Writings by Cookie Buffet Ninja St. Pig

true story I was walking on my hands and knees to papa’s room and you asked what i was doing. I said I was being a cat and it’s fun and you said, “don’t do that, it’s dirty.” June 13, 2014 7:45
true story What are you thinking? Oh, just words. (silence) o you want to know? HUH?!…yes. I had the words “How can I love you so much and then want to die the next day?” You want to die? No, no, those are just words. Kinda like, when I draw, people ask me who it is but it’s nothing, it’s just a drawing. Those are just words. June 16 10:10 PM
true story things my boyfried told me before i head out to work: 1. you look like beetlejuice 2. you look like this one spiderman villain 3. you look nice. 4. you look like that cartoon dog with parted wavy bangs. 5.”do you use mouthwash before you leave for work?”
true story when i was very small, i looked up a wall and a flesh lizard looked back at me. it looked at me as if it KNEW me, opened it’s mouth wide, and i saw that the inside it was bright red. i felt scared and special at the same time. i was victimized by a red-mouthed lizard and i don’t even know if can allow myself to believe that THAT happened after all these years.
true story my grandpa tasing had a patch on one eye and always wore dark shades. always. he always wore socks and was always quiet. he reminded me of the bad guy in rainbowbrite but he wasn’t really bad, just always seemed pissed off because he was quiet and wearing very dark glasses. he also wore socks all the time, i thought it was strange that i never saw his toes, i made up a story that he lost a toe and he was embarrassed by it, that’s why he always wears socks. maybe this is a true story, i don’t know. he rarely went out. one day, one of the only days i recall him not in his work table, he walked to our house and sat on the sofa close to the statue of jesus sitting on a throne. i went near him for some reason, perhaps to check out his patched eye and secret missing toe, and i spilled my glass of kalamansi juice i juiced by myself on his socked foot. he stood up muttering “whore mother” and left, pissed off that i wet his socked foot with kalamansi juice. i got scared i hid under my grandma’s old singer sewing machine, the one whose needle that pierced her finger straight through the nail and bone. that bastard. one more thing about lolo tasing: he had scary plant which was just a lump, it looked like a toddler’s lumpy head, only it didn’t have a face, just patches of reddish brown hairs all around. i would dare myself to go to the front of his house where it sits, slap it and run away as fast as i could. i really could scare myself silly back in those days. i would make up scenes where that lump of a plant would walk to my house at night and break-in through the window to kill me. oh shit it might be outside.
true story stray kittens smell like damp chickens smothered by wet mummy wraps from a haunted basement. then you take them in and slowly the lost and lonely scent gets mixed with plastic and powdered milk from a can. if they get loved enough to be dewormed then that initial smell has a chance of fading away. their eyes grow small and less haunted. they realize they are just a cat and there’s nothing to worry about. until the neighbor’s lame excuse of a firewall and five foot tanks of flammable gas finally cause your house to burn down and the rescued kitten-now-a-cat burns into a crisp with its days old kittens in the cardboard box with rags you put together when you were eleven. you know because your uncle saw their burnt bodies right where you thought they’d be.
true story when i was young we could only get one egg to eat in the morning. i think we were poor, i have to ask ma. anyway, we lived in a neighborhood with way more poorer children than me and my sisters so in my head i was rich and i better not be complaining about having one fried egg in the morning when the children outside were dirty and naked and dreaming of HALF a fried egg. i would eat my fried egg slowly, biting my pan de sal with a BIG bite so that i get full before my precious egg runs out.i would get another pan de sal and sop up the golden yolk on my coffee saucer-cum-breakfast plate, carefully mopping around the circle where the coffee cup bottom rests, like i do papa’s back with a wash cloth when he comes home from work. when nothing of the egg remains, and when my bread too, is finished, i start licking my plate clean.
