Sunday, December 31, 2023
Saturday, December 30, 2023
Friday, December 29, 2023
Thursday, December 28, 2023
Wednesday, December 27, 2023
Tuesday, December 26, 2023
Thursday, December 21, 2023
Wednesday, December 20, 2023
Monday, December 18, 2023
Sunday, December 17, 2023
Saturday, December 16, 2023
Friday, December 15, 2023
Thursday, December 14, 2023
Wednesday, December 13, 2023
AGE RESTRICTIONS
I'm pretty sure FUCK is multipurpose.
FUCK does not discriminate.
FUCK can be lovely.
FUCK can be hateful.
My god. Who polices Sesame Street?
Meanwhile.
The breathing posing gesticulating
skeleton in too much makeup
that is Eugenia Cooney
continues to make that YouTube dollar.
Oh Holly Madison.
Brutalized by the monster that was
one Hugh Hefner but she continues
to gnaw the dry bone beyond the grave
and tell us more more more.
The Playboy Mansion butlers.
The Playboy Mansion slumber parties.
Oh girl. Whisper harder in our ears.
And get ready with me (Bailey) as I spill
the tea on Chris Watts.
Tell us all the dirt.
Let's listen to a mouth breathing idiot
kill his entire family
over and over again.
We love our murder in America.
Ted Bundy and chill.
Richard Ramirez and chill harder.
Manson still has groupies.
Waiting slobbering for the finally
released bitch's terribly deep memoir.
I Didn't Actually Kill Anyone and Anyway
I Was Young and Skinny and Pretty
and Fried on Acid.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Thank you, YouTube because.
How To Assemble an AR15.
The Lizard People Are Running Hollywood.
The Earth is FLAT and the moon is a HOLOGRAM.
Celebrities Never Really Kill Themselves
They Are Programmed By MK ULTRA
And Killed By Scientologist Overlords
Because They KNEW Too MUCH.
How To Lose Weight in 30 Days or LESS.
How To Get Fucked Without Really Trying.
How To Be The Perfect Woman.
How To Get The Perfect Man to Propose Marriage.
FIJI on a budget.
Live Off The Grid and BE FREE FOREVER.
How To Break a Soul Contract.
How To CUT CORDS.
How To HEX Haters.
School Shooter's Blood-Soaked Home Revealed.
Sandy Hook Was Staged.
Molly Carter Tells Us How To Find The Clitoris.
News you can use all the way to the broke ass grave.
Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.
I'm pretty sure FUCK YOU is all purpose
and organic and gluten free so eat some FUCK YOU
today and raise your vibration.
Be sure to hit that thumb and click
the bell for notifications.
You don't want to miss out
on this
Great Value.
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HAMMER
He came to me as he so often does
in another dream.
I was meditating in a park
willing him to come to me
and so he came to me
with a hammer.
Oh no. Nothing so dramatic
as what you might be thinking.
He wasn't going to bash my skull in.
That's too easy.
My favorite quote is by me.
Ax murderers are better than writers.
They only kill you once.
This man who comes to me in my dreams
is neither an ax murderer nor a writer.
I won't tell you what he is exactly
because it really isn't your business
and it doesn't matter
and you would not believe me.
No one believes me lately.
I'm a coarse lying ass crone from the North Texas sticks.
Hillbilly, he called me.
And a few other things.
He came to me with a hammer
and told me how it was going to be.
I owed him a certain amount
and it was time to finally collect
my rat chewed toys from his attic
and fuck all the way off.
He was building his tiny dream home
in the arts district with Miranda
and I was not invited
to the koi pond wedding.
Is it hard to maintain a koi pond?
Yes. Google tells us that ponds with koi carp
require more care than regular garden ponds.
The water must be kept clean and clear.
These special saturated fish need to be fed
on a regular basis and protected from
cats, birds, tourists.
Oh San Antonio.
You continue to fuck me.
It is good to be fucked at fifty.
I imagine Miranda is getting it
much better than I am.
She awakes to kisses, caresses,
big stiff curious cock
and eyes sparkling with adoration.
She's smart, Miranda, and oh so adept.
Excellent at yoga and organic casseroles
and all things Pinterest.
Her teeth are large and white.
Tits? Ass? Yes. She has those.
And a warm and welcoming vagina.
