Feigning Sanity

Drugs, Rock N Roll, Art, Motorcycles & Rattlesnake Hotdogs

2011-09-25T17:50:00.000-07:00

Home Room. Location unknown. Somewhere in downtown Los Angeles near West Hollywood, Korea Town and Echo Park. My gay friend had ditched me for some gay event. So I found myself all dressed up, all made up and all alone. I decided that alone or not, I was going out. So I hopped into my red convertible, flipped the top down and cruised over to the venue. I knew it was the right spot by all the artsy-looking 20-somethings mingling outside the entrance on the street. I walked in. To the left was a table with a stamp and a sign: Stamp Yourself in. The first room was a Haunted art exhibit, the most notable of the pieces being a coffin with a dead bloody mannequin inside and some wooden posts from a fence, which made the backrest of the bench. The second room held a beautiful small female singer in a puddle in the middle of the stage, draped in a long dress, with a velvet shawl over her bird-like shoulders. The peacock feathers of her headdress jutted from her ears and chains dangled past her broken eyes. Surrounding her were two cellists and a drummer. The next singer creeped around the stage and into the audience like a spider with her long skinny black-tighted legs singing songs in a language no one understood, but everyone felt. I was in the back of the pressed together crowd. A tall man in black with greasy hair told me to push forward; it was my right. Like a motorcycle I darted through the couples and hipsters until I made my way to the front.

Afterward, Greasy-haired guy invited me to the Medusa Lounge next door. It looked like it used to be a church with its Gothic ceilings and stained glass windows. I had a frilly Indian suede feathered poncho on that I got from my ex-boyfriend's dead grandmother. As I danced the fringe shook and as I span, the fringe spread out around me like a protective halo. Some young guys were dancing in a circle and let me in. One of them had blonde curly clown hair with red suspenders. Another had a black bowling hat and black boots. They did some break dance moves and invited me back to their place for an after-party. It was a good sized house with a huge backyard and random sheds. We drank some beer, hit a bong and snorted some blow.

The Red Suspenders shared that he is an aspiring stunt cock man for porns. He was one of the last to hit the hay, leaving Bowling Hat and I alone. Stunt Cock kept texting me throughout the night from his room that I should go in and attack him and that Bowling Hat wouldn't mind. That was pretty awkward, since I thought he was a cool guy, but I wasn't into him like that. I offered Bowling Hat a ride home. Mostly I just wanted to get out of there cuz Stunt Cock was being a fucking weirdo. So we went back to Bowling Hat's house. He just moved in and had only halfway painted his room blue over the yellow. He had however assembled an old West Bar in the kitchen from which I ordered a milk in Das Boot. We went to his room and watched “Game of Thrones,” but for some reason it didn't make any sense at all, maybe I was too fucked up, maybe I was too tired when I saw the last episode. Still, we watched it until I could barely keep my eyes open and went to bed.

Bowling Hat had the hugest bed I have ever seen, California King he said. It was on the floor and had dark blue sheets I sank into. As I moved, I swam; the sheets and blankets, rippling around my body as I squirmed around. He was a stand-up guy maintaining a good distance between himself and I, only touching me once to stroke my head as we said our good nights.

I was woken up in the morning by a paraplegic chihuahua in a diaper scuttling around the bed. I was a bit freaked out initially, but Maybelline grew on me. Once I got used to the whole dead legs thing, she was actually pretty adorable and she scooted her little diapered butt after her rubber chicken so fast, she could give any dog a run for his money. She even had a little wheel-chair. I didn't get to see her put it on though.

Bowling Hat was hungry though, so we hopped on his motorcycle and sped through LA, past the homeless with their cardboard S.O.S. signs and Mexicans selling their wares, past graffiti installations on the entire side of large buildings. I could smell the Chinese food wafting from the stores with their chickens noosed in the windows. I felt the chilly overcast air prickling my skin. We drove to Wurstkuche in downtown for Mango Jalapeno and Rattlesnake-Rabbit Bratwurst sausage hotdogs. Bowling Hat ordered the Rattlesnake-Rabbit and let me try a bite. I couldn't say what it tasted like, it just tasted like seasoned meat. It was good. Better than chicken. The water alarmed me with its surprise Cucumber flavor. On the way back I clenched Bowling Hat between my fishnet thighs and held his jean-clad body close to mine as my suede tassels trailed behind us. Our bodies moved and rolled as one as we found the right balance between ourselves, the bike and the open road.

The Little Porcelain Doll and the Cowboy

2011-07-22T11:56:00.000-07:00

The little cowboy shot into the toystore. “Bang! Bang!” he yelled, shooting at imaginary Indians with his wooden gun, when something caught his eye and made him jerk to a stop. He adjusted his red cowboy hat and bent over to peer at a little porcelain doll with raven black curls, big painted eyes and a pouty red mouth. He took his hat off to show her respect. She made him forget all about the Indians. He had to have this pretty little doll in the ruffled white dress. He went home and emptied out his piggy bank and returned to the store with just enough for the doll. The toymaker apprehensively turned her over to him.

The little cowboy was very gentle with his new doll, kissing her softly, whispering sweet things into her little seashell ears, running his fingers through her raven locks. But as time progressed he grew restless: he started to see Indians hiding in the shadows again. He brought her with him on his adventures and eventually forgot all about her fragility. The kisses became less frequent; he said obscenities not meant for little seashell ears; he pulled at her raven locks; her once fine frilly dress became tatters. He dragged her through the mud with him hunting Indians, until one day they found themselves surrounded, outnumbered 50 to 1. He was in hand to hand combat with the Indian chief when she slipped through his grasp and fell onto the linoleum floor where he abandoned her shattered in pieces.

