It's a freebie but only after you take that whore bath

Here's the ceramic pitcher...

Homegirl! extra

They went to the bar and they sat in a row, Engagedguy, Egyptiantatts, Homegirl, and Punkboy. Engagedguy and Egyptiantatts’d rode their motorcycles over while Punkboy’d walked his fixie besides Homegirl the ten blocks to the dive bar, and Punkboy’d thought about kissing her the whole way. First, he thought, I will kiss her on the end of this block. Then he thought, I will kiss her on the top of this hill. Then, I will kiss her after pointing out the house I used to rent that’s now owned by a po-po. Then, I will kiss her when we get within two blocks of the bar. Then, I will kiss her if a hoopdie goes by bumping its system. Then, I will kiss her if a hoopdie prowls by quiet as sin. Then, I will kiss her before we get into sight of the bar. Then, when I can see the bar. Then, before we walk into the bar.


He didn’t, but he told her to wait as he locked up his bike, then opened the door for her to the bar.

That was more than enough for Homegirl, the holding open of the door for her, but she didn’t tell Punkboy that. If he’d pursued it that night, she would have gone home with him, cos she kinda had a feeling about him way down deep.

& those are the feelings more people should listen to.

I’m just saying.

But Punkboy didn’t pursue it that night.

& Egyptiantatts did.

& Homegirl and Etatts were a secret couple for a while.

But, just a couple of weeks; Etatts loved himself way too much.

& they weren’t that secret cos Punkboy knew. & Punkboy was pissed.

At both of them.

It took him a long time to get over it.

About three years, maybe more. But, this was supposed to be about Homegirl and Punkboy and how they got together.

After the failed group date, they made out a couple months later. Punkboy was walking Homegirl home from the café’s yearly Labor Day picnic and they were wasted and they were standing on top of that hill where Punkboy’d wanted to kiss Homegirl at before and it was still warm outside and quiet, the hoopdies were prowling like sin, and it was perfect and they kissed with tongue and didn’t bite, at first, it was gentle gentle as they got to know each other’s tongues, as they felt the slippery twistings and turnings, and then they were biting and teeth meeting and clicking hungry but not in a bad way and there was some scratching and pressing and panting and then they decided to go to the bar where they met up with their co-workers and pretended like the make-out on the hill’d never happened.

They pretended for a while.

Punkboy started dating another chick from the café and Homegirl took up with this younger guy who’d just gotten hired and she started feeling some things for him and then she went to Montreal with a friend and when she got back Youngboy was dating someone else and Homegirl was pissed and pretended like she didn’t care about Youngboy and his little bitch and Punkboy and his.

That weekend, tho, she went out to the dive bar Punkboy hung out at and he was there and Etatts was there and Engagedboy and her fave bartender was bartending and Etatts and her fave bartender were now roommates and they decided to have an afterbar and Homegirl had nowhere to go but home so she went to the afterbar and Punkboy had nowhere to be except his girlfriend’s bed so he went to the afterbar and Etatts and Favetender lived there and Engagedboy went home cos he knew better. Some other people were there when Homegirl showed up with one of her convenient girlfriends and she ditched girlfriend in the living room and friend didn’t notice cos she was concentrating on the bong that was going around and all of a sudden Punkboy and Homegirl were in the dirty months-o-afterbars kitchen and they were alone and they were kissing again like they were at the top of that hill and then Punkboy said, You wanna go?




Yours w/ the towel,
Ryder

i have been drinking the sake & the gin & tonics & i'm full

of love...of shit...of love shit...of things...of love things

this is my homage to all the big boy drinkers who drink during the day; this is my homage and my homage is me in a white merry widow with blue bows and a red, but not raspberry, beret - egalite, liberte, etc... so francais, mais oui?,and nothing else cos i'm in the alabamas and it is always hot here and there is always body heat and i'm always thinking about that tin tub scene with kathleen turner, & i've got a bottle of chilled cheap sake in one hand and a pint glass overflowing with cheap gin and lime juices and the tonics and a few ice in the other, mais oui, and it's four in the afternoon here and not even happy hour and i don't have to stay here but it is my home for now and i will read some hst just to fortify me and keep me going for a few more days at least with the sakes and the gnts.

