Cellphone and Gmail Drafts

This is for those of you sad bastards who have been wondering where the fuck I've been. Proof that I've not been writing because I actually cannot write. These brain farts have been accumulating all year. None of them are connected and they're just things I wrote down when I was thinking of them with no intention to really post, but that's what you're going to get from the queen of Nokia1100 prose. More bullshit will follow almost immediately.



(After the apocalypse)
 The world has changed, imperceptibly  'Break Down' the red bus proclaims. Everything seems like a sign.  The streetlights are actually giants and only their eyes are visible, they stare at you sleepy eyed as you pass. The fog is moving in.
Always making the same mistakes repeating the same conversations we're all dissatisfied. I stand on an empty street alone for a moment.5 am. Just because I can. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Looking across at your friend like you were a happy couple on tv, him taking off his tie, you your jewelry. I feel still inside. Lying deep underwater while everything is turbulent at the surface.



(After reading other people's poems)
I have never written love poems. Mostly because I can't write poems. Or love, in a way that facilitates (or is it necessitates?) poetry. I can only squirrel away observations in my phone ("Observation huh what are you Isaac Fucking Newton?")


(Written while reading Our Band Could Be Your Life)
It's always about telling the craziest, most badass story at the party. My friends are better than your friends. Where are the people that are genuinely insane? The ones that will scare and awe and bomb you out of your safe happy bubble? The best people are not the best artists, nor the best artists the best people. But why do people feel being nice is antithetical to being a good musician?
Punk rock is a contact sport. Do I agree with McKaye's intellectualized violence? Do I wish I could deck anyone who called me a name? Or do I want another solution? Where do I stand as a woman. Does their violence seem like hypocrisy (considering their denunciation of the 'jock' mindset?)



(While listening to Pink Freud in the metro). I can just see the top of his head but it seems intriguing. It's probably going to turn out shit like the others. I feel uneasy. Onion flavoured Bengali chattering in my ears. Chep aunty. The floating head is gone.



I wish there were a drug called empathy. You'd take it and could plug into people's feelings and just get it. Feeling everything they can feel, right down to the parts of themselves they don't know where they are.

We are all alone. In our minds. That's why we invent people to keep us company. To occupy, our thoughts. We invent the ones we love, even though they exist outside us.