Longest Sentence Ever

Deep within the mist-shrouded, stony mountains of the frosty north, eighty-seven miles from the crippling chokehold of modern civilization, tucked away in the thickest thicket of crisp winter pines, there is a clearing, kissed with even strobes of natural light shining through the frozen branches and berries and shivering wings of great horned owls like fingers glow red when you hold them up to the sun to cover your gaze, that houses a house – or a cabin if your imagination requires the proper term (as if you would be imagining a contemporary, four-story, eighteen-room mansion out in the middle of the wilderness) – of logs cut from the same pines, amongst tangled bushels of weeds, wildflowers, and icicles resides my religious – and when I say religious, I mean she sleeps with a King James version of the Holy Bible tucked neatly underneath the folds of her blue-veined, cellulite-dented arm, the wrinkled crook of her elbow resting somewhere between Psalms and Proverbs, and a cross fashioned from two tree branches, the organisms of the outside probably still crawling within the ant tunnels and knots and twigs of bark, hanging ever-so-reverently above her headboard and yellowing, creaking mattress, the springs screeching in protest as they give way to her folds of fat and matted hair (reminiscent of her plump, shedding, appropriately-named, worthless-to-everyone-but-her cat, Fluffy) – conservative – but not necessarily a gun-toting, bible thumping, racist redneck who loves war, hates peace, and wants to destroy the planet to line their pockets with blood money and kill anyone who doesn't look like them or believe what they do (although the bible-thumping is a point that could be easily argued) – and senile – she is senile in that “Get off my lawn (supposing you can call her humble vegetable garden that is constantly ravaged by snow rabbits and mountain lions and raccoons a lawn), you whippersnappers!” kind of way – hermit of a grandmother who enjoys sitting practically immobile in her rocker (which is surprisingly older than she is), the arch of its oak frame conversing with the mice beneath the floorboards, in front of the serene glow of her stone fireplace. Grandma and Fluffy will most likely die alone.

How to Break Your Own Heart

By: E. Marquez

Disclaimer:

There are various things to consider when following the instructions herein. Among these, the most important thing is the number three. Actually, the only thing to consider is thus rendering my first statement a lie much like the lies that have led me to you and you to these instructions.

It is recommended that the reader invest in morphine or sertraline hydrochloride or a combination thereof. If such resources are unavailable, other forms of self-abuse, such as severe alcoholism, fight clubs, and/or copious amounts of Ben & Jerry's are advised.

(For the purposes of this essay, I will refer to this person as a girl for the sake of abusing the phrase him/her, he/she, his/her, etc. Male pronouns may be substituted as needed.)

I. Beginnings

Step 1:

Find a girl who obviously has feelings for someone else. Make sure the guy she has feelings for is inferior to you in every way including, but not limited to, loyalty, stamina, personal hygiene, and hairstyle. This inferiority will make -you- feel more inferior. Next, fall in love with her. This can be easily achieved by compulsively sweating as she approaches or laughing at all of her jokes or writing her name over and over again across the parallels of your notebook paper. Start spending every spare moment with her until you know her better than you know your own body odor: the smell of her hair; the shape of the glint in her eyes when she laughs (different than the shape when she cries); or how she likes to wear green on Mondays to match her eyes so maybe this Monday will be less shitty than the last as per all the compliments she may receive. Do anything to make her smile. You can even go the extra mile and set her up with the other guy.

For example:

Arrange a “group date” in which you, her, her crush, and close friend all attend. Halfway in, leave with close friend, return home, and sulk the entire night in the form of curling up into the fetal position on your couch and weeping to romantic comedies.

As the noose of your emotions tightens, you will begin to notice dull pangs of sadness sweep over you from time to time – especially when she is talking to the other guy on the phone and ends the conversation with that three-word bullshit that shall not be directly quoted.

Note:

If you feel the need to strangle, break the neck of, stab thirty-seven times in the chest, or throw hot coals at the face of someone, do so wisely such as when you are dreaming – Actually, only then is probably the wisest choice.

Step 2:

Purchase a pistol. A 1911 Colt .45 should do just fine. It is important to note that although you will never make use of it, you will spend many nights rolling a bullet from knuckle to knuckle wondering why you don't have the balls to load the barrel, put it to your head, and pull the trigger. As saline pours down your cheeks, unnamed liquids oozing from your nostrils (the tears and snot will taste the same), you'll question your sanity for the umpteenth time. You'll think back to when your lips first touched and you were still a human being rather than a shell of one.

