Apocalypse Forecast (the end is near):

Because Real Rock Stars Don't Bathe/ You Wouldn't Believe The Stink On My Shirt

CupcakeExpress — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 06:09:45 GMT

Well friends, this is day six of 21-ness and my first day of sobriety in.... quite a while... its harder than I thought it would be. Having just recently learned, in depth, about the calories in alcohol a few days ago, I began an attempt to steer away from beer and wine, more specifically, bottles of wine and cases of beer, and stick to whiskey, which I have developed quite an affinity for. However, I just learned about this thing called a liver...... Anyway, because I'm avoiding the bottle on the fridge, let me update you on the uselessness of my past 48 sordid hours. Lets see, I woke up at some point yesterday, oh yes, and I went to work at 11 instead of 2:30 (last time I showed up a day early, at least its better than late or not at all right) after work I picked up my deviant friend who is a red-headed banshee of a hell cat alcoholic (we only seem to hang out when I need an "enabler" or someone to help me seduce unsuspecting neighbor boys...) and we drank whiskey on the porch, actually, I drank whiskey and she just let her ice melt, which is strange, I've never known her to pass up on booze, especially free booze... I didn't get drunk per-say, in fact I drove her down the street, but its a hard life and a hot sumer so I ended up passing out for hours. I'm pretty sure I showered yesterday morning but I can't remember. When I woke up, I found that I was out of tampons, and not having the money for tampons (i swear to God if men got a rag those fucking things would be subsidized, mother-fucking seven bucks a box) or gas for my car, I conceived of the brilliant idea to walk the three miles to Whole Foods and buy one of those sea sponge things because A. they are like a dollar and B. some feminazi this one time said something about using them inspead of Kotex to like bring down "The Man" or whatever. So off I went, wearing the first shirt on the top of my laundry bag (this is proof right here that girls are not only human but are on occasion equally if not more disgusting than guys... especially when their man, or the neighbor that they are pining over is away and they have no witnesses). It happens to be a fantastic t-shirt that I not only wore all all of a few weeks ago, but worked out in last week as well. It fucking stinks. In fact I'm wearing it right now and its totally rank, but the funny thing is, its not just rank, its a cesspool of pheromones, so in its stinkiness, its actually kinda nice smelling (at least I know I'm still alive). Case and point, in my total beastly state, I was catching the attention of Whole Food hippie-men right and left, and I know it wasn't because of my dark circles and puffy eyes. But I digress. In case you were wondering, the sea sponge thing was a total waste of money, so my solution: I haven't changed my underwear in like two days. I figure hey, I'm not really going anywhere, there's nobody around, I'm hardly bleeding and they're black... (at this point its kind of like an experiment in hygiene). So since I slept all day yesterday, I was up all last night like a crack head cleaning my bathroom, and then around 3 or 4AM a helicopter started buzzing around and I got a sudden streak of paranoia and started having visions of V for Vendetta and became convinced that "The Man" was going to come knocking and find my Communist Manifesto and other rebel-writings and take me to Guantanemo or some shit, so then I started trying to pry the floor boards up because I got the great idea that I would stash my books under the floor. However, this also proved to be a bad idea. (If my neighbors think I'm coked out it would not surprise me, ironically however, I am not, and shudder to think how it would be if I were.) Shortly after this I passed out. This morning I was awoken by a masculine knock on the door. You can always tell a girl's knock from a guy's. It was my friend and former lover of an ever so brief moment in time. Luckily, the boy can't smell, he was just born that way, I have no idea what the biology is behind it, because you guessed it, I answered the door in the T-shirt and panties in question. (The stench has however gotten worse since then...) After he said his piece and went on his way I passed back out until 2:30. (I apologize that this is an all tell and no show kinda story, luckily this is the internet and not college.) At some point I put on a pair of cut-offs and a clean shirt and walked across town on official business (no money you see, they haven't made me pink on this site yet...) Whilst sitting in the office I kept smelling something akin to kelp, like disgusting harbor water. It wasn't until walking my ass back across town that I realized every sweating pore on my body was omitting vile toxicity, something like rotting moonshine. (This was another factor in my decision not to drink today.) When stopping at the consignment store to hustle a few dollars I was overcome by a mixture of apathy and shame, trying to keep my unshaven reeking armpits away from the customers and also feeling a little proud of the unkempt chain-smoking foul rock-star-esque condition I had/have assumed. Which leads me to here, now, waiting for LOST to quite buffering on surfthechannel.com so I can obsessively watch the new love of my life, the miracle of God's creation, Sawyer, do his bad ass thing. You see, because the world disgusts me and I've burned all my booty-call bridges, and mostly because I still pine over my aloof neighbor, I haven't gotten laid in a millennium (which also has to do with my surrender and the condition I am now in). For the most part I have be totally fine with this, you see, I seem to have replaced that old sex addiction with Jim Beam, but today, I don't know if its the pheromones or the sobriety, but I'm willing to hump the world. Luckily for me, I work in a sex store. The end, pointless you see.

