I woke up in a closet.

‘n sumtiems I liek … imbariss da shit outta ma self

Okay, so this happened to my leg last night:

All I can say is beach and then falling in the street as I walk home. I have bags under my eyes and I’m drinking a dangerous amount of coffee right now. Luckily, work is slow as usual. I’m dying for a break so I can get a subway sandwich though. I had a couple bites of pizza before I decided to go back to sleep for all of ten minutes before I walked to work.

Saturday was the first ridiculously hot day of the summer, and it seemed like every person in Brooklyn and Queens was going to Rockaway beach. For the first time ever I went into the water shoulder deep and actually swam. Before then, the deepest I would go in the water was knee deep and I’d get blood blisters or sand lodged in my skin from all the rocks and shells being blasted onto the beach. I have sand embedded in my nails. Ouch.

And my trail of thoughts will end here.


By Scott Tomford and Sharon Clark

Placenta Pete
Me: I hope the only coma I come out of is the one you put me into.
You: Sometimes he thrashed in his sleep.  One time his right elbow crushed her pelvis and she fell into a coma after they removed her lady parts.

Thank You Gary!

Me: I hope when we nod in agreement that we don’t bump our heads into each other.
You: They had matching bruises  hers was a more deep purple while his was black like an African Shaman.  “Dear, I need another ice pack.  I hurt.”  “I hurt too.”

Miscalculated madness at your local international coffee house!

Me: If you put a ring on my finger, make sure it’s from a hand bell.
You: After riding an escalator to the clouds, we could see everything.  Lots of things looked like penises.  Five things looked like a vagina.  One looked like Chris Martiny.

Starvation is an obstacle anorexics must overcome.
Me:  The only thing you need to wed is my appetite.

You: Genocide is only acceptable if you’re bored.  Murder is okay if you’re sleepy.  Rape is okay if your name is Hand Banana.

Me: The next time you’re in pain, think about being incognito.

We are suspended in gelatin.

Me:  There are worse things you could lose than your dignity.  Like your eyeball in a cockfight.
You: There are worse things to lose than your virginity.  Not much though.

We’ve been here for years.

Me: In the past, some of my times have been spent waiting.
You: Thank you for waiting.

When you think something is nice, the slavery involved usually ruins it for you.

Me:  I am waiting for your nails to grow so you can put our house together.
You: I found a home where I thought there’d be lady parts.  Is the white man’s burden funding welfare?

Close your legs!

Me: My knees aren’t the only things that have been getting bent lately.
You: Indie Anna Jones is your stage name.  I’d like to hear you sing about Jesus while wearing a giant pentagram on your chest.

Stomach Cheese
Me: When cows stop making milk, there’s nothing left in their udders.
You:  The elderly are shrunken and wrinkled because toddlers suck out their soul juices at night.

Me:  It’s the thought that counts if you’re good at math.
You:  I drink your milkshake rape your toilet.

Lip my talking.
Me:  If there’s no end and no beginning, there’s only role reversal.
You: ((><))

For you and me.
Me: A narcoleptic falling asleep in the shower is the next best thing to a night of heavy drinking.
You: In Connecticut, no one can hear you scream or complain about a lack of diversity.
Me:  When I pick you up, it’s hard to drive.
You:  Humping a pillow does not feel the same.  Also, it makes the case feel less comfy.
Me:  The guy next to us has a wad of $100 bills.
You: I am simply a pile of meat wielding a rather large boom box.

Me: It’s more embarrassing to pass gas than it is to pass tests.
You: Is it worse to lave at a funeral or an execution?  The answer is it is worse to laugh at a crippled sasquatch.

…boner, haha.

February 7, 2008, 3:06 am
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Lake Exhaustion

The sound of empty when no one is listening,
And the haul against the nerves
That tugs from the other end
Which builds a snow room to keep you in.

I want to keep you in between my thumb and forefinger around a match
I strike against your teeth

To light the streetlamps in the hilly park at night:
The stars – much closer to earth –
Because they are closer to exploding.
At night we swam across a lake to our new home.
I thatched bamboo into a roof to hear the rain dribble
Through it onto our skulls thick with electricity.

My hands charged as we slept,
And in the morning I ground teacups to make coffee.