But there is only one visitor.
My favorite ex, the man
with the hammer.
I know for a fact
there will be
cupcakes.
TINSEL
God is dead and so is Santa Claus and Winnie the Pooh.
Marilyn Monroe was a figment of a drunk frat boy's imagination.
There never was a Hollywood and the California you heard about
in all those Beach Boys songs is a postcard with all four corners chewed off.
The current bid is 65 cents at eBay.
It's cute it's quaint how people plan their funerals.
I'll be buried in white with red lipstick (make it M.A.C. Ruby Woo)
because I'm a goddamn candy cane.
The playlist will include
"I'm a Believer"
"Chinese Rock"
"Killer Queen"
"Kawliga"
"Dazed and Confused"
Damn. She was so complex.
All these fuckers who barely tried
nibbling on cornbread and some kind
of dollar store cake.
I hope the filling is sweeter than I ever was.
Bitch, I'll be gone.
I already am.
Quite.
I specialize in smoke signals and dumb riddles
that go exactly nowhere.
Like all those songs on "Odelay" and "Daydream Nation"
but nowhere near as cool.
No no no baby doll.
Not nearly that fucking cool.
Tuesday, December 12, 2023
Monday, December 11, 2023
Sunday, December 10, 2023
Saturday, December 9, 2023
Friday, December 8, 2023
Thursday, December 7, 2023
Wednesday, December 6, 2023
Tuesday, December 5, 2023
Monday, December 4, 2023
Saturday, December 2, 2023
Friday, December 1, 2023
Friday, November 24, 2023
Thursday, November 23, 2023
Wednesday, November 22, 2023
Tuesday, November 21, 2023
Monday, November 20, 2023
Sunday, November 19, 2023
Friday, November 17, 2023
Thursday, November 16, 2023
Tuesday, November 14, 2023
Monday, November 13, 2023
Sunday, November 12, 2023
Saturday, November 11, 2023
Friday, November 10, 2023
Thursday, November 9, 2023
Wednesday, November 8, 2023
Tuesday, November 7, 2023
Monday, November 6, 2023
Sunday, November 5, 2023
Saturday, November 4, 2023
Sunday, October 29, 2023
Thursday, October 26, 2023
Saturday, October 21, 2023
Tuesday, October 17, 2023
Monday, October 16, 2023
Sunday, October 15, 2023
Sunday, October 8, 2023
Saturday, October 7, 2023
Friday, October 6, 2023
Thursday, October 5, 2023
Wednesday, October 4, 2023
Tuesday, October 3, 2023
Monday, October 2, 2023
Sunday, October 1, 2023
Friday, September 29, 2023
Thursday, September 28, 2023
Wednesday, September 27, 2023
Tuesday, September 26, 2023
Monday, September 25, 2023
TEN FANTASIES
effortless communication
excellent hygiene
bowling then karaoke then sex
fucking in that famous cemetery in Paris
no conversations about exes
effortless multiple orgasms
sharing a vat of macaroni and cheese
fucking stone cold sober
feeling like you're David Lee Roth circa 1983
raucous laughter
TEN DESTINATIONS
Seymour, Texas
Tahlequah, Oklahoma
Taos, New Mexico
Ben Lomond, California
New Orleans, Louisiana
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sedona, Arizona
Salem, Massachusetts
Memphis, Tennessee
Portland, Oregon
TEN BANDS
Led Zeppelin
Chicago
Sonic Youth
Nirvana
Violent Femmes
The Kinks
The Clash
Black Sabbath
Dirt Dress
The Toadies
convenience store champagne
simply orange makes it better
drink it while planning writer's retreat
and by writer's retreat
i mean one month
in motel in seymour, texas
allsup's and dairy queen
and liquor store
within walking
distance
Sunday, September 24, 2023
KICK HER HARDER
Kick her harder.
She isn't dead yet.
She isn't dead enough.
Kick her until she dies five or six
more times.
Extra death.
Mas muerte.
Oh girl.
Karma has decided
to show you its teeth.
You shouldn't have stolen
that piece of gum
when you were five.
You didn't clap hard enough
at that Carrot Top concert.
You hurt Toby Keith's country fried feelings.
You faked it for the wrong Chad.
You unsubscribed.
You unfollowed.
