My high school spanish teacher, Senorita S., was never the same after her engagement crumbled during a bad Royal Caribbean cruise- maybe that’s the best way to know if he/she is the one- share a twin size bed in a room the size of a closet. Be very close to the bathroom. Get sea sick. Get food poisoning at the all you can eat midnight shrimp cocktail bar. Inhale one another’s odors while nursing dehydration induced migraines in a vacuum.
If you can survive this- you can battle just about anything. After all, they say stench is tremendously powerful. If there’s still a twinge in the pants after the sixth day of a no-deodorant, no-toothbrushing, strictly yellow gatorade diet: congrats.
I believe we can learn to be “better” people (don’t drink and drive, don’t cheat, don’t hit the dog, don’t leave the baby in the car, please flush the toilet, put the plate in the sink, get away from the park when you wear that coat- all correctable stuff: support groups, practice, etc). I don’t think we can learn to stomach a stank.
Long lasting love requires the approval of the olfactory sense.
(For those devoid of the ability to sniff around, you may find yourself needing to take a closer look at your lover’s textures.)
Next time you want to profess your adoration, take a good long whiff of your partner. I mean- really get in there, because your mutual respect for Bruce Willis, the Garden State Soundtrack and daily horoscopes will not be enough to bind you together.
When you’re older and no longer tickled by Zero 7- you’ll be left to stew together in a shitty nursing home. With the sun beating down your wrinkly backs and casting a glare upon your super turbo future computers, there will be nothing to do but sit around and breath that mutual sweaty air.
Admittedly,
I haven’t slept much in the last few months. This has made it hard to write things that aren’t: shitty jokes on the backs of limited edition sauce stained McRib napkins.
I’m on the “job” and everybody went out to lunch, but I’m a trooper- and
Admittedly,
I ate a chicken sandwich with artichoke spread just short of 11 AM, but I feel compelled to blog. In my defense, I’ve answered three phone calls in the last 30 minutes.
The thing is, I suffer from apocalyptic mood swings that cause me to occasionally go on long winded rants about things I don’t understand with “drunken” clarity- despite the underlying fact of sobriety.
I believe that the majority of my claims come from anywhere but my actual self. For, the true Mary Novokhovsky has been backpacking through Ireland since 2007. She’s been studying dragon bones North of Belfast and living in an alcove hidden in the roots of a very magical tree. Her roommate is a dwarf named Liverpool who brews love potions and assists Mary in torturing her dissociated Midwest American identity.
Admittedly,
I am going to write an Anthropological study about how “Midwest Americans” are their own ethnic group- oh, those salty earth fuckers. I can say that because I bleed bratwurst and fireworks. Wilkommen to Illinois.
Admittedly,
I wrote a long essay throughout the entire work day about my childhood alcoholism, repressed love for my former roommate and inability to recover from a pornographic film I found in my grandfather’s VHS collection.
There was some bullshit about how I’m different now- really it went pretty deep, I felt rejuvenated to blog again and my whole world was suddenly floating in the realm of ultimate truth.
There was even a cheesy line about how the only way for me to confront reality is to get on a stage or post in the landfill that is Tumblr. Blah, blah, blah write me a love song Mariah Carey.
Here, here! I blame god for fucking everything up because I was close to revealing the reasoning behind my masochism, and I was feeling good about getting intimate on the internet. I would have begged you to light a hundred scented candles throughout your dirtbag apartment to assist, you- the reader, in creating an ambiance to fucking understand me. Oh, but the website shit out and nothing got saved.
So, this is just another case where the great lord keeps one of his herd back to spite them for being total dicks. I want to say something that will make up for the black hole in my stomach.
If you put your finger in my belly button it’ll suck your soul right out, and you’ll wake up one morning with the worst hangover in the world in a Peruvian hostel- covered in glitter. Have a nice life, in like, the most sincere way possible.
Barbie got really jaded.
my fellow whores- and sore losing doormat slug-fuckers:
hanging onto old idols
is like gripping onto a pair of old jeans and hoarding dreams
that have already been done- is a lot like staring at the sun
until you go blind and blaming it on bad luck and the
man and the management and the medicine and the
water that you drink- sending die FASTER messages to your
organs and shit
I need to pee, but I wont pee because I said I’d write.
I’ll just write while peeing, but the act of the peeing does not take long.