The little boy’s mother found the porcelain doll, collected her broken parts and lay her outside the door of the toy store. The toymaker came out and saw what was left of the doll; he shook his head and brought her inside. He glued her pieces back together as best he could, but there was a piece missing right in the middle of her chest. It was hidden under her dress, but when the wind blew it came into this hole and chilled her insides. She had never felt so hollow.

The toymaker put her back onto her shelf and turned out the lights. She sat in the dark still feeling broken and hollow. The big toy store was so lonely. She missed her little boy, despite all of his mistreatment of her. She missed his soft kisses and his sweet words. Why couldn’t he have remained gentle with her? Diamond tears ran down her porcelain skin, smearing her painted eyes. If she had been a better doll, more beautiful, if her locks had been silkier, her lips a deeper red, perhaps he would have remained sweet with her. She wondered if any other little boy would ever want her again, ever make her feel so loved. She wanted someone to hold her tight, to make her forget about the piece missing in her chest, but she didn’t know if she had the strength to be broken again. After all, she was just a little porcelain doll.

The Scene: The Birth of a Lifestyle (just the beginnings of a rough draft)

2011-04-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

Oakland, CA. 2011. For me, as for most of us I'd guess, it all started with Art Murmur. This was years ago, before it became mainstream, when it was actually about the art and the starving artists, which was all of us, really. Everyone in the scene is an artist; you have to be. What else would you say when you meet people? They ask you what you do and you can’t say you’re unemployed or you work at Pizza Hut. You definitely can’t say you have a real job like a bank teller or therapist, like me, that would be a dead giveaway that you’re not living the life. If you’re not an artist, you have to pick up something. We believe everyone has an artist in them; they’re just too preoccupied with work and the mortgage to let the artist out. Art is just the expression of life. Between fashion, tagging, photography, writing, music, there’s something for everyone.

Last month at the Murmur I overheard someone say "This is more of a place to be seen." Sadly it’s true, we hardly even make it into the galleries anymore now with all the yuppies sucking out all the oxygen in those small little holes in the wall that were never meant to hold so many people, never thought they’d become so populated. I hate it, we all hate it. God damn gentrification. We knew it was coming. It’s the natural progression of things. We started it. We didn't want to, but it's unavoidable. You find something cool, hip create something and along come wanna-bes who fucking just snatch it away from you ’cause they can’t create anything for their fucking selves.

The only thing to do is to move on and create something else, something newer and edgier. Some of those yuppies have got to have enough dough to buy a piece though. I know my friends and I never did. Not that we didn’t want to, but we just couldn’t afford it. At least the yuppies are good for the artists. Now up in Hayward they talk about it, people come from all over the East Bay, families come. It all began when a group of local art galleries opened up their doors at night to let us in. We drank, smoked on the streets and discussed the art. Back then it was just us, twenty-somethings, overeducated with no prospects, looking for inspiration, looking for something to give a damn about.

Well, we found something, or rather we made something. Pretty soon our loitering, our random houseshows, they took shape, they took up a life of their own. A lifestyle was born. After the Murmur, we decided Oakland was the place to be. Berkeley was so lame. Just frat parties, drunk sorority girls and beer pong. No intellectual night life to speak of. Oakland's scene was different. So different.

I went into Mama Buzz, a hole in the wall little cafe that oftentimes held shows, played its own part in making the Oakland underground scene what it was, anyway I walked in there to see what was good with my friend. A big twenty-something Mexican guy with untamed black curly hair to his shoulders and a beard, but twinkling eyes, like Santa Claus, approached us. He was wearing what I would later recognize as his MiguelfromOakland uniform: tight jeans and a red plaid long sleeve. He commented on my friend’s UC Davis sweater. He wanted to get a gig there to show off for some girl he liked who went there. My friend said he might be able to hook it up so they exchanged numbers and MiguelfromOakland invited us to a houseshow he was playing at across the street that night. That might have been my first houseshow. Well, the first houseshow when I knew what was happening anyway. I remember going to one a while before and hearing the girl I was with say "Wow! Every hipster I've ever known is here!" I thought that was a weird word she used: hipster. I didn't understand at the time what it meant.

I didn't know that MiguelfromOakland was one of the main players in the scene. His name made sense to me then, but now that I'm only ever in Oakland and see him in Oakland, it seems a bit redundant, like wearing Cal gear to school. We know you go to Cal, that's why you're here, we go to Cal too. Big fucking deal. But anyway, so I walk upstairs, it's a small apartment, full of twenty-somethings dressed grungy urban, some have feathers in their hair, some wearing mismatched vintage clothes it looks like they dug out of the trash. This was before I learned to appreciate the style. It's an acquired taste. But once you get it, you realize how hard it is to actually pull off. To make it look like you just carelessly threw a bunch of random old clothes together and it just happened to all work is hard. It's difficult to try to look hip while also making it look like you really don't give a damn about looking hip, but it's just something that kind of happened on it's own randomly, almost naturally, because you're just that hip. Then if you manage to put some irony in there somehow, you're golden. But that's level two, if you can even manage level one. One time I saw a chick with a toy lobster in her hair. Like this thing was almost actual size. That was freaking awesome. I wish I had thought of it.

