perma-nips & dinner with the fam

& all i want to do is just rub and squeeze and rub and i'm parallel with the table edge almost and the moms is all like, how's the salad, and the pops is all like, what is this place, and the sisters are all like:

betrayer betrayer

& they're mixed up in some kind of Narnia or Secret of Nimh shit & all i can think about is my hard hard nips...

& the sisters see me kinda rubbing & they're like, is it worth it?

& i say, what?

& they say, bohemian grove and haliburton & all your other conspiracies...

& all i wants is someone to rub my perma-hard nips

& that's what gots me in trouble in the first place & those are not mine cos i wouldn't cover my nips up

& then there's bbq sauce & accusations & remoulade & fried green tomatoes & still my nips are hard hard hard

& my sisters are discussing the One World Government

& all i want is a one world fascist to flick my nips and fuck me

& maybe there's a code in my bbq tofu

maybe the trains'll run on time

& maybe my nips'll get played with soon

yours in conspiracies,
ryder

i am getting kicked out of my town

so i'll drive & drive & drive & there'll be balaclavaed anarchists waiting for me and they'll have fingerless gloves on & they'll welcome me with cold finger-tipped hugs & there'll be balaclavaed babies smashing smashing & there'll be a big mama who wants me nowhere near her babies & then her hubby'll come down again from the firmament & they'll fuck & the babies'll laugh & that is my jesus xtian story & i'll be left out & i'll go looking for Homegirl but she's on a train somewheres...

& the bitch is finally happy. after all i put her through & it was a fuck lot. it was. so she deserves her happiness.

& i'm not crossing the mason-dixon just yet. no.

i'll loop back to my old hometown just to say hey, just to say fuck you, just to say.

just to say, hi, maybe, to the ones who didn't kick me out & we'll drink manhattans and make out cos that's what you do when you're on the lam. innit?

or maybe i'll just go get my homegirl tattoo on. i'm finna get a heart with homegirl's name in it cos i'm a sap.

for realsies,
ryder

hot buttered rums

there are lots of things to talk about like -

peace on earth and some such shit

how to get a piece

how i giggle when a man says he likes his meat

how i like his meat

ho ho ho's just too easy

but i like hoeing in the gardens

i hoed the garden when i went to london

i'm drinking my second hot buttered rum of the eve and will soon ladle another down my gullet

i'll bathe in pooled butter and molten sugar and hot liquor

i'll stand in a snow bank & see if anyone comes by to lick it off

i'll melt the snow & stand in a puddle & someone'll put a scarf and hat on me and call me Frosty & i'll be the worst kid's movie ever

& this has nothing to do with any of it at all but this is my m.o: to tease & lead you here -

Freaky Fountain Press is publishing a couple of chapters of Homegirl! in an upcoming anthology & i'm so excited & i can't stop thinking about your meat...

i mean peace.

yo & yours,
ryder

four state lines & only two tampons...

so mama's crossing the country again cos her rellies still live up norths & they refuse to cross the Mason-Dixon even tho it's a wee bit warmer where i live.

& by wee, i mean a hell of a fucking lot.

& the truckers on the interstate are pissing mama off again cos they like to get in the left hand lane where she's doing like 90 & her whole car's shaking & her steering wheel's shaking & her arms are shaking & her legs are twitching & her eyeballs are popping & locking & it's better than twister with methheads until the trucks slow her ride down when they get into the left hand lane &  she starts cussing like a tweaker tearing at her own face & her dogs in back start barking barking. it's fucking glorious.

get to indiyucky in one piece & check into the motel & the clerk's giving mama the shifty eyes & mama keeps dropping things like little hansel & gretel trying to find their way out of the woods.

mama wants in those woods. she'd stay lost foreverever.

in my room, i get the flask out & it's whiskeys and water until it's sleepysleeper time.

5 am i wake up in pain. & it's my monthly visitor. my red auntie or someshit like this.

fuck. i only packed two tampons.

and i'm all like, why, period, why?

& my period's like, cos when i signed up for this gig, i was given some rules. & rule #2 is: you must show up at completely inappropriate times, like road trips.

i don't say nothing cos i'm all crampy & groggy & shit.

my period says, remember when you were wearing all white and you looked like a winter goddess? those white wool pants...

i says, yes.

my period says, & the second time you got with the ex-Marine...

i says, he didn't care.

my period says, yeah, there're some guys who don't. & some womens, too.

i say, you gots me, there.

my period hits me with a squeeze from lower back to my knees for confirmatory emphasis.

i say, what's the first rule?

my period doesn't answer cos it's just a part of my body & society wants me to be ashamed of the way my body looks & acts anyways. & if society knew i was having a little convo with my period they'd think mama was loony & make her even more ashamed of her body & the way it bleeds every month & there's that saying about not trusting a bitch who bleeds & doesn't die & i say don't trust a dude who tries to stick it in you who won't stick it in you when you're on the rag cos he's the real bitch & he's the one who needs a plug...

& here are two more plugs:

FIX IT BROKEN's  1st issue!!!!! & mama's in it, along with other good stuffs from Matthew Dexter, Zoe Alexandra, and Barry Graham and Peter Schwartz...

if you haven't already, buy mama's chapbook, Orpheus on toast. it is good like warm bread with melty stuff on it.

yours on the rag,
ryder

mama got all ultimatumy

mama was fine. mama was even almost happy doing what mama do alone - vacumming nude, eating vegan ramen with sriracha for breakies, getting up at 5 to be the only person in the world, drinking too much and waking up in the guest room cos she took herself home at last call but then was too drunk to take advantage and then mama had to collect her clothes & slip out earlyearly. slink of shame. you know.