The toilet is so cold. Too cold for extended post-pee writing.
I must set down the laptop and do the assorted tasks that follow the exit process of the pee.
Pause to wipe, flush and consider hand washing.
Enter bed. Take off pants. Climb under one layer of covers, so as not to get too comfortable because, after all, I am going to write.
Intermission
My breath is stale: post travel-guilt cigarette-cortisol-dry mouth halitosis. When I go to check it with my hand, mouth smell fuses with the boiled chicken stench of the boiled chicken I used as a doggy treat at doggy training this evening.
Now, if you quartered me and boiled me, there would be an oily film that would rise to the top- as there always is in the cooking of a masterful bouillon. You wouldn’t get it if you don’t cook soup.
I flounder in this kind of bullshit my friend,
like a fresh catch in a frying pan
and when I’m awake waiting
for the “all-clear” of another night
I wonder if you’ll still be able
to look me in the eyes
when the oily film of truth
rises to the surface of the cookware
that enables me to somehow
wake up in the morning
when I’d rather be hooked up
to a hospice strength IV
so that I may go a day
without feeling the guilt
of the guilt
of the guilt
of the guilt
of the guilt
of the guilt
I have caused
have you any clue,
what life does
to the obscenely selfish?
I imagine, he’s coming for me,
hammer in hand- to crush
the delicate games I am playing here
these are lives,
these are not barbie dolls
under mama’s coffee table
and you are too old for white lies,
shame on you little stupid girl
for collecting pain
like paperwork,
for- the earth is not your oyster
to fuck and suck dry.
Sometimes you think the identity crisis is over, that is, until you wake up and realize that all of your clothes are once again covered in permanent stains.
You don’t even drink red wine anymore. 2011 was the year of assorted condiments and fuschia fruit juices.
In uproar you freak out and buy these dresses— and shit…because you need new clothes and may truly have the potential to be attractive— it’s time unlock that motherfucking swan!
But it’s also because your mother has broken down to you numerous times about how upsetting she finds your garb. When the wool sweater comes off, the acai berry juice spot glitters…like a cum stained mattress under a black light in season 2 episode 6 of “Room Raiders”.
So nowadays you show up to dumpy places with depressed crowds, wearing 4 inch leopard print heels. You try to honestly convey the message that you’re fucking disgusting—a true suburban gutter rat.
“Yes, I will eat the sandwich I left on the sink last night as I take my morning piss.”
HA! HILARIOUS…right?
No, probably not. It’s not really very original, but it’s also not believable. How can you trust my rendition of Denny the crackhead when I’m wearing textured shoes?
You might believe me if I pegged myself as a coke addled ex-prostitute, but otherwise, probably not.
Maybe wearing fake animal hair (real sweat shop pubic hair) doesn’t make me likable. Or it could be the fact that I told the host of my last open mic that he shouldn’t slobber (I mean, “face fuck”) the microphone.
Either way, I’m thinking it’s time to revamp my look. It’s not too late to bring back my crotch hole leggings, high school swim team t-shirts and costco ugg boot rip offs.
Or— the answer to my great discomfort may be an internal issue. Like, I could work on my threshold for negative feedback. There’s yoga, candle ceremonies, self help books, therapy— wait, I’ve tried all of that.
I’m trying to save up for an apartment so I can’t really restyle myself, unless I try to go the vintage route (no). When the time is right, I’m going to attempt 90’s Banana Republic pantsuit androgyny.
I probably just need to re-write all of my material and cut back on the “cunt-it-ude”. No, I’m not doing that either.
So, in conclusion, I will keep doing exactly what I’m doing.
Maybe next time I’ll write an entry where I develop into a better and less self absorbed person by the end.
Probably not.
To Do List For 2/26
1. Walk the dog once (your welcome mom)
2. Transfer the stuff currently molding in the washer to the dryer (48 hours max before I say fuck and just put the wash cycle on again)
3. Clean my car (Including, the collection of fall leaves gathered under seat)
4. Remember to take all prescribed medications (especially, the liquid one)
5. Write a pro and con list for going back to college (just not as an English major)
Goodnight Dad.
The hospital bed would adjust itself every five minutes, “so you don’t get bed sores,” explained a nurse with a very small wet spot on her butt.
“Can you just turn it off for a little while?”
