First a discussion. Then a perfectly placed kitchen fire. Rotten lemon found in the crevice of a refrigerator, the compartments of the fruit storing grey mold, stimulates silence during a post disrespecting following the kitchen fire which followed the first discussion. Before everything, there was the bursting of a bloodless cyst on a shoulder blade. I am tired of this life we are pretending to live. I cement, I am tired of this life we are pretending to live. My lips are darker than usual but I haven't beaten them with my teeth. The black around my eyes are the same shade as them. "Maybe you're a lost cause," says the boyfriend because the only people who should be complimented are personal projects. A world turned itself inside out and no attention was given. "I don't want to talk to you," snarled the mama with tears gasping for air, "the others have never disrespected me like you have." Her glass eye cried and the remnants of a kitchen fire clogged the hallways. I am hungry, but like the time I de-weeded dandelions for nine hours, when I shut my eyes all I can see is not the purple dandelion veins dripping their white blood from their tree-root, but black. I am seeing my stomach from the inside. This is all so goofy.

old friends are surfacing in my dreams, a different one each night. i feel anxious. this does not make me less of a man. i am not less of anything. i am not embarrassed or ashamed, but even still i can't ignore the weight in my chest that feels like a metal being pulled to the centre of the earth. i am man and i am timid and i am scared but i am man. am i fickle? i am man.

photographs of naked men with indents in their skin. she sleeps with the guys. she's a bad girl, that lily.

You grease the pan, Jaime. You grease the pan after you forget to the first time, too. Everyone knows that.

There is white paint all over my arms again. Somehow I didn't end up getting any on my semi-new Cheap Mondays. Why was I painting doors white while wearing them to begin with? Either I was dangerous, masochistic, stupid, experimenting what divorcing myself from my belongs would be like, or lazy. Why was I painting doors white to begin with? "Mama, mama you don't understand Andrew is in our house oh my gosh, Mama, Andrew is in our house you don't understand!" And you ran across the courtyard into the lawn. And you wore shorts, your legs twigs.

There is an empty Hispanic oven burning. There is an empty Hispanic boy burning. There is a melodramatic sentence: cringe-worthy.

i want to throw up


here's the kicker


i never want to stop

In two days, I went from being the happiest boy to the most incredibly stupid boy.

I hate what I let people do to me. I hate that I still check the blogs and the pages of social media, I hate that I bite my tongue before speaking my mind so that I don't diminish another. I hate that I lose hours of sleep on the one night I got to bed early so that another can have theirs.

I apologize when people make me feel like shit. I excuse myself when I sneeze. I worry and nearly call when I get hateful voicemails. Emotional masochism? No. Just plain stupid.

"I'm not simple," said the greatest man living.

Prepare to endure the envy of the entire world.

Ironically, I must prepare, too. This is my life, this is my happy life.

i'm being asphyxiated by my mediocrity. excellence is mandatory, perfection is standard. there is no reason for this, no excuse for me.

it's selfish, being sad. the greatest thing about melancholy is that is is one of the few things in the world that is actually better to experience and to live with by yourself, clinging selfishly and, yet, remaining selfless enough to put it aside when needed. i've known few people who are reliable and who, like myself, believe in the power of promise and the importance of keeping ones word. sadly, the most reliable person i cared for was also an absolute monster, claiming me as property and continually attempting to scratch through to me with words and insults and claims until her half-bitten nails hit the nerve she was looking for, garnering the reaction that they have so longed for pathetically and patiently; the beginning of worry, the commencement of communication, and the comfort of familiarity. that is when sadness becomes a chore, when being in love no longer means being with someone but becomes being sad with somebody. sharing sadness. creating it and cultivating it like a small child, feeding it and bathing it and loving it even though it killed a small squirrel with the wheels of its tricycle and then poked its teacher in the eye with a fork, it's this unconditional love for not each other but for each others sadness that has become an addiction. we feed it, pouring sugar on our skin for the ants to come and irritate. and still, i find myself longing for people who can keep their words because it's so shitty complaining to my mother about someone i care for because of their loose tongues and easy acceptances of faults, blunders, whatever. shit. it's shitty because my complaining is one of the few times when my words aren't as important or put together as they usually are and since i pride myself on responsibility to my thoughts, which my mother is obviously aware, they are stigmatized and i come out feeling and behaving like the biggest fool trying to convince her that i did not mean what i said. it is so wonderful to forgive. that's the opposite of sadness, forgiveness is best shared. i'm still learning that. i hate everything.

LET GO.

a charismatic-less jaime, there's an idea for a play
what a dreadful night, i've indulged so much, first error, it isn't even decadent or pleasurable, second error