the devil's in the details.

Everyone kept calling us a fuckin Pollock, which I finally began to ignore by the end of the evening.
A Russian Whore cried, two Yip-Yips yipped, there was a young Priest, an old Priest and a girl with a bloody vagina. 
We destroyed public property, walls of homes, cars, other costumes and one very angry boys cardigan.
Devil's night was quite the treat.

bukowski & me.

baby, you're worse then bad T.V.

She’d like to think she’s the destroyer, with bitch at her fingertips and blood on her hands.  I’ve cowered, hidden and hurled myself towards the ground in fear that she’ll find me yet again.  In avoidance, of avoiding, contracting an S.T.I or being instilled as a drug crazed, glazed over, easy target in the eyes of men.

The Slut VS The Pacifist

The Narcissist VS The Heartbroken

a fight worth witnessing.

I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, “CUNT” but she can hardly hear me; I’m buried beneath the bullshit.  I dug my grave, but I’m refusing to lie without cramming my fits between her lips.  

Shutting her mouth once and for all with one tender movement.

One giant metaphor for a fight with a whore.

they feared for their lives.

well, you're a prince in someone's world
just not in mine.

knife slits water.

since I've stopped being able to orgasm, the pool seems to be the only place, close enough.
well, not even, quite.
it's unfortunately, the only solace I've got.

We.

I sent two links, both with blatant clues as to what my surprise was.

Both were blatantly ignored.

Back to picking up pieces after hurling a brick at your teeth.

We all fall down.

Your smile isn't much, fading, like me.

Currently, in a state of perpetual mess.

the bbq.

bbq squash & sweet potato, stewed pears, garlic brussels sprout, portobello mushrooms with maple syrup, asparagus basted in curry powder, guacamole, giant buns, salsa sausage, hummus & pita, sprinkle donuts.

I was very hesitant to attend the BBQ.  Even though I have been squatting at this home for almost 2 months now, I hardly knew my way around.  We only lived on two floors of a three-story house, though I never felt well acquainted with the space.  It has always seemed fleeting.  Eventually, I assumed free food and drink was better then trying to scout the city for entertainment I’d have to spend money on.  Out, hoping to come home after everyone had vacated.

So, I stayed instead.

We prepped, him with intense passion, and me, passing my only tasks onto the only friend I had in attendance.  I minced garlic as though I knew how to mince, I boiled and peeled, I stewed my sprouts only to impress the masses.  I always had two left hands in the kitchen. 

I could hardly hold a conversation.  I spent 10 minutes trying to remember the profession that C.S.I centered around.  When I finally figured it out, the conversation was long over and I spoke to the wall about it.  I laughed at everything, most topics did spark my interest, but I couldn’t think of a thing to stay.  I don’t know if I could describe my demeanor as fear, or plain stubbornness.  I drank 60 proof vodka with an elderly Scottish man, as he passed the joint in rotation.  I acted as though I were meant to be in this exact place at this exact moment, even though I didn’t believe I was.  I rambled and giggled and tried to let a man down easily.  I sipped my beer and shivered.

I had mentioned in brief to him “It finally hit me yesterday, that I’m back for good”

He shrugged it off, as per usual. 

We had fought about the BBQ, and after attending I concluded that I agreed with Jonathan.  We all huddled around this grilling meat and stewing vegetable, but by the end of the evening, all I knew were the food.

I could hardly remember the names of the people. I could never be a housewife.

it's all gone grey.

I lost you to the sea, or something, along those lines.

no future for naps in sight.

I’ve started swimming again, as though it’s something significant.


I’ve found a home on the top floor of a house quainter then one I’ve ever been blessed to live in. Not that I can complain about where I’ve formally lived.
A bachelor the size of a shoebox, a glamorous shoebox at that, containing pumps that cost more then the monthly payment, metaphorically speaking.
I’ve never owned shoes quite that expensive.
Fully furnished, accompanied by perfect smoking deck in a non-smoking environment.  


What’s a girl to do? 
Quit.  Throw herself over balconies edge?


Still lacking a job.  My landlord believes my Gay comrade is my Boss.   A year younger then me, his pre-grad profession puts my lack of motion to shame. 
I didn’t really have a plan of action after being deported
& Here I am.
On this frost bitten Wednesday morning, after signing my first lease and agreeing to give my time back to the city where I was bred, grew and faltered, I sigh.
Dazed, in what could have been an afternoon spent in the dewy meadows or billowing castles of Edinburgh.  My degree waits patiently for me.


Literature, we’ve always had a love/hate relationship.


I would consider this the after-life of my after-math.  Sharing a table at a busy Toronto coffee shop.  It’s zero degrees outside, and November hasn’t even hit us. I can hardly breathe, I’m feverish, not prepared to face another Canadian winter. 
But, this seems to be what I’m left with.
An empty mug, half a plank of sanded wood, a dead fly in my water, cold sweats, a contract, all of what amounts to many empty minutes that must be filled.
I’d rather do it with words. 
So along with taking my aggression out in laps around the pool, I’ll write it out.


Welcome me home Toronto, you’re stuck with me.
for now.