So a couple of months before my hosting plan expires, the site comes alive!
Infinite thanks to Bianca Lesaca for programming it.
the world’s a mess, it’s in my kiss.
Julie Doiron - Waiting for Baby
The Ocean is Inviting (Nice, France, 2005)
But in the absence of a proximate ocean, the tub.
por un ilustrador fantastico, Elena Odriozola
That’s about my size now.
i don’t think ondoy is the fucking asshole, though. but i digress.
While I know that you like terrible horror movies, queers, maybe squirrels, and writing about sex (tangentially, to make a point?), you don’t know me. You don’t know I exist. So on your birthday I take the liberty to greet you in the creepiest of ways, with an old journal entry.
“Oh, walruses. I like walruses.” I told the screen, a bit aware that I was only saying that because you wrote about a kid who wanted to swim alongside walruses. I am willing to believe anything you say, if only to catch your fancy.
Single Girl Summer Home is playing in another window.
Well, I am not single. But this doesn’t stop me from liking other boys. Or girls, for that matter. But mostly, it’s the boys that I want. Boys with nascent facial hair, as if they’re hesitating to grow it. ‘What if I’d look like a donkey?’ Sometimes I imagine boys are like that. Like girls, you know? They are as concerned about appearance as the shallowest girl in school. The only difference is they, the boys, discovered the closet way of doing things.
Oh, boy. You are very pretty. More than that, you are painfully smart. I read you everyday, even if you don’t write everyday. I can read your old posts a second, third and so on time and still be on my toes. By now my toes have become the strongest appendages of my body, your words, sustenance. You know, if you didn’t write so fucking well I wouldn’t want you as much. Ha ha. It seems I am also willing to incur the wrath of the I-don’t-swear hand washers for you.
Here’s a thought. If you write about swearing, about it not being wrong or offensive, then it means I will meet you in real life. Hey, this is cheating. You who talks about suicide and homosexuality like they were the norm? Oh, boy.
It doesn’t get creepier than journals.
so you think moving will make any difference. how many times have you tried to escape? you always run, and fast - no - too fast so you miss a turn and hit the wall, and fall, you fall squarely on the ground. it’s pitch black and it smells like stale takeout and the dirty cats are not pleased with you. how could they be, when you so briskly ruined their feast with your ass? so this, this is your idea of change. nice. look around you, what is new besides your soiled jeans?
if i had fuller hair / it’s strange to see other people who sort of look like you