Straight from the edge of ruin.

See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Dec 12
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Chicken intervention

At her thinnest Trish grew a pelt of fur that covered her body. That’s not really true the hair was light and fine but still gross, and she had to shave her arms. Trish was a twin and both her and her sister got hystericalectomys at a young age. I really think they were uncomfortable with their femaleness and so tried to have it cut out. Her sister was skinny too.
Trish may not have eaten much but she really boozed it up. She also had a drugstore in her purse. Anti D’s, Anti-anxiety’s, tranks and sometimes cocaine. She claimed to have the worst case of agoraphobia in the country which was ridiculous as she was all over the place. She’d told the first doctor that she felt uncomfortable in the middle of fields. He was a doctor feelgood and prescribed three meds and a diagnosis based solely on this purported field fear. I went to him and told him I got nervous in grocery store lines and he gave me the same triad. His name was Butt and he later got blacklisted by the medical community and left town.
Thing about Trish though is that she still looked good in a bathing suit, she had an ass. We’d go to the beach a lot. Lake Michigan. Trish always brought a lot of snack food and beers. The snack food went uneaten unless it was fruit, oh and she would gnaw on the cheese occasionally.
I didn’t care that Trish was skinny in fact I liked it cause it bugged other people but when her hair started falling out and she took to wearing wigs, it was kind of iffy being seen with her. The wigs were big and long and there was a clown aspect about her appearance. Stick skinny with huge hair, Barbie dollish. I had to be in the mood for lots of attention—via strangers eyeballing us—if I went anywhere with her. The wigs had bangs that she had cut to disguise the wigness. The bangs stuck straight out. Almost parallel to the ground.
Trish was big on the soft glow therefore most of the lamps in her house had scarves over them. It was dim lighting for sure in the bathroom and the result of that was that she always had nightclub makeup on. Scary in the light of day.
I lost Trish at Borders once and was about to ask the lesbian on duty if she’d seen her but she interrupted telling me the big-haired girl was in magazines. Trish actually read a lot, mostly books detailing atrocities against women. She thought of herself as an activist but alls she did was run her mouth. Plus she had no gripe, she lived like a rich woman supported by her husband and then ex-husband, Blair. They divorced so she could continue getting disability health insurance.
Trish liked to go out to eat a lot. She always sent the food back though. She also thought everyone in restaurants was staring at her and they probably were cause she was so loud.
I made her eat half a roasted chicken once, and mashed potatoes. I told her I’d give her a paper of heroin. At the time I was trading art for heroin and always had some on hand. She totally devoured the thing, it was gross to watch.
I haven’t seen her in a while. She went into hiding after she killed her dog. It was a Pomeranian, she shook it too hard and snapped its neck.