not divisble by the number 3

i am cringing at this conversation had before and how i will carefully select my words to mask how i really feel, so you don't hate me, not yet. nope, you're still an in between to some settlement that'll make everyone more comfortable, me included... but, i'm holding out. and doing a decent job, i should add.

but, he'd know that i am somewhat of a silly girl, and realize that i've been with the in betweens so long that i've neglected genius and madness and settled into tv watching and gossip. no, not settled, not quite yet...

having feelings for a dead man that hated things not divisible by the number 3 surely seems to be a recipe for dying alone.

this was my bathroom reading as a child

Aside from the need to breathe, feed and procreate the most common thing we (individuals, groups, communities, nations, etc.) share is a fundamental disrespect and lack of consideration for women as human beings and not vessels of temptation and ruin.

Anti-Feelings Campaign.

7:22am

each morning, save the ones i spend in her bed, i watch the ceiling fan turn hoping to find something hypnotic, calming in its autonomy. but it never comes. it's just alternating space and dust-covered wood moving through the thick humidity of this makeshift bedroom. save the days i've been lucky enough to share a bed with alternating hers, i've been sleeping on this couch for far too long. my throat is hot and most mornings feel like summer, just the parts i hate most about summer. i am not enough water and too many words, wishing your hands were here to run over. the world tells me i think too much, about you and it, and sometimes i agree but never in the morning. in the morning i just want your hands here. your fingers wrapped around which ever thumb of mine you like best, tightening vice as you fall into sleep. in the morning i am too honest to pretend that every story isn't somehow rooted in love. i am too honest to write about the world when all i want are your hands. one on my chest, fingertips grazing carrion, and the other fixed 'round which ever thumb of mine you like best.

-lamon

i can still go there

i would like to breath in air that smells different... Chicago, at its best, is barbeque and sweat, but winter is coming and whether or not soot has a smell my nose will conspire with my eyes to make one.


-samantha

how to serve man.

that's not a hand. ii's a claw. and this is not a song. it's an exorcism of numbness. we are not in my bedroom anymore. it's a prison camp that i've been stuck in. this isn't skin. it's a scramble suit with a thousand me's rotating. that's not your mouth, its a boredom generator powered by irritation. we aren't a couple. we're isolationists who tried to use the buddy system. and that wasn't sex. It was a competition for power that I'm clearly winning.

this ain't a break up. i like to think of it as a stay of execution.

you're not a woman. you're a piranha with cutlery for dentured up smile. and i'm not a man. i'm an incomplete punchline to a joke i don't understand.

once we've mastered the art of being feeling-less we'll be able to do this.



-lamon

paris, je t'aime quartier de la madeleine

-lfm

this is what the aliens will see.

where on earth are all these friendly, naked white people?

the miles ache like stillborns and cherubim choked on words to sweeten my failures and your therapist's notes.

-lfm

FUCK

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love

a few more things.

1. i am considering reinstating the great platonic cuddling moratorium of 2005. if i'm going to get used i should at least get kissed.

2. sleep alone, sleep at home is official mantra for the summer. this in conjunction with re-upping on the platonic cuddling moratorium should ensure that i will have a long lonely summer. the only solace will be that it will be on my own terms.

3. goodbye, disappointment. the first few weeks of knowing you were nice. fuck everything after the first week of december.

4. coming soon...tour of heartbreak '09 presents the unrequited love diet. love is not a verb. it's a sickness.

5. she don't love you if she wouldn't gut you and hang you with your lower intestine, or at least threaten it.


