I Enjoy Colors.

The title has nothing to do with me, and everyone's updating like their mothers' socks, so here I am, and I'm not giving up. I thought weekending was a hobby, but it's turned into a pass time for the elders. I like rambling, but I bet you never knew that.
Did I mention that personal statements are a bitch but as long as I'm writing I'll just keep going with it.
Asking me questions is probably not a good idea, and I would like to be a make-upper, although that's probably lower on my scale of engagements for the undead.
I enjoy ridiculous nail polish. Yes indeed, that and the color of my blander jackets, although I can never name it.
You know, I don't think we're anything closer than little jellybeans on a frying pan, but who knows. They can melt together too, as much as I hate when that happens.
I am pretty sure most people forget what they're thinking before they open their mouths, hence the lack of coherent judgement, but I do the opposite and the result is still much closer to the burnt candle on the verge of corrosion than I would have liked.
What's there to consider?
I'm just a bright green snowflake in a glass of lukewarm water.

Grammar is My Pony.

I think that there's gotta be some radius deficiency somewhere, but you never know
and I don't eat enough anyways, nor do I drink enough water, but what's there to do about that? Maybe I can spend my money on a body builder boyfriend. Fuck him.
I've planned more than your grandma's brother when he was getting married and spilled soup all over the maid of honor - who was a man anyways - or at least will be for me, and I just want to stay in and be alone. The minute I do that though, and VROOM I'm fucking lonely and crying all over the dashboard to happy songs.
What is wrong with me? I have absolutely no clue and I suppose, screw it, although all I really want is a love letter.
I am not very career oriented, and I am sorry, because no accomplishment brings me much pleasure, just bragging material. And I don't even give a shit. Smile at your table and I'll roll on and see if I can get to my car before you call me.
Looks like I'm always winning.
Goddamn orange peels.

I too, am wishing.

Looking back I am not so sure there's a reason to be sad, and you know that
hey,
even if I didn't run around wrapped in a shower curtain, I am still around and writing
and even if I sit there bashing the police department, I generally just don't care and you're making it up. Well, not you, me actually.
I like questions because they're the least coherent and require no answering, and if they do, well all the worse for them.
We didn't convert anyone, and I'm all for the Jewish faith, 'cause Jesus looks like any other bearded duder when he's wallpainted. He was pretty cool I'm sure though, so no hurt feelings.
You know there was chaos but it means nothingness, really, we just made it everything when we butchered its original language.
I don't believe in creation stories, I think we were all just the throw up of a giant yellow striped cat. An overweight one too.

I've got my act out there and together, and really, we know what's up.
I've got more arrogance than you can handle, so I'm just putting it in a blue jewelcase. Maybe beige.
And really, I know I'm better, but I won't tell you since that's just smug and I'd be selling myself prickishly short.

It's all about pretending to be on drugs and doing nothing with it.
I'm just letting it all decide itself - and standardized tests are waiting in their mutitude, but I'm a fucking poetry major. There's at least one advantage.
I like mathematics more than your mother's brownies. They make me fat, while math makes me puke out my brain cells in obscene numbers.
I want a counceling license. Yeah, that's right.
They'll give me one too - and then look out and bite your elbows. I'm gonna be out there helping insomniacs deal with their nosejobs. Don't warn them of my psychotic behavior at poetry readings - I want it to be a surprise. And besides, I'm tachychardic anyways.
Maybe, I'll just think that I'm worried while I enjoy my coffee, 'cause you know, I don't really give a damn. And even if I do, it's all 'cause I want you to think so and fuck with yourself, not my mindless drivel.
No worries, no attention, just enjoyment of my personal faithfullness to the paperclip god and the shredded documents in the trash bin.

Hey, all I want is just stupid smiles and air on my hair. I think I'm getting it too.
Who said I wasn't happy.

Lay Off the Mushrooms.

Hey kid
There ain't nothing to scare these days.
You know, I once tried throwing tennis balls at pigeons, but it didn't
work. So I had to sing Happy Birthday to my mother's friend's pitbull.
He was irritated, so I took off running, but he was faster, so I had
to scream bloody murder and climbed the tree, although the birds were
kind of scary.
Then again, my floorlamp's called "storm" and I put it on the nightstand.
Ever heard "Needle in the Hay"? It's good, and very drug-tacular, so
fits the scene of fourth avenue gutters, without the Tucson weather
and maybe with some snow added.
My wallet got fat, so I put it on a diet of rice and crackers, with no
mustard or ketchup - horseradish only. I should take out all the
receipts for things I never really thought of buying, but who knows
these days - maybe the war will start and I won't have a bottle of
Clinique perfume. There will be no getting it then, so I might as
well.
The volume on my stere is reversed. Ten is louder than fifty. It's
irritating, just like not being centered in movie theatres, if you
know what I mean.
We were once dipped into arguments daily, but then it switched over to
repetitious discussions that seemed new, but they really weren't. We
knew it too. But admitting something like that would just be
inappropriate.
When did we become so nice?
I've got to admit though, birdwaching to me is pretty similar to
armwrestling with pub-goers. I can't even fake my identity.
Time to move, and I'm still sitting on top of my blanket, fully
clothed, save the shoes that are missing, and my hair is desheveled. I
should take care of that.
Frank Lloyd Wright was one crazy bastard, let me tell you. He built
things, and people lived there, like it was nobody's business. I want
living arrangements for eight months from now. Wait, nine. Maybe ten.
I don't even know. The point is, I want them, god damnit.
Gotta, love those Passion plays. They're amazing, in that orange beret
sort of way.
Gotta skip now.
Hello to the rainforest on the Irish coasts, and the jungles too,
gotta love the graffiti my darlin'.

Response by Claire Shefchik:

Today is my birthday, but then it was not, and I didn't expect to spend it with the French tonight; cosmically linked to my mother's womb. We don't keep good relations with the public around here; we don't consider it fair. I think good description for the governor of Virginia is "smarmy." I don't remember what it was like back then; aloft; adrift. In fact, the only things I know right now are that Virgil enjoyed eating mangosteens and that the president has never visited Antarctica. Soon I will demonstrate how much I love clubs (but really I prefer pubs.) And Larry Pruitt is missing. Too bad it isn't Rory.