& then you show up again. you text or you email or you send a goddamn passenger pigeon or a flaming arrow with an embossed leather message or a baby in a basket down some backwoods nile or you tattoo me hello or you bend some spoons my way or my bush burns or somehow somehow i just know you're thinking about me again & it's usually round this time cos atheists & grindcorists get so goddamned lonely around the xmasses...

& then mama feels something & then mama drinks the maker's manhattans & then she gets yearnyyearny & mama goes to bed & pretends she's in a youtube how to rub one out for womens video & then she wakes up & then she's in the shower & pretending to be in a porno video - so fresh & so cleanclean - & then she's all wetwetwet all the time & you still don't show...

but you keep sending out odd signs like no pickup trucks on my lawn or one spur embedded in mama's back door or a deer heart in my growler and a jpeg of your penis in my dreams

& that's when mama gets angry & that's when mama smash. & that's when mama gets smashed & she sends you ultimatumy things like a tatt that says when or a heart tattoo that says mama or whores like a choir cos mama was alone & shut & you opened her up.

& you always do.

this is the post where mama gets all reviewy and shit

& i have been meaning to write this post foreverever. for reals.

my review of Anthony Frame's Paper Guillotines  is up at Cervena Barva's newsletter

Dan Nowak is a friend of mine and his book Recycle Suburbia is my friend, too. his poems have taken me bowling & to a drag show & then we watched the Family Feud in Spanish together, all of us drunk on cheap vodka. yep yep.

Keyhole Press had a deal earlier and mama got three books for a niceynice price. just finished Matthew Simmons' The Moon Tonight Feels Revenge and let me say, fuck yes. that moon is feeling it. not only cos the book's dedicated to Boduf Songs but cos i can't stop thinking about stories like "Sleep Underground" and "This Mountain I Built." i've never slept underground or built a mountain but now i feel like i could...

& while mama's listing things -

new > kill author rocks! check out Alexandra Kontes' story, R.C. Miller's poems (especially the Bernhard one - yes!), and Tina Hyland's piece, along with all that other talent...

new decomP also rocks! & Tina Hyland's in it, too.

wow, good words make mama so happyhappy. so much happier than cyber-stalking all your new girlfriends...

your homegirl,
ryder

i am so bad

at the announcements & things cos i got it in my head that i'll bore you & sometimes when i'm in public i don't speak cos i'm afraid i'll be boring or conventional & yeah, i know that's how humans roll but i'm always fighting my goddamned fate or some shit.

i would like to create a diagram of thanks but i suck at art & i suck at math.

it would be a tree-like thing with branches and e.e. cummings roots of love...

see this

i like to spring this on people when it's not February & then say, Happy Valentine's Day

wait, back to my diagram -

first, the Confederate Cowboys: thank you for parking on my lawn, right behind my bedroom window. if i hadn't been so annoyed, we coulda turned the whole thing into a penthouse forum letter.

i like lassos and whips and boots. just so ya know.

i do not like being woken up by big high beams tho through my bedroom window unless you're a trucker or a cowboy or whatever signaling you got somethingsomething for me... a hard cock, a bag of coke, a wet pussy, &c, &c.

i like the old-fashioned &c just like i like the old-fashioned spankings.

next, Wigleaf. thank you for publishing my story about my Confederate Cowboy angst.

& then Swan and David Backer for picking that story for FictionDaily.org

are you surprised i didn't link to my own story? boo-yah, bitches.

& then FictionDaily interviews me & all of a sudden my names up in internetty lights with big shots & i got dizzy & i was seeing something & maybe it was the aura of all the great writing on the internets or maybe it was the grease shining off the temples of all the internet egos.

oh, snap. i just said that cos i was lookings for a metaphor. I'm superstoked to be interviewed alongside writers like blake butler, xtx, sean lovelace, amber sparks, &c.

for reals.

& i have one more announcement that has nothing to do with my tree of love.

or a big branch of hard ramming. a hunk a hunk of hard ramming love...

stacia & i are starting a blog about writing & writers & it is an inclusive blog & we will leave no one out so give us a hollas, yo.

yours in boots & old-fashioned &cs,
ryder

you have taken your folding city

i am intensey and you have left. you have packed up your folding city in a cardboard box and closed it with used suspenders.

you found those suspenders in the back of the goodwill where we'd make out.

we liked the smell of must and lost desires and mothballs and despair.

we liked the smell of broke down cars and long cigarette ash hanging on, hanging on.

we'd fall into piles of winter coats. we'd lose ourselves in down and faux-down and fur and faux-fur and ski pants and little moon boots.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry.

it was the little moon boots that made you cry out.

you are a perv with a folding city in a box.

i tried to change you; i tried to reclaim you. i tried to take your folding city and nail it down, make it permanent, make it stay and flourish and trade with other cities and grow some botanical gardens and attract some noodle houses and change the traffic signs from all caps.

you spent your time sifting through others' cast-offs.

you came out of a rack with suspenders held triumphant, aloft.

you wrested your city back from me. that was hot cos we wrestled some and things got parka-peacoat-snowshoe kinky for a sec.

then it was all over and you packed up.

& i will be a little less intensey & needy if you help out this cool new indie press and buy a chapbook... it doesn't even have to be mine cos it's not always all about me...

yours in a tundra,
ryder

i am going to grinderman tonight

& i will see nick cave.

& i will not worry about other authors' contempt &/or ignorance of me.

& i will not care if i'm not part of a mighty clique of writers.

& i will wear big boots & a small skirt & look hot & all my exes will want me back.