So we are all squeezed into this smokey rickety wooden attic, some people standing on the edges, most of us sitting, smoking, drinking - mostly PBR – pot aroma fills the air, lingering around us. We listen to MiguelfromOakland's beautiful poetic song verses put to acoustic. It's like nothing I've ever heard before. And the ambiance, the mood of the room, everyone was just relaxed, chillin, no one was trying to holler at anyone, no one was trying to pick anyone up, no one was trying to start a drinking game or drunkenly encouraging his buddy to drink more, everyone was just there for the music and the people. After two years of suffering through lame frat parties, this was like heaven. This was a night life, a lifestyle, with heart and soul.

I moved to 30th and MLK, right in the middle of the scene, right next to the Fuzzplex, a house famous in the scene for it's underground houseshows. My location was ideal for biking anywhere, once I got the flats fixed on the vintage Schwinn I bought off the homeless guy at the Murmur for $20. The homeless are good for that, selling you shit you never knew you needed, usually in some state of disrepair. Last week I bought a neck massager off one. When I plug it in it makes a noise like it's working, but it's in Japanese or Chinese or something so I really don't know which buttons to push to make it work, if it even does work.

Ruby Room is another hole in the wall we adopted. Real dark little bar that you can smoke in. I think that’s why we picked it. I think that’s the best part. There’s a room away from the bar with a few tables so you can smoke and not feel bad about not ordering any drinks. There’s a pool table and on the other side of the glass wall is the DJ and a little dance floor. When there’s no houseshows or warehouseshows, it’s a good place to kill a Monday or Tuesday night in any case. One of the bartenders just fought at the Hipsters vs. Punks fight last week. It was legendary. And I don’t use that word lightly.

On it’s facebook event page the event had 358 people attending. It was the biggest event I’d ever seen in the scene, besides Art Murmur, of course, but like I said, that’s mainstream nowadays. This was still underground. No Urban Outfitter, American Apparel mainstreamers to be seen. That’s how I like it. Besides, they wouldn’t dare show their faces in a biker club. I’d say the 358 was pretty accurate. Every person I had ever seen in the scene was there. It was massive. The streets were full for blocks. The place was packed up to the ceiling, out to the backyard, onto the roof, and out the front. The only thing I ever paid full cover for. It was $5. Usually me and a few friends scrounge up what change we have and tell the door that’s all we have. That’s how it works. We’re all broke. We don’t shop at Goodwill just because it’s hip you know; we really are broke. I once found a cardigan on the floor at the Alameda Antique Swap Meet. I wore it. It’s a good cardigan. Best find.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the fight. So I walk into the East Bay Rats Club, everwhere seems to be hard ass looking punks. Where are the hipsters, I wonder? I get a little scared at being outnumbered. But I finally find my friend Jeremy. He’s supposed to play later on that night in his new band Faux Real. I’m excited to hear him play. After finding Jeremy, more faces start to distinguish themselves from the crowd. After the hipster style started to catch on, the originals from the scene were forced to become even more alternative and grungy to distinguish themselves from the mainstream. It was hard to tell the hipster from the punk. But for the most part I knew because I recognized them from the scene. But for the fights, when they had taken off all their jackets and accessories, it was really hard to tell the difference. I was on top of the roof now, with the best view. Everyone was trying to figure out who was on what side. Someone said to watch the swagger. That helped.

The hipster has a laid back, noncommittal, James Dean kind of swagger, whereas the punk has a hardcore, let’s do this shit, kind of attitude. Anyway, as the night wore on and the planned fights had already occurred, random people went up to fight, so that it was no longer necessarily hipster vs. punk. That didn’t stop the punks next to me from yelling “Kill the hipster bitch!” though. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hide my face or kick ’em off the roof. I just tried to tune it out. Fucking jerk-offs. This was all in good fun. There’s no real rivalry between us, at least not from our side. The Punks had obviously won, despite the refs lame attempts at making it seem equal by saying one fighter won, when he most obviously did not. Kinda pissed me off. Credit should be given where due.

All the fighters shared the same two mouth guards. The ref would pick it up off the floor of the ring after a fighter spit it out and stick it back in their mouth. It was all very unhygienic. But I guess what do you expect from punks? Near the end of the night I was feeling pumped and wanted to fight. I spread the word. I even asked Arianna, my friend about my size, to fight. She didn’t want to. She was wearing heels she said. I was too I told her and a skirt and tights. It was hard to find someone to match my 5’2” 100 pounds who wanted to fight. When I thought all hope was lost, my friend found a little hipster girl for me to fight. A friend of a friend. I said yes, next round. At this point I was front row with my friends. I left to take a piss. Both johns were out of toilet paper so I went to the bartender to ask for napkins, but he actually gave me two rolls of toilet paper. That’s how I judge a place. Fancy shmancy if they have extra toilet paper. The first to open up was the guys and I was sick of waiting in line so I shoved past the guy in line. He whined about it. I was there first anyway.

By the time I got back, the chick who I was gonna fight was already in the ring with some tall lanky punk chick with short choppy black hair. Just by the looks of her, you knew she was gonna win. It wasn’t really a fair fight. The hipster chick and I would have been a perfect pair, pound for pound almost. But she didn’t want to wait for me. So instead the punk chick picked her up and body slammed her on the floor. That was the best, worst move all night. The punk chick didn’t look that strong, but apparently. Ow. Hipster chick got back up though. She got beat pretty bad, but she kept getting up. The crowd was begging for the ref to call it, but he refused. Hipster chick lost though and totally passed out on the ring floor after the fight. She was hella drunk. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. She had a tiny body, but her face had huge features, big pouty red lips, big eyes, and big hair, they looked too big, clowny with all the smeared makeup. Her features were right on the borderline of being too much or gorgeous. I couldn’t tell, could go either way. I wondered what she looked like all made up. My friend had to haul her off the ring floor to make room for the next fighters. That was the best fight of the night though.

