happy dog mom litjournal

A Friend

2012-02-23T14:10:00.000-08:00

by Michelle Whatever

I remember when I first met you. There you were. You were crying uncontrollably. It was your first day of kindergarten and you were scared shitless. Then you told me the white crescents on my fingernails were called ‘moons’ and grew/shrank based on how much milk one drank. I knew we were friends from that moment.

You and I hung out a little bit.

The third grade we had the same shitty teacher who hated us. Your friends were my friends. My friends were your friends. We began to hang out more and more. We sat next to each other in class.

My parents hated you. They told nine-year old me things like ‘one day that kid will die of a drug overdose. His body will be destroyed there won’t be anything left. All that will be left is a tiny piece of him, like a smudge of an experiment gone wrong.’

I had a dark childhood.

Fourth grade I spoke three times. I spent most of my time inside my own head and watched you fold origami cranes. My only memory of the whole year was a response to a kid mentioning how their sister was attacked by a chipmunk in Disneyworld. I asked ‘Was it Chip or Dale?’ which everybody found really funny.

By the fifth grade I started my ‘get creative one year, die the next one’ period where one year I’d get it together, the next I’d drop off. The fifth grade we became closer friends despite our different classes. I was a total jerk that year.

People began to flirt with me. I felt happy and angry all the time.

Middle school was rough. I had decent grades. We shoplifted from the local supermarket together. Both of us began sort of drifting away from what was wholesome. Eventually the supermarket installed a security camera. It sucked.

The end of Middle School I grew further apart geographically speaking. My parents sent me to a private school for ‘academic’ and ‘disciplinary’ reasons. We hung out after school. I called you a bunch of times during the weekends, asking to hang out.

You stopped calling me back.

College happened. We went to different schools. Over the summers we re-connected. I remember you invited me to a party at your house. I got extremely stoned and jumped on the trampoline. Eventually my mother called extremely upset at being given the wrong information about where I was. Years later they didn’t trust you. She screamed at me for signing up for the wrong classes for college. When I returned home she just yelled at me a lot. She knew I was probably on drugs, but she couldn’t outright say it. Instead, she expressed disappointment at a high volume.

A weird thing happened during college. You dropped out. You got committed. I didn’t hear from you for years. Whenever I heard your name it dealt with drug use or sketchy behavior. Ex-girlfriends hated you, stalked you. I never had anyone interested in me by then. So I gave up getting in touch with you and worked in an office for a few years.

Several years later I prepared to move on and quit my job. One of my friends bumped into you at a party and we re-connected, years later. They called, excited to re-introduce us, old friends. We hung out again but your mind was totally fried. I pretended not to notice.

I figured it was just nice to see you again.

This Christmas I sat in the back of a casual acquaintance’s car. He was playing some Northern California drug music, Pretty Lights or some shit. I asked if you would be at the party. We were all going. He causally said ‘No, he’s in rehab for Heroin addiction’.

He was going to say more but I kept repeating ‘in rehab for Heroin addiction’ for about ten minutes which worried him. He didn’t say anything during the rest of the ride as I watched the suburbs pass me by. At the party I laughed a lot at anything to try and forget what he told me.

But I didn’t forget.

When I reconnected with you I thought ‘Maybe you’ll get it together, go back to college, and become an engineer like you wanted.’

Now I know that’s probably never going to happen.

I don’t want my parents to be right. I don’t want to lose such a close friend, a friend so close we practically share the same voice, same deep pitch, same general apathy, political beliefs, etc.

I just want you back my friend. Come back.

Michelle Whatever doesn’t need your approval. She already has it.

Hello Happy Dog Mom Lit Journal

2012-02-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

by Noah Cicero

This is Noah Cicero
It is 2:15 in the morning
I am very tired
I kind of feel like a sad metaphor
A really fucking sad metaphor
something about wind and a cold winter night
I'm on my computer
I feel like I should fall asleep
but
I don't know if sleep matters to me anymore, so I just do it when I lay down, I lay down, then sleep comes, then I am sleeping and eventually I wake up
and I go on
Tonight I read your blog
and started to think about Homer sitting outside on a rock scribbling out The Iliad
No I didn't
I'm lying
I was thinking about how I needed to wash my work clothes tomorrow

Noah Cicero sent us this email and it took us over a month to respond. We're pretty sure this was his suicide letter. Anyone know if he's dead?

WHAT THE FUCK WE DOIN BOUT CIVIL RIGHTS ON V-DAY

2012-02-14T15:19:00.000-08:00

by Count Mackula

THE RULE OF VAGINAS AND PENISES
WAS A PEACEFUL RULE
THE LAND WAS FULL OF SINGING
MAINLY INVOLVING PITCH PIPES
MAN WHAT THE FUCK WE DOIN BOUT CIVIL RIGHTS ON V-DAY

Count Mackula is not a fucking children's cereal, so maybe you need to get your head out your ass. His work has been published in Thieves' Jargon, Thieves' Widow, Thebes, and Prince of Thieves.