& that is all.

yours,
ryder

p.s. FictionDaily interviews me! Motherfucking me. Thank you Swan and FictionDaily. Mama love you long time.

yo. i am ackering as i write this

yes yes. climax.

my chap's been born! it's for sales here.

my baby has no father

my baby has no father unless sam pink counts

sam pink won't marry me, so my baby is a bastard

this is what the bastard looks like

i am a single mother now.

if this were the 80s, i'd be held responsible for the ruin of american civilization. some rightwing butplug would make an example of me.

if this were the 80s, i'd def have big shoulder pads and hair and coke dribbling out my right nostril

i would be a bad 80s mama and i'd plop my babies down in front of the tv

my babies would rebel by watching headbanger's ball and dancing like axl right out my door.

bye-bye headbanger babies, bye-bye.

your single mama,
ryder

1: just 1 day til it drops, yes yes y'all

the final countdown til my chapbook drops.

here's how it's been going down. a question from Sam Pink (interview at the end of my chapbook) and an answer of some of my lines. if you wanna see the real answers to the questions, you gots to buy the chapthingy at Imaginary Friend Press.

Mr. Pink: Can you describe the time in your life surrounding the creation of your chapbook.  

Mama:  Global climate change erodes the last drawings of my heart, the walls of Lascaux.       You think you see a raw outline, you think you can capture          Mercedes-Benz ecstasy, little pink babies: I love you all, even you tornado alley, even you Typhoon Mary, even you concubine, even me ennui.

2: bleach, pine sol, pb&j, + mickey rourke?

‎2 days: Best makeshift condiment for a peanut butter and jelly when you have no jelly: bleach or pine sol

Mildewed bathroom ceiling means success. Hairy toes means bad breath. Bad breath also means success. And riches, don’t forget the riches. & the toes. But, ceiling fans will never make you Mickey Rourke. And bars, well, bars you know...

3: well de la soul says it better than me

for realsie

Mr. Pink: Have you ever loved anyone, and what was it like.

Mama: be careful of cheap purses/initiations      call me

Re: I fill your whole mouth now                   bring the plum

moonshines

4: not gonna bogart 4 cos someone already called dibs

Can you describe your emotions while writing. 

I’ve signed treaties; I’ve made speeches. He parodies, he says put pen to parchment, he says put your mark here, he says…

you’re my little masochist, he says, there, there.

5: counting down til that chapbooky thing drops...

5 days until my ho-chapbook, Orpheus on toast, starts selling itself online.


only $7 will get you my poetry + an interview by Mr. Pink and you can then submit your chapbook to IFP cos they are the nice peoples & they wants to see new voices getting published...


i am gonna count down the days with a question from the interview. i am gonna answer that question with a line or two from the book. if you want to see the real answers - if you have any curiosity about me at all or if you even like me or maybe you hate me and need more fuel for that hate, i don't care - buy the book cos it's cheap and good like a hooker w/ a heart of gold.


#5: 

When you die, do you live in a small cardboard box in the middle of the moon, or do you get a hammock between two really close, small stars. or is it something else. if something else, please describe. 

There’s no lighthouse, now no house:
you dwell in the chutes; you’ll be going down again.

gots some AIH to walk you out...

yours in floozing, ryder

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas! part 2

Homegirl! is done motherfuckas!

& i'm celebrating with whiskeys and songs about home...

here is the first one.

drink up, my little babies... & dance dance dance.

release me!

Orpheus on toast, mama's chapbook, is coming out November 14th. available here. buy it, bitches! cos it's got my poems and it's gots an interview of mama by Sam Pink & cos my editors know how to throw down. yep yep.

sam elliot's mustache and so many other things

i really want to do a post that does sam elliot's mustache justice. that talks about the rideability of sam's mustache. the sex inducingness of his facial hair. the quivering wet knee jelly of his whiskers...

like you better if you just ride me

but mama's tired right now and mama's been drinking since sometime you don't need to know about.

& mama's got to get through the announcements.

mama's gots to stand up and practice reading the nominees out loud.

mama can't pass out at the podium cos she'll fall over and there'll be no one to catch her cos the trophy girls all weigh about 80 pounds and they'll be lucky if they can move their anorexic skeletons outta the way quick enough and mama'll hit her head and maybe her skirt'll fall off somehow like gregor samsa's mum in the metamorphosis.

mama never wants to be a bug.

mama squashes the bugs she sees in her house. she's gots a deal with the insects: they intrude on her turf, she squashes them. she intrudes on their turf, too motherfucking bad, biotches; she squashes them still.

& this is the time if announcements bore you to close your eyes and think about mustache rides...mmmm Sam motherfuckingElliotyesyesyesyesohmygodyesmustachemamalikesohyesmamayesmustachefuckmemustachefuckme...

1. Just saw the proof of my chapbook Orpheus on toast. Available soon. Maybe sooner than you stop thinking about that mustache.

2. Abjective  just took one of my balaclava anarchist stories. Expect it up in December.

3. FictionDaily  will be featuring my story, "If I don't leave the house, I won't know I'm in the South" tomorrow 11/04.

4. I am now on twitter as Homegirlrc. Some punk kid accosted me on twitter cos I was calling myself Homegirl. I don't really know what he was saying cos I ignored him cos I don't even really know what twitter is. I'm just trying to get the attention of Sam Elliot's mustache. Sam Elliot's mustache must have an account. Like I said, I don't know what twitter's really for but if twitter could set me up with Sam Elliot's mustache I think that would be reason enough for it to exist.

Seriously.

Thinking bout you, mustache, when i'm cold,
Ryder

i am hiding from the chilluns

cos i am the mean writer who lives in the house with the shades drawn 24-7 and the boxes and boxes of wine and beer and bourbon and gin bottles on the curb every Wednesday five am punctual so the neighbors don't have too much time to inspect the contents of the recyclables before the big blue truck pulls up and the recycling guy says, damn this bitch sure likes to party.

(when i party i wear my party dress. & when i drink alone i wear nothing but a bra and jeans cos i pretend i'm in an eighties guess commercial & my tits are way way bigger than they really are...)

