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My father is a Man made of Copper November 9, 2012

Delirium is real. 

My father is a man made of copper. He is valuable, and useful no matter if his head is bandaged or he is in a hospital bed bitching about anything–yesterday when I called him he answered the Phone.  My Dog loves me, because he said “I’m on the port-a-potty taking a shit can we talk later? ” I never wonder where my strange and disturbing perception of life originated. Candid is my nemesis. Any how, I pulled this link from Public Health site about delirium. My dad’s tests for that will be modified for “I’m not right in the head” tests.


I’m a Bubble Ninja-I Pop in Your bad Eye ANd The Other I BLind October 17, 2012

One day I fell in deep like with “to blow” some  bubbles on the thick green patch of lawn at my disposal at school

Unfortunately, for the bubbles and I when I blow them they  burst in my eyes.

The next day I blew bubbles in spite of the whites of my red and irritated eyes.

The following day it rained and a depression shot downwards into my spinal cord as cold and as quick as life matters.

I picked up my bubble paraphernalia; I blow bubbles because I’m on this earth to do exactly that.

Not to blow bubbles asshole, but to repeat the same mistake–with every implication of insanity

Again and over again–if only I shit rainbows or ate razor blades–I blow bubbles with each one to burst in my eye.

Like I said, repeat the same mistake and fuck myself parallel. Got it?

Picture: Gabrielle Rossetti “FlamingJune” So sumptuous.


Impressed? Will the Real God Please Stay Seated? October 3, 2012

Drinking booze at 13

( and loving the illegal’s), 

Cool, chill, Hank is all thrills.

My muther father Bukowski heart me.

what a physical thrill to instill.

Ambien, Lunesta, Ativan,

a sleep managed by man.

Luvox, Effexor, Welbutrin,

the doctor’s guess as good as mine.

Lithium, Depakote, Tegretol,

am I rock steady yet?

Serequel, Zyprexa, Risperadol,

I’m 400lbs. but I’m not hallucinating.

Methadone, Morphine, Oxy,

opiates that increase the pain, mental.

Oh what the hell, if meds didn't work.

Just another day in hell.

I’ve taken more meds than this in my lifetime.

I’m still insane and searching for the right feeling of fine.


Green MarblesYo… September 7, 2012

Green MarblesYo…. Please read this entry which I wrote during my dad’s first brain surgery. Now, on his third, I’m accepting that this tumor is like superman, but I pray for God’s will. Good orderly Direction. Thank you.


CRS August 11, 2012

I’m horrified that I arrived home with the excitement of a girl holding the secret to the perfect movie, and all the action to surfeit disclosure depended on me inserting this disk dohickee into the greedy, hungry slot of the extraexperimental machine beneath my TV in a wooden slot:it lives there. When I sung out in chords never received by the ambience of our little homepad the safe arrival of my jewel to my cohort in life he sung back in a b flat tenor: we saw that movie. I try to recall the plot (twists?) or god it sucked asscubes, but the medication for my migraines, though I stopped it a week ago, still not only keeps my shit out of my ass stupid it also has a lagging effect of making it deeper too.

Not even my dog can pull me out of this fast enough, Miraculax?


A Keen Look into Tom Cruise’s Reason for Wearing Boxers instead of Briefs (“The Master” Teaser) Scientology tell me a story. July 24, 2012

"Poetic Chaos" by J Vicent Scapace

This piece entitled Poetic Chaos by J Vincent Scarpace–even a poem in the investigation of an environment wrought with misuse and abuse as a form of art my poem fails to find a poetic chaos beauty that reels in the bad and unforgiving notions.

I’m a cloned tomato,

poked with a needle

filled with a pigs DNA

to extend my shelf life

Thanks to my longer life

I relive the violation

over and over.

I’m a cloned cow– Wow now!

The corporations fucked with

my individuality,

my signature flavor—wiped out—

because I hear that they

mass produce me.

I face the butcher tomorrow–

Good—cause now I’m a suicidal cow.

I’m a mental case.

Addicted to drugs and booze,

an unlikely clone candidate.

My psychiatrist even instructed

me to not reproduce; to seek sterility

so not procreate and  birth weaker race.

Only geniuses and models

are clone candidates.

I’m a guru—shhh…no one knows.

The illness that plagues all of you,

is that you want more and better.  Now.

To cooperate with the environment

sounds spiritual to me–don’t mind casualties.

But, people insist on changing it instead

of adapting to it–this characterizes

the unrelenting selfishness of the human race.   Hopefully a teaser.


Scientology Tell Me a Story.

Cloning my good traits won’t make you a better and saner person. ha ha.


Why I hate Westerns. (Sorry Haters is a mindblowing film. Watch it!) July 17, 2012

Filed under: humor,life,Love,philosophy,substance abuse,Thank you,Uncategorized,unthinkable — jessicawritesnow @ 1:51 am
Male Nude by Miriam Shulman

Male Nude by Miriam Shulman. Try not to be stiff with intolerance. Alpha male.

 Enjoy the trailer (It’s the official one. I know-it’s very quirky of me to do anything officially. The official (I see a police badge) non-blonde dirty hairy in me always starts the calm sensible confrontation with “What The F##K” or “Who The F##K”, or You F##KING asshole, moron, idiot: You F##KING  bowl of creamed on weenies. I write for the right to earn a paycheck by writing. Yentils still never ching ch ch ching started the smallest sand bucket around the country USA for my bullyshit. Penny’s why in the name of Jesus’ Mary, Okay stomping on other people’s kingdom here, I’m just going to call them marries. God, marriage and marries and mary’s and marred, I know people who crossed the threshold drunker than a marraed to a mary for little or know marries in the eyes of God. Next morning, the poor Mrs. Mary now as the gentleman-alpha male tried to quit his deluxe sweet-hell–well Mrs. Mary finally used her batting swing with her five-year old’s tee-ball bat on alpha was man now with domestic issues. Now alpha dog tried to creep into invisibility. Mrs. Mary saw the pretty penis and pointed while she laughed hysterically,  because she knew his big chock that he slapped her with the night after the ceremony she raised with two hands like a cucumber on dirty rain.  Tool song with lyrics. All I will say is that it is an older song. I almost cried, because  the point of the song, the meaning, rather, now is moot. It’s almost trite. God this sucks. 

(Yawn.) Hey guys. I just woke up like an hour ago. Sometimes I write while other stuff occurs (I shall say.)

Oh, I hate westerns because the alpha male always “saves” the day. That’s why it’s a genre special and to me dumb. It’s the least expected out you, me and the person in front of you (at the Cleaners, Movies, Coffee shop, Nut house store, College Pub, Bar, Game shop, Barber, and usually it’s not the person who has access to a weapon.) I say to the brave citizens who help me breath one more second in this life–Cool to the P for the personified.    Do you mind: I’d like to say a prayer for the people who I know are ripping up their stories, or shredding them into strips of differing diameter, a page, ten pages or chunks at a time by signing on a dotted line. A line that lied to each one, and encouraged each guy or gal to give up on hope because hope no longer shined on their address.  Go into the Lion den, men and women alike, it burns and sizzles in there, but for a non-profit drug cartel feeding starving babies in Guatemala–give us your last donation…


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