Happy Dog Mom MOTHA FUKKIN AWP READING Litjournal

2012-02-10T13:56:00.000-08:00

We're doooooooing it

We're having a reading

we ain't going to AWP, obviousl, we're not pussies

BUT WE'RE HAVING ONE IN CHICAGO DURING AWP

When: Friday, March 2nd, A Million O' Clock
Where: Chicago (it's a secret)

Readers:

Dogwalk Happen (he left his apartment! Or, well, plans on it!)
Terd Macchio
Mad Rapper YOUNG SHADE
Yumi Mi Tummi
Fritzlos and guest
Florence Lawrence
Sinclair Arnold
Ross McMillan
Stephen Tully Dierks???
AND MORE>>>

These People Are Fuckin' Losers

2012-02-09T19:21:00.000-08:00

Try to Run by Young Shade

2012-02-02T12:25:00.000-08:00

Young Shade is a rapper from the south side of Chicago. He likes the movie Scarface and weird online lit mags.

My peen is a pen

2012-02-01T17:25:00.000-08:00

by Jackoff Wueinland

I keep a pile of pages of poems in progress
by my bed,
not to make notes,
to jerkoff onto

Jackoff Wueinland fucks unicorns

Exclusive Interview With Beach Sloth

2012-01-30T19:02:00.001-08:00

by Yumi Mi Tummy

MY MOST INTERESTING DAY

2012-01-30T18:56:00.000-08:00

by Florence Lawrence

I want to tell you about my most interesting day. It began in the morning. Almost all of my days begin in the morning. I was sitting with my husband eating breakfast, trying to start a conversation with him because there was no newspaper on the front porch. “Honey, do you know why the paper didn’t come today?” My husband flipped an egg and said, “Honey, I have no idea why the paper didn’t come today.” I thought that maybe I had forgotten to pay the poor paperboy, so I went upstairs to get my checkbook because I keep perfect records of all expenses in it. I am amazing at balancing a checkbook. It is my greatest skill and passion. But just as I sat down...

A NEWSPAPER FLEW THROUGH THE WINDOW!!!

I had never seen a newspaper with wings on it before. It flew above the kitchen, close to the ceiling and away from the fan. It looked like a bat only it was a newspaper with wings instead of a bat. I wanted to catch it and put it in a cage with a little bowl of water and some rubber bands for it to eat. “Honey, do we have any rubber bands?” My husband flipped an egg and said, “Honey, I am flipping this egg. I am trying to set the world record for flipping an egg. So far I have flipped this egg over four hundred times and I don’t intend to stop because you-”. My husband didn’t get to finish his sentence because...

A PIPE BOMB FLEW THROUGH THE WINDOW!!!
The pipe bomb didn’t have wings like the newspaper so it just landed on the ground, ready to explode and kill all three of us. I don’t know what a pipe bomb likes to eat, so I didn’t think to keep it as a pet. Instead, I jumped into action. I picked the pipe bomb up from the floor and threw it at my husband. He wordlessly threw the egg away and started flipping the pipe bomb. This went on for several minutes, until the pipe bomb was brown and crispy on both sides. I opened the cabinet, took out two plates, and began setting the table. My husband cut the pipe bomb in half and filled our plates. It was delicious, but our breakfast was interrupted when...

I GAVE BIRTH TO A BABY!!!

I cradled my new son in my arms while my husband cut off a piece of his pipe bomb to feed our new baby boy. He is beautiful and our lives are amazing now. He gets along very well with the flying newspaper and we eat pipe bombs for every meal. This has been the story of my most interesting day.

Florence Lawrence sells insurance. Florence Lawrence slept with your dad.

Don’t Smoke Your Own Tree

2012-01-26T12:39:00.000-08:00

by Dr. Dingleberry Slim

D.D. Slim here
Sculpting a word forest
Growing a word forest
Watering a word forest

D.D. Slim here
Climbing my word forest
Hanging up my wet clothes
On the limbs
Of my word forest
Keep out
Come on in
Fiends
Friends

D.D. Slim here
Sleeping on a log
Motherfucker
Dreaming this log has legs
Bitch

D.D. Slim here
I got red eyes
From smoking
The leaves of my word forest
Kind
Unkind
Don’t smoke your own tree
Listen to D.D Slim
Don’t smoke your own tree

D.D. Slim here
Read what I wrote above
Skipping to the end
Doesn’t make you a D.D. Slim friend

D D Slim Out

Dr. Dingleberry Slim is a medical doctor/rapper that doesn't write poems, he grows them. He was born on streets of broken glass and once slept on a queen sized bed made of plastic bags, horseshit and dreams. He is a better man for it. Is he even a man? Time will tell. Listen to the Slim. Hear the Slim. Feel the Slim. He'll plant a seed in your brain and a forest will grow. Slim Bio Out.

