300 make up post: Probiscuous Girl, rough draft

Am I throwing you off?

Nope

Didn’t think so.

How you doin’ young mozzie

The blood that you pumpin’ really drives me crazy

You don’t have to run away like that

I’m a life-sucking insect not a goddamn bat

If you looking for a girl that’ll drink you right

If you lookin’ for her at dusk with a light

Were you the one who buzzed by my eye?

Guess I'll find out by the end of the night

You expect to just slip it in me?

Well just a heads up, my ex is a bee

All I can do is try, gimme one try

What’s the problem I don’t see no deet on your thigh

I be the first to admit it, I’m curious about you, you seem so innocent

You wanna get in my skin, get lost in it

Boy I’m tired of chasing, let me suck for a minute

Chorus:

Probiscuous girl

You nose what you want

I’m all alone

And you’re sucking my blood

Probiscuous boy

You best be feeding me more

Make my blood sugar spike

What you waiting for?

Probiscuous girl

You nose what you want

I’m all alone

And you’re sucking my blood

Probiscuous boy

You best be feeding me more

Make my blood sugar spike

What you waiting for?

Verse 2:

Blood is red

Hey you’re kinda cute

That other guy’s is dead

‘cuz I sucked his juice

My antennae are going berserk

Where you at, we gotta make this work

Come chill with me in my stagnant pool

You know I’ll be there to wipe up your proboscis drool

They call me daddy

Long legs, in fact

Yo don’t fly away

Damn, that’s super whack

I'm a big girl I can satisfy myself

But if I get hungry I’ma need your help

Pay attention to me I’m not flyin’ to be stealth

I want you on my skin

So does everybody else.

Baby we can we take it slow

Pump in pump out, you know how it goes

If you with it girl I can take you down low

I’ma get a red koolaid blood sugar high

Chorus:

Probiscuous girl

You nose what you want

I’m all alone

And you’re sucking my blood

Probiscuous boy

You best be feeding me more

Make my blood sugar spike

What you waiting for?

Don't be mad, don't get mean

Hey Don't get mad, don't be mean

Ironic

Two weeks ago, David’s mother collapsed at Jean’s house. They took her to the hospital and found that she was extremely anemic and had some other complications. She hadn’t told anyone of any feelings of tiredness, weakness, or pain. She hated going to the doctor, or seeing anyone other than family, really. Honestly, she wasn’t a brightest ray of sunshine. She was self-absorbed, hypocritical, vapid, and losing her little sense of lucidity. She had spent her entire life trying to look twenty years younger than her real age, and ironically, she may die twenty years younger than she should.

Grave (sic)

Peter craved things. He when he became thirsty, he didn’t just want water, he craved it. When he was tired, he didn’t just want sleep, he craved his bed. When he listened to music he didn’t just choose tunes based on his mood, he chose them based on his cravings.

A craving comes from a deep recess inside our reptilian brains. A craving takes something that we might otherwise merely want, and makes it something we need.

It treats all things as objects of desire. When Peter met Melinda, she was an object. Far from masochistic; he simply needed her.

Profiteroles

Heat the milk and the butter, watching the tiny bubbles tickle the sides of the pans. Quick! Add the flour and stir like crazy. Mmm smell that hot butter. Then, this is the complicated part. Take that beautiful ball of dough off the heat and get a powerful whisk out. Crack out your eggs all at once, and whisk! Whisk, man, whisk! Make those eggs disappear! Stab the yolks, meld the bright and pale together. It will be goopy. Pipe those babies out and bake. Careful, they’ll toy with your emotions. Rise and fall. Poof and collapse. Fickle, delicious things.

Gawad Kalinga

Authenticity in all them tip cities writhes among masses of trash domesticities.
Subtle homes among the rubble, trouble bubbles poorly huddled
Helter-skelter shelters fall and falter in stormy water.
A life of dirt is all a flirt with random mirth, inevitable death or hurt
Filthy hands rubbed “clean” on milky jeans, obscene they glean with silt and teem
With grime, disease, no ABCs, all food taken to please the hungry mouths of capital greed.
A spark of hope parks in the dark before daybreak; GK awaits.
Building more than a community, add immunity; impunity.
Remix forlorn for phoenix reborn.

