Black lips.

Whoa! Hey! Yeah, so do you!

Every time I log in to LiveJournal I'm shocked to find that it still exists exactly the way that I left it and I can't help but mention it. It's like bumping into an ex-boyfriend at the grocery store and you both look really good so it doesn't make anybody feel weird.

I miss those of y'all who haven't immigrated to Tumblr with me. Is there a lot of Beyonce over here? There's a lot of Beyonce on tumblr. 
  • Current Music
    fiona apple, "hot knife."
Black lips.

(no subject)

"Softly," 2011. Digital.

I really love having a graphics tablet! I use it sometimes (so far, way too rarely). But I drew this thing, and the photographer who took the source image liked it! Aw.
  • Current Music
    Evenings, "Aisle, It Blooms."
Black lips.

The great literary tradition of the "retelling."

(The Now Perfect Woman)

It's only a constellation,
an ugly thing. A half dozen
rust-colored spots
marching up and down
her white right cheek.

She invests in it.
She turns her face this way
and that, surveys the stain
in the bathroom mirror,
peers through fog, through
the white density
that can't obscure
her mark.

At dinner
she rests her hand over it,
taps it, draws attention to it.
She dotes on it as though
she might knock it away,
embarrass it
right off of her face. But

it's firm, it stays in place.
It doesn't bend
to the dark or the light, doesn't
age. She presses it,
a kiss.

She marries it, she reclines.
She sinks like a stone.
Black lips.

Dear god, I hate myself.

Do you ever get really attached to a word or phrase that is associated with an artist/writer/performer that you dislike? No matter how hard I try, I cannot like Xiu Xiu (oh my god, dude, I want you to take a pill), but I sometimes love the way he titles things. Like, his new album is called Dear God, I Hate Myself, and I think that's a really good title for something. Why didn't someone else get to it first? Not that it's a particularly inventive or original string of words.

I'm really overthinking this thing. Whatever. Check out how my hair is flying through the air!
Black lips.

Elephant Woman.

Your hand fell over my thigh, was hot and wet and nervous, and around us it was so dark I briefly convinced myself that crawling up my spine was something, something, something, and not just the cloudy, stinging sensation of waking up from a dream.
Black lips.

It had already been an awesome day.

        The best thing about having a job is that when I leave my job at the end of the day I can say that I "got off of work."

        Today, when I got off of work, my mom and I went out to eat at our favorite Mexican restaurant. While we were talking, the hostess walked past with a little crowd of women, seated them at a table a few feet away, and walked over to our table.

        "I love your," she said, and paused, drawing her hands up to frame the space just above her eyes. "I don't know how you say it in English."

        "Eyebrows?" my mom said.

        "I don't know," she said.

        "Eyebrows?" I said. We all gestured to our eyebrows.

        "What did you say?" she asked us, drawing big angles on her face with her fingers.

        "Eyebrows," my mom said. I smiled.

        "Eye brows!" she said. "Eye brows."

        "Thank you so much," I said.

        "Shoe are well come," she said. She smiled and walked away.
  • Current Music
    m. ward, hi-fi.