Behold the Power!

CupcakeExpress — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 07:38:04 GMT

A day in the mind of me: Thinking I might relent and start using sunscreen. For anyone who knows me, this is a huge turn-around. I have to ease myself into it, as in SPF 1 and only on my shoulders (and tats) since they are the peeling and gross-out flaking beasts that inspired this whole thing. (Not the tats, the shoulders.) According to my friend's mom per my assertion that Indians don't get skin cancer, American Indians are in fact less likely to get skin cancer than most other ethnicities (meaning white) but when they get it, its usually very severe. And I was all, well yeah, any Native who has managed to fry themselves into a state of skin cancer must have it bad. Its all or nothin baby. Then I wondered what tribes were represented in this report, being that most ignoramuses assume we are the same critter- because it would seem to me that "Eskimos", who do not even consider them selves "Native American" by-the-way, would probably be the ones more likely to get skin cancer since they are more on the "fair" side, as well as those crazy Cherokees (no disrespect intended) and all other mongrel mutts for that matter, like the 1/8ths and 4/32nds and what not -which brings us back around to me, who is one of those aforementioned pedigrees who might just be touting enough white and/or European blood to end up the unlucky 2%. In short, I'm going to use sunscreen. Which leads us into topic number 2. While some people get big male dogs to keep them in shape and on the up-side of hot, I have just purchased a zebra print Brazilian thong bikini. If that bitch isn't enough to get my ass a runnin' I might as well just pack it in a go the ho-ho route. As It is, I already feel a Britney-esque tummy coming on. Probably due to some idiot's wise advice that if you eat more meals your metabolism speeds up. That and today was the first day I've purchased groceries in about a month, which means I have been consuming other people's mercy, which in turn means carbs and beer. Anyway, I digress. The thong bikini presents a small conundrum (sexy vocab word huh?) because I got it mainly so that in places where I am, regretfully, required to wear bathing attire I can still get a nice tan on my big ass. Because American bikinis are like granny panties, or Heaven forbid, diapers, and there is nothing, in my opinion, worse than a hotly tanned body and a sub-par, white tush. Of course you realize the conundrum lays in topic number one where I all but renounce tanning for fear of becoming one of those terrifying old Texans you see around who (where I come from at least) wear too much cheap turquoise and look about as leathery as their overprices boots, only more orange. Yuck! I mean total gross-out! Who wants to be the hag?! Or just as bad, the scrawny hippie momma that free-loved her saggy tits though two stoned decades sun-block-free and now looks like the crypt-keeper! Its just so tough being fabulous all the time... there are so many logistics to work out... However, on a more positive note, I am totally loofa-whipped, yeah, thats right, my loofa has me by the balls! I can't help it, its just so divine. Not only that but its so long and well girthed! I tingle all over from it and feel more refreshed than I have in eons. (For all you boys, I'm speaking about a loofa sponge, google it if you don't know.) I just bought it today at the mecca of corporate enlightenment (I'm being facetious of course) along with a little brush for your nails (all natural fibers and such) and the most glorious pumice stone for my beastly little toes... oh yes and a facial loofa, which is like this little pad with an extra soft loofa on it. Anyway, ladies and gentlemen let me tell you whats up, loofa is whats up! If you need a little pick-me-up of just need to score some points with your main squeeze, boogy on down to your local health food emporium and get in on this action. Its cheap and full of lasting rewards, like baby soft skin and eternal youth. Ok, I'm out. But remember one thing. LOOOOOFFFFFFFAAAAAAA

