I Like Fire: Why Poetry Readings Suck.

I wrote this poem in 9th grade:

Art is a fart

that lives in my heart

and wants to explode

out my ass

This 9th grade poem was 10 billion times better than the crap I heard Monday night at a poetry reading dedicated to Jack Kerouac (On The Road) at the Laughing Goat (he would have shit himself) which got me wondering:

Are poetry readings funeral grounds for words?

I've tried all my life to get into poetry but last night I think I finally gave up. There is just so much angst, so much middle/class mockery of life. It's like these people want others to feel sorry for their decrepit lives, people who choose to make their lives decrepit just to get deeper into their own personal sorrow. They're always blaming God, then turning around and calling themselves gods. They're into gender stereotypes and crying about no one liking them. They're into self-mutilation and boring boring references to issues that have already been overly discussed (war, abortion, sex).

I used to really be into people who were into poetry. But now I'm revising that: I'm into people who can write poetry--which are not the people who go to open-mic poetry nights.

Seriously... the best one of the night was this middle aged man who kept saying, "I like fire" over and over again.

I laughed. Out loud. Really loudly. To the point of tears. And all the angry angst-filled poetry snobs glared at me. So I finished my beer and Ryan and I walked out the door, saying, "I like fire" all the way home.

I guess it's just not my scene.

Another Cargo Pants Incident.

Dear Drunk Guy at the Bar:

I just want to clarify, I was not laughing at you, merely laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Don't take this the wrong way, but when I'm already dancing with five beautiful people and you come up, point at me, then at yourself, followed by a mouthing of the word "dance," I may find the demand interesting for a moment, but only for a moment.

You see, the attraction to your assertiveness was undermined when I looked down and noticed you were wearing pleated cargo pants. You see Drunk Guy, we were at a bar, not standing around a bunch of cubicles at some mega corporation. And when I noticed your pleated-pants-covered-legs doing some really disgraceful dance moves, I could not help but laugh. Anyone would. (Maybe they wouldn't keel over in laughter like I did, but they would laugh none the less).

Now please, I don't want to be "that" girl who ruins men's self esteem, but sometimes you just need to realize that certain things will never work in your attempt to get laid.

But don't give up. I'm rooting for you. I'm sure there is a pleated pants girl just waiting for you, right around the corner, at TGIFridays or Staples or Outback Steak House.

I really do hope you had an enjoyable evening, even though I was rather a bitch to you. I didn't mean it (well obviously I kind of did).

Sometimes I wish National Geographic would do a series on "human bar rituals" as I think it would be rather entertaining to make fun of ourselves at the common mating watering holes we call bars--don't you think? I'm just saying we all have our "ways" of communicating and trying to get what we want. Some are just better at it then others. It often takes years of practice. I'm sure you'll get it down soon though (especially after you read this, if you read this, though I don't know how you'd be reading this unless you're another one of my stalkers which if that's the case I'll need to write you a whole new letter).

In any case Drunk Guy, it's been swell. I hope you're not too hung over today, though if I were you I would have gotten completely hammered just to forget about being seen in public in pleated pants, but that's just if I were you.

Have a beautiful day,

Love (don't get any ideas),

Krystal

A Day Without a Magazine.

Dear New Yorker:

Can anyone actually keep up with you—or do you get some sick pleasure from piling up on people’s coffee tables?

Yes, I would love to read you, but I am really getting panicky finding a new one in my mailbox every other day.

Are you aware that your stories are like 5 million words long?

Sure they’re interesting in a sort of pretentious way. Sure, if I were still watching jeopardy you would come in handy as I guarantee that’s where 80% of the answers come from. But for next week, could you please just send me the comics—as that’s all I have time for (and I don’t even have a paying job, I can’t even imagine what busy people do with you).

Alas, thank you for all you do for the world of upper/middle class (probably 90% white) intellectual people. Without you, we’d lose our standards.

I’m only complaining because sometimes one can really have too much of a good thing. And I feel guilty as I watch you pile up unread—all that knowledge still just drifting out in space, waiting to fill my brain.

Again, I appreciate the time we have had together, but you just crave too much attention. I think we’re going to have to take a break for a while.

It’s not me, it’s you.

It's not you, it's me.

Either way--it's not meant to be.

Love forever and always,

Krystal

Here I Rant Again.

I’m tired of being rejected: by jobs, by people, by life. I’m turning nihilistic and I’m going to enjoy the nothingness of my discontent. All of this living is just exhausting. I don’t know what I’m doing—or whatever I’m doing I am obviously doing it wrong—hence the overabundance of rejection.

And I’m just narcissistic enough to say that certain jackass people should just disappear off the planet so I can have more breathing room.

See the split there. I’m pissed off at people—as a general whole—for causing me to be pissed off at myself for not fitting into their little stupid-ass structure.

Nonconformity is quite a lot of work. And where does it get me. Bankrupt. Depressed. Angry. All because I don’t want to be like everyone else. What a bunch of bullshit.

Me on this little tiny planet. Me as this little tiny speciwomen on earth. A minuscule of nothing. A speck of dust. Who was told since birth she could change the entire world—ha! Does anyone else see the major reconstruction we’d have to do to make even a slight improvement? It’s just debilitating. I’m totally drained.

Sometimes we just need days to give up.

Today I am giving up. Perhaps it will cause a rebirth of passion for transformation.

Perhaps I will just become a hater.

But as Phil Collin’s says, I Don’t Care Anymore.

Bring on the rejections, I’ll just go live in a cave, brew my own beer, be buzzed all day and play music with rocks and sticks.

*side note: I feel nothing for Phil Collins I only agree with his words.

Five Songs Missing From Karaoke List.

Why oh Why can't I sing the songs I love?

Add these songs to the Karaoke machine.

1) Patti Smith—Free Money (or Gloria)

2) Bikini Kill—Suck My Left One

3) Pat Benatar—I Need a Lover

4) Fiona Apple—Criminal

5) Yeah Yeah Yeah’s—Man

Plus #1 Song No One Should attempt to Sing:

Shoop

Salt-N-Pepa