BFR

2009-07-20T22:55:00.000-07:00

Berkeley Fiction Review Issue 29 is now available and it looks awesome! This will be the last issue of the BFR I work on. :(

"I'm Sorry I'm Insane and Weird and Utterly Immature and That the Word Utter Makes Me Giggle" available

2009-07-08T10:21:00.000-07:00

Now available in Breath and Shadow. Click the link in the right corner under poems.

Come Visit Me in the Psych Ward now online

2009-05-19T22:03:00.000-07:00

"Come Visit Me in the Psych Ward" is now up on Clockwise Cat, you can follow my link for it under my poems sidebar.

I unknowingly published a poem!

2009-05-15T16:23:00.000-07:00

So I was googling myself today to see what prospective employers might dig up, since I am graduating in a week (woo-hoo!) and will thus have to resign myself to real work.

Anyway, I found that Berkeley Poetry Review published my poem Pumpkin. I think it's sort of odd that they didn't tell me about it, but whatevs, it's cool. That's my 6th poem to be published. :)

Hanging

2009-03-01T13:20:00.000-08:00

I look over at him at his computer doing whatever he does on it. He’s sitting in a t-shirt and boxers and it is almost like it is any other day. As if he will be there forever, as if my life isn’t hanging on a string. I feel sick, like I am on the top of a very high building looking down, wondering if he is going to push me off.

Caged Girl

2009-02-18T14:55:00.000-08:00

I am living in a box. I look around and see students dutifully studying, but I'm not like them. If I'm on the right path, why does it feel so wrong? I want to drive away, anywhere, wherever, just taking random routes, singing along to Bonnie Raitt and Meredith Brooks. I want to roll in a field of wheat and paint the university red. I want to peel back the walls and look into the world beyond. I want to do somersaults. I want to chop my hair off. I want to grow butterfly wings and fly high high high and look down at how small everything really is. I don't want to go to school. I don't want to be successful in some white collar job and follow a routine and get up at 7am every morning and go to work. I want freedom. I have this craziness building up inside threatening to blow me up if I don't release it. I don't want to take more pills. I don't want to be pacified and stabilized. I can't be caged.

Poe Little Thing

2008-12-02T01:28:00.000-08:00

My fifth poem "I Think I'm Going to Put Up A Personal Ad For an Imaginary Friend" is being published at Poe Little Thing!

Bathtubs, Knives and Balconies

2008-11-25T20:24:00.000-08:00

Bathtubs, knives and balconies
all tempting, tempting ways
the world is full of danger
full of ways to kill yourself
can't you see?
How can a littl girl be safe?
lock her up, lock her up
hide the key, hide the key
that's how a little girl can be safe
don't let her see, don't let her see
the bathtubs, knives and balconies
don't let her see
danger, danger all around
lock her up, lock her up
hide the key, hide the key
that's the only way to keep
the little girl safe.

2008-11-25T20:17:00.000-08:00

Barry Graham posted pics of my unicorn porn on Dogzplot. lol

Yummy Cannibalism

2008-11-25T20:08:00.000-08:00

Do you know...
your eyes would be chewey like dgumdrops
your lips would tast like gummyworms
your ears, fried, would tast like bacon
your fingers and tows would tast lis mini hotdogs
your nipples would be my lollipops
your tongue would tast like liver
and your penis would taste like chicken
When I'm done I'll floss my teeth with your hair
and pull on your lucky wishbone
and I'd win too
Has anyone ever told you your head would make an awesome purse?

Sleep

2008-11-23T23:11:00.000-08:00

I'm afraid of going to sleep. I'm afraid I won't want to wake up.

On the other side

2008-11-18T13:11:00.000-08:00

I'm now on the other side where people are less crazy. My roommate on the other side was convinced that before they let her in, the car license plates were sending her subliminal messages. She though the matresses were bugged and that the automatic toilet took pictures of us, why they would want pics of our bare asses is beyond me. She also said we had to close the drapes cuz there a sniper outside. Ahh, the psych ward, there's no place like home is there?

Halfway House

2008-11-16T19:45:00.000-08:00

They are shipping me off to a halfway house called Woodrow. I wonder what a halfway house is. I hope I get to bring my laptop. I'm planning on making my journal I wrote here on the inside into a book.

My Roommate in the psych ward

2008-11-16T19:44:00.000-08:00

"Wait, can you see me?" she asked.
"Uhh? Yes."
"You can?"
"Yes."

4th Poem Published!

2008-11-16T19:41:00.000-08:00

My friend T.Rose is locked up in the psych ward with me. She and I just got our poetry accepted at Admit2! Woo-hoo! The nurse came from 100 feet away cuz he heard our screaming. Thename of the poem is "Our Psych Ward."

3rd poem published!