Slither

CupcakeExpress — Sat, 17 May 2008 10:06:52 GMT

Every once in a while, my heart speaks up, though mostly it knows to keep quiet. I have a case of unrequited love. I'm a clique. I put too small of a lip ring in and I cant get it out and now I'm wondering if that is some sort of metaphor.

My Manifesto Is A Disclaimer

CupcakeExpress — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 05:56:42 GMT

(because I am supposed to submit poetry to be critiqued by published authors) I thought I'd give you a few poems to read, to find out if they suck, as I often suspect they do. But really I don't give a (flying) fuck what you think because I'm a self-centered rock-star and these are self-centered rock-star poems and only pussies look for approval. But I thought I'd give then to you anyway, to see if you think they suck because if they do then I'll know I'm on the right track and well on my way to fame and fortune, to groupies and some really boss clothes, like black pleather and glittery platforms, and who cares if I have no talent, at least I will look hot and all anyone really cares about is attitude and sex right? So fuck literature and fuck the greater truth, the world revolves Me and I'm too busy keeping my head above water to contemplate poetry, let alone the greater truth. Besides, who really needs poetry when you're being paid to look hot. Or some variation there of.

Because Frank O’Hara Rocks My Socks and I Yearn To Be A Mötley Crüe Groupie

CupcakeExpress — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 05:24:25 GMT

Because Frank O’Hara Rocks My Socks and I Yearn To Be A Mötley Crüe Groupie (also because I’m a nerdy fucking Creative Writing major that needs to get a life?) - another couple of Cupcake Express semi-originals (with inclusive originals too): THE DAY NIKKI DIED (the first time) Its night in London on a Valentines Day we only know this because 1, its dark out, and 2, its fucking Valentines Day, yes it is also 1986 and I go get a fifth of JD for inspiration because I will play Hammersmith Odeon at some point tonight then go straight to score and I don’t know the people who will fix me I walk up some shabby street beginning to sweat and have a bump or two to ease things off and bum a smoke from Sixx and ask him what he supposes the poets in Ghana are doing these days I grab us a taxi to a heroine apartment and the Doctor (first name unknown) doesn’t even look up from the table because this is his life and in the other room I get a little china white for Sixx with a clean needle although I do not think to be impressed that the dealer has clean needles until much later, like years later when I read The Heroine Diaries where Nikki recalls this particular night, anyway I stick it in his arm after practically throwing up with sickness and for myself I just chase a little dragon into the dysfunctional louvre and slump against the toile for a spell and then go back where I think I came from to Sixx on the floor and the dealer is beating the shit out of him with a baseball bat and frantically saying he’s attempting to beat the life back into him and from the look of his face I can tell he doesn’t want a dead rock-star on his hands and I am sweating a lot by now and not really thinking of anything much as the Doctor opens the door onto the street while carrying a blue colored Sixx along the sidewalk to what looks like a dumpster and I’m quite sure now he’s not breathing THE DAY LADY DIED -- Frank O’Hara (who happens to have died in 1966 in a dune-buggy accident on Fire Island… how fucking punk rock is that?!) It is 12:20 in New York a Friday three days after Bastille day, yes it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner and I don't know the people who will feed me I walk up the muggy street beginning to sun and have a hamburger and a malted and buy an ugly NEW WORLD WRITING to see what the poets in Ghana are doing these days in Ghana are doing these days I go on to the bank and Miss Stillwagon (first name Linda I once heard) doesn't even look up my balance for once in her life and in the GOLDEN GRIFFIN I get a little Verlaine for Patsy with drawings by Bonnard although I do think of Hesiod, trans. Richmond Lattimore or Brendan Behan's new play or Le Balcon or Les Nègres of Genet, but I don't, I stick with Verlaine after practically going to sleep with quandariness and for Mike I just stroll into the PARK LANE Liquor Store and ask for a bottle of Strega and then I go back where I came from to 6th Avenue and the tobacconist in the Ziegfeld Theatre and casually ask for a carton of Gauloises and a carton of Picayunes, and a NEW YORK POST with her face on it and I am sweating a lot by now and thinking of leaning on the john door in the 5 SPOT while she whispered a song along the keyboard to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing POEM (NIKKI SIXX HAS COLLAPED!) Nikki Sixx has collapsed! I was snorting a line and suddenly it was raining tequila and snowing and you said it was hailing but hail hits you on the head hard so it was really snowing and raining and I was in such a hurry to cook a good sized rock but the torch was acting exactly like the sky and suddenly I hear voices in my head NIKKI SIXX HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no china white in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Nikki Sixx we love you get up! POEM (LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!) -- Frank O’Hara Lana Turner has collapsed! I was trotting along and suddenly it started raining and snowing and you said it was hailing but hailing hits you on the head hard so it was really snowing and raining and I was in such a hurry to meet you but the traffic was acting exactly like the sky and suddenly I see a headline LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED! there is no snow in Hollywood there is no rain in California I have been to lots of parties and acted perfectly disgraceful but I never actually collapsed oh Lana Turner we love you get up (Coming soon to a crack house near you: THE BALLAD OF BRITTNEY SPEARS)