Step 3:

Begin dating her on the side. Be sure you know what you are signing up for. Although you feel victimized, you must become the villain. Acknowledge the fact that you are the one she is cheating on him with. Accept it. Embrace it. Hate it. Once you are aware that the pristine waters of your emotions have been polluted by your own desires, you will wade through the congealed and molding swamp of your own self-pity until you are neck-deep in an ocean of guilt.

Imagine this:

You are the incredibly witty, trenchcoat-wearing, Ph. D-bearing (but somehow completely incompetent) supervillain who always reveals his plan pre-defeat holding this girl hostage in a cage of your own adoration and lust. The hero (in this case, the other guy) swoops in and “rescues” the damsel just for the sake of being just or heroic or some shit. It doesn't matter that she isn't even in distress. It doesn't matter that she's perfectly content in your evil clutches. He has to be the “better” guy that will always rub their relationship in your face.

This is just how it is. It is best to just accept it and move on.

II. The Fall

At this point, you may begin to experience chest pains, nausea, fever, high blood pressure, loss of appetite, hypersensitivity (to all things physical and emotional), and shortness of breath. These symptoms are a product of your self-confidence leaving your body. (Please refer to disclaimer, second paragraph.) The remnants of said confidence may be found on the damp tissues in your trash can.

If you are not a smoker, now would be a wonderful time to start.

When observing her and the inferior guy hand in hand (or mouth to mouth), symptoms may worsen.

If so, do NOT consult a doctor as he will prescribe you unnecessary and/or addictive drugs (Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, any combination thereof, etc.)

III. Recovery

Unfortunately, no methods of rehabilitation have been established. Rate of relapse is approximately 97%. Permanent scarring, hair loss, insomnia, weight loss, and a void in your chest cavity where your heart used to reside will be evident post-love triangle. Anticipate abandonment, regret, and “I told you so”'s.

Self-help options:

Pretend to be happy all the time. For example:

1. If someone asks, “How you are doing?”, respond with “I'm fine.”
2. If someone asks, “How's the love life?”, respond with, “It's fine.”
3. If you receive a swift kick in the teeth, smile a bloody, teeth-hanging-from-strings-of-gums smile.
4. Whenever she tells you about her date last night say, “I'm so happy for you guys.”

You are now ready to question every future relationship. Insecurity, trust issues, and insane jealousy will now be a way of life.

Below are a few online resources to assist you in your deterioration:

• www.aa.org/
• www.usdrugrehabcenters.com
• www.helpguide.org/mental/depression_tips.htm
• www.suicideproject.org/2010/04/just-pretend-youre-happy
• www.emotional-times.com/2011/06/how-to-deal-with-jealousy.html

time won't find me.

In other words, I will post soon. I am finding ways to structure time. And time. There are only seconds in a day.

1000 views to get an "A"

Ashley needs 1000 views.

This is what i wrote about her after knowing her for a week.

The Animation of A. Hernandez

She was born in Stanford, Connecticut, a hub for musicians, jesters, and dreamers. The culture enveloped her as a child. Then there was adolescence. Travels. Settling down. Settling around. Unsettling.

Ashley is an animated soul. She has spread her roots in many states. Collecting cities is one of her pastimes. Although she never seems to be able to stay in one place, she has a strong foundation. She finds comfort in other peoples' strengths rather than her own. This gives her a sense of hope, keeps her modest. Ashley believes in other people the same way the fairy godmother believes in Cinderella. Behind the scenes, she uses her talent to illuminate the path of others. She gives more than she takes.

The people she calls her friends are just that. Yet, she has more “friends” than friends. Ashley drifts between social tendencies, do's and do-sometimes, maybe and maybe-not’s. From cliché to cliché and circle to circle, she drifts like a message in a bottle upon a sea of wonder. When she speaks aloud against the cold, stark silence of an anticipant crowd, there is a tension she can't explain. Confidence seems to escape her, yet her mind still calls out to her tongue. Frayed ends of complete thoughts and broken memories clutter her mind. Within the outermost reaches of reality, she patiently waits for inspiration to strike. That elusive flicker of light that ignites the flame of the creative mind.

If someone says that she isn't special, she agrees wholeheartedly. Her sketchbook is plain. Ordinary forms and sketchy forms dot the pages of her notebook paper. These black and white lines speak to her across light blue parallels. She gives them life and wonder if they will give her one in return.

Murmurs

Procrastination, poor planning and the constant panic to be punctual are some of my pastimes.

The emerald coast welcomed me like a suspended chord holding its dissonance until it floods into a bramble of harmony and control.

[×] Make you laugh. The only thing that I've checked off my list since I crossed that bridge.

