The Abyss

We all have an abyss to stare into on lonely nights and mornings and days.

Some of us, after staring long enough, turn our backs to it and say, “Not Today”.

I…I tend to trip into it.

Other times I sit on the edge of it and wonder what’s truly down there, despite spending most of my life in it.

Occasionally, I crawl down into it, seeing how far I can get before losing my grip.

But on my worst days, when leaden with hate and shame and scorn, I cannonball into it.

Hitting rock bottom.

Filled with broken mirrors I tossed in over the years.

I pick up the shards, with reflections of me, and cut myself each day that I’m there.

If I’m feeling creative, I try to carve in clever quips like HOPE IS A CURSE WORD DOWN HERE, but never get past the H.

A few weeks will pass before anyone notices.

And by the time they do,

I’ve already crawled out,

With a few new tattoos.

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Luna C. Soledad (Slightly Sexual Content)

I met Luna in the back of a grungy goth club on Haight Street.

I stumbled in drunk from a company party wearing dockers and a overpriced white dress shirt. It was the only club I’ve ever been to that nearly refused entry for being overdressed.

Heavy industrial music played from a giant single speaker while pale people wearing leather overalls and JNCO jeans angrily two stepped to a violent beat over white noise. I went straight to the bar, ordered a gin, took a Klonopin, and watched the nightwalkers dance half expecting Wesley Snipes to break in and go to town.

Through the somber scene I saw a girl in a neon green romper undulating like kelp in a soft cross current. She wore a smarties necklace and ring pop that she suggestively sucked on in between sips of a blue drink…likely an Adios Motherfucker. She either came straight from a rave or was IRL trolling the all black, colorphobic, denizens of the Frisco underground.

I’ve never been the “Can I buy you a drink” type–I thought it was corny–so I went over and complimented her edible jewelry. She stuck the ring pop in my mouth and one of the wireless headphones, I didn’t realize she was wearing, in my ear. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit was playing…then The Doors’ Riders on the Storm…Then Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb…then Nights in White Satin. I found myself rocking back and forth with her, vibing to the music that built the street we were on.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We meandered down the street towards Golden Gate Park, talking and giggling, looking for our next kick.

Drum circles had consistently existed in Golden Gate Park for half a century. We found a small one, half a dozen people or so, and made new friends. They passed joint after joint around, and we got silly high. A lesbian couple named Sunshine and Moonbeam asked us how long we had been together. She said forever, and I said all our lives.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We walked out of the park hand in hand, down the street, and up a steep hill.

“This is me,” she suddenly said, pointing to a vibrant Victorian house.

She kissed my cheek, walked to the door, then turned around and said, “See ya around, yea?”

I nodded and walked away.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna at that one used bookstore just outside downtown San Jose.

Twenty bucks there could get you half a dozen books, if you shopped right. I bought a special edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey two years ago or so, but lost it to an ex who had me wrapped around her little clitoris. She never read it. She was the type to have a bookshelf of classics and avant-garde titles she never read or planned on reading–a vanity collection she showed off at every chance but only managed to memorize the synopses of–but enough about her.

I was scanning the old titles, a section dedicated to The Romantics: Coleridge, Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley…and the prince, William Blake. I don’t like the idea of favorites, but goddamn, Blake gets close to the elusive title. A dope painter and writer. The first lines of Auguries of Innocence still gives me chills when I read or recite it:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

Fuck, it’s just too amazing–the type of skillful, beautiful writing that makes you want to quit writing and write more simultaneously.

I grabbed another collection of Blake’s poems, even though I had six or seven different books that collectively contained everything he ever produced.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a short girl reaching up on her tippy toes, fingering the base of a book on the top shelf, trying to get it to fall down, to no avail.

She caught my wandering eye, walked up to me and asked, “Can I borrow you for a second?” My Irish skin flushed as I imagined all the things she might use me for, momentarily forgetting that she was just trying to grab a book. “Sorry to bother you, but can you grab a book for me?” she said with a flirty laugh, snapping me out of the sexual soiree swirling around my psyche.

I hope she can’t read minds.

“Of course,” I said.

She guided me over, pointed up and said, “That one, Civil Disobedience.”

I pulled it down and stared at it for a bit, remembering the deep well of joy Thoreau’s writing had brought me over the years.

“He wrote a beautiful essay called The Art of Walking,” I stutterlessly said, displaying a rare semblance of sociability.

“Yea? Let’s go for a walk and talk about it,”

She paid, and we walked out of the book shop, but as we got to the sidewalk, the owner ran out and asked me if I was going to pay for that. I forgot to pay for the book of Blake’s poems.

“I’m so sorry,” I pleaded contritely.

