Correct me if I’m wrong,

but it seems too many guys I know have admitted to something that sickens me a little: sharing a bed with a female friend, then finding themselves feeling her up when they think she’s asleep.

Well, it used to sicken me a little, but now it straight-up disgusts me.

What makes someone think girls are toys when they’re not awake? What the fuck kinda coward’s move is it? Apparently, the kinda coward who says this: “Actually, it’s not rape, she hasn’t had the chance to say no and it’s not like you’re hurting her.” Then, laughter. Is getting a boner over a rag doll supposed to be an achievement? The fact that you’re near a girl and misinterpret her so much that you think “oh, she won’t mind, but only if I’m careful.” means you are not my friend. It means YOU ARE SCUM. Cunt-faced scum.

To some, I may be over-reacting, but I’d like to see how you’d hold up in the same situation.
The details aren’t worth going on about, but I’ll say… that’s the only panic-attack I’ve been pleased with after the fact. I panic-attacked him. And this (I love how humour comes out despite being fucking terrified) – “One more of WHATEVER THE FUCK THAT WAS and you’ll be getting the sexiest concussion. And you’ll be blowing snot-bubbles as Big Sal’s limp-fisted little bitch in the pokey. GOD DAMN YOU, JUDAS.” I’d like to say violence had no place in this, but it did. The element of surprise was all I had and it was all I needed.

Ugh. I’m so tired. And I feel dirty. Oh, well. Just another instance of sorting the wheat from the chaff as far as the people I surround myself with. I don’t feel I’ve lost somebody when they’ve already proven themselves to be a piece of shit.
This day is turning into one pressurised, lengthy exhale, and I’d like to do something about it.

I’m too angry with humans, at least for now, so I’m gonna go hang with some animals. The kind who don’t try to bury bones in creepy ways.

[Pigeons were the final verdict, because they’re all over town square and I like the way they walk. And nobody approaches the pigeon-feeding-ladies; everybody knows they’re off their fucking rockers, right? Shiny-sided strutting, though… If you squint, you can pretend like they’re wearing waistcoats. Flying squires. I bet I could make a tiny monocle out of a contact lens and a locket chain. More crumbs, STAT. See? Sane as hell.]


What the fuck kinda

What the fuck kinda

patronising bullshit is this?!

I’m all for picking up a book and learning something new, but this is just sad.
I could be old-fashioned, but I’m sure our elders deserve more after their patience with us when we were silly, little pants-shitting nonsense-machines.

They get to the age when the world is being run by machines they didn’t grow up with and nobody can be bothered sitting down with them for a minute to show a little patience and a decent sense of humour. So they have to fork out and turn to books that imply they’re stupid.

If Dawn Anderson isn’t too cool to go through the ‘loop-de-loop’ with me to do up my laces, then I’ve got time to take anyone through the basics of their own fucking home computer.

Word to your mother. Seriously.



I’m gonna print this off for my dad (he drives taxis) to put in his car.

I’m sure we all have a healthy disdain for advertising in general these days, so why not take the piss and find something oblique, passive-aggressive, alarmist and somewhat offensive that’s had enough time to steep in the juices of irony?

Ever since I saw my first bitch-poster (I like calling them that) as a child, I thought, “Holy shit, written words have never SCREAMED at me before.” And for a kid who was forced to recite certain bible verses, I was pretty comfortable with some terrible passages. But then:


I (immaturely) compare it to this kinda memory… say, when you and your brother / whoever are getting way too far into Tekken Tag Tournament to stop, then you hear the vacuum cleaner and some well-placed groans and sighs (I love you, Ma. Really, I do)… and you just know something’s gonna kick the fuck off if you aren’t gonna get up and help. Something serious. Even though Yoshimitsu gets flattened whenever you leave the room (he has a saber. Nobody with a saber should be taking that shit) mysteriously even though you swore you paused everything and are listening out for combo shots from over the way.