2008-11-13T13:11:00.000-08:00

My third poem is going to be published at Clockwise Cat! and I'm back in the psych ward. :(

Penis Envy

2008-11-12T01:32:00.000-08:00

OK, so I'm out of the psych ward now, for better or for worse. Today I broke down because my bf doesn't understand me. I was driving and I drive like the insane maniac I am, and it scares the shit out of him cuz hez relatively normal, though he swears he's not. And it just pissed the fuck out of me because he's afraid of death and that's one of the biggest differences between us, he fears death and I invite it to play. I have a hard problem respecting anyone who overly fears death. If you're a big strong guy you should not be afraid when you're girl drives over 80, come on. LAME! NEway I broke down crying and was slamming my fists and head into the wall and door and I was pissed that I couldn't make a hole, even though I kinda didn't want to make a hole because I didn't want to have to fix it. How expensive is that? Ugh, that's such a lame question, like when the therapist asked me if I cleaned the knife before I cut my wrists? What a stupid fucking bitch. But still, I wanted to make a hole like guys do when they're pissed off. And then I was even more mad because I'm just a little girl and I'm weak and I don't have a penis, not that I'm gay, but I'd like the operation just so I could have a dick and balls, but literally having them wouldn't figuratively fix anything. I'd still be a little girl, I'd just have a dick, which would actually be really weird and my boyfriend would probably not like it. Although, sometimes I think he's gay. I'll ask him.
I hope my hands give rise to beautiful blue and black roses tomorrow, for all their pain, they better.

On the Other Side of My Window

2008-11-09T13:55:00.000-08:00

On the other side of my window the world is sunny and still. Cars line parking lots with no hint of their owners. A lone girl walks briskly by ignorant that her crazy counterpart views her from the nearby window of an insany asylum. The world looks so quiet outside my window as if it has indeed stopped turning for me while i'm locked up in here. A lady in a wheelchair wheels by. We both are prisoners but at least she can feel the sun on her face, but at least my prison sentence must end before hers.

Overcoming Self-Destructive Behavior

2008-11-07T17:42:00.000-08:00

I told the social worker that I was still feeling like hurting myself and stabbing other patients. I gave her the knife I stole from my lunch tray. I went into my room, closed the door, locked it, went into the bathroom, closed the door and pounded on the walls. When I came out they gave me a pill and an "Overcming Self-Destructive Behavior" workbook. I feel better now after the pill. Thank God for pills. I don't think the workbook was a good idea though, it just gives you more ideas, like hitting your head against the wall and hiding meds to overdose on later. I didn't know hitting walls was self-destructive, it seems like it would be wall-destructive.

Psych Ward

2008-11-04T12:21:00.000-08:00

I am in the Herrick Psych Ward for "suicidal ideations and urges to cut self." I told the social worker that I also had urges to stab people, and I gave her the knife I stole, but she didn't put me in solitary confinement or strap me is a straighjacket like I was hoping. I think it would be fun to throw myself against the padded walls. Instead I went into my room and pounded on the walls, which apparently, according to my "Overcoming Self-Destructive Behavior" workbook is self-destructive behavior, though it seems more like wall-destructive behavior. I don't think the workbook was a good idea, it just gives me more ideas like hitting my head against the wall and hiding meds to overdose on.

Uses For a Fat Friend

2008-10-30T15:09:00.000-07:00

Poem now published on DOGZPLOT http://dogzplot.blogspot.com/2008/10/uses-for-fat-friend-malialinda.html.

The Quest for the Perfect Pair of Jeans

2008-10-28T11:15:00.001-07:00

I’m on a quest for the perfect pair of jeans. In my whole life I’ve only ever once had the perfect pair of jeans and I miss them. It’s been years so it’s about time I find another pair, or they find me. I wore my old perfect pair of jeans so much that they had holes all over them and my mother finally threw them away. I was So upset at her. The perfect pair of jeans are like a best friend. They are laid back. You can always count on them to make you feel better. Mine are an average blue, well-worn, with a few holes. They are bootcut and make me look skinny and make my ass look great. The moment you see them, you know. I can picture them perfectly in my mind, I just need to find them.

Acceptance!

2008-10-24T16:47:00.001-07:00

My second poem, "I'm Sorry I'm Insane and Weird and Utterly Immature and That The Word
Utter Makes Me Giggle" has just been accepted for publication at Breath and Shadow! And they're gonna pay me! The editor Chris Kuell is a fan of the Dead Milkmen (who I allude to in my poem) what a cool guy!

random thoughts

2008-10-16T12:47:00.000-07:00

Your head would make an awesome purse.

I want to eat your lips because I think they would taste like gummy worms.

I want to search on Craigslist for an imaginary friend.