& that's how neighbors roll down here, they look at your recyclables, i swear, and tally them up cos they's making a list of who's gonna be lifted up in the rapture and who they might be able to ask to water their plants and let the dogs out after the second coming.

they are always planning ahead, these southerners, i swear. they are looking forward to the rapture as THE LONGEST LUNCH HOUR EVER. they love their lunches; they are always pushing their lunch hours minutes then hours then half-days longer and longer...

unlike me, in the planning and the lunching, who needs a new bra cos this shitty midnight blue one i'm wearing right now can't decide if it's black or blue and mama needs commitment from an underwire.

& as for lunch, some days i can take it or leave it. some days i come to fisticuffs with my sandwich bread cos it pretends to be that famous senor someses hand puppet and it says, s'alright? and then the mustard says, s'alright. and then the vegenaise, says, not funny, cos the vegenaise's all pc and uptight.

just like those feminists who hate the ladies who lunch.

i am a feminist cos i want to make as much money as the mens and i likes the mens and i want them to be able to cry if they wants to cos it's their party and i am a feminist who hates the ladies who lunch but i am not uptight. cos mama's got the senor wences wheat bread and she's got the bourbon's just a-singing in her veins.

the bourbon's singing about its special guest appearance here.

taco pie?

& i tried so hard to finish Homegirl! this weekend to enter her in FC2's contest but then there were those parties and mama wore her party dress and her party dress and other things from her closet became her gothprincesssteampunkwarriorgirl costume




cos the last time mama really tried to dress up she went as the high concept walkofshame with a bra hanging from her leather jacket pocket and bedhead and fucked-up make-up and sans panties and she had to explain all evening what she was...


yours in a party dress,
Ryder

sam pink interviews me preview/the principal is yr pal

Pink: Describe the first day of school for a child that we have together.

Me: Our child will wear a bow in its very thin hair (my side of the family), whether it's a boy or girl. our child will wear second hand garanimals underneath overalls. our child will be afraid to cross the playground alone so we will hide in the bushes and blow small darts tipped in amphetamines at our child as s/he hesitates at the edge. our child will become high from the darts and run across the playground with a cape we didn't know our child had. our child will say something like, i am too cool for this world, and will end up in the principal's office on the first day. we'll have to come talk to the principal and our child. our child'll be gnawing on the leg of the principal's desk wearing only that cape by the time we get there, & you and the principal'll start talking about something like pastrami or tennis, and mama'll definitely need a drinky or three after all this.

1st day tweaking!

yours in dirty martinis,

ryder

you can win books books books

http://www.robertswartwood.com/hint-fiction/the-ultimate-flash-fiction-package/

peoples bore me

& i haven't thought about you in a long time. before you were like my fave song when i was young young young and i'd have you stuck in my head all day long and i'd try to catch you on my radio so i could tape you & i'd only get pieces here and there but i could combine those pieces and i did; there was a tape full of these pieces and i would play it over and over and the song became something more than it ever was. and i'd go to bed with the song in my head and i'd wake up with the song in my head and i'd wake up and i'd grown an inch and i'd wake up with cravings for reese's peanut butter cups and m&m's and cool ranch doritos and all sorts of processed shit i never eat any mores not cos my body's a temple or any crap like that but cos i no longer have a sweet tooth and i wonder where it went and where have you gone, too, cos i ain't feeling yas anymore.

now i wake up and i haven't grown any.

now i wake up and there is no one whose name i've forgotten in my bed.

i used to want you in my bed, on my bed, under my bed, on the kitchen counter with spatula spankings, in the shower, in my hallway up against the wall cos we couldn't even get past my door barely.

now mama needs a bloody, maybe some xanex, def some valium, and somethings to cheer herself up.

here is the thing to cheer mama up:
my poem has been nominated by shady side review for Dzanc's Best of the Web. it is the first poem there and that is their new issue.

here is the song Punkboy hears at work when he realizes Homegirl's really really in trouble. he cuts out of his shift & jumps on his fixie to go find her.

(there are boobies at the end of the video. yay boobies!)

Homegirl's in a standoff with only a baby glock against a mercenary with two sig-sauers and a Craig's List witch with two s&ws. i fucking kid you not. i am going all tarantino on homegirl; that is what happens when i'm no longer feeling ya.

yours,
ry

i will bores you with the announcement

New Scrambler's out & it's their largest issue ever, they say, and this tall girl's delighted to be in it... Check out everyone else, too, cos it's got live breathing peoples like Stephen Tully Dierks, S. J. Bridgins, Christine Fadden, and many many more...

Homegirl! realism is really real, for reals

I’ve given you dive bars and a hill and a café somewheres but I haven’t given you any local color; I haven’t grounded you in the scene. If you were a realist, you wouldn’t believe me. If you were a realist, you’d hate me, even.

If I were a realist, I’d hate me, but for different reasons; I’d be so bored with myself and my realism, I’d go to one of the corner bars in Miltown and drink and drink and drink until I couldn’t even remember my name and then everything’d become really real and it’d be real and absurd wherever I ended up – a stranger’s bed, a psych ward, the hospital, the gutter, the median, the cop shop, on a bicycle, in space, wherever.

I would see things I wasn’t supposed to see.

Like what the insides of my intestines look like: bright yellow and stringy.

& what your bourgeois dreams look like: bright yellow with stainless steel stringy-ass accessories.

& what the lushes call aurora borealis is really just dawn flashing on dting eyelids.

& what bike sex looks like: ask O’Brien.

& what the normal workday looks like: newspaper print and kitty vomit.

& what life and death means to corporations: Hello, kitty!

& what married couples’ sex lives look like: bad anime karate chops; the climaxes go all pow and kerplunk and widow’s peak.

& what married couples call love: Bill Cosby sucking jello pudding pops.

& what Punkboy calls love: home.

& what Richboy calls love: cruelty.