You ghosted.
You fell off the horse
then hopped on a camel.
You didn't try hard enough
in the creative writing workshop.
You did not revise.
You submitted to a hipper than thou editor
drunk on cough syrup.
You ain't Lester Bangs, baby doll.
You did not issue a trigger warning.
You did not play patty cake patty cake
baker's man.
You are not the Manson chick
living off an advance from
Random Penguin
because you learned deep things
in prison and the world
needs to know every
fucking ass quivering detail.
You are sentenced to anonymity.
You will ride Greyhound from Detroit to L.A.
and no one will buy you a Happy Meal.
It's fuck you fuck you
fuck you harder
and the evil clown
is out of lube.
GENIUS
I get it.
You've got the whole life thing
figured out.
You are having deeply gratifying sex
on a regular basis.
You are living in your dream home
with your dream person
and the pancakes always
arrive right on time
with the right amount
of butter or Earth Balance
if you're extra
and organic maple syrup
or manuka honey
if you're Gwyneth Paltrow.
Happy birthday, Gwyneth Paltrow.
You like literally give me permission
to be my most authentic goddess self.
GOOP por vida.
Hurrah.
Hurrah.
I just received my second copy of
the first Bukowski collection I ever purchased.
I drove to Decatur from Bridgeport
in 2000 when I was working but not really
for The Bridgeport Index.
I wanted to learn how to play the piano
drunk like a percussion instrument
until my fingers began to bleed a bit.
One night I got stressed because I couldn't
get online and I smoked a pack of menthols.
Another night I was upset because I had
a crush on a poet who lived in Wisconsin
and I was too inept to open a goddamn bottle
of bottom shelf riesling
so I broke the neck in my bathtub
and I drank it and cried.
Bukowski is gone but I'm still here.
There's a bottle of bottom shelf champagne
in the refrigerator but I've got to be sober
so that I can keep making
sick fat beats and shit posting
at X until Elon asks me to be his next baby mama.
Lo siento, sweetheart.
different ghosts.
It never was about the money for me.
Just fuck me until I'm exhausted
then let me play with my puppets in peace.
I am in fact a genius but no one will know this
until I've been dead for a thousand or more years.
I'm going to the same paradise as Gwyneth.
She will sure be surprised to see me there and so will
Ava Gardner and Elizabeth Taylor.
Us glamour girls gotta stick together.
Celestial tits!
Celestial pussy!
Oh I can already feel it.
TRASH
This is 40.
This is 45.
This is 50.
This is someone I do not know, will never know,
posting another goddamn selfie on social media.
You're celebrating.
You're wearing a hat.
You're holding a cupcake.
You're assuming I care.
Congratulations.
You can afford cake.
Congratulations.
Your book is being published.
Congratulations.
Your baby is due in two months.
Congratulations.
Oh. And yes.
Thanks for reminding me
that if Marilyn Monroe
hadn't been killed by the mafia
she would be 118 tomorrow.
You're marrying your twin flame in Reno.
You just won the lottery.
You just inherited a million bucks.
You've been to Paris twice and you're
going back in November
because Billy Joel will be singing
his greatest hits in some big deal
croissant cafe.
My heart is exploding like Fourth of July.
My head is a cascarone.
Confetti scattered from this sidewalk in San Antonio
to a diamond acre on Mars
for you
for you
for all
of you.
Saturday, September 23, 2023
Friday, September 22, 2023
Thursday, September 21, 2023
Wednesday, September 20, 2023
Happy Birthday
Today is Dave's birthday. Who is Dave? Dave is the man who married my mom when I was ten years old. We (me, my mom and my two younger siblings) went from living in a government subsidized apartment with no carpet on the floors in Wichita Falls, Texas to living in a brand-new brick house on Nelson Street in Monahans, Texas. There was no grass in the front and back, only sand. That was exciting. Eventually grass was grown. And at first I felt like I was living in a dream. There was food, so much food. And I had a bicycle and a portable television and a walk-in closet. I would hide in the closet after lights out on school nights, devouring my beloved books. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle was my favorite. God. How could one book sum up the whole of human existence so goddamn beautifully? Fuck the King James Bible. A Wrinkle in Time is IT. Years later I would meet Ms. L'Engle while attending Schreiner University in Kerrville. I stood in line waiting for her autograph. I handed her my newly acquired hardcover copy of A Wrinkle in Time with shaky hands, tears in my eyes. "It's an honor to meet you," I said.
