I'm just a guy with a guitar singing a song for you.

Meanwhile, I've been scratching my arm with a hairbrush as to avoid ruining my wet nails which are now a lovely shade of pale blue.


Photo credit on flickr.

I apologize, I cannot remember the user.

I think that's boring.

Jacob's poop candy and ice cream emperors

My dear friend Jacobo took the following photos.






I assure you he lives a very happy life and I am not dedicating this post to him because he has died. His burlesque photography deserves to be exposed to the masses. Maybe I should have tried twitter instead...

Because bad poetry is my calling

I'm sitting in this stuffy office,
a thick layer of sweat separates my clothes from my skin.
My eyelids are heavy with the sleep that I never got
while tunes of silent desperation
drone on in the background,
closing the gap between an ardently woeful past
and the immediately bleak future
where I'll have to step outside
into this pouring rain
only to be drenched by our "friend" Mother Nature.
This whole scenario just sounded like a horribly written poem to me.
So I decided to write it down.

Tell me about something that matters, or doesn't matter. Just don't talk about yourself so much.

Why does everyone and their mom want to blog about fashion these days? It's really tiring! Now, don't get me wrong. There are fashion blogs out there that do their thing, and do it well. I am fan of quite a few. See The Sartorialist and my girl, Jane, for example. And I do like fashion too, but I don't have so much self-importance to think that the world is dying to know what piece of cloth I use to cover my ass each day. Nor do I think that readers will make the extra effort log on the internet and access my blog to find out about it.

It's kind of like twitter. I mean, I am guilty of having a twitter. I have had it for years now actually. Before anyone knew about tweets, I made an account because I was curious to see what the hell it was. Now about three years later, I realize that it's largely a social network of people who aren't really doing that much with their lives so they feel the need to log online and tell the world everything that they're [not] doing. If you are truly busy, are you really going to log on to twitter to tell the world how busy you are? NO!

Anyway, I have a total of four updates on twitter, none of which are actually about my life. My tweets either consist of my commentaries on life (which are so profound that I NEED to share them with the world, thus twitter is my only option) or how horrible the weather is. Other than that, there are few aspects of my life that truly interest people, so I don't bother to telling them about it.

If people want to know a little bit more about my life, then they'll read my blog which is probably why I can count the amount of readers this blog attracts on my left hand. But that's okay! It doesn't matter because if I was blogging for attention, I wouldn't be able to talk about whatever I wanted. Instead I'd have to talk about things that interest other people which, in my experience, don't really interest me. And, it's a bore always trying to please other people.

But seriously,
WAKE UP WORLD and everyone listen (or at least the five of you that have made it to the bottom of this entry)...

People don't really give a shit. So when they lend you their ears for the obliged 10-15 minutes (only 5 of which they're actually listening), don't bore them by talking about things they could easily read in a magazine from someone who actually put research into the topic (depending on the magazine of course). Tell them about something more interesting like how your dog gets so excited to see you and your friends that she pisses herself at the sight of everyone. And if that doesn't work, you can always bitch about the weather.

Dog Days of Summer

Wow it feels like I've done nothing this summer, yet I find myself not having any time. How does this happen?

I work at a nonprofit agency three days a week for four hours. In fact, I'm here right now, as you can see, working very hard. I have a lot of time to blog but have not had the motivation to do it.

Right now I'm listening to Catalan music on grooveshark.com whilst my personal statement for law school is open on Microsoft Word. Except I'm not really working on my personal statement either. I had every intention of coming here and battling through it, but I'm stuck...and to add to that I forgot my notes with all my "brainstorming possibilites." Normally I would continue to write anyway but I know what I want to say in the statement and I have it all written down on my "brainstorming possibilities sheet" (yes, the paper itself is labeled that) which, unfortunately, resides on my desk in my room most likely being toasted by one of my cats asses right now (they love to sit on my desk).

Seriously, the woes of trying to write well are, well, quite trying.

Thus, I decided to resort to some bad writing and post it on my blog. But whatever, bad writing and bad art, they all still come from the heart. It's just that bad writing is less excusable. I mean, it's not your fault that when you draw bunny rabbits they turn out as demented squirrels. This should not stop you from drawing if you like it so much. You draw those demented squirrels the best way you know how (at least that's what my mom always told me)! Bad writing, on the other hand, is just disgusting. No explanation needed.

Okay well wish me luck with my stagnant personal statement and very busy summer days!

Would anyone like to join me for a coffee? I could go for this cortado right about now...

Poetry's not that important

I love poetry.
I wish I could be a more prolific poet.
A poet accustomed to producing beauty
as though it was a mechanic quality,
whose pen wields words
sharp like daggers
that, upon mere utterance,
slice through the paper
on which they are written.
But I'm not that poet.

I write poetry as it comes.
That is, I have to wait
patiently
for something
or someone
to light a fire under my ass
so big that it will continue to burn
unless I suffocate it with my pen.

I'm sure other poets have easier
and surely much safer ways
of gathering inspiration,
but I'm not about to sit on fires
looking for it.
I love poetry
but it's not that important.

No, instead I'll lavish in angst alone
without poetry's help,
extinguishing the inital flames
of small campfires
with distractions and smiles,
until the day when a fire
so monstruous and uncontrollable
fries me
and sizzles my ass
to the point of crispiness,
leaving third-degree burns
and permanent scarring.


Then I'll write the poem of my life.