Politico

I'm watching the Democratic debate because it's interesting, like a grotesque dance. Clinton seems calm, speaking with the coolness that may be expected of her as the Gorgon she's reputed to be. Obama pauses and stammers, and it would be easy to call him out as a demagogue. I don't know much about politics.

Hey

Talk to me, fucker. Don't let me rot here.

Turn It Out

I straightened my hair last night after 12 hours of not knowing that it was all I needed. Today I felt really terrible, overexposed and oversaturated. I don't understand why I had to listen to You're a Woman, I'm a Machine on a loop - DFA seems incompatible with feeling really terrible. Maybe it's because the opening bass crunches of "Little Girl" remind me why I want a tall guy that I never see.

Doc Frank

As God is my witness, I got so stoned that the Onion wasn't funny. Cue the horrified screams, the thunderclaps and lightning bolts.

In other news, I generally have no idea what the fuck I am doing.

Quicksand

I'm all themes. I'm jealous of everyone. I'm too young to die; with one big push, I will come back to life.

Give me white
Ground to run
And foregone
Lets me knife
Knife me lets
I will get
What I like

Fucking Black Francis

Edie was filing the tips of her fingernails into perfect curves.

"I think Black Francis would rape me," she said, pausing to study the nail on her index finger.

Kelly chewed her mouthful of apple slowly and swallowed it. "Why is that?" she finally asked.

"Well," Edie said, resuming her work, "I think I would be like 'oh cool, Black Francis, you're so edgy, yeah, let's totally fuck' and then we'd start fucking but he'd get really intense, I think, and then I'd be scared and I wouldn't want it anymore but he'd keep going and yeah, that's rape, I guess."

She emitted a blasé sniff, and the accused screamed wildly from her boom box. Kelly examined the speakers as if to look at his face, frowning with concentration.

"Is he hot?" she asked, biting into her apple.

"No," Edie said.

"Hmm," Kelly said.

Jungle Juice

I met a man in a Fedora. I met a girl who fell in love with me and then asked my age. No one likes me, but some people love me.

One of These Fine Days

I am deferred; they have stuck their collegiate nose right up at me. "It's a very dangerous thing to get exactly what you want," the voice enunciates in my ear.

I can appreciate that, grudgingly. But what's the worth of never getting exactly what you want?

This wooden Buddha on my desk is genuinely amused. I rub his belly and he just laughs, showing small pointed teeth. It seems like he sees nothing with his strangely carved pupils.

Should I keep tearing out my hair and risk being ridiculed, or should I shut up and eat mattar paneer when I get it?

Wayne Coyne and the Buddha want to end the conversation, but neither of them will look me in the eye.

Yeah! P.A.

It is 11:02 PM, and I have three empty glasses, a yellow marker sticky with Screwdriver, a towel filled with tufts of Pete's hair, and crumbs of strange cheese. What I no longer have is a large spool of cotton ribbon. I bet you would like to know what happened tonight.

Heads Unimpressive Without Shoulders

He was an ugly man with Costello glasses. I remember the color of my hair, an unnatural shade of brown. I remember the box that the dye came in.

The apartment stank of frozen potstickers. His cat knocked over a crusty bottle of rice vinegar; we drank rum from thimbles. I lost hope, and rightly so.

Lucky

Marvelous vibes, but I append the past terms of vibe definition:
d) Vibes are subject to change between day and night.

The only concrete New Year's resolution I made was to always use toilet seat covers in public bathrooms. OKAY!

What's new today is a friend in kombucha, and by the way, THE BLACK KEYS ARE COMING.

"Anna Karenina" sounds like a death mask, a funeral march.

Wave #71

My legs are hairy. I cough deeply and recoil. I don't have to know about the lack of splendor.

We play Rock Band for an hour. We get by on Medium and spend our money on pants and earrings for our sinewy, enthused alter egos. The clock shines 11:46 as we play the last forlorn notes of "Creep". We return to the couch.

Our parents chat with the TV tuned to the news channel. On the screen, sexy circus freaks dance with glitter somewhere in San Francisco. I pick up my crocheting. The hat is grey, a gift; I can tell him that I finished it in 2007. I race through the last stitches, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two.

2008 comes through the open door, looks around, wipes his feet quietly. Weariness fades the features of his face. He likes the dark, and he lays down on the couch slowly, resting his head on my knee. They clink champagne flutes filled just to the point that they satisfy tradition, seeming not to notice him.

"Hey," I say.

He tilts his head back. "How are you?" he asks.

I feel fever in my eyes. I look at the smoldering coals in the fireplace, my ankle in its nubby sock, the tail of my cat as he retreats from human company. "Good," I respond.

He plays with my toes, looking at the screen. "Go with the flow, babe," he says.

I see the notes in green, yellow, red, the occasional blue. I forget what my fingers are doing and watch myself playing. I mess up, ace the chorus, mess up, manage a bonus. The plastic clicks add up.

My wrist aches. 2008 passes me a lavender soda. Lavender, of all things.