& what Homegirl calls love:

& Homegirl will fantasize about walking these streets like a noir antihero fucking every attractive guy/girl she meets and leaving a bloody trail down these Miltown sidewalks.

But, I haven’t even described Miltown so you are in an everyplace everywhere howtown.

 yours,

meta-ry

wanting the ending & not

i have been prolonging the ending of Homegirl! i think. i am intense and needy and i will miss her so much. i am prolonging the climax, teasing teasing the words now. tease tease with a little spit. tease tease with a little tweak. tease tease with a tongue tip here & a light finger there.

before i was compelled. 

before i was compelled & i ripped those clothes off Homegirl! and i pushed her down on the bed and i rough-tongued and slid all over and around & in her. & i couldn't get enough.

now i do not want it to stop.

it is just like sex & not.

just like fucking & i will be your little sadist. i will torture & propel Homegirl and Punkboy and Richboy and others for you. i will tie them down and their words and thoughts and everything will come out. & their words and thoughts and everything will be little babies crawling crawling and the little babies will cry and giggle and slobber all over.

you will read the babies; you will read the babies in order to put an end to them.

& this has nothing to do with any of it except i never want it to stop either cos it reminds me of babies and sex and Jesus Christ Superstar and whiskey manhattans and bullwhips.

yours in pleather,
ry

new kill author

here with a supercool popsicle of an intro by xtx

for all you anonymistas...

let's see...do you want to be punched in the face?

 if so, here are the things to do

if not, you can read on so you know what not to do, or you can go read some things more interestings.

i will number the things sequentially, cos i'm not hipster nuff to pretend like there's no method behind the non-method.

1) be an old biddy. be an old biddy who's behind me in line at a local subdivision of a corporate monolith. be the old biddy that looks at my pile of stuf on the counter and says, everybody's buying socks. and look proud of yourself for this wittyass remark. you've got this look like the minpin right after he shredded my old socks. be the old biddy behind me in line who says to the cashier, everybody's buying socks! this time with an exclamation point. live the old biddy; breathe the old biddy; maybe some day you will be the old biddy.

 i will not cos i'm fixing on starting up some mega habits like heroin and opium and restarting others when i'm old so i'll be too fucked up to be a biddy.

be the old biddy who says as i'm walking away with a free pair of running shoes in my bag, to the cashier, you didn't ring up the shoes.

fuck you old biddy fuck you.

here i am feeling like it's my birthday early; here i am feeling like the MAN's just given me a bday present. here i am all happy walking away with new running shoes. old biddy. i bet in your last life you were part of the temperance movement. you wants to take up all the funs. you wants to shred the funs.

you can't stand to see anyone have any funs cos you're old and you wear michael kors knock-off separates and you don't get laid anymore and you don't know what to do with all that pent up tension so you go to church and sit in judgment and pray that no one notices your overbite cos all thru your sad small life you just wanted to be thought pretty. just once.

this is already getting long & yeah, i'm all about stating the obvious...not even to #2, so i'll skip to 5 cos i'm not a hipster but I lie.

5) say you are a poet. say you are a poet. say it. say it.

6) mafia slap me in a bar. wait no, oh wait. that's my m.o. to get punched.

7) tell me a made up story about how you were a dick at the bar and sat in someone else's seat so they'd get pissed off so they'd hit you upside yo head with a highball cos i just told you my mafia slap story, motherfucker, & you always gots to one ups me.

8) everybody's buying socks!

9) youtubing & thought i was gonna see some hardcore anime porn or at least some s&m or at least some 9 1/2 weeks anime allusions to s&m, but all i got was maroon 5 and a montage...

10) here is some hot anime sex

11) now you want to punch me in the face. no? wait til i mafia slap you at the bar.

12) drive a souped up pickup or jeep with that row of lights on top that's made for hunting down fugitives or rape victims and drive that car like the confederate cowboy you are up onto my lawn. drive it up to my bedroom window and shout something like, whooey, or, i'm drunk, or, balls, or, i see cunts, while i'm trying to sleep off the bottle of wine i just drank cos i wanted to pass out early before the confederate cowboys came round and started burning witches and burning bitches and burning burning up my backyard.

13) say you need me. say you need me. say it. say it.

yours,
ry

get these goddamned kids out of my yard

my sister is a kindergarten teacher; i don't know how she do it.

i am not a kindergarten teacher. the closest i get to chilluns is writing about babies and my babies are always always in peril. they are like the damsel tied to the railroad track but they wear diapers and spit on themselves for fun.

if you don't know, if you haven't figured it out, i am writing a novel called Homegirl! i have written another novel called little pink babies. the only difference between the two is that in the first novel the baby survives.

that is not the only difference. i am a liar.

my pants are not on fire but my jeans got major crotch holes. they are so old and so comfortable and when i walk my neighborhood late at night who's gonna see my stuff except some raccoons, maybe an armadillo, lots of palmettos, those goddamned frogs that are always calling for the sexings and those goddamned generic big bugs that are always chirring chirring.

i walk my neighborhood late at night because the skies here are oh so fucking blue. they are so blue i want to smear them on my eyelids; they are so blue i want to take them all in my mouth and then the weight of the sky would collapse me. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i want to scare the passed out natty light drunk frat boys. i walk my neighborhood late at night cos i'm bored. i walk after midnight cos i'm patsy fucking cline. i walk late at night cos the bullets aren't so bad then.

if anyone asks i am a gumshoe. i am down on my luck & the city's all around me.

if anyone asks me i read a novel about a gumshoe in a city where the buildings keep moving around him and the people live and the people die and the murders happen and the buildings breathe.

in out in out, the buildings breathe. they hold their breath all day but at night they come alive.

