i don’t like people.

that is, i love people.
i do.
i love friends & family, twitter ppl, blog commenters, strangers on the bus . . . I LOVE PEOPLE.

but when it comes to personal space?
i like my space
to be my space. exclusively.

all me
all the time.
yes, i’m broke cuz i’m paying bills & working for a pittance.
but i’m in here BY MYSELF.
i love space
i love walking around in various states of undress
i love listening to whatever music i want, at whatever volumes i want, with the same song on repeat for hours if i want to
& i can look at pictures of yul brenner’s penis if i wanna

this post has been brought to you by procrastination, thanksgiving mayhem, & that dastardly bfp.


i’m always hungry at 8:30 pm, even if i’ve had dinner already. i think it’s the pangs of unfulfilled desire, not legitimate hunger. still, i’m about to get into some raspberry sorbet, cuz why not? i bought it to be eaten.

soaking fruit in peach rum for 3 days = yum

changing the lighting in my apartment is doing wonders for my mood

autumn is when i’m most on point

soy really is not my friend. i can’t even do a soy latte these days without some rasclaat fuckery popping off. insert sad face here.

i love chocolate and raspberries together.

i made some potato & kale soup, but had the wrong ratio of greens to liquid. secret weapon: pureed cannelini beans & vegetable stock. HOLLA!

i consistently heart nezua’s blog. such a wealth of good ol unabashed chicanoness. yupper.

it’s about to be hoodie season. joy.

everybody’s got their something.

introducing the ornate pubic hair fashion show:

i can’t say shit, cuz i have a vch, pierced nipple, tattoos, & will probably further explore both forms of adornment as i grow older.

the peacock thing was kinda dope, too. gives me ideas for halloween… but with a lot more clothing. lol.

a vent. yes, another one.

fuck off, i don’t have to consider anyone but myself (and by extension my landlord, the ppl who guarantee that i get paid, the utility companies, and on occasion my mother) in everything i do

stop asking me the same question repeatedly. it makes you look stupid and makes me see red. your ineptitude astounds me.

just because i said i’m not fucking anyone as of late doesn’t mean i’m gonna jump on the first thing moving. that’s lame. it’s called a desperation fuck, or on that receiving person’s end, a pity fuck. that’s not okay. i’m better than anyone’s pity.

stop that shit. now. leave it alone already. the dead horse can be pummeled but so much more.

it’s really not okay to keep asking me about poetry readings. i fuck with sunni patterson and nobody else. dig? chances are she isn’t what you want. love jones is a nearly fifteen-year-old film. quit already. shit.

i don’t like sitting in a hot ass seat on the train. the only thing i dislike more: having a hotass person sit practically on top of me when they take the seat next to mine on the train. ew. i become slightly homicidal.

your man is ugly. that’s why i’m staring.

i think i hate mario lopez.

he’s smarmy.
like maybe he wants to fuck you & give you herpes or that tag team of chalmydia and gonnorhea. insincere, as if he only asks about how your job’s going to find out whether or not you got paid on time (so he can get some cash). something is so very rotten about that motherfucker. and he’s so bad at delivering his poorly-written lines on america’s best dance crew. like, wow.

he sucks.

or perhaps i need more sleep and less booze?