I'm relieved to be away from the cockpit for awhile.

You're knocking at my window

 The hook I am capable of by Lucas Farrell

Mister Brother by Michael Cunnigham

Two must-reads for those that haven't.

Upon my pillow, safe in bed, a thousand pictures fill my head, I cannot sleep , my minds alight; and yet my limbs seems made of lead.

of flying wings and soaring leap?
-As I surrender unto sleep.-

This song plays in my head when I try to clear it.

Babies. White sand. Black room. Gray morning sky. The light dancing beneath my eyelids.



Slumber.

Blossoming

Photography for the day

I start as a designer for Stream on Tuesday October, 18. 

Also, I have a two-headed cat.

Ever

When you wake what is it that you think of most?
When your bed is empty do you really sleep alone?
If I imagine you, body next to another.

All around me new love and it makes me sad.
All around me feel assured that you'll be back,
If I imagine you, body next to another.

On the drive back here I was worrying over nothing.
On the drive back there tears spilling over something.
When I imagine you, body next to another.


It seems that life follows me in 3's. I'm not a numerologist, but, once, a numerologist told me that 3 was the answer to everything - how nature, fate, and the end of the world means giving up to 3.

I'm not saying I blame anyone. Or anything. If I had something I could say, I'd scream it. I'd bleed words and anxiety and thoughts. I'd spill them on your white blouse. And there they would lay, a beautiful catastrophe of tears and lonely nights and lovers that love too much and pain. Just pain.

 I will tell you that living, staying sanely alive, depends on bottling it up. The sacrifice of my own emotions. It means putting your tender intentions above mine. Letting go. It means not saying what I know that I want.

Signing up for things I know I'm signing up for but them feeling surprised about it later on seems to be one of my things. But I just can't shake the feeling that things are wrong. Days are wrong. Hours.

Every day, I dream that simplicity will find me. It will make me stop worrying about money. And how long it's been since I've contacted you. And what to think about what people think about what I think about them. And where to use line breaks when I write. And who to love. And how to love. And all of the nasty, ethereal, adventurous moments in between.

When I lay among the soft murmurs of your insides, I imagined a world where I could bask in it - the idea of me and you vs no one but me and you - then the salty bite of a tear rolling down my cheek brought me back to the truth.

But even though there is nothing now - even if I shake and wither into a pile of self-pity as my mind lays beside yours - even if it feels that the world stands frozen and the record of my life skips and skips and skips and skips and

I can still imagine a world where I call you mine. And when anyone asks I can say it and know it's true. Because where you wear me proudly, a cloudburst of doubt electrocutes my senses. Because, when your fingers lace over my bicep, my heart feels more at ease than it has ever felt.

And ever is a very long time to feel.

Me vs You vs Them vs We

Do you ever wonder how the rest of the world has seen something before you even though you're in love with something pertaining to that viral thing?

Exhibit A

Years of dedication. No one told me about this. I'll give fate some credit today. Fate brought me to you which led me to you which introduced me to you.

Today I will conquer. Today i will roll up the sun.