In the beginning we bonded, Dave and I, over "The Twilight Zone" (the original series) and Mars talk. There's a picture of me when I was eleven or twelve hanging out with Dave in the den of the miraculous brick house, pretending to drink a can of Budweiser. Dave loved his beer. I don't know when things changed, exactly, but they did. My love turned to hate. I saw Dave as a bully. He spanked me with his belt for my lack of table manners. Stupid Virgo bullshit. He seemed to favor my younger siblings. My sister was a lot smarter than I was, made better grades. My brother was a boy. So there was football to bond over. Gig 'em Aggies.
I thought it was so exotic and fancy when I met Dave's parents in their home in Abilene the first time. They called the evening meal "dinner" (my family had always called the evening meal "supper") and there was chicken with rice and cocktails (for the adults) and after dinner Daddy Max (this is what me and the siblings were told to call Dave's dad) chomped on a cigar and played "Alley Oop" and the Aggie "war hymn" on the player piano. Class. One Christmas Dave's aunt and uncle from San Antonio (they lived in a penthouse! We visited once and there was a DOORMAN and we had dinner at the country club!) gave me a bottle of Gucci perfume and the collected works of Rudyard Kipling. Thanks? Oh, and one of Dave's cousins was a famous golfer. He was in an Irish Spring commercial. I didn't recognize this brave new world of moderate wealth. I came from a family of loud down to earth extroverts. Uncle Buzz, my maternal grandmother's baby brother, was a rodeo clown. There's a black and white 8X10 photograph of Uncle Buzz in his rodeo clown garb holding a terrified and sobbing baby Misti. My earliest memory is of the cigar smoke filled trailer house I lived in with my dad and mom before my sister came along in Goree, Texas. My parents were teenagers when I was born. They attended seminary for one semester in Arlington but there were no college graduates in my family.
I've told this story many times. It bears repeating. I was twenty-three and sitting in a hospital room in Midland, Texas. My eyes were almost swollen shut from crying. Outside the door I could hear Dave yelling at my mom. "She is not going to keep this baby! We are NOT going to help her raise this baby! If she keeps the baby I'll leave!" Then Dave entered the room and told me what needed to be told. Look at how you've been living your life. The topless dancing. The hot checks. This baby, this newborn baby, your daughter, deserves a "fighting chance." Yes. Absolutely. I'd said since I saw my baby's heartbeat on the six weeks sonogram that I would not have an abortion but I knew I couldn't keep her. My boyfriend had left me for a trust fund brat in Houston. I had never been able to hold down a job for any length of time. I did not want to raise my baby on welfare.
I didn't look at Dave that day in the hospital. I looked out the window. The sun was setting in the West Texas sky. "I've said from the beginning that I don't want any negativity to touch my daughter. I 'll do what I have to do. Call the social worker in so I can sign the papers before I change my mind."
Dave got down on his knees and reached for my hand and raised it to his lips. Then he walked out the door shaking his head This remains one of the most beautiful moments of my life. He was in the presence of The Most High. You either get it or you don't. Holy. Holy. Holy. God...Jesus...love...spirit...source...power filled the air. Something greater than me greater than Dave greater than the newborn Sagittarius girl who was in the nursery having no clue that the woman who had just given birth to her would rather die than see her get a shitty start in life. Comprende? No? I can explain it but I can't understand it for you.
Of course it's not that simple. I get that now at fifty. I didn't get it then at twenty-three. Knowing what I know now...what would I have done? I would have done the same thing, I guess. Yes. There are women who raise babies on their own. There are babies and children who are brought up in trailer houses and section 8 apartments, living on fish sticks and Malt-O-Meal. Some babies grow up to graduate from big deal colleges and are able to hold down big deal jobs despite considerable odds. My brother and sister have done a helluva lot better than I have and we all came from the same place. We were all there with our single mother for three years in that tacky little two-bedroom apartment before Dave came along. But when I was twenty-three and alone and a Christian praying without ceasing underlining hundreds of verses in my King James Bible attending church three times a week singing "Golden Slumbers" to my daughter as she sucked her thumb in my womb I knew with conviction that the best gift I could give my baby was parents who seemed to have their shit together. They loved each other, this couple I met through my mom's employer. They had their college degrees. They had a brick house. Why are brick houses so goddamn important? I don't know. They just somehow are. And I thought I needed to give my daughter the kind of daddy I never had. A daddy who would love her beyond condition, a daddy who would never swing a belt at her with hatred in his eyes, a daddy who might tell her how beautiful and smart she was, might even buy her the occasional ice cream cone and Cabbage Patch Kid. Hell. I don't know. I've second guessed my decision and raged at the sky and loathed myself and bitterly envied other women and invited death in but death keeps passing me by.
