The only intact bit left of your mashed visage is the bone of your brow, then it gets pulverized together with the meat of your brain and the splinters of your skull. Your face is in fragments but all you can do is imagine the pain of it. The nerves are done feeling but in your mind, you know you've been butchered with a hammer and that's what makes it hurt.

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. This is how I describe my life. Living isn't miserable itself, it's just a clump of days that are really quite miserable, each and of their own. And then when I feel like smiling or crying, I don't know if it's right or if I'm sick. The thing that makes me sad the most is nothing; nothing at all. I've taken on a strong belief that to exist is inherently absent of any kind of meaning and it's depressing. But it makes my life easier to mange and live through. Knowing that nothing really matters makes every day pretty fucking easy. It makes every problem fade away. Knowing that when I die, there will be nothing is strangely satisfying. I don't need to be remember or missed. Even now. Sometimes I feel like I have no emotion and sometimes I feel like there's a lot in me. In real life, I am a shell of what I really am. I was out with some friends last week and they said "You really have no emotions, don't you?" And I laughed as I said "I do! I cry all the time! Like, 10 times a year." I really don't know if it's a lot or barely any. Maybe I really don't have a lot of emotion, but it's alright because I think I could seriously drive myself insane with any more.



I'm so funny when I'm drunk. On the way home from an amazing night out, I had a theory so I wrote it into my phone so I could read it when I was sober. Here's how it goes. (I corrected many spelling errors.)

"Each and everyone of us pursues our own pleasure. No contest. I contend that we are born gay but convert ourselves to a heterosexual state only to forward our own species. I contend that we are nothing but a virus, consummating our purpose to survive but those with enough will shall manage to pursue pleasure in spite of what they are."


Excuse me... EXCUSE ME.

"Death is like the moment you begin to like the party, the party is cancelled and everybody must go home. But it's actually worse than that. Instead, you're tapped on the shoulder and told that you must go home but the party is still going to continue. That's the worst."


You need to know that nothing really matters.

Stress Position

"And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.


It won't end here. Your faith has got to be greater than your fear.

Alright, so with everyday that goes by, I try to understand myself a little better. I'm so young, I haven't had much time to understand the complete functionality of my mind and my heart. But I'm learning through the way I feel for you. I'm holding out. My past is kind of funny, the way I pursue and chase a man and claw him into my grasp. Then toss them far away once I've tried them out. Yes, it sounds deprave and maybe it's quite whoreish. But I will maintain that I am quite hard to get. I spent a long time hating myself and thinking I was disgusting so since I've been aware that I've got the goods to play the game, dammit, I am playing it to the death. This means I will never be anyone's girlfriend. I've liked this boy for a very long time and it's great, he likes me back. Fun's over now. All it is about for me is making guys who don't love me, love me. So when the boy comes back, we may just meet again and go a little farther. But I wish for the good of us both that he doesn't ask me that horrid question. I really just hope no one does. Now I see that no matter how long I can pursue and pine for one person, the moment that my catcalls are requited, well, that's just when I don't want to play anymore. I don't know for sure if this is a problem. For them it is, because I'm just like some guy who sleeps around and throws the girl away after a night. I guess I'm sorry I'm like this but it's the way I am and I can't fake feeling for someone. I'm too young and free and I have no time for that. I can't have you gone for months while I'm at home missing you and inevitably pouncing on someone else while you're gone. I'll never be faithful. It's like my head is built around this condo building and to have you live here, means moving into a two bedroom to fit all of your stuff and time and love but I just can't move out of my studio apartment. My loft, permanently full of labour and travel and art. I can move it around a little bit for him to stay a while but he's gonna have to leave before my things gather dust. I'm just not meant to be a girlfriend.


Never again will there be another one quite as desirable as you.

Everything's a mistake. I've got one thing on my mind and I want nothing more. I'm sorry but you'll probably end just the same as all the rest.


Can I be excused for the rest of my life?

I'm gonna drink my whiskey
Gonna have my man
I know you got nothing to say
I'm gonna have my men
Gonna steal their hearts
And save em for another day
Ain't gotta hang my hat
Ain't gonna take off my boots
Ain't nothin gonna stop me in my pursuit
My stage time to rehearse
Gonna see all the wonders of the universe


Home sweet home, home sweet home.
Home sweet booby trap.

I took the batteries out of my mysticism 
and put them in my thinking cap.


New York, I love you but you're bringing me down.

I have all these letters I wrote to every guy I cared about. They're all in my journals. Read by no one but me. I counted them the other day but I forgot the number. I can picture them all in my head though. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. I'm missing my green one from grade 12, I need to find it. I think my first entry was from 2005.  I've got four different blogs. I forget how many thoughts I really do have and then I look at my pile of journals and smile. Lines upon pages of tears and hurt. A cemetery of all my cold thoughts. A burial heap of suicide notes and death threats and love letters. Such a sour girl I've always been. 


From the moment we are born,
the world tends to have a
container already built for us
to fit inside: A social security
number, a gender, a race,
a profession or an I.Q. I ponder
if we are more defined by the
container we are in, rather than
what we are inside. Would we
recognize ourselves if we could
expand beyond our bodies?
Would we still be able to exist
if we were authentically