She stared at me with her unevenly plucked brows and shrugged, “no— regulation”.
Later that afternoon I requisitioned lady butt sweat for painkillers through some sort of intercom connected to the fidgety bed— “Yeah, it hurts…the wounds, ouch.”
She wheeled her little cart into the room, and stood around dead-eyed.”On a scale of 1-10, how much does it hurt?”
“I guess i’m at a 6, a 6 with the potential to be a 7 or 8.”
“But, right now you’re at a 6?”
“Yeah, I’m at a 6…”
She watched me fumble the pills into my mouth.
I picked up the ice water, slurped and gulped.
Butt sweat left, and I was alone again. I had told my mother to go home. She picked up a cough overnight— too many hours without a cigarette…
The hospital spaghetti sauce was heavy on the canned tomatoes. I learned this during lunch time. I decided to wait for the pity dinner. The family would be bringing Thai.
The windows didn’t open, just stale hospital air. Most of the time I would look at my phone— just wait. Maybe something on that little fucking screen would bring me solace. Relief! Love! The outside world! Care people, care! COME ON, care harder.
And then, I didn’t return most of the calls that came anyway, because sometimes you don’t want to tell friends that you were sliced and drained. Sometimes, you’re just kind of doped up…Sometimes, you don’t feel like listening to other people speak.
Now, they ask if I’ve healed. I say I’m getting better, but ”yep, I still wake up every morning and drive to a doctor’s office. They stuff my sores like…taxidermy.” On a scale of 1-10, it’s an 8 for inconvenience. The pain is consistently 3, the self pity is a 6 and the self disgust is a 9.
I remember when they handed us a list of faces signaling different emotions in therapeutic day rehab. Every morning we’d go around and name our feelings.
I struggled with that. I always ended up picking the crooked mouth anxious circle face, or a vocabulary word from an ACT prepbook. We weren’t allowed to just be “hungry” or “horny”, “sad” or “angry”. Tuesdays and Thursdays, I felt insatiable. Wednesdays I was anxious. Monday- wild card! Friday- anxious…again.
I like the numbers more. I can easily tell you that I’m a 2 on anxiety at the moment. Don’t ask me to describe what that means. I can’t. I’d rather not. Leave me alone, mom.
I lost my train of thought…
If you want to know how I feel about you please give me a number system. One day, I’ll put it all together with verbal reasoning. Today, I will use this as an explanation for why I can’t write a novel- why my blogs keep getting sparser…why my jokes don’t have endings…
I can’t do justice to a lot of “stuff” ( LOVE ) yet. I don’t have the vocabulary or the lifespan.
Just let me plot points. I want to see my life as a line graph- a stock market trajectory. I think I’m a hazardous investment, but oh man, there’s real potential.
Cop out ending- 4.
When I’m sad I eat big macs
like a fat sack-
and leave voicemails on machines,
bein’ all like, “holla back-!”
and when i’m in doubt…
I just keep saying stuff…
that doesn’t fit into
the conversation, so it’s rough-
if you record that shit, gimme some ear muffs-
speakin’ of muff-
I used to have to read literotica
and delete the cookies,
because, like, I didn’t want my parents knowing
that I understood the limp bizkit song: “nookie”,
these days I stream that shit,
so young I never had to buy it legit…
and sometimes my dad reads these posts,
mostly…
he reads these posts…
SO! Jk, Jk LOL.
If Jesus is up there,
I’m going to hell,
he’s so old school
I bet he still uses AOL.
when you get mad
hot steam rises from your ears
and your eyes bulge out of their sockets-
when the bad guys wring throats,
tongues flap and fly outta mouths,
necks shrink, heads explode- SPLAT!
love comes with floating cherubs
and smoke ring hearts,
when you find what you’re looking
for, the clouds part and songbirds sing,
OH! and if it’s fucked-
there’s the gloomy sky of foreboding
hanging low enough for you to notice,
and you can decide if you’ll take the leap anyway,
or a wear trench coat that comes up just below the eyes,
pack your whole life in a small suitcase with a sock hanging
out, and run away until a sudden spine straightening
plot twist, brings you back to town for adventure,
conflict, trains, planes, buzzing, whizzing, slicing, sizzling-
all wrapped up in a sweet resolution-
and an even sweeter “fade-in.”