i have gone looking for this city of breathing buildings, but i can only walk so far and i get distracted by shiny objects in the road. i get distracted by truckers who've seen my stuff and want to take me to a truck stop or just the back of their cab. i get distracted ducking the bullets that come when i go looking for the buildings.

i think you may be in the breathing buildings; i think you may breathe with the buildings. i think you may hang with them in the noir rain and roll squares and tip your hat and look at the holes in your shoes and say, i should quit walking this beat.

but you can't stop cos you got to outwalk the bullets that are looking for you.

you are outwalking my bullets cos my bullets are slow and southern and confused. they've gotten into the apples that fell off the tree, the apples that've been lying underneath the blue blue skies, the apples that haven't tried to swallow the sky but have gotten drunk off that blueblueness. my bullets buzz slowly in fat fuzzy circles.

i cannot remember the name of that novel you are in with the breathing bullets and if you could help i will do my best not to write on the passed out frat boys with sharpies.

unless you want me to.

unless you want me to write your name.

unless you want me to write blue skies and apples.

unless you want me to write love.

yours walking walking,
ry

Homegirl! lives in a world of mens...

i am wondering why there is only one woman real character in my novel and if that says some things about me. or maybe it says some things about misogyny. or maybe it says some things about misogyny and me.

for reals.

when i was young young young, i thought i was the only one who'd ever felt the things i'd felt and thought the things i'd felt and that no one'd ever love like me.

i was wrong wrong wrong...

but maybes that's why there's only one homegirl in Homegirl! maybe she thinks she's the only one who thinks and feels and loves like she do.

these are not deep thinking things.

these are gameday thinking things & i'll write as the marching band marches and the cheerleaders wave their stuffs and the mens on the fields slam into each other and grunt and the mens in the stadium get turned on by the slamming and the grunting and the tackling and the piling.

orgy on the field. yeah, baby.

> kill author keeps giving it to me good. in a good way. and I'll orgy them in their bunker some day. here are Cheyenne Nimes' thoughts on my story from their last issue.

am still digging Grinderman 2. who else do you know rhymes "epic of gilgamesh" with "pretty little black a-line dress"?

yours with luvs & spits,
ryder

of i do some things for good karmas

does it nullifies the good karmas if what i am doing i am doing for the good karmas?

is this like false humilities?

i am not a god or an icon & i have no answers for myself or anyone else. i'm gonna go eat the fuck out of some pizza and drink the fuck out of some beers & call it a goddamned Good Friday, motherfuckers.

before i go

support this

here is the info and a video you lazy fucks:





maybe you should stop whacking it so your wrists aren't so sensitive and you can click on mo motherfucking links. or if you're fancy with an ipad you can do more motherfucking scrolling.

& i am using whacking in a gender neutral way. & i am using lazy fucks in a tot neutral way, too...

yours in trolling and beers,
Ryder

this one goes out to Tubesockboy

time to dump all the fauxboyfriends...

& start over...

"kill your darlings" is a phrase i hate hate hate.

i hate the cliches and platitudes and analogies and ad hominems and homilies and all the shit that writers say that don't mean shit but they say it anway cos, like genet sez, "By stretching language we'll distort it sufficiently to wrap ourselves in it and hide..." but these writers aren't stretching shit cept their own abilities to accept cliche as wisdom.


and fuck, i am feeling like a hater.


& fuck, today is international peace day & i am feeling like it's opposite day...

& i do not understand why my blog's surrounded by christs and bougy families. don't they know my blog's a baby snatcher? a baby stealer? a baby eater? my blog likes to lure babies up into trees and hide them there. my blog started early with the lindbergh baby. my bloggy's a bad bloggy. & christ, i don't fucking care how cute your kids are or how many babies you've plopped out or what you do all day to get through it with those egos on legs runningrunning saying mamamamamamama cos i know you ain't telling the whole truth and there's a noon o'clock boxowine break and a one o'clock siesta where you lock junior in the pantry.

that's when my bloggy comes trolling.

my bloggy whispers things from creamed corn and campbell's; my bloggy doesn't cut up the hot dogs. my bloggy says live it up now cos we all gots to die some time...

the creamed corn counts out yr mortality, son.

i dreamt about a fauxboyfriend last night. yes i did. i'm not lying. we were gonna have an afterbar, just him and another guy and me and then i was at their house for the afterbar and he was doing laundry and he was in his underwear and i was having trouble with a contact lens and it kept ripping into smaller and smaller pieces and there was no fucking or even heavy petting even tho in real life this fauxboyfriend jpegged my cell with his pretty cock and when i woke up i knew this fauxboyfriend no longer thought of me. so we are breaking up.

i'm gonna go listen to portishead cos i gots to dump at least three other fauxboyfriends to make myself cry.

yours in peace,
ryder

i'm waiting by my mailbox

& it's not for that letter where you tell me how sorry you are again...

just bought the 2011 "Blind Faith" subscription over at Mudluscious Press. it looks good, real good. also bought Mel Bosworth's new novella cos i've been hearing nothing but good things...

got to get back to homegirling. that is all.

no, wait...listen to Grinderman 2. now. that is a command.

your custard-colored superdream,
Ryder

some things like the jesuses and the supermeats

this is a picture of me. this is a picture of me before meat and jesus. i have bangs and boots. my bangs were straight cos i flat-ironed the fuck out of em. my bangs were straight until i left the house. look at how brown the grassdirt is. it is hot and humid and every now and then tho rarely it rains and after it rains it gets hotter and humider. when it rains the holy come out in white frocks and umbrellas and dance unto themselves and when it footballs the holy come out and toilet paper trees.

i will toilet paper myself and stand in the middle of town and pretend to be a tree.

i will be a toilet paper tree and when it is autumn i will drop individual sheets of tp. the tp'll get all dirty and tattered and the townspeople'll be sad.

when it is winter i will shiver in the middle of the town as a tree.