The Question of the Meaning of Life

2008-10-10T15:17:00.000-07:00

So I was checking my e-mail and it hit me, there’s no meaning to life and then I got very depressed at this idea and I lay in a ball on the couch of my living room and contemplated what I should do since there was no meaning to life. I thought it wouldn’t really matter if I killed myself and if my boyfriend came home and found me somehow I would feel like I outsmarted him, then I was thinking that I was thinking crazy and I knew I shouldn’t have stopped taking my damn pills so I thought that some good old MaryJane would lift my spirits so I went searching for my boyfriend’s ‘cause I had accidentally bumped mine off the bathroom counter this morning. I found it in his sock drawer in a half sock with baby green on the toes and heel and I hoped it wasn’t a sock that he ever would wear and then I took it out and there was still some bud in it, but it was all black so I turned it over and the other side was green, so I smoked this, not having any idea how old it was since my boyfriend didn’t smoke weed and I didn’t even know why he had a pipe and the pipe looked like an average size penis and as I put it to my mouth, I felt weird. I don’t know how he can possibly smoke out of it and not feet gay. But anyway, so once I finished it I didn’t feel any closer to the meaning of life so then I thought, well what do normal people do? And then I thought, normal people waste their lives in front of the tv. I thought this was a brilliant idea so I went over to the TV and turned it on, only I only have three channels and all three of them were the news on politics and one of them was talking about the economy going down the toilet and news is depressing enough without hearing about stuff being flushed down the toilet so then I turned it off and thought that most people really must be stupid if they can stay entertained by that and then I thought maybe the meaning of life would be clear at the bottom of a carton of icecream, but I only had those small single serving ice cream cartons and that was already half empty, but I stuck my spoor in anyway but then I noticed some rice in the corner of my eye and changed my mind, maybe I will find the meaning of life at the bottom of the ice cream carton after I eat some rice, but rice takes so damn long to cook! 20 minutes! Can you believe that? It’s the 20-fuckingeth-first century and no one’s thought of a quicker way to make rice and then I sat waiting for it to cook and I thought of the poem “Waiting for Godot” and really related to the characters. Then I thought that the bottom of a beer bottle might have the meaning to life in it, because I swear I heard a song that said that somewhere so I decided to get a beer, it was my boyfriend’s last one and I don’t even like beer, but this was a desperate time so I figured I needed it so I took it out and tried opening it with an opener but it wouldn’t line up in any sort of way that would come close to working so then I peered closely at the top and I made out the words “twist” and I thought how is a drunk person going to possibly see that? And I thought it was very bad marketing savvy on the side of Trader Jose’s Premium Lager and what the Hell grocery store has their own beer? And the beer was nice and cold, even though it tasted gross and then the microwave beeper went on and I was so happy that I hadn’t killed myself before I got to eat my rice, but then I opened the microwave and the rice was all hard and crisp and burnt and then I cursed myself and thought there’s no way I’m fucking going to wait another damn 20 minutes, I could just eat Cup of Noodle in three minutes, but then I thought about Darwin and that maybe I was too stupid to deserve dinner so I sat back down to my beer. I thought if only I had cooked it on the stove like my boyfriend had taught me, or if I had checked on it, this wouldn’t have happened and maybe I’m always in a rush, always looking for the prize at the end of the rainbow and maybe that’s what I’m doing right now with the meaning of life, when it’s not for me to know, and then I shivered because I thought I almost sounded religious and thought fuck that, I deserve to know why I’m doing this bullshit, why I’m living in this sphere and then I asked my beer, but it just stood there all cool and collected-like and then I cursed the beer and wished I was it. Beers don’t have to worry about the fucking meaning of life. And then I wished I had a really bust a new buttcrack up movie, but all I have is fucking Disney movies, which used to make me happy, but don’t do the trick anymore, maybe I’m growing up or something, don’t grownups just find meaning in sex? But I don’t like sex and maybe that’s the problem, maybe I’m a lesbian, maybe I should get a sex therapist and see if she can make me like sex and maybe that’s why my life feels so empty because life is fucking me and I get no fulfillment out of it. Well, I am just going to get drunk baby disgusting sip by baby disgusting sip and hopefully I will find the meaning of life before I vomit. Then I watched the Office on Netflix, that’s a fucking hilarious show, even in the face of the question of the meaning of life so that made me laugh, but after two episodes I was tired of it and the question was still looming like a black cloud over my head so I figured I’d hide from it in my bed. After 12 hours of blissful sleep, I woke up, but that damn question hadn’t gone yet, so I went back to bed, then after 6 more hours, plus the 12 makes 18 hours the question appeared to be gone, but just for good measure I smoked a few leaves and drank a sip of beer. I’m feeling ok, so maybe the meaning of life is sleeping, or at least you can hide from it in your bed until the question leaves.

OMG Sam Pink talked to me! and he said I am a good writer! I think I'm going to faint.

2008-10-08T19:21:00.001-07:00

Another probably illegal posting of an e-mail convo:

On Wed, Oct 8, 2008 at 3:39 PM, wrote:
>
>> Dear Sam Pink,
>> I'm Malialinda and I just discovered you yesterday, but I'm already a
>> huge fan of yours. I'm the editor for the Berkeley Fiction Review and if I
>> don't get a good submission soon I'm going to light my office on fire
>> and dance like an indian around it saying AHAHAHAHAHAHAH! So you see, I'm really in dire need here, it's a matter of sanity. If you have anything at all you would like to submit to me I would cum on your face. The e-mail is bfictionreview@yahoo.com or you can reply to this e-mail. The website, which I wish I understood HTML so I could fix is www.ocf.berkeley.edu/~bfr. I usually don't do stuff like this, but like I said, I'm in dire need, else I'm going to stalk every one of our contributors and shake them upside down until I can hear their brains rattle and something good falls out on a crumpled napkin from their pocket.
>> ~Malialinda

Sam Pink's REAL words to me!:
> my heavens the prospect of someone cumming on my face is indeed most
> heartening. i would certainly like to give you something. i ask you,
> what do you want. i can give you something from the full length collection
> coming out, something from my first chapbook, YUM YUM I CAN'T WAIT TO DIE, or perhaps something from the collection i am working on now. the difficulty with giving people work is that all the work is different and sometimes people read one thing and have a certain idea. YUM YUM I CAN"T WAIT TO DIE is a long poem. the full length has just about everything and the newest work is a really long poem and a lot of short plays. let me know what you would like. also, if you give me your address i will mail you YUM YUM for free. i just got them printed because the initial press was "totally fucking me over hardcore style" and not sending them out to people who ordered them. so i printed them myself. you may have whatever you want. i am sure i have something for you.
if you read this email and think "what the fuck, this is too much shit,
> all i want is some fucking work" like i did, then i will simply email you a
> bunch of different work and you can pick what you want.