U.S. History 101

CupcakeExpress — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 00:04:59 GMT

Tribe: A Governmental phrase; an Anglo-American concept with Germanic roots applied to the Indigenous peoples of North America during the Reorganization Act of 1934. Creating a "Tribe": After the Dine peoples returned to their homelands, in the late 1800s, from Bosque Redondo, where they had been held as prisoners of war following the historic Long Walk, the discovery of minerals and natural recourses was made on their land. Because of the nature of federal trusteeship, it became necessary for the Federal Government to create a "tribal" government, with "chiefs" i.e. leaders or chairmen among the Navajo. This chiefdom system of government (totally foreign to the Navajo, who are traditionally democratic) had to be created so that corporate interests could acquire official land leases from the "tribe" in order to exploit their lands. In other-words, because reservation land is held in trust to Native communities, only those communities have the authority to let outsiders dig for Uranium and other resources on their lands. Because the majority of Native peoples during the 1930s wanted no part of such desecration, the only way the slime balls could get such blasphemous land leases out of them was to force them into creating Anglo-American-style governments. You get the idea.

A Displaced N.Y. Poem for a Displaced S.Fe Night

CupcakeExpress — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 02:58:11 GMT

He wears black Wranglers, smokes menthols, rides a Harley, has almond shaped eyes – freckles – and the sexiest Goddamn lips I’ve ever seen. And that’s why I’m driving on ice, through a blizzard, across town in fuck-me-red stilettos, hella sexy panties, and a leopard print dress. Because I’m in love with his image and face and the way he make me feel sexy through association. So now, its March 3, 2008, and I’m a 20 year-old, 125 pound (depending on the phase of the moon) borderline control freak with a sinus infection in a California king size bed, next to a snoring biscuit who is yet to make good on his promise of cuddling. Last time I checked, there was about a foot of space between us. Its 74˚, even though its snowing outside, and my fucking feet are sweating into his clean white sheets. And for the last hour or so, I have been playing an off-beat rhythm on the sides of my breasts and pondering this guy’s compulsive cleanliness. For a man who smokes too much, refuses to consume water, and has been arrested for public debauchery, there is not a nick-nack out of place in this immaculate two-story on the ugly south-side of town. I’m thinking I might like to slip out, risk the roads, and go home. Or at least raid the kitchen downstairs because my tummy is growling and it looks like its gunna be a long night. But, his brother is awake down there and I have no idea where my dress may have landed, let alone the many, carefully chosen, accoutrements that go with it. And this biscuit, he seduces me in his sleep, so I accept my fate, and tell myself sternly: I’ve made it this long, I can live through another displaced night.

