This photo is of an incredibly poor quality because two weeks ago I threw my phone across the room with such force that the front part came off. It's still a little messed up.
This is called: I don't want to do work. We found this at Walgreens. On the way to the post office. And finally, My hole to the head. I'm Joan Vollmer for halloween. Who? http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Vollmer
We got our first batch of cookies as red planet bakery out. The ones in the picture were actually for us to eat. Meg has most of her dreds, er, locks, in. This pumkin was asking for it. Yet another flax product and example of what I look like tired and sick and loopy.
If you've been reading, er, looking, you'll understand. Maybe. Andrea stuck a fork through her septum ring. She wanted to see if she could eat in such a manner.
See what I mean? Marc is sometimes a cunt. Other times he comes over and wears Meg's cunt jacket. Depends on the day. Today, I helped make canvases. But mostly I just watched.
Nikki is pretty stupid, but she's only 18 and fresh out of high school. She doesn't know how to pump gas. It's amazing how much of a difference a year can make sometimes. Also, these are some seriously blue jeans!
I will now Be updating about once a week! Somebody didn't want Alf anymore. I roll my own cigarettes and am getting decent. This was my long hair desing. Seen Mulholland Drive? The lips say "Silencio".
WE ARE Failed poets, artists, philosophers, geniuses, cigar aficionados- in other words we are the Chicago Heights Literary Mafia. a combination of underground organised crime and literature. an amalgam of spectators turned plotters.
It's not about sexism, racism, rankism, ageism* or any other "ism" (good or bad). it's not about what makes us different or what makes us the same. it's how we don't care. it isn't about religion, music, t-shirts, art, street cred, or even literature sometimes! it's about you and me and something stronger than guns to bring us together. we late night wanderers and tea drinkers know of one thing stronger than the derringer: the pen.
WHY?
Things get neglected. interocean avenue, fording the river on the oregon trail, rent-a-poets, awkward silences and nervous laughter, the acceptability of dogearing pages, tri cornered hats(really haberdashery in general), poetry as the art of literature, the scarcity of benches--never should it be limited to literature.