I Am Almost There

            This is very difficult to write when I am dizzy just sitting up and my eyes hurt, the computer screen is not healthy for me right now. There’s a delay between my mind and fingers and I keep typing the wrong word (like “write” instead of “right”). Why is grammar suddenly so difficult? Come on one hundred words, have I reached you yet? I am almost there. But I have run out of things to write, and my head feels like that of a ten year-old. Actually no, it feels like that of someone wondering if they will get better.

What It Takes

            It takes a real artist to see a stuffed squirrel and mount it in a gumball machine.
            It takes a real scientist to see people in molecules and vice versa.
            It takes a real dentist to operate while watching a football game with back turned.
            It takes a real guru to speak by tugging one’s beard.
            It takes a real marmoset to migrate to Yugoslavia and back.
            It takes a real school bus to lose itself in a mental maze of journey and introspection, and ultimately come out of the tunnel.
            It takes a real writer to write this drivel.

Frenglish

“J’aime la pamplemousse.”

“Don’t speak in French. You only speak in French when you’re saying stuff you might be serious about, but may be joking about as well.”

“That’s pourquoi je say things en Français.”

“You’re crazy, you know that? Bizarre. Just bizarre.”

“Oui. It’s vraiment zarbi.”

“Are you even French?”

“Peut-être.”

“Goddamnit, Louise.”

“Oh Tomas, ne t’inquietes pas.”

“It’s Tom, or do you have yet to learn my name after three years?”

“Bof! Stop, you are tellement dramatique. Souviens-toi que je t’aime.”

“Well, I at least understand that one.”

“C’est la verité ma pamplemousse. And that’s all you need.”

Mirror, Mirror Part 2

Thursday:

He looked into the mirror: “I’m ugly.” He went off to work, passed through a drive-thru coffee store, but they didn’t have any more sugar. “That’s probably better. I don’t want to be ugly and diabetic.”

Friday:

He looked into the mirror: “I’m ugly.” He went off to work, and wore his normal business clothes even though it was casual Friday. “What’s the use? I’m sure my clothes are ugly anyway.”

Saturday:

He put his glasses on. He looked into the mirror.

“Hey, I don’t look half bad!” He smiled, went for a walk and appreciated the world.

Mirror, Mirror Part 1

Sunday:

He looked into the mirror. “I’m ugly.” He went to church, and prayed to God to be made more attractive.

Monday:

He looked into the mirror: “I’m ugly.” He went off to work, asked Elaine out and was rejected. “It’s probably because I’m so ugly.”

Tuesday:

He looked into the mirror: “I’m ugly.” He went off to work, and he spilled some sauce on his pants. “This will only contribute to my ugliness.”

Wednesday:

He looked into the mirror: “I’m ugly.” He went off to work, and got promoted. “It’s probably because they feel sorry for the ugly guy.”

Plaque is whack

“Brush your teeth. It’s cool.”

My daily shtick is made of this—this one, two, three, this a, b, c

I brush my teeth, inspect my feet. Clear scrutiny is strictly key

Get those gums, floss those cracks, no one wants that goopy plaque

Say it with me. Ha-li-to-sis. Pretty atrocious, riiiiiiight?

Orbit, Wriggly, Double bubble, just these alone? Double trouble.

‘Cuz the sum of gum is clearly none and what’s the fun in being bum?

Who wants fakes, for heaven’s sake? Sure, it can be the fairy’s take

But gosh darn and sigh, ugly be the toothless guy—just FYI

Masquerade pt 2

The carriage was cushioned and comfortable. There three other people—masked, of course, and it had only been about ten minutes when they came to an abrupt halt.

“Excuse me, this may seem silly, but do you know where this carriage is taking us?” she asked.

“To the landing dock,” replied the man to her right. His had on a very elegant boar mask.

“Are we here, then?”

“Not quite. I believe this is where we are supposed to shift.”

“Shift?”

“Yes…shift.”

Anne was thoroughly confused.