pain and pleasure disclantern
Dear males of the earth. I was once a male, like you. Nevermind what I am now. I have a feeling, a faded thought, that I was trying to create a male liberation movement but i died, as people do, and now do not seem to see any sign of my masculist brethren continuing my effort, or it is too small that it is unheard in the din of modern society. Males of the earth, why do you not have a male liberation movement? Liberate yourselves from the constant control of your sexual energies through advertisements, television, movies, porn, music. They take advantage of your natural, sacred energies and happily help you misuse it to their gain. Take control, males. Wake up and see how inflamed you are. Constantly burning, wanting more, wanting different, wanting variety that these enabling peddlers of delusion are ever so easily making it available for you to consume anytime anywhere. Wake up and wash your minds, and start on the path to genital maturity. The road is long and as you can see, takes more than one lifetime. Women have been deprived of this and now are walking on the path that males have been on for too long a time. Their sacred energies have been forced to be bottled up, and the key thrown away. Now that they are slowly getting freed, they face the same trickeries dangled in front of many a man’s eyes. Let all genders be aware of these many traps.
art Wake Up and Smell the Coffin
they have discovered a weakness even before i was born that they have been using to control me and my resources, my time, what i think, what i think i want. A weakness that by some past good kammic actions, I was able to stumble upon in this life to be able to investigate on my own, with the goal of being liberated from the strong control of the forces of this plane. even now in this writing i know there is a flaw in my understanding and explanation of my plight, because i have only barely begun to scratch the surface of what, by great ignorance, “I” am not able to see, the act of “seeing” itself is a trap, because there is really no “they”, there is only “I” and this “I” is what chains me. One must always be aware. Be equanimous. Each stage of discovery is only a step in the long path. One must not give importance in order to proceed and move forward to freedom.
Nana brings me to the office and there’s no one there! I drink all colors of the juice and go potty by myself and then drink more different color juice and go potty again and again until it’s time to pick up my brother and go to swimming class where i can pee all the different colored juice in the water.
wakeupwords our leader is a genuine sun dancer, jumping in between the goats. june 24 2014
truestory i am an ex-catholic, listening to christmas songs in june, my inside eyes watching my meat ripple like sad red wave under a crying mauve sky. june 24 2014
truestory i met a half japanese half taiwanese fellow who has never attended catholic church. when he found out i was once a church cantor, he hummed the first few bars of “god rest ye merry gentlemen”, asking if i knew that song. i sang it for him right there on my apartment floor. and he closed his eyes and said “YES” and moved his head to my singing while drinking his beer.
truestory sascha and i ran up the stairs of the opera house, this is what dreams are made of, i thought. running up opera houses with foreign men, hurrying as not to miss the first few bars of Carmen. i had a dream i was watching carmen, just like this, in a sea of pinks, dark reds and specks of mint bronze greens i said. in it i wondered how people can just sit still and not be on giganting swings hung stories up high the opera house, sitting, standing, swinging back and forth to the habanera.
how many children have looked down on their reflection in a mud puddle after storm? how many of them have done this while running away from bombs?
i often take for granted that i can i lay down and place my head beside yours
portland is an urban outfitters decorated porta potty in the forest. only, you’re not allowed to pee or poop in it unless you buy at least a 6″ sub, f%ck you very much.
eureka, ca is that empty but fancy old jewelry box in your demented spinster aunt’s dusty bedroom
calfornia is you cool middle-aged uncle who knows what’s going on
the state of oregon is your antiseptic looking cousin emitting strange scents but owns a couple of cool expensive toys.
chico is a barbie dressed in grass skirts left out in the sun too long it smells like a soldering iron fell on some credit cards
garberville is a middle-aged scary but harmless bum that thinks he’s still a teenager in the 70s
sebastopol is a memory of a washed out painting on canvas of a wannabe gypsy hanging from a picket fence
north san juan, ca is a drunken frothy mouthed dobberman in your dreams. or no, it’s right behind you.
nevada city, ca you visited your dead grandpa’s attic and you cry a bit because you now see how cool he is but all his life he looked corny
half moon bay, ca the sheets are light blue and your blood is red on the tile floor, you don’t feel anything and you guess this is happiness and you take it.
union city, ca black gum on oil stained parking lot, why does the inside of your nose suddenly smell like garbage juice
oakland, ca you know the problem is you think there is a problem and you know you are right but really you are wrong because what the fuck are you even doing there. #artsupplies
fremont, ca a pyramid of middle aged whites asians overscheduled kids and stripmall owners struggling to pay rent standing on all fours as canada geese parade in front of them

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