Last Impressions.

When I first observed your shifty ways,
I glimpsed a foggy, underlying haze;
What is essential remained forever vague,
What was potential went black as plague;
Always heard it within your loud tendencies,
Your repeatedly blatant discrepancies,
Big stories, loud T-shirts and MP3s,
Oozing broken deficiencies,
Your endless supply of one-liner quips,
The total lack of any intact etiquette,
Your falsified versions of all kinds of shit,
How I wish that I never heard any of it;
Because now it’s a puzzle that boggles my brain,
How I bought such a lie sold by the insane,
I cringe at the close shave of taking that name,
From a dirty player playing in a filthy game;
With your perpetual spouting of little known facts,
The effectual role-play of good and kind acts,
A contextual manipulation that deviates from fact,
A perpetual accumulation of memories you’ve hacked
There was a gnawing feeling that I ignored,
Put to the side of who I thought I adored,
I forfeit a wager that I couldn’t afford,
I stupidly missed the big, bold underscore;
Despite your perceptions and points of view,
Your recollections are historically skewed,
With so many imperfections ever seeping through,
I should have spotted early on: the ugliness in you;
It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself to justify,
The bigger picture painted is a tainted, ugly lie,
The glory fizzled out then shriveled up and died,
Left it on the curb with your sulfuric sense of pride.
But you made it so simpler to strap up my boots,
To finally stamp out embers and sweep out the soot,
I won’t remember much of some thieving crook,
Or the irreplaceable piece of equipment he took.

No Pockets.

Loose! – – –
the arrows fly,
there is no escaping –
this aim of mine;
I’ve practiced for centuries,
amidst many miserable lives,
there is no escaping –
the poison I’ve bled
into these darts that I let fly;
they say that our last garment –
is sewn pocketless,
I noticed no pockets,
forged in the design –
of your chosen, slutty dress;
and all that shitjob poser,
pucker, picturesque,
glam/geek this week –
photo-shopped, clipped
and chopped to death;
but see – none of that,
changes the sobering fact,
that you have already slipped –
and there’s no coming back;
yes girl, indeed,
you have your abilities,
to pretend to mend the broken,
and then leave them –
begging on their knees,
but I have my own charms –
tucked beneath either arm,
that easily outdo your own –
be smart,
don’t start –
tuck your tail
and get on home;
you don’t want,
to cross this stream,
and if you do,
then you’re full crazy –
it’s best you look,
a little more closely,
at all the things,
you know of me,
at the things that you –
want to steal from me.

TRUE Story.




Why can’t people just be honest about shit, especially shit that’s already said and done. When someone draws the proverbial line in the dirt, in my opinion, it’s much more respectable to stand tall next to what they’ve drawn, instead of pretending that it hadn’t been them who drew it before I got there, or when I wasn’t looking. Worst yet, it’s not as if I can’t handle being told the truth – I’m a big girl.

All I can say is that when someone doesn’t bang what they claim, it only means that someone’s heart isn’t in whatever they’re claiming. It’s irritating to me that I’m apparently not worthy of the truth in the opinion of someone in whom I have placed a lot of faith and probably too much kindred-ship in. I partially get it, it’s a generational thing – an age thing – which is fine…go be in a lion’s den instead, if that’s what sinks your pickle…but be real about it at least, damn…



Image“So, I, uh…found your blog yesterday…” his voice trails off at the lack of my response. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” my irritation must be palpable to him then;

He physically withdrawals before saying, “Tell me….uh, tell me how you feel, all that stuff about m-“

I cut him off before he can finish the final word of the sentence; highly distracted by my own thoughts on a subject having nothing to do with his sorry ass, I say without even looking in his direction, “What the fuck makes you think it’s about you?…Damn get over yourself, already.”

Of course, it was about him; and he knows this – because he knows what we’ve gone through and there’s no mistaking the details I written.

He makes an all-too-familiar face that looks like he just swallowed an entire peeled lemon with holes in it; and starts to shake his fat head at me in his typical, condescending way: his way of telling me that he’s smarter than me, and that I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“Whatever, that was then – when I wrote that…”

He breaks in with a matter-of-fact voice and says, “’Then’ was only like a month and a half ago, you know?”

“Oh look who can suddenly count days!” I cannot help myself; I’m fucking childish that way.


He waits…patiently, in one of his stuck-up, patriarchal poses that I’m sure he practices in the mirror during moments alone. I am uncomfortable; I do not want him here, nor do I want to discuss these meaningless things with him – I do not want to even know him anymore, wish I never had.

“Who fucking cares?” I stand from the step on the front porch, where I had hesitantly taken my seat moments before, my face is feeling hot and my blood pressure rises like a tidal wave in my veins; I say,

“There’s not a God damned thing in that blog that I didn’t tell you…I told you that shit more than once, as a matter of fact. YOU decided that those things were invalid to YOU, in case you conveniently don’t recall that part of things…”

He shoots a hand up from where he sits to grab my arm as I spin by him towards my front door; his face is pleading, as if he he’s lost or out of gasoline.

