cock-blocked.

You want to write something wry here.

For when you're past all this and think, oh - surviving that wasn't so bad, go you, what a good little cockroach you are. & d'ya think maybe you dramatised it out of proportion? Like when you were retelling the story of Dorian Grey to your colleague, and got so into it you had him crumpling, screaming into dust that blew away with the wind upon seeing his sin-stained portrait. And you only woke up when copywriter laughed and then you'd cheerfully admitted you'd filled in the blanks you forgot rather too liberally.

You'd happen upon this entry months later, and see through your sarcasms and rhetorics and meanderings and gatekeepers to a hard time you were having in the distant past when you couldn't bear to say in plain english how passionatelybadlyabsurdly you wanted to throw down your trump cards and say fuck it.

You think every time you swallow back a fuck-it, you are one yellow brick closer to the wizard of oz.

But it's too soon for wry. Raw plain words are all you'd care to tap out, and there's a swelling growth on your fingertips too sore for you to click internet publish for such bare-naked honesty. You think the name's pride.

rotten to the core.

the plan this weekend is to corner-coil at home and stay the fuckoutoftrouble. is good plan, let's ae it.

XXX 7 Step Program, Total Hardcore XXX

'

1. Join a gym, do the classes. Get so I can run on like an autobot
again.
2. Throw self wholesale into un-fulfilling work.
3. Go dancing, alot. Drink.
4. No facebook anymore. Paint nails red like a warning instead.
5. Don't think.
6. Select reading materials with more foresight.
7. Bodycourier off the colleague blasting vintage love songs to be
incinerated. I'd miss her though, she's been real sweet.

Seriously though. Distracting myself from turning into a rotten person is like serenading a nose hair when Rapunzel's twirling her pigtails at me. My stomach's churning furiously, and it isn't the shisha.


: (



.

fuck you, elm street.

I can't sleep early anymore, it's bad for my health. There are no nightmares if you don't sleep enough, because your brain'd be so exhausted & grateful for rest that it won't even imagine being cheeky. You see, my dreams are PMSing. Vivid like hellfire and charging like an art director rushing out 7 layouts in time for happy hour. Hypothetically & untruthfully speaking.

Last night, niangsquared fired me for being late one too many times. My mom got sick. Some not-so-random friends got into trouble climbing the wall. Some dude left. & as you know it true, like the long-winded nightmare that it was, it went on & on & on.

It was a hollow, never-ending echo down the pit of my churning stomach.

And it really won't end, until this happened in it.

My words were coming out in print but the ad was rejected by SPH copyvetters because I got too impertinent with it.

"Oh.. oh no. wait. That last one is true!!", I panicked. And then my cat nibbled savagely on my toes sticking out from under my comforter & flung me into sour morning.

are you wickwhacky-woo?

i feel like going dancing right now!
but i'm going to WORKBLERGH. ultimate loser, okay.

selfish bitch.

how's your stomach? how's your head?
how's your heart, can it take what i said?

QAF my hair. like so!

you can't top the Ultimate Weekend. not that i'd tried.
fierce paintballing that makes me bloody-thirsty, jon chan performing live, best flea market finds ever, super potent JB shisha, friends who drop in on your coffee seasons fully liquered up & delightfully happy, sizzling chemistry with the minah monroe & foreign skies less teal with pollution.

you can't prod Potential Too Cliche Teenage Dramas into happenstance. not that i'd try.
no no, it's never me. miho's the sensible prude. see exhibit A: Mistakened Demure Identity. don't tell me it hasn't been blasted all over nasrins by now.

okay, but actually the most important thing on my mind right now is that My Brilliant Idea still hasn't been thought of yet & it's 2 hours to Monday, o no nonononononoo!!!

yeah, but the timon & pumba duo just called me, we's the goin' jalan-jalanin'. yo-yoz.

they'd do the talk shop/NS/nikon/"can't wait to be corporate monkeys so we can beat the system from inside" routine, while i blithely lose track of the conversation, stick my head out the car window & wait for My Brilliant Idea to be blown into my head fully scripted for delivery at the meeting tomorrow. horrible friend. i did warn them.


wah stress. my english is in the pittsbourgh now.