I'm in love with words.

I love the words aubergine, incendiary, quiescent, and quixotic.

I keep a list of the words I love.

i love art...

...and I'm in love with pictures, colors, surreal beauty.

i've got a thing for assholes who tell good stories.

there’s often a fog covering my brain, and i can’t think or articulate the way i want to. i can’t convey to you all that i want to. i’m searching for a medium, some way to express myself because i need to so badly. i actually feel on the verge of exploding, and what would come out of that eruption would be grains of bright rainbow colored powder and orange and mango scented pieces of plastic and undeveloped black and white negatives of my heart from all different angles. . .none of it would be anything of substance, none of it would make any sense. before i really do blow up, i want to find a mode of communication that would suit me and you. . .but there seems to be nothing. i love to take pictures, but i feel like a hack. it's the fad of today, everyone taking pictures thinking they are an artist. and i don't want to be that fucking asshole. i really love to write. however, i hate what i write almost everytime i write. short little choppy paragraphs that mean nothing, not story or poem, not fish or fowl. so i just don't write. what sense does that make, you ask? none. i suppose it makes no sense at all.

i want to blow your mind. i want to blow you down, knock you over, kick you in the gut, hold your heart in my hand, and spin your brain around a million turns a second with just a few words. . .where does it come from? i mean, it comes from deep down inside somewhere and i want that, i want to be that, i want to do that, and where is it? i can't find it! i can't find it! but if i could, with just a few sentences i’d make you feel as though you knew what it was like to touch me, to feel me next to you, to hear me, to kiss me. you’d know how soft the skin on my face is, you’d know exactly how long my fingers are, exactly how much shorter my left leg is than my right. you’d know the smell of my hair, the sound of my voice, the shape of my ears, the curve of my back. . .you’d be my slave, my lover, my friend. and you would constantly crave more and more, and i’d continue to give to you all that i could, until you finally bled me dry. that’s what would happen if i could strip off my skin and suddenly flourish in front of you, and from my guts would spring the most beautiful poem, the most beautiful picture, the most beautiful painting, the most beautiful woman anyone had ever seen. i'd peel it all away, no matter how much it hurt, just to show you, to show me, to show them or you or you or you or him or her or anyone.

"Absurdity is what I like most in life, and there's humor in struggling in ignorance. If you saw a man repeatedly running into a wall until he was a bloody pulp, after a while it would make you laugh because it becomes absurd."

- David Lynch -

"I disregard the proportions, the measures, the tempo of the ordinary world. I refuse to live in the ordinary world as ordinary women. To enter ordinary relationships. I want ecstasy. I am a neurotic—in the sense that I live in my world. I will not adjust myself to the world. I am adjusted to myself. "

~Anais Nin