-lfm

i'm considering accepting a dowry of health insurance and a dishwasher.

this summer is better than last.
a conversation i had on goodreads.com with a total stranger from last summer:
(start at the bottom)

	you said to Paddy: i am officially a mess. strep throat and a new cast that goes past my elbow. distract me from pitying myself. please.	07/03/2008 07:32PM view | delete
	Paddy said to you: ha ha, sounds like a great deal! Have you been inundated with offers?! Sorry to hear about the gangrene. hope you're well otherwise! P	06/29/2008 03:42AM view | save | trash
	you said to Paddy: achy and not so pleasant smelling. i'm considering accepting a dowry of health insurance and a dishwasher.	06/28/2008 01:30AM view | delete
	Paddy said to you: how's the wrist this week? are the dishes piling up?!	06/27/2008 03:01AM view | save | trash
	you said to Paddy: no, it doesn't hurt - just annoying. and, at least i have an excuse for not doing the dishes.	06/18/2008 12:07PM view | delete
	Paddy said to you: gosh, I'm sorry to hear that, hope it doesn't hurt too much. 10 hours?! fuck, that's **unbelievable**! I hope you're OK now.	06/16/2008 05:27AM view | save | trash
	you said to Paddy: stereotypes. what fun! i did indeed break my wrist. the best part was waiting for 10 hours at the hospital for care (no health insurance). to answer the why, I fell off a building trying to be cool. in my defense, it was slippery.	06/15/2008 11:55PM view | delete
	Paddy said to you: he he, you American girls are so direct... How did you hurt your wrist? Cracking the whip?! P	06/13/2008 07:17AM view | unsave | trash
	you said to Paddy: um, i expect more from an author.... although you are english and rumor has it you're into formalities. imma chicagoan so we don't really do that. i am sorta well, although i am pretty sure i broke my wrist, which is better than dying i suppose, but pretty uncomfortable. be good. samantha	06/13/2008 01:20AM view | delete
	Paddy said to you: Hi Raiza, thanks for the add, great to be in touch! Hope you're well, Paddy

the beginning of "the big break-up"

i left my tongue in st. louis knotted 'round my ex's finger
with a diamond-shaped tumor six-carat dead ringer
year later i’m a drinker whiskey while the sad songs play
and you don’t love her if you never wanted to punch her fiancé


-lfm

1. the only strange women i talk to these days are bartenders. scale behind my back weighing her truths against her craft. the flash of teeth, rehearsed, yet fluently coy. aroused only by the pull of tips.

2. i have nothing honest to say that doesn't sound desperate.

3. today it's my turn to confuse the sweat we made for love.

4. when a woman who has neither kissed nor slept with you uses the word "sweet" to describe you or something you've done it can be read as the backhanded acceptance of a compliment. equal parts cute and pathetic.

-lfm

Ode to Chicago

I live in Chicago. City of grey. Sooty snow. Flattened parking lots and gangways. Concrete, quarter chip bags, and street cats. When you wait for the bus you have to stand close to someone just to catch some warmth. I have a car now. I like singing in it, but mostly when the windows are up. The city looks like shit from a car and makes me feel autonomous. Like I’m watching it on tv. I am going through a lot of anti-freeze. That color makes me think it’s not very safe. I have to use it though because I’ve been avoiding potholes like landmines.

It would be asking too much for warm weather because this is what makes us us.

The lake is a wasteland and the sky, grey almost always, and even when sunny, the wind burning my face as I stretch to feel it over my cheeks. Infinity’s existence seems covered in a film of smog that can’t protect me from all my little problems. I feel big and this seems like it’s it. The pressure builds. But I stay. It’s what makes me me. They’re too laid back in California. There is no reason to be laid back here. Where? My front porch is covered in ice and plastic grocery bags whirl around my door. I turn off the space heater to use the microwave or blow a fuse. I turn the heat down when I leave. I miss my neighbors.

First break of heat with last years little kids now big on my block. Barbeque in the air and police driving opposite down the one way. My neighbors sit on the porch and share any alcohol they have. Laugh that I’m the only one not a cousin. We talk about the neighborhood cats and which one is having a litter.

In the park, I wish I didn’t have to wear headphones to pretend that I don’t hear the little boys telling me something about myself, something that they might even think is sweet. Something that many girls think is sweet too. Something about how they (I) look.

And so, I like it when women smile at me on the street or say hello. But they usually look down even when I say hi first. Or we’re both wearing headphones or pretending to talk on our phones.