“DON’T touch me.” I am not afraid of this fat head; in fact, I am quite certain that despite his extraordinary mass in size and height, I could take him easily – because he is a total fucking pussy. But his touch makes me recoil and think of dark things and bad places – metaphoric of my disgust with myself for ever believing his eloquently constructed, pseudo-village of lies.

ImageI snap my hand away from his, and go inside – hammering the door closed behind me with a loud crack!

His muffled voice expels what I make out as various obscenities through the solid door as he shuffles down the porch and away from me; thank you Gods…thank you. What a varmint…must be nice on the planet he lives on.




If you remove the letter ‘R’ from the word ‘FRIEND’, your are left with nothing more than a fiend; when you take the trust and endearment out of a circumstance, you often find yourself sitting with a very ugly reality, firmly attached in your wide-open lap.

When you allow your misguided, faulty sense of trust to lead your decisions regarding such an atrocity as ‘fiends posing as friends’, you are inviting a most sobering wake-up from the lobby in the depths of Living Hell; for choices falling this category have the potential to sway the very course of a lifetime.

When you are stupid enough (in a truly pitiful sense) to allow the vultures (your band of two-faced fiends) to circle overhead and give away your position for all to see – without ever even realizing what was happening, you have tattooed a barcode that translates into “ENSLAVED”.


Judgment Day

He LIED to me, blatantly and cruelly, despite my genuine support of HIS BULLSHIT for so long – day in and day out –


And while that type of thing is obviously okay with you and your people, it IS NOT OKAY with me. I didn’t deserve it; I didn’t ask for it (literally, the opposite); and I will damned if I am going to be further insulted about the fucked up bullshit that I just endured at the hands of your “friend” by you – when you truly have no clue what you’re even talking about. It sucks that you had to go there and say the absolute worst thing you could possibly say to me in regard to that pondscum “friend” of yours – and my so-called “unnecessary drama”. Where the hell do you get off?


For the record (and so that next time you go talking about it, you KNOW what the fuck REALLY went on):

I tried (beginning several months ago) to break it off. This was due to the fact that I DID, INDEED, SEE THIS BULLSHIT COMING. I tried telling him so many times that I didn’t want shit to end up this way, and all he ever said back to me was stuff like, “Don’t worry…”, or “It’s fine…”, or my personal favorite, “I still want to continue this when I move out…” I tried to tell him that I had no interest in becoming his “booty call”, he swore that wasn’t the case…

Next, when I tried to explain that I had feelings involved for him, and was feeling very used and discarded (based solely on his actions and lack, thereof), in hope that he would understand that this wasn’t stupid game to me – it’s my life – what little there is left of one anyway…he only became more unwilling to behave like a human being. He continued to lie to me throughout his actual move – to appease me in order to continue having his God damned cake and eating it, too. The last batch he dropped off to me prior to the last one, I stood my ground solidly and flat out told him I was losing interest in him and his head games, that I didn’t feel like he was worthy of my attention or affection, that I didn’t want to see him anymore outside of his visits to see you or whatever. He seemed to take in stride, which pissed me off but I let it go.

The very next day, I sent him a text asking to see him before the weekend to swap out batches, as I had finished what he left with me, and he showed up here an hour later – all sweet and sugar-coated, all full of his bullshit lies and head games, and I caved. The next day, I was so angry at myself, and at him, for being such a sucker. I told him so. He proceeded to dog me out once more (the time he flaked me off all day and then showed up shitfaced drunk on a Sunday night), and when he got here, I again, tried to send him packing.

I said: “I don’t want you here if you don’t want to be here.”

He said: “I do, I do want to be here, and you are the only one…I swear.”

And then I let him in my bed again, because I wanted to believe the leis he was telling me, that he’s always been telling me ALL ALONG.


Please understand that this entire thing has been a head game on my end; and it’s been quite an unjust head game, to boot. I will never understand how certain people are able to sleep at night, but it’s not my place to understand sociopathy, I guess.

All that I know is:

When you or anyone else in your highly misinformed group of “friends” feel obliged to judge me (as I KNOW you ALL do, without doubt), especially in the context of either of the maggot “friends” of yours that I have stupidly tangled with – it would always be more respectable and much less cruel, to actually have the facts and information before doing so. Otherwise, you chalk yourself up with the rest of your “friends” by behaving like a judgmental and pompous jackass.


I get it, that you and the rest of your “friends” are okay with treating people badly, as long as it doesn’t affect you directly; even if it’s someone you’ve known pretty well and who’s been a staunch ally to you, I get that by now trust me. What I don’t get, and likely never will, is how it is that some people are so capable of smashing what’s REAL and TRUE with the faulty and fabricated bullshit that fits more comfortably for them, for their own life – no regard for what’s right versus what’s wrong, no loyalties (at least, not to the deserving). It’s lost on me.