.a flame bursting into nothing.

I screwed my head on backward; I love to watch you walk away

we're the last two grains clinging to the hour glass.

battle scars from the pillowcase pressed across your cheeks where you fought and lost.

you're mine in the way that the dips of your hips fit my hands perfectly, thumbs pressed tight to feel the blood pulse in you. and i'm the only one holding you up and in and together.

I need an idea outside of my own so....

You give the prompt, I'll take the picture.

C'mon. Let's play.

All right.

I figured with all the band/singing talk, I should either put up or shut up, you know?

So I got up at the asscrack of dawn yesterday morning (ok, lies. I never actually went to bed) and recorded myself. Then I converted the vid to mp3, redownloaded that, and then uploaded the file to sendspace.

I'm explaining this so that you realize that I had ample time to realize that this is a really really bad idea. (Also, it's not the best quality.) 

And yet I'm doing this anyway!

Here's a little bit of me killing a song: http://www.nothereanymore.com

I was going to sing one of my own, but I always feel like a dork doing that for some reason. *shrug* So you get... well, you'll hear :) Lucky you. o/

And now, class, we know why Laguisity has exiled herself to the land of tambourines and cowbells.

we stutter-stepped off the ledge

and dropped down.

caught with albatross wings.

high soaring and asleep for days.

crash landings make the ground seem softer.

where you cracked the earth,

it cracked your bones.

I feel kind of shitty, because you guys are so awesome and I'm... kind of curling in on myself. Away from people (internet friends and people I can kick in person). Which means I'm not answering message (private or otherwise). Just staring at them because I can't believe people think I'm interesting in the first place.

It's kind of a reoccuring theme with me. That's what happens when you're crazy.

I think I need a roadtrip.

Who wants to start a band with me?

We'll be street performers, and take over the world accidentally on purpose with our catchy melodic jams.

 I play a mean tambourine.

We are the dust motes.

Streams of smoke and razor sharp intentions fit to shred your lungs.

We'll leave your every breath bloodied, and this time your words will stick.

 Stain the back of your throat.

Red to match your lips and hands and the rims of your eyes.

(There's a water wish in every drop that slips down your cheeks.)

 We're your music box dancers, twirling to the backward beat of your chicken heart. Blood clot fingers clinging to black strands to twist a cradle for you to fall in.

For an explanation of what this is all about, please refer to this post. :)

______________

Scout, here. My tongue is three in dog years, that is, approximately 1.71 months, and it’s been everywhere. I could make excuses to appeal to your sensitivities, but it’s not like I don’t have other senses to my disposal. When it comes down to it, it’s just a matter of preference. I’ve tasted it all. Toes and fingers and eyes. Stardust and moonshine, dirt and acid rain. There’s false calm which tastes like lukewarm tap water with too much chlorine. Then dirty thoughts. Those are like chocolate and space dust, which is like sparklers and sugar on ice, which tastes like the name Marlene, and if you know a Marlene, you know what I mean. I know what you’re thinking, but you’ve got it all wrong. There’s nothing to fear. There’s no sin in what I do, and nothing gets hurt.

Tragedy is born of excess, and I’ve only ever had a taste.

I recorded myself singing and put it on my iPod so that I could get used to my own voice and would stop being afraid of, you know, singing.  No matter how much I say that and justify it (really, that's totally the reason) I'm always afraid it sounds narcissistic.

But dude, seriously? No.

No, see, the narcississtic aspect is when I start harmonizing with myself.

I have the feeling that's the musical equivalent of making out with your reflection in the bathroom mirror.

PS: I'm sorry, Fall Out Boy, for killing your song.

your sweet dreams woke me
grabbed me tight and broke
these dusty old bones

This is part of a series of short bits I was writing that had a lot to do with body imagery. It's kind of a weird what if. Like, what if our body parts were sentient beings. That is, your hair could be a "person" on it's own. And what if it could be older or younger than you as a whole? What if it had a seperate personality. What if your feet or hands or knees did? What if.

_____

My hair’s name is Harold and he is forty-two years old. I am not. I don’t blame you for being confused. I get lost a little myself, but it’s easy when you know what to look for. Harold is stringy, you see. Greasy the way my lips sometimes get after I’ve had chicken wings, only this is always. Sticky and black like tar and molasses. He delights in the scent of his own aroma, toxic and sweet, and I don’t trouble him with the superficial state of ‘cleanliness’. Harold appreciates me for this. We understand each other.

Further distinction: Harold gets all the girls. When we move, Harold takes on a jaunty sway. I am taller, but he is much more confident in his masculinity, a trait I fear I will always be in envy of.

And if that’s not enough, I am the one with the legs. He is not.

A lot of people have been saying a lot of nice things to me about my photography and adding me.

I wanna say 'hi' and 'thank you so very much' to you all because really, you guys are awesome. I'm filled with butterflies and awesome happy love joy by the fact that you've take the time to comment and lemme know what you think.

That said, I'm slow and I'm a flake. So, if it seems like I'm ignoring you, I'm probably not.

I wanna check you all out individually, but my "new friend requests" folder is kind of at this ridiculous number and I'm hiding from it until I can actually pay attention to the people I'm adding. It's only fair to you, right?

We can totally have a journal orgy here until I pull my head out of the sand, though.

Fear not. I only bite if you want me to.

~M.  

So, I wasn't gonna post about the Wentz-Simpson engagement. I just wasn't gonna do it because there are so many people who are better than I am about giving their opinions on things that don't ultimately matter on things of this nature.

But then I was like, I have an opinion! I desire to be heard!

So here it is:

If they actually do end up getting married (because, you know, an engagement is just a promise. A contract for further construction on their house of lurve, if you will) I hope they're happy. The Wentz is pretty awesometastic, Ashlee seems like an okay chick, and I happen to think people in general deserve to be happy. So yeah. They should go forth and keep grooving out on each other's love tunes for as long as they can.

Also? One would not be exaggerating if they were to suggest I strongly desired adorably awkward Wentzon babies.

Because, dude. DUDE. They would be the funkiest limited edition spawn EVER, and I would download them and pay full price for said downloading.

I'm so sick sick sick of psychiatrists.

These are diagnoses:

Depression (with some anxiety issues).
Cyclothymia.
ADHD (with some anxiety issues/accompanying depressive episodes).
And now bipolar (II) disorder.

And what's sad (or maybe finally good, but depressing) is that this time they're actually right.

It's not that I'm not relieved, it's that I'm just tired of this whole "mental health is an inexact science" game. I'm tired of doctor's appointments and I'm tired of feeling like I'm going insane because all is not right in my brainspace.

Then again, I'm also tired of not sleeping and of feeling like I'm going to bust out of my skin Alien-style. So I should probably just shut up and get ready for my appointment, ja?

I'm going through some shit right now, and that got me wondering about mental health and how it's a total shot in the dark. It's full of "educated" guesses and 'possibly's and 'maybe's. And it's pretty big these days to be 'messed up' among the people being diagnosed, the pharmaceutical industry, and the doctors doing the diagnosing. We're all sort of looking for something "wrong" when things aren't going "right" in our heads.

So like I said, it got me wondering:

Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?

Did you have faith in the diagnosis? If so, do you still have faith that it was the proper diagnosis?

You'll get the full scoop on me later if you want. Fair's fair and all. But for now, I'm just curious.