And now I'm fifty and tired but still ebullient, somehow, on my better days and the love continues to flow. Miraculously. Dave showed up at my apartment in San Marcos in 1998 when I had decided to try college again at Texas State. He handed me a key and said,"You always said you wanted a turquoise truck." He led me out to the parking lot and showed me a turquoise truck, a Ford Ranger, he bought for me as some kind of consolation prize, I guess.
I loved that truck. But I didn't need it. Not really. That moment in the hospital room when Dave got down on his knees and kissed my hand was the gift I'll always keep. I was witnessed. And that's enough.
ROCK OF LOVE
These bitches would have eaten me for breakfast. I would have lacked the confidence, the faith, the chutzpah, required to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was the one to rock Bret's world. I've bleached my hair a couple of times but my tits are real and smallish. My bra size is 36B. Yeah, I've shaken my ass for dollar bills in various topless bars but I never knew how to hustle. The most I ever made in one night was probably the $40 a man gave me in All Stars in San Antonio a million years ago in 1995. He paid me to sit with him at the bar and listen to his sad story. He was dying of cancer and his wife had left him.
I never had a crush on Bret Michaels. I have over a hundred playlists at YouTube and you won't find "Every Rose Has its Thorn" on any of them. When I was twelve in Monahans, Texas I drooled all over David Lee Roth singing,"Reach down...between my legs...and ease the seat back" on MTV. Oh how I would have loved to ease Diamond Dave's seat back! As for power ballads, you really can't go wrong with "Save Your Love." Slays me every damn time. I have this one on several playlists. Couldn't tell you the lead singer's name, too lazy to Google right now. It's not about the lead singer, really. It's about his earnest delivery. I believe him.
Still, if I had been one of the drunk slobbering sluts on "Rock of Love" I can say with certainty I would have fallen under Bret's soulful Pisces spell. If he had threatened me with a good time by deigning to stick his tongue in my mouth I'm sure I would have kissed him back and he would have tasted the tequila and the Nacho Doritos. But I can see him rejecting me with kindness, finally, because I simply didn't "bring it." I would not have fought hard enough for his love. I would have lacked conviction. And there's the matter of my tits. No, a man cannot live on big tits alone but many men have tried.
So I grow old and fat in San Antonio with memories of my glory days. It's like I told a Leo once in June of 2010 while drunk off my ass and chainsmoking menthol cigarettes. "We'll always have Santa Cruz."
Tuesday, September 19, 2023
Sunday, September 17, 2023
D O M I N G O
wash truck
scrub potty
water roses
score some heroin
sell broken toys on eBay
spritz dirty shoes with perfume
flat iron hair
buy some tacos
buy some guns
buy some knives
make the trek to Acuna
pray to Jesus
shuffle tarot cards
hex Christian cousin
cash check from Kylie Jenner
unwad panties
eat a bag of Cheetos
eat a bag of dicks
paint abstract portrait of Cher
write a giddy poem
write a shitty novel
shovel cow manure
make friends at Instagram
post latest selfies at Facebook
text the guy from Home Depot
shred on the guitar
call Rick Rubin
eat a tangelo
milk a cow
move to FIJI
Saturday, September 16, 2023
Friday, September 8, 2023
Tuesday, September 5, 2023
Sunday, September 3, 2023
CLICK LINK TO DENY
Woke up to butterflies and accolades at YouTube and confessions of love at Instagram and a million dollars in the bank and a pony named Enchilada.
No. Not quite. Woke up to this bullshit. Text message:
Pending debit of $714.02 at Pig Liquors.
Click link to DENY.