But this is why I’m lucky: I’ll step back from the surface I’m dealing to, and Ma says, “You’re not having as much fun as you’re pretending to. [nods at other room] I know you were winning that stuff over there. I was listening. So thanks for this, ya little shit. You go now.”

Arbeit Macht Frei.

One reason


I never became the successful stewardess I dreamed of being as a child:
Reminding myself of the fundamentals was never enough. I’ll explain.

You know those days (which should only be occasional, if ever) when it all seems pointless? Your head is in the grey and your feet are leaden. Nothing is going like how you’re accustomed to, and it’s starting to get taken personally. Scary airs. Ground on down. Walls and sadness. Clipped wings and madness. Generally it went like this:

  • Step one: Why are you here, Ilene? To travel and earn at the same time. Doesn’t resonate? Okay, then you’re here to save hundreds of lives if you have to. And if you don’t have to, then you’re basically a waitress, my love. Great.
  • Step two: All right, feeling disenchanted and disillusioned and all the rest of it. At least you’re getting closer to your goals. Right? Seen enough of the place you passed through? Maybe not. Earned enough money? Definitely. Met nice people? Next question. Love your colleagues? Maybe if they didn’t judge me on what shade my lips are. Self-pity doesn’t fit in the overheads, though. Sorry.

However, there I would be, in the departure lounge… looking great and feeling miserable. And for what? So I can be a safety mannequin? So I can hurt myself on the microwave? And get bitten by rabid toddlers? Or be the only one on the craft who cares about food allergies? So I can daydream about how I’d warn my past self away from finishing school? So I can re-write myself and forget how to write anything else? I could try and make sense of this, or…

I could flip the table. Not a public show of losing my mind or anything, just inside my skull. But I still remember. The mental souvenir of it all was this thought – Woman. You’re ramming yourself into the ground so you can save the lives of people who treat you like shit. You’re feeding them and indulging their various whims while they’re at it. You honestly think you can convince yourself you love this? You are not well-tailored livestock. You are not a trolley-wench. You are not having this. But you are over 40′ above those assholes when you’re here on the viewing deck. And today, you’re not scared of that.

I’m glad I went home about half-an-hour later. I went home and called my parents. Then I ate a lot. I always eat a lot, but this was something else. Then I slept, although I’m not sure how long for. But I woke up with a graham cracker on my face and a whole lot of books in my bed. My bedroom never felt so nice. My uniform got left at a truck stop (I hope someone with a great imagination found it). My roommates have never been easier to ignore. I never have to be so tightly wound again.

Here’s to genuine smiles and spending less time in waiting rooms.

A widely used ligature,
damaged upon collision.
I saw the metal fall from your face.
The Current Shrift
says fractures are a gift,
but I say the black words have their place.

I cried when I saw the picture –
A space cadet’s crooked vision.
It wasn’t hard to take at the time.
A fistful of her hair;
She’ll say she doesn’t care.
But you’re too smart to swallow those lines.

For a fever dream and an illusion
Usage through fusion and collusion.
Lie where you like when I’m not home.
If it was such a victim-less crime
Why am I still on your mind?
Please leave your apology after the tone.

Words aren’t satellites
Dishes and receivers don’t like to fight.
You’re crying to a dropped phone.
I can fight the sky
And sell a new lie

I’m finally alone.

Formes Frustes – Cadet’s Fret (2014)

Another misleading

headline for my little cousin – Obama Makes First Comments On Missing Plane.

She: Oh, who cares? Maybe he was busy. He has to do lots!

Me: Whoah there, what’s with all the nonsense? You OK?

She: Obama missed a flight and he’s in trouble – look… [finally clicking on link]


She: Oh fuck.

Me: Yeah. Sorry, little lady. ‘Missing’ as in… it’s not just Barack Obama who ‘misses’ that plane.

She: Oh… no… [starting to cry]

Me: Let’s step away from the current affairs. Easy now.

She: Please don’t tell Dad I swore.