Here is a homage to all my big boy drinker/writers.

i've been trying to read all the shit & all the writers & all their blogs i love. that is why i'm full of love & not just lust at this moment; i am loving the way that some writers are now in my head and loving the way that i think some of them get me. check out the blogs i love if you want to get it.

& now i gots to get even more serious:

> kill author is off the chain or some shit; reviews are just popping up all over & i say big props & big kudos to > kill author

here are two reviews:

http://thesabotage.wordpress.com/2010/08/22/kill-author-8/

(seriously, check out not just these reviewed stories, but also the whole awesomecreaming issue.)

http://wewhoareabouttodie.com/2010/08/24/quickie-reviews-online-lit-mags-kill-author/

& then there's a review of my story, cos it's all about me, peeps, seriously, sometimes not really, but i was tot psyched to see this on > kill author, in fact i was worrying you'd think i was a pussy or something cos i  almost creamed myself when i saw this but i am a woman and i gots a pussy so i'm not too worried and if you think calling me a pussy's an insult or alluding to my bitchness or whatever's going to get me down, give me a fucking break, misogyny's been around for centuries, if i'm even gonna listen to, let alone get turned on by your misogyny you gots to keep it fresh, motherfucker, & this huge preface has no thing to do with the review cos the review's super awesome, so please forgive me, Andrew Roe, for my sake/gin&juiced digression.

i knocked someone's socks off without my small tonka truck, without my Shining twins triking into them...

speaking of, another piece of Homegirl!'s just been taken by Juked; it's called "Love things"; it's about love & stuff. Homegirl's psyched, as am i.

yours in love & things,
Ryder

Homegirl! hits 50!

& no, not 50 years old, but if she did she'd be a red hot mama cruising around in a 1970s Dodge Challenger and she'd be wearing silver hot pants and a bikini top and a platinum wig and a fake beauty spot and big sunglasses, of course.

She wouldn't look anything like these lovely ladies, but bicepy guys would fight each other to get close enough that she could touch or even lick one of their big muscles...

I tried to find a picture of an old lady in hot pants. I googled "old ladies in hot pants." Nothing. I googled "old lady" in hot pants & I found this...

I'm not quite sure what it is, but maybe my balaclavaed anarchists can use it to keep their dicks/strap ons warm.




I'm celebrating by thinking of anarchist sex and balaclavaed rim jobs, of course, the nubby texture an added bonus, oh yeah; I gots 50 pages of Homegirl!


What 50+ years old Homegirl listens to as she slams Irish whiskey and reminisces...


Yours, but writing, always writing,
Ryder

Mama's a mean mama, but still

none of the shit I writes is about you; it's about expunging the darkness. Maybe it'll help you expunge your darkness; maybe it'll exacerbate your darknesses. If it does encourage the darkness, that's not what I meant, that's not what I meant at all.

I will have to wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled, then.

I will have to eats a peach or the peach'll eat me.

Everyone will come & go.

I'll let them cos I just don't give a fuck and there's no love song for me & there's no love song for Homegirl; but I'm not feeling sorry for myself.

Poor Homegirl, tho.

She's been too much around the darkness; she's been left in the darkness for a while and the only flash of light in the darkness's been an ex-Marine. The ex-Marine liked strippers and cunts and pinball and Oasis, and was a hipster before there were American hipsters and Homegirl ate that shit up.

Of course.

There are no mermaids where hipsters are involved.

There is Homegirl and darkness & neither's singing each to each.

& that's it; & that's all.

Yours temporarily,
Ry

Homegirl! is my girl

A piece of Homegirl!: Homegirl! just wants a piece; get it up for Homegirl!; another piece of Homegirl!'s up at Sleep. Snort. Fuck.

This ain't bragging...

I feel so bad for Homegirl!; I make not so nice things happen to her.

I want to protect her, but that nurturing thing musta skipped my DNA.

