1. Monday, March 25, 2002

    god am i sick 

    and im gonna go off for about twenty minutes so please pardon me, normally i write to you, today im writing to my cold.

    fuck you, cold. how dare you.

    bitch ass, how dare you get inside me when i was drinking and smoking at the tsar show on pico, doing shots with jeanine, drinking beers with my friends, listening to the newest teenage anthems of days gone by, the foundations of fuck you, cold i bet you came from a dirty shot glass of the eskimo kiss that girl gave me at the lesbo party when i wasnt looking or was it the plastic cup with the wine or the towel that i dried my hands with.

    or did you come in through the dust.

    milton had satan slide through the mist and slither into the mouth of the deceiver in eden and you kept me up all night trying to get down my throat but by now you know that only dr. pepper, fried chicken and young girls get to take that route. fuck you virus or allergy or luckilly for me i had a little fair warning and i bombarded you with echinacia or however the hell you spell it wont be the death of me i will be the death of you and houseflies only have days to die and you only have hours.

    dont you know i have mountains to move with my mustard seed of faith?

    feed a fever fuck you, cold. my back is recovered from the residue of pisces hold on to my tonsils while i will fuck you to pieces.

    my couch has pillows and blankets and the space heater is going and you’re gonna be going because i am the most filthy pig i can be when i wanna and you dont want that. i will drink water and eat generic tortilla strips dry i will not heave you cuz i’ll die i will imagine you smaller and smaller and smaller still, you are the target and im liscened to thrill. how did i know to get the Tussin from the 99 cent store that tastes like motor oil cut with evian, i will torture you with tom cruise movies cuz if you like me so much you’ll hate him so much. nice try with the phlem, sissy, shorten your hem.

    i have had jerry mcguire on tape for years and years and years and i love that this guy has all the best music in his movies but jay moher or however you spell it is only slightly less ridiculuous than everybody’s favorite scientologist and im rhyming because even colds hate poems, you never see people sneezing in the sole row of poetry because even germs have standards even at borders.

    you will die in the night.

    sleep tight, sleep tight.

    i sweat when i write. and im sweating you out. youre surrounded you single-celled organism there is nothing healthy or worthwile except for my smile and you will not take that.

    so take that.