They spent a lot of time standing around the diner, or the VFW, matching teenage posturing with adolescent insecurity, and flicking Marb’ Reds like mosquitoes.

What do you call someone who thinks this is something real, something palpable, when in fact, it is the residual bullshit of generational sacrifice and self-loathing?

You want rants.

We’re all so in love with our own vision that there is nothing left.

I do not wish to die.

At one point, I did. Half a life ago, I tried. Not with great and fiery conviction, but out of necessity and desperation. I simply did not know what else to do.

She met this Freddy in this way:
She met Freddy in spring while it was wet and dark, and teenagers slink inside for bong hits, beer and the Jefferson’s on Nick at Night.

So to start
You wake up in Dublin – your home town born and bred.

So what’s the problem? You have no cash nowhere to live and no form of identification

I never started smoking because it was simply too commonplace. It held no mystery. Stealing had a purpose. There was gain in stealing. Smoking just made you smell bad.

Fleeting moments. Smells. Nostalgia. Words overheard. Many elements make up our glimpses of a city, and the feel we get from it

Time stretches so endlessly before me. I want to fill it with something productive

That’s Right

We’re Back

Every one of us girls came to Rose M. Singer in the same way.

It was just wrong place wrong time that brought us here after a long morning/afternoon/evening of hot shots, cold showers, and empty pockets. We had no malice in our souls. We’re all just as sweet as the day we were born.

It’s just in those broken moments,
in those moments,
You realize not just what you are capable of, but what we are all capable of, as individuals, and as this collective human failing.

The book…

You know it’s fake. You know it’s fiction…

But it all seems so real.

So you research places, people, things. All nouns that you know will never amount to anything. You scour all your resources for things that never exist and will never exist…all so you can make your life more interesting.

Writing, for me, is about being in my own skin. I don’t have to impress anyone.

No agendas.

No demands.

Observe my own thoughts; accept them.

Here they simply are the truth of a moment.

They exist only in this moment.

Ultimately, on the page, through my pen, I Can Let Those Thoughts Go.

Writing is my Zen.

They are sure to be disappointing in the flesh. It’s a cliché that ‘artistic types’ – musicians, dancers, actors, painters, and perhaps to a lesser extent, according to the cliché, writers (unless they are Irish, in which case they are appropriately drunk and perhaps violent) – are awful gobshites in person. They are like regular humans but more fallible, more fucked up, more vain, insecure, exhibitionist and so on. In fact, we sort of approve this about them, one of the guarantees of their authenticity as creative is a certain repertoire of dramatic incompetence in conventional interaction. It feeds into the whole Byronic, romantic mystique about The Artist: social dysfunction is proof of genius. Plus we then get to hold them exempt from conventional norms and indulge their peculiarities; we have to take care of them because of their special status. They get away with murder because they give us their Art.

I am annoyed. With myself. I started writing a piece. Discarded it. Came back to the idea, rewrote it. Discarded it. Again.

Sunday morning while cleaning up the kitchen before pancake breakfast, the best description came to me. The exact explanation I’ve been searching for came to mind. If I were profound enough it would have been an epiphany. You must understand there was much excitement in my mind.

Me pase la vida conformandoa esos que no tienen que ver conmigo;
Me pase la vida convenciendome, intentando ser alguien que ni siquiera yo logro entender;

English Translation

I spent my life satisfying those that have nothing to do with me.
I spent my life convincing myself, trying to be someone that even I can’t understand.

My last piece took three months to write.

When I get on a rant I can write for days.

It’s easy, I have a direction, if I’m lucky I have a template to respond to. When left on my own I go off on tangents, I go off topic too easily, I babble, my words become redundant. Even now I still nitpick my last piece. It should be more concise, succinct, expanded, delete, worded differently.

I’m out, camera in hand, trying to get a picture that wishes to stick to the camera. Trying to find something out there that is worth saving, just a glimmer of something. Something I want to save.

Or “How to Be Everything and Nothing”

What is it about human nature that makes us divide ourselves?

Out here, we are all turned on by tragedy, just so long as it’s not our own.

A hero isn’t a type of person; it’s a turn of events. Someone happens to have the right traits at the right place and time, and ends up saving the day. It obviously follows that the right traits tend to be less common ones, and so the atypical have a greater chance of occasionally being heroes. You’re only a hero at that time and place, however. I can no more save a world - let alone the world - than anyone else.

You will meet your greatest loves under the worst of circumstances.

I hurt in places I do not want to know. I’m cold and tin outside, with me rambling inside like an old nut. The rats of paper trash rustle around, down by the tracks where it smells like piss and smear, train debris lost in the pits. Leaves hunt through the street like rogue X-wings trying to dive-bomb the gutters, but next to the curbs, curious golden matchsticks have appeared.

Encourage your hedonistic tendencies.
Be sweet and nice to yourself.

No wallowing in your shortcomings – or mine; I’m good enough for myself, and I don’t want you on my back. Walk your own blisters.

It got late one night and I got to pondering; what would be the best job to go postal in. Where postal equals batshit crazy.

My phone’s dead. I keep picking up the horn to listen to the silence. Nothing to connect ‘cause the switch’s dead; I sing the song of the OFF function without STAND-BY because – just – No. Fuck content: How about this bit of societal flatline?

How come people still don’t look at the sky, wear shabby, bright colours or sing their daily commutes into being, instead opting to ruin their ears?

The energy in me is brighter than a lightbulb

I don’t want to tell you these stories; I want you to see them for me.
All these ghost stories…

I am fond of post-its, sticky notes – snail glue papers. They stay in books to keep lines and pages. They scream ‘HERE!’ in the corporate monochromes of the library. I can keep them at face-height and encounter them like I would a person, only there’s something written on it, most often by me, which can even surprise me with myself.

Dear Santa,

Buddy, I got a lot to say to you.

First things first; do you read the news?

Hm, why is it people odd faced people always sit opposite me in the cafe. I mean this girl vaguely reminds of the moonfaced guy from Clive Barker’s ‘Nightbreed’ comics, her face tilts vaguely to the side and seems kinda’ moon shaped, when she concentrates, her bottom jaw juts out in a vaguely off putting way. However…and this is a big however…or well several of them, her skin is all but perfect, lightly dappled with freckles…but hm…it’s not that, thats the however, it’s the eyes, big wide anime things crystalline I suppose, have a vorpal edge of the kinda vacuous drag you in crack yer soul like a grizzly an suck out its essence as iffen it t’were marrow.