The man sighed. “Notify Boris. We have one of the guests in here by accident.”

Self Control

Classic trail mix contains salted nuts (usually peanuts and almonds, and cashews(ew)), raisins, and M&Ms. The way to eat trail mix is to take it piece by piece. Peanut, M&M, raisin, almond, raisin, M&M. Never eat two of the same in a row. Another way is to take a sample of each—a little bit of peanut, a little bit of M&M, and a little bit of raisin. Completely balanced and delicious. The perfect ratio of nutty, rich, and fruity.

Ah, screw it. I’m just going to eat all the M&M’s and leave the nuts and raisins for some poor sucker.

Library Creatures

            I have been there and seen the library creatures. I know you may martyr me for acknowledging their existence, but I must explain it. They sit amidst rows of books, devoid of interaction and translucent skin soaking in the glow of their computers. I tried to look into their eyes, but a film had glazed them over. Their fingers shake or twitch and they communicate with low, yearning moans. I am forced to conjecture that the only peril they pose to human beings is in the surreptitious taking of choice study locations. This is what I have seen while journeying.

Henrik

            Henrik sat down to write a fictional story. The characters were dynamic but the plotline was static; he dropped his pencil in a panic. The setting was dull though the pages were full, nothing of interest came out of his skull.

            Henrik then sat down to write a nonfictional story. He scratched his head as he tried to remember things his mother had said, but mental cobwebs ruled instead. The story was bland, nothing too grand, because of the march of time’s sand.

            Henrik sighed and tried to write a poem. Meter forgotten, rhyme schemes begotten, he finally found nirvana.

Social construct: Marriage

Lipstick on an alligator pays to make her really hate the
Date she’d take to wind her fate along their fingers six to eight
She slain her bait and flayed the crate but hey she’ll mate before too late.

Berate, before ablate she,
Ate a pepper steak free,
Of MS glutamate, the
Chemical of late, greed
Strikes a freaky chord with hoards of bored humanity it lords
amoured over our stores of moral codes and memory

The alligator and her man tie knot to scaly claw and hand they
Walk down aisle and into car
And honeymoon Jamaican swim-up bar.

Lost and Found

I lost my wallet today. I stood up really fast and panicked a lot, but somewhere in the back of my mind there was…I cannot even call it hope, it was brute determination to believe that the wallet was somewhere obvious. It had to be in some incriminating spot from the very recent past. The car seat, under newspapers on the kitchen table, my jacket pocket, the seat that was still warm from my frenzied panic. It had to be right in front of my nose. I had never wanted to feel like an idiot more than at that time.

Bragadocious mafaka

Our rap is badass. It’s G. It flows like a gushing stream of urine after you’ve been holding it for an hour: easily. It’s precise. It’s playful. It’s French.

It’s in fucking French.

I don’t even speak French. Well. But I can rap it. And so can you.

We rapped it so well that French speakers can’t even understand it.

We wrote lyrics so tight translators can't translate it.

We used a beat so bumpin that basses can’t even deliver it.

We’re better than everything you’ve ever heard.

We are kings.

We are champions.

We are legends.

We are god.

Just One Of Those Conversations

“You’re frivolous, the way you wear your pants so low.”

“You’re ludicrous.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I never said thank you.”

“I didn’t think you did. In fact I’d be surprised if you did.”

“And that is exactly why I did not. Hold on, we’re going in circles right now.”

“Once again, not surprising.”

“Are you expecting me to say these things?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is there no way I can surprise you?”
”Oh you surprise me in more ways than you know.”

“But not with what I say?”

“Well...Not really. You say the things I expect.”

“Monkey! Handlebar! Styrofoam! Kilts! Confucius! Noodle! Crybaby! Flavor!”

Cloud

People eat cloud food because they are cloud food. They eat what they are because what they eat is what they are after they eat it. The way to be what you are when you eat what you are is to be what you eat when you are it. Clouds are made of fluff and pomp thus cloud food is made of cloud pomp and fluff and those who eat it pomp fluff in clouds and waft and glide but don’t tract or decide. That that does does what what’s will will be that which is eaten. Verily, forsooth, cloud.