Youth and age, race, gender, class. All that makes us incapable of connecting as our true selves. The little boys who holler are mostly sweet and fucked up from their daddies just like me and most everyone else, but they watch tv and have piece of shit uncles and play Grand Theft Auto and no one tells them different. And they’re powerless anyway so why not take it where you can get it.
-samantha

Instructions

So, you and your friend slide your hands together and say slide
then clap.
then both of you hit your right hands together
then clap.
then both of you hit your left hands together
then clap again.

I used scissors to carve Xs into each lens of her glasses. She was at the drinking fountain. I put the glasses on the floor, and when she didn’t immediately notice I said, “Where did your glasses go?” She looked at them under her chair. Her lip curled. She didn’t dare say anything because I run this class. I take recess surveys to find out what girl the boys like the most. Then I make all the girls hate her. Today, I decided to scratch her glasses not just because she’s pretty, but because she has the most oversized New Kids on the Block buttons and I only have one.

then using the backside of your hands both of you slap the back of your hands together
then the palm of your hands
then clap.

I have metallic stars that glisten when I write. I slide them through the front opening of my desk. Arranging them. Rearranging them. A clear pink plastic box so perfectly stacked on top of a purple folder showing a polar bear surrounded by penguins, rainbows exploding from their wings. I can see their jealousy as I stroke the green hair of my pencil troll.

this time you will both
hit your right hands
then clap.

DON’T PANIC. Mrs. Elba said, “Shannon, where is your pin.” I pull the button from the desk. In red it says “DON’T PANIC”. Everyone is looking at me as I cry. They’re bored of being nice about it because it happens all the time. All the time. My mother says it because of the Tourettes, but the kids in my class don’t care. They make fun of my eyes because I blink a lot. I see them imitating me. The teacher tells them to be quiet, but I can tell she doesn’t like me either. She never gives me hugs like my second grade teacher did.

hit your right hands again
then clap
and clap again.

I asked her to pretend to be my girlfriend for five dollars. My brother, who’s a year younger than me, always has girlfriends. He calls me a fag. She said she would think about it. I told her that she just had to walk with me to the other playground and if he asked, say we were going out. The next day, she said no. She said her sister told her that taking the money would make her a prostitute. So I called her a slut.

then, hit your left hands
and clap.

I wanted to be her blood sister, so I slid the green construction paper across my thumb. A perfect red line appeared. I ran to her to show my good work. She’d be impressed. She said she had been bleeding, but I just couldn’t see it. We smushed our hands together and giggled. She told me that my step dad was an asshole. He’d gotten rid of my puppy. I came home from school and the puppy was gone. I guess he’d gotten into the trash again. I called her, the first number I ever memorized.

hit your left hands again
then clap
and clap again.

Gym dodge ball was a special treat for rainy days, at least for the kids who like to be looked at. I stood in the back. The principal took off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves and let the boys try to hit him. He was amazing. Catching a ball, deflecting the next with it. I wanted to have fun, but it hurts to get hit. And they laugh. I try to keep my eyes open, but I can’t control the instinct to hide. The pack is thin. Only 4 or 5 of us left. The screams of the eliminated students are a blur of reverberations through the gym. The opposing team targets me. I try to run, but slip. My shirt comes up and everyone sees the bra. And the other girls don’t need one yet, so they laugh.

hit your left hands again
then clap
and clap again.

I was wearing blue nylon socks. They were not a match. A group of girls approached me on the playground, one in front, leading them. She said, “Those socks don’t match.” I lied, “They do, one of them is just inside out.” She called me a liar. Earlier in the day we played MASH. I would marry one of the Nelson twins and have a camouflaged Geo Metro.

hit both of the back of your hands together
hit both of your palms together
then clap
hit both of the back of your hands together
hit both of your palms together
then clap
and CLAP again.

-samantha

world, say hello to tiny.

the child-like hand with the writing on it belongs to tiny. she is awesome. a recent study has shown that smiles and laughter amongst the anti-feelings campaign members are up about 46% since she started hanging out with them. there has also been 32% increase in tattoos.

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