Below are the most recent 5 friends' journal entries.

Monday, December 21st, 2009
cheryllayne	5:58a	Would one reverse a course toward the place she was originally going or toward the place she'll be going instead? (Comment on this)
Sunday, December 20th, 2009
cheryllayne	10:54p	I need to rein in my errors. Intentionality is where it's at. (Comment on this)
Sunday, December 13th, 2009
cheryllayne	10:55p	aaaaagggggh I can't stop EATING. Today I had, in this order: Cereal Ice Cream Candy Ice Cream Chips Ice Cream Wontons Ice Cream (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, December 9th, 2009
cheryllayne	4:44a	im Küche to be sick, to be dark, the sickness and darkness need no summoning, somewhere on the expansive scales of justice lay the kafka of poets, were she a poet, dreaming up images of mutilation and bodily expurgation. but a heavy, ovarian kafka, tipping the scale with a million fat, unfit to be honored with hand and tongue removal. morbid martha, living alone, afraid to order pizza and be raped by the delivery guy. roll the bitty butterball into a deflating bath; we will all gather our most reliable kitchen knives and cut away her extra flesh pound by pound then force her to tie a frilly apron around her exposed innards and properly preserve her excess in mason jars, with suction. a perfect cake is a balance of structure and fat - the structure provided by eggs and the fat consisting of sugar and butter or lard - and kathy kafka makes the best blood cakes with honey and a cream cheese icing that never dries or cracks. her unworthy hands turn flour concoctions first into a coarse sand and then into a fine sand with their built-in ability to estimate ratios while hiding from bad memories behind the electric mixer. shameless cookie-eater with scorned wrists has dull knives and little vision, ever fantasizing about hand amputation. (Comment on this)
cheryllayne	3:55a	Always the next door. four four four four four four four four cavernous hall and holiest water, and the harp player pew for a park bench the sound of brick sliding across brick, discomfort of nail splinter, eyelash removal, the less light of winter. sharpest of harp strings slid between fingers pressed face a dust floor, the knelt knees the second taste of the same vodka, spinning stained glass hymnal headrest chunky wet hair the cross walk across you, with the acolyte, seriouser and seriouser. twinkle of liquid notes the confessor lifts your puke-smeared face explaining the brokenness of things other than hearts, you contrast your present condition with warming up and scraping the car on a bitter morning when gloves fail the fingers and the sputtering engine is suggestive of the car's eventual death. that's all the more cessation, cases of aftermarket Freud, those bottles clanging in sharper turns and stops. The drunk and cleansing? forgery! any laughable stab at passing a character off as an author flopped as miserably as The First Third, is that the priest's mother? waving from the choir loft, or old Ireland, or the Amtrak station, but love doesn't so much depart on seafaring vessels anymore, the vomit crusts, and you can always compare yourself to someone like Robert Pinsky should you become disappointed in yourself. in the aftermath of some uncountable amount of swigging (and amounts aren't counted) all the people from the neighborhood are lined up in the aisle and genuflect with hands on the stone floor before them until two by two the confessor cuts off their hands, throwing all the lopped partial carcasses into a giant vat under the feet of plastic Christ, for an axe soup. the hundred issuing spouts slide across a blood-slippery floor in the direction of the eucharist to receive the body into their mouths, a ceremony for which their tongues must be cut out, and you can see the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe emerging from the bloodbath that seeps into the pages of the hymnal that was under your head. you see a door to the west, and the pathway to the south is blocked. by the pew there is a lantern. the confessor seems to have a note in his pocket. you are carrying a canteen, a rope, and a rune. the next level of the labyrinth is not visible from where you sit. the red-running soccer moms, eyes crinkled in appreciation, watch the priest snap photos of their nude little girls. this is a priest who solves tricky math problems in his dreams. faces in the axe soup, sipping the septuagesima feast, souls released. you cleanse yourself at their unperturbed feet, crust for crust. you wonder at your chances of eventually being sainted, using your hands to wring the blood and chunks from your hair and volunteering yourself to be the official stirrer of the boiling vat of hands. (Comment on this)