Thursday, February 09, 2006



We both know it’s over and there is nothing more to talk about. BRAD. Which is something we need to discuss. I just hope you see this, because I never want to see you again. I love you. Why is that so hard to say? I love you. Okay, maybe it isn’t that hard to say, here in front of all these people, but it is hard to say, to you, especially when you smell of bagels. I won’t say where in the Haight you live but I hope you can tell it’s you I’m talking about, Haight & Masonic Brad Who Smells of Bagels. My haiku tattoo still hurts. But it’s over. Already. My pet name for you has 7 syllables - all of which I’ll know I’ll never use again. It will fuck up my life. Imagine going through life without using the syllables -moth, -fuck, -cock or -suck. Nevermind the -ing or the -er. Why did I have to think of that particular phrase? Oh yeah. But why do I still love you? BRAD? How’s SARA FROM THE RECORD STORE, BRAD? Or, sorry, is she just called “Blue Hair?” You know, sometimes you remind me of some club promoter scamming at bridge-and-tunnel chicks at Burning Man, some ex-dotcom guy from the Mission by way of the Marina who used to be professional tagger in New York (like ‘BRAD’ would look phat on the subway wall) then “lived all over” as a Hipster with cool glasses but is now a Yuppie Blueshirt hanging out at AquaLush. I don’t know why you remind me of all those particular things but you do. Get over it. Boo-hoo. Sometimes you are like really bad poetry - short meaningless phrases, long self-indulgent stanzas, hollow self-pity that rhymes with Fall of The City. Sisco, Disco and Frisco - this is funny to you. Tickles the irony-bone. Whereas I - I look good and I know what I want. I take care of my body. I take care of my mind. I hated my former job anyway. But I’m an SF NATIVE. I’ll be fine. I know who I am. I’m a completely whole non-redundant person, independent, thriving on my own, needing no one or no thing except a voice and the remote. I ALWAYS have my shit together, or stored nearby. Yes, lately I’m online a bit much, and right now I’m in the middle of a longing frenzy for a sick freak of a waste of a man who doesn’t deserve the love of a leprous shark, but I’ll be over this shortly and then I will survive. Or I’m a survivor. Both good songs. I’m a woman of the nineties, ten years later, bitch. I know what I want. I even have a list. I have two lists now. What I Want and What I Can’t have. You are not described by the form and you are proscribed by the latter. Right after red meat and ecstasy. But then I miss you. You’re like bacon to me. Now I’m with someone else, he’s like wonderful fluffy pancakes. But I always want to order a side of you. You get caught in my teeth. Cholesteral has four syllables. But BRAD Cholesteral has five.

Stay out of my blood - Stay out of my heart, Brad Cho - lesteral haiku.

Tell us how you really feel..
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Wow I am amazied. That was wonderful if I could only say that!!
Brad now smells like Tofu Spread
that's heavy
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