ang tunay na lalaki meets barbie

"at the shark bar
on Mulberry and Spring on a rainy night.
Her head sticks out of some woman's tote bag
placed on top of the bar, she winks
at Ang Tunay na Lalaki. He looks at his gin and tonic,
looks back at the doll and hears her tiny voice
even though her lips aren't moving. "Hi there,
big guy. I was made in the Philippines. You look
like you were made there too." He responds
just to humor himself, "Where, at the Subic Bay
manufacturing plants? Did you enjoy
being made by exploited laborers?" Barbie crawls
onto the sticky bar and sits herself on the edge
crossing her legs. "I remember those delicate fingers
expertly sewing the hairs to my head. Those women
were so nice to me." She bends at her waist
to let her hair down and dramatically lifts her head up
so her blond locks turn into a glamorous puff,
"See, they did a good job. You must admit."
"You're incorrigible," he exhales a cloud of smoke
after lighting up a cigarette, "And you're
all plastic, petroleum based plastic."
Barbie places her palms against her face
and begins to sob. Ang Tunay na Lalaki sticks out
his middle finger, strokes the back of her head,
"Now, now, doll. First time anyone ever told
you the truth?" Barbie lifts her left arm
to swipe away his finger, "My name's Barbie!
Not Doll, Sweetie, Honey, or Dolly. It's Barbie!"
Ang Tunay na Lalaki sips his gin,
"Look, Barbie. You have the perfect life,
you're the world's best-selling doll
and millions of little girls are buying you dresses.
Even the top fashion designers design
outfits for you." Barbie straightens her back
as if she had a spine, places
her hands on her lap, "But you don't know
how hard it is to be beautiful all the time. See,
you made my mascara run." He takes a napkin,
dips it into his drink, proceeds to wipe off
the small black streaks on her cheeks, "It's acrylic,
a water based paint." He reaches into his pocket
for a ball-point pen, draws rich eye lashes
around her eyes. Barbie slides over to a shot glass,
stares at her reflection, "Hey, you're good
at this. Have you ever considered a career
in make-up? I could recommend you
to our designers, you know."
Suddenly a woman's human hand plucks
Barbie off the bar, stuffing her
back into a tote bag. His eyes follow
the tote bag out the door. All he can see
is a puff of blond hair and a stiff arm
swaying back and forth like a metronome."

--from Nick Carbo's Secret Asian Man.

consequence

Thank you for showing me all of the things that I never, ever want to be when I grow up: broken, addicted, unwanted, incoherent, lost.

all the things I could be

like your mother: unpacking boxes, alphabetizing, ripping off covers. light salems and mix drinks. a different flavor of coffee for every week. a knack for baking and cooking with lots of butter, and a disdain for vacuums.

yours: messy house, long hours. doing just enough to make it, uncut hair and fingernails. confident, relaxed. camel filters and hazy alpha waves. I will never grow up.

acceptable: to need those neatly plasticized 99s like a vice of a partner; selfish; alone. shitty place with nothing to caress but pages and bills. enough to pay for bottomless glasses but never to sleep through the night after a fuck.

any way you like it, there is some dependency that I am too infantile to deny.

extended metaphors turn me on

I was pulled over by styleSC on the way back to my dorm this afternoon, so I guess it's appropriate that I document this outfit.



in other news, I'm listening to



which is pretty damn good, if you like punk and shit.

life sucks.

you can't fucking leave.
you're going to hold me and watch
old Italian silent films about
burnt cities.

"you are a piece of shit,
and I should kill you."

"I love you."

"I already forget how I used to feel about you."

this is the moment that you know,
that you told her that you loved her, but you don't.
you touch her skin and then you think,
that she is beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me.
yeah, she is beautiful, but she don't mean a thing to me.

I spent two weeks in Silver Lake,
the California sun cascading down my face.
there was a girl with light brown streaks,
and she was beautiful, but she didn't mean a thing to me.
yeah, she was beautiful, but she didn't mean a thing to me.

I wanted to believe in all the words that I was speaking,
as we moved together in the dark.
and all the friends that I was telling,
all the playful misspellings,
and every bite I gave that left a mark.
then tiny vessels oozed into your neck and formed the bruises,
that you said you didn't want to fade.
but they did and so did I that day.

all I see are dark gray clouds in the distance moving closer with every hour.
so when you'd ask, "Is something wrong?"
I'd think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it now.
no, we can't talk about it now."

so one last time and then you'll go,
and we'll pretend that it meant something so much more.
but it was vile,
and it was cheap,
and you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me.
yeah, you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me.
yeah, you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me.

Fingernails are too easy. When you get them dirty, you can just cut them off and forget about the pieces you throw in the trash.

when I fancy someone, I try to give them the pieces of myself I feel are best worth sharing.

I wonder if, when people don't do that, it is because they simply don't realize what they have to offer.

or perhaps they are just lazy motherfuckers.

shifty

So I may have failed at coding.

I can't concentrate on anything or anyone.

My independence is falling out like adult molars.