when the holy go by with their faith and football, i will follow them in my toilet paper tree glory.

they'll say, go away you freak, and i'll pretend not to understand them cos trees don't speak human.

i'll throw supermeat at them from my pockets cos you can buy supermeat in the town i live in now.  the supermeat will be slimy and rotten and toiletpapery from being in my pocket and the holy footballers will cry and flee & then i'll own the middle of town & if anyone wants lemonade or pizza or gapclothes or 5bros fries they'll have to pay a toll to get into my quadrant.

this may start a war some day. i'll have to definitely stock up on the toilet papers and bourbons before the armageddons.

this is the nicey-nicest chapter so far

& those of you who want mayhem and fucking and anarchy and violence and smashed storefronts and thanksgiving stuffed snatches avert your jaded eyes cos in this chapter Homegirl gets all disneyfied.

the blissiness of the domestic.

a respite from pissiness.

pretty pretty princess Homegirl!

this chapter comes a few chapters after "A little bitch," what's up @ Sleep. Snort. Fuck. So if you want sexing, you want cuntings and cockings, fistings by the oceanside, drug addictions and celibacy, you want vengeance, you want some damn scaryfine writings go there.

Homegirl + Punkboy sitting in a...

When he saw Homegirl sitting alone on his couch, Punkboy was all like, What are you doing here?

Homegirl raised her glass. Drinking, she said.

Punkboy looked at her and was so glad she wasn’t wearing that goddamned stained lingerie anymore. He didn’t say anything, tho, just let his messenger bag fall to the floor from his hand. He was tired. Bonedogtired. He sat down next to Homegirl and she handed him her drink. He finished it, poured another, took a long gulp and handed it back to her.

He didn’t want to fight and he didn’t even know if he was still mad. If the anger had only been posturing, a way to propel himself away from that pathetic version of Homegirl that he never wanted to see again. The Homegirl with the bloodied merry window and the vacant look and the sorrow. The Homegirl that didn’t fight back; that acted like she deserved that fucked-up shit.

He wanted his feisty bitch back; he wanted his feisty bitch and he would wait.

She took a long swallow of bourbon from the glass and handed it back to him.

They were quiet on the couch.

Punkboy’d thought about finding out who leased the flat where he’d recovered Homegirl that night. What’d he do to those responsible and how far he’d go. He didn’t own any weapons and he didn’t want to, but he did know a bunch of beefy beer-bellied Miltown skaters and punks. They’d be down with beating the shit out of someone who done what’d been done to Homegirl.

His girl: Homegirl.

He didn’t want to think about it right now, tho; he wanted to sit here in the dark quiet, on this couch, not have to talk, not have to do anything, and share bourbon from a highball glass with his girl.

He could tell Homegirl felt the same way; they sat there for hours, their bodies touching slightly, their hands brushing each other’s as they passed the glass back and forth. Then they went to bed to sleep in each other’s arms.

& it was good & quiet & the darkness was a good, quiet darkness. The darkness was a tamed dog curled sleeping at their feet; the darkness did not bark or growl or thrash about or lunge at them, for once.

Cos Homegirl & Punkboy need some peace every now & then,

Ryder

P.S. Excited to be part of the launching of a brand new mag, Bourbon Penn; gots a story coming out in the first issue. The story's gots nothing to do with Homegirl & Punkboy & everything to do with kewpies and Tupac, cos he ain't dead, bitches!

a little extra Homegirl! goes a long way

like that bump you slurp up on the end of your last cigarette after an all-nighter and the dawn's saying hi.

Homegirl! interlude
(for Dan & Stacia cos I used the tubesocks, sexy sexy)

When Homegirl was much younger, she fell in love with Tubesockboy. In high school, Tubesockboy was caught in his backyard trying to even out a farmer’s tan by wearing tubesocks on his arms. Homegirl was in seventh grade and didn’t care; she thought he was cu-oote. Tubesockboy grew up, went to college, married a gorgeous woman who supported him emotionally and gave great blowjobs (and a bitch like that’s hard to find), and had two beautiful children; Homegirl not so much, not the degree, the spouse who eats her out, the children or any of it, but you probably figured that out already.

Homegirl’s thinking she should have taken it farther when she was younger; she shoulda worn tubesocks all over. She shouldn’t have cared so much what anyone thought.

She did have a fauxhawk for a while. It was ghastly.

And she had metal braces.

She never had acne, tho. She was lucky that way. Instead she uglied herself to get through her pre-teen years and then reversed and tried to fit in again. By that time, Tubesockboy was already gone Ivy-leaguing, meeting hottie-wife-to-be, both of them walking back arms full of books from an all-night study session at the library to their apartments pre-dawn and they fall in with each other and the sun’s just peeking through and there’s an empty construction lot and he says, Want to?, and she nods and there’s a crane and neither of them have ever been in a crane, let alone fucked in a crane, and so they have at it and the sun rises through the crane’s huge windshield and she’s straddling him and welcoming him and the sun and they come and the sun’s officially risen and it’s love love love.

Tubesockboy was Homegirl’s first crush; she shoulda gone out & gotten him. She shouldn’t have been so afraid of rejection. But, if she did, there’d be one less crane-sex experience in the world.

Maybe.

She still shouldn’t care so much what anyone thinks, but that’s my insight, not hers.

Sometimes tho very rarely Homegirl dreams of Tubesockboy and he’s got those tubesocks on and he looks so small and he’s doing some weird stiff-armed robot dance or maybe he’s running back and forth or maybe she’s the one that’s moving and maybe his arms are just outstretched like he’s trying to catch something and it’s summer and quiet cos the sun hasn’t come up, quite yet and a bat flies by so close to her head and she’s swaying through the air but she hasn’t caught on and so she looks around and up and down and then figures out she’s the one moving, she’s upside down, suspended somehow from a wrecking ball.