malialinda@berkeley.edu wrote:
Omg, I can't believe you really replied to me, I feel all starstruck. I
think I have an unhealthy obsession with you. Can you mail me YUM YUM and
sign it? that would be so awesome and I would carry it around with me and
show it to random people because I don't have friends and then they will
stare at me and think I'm a nutjob and I will just giggle uncontrollably
like the 20-year-old girl that I am and skip away and then my boyfriend
will get really jealous and hunt you down in his boxers with his shotgun
and a bottle of whiskey and tell you to stop seducing me and then he will
break the bottle and pretend he is going to glass you and maybe you will
be scared because he has that insane look to him, but then I will pop out
of the bushes and start laughing because he will look ridiculous and then
I will tickle him until he gives up the bottle and then we will all get
drunk and our lips will bleed on the broken glass, but it'll be ok cuz
we'll be drunk and the whiskey will taste even better mixed with our blood
and then we will shoot at the sky, or he will read your book and develop a
mancrush on you. Both are equally likely.
And hmmm, maybe something that you are working on now would be tasty. We don't really publish poems so just, yeah, don't make it look like a poem,
but it seems to me like a lot of your stuff crosses the genre between
poetry and prose, which I call prosetry, but that could just be me. Omg,
I'm so excited, I'm going to make yours the first story in the mag. There
are other staff members who have to approve it of course, but since you're
a writing god, I'm sure they will and if they have doubts then I leave
threatening messages written in colorful magnets on their refrigerators.

You're the coolest,
Malialinda

Sam Pink:
*oh no, no need to omg, everything is fine. malialinda, relax, do not omg. your copy of YUM YUM is in the mail tomorrow. i write a note to everyone. i wrote one for you. it is my best yet. i also wrote something nice in the book for you. i like what you wrote in the email to me. there were numerous instances in which i almost began lol-ing uncontrollably. you are a good writer. i hope your boyfriend doesn't attempt to murder me, but i am not afraid if he does. i am a mean dude. also, here is some writing below. i feel concerned with whether or not you will like it. the first thing is from the book that is coming out this winter and it is like "move in with with" it was actually a part of it initially. and the rest are things from a book i am working on now. if they all suck, print them out and be really mean to them. say mean things. i will understand. if you like any of it, you can have it. i am now very worried about your approval. i feel feverish. please validate me malialinda. you have a nice name. "linda" means attractive right? i am upset. **start publishing poetry. don't hate me. ***

(i'm not including his writings. you'll just have to read the Berkeley Fiction Review)

Malialinda@berkeley,edy wrote:
OK, I have been laughing about the “pretend I’m yawning” line now for five
minutes so much that my boyfriend actually got up from his all-important
homework to see what I was doing, but he didn’t laugh. He has no sense of
humor, he thinks I’m insane and really strange and I have this feeling
that you’re probably insane too, because I only like insane people. I wish
you could come over and we could say insane things to eachother all day
and crack up so much that we open new buttcracks and my boyfriend would
just roll his eyes and not understand and be amazed that I found someone
equally insane and then he would go play his alien game on the internet
and think to himself that he’s so mature. And maybe he will wonder how he
ended up with such a nutjob girlfriend.
OMG, I can’t believe I’m getting a hand-written note! I think I am going
to pee my pants! I am hopping up and down with excitement in my pink chair
and covering my face with my yellow-monkeys-dreaming –about-bananas robe
and screaming quietly. My boyfriend is ignoring me.
Is the book titled “Move in With With,” or is that a typo. Your Move In
With Me was the first thing I read of yours and it is what spurred on my
obsession.
Yes, Linda means beautiful and sometimes I like to say to people that my
name is Malialinda, as in beautiful and then they think I'm stuck-up, but
really I think they're just jealous that they didn't think about adding
the word beautiful to their name.

I’m going to send everything to my co-managing editor right now. There’s
this long process that submissions usually have to go to, but I don’t want
to submit your writing to that. I don’t want it to leave my hands. What if
it gets lost? Or what if it touched the other people's submissions? That
would be totally unallowable. Maybe I will conduct a conspiracy to make
sure it gets in, not that it would have a problem. I will wear dark
clothes and have meetings in black shadows and I won’t let my staff
members touch it, they’ll have to read it while I’m holding it.

I especially like the #2 play and I want to write you’re dead on a
lightbulb! That’s a brilliant idea. So while I was reading I was trying
really hard not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it and I’m sure my boyfriend
really wants to kill both of us now.

~Malialinda

good i am now feeling relief. you are a better writer than me. i have the same robe. if i went to berkeley we would hang out and say omg about things. the book that "move in with me" is in, is called I AM GOING TO CLONE MYSELF THE KILL THE CLONE AND EAT IT. if you like these things then i am sorry to say, but yes, as you mentioned below, there is something wrong with you. it is best to just let it be, and laugh at stupid shit.
i hope your editors like it. normally when someone asks me for work,it is like, someone who has an online journal called like "booger death journal for depressed people" so i am surprised to see berkeley. is it named after george berkeley? i like george berkeley. i am stupid. please enjoy the chapbook and pee in your pants. my dream is to one day post a video of someone reading the chapbook and then going "omg" then the video cuts to a shot of their pants and they piss all over. that sales technique would work with me. thank you again.

Well, it's actually the Berkeley Fiction Review because its the magazine
that UC Berkeley hosts. But the university is named after George Berkeley,
and I think the name is so boring, I think the reason we don't get cool
submissions is because of our name. If we were named Booger Death Journal
for Depressed People, we would probably get way more exciting submissions.
I will keep you updated as far as what my staff thinks.