I want to protect her but then that protective feeling pisses me off and makes me want to do mean things to her, like sucker punching her or renting the apartment next to hers and blasting "The Trumpets Ole Play Instrumentals" at max volume or dressing up like a Mormon and bringing by pamphlets with transvestite porn mixed in and making her listen to a mash-up of Joseph Smith and lady-boys doing it (she'll be so confused and turned on), or stealing her boyfriend, or stealing her boyfriend and putting him in an anti-drug PSA, preferably one with a swimming pool or a drive thru and impending doom, and that PSA'll play every time she can't sleep cos of the Newlywed Game theme coming from next door where her ex and I are making whoopie all throughout the apt.

I think nice things are waiting for Homegirl, tho, in the end. Maybe.

Terminally ambivalently yours,
Ry

Broke my cardinal rule & entered your bender

with disastrous results, of course; I am all bruised, physically, etc etc. There is fodder fodder fodder here and Homegirl will be munching the fodder; the fodder'll be coming out her ass by this time tomorrow.

24 hours to digest, biotches.

I'm back in the Alabamas and glad to be back, for once. That's how disastrous that bender-jumping turned out to be. I'm gonna sit on my porch with my shotgun and a jug o whiskey and that won't be ironic and I'll wear big sunglasses and fuschia hot pants and I'll count your finger tipped & finger shaped bruises vs. the coffee table edged bruises on my legs and if anyone tries to talk to me it'll be their fucking lucky day cos I'll give them a warning shot first to get the fuck off my shit.

Nicey-nice news: Homegirl flashes

More nicey-nice: Homegirl'll flash again, I promise.

More nicey-nice: I like merry widows and garters.

Most nice: Home

I'd have more in me but just flew across the country in a compact car crammed full of my stuff + two dogs. 15+ hours to get over the Mason-Dixon; met some nice Floridians and sweated in my kneehigh motherfucking cool ass boots I wear to scare rednecks at rest stops.

Bruised all over, but still yours,
Ry

More Homegirl!, more juice, more meat, more voice, more tongue...

Another piece of Homegirl!'s been published at The Meth Lab:
Homegirl vs. The Shadow

Check this zine out cos it's naughty & needs a proper spanking or somethingsomething...

& when I finish Homegirl! and get her published I'm gonna send a copy to the editors of Sleep. Snort. Fuck. and The Meth Lab for giving Homegirl a place in their hearts &/or their minds &/or their dirty places & on their sites.

I'm also gonna send a copy to Sam Pink cos he will be my boyfriend, then.

Your cybergirl,
Ryder

Homegirl!: to the window, to the wall...ah skeetskeetskeetskeet skeet

Facebook - i hate you and your assface, too

So I was tot psyched cos I was going to create a FB profile for Homegirl! (her name was totally gonna be Homegirl! on FB to distinguish her from all the other FB Homegirls, but FB don't recognize that name as legit, can you believe it?) cos I thought it would be fun and I've been working all week and I'm bored bored bored. Homegirl could have her own friends and Homegirl could tot update her status with all the inappropriate things I want to but can't cos a bunch of my relatives, not to mention the rents, are friends with me on FB.

Things like:

Homegirl! is horny.

Homegirl! wants to see yr naughty bits.

Homegirl!'s hungover & puking up last night's 'ros cos she's classy like that.

Homegirl! does it doggy & does it better.

This was gonna be her profile pic:

Or maybe this:

But not this:

cos that's just too cute...

even if we all need a montage every now & then
(guess the movie & I'll be your FB bff).

What if my name were really Homegirl!, tho? Fuck you, FB and your normatizing normalizing sanitizing commodifying homogenizing bullshit of telling me my name ain't legit. & I give you bastards a plug in my new novel, Homegirl!, in the very first fucking chapter no less.

