My So-Called Life XII: Why I'd marry myself

  1. When it’s my birthday, I never have to worry if I’ll like the gift I bought or not. I’d know exactly what I want.
  2. I’d never forget my anniversary.
  3. When it comes time to live as a couple, I would only need to set a table for one.
  4. I’d share the same music tastes with myself, and they’ll change at the same time. I wouldn’t need to fool myself into thinking I’d like my spouse’s music tastes.
  5. I only need to buy one wedding ring, and it can be as cheap or expensive as I want it to be.
  6. I’m my own childhood friend, and my own childhood sweetheart.
  7. I can hold my own hand if I want to, whenever I want to.
  8. Through it all, we’d both end up on the same boat all the time.
  9. I can’t be a hypocrite of myself unless I want to.
  10. I won’t need to pay a phone bill to talk to myself.
  11. I can’t cheat on myself, and would never want to anyways.
  12. If I’m on a business trip, or if I want to go somewhere far to live, I won’t object myself. If it’s another year at school, I’d push myself to go.
  13. I’ll be a good listener to myself. And I would never leave myself with a cold shoulder when I need someone most.
  14. My sexual requests would not seem awkward to myself. I’d be thinking the same thing.
  15. I can treat myself with what I’ve wanted all my life, whenever I want to, and I won’t have to worry that I won’t like it or complain I don’t know myself.
  16. Shared bank accounts wouldn’t sound like a bad idea at all.
  17. I’d be the first one to pat myself on the back after a job well done.
  18. I’d share the same interests and have the same hobbies, working the same job.
  19. When I cry, I’d be my own shoulder to lean on.
  20. I can speak my own esoteric language and not have to pretend I understand.
  21. I won’t have to wait by the phone and hope I’m okay. I’m right there.
  22. I’d laugh at my own jokes and would never be afraid to say things to myself thinking I’d offend myself.
  23. I’d say all the right things.
  24. If I laugh at my own sentimentality, then I’d understand why.
  25. If I argued with myself, I’d know exactly what I’m thinking.
  26. I don’t need to be shy about myself. I would tolerate any of my bad habits, and happily change what I can’t.
  27. I could badmouth myself and not feel betrayed.
  28. I’m my own toughest, but most important critic.
  29. I can’t hide secrets from myself. I also cannot lie.
  30. My parents would approve that I’d sleep in the same room with myself.
  31. We’d have mutual friends, and through it all won’t suspect infidelity.
  32. We don’t need the body language to communicate. We have the highest dimension of cognition to rely on.
  33. If there’s talk about the future and family, we’d both have the perfect idea for ourselves.
  34. If I need to pull an all-nighter, I’d stay awake for myself to keep myself company.
  35. We would die at the same time, for the same reason. We would never need to mourn for each other.
  36. I’d never divorce myself, pack my bags, and walk out the door saying I didn’t care about myself. I’d know I was fooling myself and trying would be pointless.

I’d make my own perfect husband. Will I marry me?

I do.

august march

i’m gonna have
an accidental suicide
nobody has to know
and when you come over
notice the places
i left everything

wash the taste of me right out your mouth
clean it good but don’t forget about
(lock the door close the windows turn off the light it’s alright)


upon the demons i may see, and the filth i shall smell, i’ve held a crooked smile, bleeding from the lips.

i don’t taste or hear anything anymore.

but not to worry, dear oracles. these little details mean nothing for the big picture. or the future. too bad people can’t see that.

i may be quiet now.

but wait and see.


My heart was, and still is, wrapped in a red, gentle silk – first so cold to touch, but becomes the same temperature as your own. It becomes that comfortable symbiont. Day-by-day, the maidens, draped in full black and eyes too numerous for selfish happiness, weave new layers when the old ones become exhausted. Gently, helices of blood-red insulation follow when the day starts a-new. Each apology wraps the wounds. Each trauma is fixed.

But when the maidens themselves become dismissed and they leave on their own, there is no agent to wrap the warmth back to the medulla. Slowly, the threads unravel and the heart will quiver. The heart will rebel, perhaps it may decide to stop beating in protest. Some overcome it with a coat of themselves, or adaptation. Some let the heart rest.

When the deciduous heart unveils its branches, the heart is no longer red – it is covered in blue-black patches, lacerations in the deepest, microscopic levels. The irony it must be to realise the heart bleeds too. These do not leave. No matter how many layers of silk you wrap around an irreparable injury, the pain never goes away. You would be a fool to think you can run away when you’re clenching your breast.

When the blood is no longer rich with air, the body becomes cold and blue, like a never-ending desert of snow – once a beautiful land with legume and the energy of the sun that becomes brushed with blue-white paint. Perhaps it is nothing but the sky on the ground, and you’re walking downside up. Taste the snow – let it be nothing but the cremated hearts of unrequited, or incomplete, quintessential love.

Let the eyes face closest to heaven, and call upon the angels. You will see their envy in the ultimate human capacity. Endearment. There is only one dimension so far that allows such a juxtaposition – such an imperfection – to be an adaptive quality. It becomes the birth of art, and the death of innocence. It becomes the reason why you call upon those that do not answer, and the reason why you hold your head down in sympathy.

Taste the sky. Smile because it’s the only remnant of your sanity. It’s the only remnant to love.