Biscuit-Bustin Sunday

CupcakeExpress — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 01:37:30 GMT

For being 20, its amazing how old/ worn-out I can look some afternoon-mornings, when yesterday's make-up seems to have permanently stained my eyes black and no matter how much i scrub, I can't seem to get off my raccoon-mascara, because, well, its not mascara under there. Its one of those 2:00 Sunday PMs where I'm hella thrashed and I can't imagine ever looking any other way. Hiding behind aviators on my way to the Arcade News sex store, chosen specifically for its oober nastiness, with my kitchen scissor haircut and piss stained Converse sneakers (say that out loud in a Boston accent, you wont be sorry) with the dirt from last week's drag show still gritty against my sockless feet. Half way there, I realize I forgot to put on a bra. To the delight of all, you can see the gauge of my nipple rings under my ripped white t-shit, even with the black Old English lettering I have so lovingly applied, reading "Bourgeois". In my world, which is pretty much confined to the space between my ears, "bourgeois" and "fuck off" and interchangeable terms. Its a social commentary. In fact everything about today was a social commentary, if only to myself..... funny how things coincide.

Good Men Love Plants

CupcakeExpress — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 01:36:48 GMT

A good man, a righteous man, is a man who understands plants. Today I listened to a man explain to the receptionist how the plants in the waiting room were being over watered. "Let them dry out for three weeks", I heard him say to the woman while I obediently waited my turn with her. She obviously couldn't have cared less, though having been obsequiously trained to maintain a cheerful and helpful front, she assured him she would inform "them". Being both people of the Earth, people not yet lobotomized, desensitized, and possibly radiated by over exposure to florescent lighting, the man and I saw through her facade immediately. I peeked around the counter at the plants in question. Boggy would have been an adequate word to describe their submerged state. His face read defeat, his energy quavering on distraught at the prospect of being helpless; that this no-brain, smile plastered receptionist, nay, that this hideous, cheaply carpeted institution of health and healing should out-power him. Especially, and God-damn this was the kicker, especially when they would be sending him the bill. I knew he wanted to take them, clutch them to his tender man chest and make a break for it, away from those gory rooms, the headache lighting, and maniacal plant waterers, but everyone knows you can't just steal plants in broad daylight, not with the value of soil being what it is. *** X was a plant man. A lot like my father actually, who always gives me advice like, "Get that aloe vera out of the sun, its getting burned", and "that corn needs nitrogen". I'm sure its one of the reasons I liked him, absent-daddy-syndrome. Anyway. If I wasn't sure if something I'd planted from seed was a tomato or a pepper, he knew to crush up a leaf and find the answer in the smell. Smoking a cigarette on my doorstep, he would tell me when an over zealous plant needed breaking up and transplanting, or that the big leaves on my hydrangea meant it needed extra water and shade. No-brainers for the seasoned plant person, but I was a newbie that summer, punch drunk on growing things, however ill informed. On a trip to visit his own garden in the mountains, I learned about the benefits of fish emulsion and how to pluck unnecessary leaves so that the energy can be utilized elsewhere, In turn, I told him how I was certain that the only reason any of my plants were alive was because I left honey out for the fairies, prayed, and scattered tobacco frequently. He broke a cigarette and sprinkled the contents around his babies, a gesture that made me smile. However, shortly after that highly educational outing, albeit illegal, he disappeared back into the haze from which he had appeared. Sure, like all men, plant men are flawed. They make atrocious decisions, forget your birthday, leave you waiting, and abandon you in six different ways on a routine basis. But they are beautiful in their rugged, man-of-the-earth, dirt under the fingernails kind of way and for a shallow plant-slut like me, thats enough. Besides, they remind me of my dad.... And anyways, when they leaving you laying in bed alone all night because they have been arrested again, you can at least rest assured that if these lovers-of-life were the men who owned the world, there would never be another nuclear betrayal.