puit

i'm pretty high on my sleeping pills right now. i wrote some tweets that are great because you can read them from top to bottom and from bottom, up. 

goodnight, sarah

NOT A DREAM POST

John Waters wrote this book called Crackpot: the Obsessions (which I own but is currently in possession of someone who is not fully appreciating it) and it's hilarious. Everyone should read it. In this book, John lists 101 things that he hates and 101 things that he loves. One of the things that he hates is people who say “I had the craziest dream last night!”. Well, I am a horrible perpetrator of this crime irl. Mostly because I dream a lot and my dreams are hilarious (as opposed to other people's). But I try not to talk about my dreams too much, specially on my blog, because it could easily become a dream log... because, again, I vividly dream every day, even during naps.

I also sleep a million hours a day

But today I talking about a dream I just had, because it is so disturbing it has left me depressed and disturbed. So... OMIGOD you'll NEVER guess what I dreamed about last night....

Okay, I had a dream that I found my real father (keep in mind, I know who my real father was), and he lived in America, was remarried and had two kids, a boy and a girl. I was staying at their house after being kicked out of Smith (you guys have GOT to stop posting about going back on Facbook, it's hacking into my dreams), just for a couple of days. My real “dad” (a short, kinda bald dude) never showed up in my dream. I was sharing a room with my 14-year-old half sister.

via this person

This is the fucked up part: 

I dreamt my “sister” seduced me and we made out and I was planning to have sex with her 

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN. WHYWHYWHYWHYYYYY WOULD I DREAM SUCH A THING??????????????????? I woke up feeling WRONG and when I remembered my dream I wanted to jump off the balcony. But it's like, really cold outside, so I didn't. What.The.Fuck. Am I a secret pedophile? It was so gross. It is so gross! I need to wash my brain with bleach.

Anywhooo, today is the first day without my Jwife. She left yesterday after being here for 13 days. The two months I spent here in Uruguay were basically just waiting for her, I knew she was coming, there was like, a hope. Now that she's gone I can't seem to find anything positive about being here – like, anything. 

maybe *you* (via thisperson)

I, of course, psychological help with this. Now, who's gonna pay for that? These past two days have been shit, shit shit. I found out a friend's mom passed away, which made me and J pretty depressed since both of our moms have had breast cancer. Most of the time I feel pretty numb, with some flashing moments of my eyes watering a little, my nose gets itchy, I can't get words straight. But then it's back into staring into some sort of screen, nice blues and greens, empty plates around my bed. Crumbs of sandwich number one make friends with crumbs of sandwich number two.

Autumn Sonata - Ingmar Bergman - 1978

I wasn't home when J had to go to the airport, I was at work. She left a note in my computer that I read when I got home from work which said “Leaving you sucks and I am starting to get tired of saying goodbye to my best friend.” How can people be expected to go through this type of shit all the time? Maybe I would have been better of staying here in the first place, never meeting people who will always take a piece of my heart when I leave or when they leave. My brain is scattered all over the world, in about 15-20 pieces, and I am afraid that I will never be complete: these pieces will never be in one place at the same time.

Google "Andre Harlow" and shit your pants.

But then, I wouldn't know so many wonderful people, and, let's face it, it's hella cool to have a piece of your soul in every continent.

On the other hand, I feel paranoid at all times; I am afraid one of my pieces will give up on me and not love me anymore. Let the little bit die. And then I'll die. And then who will I feel sorry for?

Is that why I can't meet people here? I have no more pieces left! All my interesting bits are not with me

... I just realized that all this talk about “pieces” and “bits” is extremely sexual and I didn't mean it it to be sowwwwwy.

foucault + heath ledger

Things that were said in the past couple of days:

"Hey, are you okay? I heard that you punched yourself several times in the face last night."

"Your ass is distracting me from my drinking."

"If we move in together, we just must buy those fake sumo wrestling suits."

"She looks like a neo-nazi with poor fashion sense."

"I am never drinking again."

The last one is the funniest. 

This is a pretty accurate description of what I looked like on Friday.

OK, so, I have been writing a bit more, mostly stuff not suitable for the internet. (Well, yes, suitable, but not necessarily good for anyone’s mental health). For the past FOREVER I have been reading about auteur-structuralism and it’s all sorts of confusing/wrong/fascinating. I want to shoot Foucault in the face… who needs such big words? ME. THINKS. NAMES. ARE. WRONG. See? Easy! 

I mean, really, Foucault? This is your face?

But the business about the writing, I need an editor! Someone who’s like Ezra Pound par rapport to TS Eliot (an anagram of Toilets LOL). Slash my shit in half and tell me I’m worthless. I deserve that, at least!

This week has been a real change for me: I started drinking coffee and stopped drinking alcohol (with the notable exception of Friday night, of which events shall never be spoken of again). I have been, as we say in Uruguay, con un cuete metido en el culo. My therapist says that caffeine is probably not good and might exacerbate my mood swings but OMG WHAT DOES HE KNOW. I even bought a coffee mug. A whole new exciting world. 

Annnyway, like Foucault is obviously right about, I have nothing new or original to say, so I am going to go to bed. And dream. I have been having the best fucking dreams lately. Last night only, I dreamed that:

1. I was Mina Harker from Dracula and I made out with Dracula who happened to be Heath Ledger. 

I literally ask "god" why oh why several times a day.

2. I was filming an acoustic set of Radiohead which included back-up vocals of myself (multitasking), Elly Jackson from La Roux (we obviously made out in this dream too), and Heather Morris from Glee. Thom was like my best friend. 

3. I talked to my sister on the phone and she said that when I turn 28 I must begin an annual check-up for some obscure disease that my father apparently had. The cost of these tests would be of 5000 pesos. She asked me what I was doing with my life (“It’s been sooooo long”, she said distractedly). I, in a small voice, said that I was finishing my BA. She didn’t seem to care that much and the call dropped (BTW, fuck AT&T).

That was the saddest dream because it’s the one that could be closest to the truth.

Also you guys, did you LISTEN to Radiohead’s new album? I need to listen to it a couple of hundred more times to really have an opinion (“they have like, sooo many layers”), but my fave fave song so far is Morning Mr Magpie. And also, Give up the Ghost.

Ok, now, really bed.

They tell me stories,

beaches glimmering with

old bathroom tiles,

a Portuguese ship once forgot.

Your grandmother's death,

The bathroom tiles.

Your grandmother's death,

the bathroom tiles’ forgotten little specks.

Rapid limbs with no owner,

another night in front of the mirror.

The boy, a man, made you take your clothes off

because he took you for a ride on his bike,

his expensive bike

laughing in the faces of the cops

who probably live in the banlieus anyway.

You will wash your face.

You will brush your teeth.

Better now?

Do you know how to get home?

Will you walk into the Atlantic,

to try to find more broken tiles?

 

Your vomit in spiraling swirls  

in a perfect mix of pristine safe water

and your grandmother’s ashes.

<3