“It’s okay,” the shop owner said with a smirk. “I can see you were distracted. I would be too.”

“Do you steal often?” she said as we walked out of the shop.

“Only hearts and minds,” I confidently said, again surprised by my non-gauche response and speaking which was usually filled with stammering and awkward non sequiturs.

I told her that Thoreau manufactured a beautiful etymology for the word saunter. An etymology that I had only just found out was the product of his mind, not the actual origin of the word.

“Centuries ago, in Paris, poor Christians walked the streets asking people for money to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the holy land. The French word for holy land is sainte terre so after a while the Parisians began to call the prospective pilgrims sainteterres, eventually evolving into the word saunter, which means to walk slow and aimlessly. To Thoreau, and I, every walk was a journey to the holy land.”

She listened and absorbed every pent up word and topic my reclusive mind had to offer. I spoke to her more than I had spoken to anybody in the past few years–even more than myself–and she just giggled and asked for more.

It began to get late, and I knew we would have to part ways soon so I asked, “Can I get your–.” “Of course,” she said. “Give me a call. You can take me out to sushi. We can drink sake, get silly drunk, and go saunter again.”

She caught an Uber. I walked around a bit more, gazed at the moon, then caught an Uber too.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna on Tinder.

We had a tepid date, filled with the usual micro-talk, at an overpriced seafood restaurant on Santana Row. She drank martinis while I drank water and coffee. I had quit booze again but needed some type of kick so coffee would have to do.

She got drunk and I got jittery.

We had absolutely nothing in common–outside the basic hierarchy of needs living things have, which fortunately includes sex.

I didn’t want my roommates to meet my drunk date so we went to her place. Her two roommates were watching Keeping up With the Kardashians. She sat me down on the couch, next to the two girls, then sat on my lap. They gossiped about Kim and Kourtney while I debated whether or not pussy was worth listening to the drivel coming out of their mouths and television.

Just as I was about to throw her off me and storm out she said, “Alright, we’re going to bed.” She led me down the hall to her room as the roommates snickered and commenced to gossiping about the things we were about to do.

Her room was offensively pink, but my annoyance was quickly quelled once she ripped off her dress, exposing her perfect tear drop breasts with nipples, and panties, that matched the color of her walls.

The only good thing about sobriety is that I’m a fantastic lover when boozeless. Whiskey dick was an embarrassing component of my alcoholism. Good drink helped me smooth talk many women to bed just to say sorry after a few pumps. But that night I had an erection since the oyster appetizer.

I threw her on the bed, got on top and held her arms back.

She asked me to choke her, so I did.

She asked me to slap her, so I did.

I ran my hand down her neck and cupped her breast softly before squeezing hard. She gasped and moaned and told me harder. My index finger continued down her stomach, tracing the line of her pelvic bone until I reached her panties, ripping them off in a single lustful swipe.

“I just bought those,” she said before I stuffed them in her mouth.

I ran my tongue from lips to lips, hip to hip and tit to tit, covering her perfect, model body; the type of aphroditic body I previously only had the chance to masturbate to via online porn.

I didn’t fuck her, and I never came. I knew that cumming would result in immediate regret. I would put all my clothes back on in a rush and shamefully walk out, passing her annoying roommates, out the door, just to continue to run the gamut of online dating until I knocked a random girl up, or lived to die old and alone. So I decided to stay.

She took off my shirt to lay on my bare chest and kiss it, and asked me why I didn’t fuck her. “I wanted tonight to be about you, love.” I lied and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up to my cock in her mouth, my balls in her hand, and love in her eyes. She returned last night’s favor with furious strokes and spitting and deepthroating.

I came in her mouth, she swallowed, and I fell in love.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Lu—I looked up and realized I was talking to myself again, in my empty garage filled with sad music.

Maybe it doesn’t matter where I met Luna because she’s gone now.




This is my first draft. I’m hoping for more wonderful feedback. I started this piece this morning and just got done so I’m going to take a nap.

Negative feedback, as always, is most appreciated.

She (Slightly Sexual Content)

She hates it when I lock myself in the garage to write and chain-smoke.

She scans my body for fresh burns every night before bed, but I learned to burn the eyes of the skull tattoo on my leg to hide them–so much so that the nerves are dead and each burn is more of an aesthetic contribution than a channeling of psychic pain.

She isn’t allowed to read anything I write so she thinks I’m writing about her.

She screams at me nightly for all the things I never wrote about her.

She questions my love, I answer in pain.

She works my flaccid cock with mouth and hand, getting it hard enough to penetrate her for a few minutes, before going numb. She repeats the process four or five times–until she cums–then, as she dismounts, spots the fresh scars I tried so hard to hide and begins to cry.