Yours against the MAN (who's everywheres),
Ry

P.S. Sam Pink, if you're bored and reading my blog, be my FB friend, please. I know you will do a tot awesome job at writing the intro-poemy thingy for my chapbook. I know cos my astrologer told me so, well, she wasn't really an astrologer she was just a lady on a bus who smelled kind of pukey and was twitching and talking bout 2012 and the Mayans and how only you, Sam Pink, can either prevent or bring the apocalypse by writing my intro-poem thingy, but she wasn't sure which...I will come find you to thank you in Chitown in November cos I'm going to see Nick Cave! and I will bring you a tshirt from the ironic hipster standing in front of me blocking my view & acting too cool. Maybe I'll bring you his/her overly large ironic glasses, too, if I can resist the urge to pulverize them with a tallboy of PBR cos in Milwaukee, according to Spin or some other guardian of cool, we Miltowners drink PBR unironically, & irony + anti-irony (me drinking the Pibber) + irony (using the hipster's ironic lager as a cudgel) = crying hipster crying crying crying all the way back to Lake Forest and mummy's pill cabinet.

All quickies are not equal

or bad...

My black-balaclavaed anarchist story's already up at > kill author.

Believe it.

Let me lie here for a sec and catch my breath.

Big props to the eds!

Yours, soon to be panties-scrounging around the floor,
Ry

Ok, I confess, it is ME that's fascinated with black-balaclavaed anarchists

I want one to grab me on Yonge Street or wherever and he's got a bat and he smashes glass with one hand while squeezing my tit with the other. The sound of glass shattering and his tongue flicking out the round hole of his face. He wants to lick my ears and nose clean and I'll let him in the alley so the newscasters don't see.

I cannot wait.

I also cannot wait for anything ever. It's how I be. It's how I do.

I'm writing a collection of stories set in a near-future America after the shit's gone down. Yeah, I'm working on two projects right now - Homegirl! the novel and this collection. I'm a superfly multi-tasking member of the Internets; I've got the ADDs bad, which is why I can love you long time, but I just can't LOVE you long time. No lie. I can't stop now, these anarchists - they keep popping up in my stories, my fantasies, my dreams, on my eyelids even. They wave tiny bats at my forehead; I flick them off with my middle finger, but that just turns them on and they climb back on and try to smash my eyeballs. It's kind of Chien andalou minus the art minus the moustache minus the razor.

> kill author 's just accepted a story, "We were listening for the shattering," from the anarchist collection, which is like a poor shelter puppy you took home cos it was so cute but all it does is piss and cry cos you separated it from its sibs and you still haven't given it a name. Possible names/titles include: Black balaclavas, Black ballas, Shattering, After the shit's gone down, and the one I'm leaning towards - Everything's broken, but still I pretend. Here's the almost eponymous story (which I can't wait to be up at 52/250 this Friday, bowling night round the world, and which is on Fictionaut right now and which this lovely rocking writer faved and much big heart things to you, Felicia, & ain't I crazy with the links - it's almost like I just discovered a new toy or a new orifice).



I know everything’s broken, but still I pretend


We’d always hear them coming, sneezing and smashing. We’d hang old bottles we had no use for from the burnt up trees outside the gate. They couldn’t resist. We’d hear the glass breaking; we’d sound the alarm. We’d defend our town and what was ours.


We always won cos we outnumbered them; we always won cos we feared them. We had rules and we maintained them and everything was always right.


Neat and proper and we all knew our place.


Rumor was the balaclavas they wore were melted on their faces in some strange initiation. Rumor was most of them were allergic to the wool. Rumor was their only mission was to smash all the glass in the world. They sneezed and smashed and laughed like hell.


Rumor was what gave me something to look forward to, day in and out in our little settlement.


Sometimes, late at night, I’d rummage alone through the wasteland by the gate, shifting through what’d been left behind. Things we had no use for cos we didn’t understand any of it, what its use was or how it’d been made. I didn’t ask any questions of the huge mounds, though; I was always only looking for glass. I wanted to feel its smooth surface. I wanted to test its cohesion. I’d find once jagged pieces rubbed down by the years; I’d carry these pieces with me under my smock and remember the impulse to run.



The thread of the anarchists and the black balaclavas runs through us all.

Ry


P.S. The story was about you. There are many things I could never ever say and this is one. This is one of those big unsaid thingies that make my mouth dry and my eyelids twitch. This thingy's why there are huge gaps in our convos... This thingy's why I pause and the anarchists cheer and start glass smashing and tit squeezing and face orifice licking and those dumb ravers rave on. I don't know, tho, maybe you pause cos you're just stoned.