I'm not a complete and total idiot.
At the advanced age of fifty I am a partial idiot.
I did not click link to DENY.
Checked with my bank online for basic bitch reassurance.
I am still broke but not in the hole.
Bueno.
I like imagining someone spending $714.02 at a place
called Pig Liquors.
Imagine the life such a person is leading.
7 + 1 + 4 + 0 + 2 = 14 = 5
As a seasoned astrologer and tarot expert
I like to say I do not fuck with the fives.
The fives are some bullshit.
Five of wands.
This person said this thing about you
at Facebook and now everyone knows
what a fraud you are so you need
to record yourself sitting in your Chevy Caprice
on your Samsung Galaxy
telling the peanut gallery
the truth.
Look. Fuckers. I am honorable
and honest and I tip motel maids
and I pay taxes and I wipe my ass
thoroughly and I recycle my
plastic FIJI bottles and I
wish nothing but love and astounding success
to my wadded panties detractors.
Five of cups.
I know you cheated on me with Sally
and I know you are currently enjoying
occasional balls to the wall
no sleep till Brooklyn sex
with Rosemary
but I still toast you
with bottles of Indio
whenever I'm listening
to Taylor Swift and Beyonce
and Michael Bolton and Rick Astley
on my Best Songs Ever playlist
and all the tarot readers
know you love me to hell and back
but the intensity frightens you
and you're still healing
so I won't hear from you again
in this current lifetime.
Five of swords.
Similar to five of wands
but even more brutal
and eviscerating.
You are a Christian
and you are successful
and you travel a lot
with your third and final husband
and your kids are photogenic
and healthy
and you live in a big deal house
and all your bills are paid
and you are well-fed
and we are cousins
but this doesn't mean much
and you still feel the need
to check up on me
via this blog
and the thousands of videos
I throw like so much spaghetti
at the algorithm wall
and inform my mother
that I hate her
and have sent serious
black magick in her direction.
Pigs in the parlor.
Quite.
Five of pentacles.
I am eating Great Value ramen
while the beautiful people
of the United States of America
spend $800 weekly at Disneyland
and gorge on gender reveal cupcakes
and buy Don't You Wish You Were Me
Kardashian approved
whatever the fuck ass fuck
and pose for every Olive Garden photograph
with the same glad as hell to be alive smile.
I do not fuck with the fives.
I say that.
But the fives are pretty much where I live.
Mercury is in fact my chart ruler.
Virgo rising, bitch.
Five as a matter of fuck ass fact
is the number of Mercury
which rules Gemini and Virgo.
A lot of people don't believe in
astrology and numerology
and tarot.
A lot of people are smarter
than I can ever hope to be.
Pero. I like to imagine someone
spending $714.02 at Pig Liquors.
His name is Ronald Douglas Adams.
People call him Ronnie.
Ronnie is a Sagittarius with Pisces rising.
Moon in Cancer.
Ronnie sells the occasional bag of drugs.
What kind?
Meth, maybe.
Ronnie lives in a rusting trailer
on the outskirts of Lawton, Oklahoma.
He enjoys watching true crime podcasts
and dramatizations
("The Night Stalker" is his favorite)
and having drunken sex
with his soulmate.
Her name is Melissa Andromeda Villarreal.
She's an Aries.
Gemini rising.
Moon in Pisces.
"She sucks a mean dick," Ronnie tells his friends.
They are grateful to receive this information.
Somehow on Saturday September 2, 2023
Ronnie found out my debit card number
and decided to throw a little party
for himself and Melissa
and three or four of their most cherished friends.
"We are going to Pig Liquors like motherfuckers, y'all."
Ronnie drove himself and Melissa
in his Nissan (pussy) pick-up truck
to Pig Liquors in Lawton, Oklahoma.
They loaded up on Busch, Wild Turkey,
Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Tanqueray,
Glenfiddich, Beringer (because Melissa is classy),
Slim Jims, Cheetos and...truck driver caps.
Fortunately no one died at the party.
There was some vomit, sure.
But no death.
And the world continues to spin us all dizzy.
Friday, September 1, 2023
UNFORTUNATELY
Tuesday, August 29, 2023
all about that TEMU life
I tell the world to go fuck itself.
Gently.
With a chainsaw.
Love,
Misti