She kisses each scar…then leaves a new one. “It’s over,” she said.




This piece was written for my Sanctuary, Sex and Suicidal Silhouettes piece, but I’m having trouble finishing the Suicidal Silhouettes portion.

Please critique this post and my previous and all future posts–I prefer negative feedback.

Blogs, Booze & Benzo Benders

Hello my fellow mentally ill peeps. I’m here, and I’m finally ready to share my life and  struggles.

I created a version of this blog years ago at the behest of my psychiatrist. I thought it was a terrible idea. I’m not the type of person to share what I ate last night, let alone my mental health woes, but I also used to not be the type of person to see a psychiatrist, so I thought fuck it, what’s the worst that could happen, right?

Well, the worst didn’t happen–I’m still alive, obviously–but who knew creating a blog would precipitate so many troubles?



I was riding yet another manic wave, this one being slightly different since I was finally on medication that, at the very least, kept me balanced enough to sit down and create a blog.

I forgot how fun it was to create a profile! The joy of color schemes and background images, quirky headlines and logos; a decent profile picture of me that was well received when previously posted on the social media accounts of friends and family. I did it all with frenzied enthusiasm. The pièce de résistance though, was my site name: Pretty Words for Ugly Thoughts. The perfect encapsulation of my blog’s future.

It was all so thrilling…until I finished, created a draft, and stared at a blinking cursor.

First came the anxiety.

I went back and realized the background image I added didn’t match the color scheme, so I switched it. But now the color scheme overpowers the image, so I changed it too. Now I had a completely new lay-out that looked awkwardly thrown together, nothing like my original vision. And the profile picture of me? I couldn’t look at it, and I’m sure no one else would want to look at it either. It’s probably best to have a profile pic of anything but me.

Back to the draft and blinking cursor.

Nothing…And worse, I began to get bored.

“Maybe just a beer”, I murmured to myself. “One beer couldn’t hurt. I’ve had dinner drinks recently and was able to hold it together like a civilized person,” my horned conscience mimed.

I’m lucky enough, depending on my current personality extreme, to be a literal stones throw away from a liquor store so I made the quick trek.

The interaction with my neighborhood purveyor of fine beer and spirits escapes me, but I remember killing a half pint of hundred proof indifference on the short walk back to my blinking cursor.

The booze, as always, did the trick. I unleashed a flurry of words covering various mental health topics–primarily regarding suicide and self esteem and other subjects my scared, sober mind wouldn’t dare express without liquid courage–but after thirty or so minutes, I found myself typing out sentences, then deleting them. Then going through the draft and deleting unnecessary words. Then unnecessary sentences. Then I deleted the entire draft.

At this point, the cursor had developed a psychic connection with my adrenal glands, pumping increasing amounts of cortisol with each blink.

Instead of conceding another uninspired night to the bottle and taking my drunk ass to bed, I broke out my benzos.

I had unintentionally amassed a surplus of Xanax and Ativan over the previous few months. I decided to quit these drugs because they wound up exacerbating my depressive episodes and numbing my conscious during manic episodes, amplifying my bad decisions, but I forgot to cancel the efficient medication delivery system, resulting in a several months worth of pills I hadn’t intended on taking, but for some reason kept, instead of flushing down the toilet.

One pill

Two pill

Yellow pill

Blue pill

Words came out with Seussian glee. I weaved the tale of a functioning alcoholic and recreational drug user who held court at house parties, danced until sunrise at raves and happily lived la vida loca with no repercussions. I wrote about the idealized version of me that I wanted others to see. A version of me more suitable for a blog about city night life than mental health, depending on your view of city night life.

Instead of changing my blog’s name to San FranDisco Knights and publishing the draft, I saved it as is, took a shower and went to a roller derby. Not the contact sport where two teams of five skate around a track beating the shit out of each other, but roller derby, as in the bay area party vernacular for an event where everyone takes ecstasy and chills.

I lived the aforementioned version of myself for thirty three days. The manic monster version of myself who popped benzos, drank alcohol and railed Buddha knows what before getting behind the wheel of a car at three in the morning because I wanted to fill a Halloween bowl with McDonald’s chicken nuggets, only to wind up wrapping the car around a pole and leading police on a foot chase. The version of myself that woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed surrounded by tearful faces who hated that version of me.

I wish I could’ve promised my loved ones that day that nothing like this would ever happen again, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t lie to them. I’m a psychological mess, destined to hurt others for as long as I was alive. So I killed myself.



I hadn’t planned on doing a multiple part series, but I go where the words take me. And since I love alliteration, the next installation will be called: Sanctuary, Sex and Suicidal Silhouettes

I’m new to blogging so any negative feedback is appreciated.