Yours in tubesocks,

Ryder

sometimes it is so hard and sometimes it oozes out like Mrs. B's

cos i'm squeezing that bitch so soft & gentle. got to 75 pages of Homegirl! this weekend and it's halfway there. want to know why sometimes the words are bricks lodged in my mind and the bricks're building walls and catapulting obscenity strewn bricks and graffiti bricks and sno-cones and 80s madonna bangles and hipster irony at me and then sometimes they slide easily from my mind and it's a playground and there's a big metal merry-go-round and wood chips and monkey bars and it's dangerous and fun and i'm a kid missing teeth and i'm collecting teeth in the wood chips and i'm gonna put them in my pocket and they will sprout words and they will speak to me and i will not be lonely and the words will come through my fingers and grow more and more.

i am gonna get a tattoo that says homegirl! and maybe it'll be a tramp stamp. i'm gonna get a tattoo & that'll finally make me a tramp. i'll hobo my heart cross your U.S. i'll hobo my words and teeth until they are fireflies in your memory and you will put them in a jar and shake them and when they die and are only desiccated insecty things you'll realize how ugly your memories were all along. then you'll get a tattoo & it won't be words & it won't be pictures & your tattoo'll firefly you across the U.S. & you'll follow me, you'll skateboard on my ass but you'll never catch me cos i'm freighting, i'm train-hopping, i'm amtraking, i'm free & freeganning and i dropped all that extra weight in your jar; i left it with you to drag you down.

right now i am just musicing. i am listening to what Casualty listens to when he's not comatosestoned and what Homegirl listens to when she thinks of her boys and what Richboy listens to after he's crushed that tadpole and what Punkboy listens to when he's all postsex mellow nostalgiacy cos some Punkboys listen to more than punk and they read words that were once pocketed teeth, too.

Yours in training,
Ryder

mama drank herself silly: a play in one goddamn act

last night mama went to the bar.

last night mama went to a bar to escape.

last night mama went to the bar to escape the impending football madness. the descent of thousands and thousands of crazed fans who braveheart through the alabamas in campers and trailers and facepaint with the light of the lord shining through the darkness and crosses just in case.

last night mama fell down.

last night mama fell down and got back up.

last night no southern gentleman offerd to help mama up. mama woulda spit in their eye and sd something about ask me why and morrissey which woulda started a fight at the altbar she was at cos the altkids/grannies down here seem to hate morrissey for no reason cepting the meatmen want him dead and so does that eighties guy who wore overalls and had that video on onehundred20minutes and it was set in a junkyard, i think, but mamas's been drinking herself silly so mama's no help on that one.

mama ran into a wall near the bathroom.

mama thought the wall was molesting her; mama liked it.

mama said, are you a zebra?

mama said, why do you keep outrunning me?

mama didn't get no answer & mama musta liked that, too. maybe cos she was tired of migrant workers pretending not to know english so she'd go out in the fields with them & lay down & they could fuck her & then pontificate about immigration laws &/or the way the clouds look like dinosaurs, cotton candy, giant testes, etc...

mama said, scotus sounds like some kind of a disease.

the wall thought, some kind of a man.

mama said, a disease a guy'd be afraid of.

mama thought she heard laughter; mama said, are you jonathan franzen?

mama said, if you know the answer to this question, i'll go home with you. boy, you are every color?

the wall said, that's not a question.

the wall said, ma'am, stop humping me. the clouds look like jelly bellies and disappointment and you are breathing all my air.

the wall whispered, got a smoke?

mama said, the clouds look like nothing except random men's faces i've fucked. the blue of the sky is not bluer here it just pretends like everyone else.

mama said, the kudzu's gonna get you if you don't watch out.

the floor said, i'm waiting.

the floor said, i'm still waiting.

yours @ the end,
ryder

new decomP & 2 stories i likes

check out the September issue

i likes this story

i also likes this Sleep. Snort. Fuck. story way way much & it's in my head right now

that is all

oh, except this

yours, big boy,
Ryder

cos i always takes it too far

just ask any guy i've dated or driven around in my wee car; there's no back seat, there's no way to really get down, but i wants to take it further, further than it will ever go, cos that's how i roll.

& the new Cricket Online Review just came out & that's my story that briefly mentions Sam Pink & that's what started my occasionally random too far blogging about him, well that, and the fact i love I Am Going to Clone Myself then Kill the Clone and Eat It, and the fact that he was looking for a girlfriend cos he probly scared the last one away & i was looking for a boyfriend cos i'm stuck in the alabamas & the baseball capped bubbas with their pickup trucks and their do whats aren't doing it for me, i mean, i've cruised migrant workers down here just cos i don't have to hear that idiotic deep alabamas twang when i'm with the migrants who know no english & that's even better & i'm fighting trees for air like that song goes, i'm fighting trees for shelter cos i've been looking for love like i said & it always always starts raining bullets & sometimes they're old school Confederate, sometimes they're hunters' bullets, sometimes they're just random.

And the trees are all like, What have you been doing with your life?

And the bullets say, Why you running through the dark?

The trees say, It would be so easy if you'd just acquiesce.

& the random says, Be my wife.

They are smart trees and i shouldn't laugh when they get torn down for new roads for more football fans and bible-thumpers.

They are smart bullets & they follow me as i drive my wee car around pick-ups, as i weave in & out of football traffic, they follow me.

They will find me, the bullets and the handicapped trees, the chopped limbs,  the twigs, even the decaying leaves will find me.

& they will either take me down or have a little sitdown  (yeah, that's the new Juked) to listen to Homegirl! for a little while.

Maybe the ex-Marine will have something to say about it all. Maybe the random will win over all.

Yours in thinking about the ex-Marine,
Ryder

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