the world has turned and left me here

In an attempt to bring her second knee up to her chest and hug it (because she seriously needed a hug but nobody was around) she slammed the top of her knee on the bottom of her desk.

That sudden surge of pain shot through her body.

Moments ago, upon picking up and folding a shirt, she had smacked her elbow against a piece of her door frame that jutted out more than the rest of it.

A distant memory-voice in the back of her head began, the voice of a babysitter she had when she was young. Or young-er it said:
"My mom used to say if you hurt yourself a few times in a row it's because somebody, somewhere is saying bad things about you."

A Rolodex of everybody she knew flashed through her brain as she told them all to fuck themselves. Then one of those horrible self pitying "what a painful inconvenience" noises rose from deep inside of her, where the stronger and potentially longer-lasting pain went to sleep. She turned away from her desk and her eyes fell to the floor.

Then, slowly, so did her body.

Sometimes when she would be taking the subway home, or walking around her neighborhood she'd see people who look like they were just about to collapse on the ground. Like there was one thread responsible for their entire body and if you just pulled it a little bit they would completely unravel into a pool on the floor.

She lay on the floor for a minute, motionless, tracing the thread as it lead from the top of her knee cap, down her shin and disappeared somewhere near her radiator.

Inside of her, another thread snapped, potentially with a silent, minuscule crack of the piece of coal that had been house sitting for her heart for the past few months. Somewhere in the black, cold substance maybe a tiny spark had exploded. The pressures that had been oozing her breath out of her lungs in painful steady strides turned the spark into diamonds. Shards of mineral ripped at the bottom of her eyelids and over flowed, scraping themselves down her face.

she was now crying while Weezer blared out of her speakers, folded over on her floor.

Pathetic.

belly full of lead

Contents of stomach as documented on November 15th, 2010:

Barbed wire, Molten lava (as previously mentioned), A living "Frankenstein's monster" of song lyrics ranging from "good music" to the shittiest soft-rock-radio love songs one could possibly imagine, Snakes, Snails, Puppy dog tails, Cigarette butts, Misadventures, An arrangement of musky natural smells, Some assortment of heavy rocks and boulders, An anthology of vivid dreams I am still trying to digest, maybe a cherry of of vivid memories I am trying, dying to digest, Bits of my nails I have been biting off and an electric heating pad.

If that's not cause for constipation I just don't know what is anymore.

swallowed a volcano

I understand that by 'heart broken' people place an emotion to a metaphysical symbol, that is really technically an organ.

I understand if I was really heart broken I might consider being hospitalized.

Lately it's felt like you live your life to meet people and fall in love with them. I have had many loves.

Brief to not-so-brief. Spicy to mild, cream and sugar to black and bitter. Once I was in love with a movie star, once I was in love with my seventeen year old camp counselor, Caitlin.
You meet someone and they find almost instantly exactly where they fit in you. If they can't find a space, sometimes they make one or sometimes you move space for them and they crawl their way into you. Sometimes you can feel them, the way they fill you or even hollow you out.

These days, I feel like I've swallowed a volcano; you pried open my mouth and I swallowed an active volcano. The lava molts over and turns into hard rock, every few days the pressure from my rib cage when I sleep or the sight of a boy on a bike or a place where we have been or the thought of us fucking makes my internal temperature rise. The lava reactivates and fills my stomach and chest with burnt orange rivers.

I try to speak, but my heart beats so hard it fans the volcano and all that comes up is smoke and ash.

Huh

Secret to making a blog you can actually write something personal on:

Be a bad blogger and then NOBODY WILL EVER READ IT.

It's two thirty in the am. The last time I checked my only friends were the chocolate fudge cream explosion in the freezer and the electric heating pad tucked in my blanket.

I'm wearing your shirt. But I think somebodies special mom did their laundry before they left because your shirt doesn't smell bad. I mean musky. You don't smell bad. You smell like the way my face fits into the neck-shaped space between your jaw and your collar bone. You smell like the way your hands feel on almost every part of my body.

I'm worried. About a lot. I'm worried I'm not strong enough to be alone. I'm worried your ability to leave me for so long and start up a mini-new life is because I don't mean half as much to you as you pretend to. I'm worried in the time you spend away I will build up walls around the parts of me you manage to find the little keys to. They're laughable, really. But I'm sort of determined.

I'm worried about what comes later, and that I won't be able to enjoy the present thinking about the later. Every so often a small part of the way you smell wafts from the shirt and makes me really happy. I'm worried parts of me that you bring out can't work the same magic without you around.

Ultimatley I don't know what to do, what you mean to me or how this is going to work out. You make me sad and frustrated.

This is my 33rd post to this blog, and though I don't really give a fuck about it here is an adequate present:

Of Bella Donna and the nothing else that mattered.

Bella Donna

I made her today on Marvel's website. I need to start drawing her sexy details soon... Unfortunately Marvel's options didn't include all the kick ass accessories she's going to have. But I think this would be a good little character of who she was before she decided to be a LEGIT super hero. Bet it blows your socks off. It's ok it blows mine off too.

I also made a fort yesterday for a flyer fooor a shooow that is going to be pretty fucking awesome. I am not totally happy with said flyer so in posting it i am ashamed but that's what happens when your computer fucks off and the show is in a week.


That fort scared the shit out of me when I got home last night...

Gabie's heart: la dee da beating beating everythings cool
Gabie's brain: Oh man can't wait to eat this sushi tomorrow
Gabie's heart: yeah btw that shit is horrible for me ... so much salt dude. so much salt.
Gabie's brain: yeah fu w/e
Gabie's heart: LOL jks jks i Love sushi
Gabie's brain: yeah i bet you do---OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT IN MY LIVING ROOM! AHH!
Gabie's heart: WHAT?! WHAT IS IT! I CAN'T SEE SHIT HOLY FUCK *flatlines for a split second*
Gabie's brain: Oh. Nevermind it's that fort I made before I left my house.
Heart: ......fuck you dude.

undercover slut

These are some of the best covers I've heard lately. I love covers. Duvets and shit, oh baby. What? Not those covers.

Right.

I'm going to post the originals too assuming you've all been living under rocks but your bones appear to be generally in tact so.... except for you, Mr. beetle but your hard shell and miniscule size allows you to go under rocks I'd never dare to venture.
This is some heavy shit. No pun intended.

enjoy.

T.I Whatever you Like

Dead Kennedys Too Drunk to Fuck

Kady Perry Hot n cold

Mariah Carey Fantasy

and of course....

"But Gabie this isn't a cover"

"Fuck you it's my blog."

of late late late lates and late.

Early. Whatever.

It's technically early and this fucking hurts.