January 7, 2008, 3:46 pm
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Candace sent a message to Zack that said, “You don’t know what I’m going through.” Candace said this to him because she stared at a wall and felt a loss for words to say to anyone other than “You don’t know what I’m going through.” She needed to send this to him to manifest her existence. If she could speak these words through a text message to him, it would be as if she splashed her face with cold water without turning on a faucet.
Zack replied, “I went through a glass door once,” and Candace laughed partially at the reaction to the declaration of her existence and partially at Zack going through a glass door. She asked him “what happened,” and he told her about the time when he was five years old that he walked into a glass door and broke it, falling through the frame and cutting open his arm so that to this day it appeared that he had a rigid zig-zag along his forearm. Once a kid named Jared asked Zack if he was related to Harry Potter, and Zack punched the kid in the stomach and slammed down the kid’s football helmet on his head so that he bruised his neck. “What are you going through?” asked Zack.
Candace kicked her legs under a desk and scratched her scalp to loosen up the dead skin and oil that dried around her roots and caused unpleasant build up . “I can’t sit still,” she told him.
He replied, “Can you stand still? I miss having food in my stomach.”
Candace had to agree. At this time in the day she missed having food in her stomach as well because she skipped breakfast and drank too much coffee. Candace drank many cups of coffee when she woke up so she could feel like she had energy to do important things even if there were no things to do. “That always felt the best,” she said, “It will be fun when I turn into a bagel and run into the sunset.”
“When you turn into a bagel and run into the sunset will you fall over?” For a couple seconds, Candace wondered why she would fall over.
“No, the sun will fall over and it will be night.”
“Haha. Maybe I will turn into a croissant and run with you.” Candace thought she should tell Zack he’d be better as a doughnut so they would both be round and have holes in the middle, but then she remembered he’d reply that he’d be his favorite kind of doughnut: Boston Crème with a crème-filled middle. She didn’t say anything back to Zack for a couple minutes so he sent her another message.
“I can’t do my work.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Preoccupied.”
“With scrabble?” Candace said this although she had no interest in prying further into why Zack couldn’t finish his work and despite the fact she was uncertain of whether or not she wanted to continue a conversation with Zack about things like work.
“Triple word score! I just used zither. You?”
“Fantum.” Sometimes Candace misspelled words because she thought it was funny. Other people thought it was immature. Most of the time she kept her funny misspellings to herself. “Werds,” she wrote in a notebook, “wut yew yooz two tock two peepul wen yew rite.” Once she wrote down a list of words that were spelled differently but pronounced the same. The list looked like this:

Spelling One Spelling Two
Bear Bare
High Hi
Ant Aunt
See Sea
Mary Merry
Very Vary
But Butt
Know No
Weather Whether
Week Weak
Herd Heard
Stairs Stares
Sow Sew
Meat Meet
Pear Pair
Would Wood
Some Sum

Candace thought there was a name for the words that were spelled differently but sounded the same. She tried to remember for an hour and it felt as if the name was bouncing around in her mouth but her brain forgot how to shape her mouth and flop her tongue to get it out. After thinking for ten minutes, Candace called her mom at work and asked her, “Mom, what do you call the words that are spelled differently but sound the same when you say them?”
“Homophobes?” Candace smiled at misspelling something by switching the letter and saying a completely different word with a different meaning. “No mom, you’re right. Thanks.”
“How are things today?” Candace and her mom talked about mundane things like washing the dishes so her father wouldn’t get mad at her when he got home from work later in the day. She remembered why she avoided talking to her mom at most costs, not all costs. There are some things she wouldn’t spend in order to avoid talking to her mother.
“Not bad. I’m doing homework. I hate Columbus day.” Candace’s mom sighed on the other line and she felt annoyed by having air blown into her ear. She remembered when she called Zack once and in the middle of a conversation she screamed as loudly as she could into the phone. Zack was angry for a whole day and didn’t call her back after he hung up, nor did he pick up when she tried to call him again to apologize. She had to wait to tell him, while laughing, how sorry she was that she had screamed so loudly at him. Zack had called her a psycho bitch.
“Have you washed the dishes?” Candace had been in a rocking chair when she was talking to her mom, and at the sound of the word “washed”, Candace rammed her foot against the wall so hard that the chair tipped backwards causing her to crash so hard that the phone cord was ripped out of the wall. Embarrassed at what she had done with her anger, she did not call her mom back.
Candace sent Zack another message that said, “New York is the size of twelve diamonds.” Marveling at the lack of sense in this statement, she sat on the floor and stared at her toes. She wiggled them. She folded the rest of them down so that only the big toe stood. Candace’s phone vibrated and she opened it to see the reply: “One-dimensional diamonds. Goodbye.”