Clocks: A Blazon

So we're sitting on the edge of your bed talking about appearances. We're asking what they appear to be and what they are and what they aren't. We don't know who we're asking, but we appear to be indifferent to them. Yet, by appearing, we take on appearances.1
You say, “Show me how to dissapear. I don't want to be vain. I want to be empty and static. I want people to see me and not see me all at the same time.”
I'm thinking it can't be that simple. I'm wondering why someone like you could want, so badly, to be invisible.
You're going on and on about that what's-on-the-inside bullshit, and I'm pretending to listen. I pet your head like I would pet a cactus and grit my teeth into the crooked facial expression you call a smile.
“I wish you would smile more.”
There's that word again.
“You're so handsome when you “smile”.”
I tell you you're silly, and that you're more handsome than I will ever be. Your hand swats at my side the way a viper whips its head at a quivering mouse, and my face is even more crooked. This leads to talks about handsome women and that song called “She's a Handsome Woman2” which leads to talks about gender and social stereotypes about the word “handsome”3.
Now we're laying on your bed, under your sheets. Your neck is nestled in the crook of my elbow, and I want to tell you how perfect your neck is. So I do. Your skin is as soft and pale as the glow of a full moon4, but I would never tell you that. I'm no poet, and so I say it's perfect. You tell me I'm wrong, and I let my silence speak for itself.
In the dark, your delicate hand searches for mine and finds it laying limp against the bed's edge where we once sat. Where we appeared and disappeared. Your hand is smaller than most hands. Well, maybe not smaller than most hands, but smaller than mine. Our fingers laced, I become aware of my moist palms. A pulse of adrenaline swims from my heart to my fingertips, and I curl them into a fist even though the room is black. These fingers laden with cuts and healing flesh and bleeding fingernail corners. Anxious hands5. Bigger-than-your's hands. You grab at my fist as if you've dropped a porn magazine on a bustling city sidewalk. You snatch it up before the wind carries it into the crowd.
I know these habits hurt important parts of you, so I murmur an apology. “Sorry” for letting go. “Sorry” for my butcher's hands.
You don't mention my bitten nails or sweaty palms. Your knuckles glow white in the dark as you hold me tightly and tell me to never let go. And your neck is still perfect. Like moonlight basking in moonlight.
I'm staring at the trees' shadows battling the twilight against your stark, white wall past the back of your perfect neck. As sleep washes over me, a tidal wave amidst my sea of emotions, I can imagine the branches throwing punches at the superheroes on your Marvel comics poster6.
You ask if I'm still awake, and I wonder if we ever truly sleep whenever we breathe the same air. I say no. I say I'm asleep, and I feel your playful glare as the war of Superman versus Supertree plays in a dream reel across the theater of your bedroom wall.
The sudden realization of your chest upon mine brings me back to reality. Your lung movements run adjacent to mine. Like clockwork gears my heavy chest rises and falls upon your perfect breasts, and  our windpipes hiss in a sweet, steady rhythm. Nose to nose and hip to hip, I breathe you in7. You sigh. I shiver. Your lips part. My eyes shake. Like TV static, the light reflected in your pupils blips and blurs.

Blink.

Even under these sheets, it's too cold to shiver. You say “Hold me.” What that really means is, “Be the big spoon8 until I break free from your clutches and wither into a ball of fetal solitude.”
More or less.
The space between us seems as vast as space itself even though your back is against my sternum. My heart is beating along your spine, but the soft undulating of your blood pumping beneath your deltoids collides with mine. Even though our lungs don't rise and fall like clockwork, like the tides, I tell you you're perfect.
You say, “I know.”
I let my silence speak for itself.
Our legs lay in a puddle of melting snow, your feet against mine.^ The slow slither of the blood in your veins leaves your toes as cold as a corpse9.
You fit my hand into yours like a ball in a baseball mit, the callus of your thumb stroking my wrist. My hands are not sweating. My heart doesn't skip a beat10; In fact, it slows down to a funeral march tempo. I'm waiting for the part where you tell me I'm not perfect. The air thickens, your lungs pumping out toxic gas that I breathe in the form of anxiety. Any minute now, you'll say something that makes me feel obsolete.
Then, maybe, your feet will get warmer.
“I thought you said you were going to quit.”
You're saying this as your thumb runs along the tops of my stumps. Fingers. You're talking about my nail-biting thing not to be confused with my smoking or drug or alcohol or sex thing.
“Your hands look so ugly when you do that.”
My silence tells you to fuck off even though I know you're right.
I feel that when you call my hands ugly, you're calling me ugly. I feel this somewhere no one can feel. And even though ugly is just an appearance, I no longer feel indifferent to it. I am ugly. I have appeared. I appear to be an ugly person with ugly hands.
The hinges of my digits creak as I turn them into my palms into that same familiar fist.
And you lay in my silence, and I lay in your criticism. And all that remains are our lung movements.


1. http://www.whatisgender.net/phpBB3/viewtopic.php?f=166&t=3897 “Gender Dysphoria and Dissociative Identity Disorder"
2. http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858709044/ “She's a Handsome Woman” by Panic at the Disco
3. http://forum.wordreference.com/showthread.php?t=600513 “A Handsome Woman?” - A forum
4. http://moonphases.info/full_moon_calendar_dates.html Full Moon Calender
5. http://www.brainphysics.com/nail-biting.php “Onychophagia: Compulsive Nail Biting”
6. http://www.hollywoodmegastore.com/Images/6652_Marvel_Comics_Poster.jpg Visual
7. http://www.plosone.org/article/info:doi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0000987 “Carbon Dioxide Inhalation Induces Dose-Dependent and Age-Related Negative Affectivity”
8. http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=big%20spoon 'Big Spoon” -Urban Dictionary
9. http://ask.metafilter.com/76200/What-can-I-do-about-my-freezing-cold-feet Remedies For Cold Feet
10. http://familydoctor.org/online/famdocen/home/common/heartdisease/basics/286.html “Arrhythmia: A Problem With Your Heartbeat”