Barry Graham the editor for DOGZPLOT is awesome!

2008-10-08T19:15:00.000-07:00

(I don't know if I'm allowed to post this, I'm sure there's some privacy act against posting e-mails. Oh well, it's not illegal if you don't get caught.)

Barry:
hey - i like this piece a lot (referring to Uses for a Fat Friend), but i dont like the frame of seeing her walk by, that means you have to go back to the frame at the end, even though the story is over when you challenge her to the duel. i suggest
eliminating the frame and just say, i want a fat girl then start there. i think that will work. if you dont mind the edits then id love to use this piece. let me know.

thanks again for submitting - barry

malialinda@berkeley.edu wrote:
Dear Barry,
Yeah sure, that's fine. I don't care about the frame. OMG, I don't know if
I'm supposed to be like really professional and nonchalant. But I am SO
excited! This will be my first accepted piece! I wish I liked champage and
people so I'd have a party! lol Maybe I'll have a patry with my stuffed
animals and we'll drink apple juice and pretend its champagne and they'll
all pat me on the back and tell me I'm amazing. Please find the edits
below. Yay! Tell me if the edit is ok and if the ending is endy enough.
~Malia

Barry:
that sounds like a great party. wish i was there. i would rename all your stuffed
animals one name with umbers after them like george foreman names all his kids
george 1 george 2, etc. i would name them all george after george foreman's kids and
i'll give you apple juice but sneak all the george's champaigne. and you wont know
but we will all laugh and laugh and you will think all the georges are excited about
your publication, and they will, but they will be drunk too and i'll take pics and
post them on george 4's myspace.

yeah i like the edits. any chance we can lose the word kinda in the first sentence.

ok cool. send me one link to post with your story, email, website, blog, nude pics
wth stuffed animals, whatever, and the title and author of the last great thing
you read.

Dear Barry,
I would totally invite you to my supercool party, except that, hmmm, well,
I have this sneaking suspicion that you're a ... a... human! Nah,
nevermind, forget I mentioned it, you're way too cool to be one of thoose,
... right?

Off with Kinda's head!

The last best shit I've read, and I mean, really, like I was cracking a
new buttcrack over this, was "I, Sam Pink, Want to Have Sex with That One
Girl From "Clarissa Explains It All'" obviously, by Sam Pink (my favoritest author).

My blogspot is http://malialinda-feigningsanity.blogspot.com/ and my
boyfriend made me burn all the photos from my porno, but I did just take a
nakey photoshoot of my Unicorns George 203 and 206 the other day. Do you
think you would want those? If it's too offensive then I can draw
scribbles over 203s horn with a black sharpie and no one will know the
difference, they will think he's a hornless horse inspecting 206s butthole
for warts, honest- it would be no trouble at all.

~Malialinda

Barry:
yeah go ahead and send me all the naked george pics you want. i'll post some with your story.

take care and thanks again for submitting. i will notify you the week it will appear.

Conversation with Myself

2008-10-08T13:12:00.001-07:00

When I'm High, like I am right now, I like to have conversations with myself so I can figure out what I'm thinking.

Oh yeah?

Yeah.

So, what do you feel about getting told by people on facebook that your prosetry about Fat People is offensive?

Well, I don’t think you should censor yourself and you thoughts. That’s lying. People on their high horses think the same things, they just don’t say them, or publish them.

wELl, wow my caplocks got on, remember back in the ‘90s on IM it was sO cOoL to write like that.

Lol. The 90s, fuck. We’re, I’m, fuckiing old.

But anyway, what I was saying, doesn’t one’s freedom end on the next person’s nose?

Well, fat people's noses are usually taking up too much room, so no.

Ugh, Ok, you have to do homework! You only have an hour til class.

What, to read 3 pages?

You’re gonna have to read them twice. You’re high. Maybe three times and remember, your presenting on the reading.

Oh, fuck.

ACCEPTED!

2008-10-08T13:09:00.000-07:00

I've just had my very firstest writing submission acceptance! Uses For a Fat Friend will be posted on DOGZPLOT! Woot! OMG, I AM SO excited! If I liked people champagne I would throw a party, but instead I will just throw a party with my stuffed animals and we will drink apple juice and pretend its champagne and they will all pat me on the back and tell me that I am amazing.

Editor Woes

2008-10-08T13:03:00.000-07:00

It's midterms and I couldn't give a fuck. I have my first one in exactly 6 minutes. I should be studying. But all I can think about is writing. Perhaps I haven't been writing enough so that now it's the only thing I can think of. I think I might be on the brink of discovering a new voice. My voice hasn't been used in so long that it sounds strange to me, I have to tune it. 3 minutes. I should read more, but not the crap the school gives me in my writing workshops, but new, in-your-face, experimental good-ass shit. I've been reading Opium Magazine and am really impressed with the stuff they get, I especially liked Sam Pink's piece. I'm going to look more into his stuff. Maybe if we started accepting more flash fiction, we'd get better stuff at the Berkeley Fiction Review. I should mention it to Rhoda. I'm bored with everything we get. Nothing is new or exciting. I'd like to reach out and grab all our contributors and shake them. I feel a new genre rising like a tidal wave, perched to take over everything, a hybrid between poetry and prose, maybe prosetry. I'm going to try to make sure the Berkeley Fiction Review rides it, if only we could get good writing submitted. I'm so tempted to submit a bunch of stuff under pseudonyms just so we can publish some interesting stuff. Ergh, I better go take my final now. grumble grumble.