Mouth Fur

I haven't got the time to be oppressed nor the patience necessary be a victim. Only the privileged have the luxury of analyzing the p-word and its consequences. The rest of the free world is working double-overtime, flying through McDonald's drive thru's and catching the 10o'clock news before bed. And really, that's not even fair of me to say. Though that was my experience growing up in a single-parent household, it's ignorant to make grand, sweeping conclusions or blanket statements. I was raised by self-diagnosed feminists. My mother's "About Me" section on facebook is the entirety of For Every Woman by Nancy R. Smith. My aunt's profile pictures feature witty quips like "Against abortions? Don't have one!" and "Your body is a battlefield." Their rants seemed convoluted while I was growing up. I was convinced they wanted to convert me into a "man-hating lesbian" with their witchy Lillith Fairs and hippie-dippy festivals and sassy fridge magnets. "GIRL POWER" was everywhere and I resented it. I love my family, I 'swear to goddess' as Auntie Sissy would say, which should be in the same vein as taking the Lord's name in vain, making it derogatory, no? It also seems strange that such an aggressive woman's rights advocate wouldn't protest or question the nickname I gave her when I started making words. Her sense of third-wave humor must be deeper than I first assumed.
If you've got a problem with the noise boise, then the noyz boyz must be destroyed. If you're going to take on a "me against the world" attitude, you're going to have a lot of fighting to do. I'm not suggesting you roll over on your back and submit to be shit on, but "that's fucked up" is just a motto and slogans aren't action.

I'm just as tired as you are. Of insipid uninspired eyewitness (non-expert) accounts of wading through and wallowing in the deepest shit in the dankest spaces of post-teen bedroom culture. The reality of my existence invalid without higher education is ultimately a bland bleach blond bitch in a poly-amorous relationship with promiscuity and slut-shaming over analyzing the internal conflict of liberation vs. love. Abundance of abandonment leads to shorter shorts & fake fur, fishnets & aquanet, slutstick lips & spider lashes; not going unnoticed but untouched. neither brilliant nor beautiful. unrelenting generosity is not enough to compensate. "I AM SO ALONE" pity party cover stories cover up 'isolation culture' conspiracy. The theory of social constipation states the key to causing consternation is constant motion. Immersed in the cyclical struggle for remote control. Chemical solutions to biological concerns. I can puff out deal breakers for hours with an uncut deck, my hearts not in the cards. We revel in the shared hidden meaning of slumber parties under Goosebump blankets of sleepless skin. It's hard to tell if I've been eating enough or at all. Secrets shared within secret societies do not cease to be secrets. We used to trade quips marginally scrawled in anthologies but we've grown past mutual masturbation. "I am so hip even my errorrs are correct" I spend too much time on the internet to be interesting. I've turned this shit into my LIFE. Tonight your lane seems particularly eerie. It isn't a concern of mine, more so of mastering the art of leaving undetected. Every time I smoke weed I need to shit and I think it's symbolic because I'm stoned. Unsubtly sending signals I'm still single. Bragging is the reason for saying.

Don't wait for the things you want. Everything breaks down eventually. No one moves here and nothing has changed. I know exactly what I will find in the cupboards (nothing) where the scale is hiding, how many pills I can get away with taking. I used to puke in the lawns of my neighbors. I ate a box of laxatives every night. My memories are made of bathroom stalls. Some people are born to die young and I was but missed my chance. When I was 16 years old, I was living in a church on the outskirts of town with nothing but a can of gasoline, waiting to set myself on fire. I pray I've come home to get dead. I'm not going home to kill myself; I'm going to fuck it up. I know who will like this. Mine is a life lived on the internet. I am a product of a dissociative society.
Smoke runs in my blood three generations thick. Twisted messes twirling tresses; stretch marks and growing pains: lies scar. insatiable appetite. blurred vision. deepwheezin. built up muscle acidity. 2 much 10sion. suddenly in love with everyone. realm xcapez in cybereality. msgs in mixtapes via us male. period inducing contact with an alternate actuality.