Exclusive Interview With Stephen Tully Dierks

2012-01-25T16:57:00.001-08:00

by Yumi Mi Tummi

there is some mystery in what i am saying

2012-01-23T20:01:00.000-08:00

by Thew Treebeard

I am remembering a time when someone told me about a tree growing too many
roots. It sounded very absurd, the way she was telling me. She had 3 children at her
knees and they were all carrying with them; an off-putting presence.

I was on my way back from a local sandwich shop. It was about a mile walk from my
apartment. I trembled violently to the colour blue, with each step. There was something in the air that day, on the way there. Something that I will never be able to put my finger on. there were a bunch of african-americans walking into the same store. I decided to very subtly pretend i was at the wrong store.

I got back on the sidewalk, walking home.

Tracing the curb back, it was very short before I encountered a woman who sprung from above in a dead tree. She splashed onto the pavement with broken tree-limbs falling after her. "well, hello there boy o,"

I stood in awe of this lady who was now on her knees pulling small children out from
behind her back, telling me that she was on a journey from tree-to-tree to find
a new home because her previous home was growing too many roots and they were
making the tree lean or something. She provided very little information about herself and I wanted to leave immediately. There was a brief awkward moment of silence which gave me the oppurtunity to escape this conversation. “I am looking for my tree, just like you. do you understand?” That’s what I told her. It seemed to bother her.

I rudely walked past her and looked back after about ~200 feet when i saw her pulling her children onto her back. I turned around and thought about what just happened.

As i turned the street corner i looked back and she was gone.

Thew Treebeard builds pyramids, but not for the aliens (that's passe). One time, he was in Texas and a bar called The Library wouldn't let him in because they claimed to have a dress code. Oh, and he didn't have sleeves on. So yeah.

Barrels of Dreams/Balls of Despair

2012-01-22T11:45:00.000-08:00

By Larry Lemontree

Now
Blowing Balls of Despair
Barrels of Dreams
Down the hole hole whole
Lining the trees of Creams
Climbing the fees of Lawyers
Like ladders of time and faces
Of Priests and Sailors
Down waterfalls of delight and ice
And funny how
The world spins like atoms
And the moon spins like jacks

Heaven is a place
With a tiny tiny fence
And Hell is a waterway
With a passionate swirl of whales blurred
Into a soup of finesse and strategy
And Cheese?
No, that would be ridiculous
Like Cheese?
CHEESE

Elephants roam the dessert
Tigers train the sky
Pasta makes some people sick
And some people ride bikes
And some people fear fashion
Pants so tight
They bleed
And the skin they draw from
Gets fatter upon loss
Stretching, stretching stretching
Ice cream sand witches
Cackle on vacuums
Danger danger danger

Barrels of Dreams
Barrels of Despair
Tumble and terrify
The happiness of dreams
Equals the fear of smell
Of loss
Of family
Of weather
And whether the days will ever be so long again
If the Balls and Barrels
Fail to show up on time
Time?
TIME

Larry Lemontree is a retired CTA bus driver who used to write poems on his breaks and now, he writes poems all the time, because his whole life is a break. He enjoys his sleep and enjoys what he can of this waking life, this life of dreams, the nights of stepping and flipping, of dancing the world, rather than being danced by the world. He lives with his 4 cats and a giant portrait of his wife, Alison who now lives in Idaho with her new husband, Henry, hangs on his ceiling, eyes down on his, reminding him that life is not a waste, that life is not a waste, and to always make eye contact with paintings, people and dreams.

Hey, HTMLGiant:

2012-01-21T12:28:00.001-08:00

We still have comments.

Pussies.

"it wuz 2 gut 2 b tru" texts from Ellen Krzyczkski

2012-01-21T11:42:00.000-08:00

by Ellen Krzyczkski

it wazn’t that long ago that we were together. we were 2 much in luv and then i got the cat

the cat wuz 2 keep me co. when i was alone which was alot

i lived by myself so i thought i could do wut i want but it turns out that he didnt want me 2 get a cat

so he broke up w/ me

he said U didnt discuz getting a cat w/me

i said i didn’t kno i had 2

he said he was alergic

and now itz just me n the cat

Ellen Krzyczkski just filed a restraining order against you.

Chicken Salt

2012-01-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

by Dogwalk Happen

I am always jumping out windows in expensive clothes.
I am always hailing cabs and saying take me to hell in a scary voice.
I am always crying tears of orange juice
I am always sinking ships with my mind-thoughts
I am always losing the game
I am always granting salad wishes
I am always offering free piggyback rides
I am always using the litter box instead of the toilet

Dogwalk Happen lives in Bloomington, IN. His hobbies include binge drinking and letting his beard get really gross. And poetry. I guess.

Exclusive Interview With J. Bradley

2012-01-19T20:05:00.000-08:00

by Yumi Mi Tummi

i hate you kyle beachy

2012-01-19T15:41:00.000-08:00

by peterbd

i hate you kyle beachy

is this even your real name?

i hate that you have this awesome ass name

i wish your name was something lame like thurston

or peter

i'd definitely not hate you if you had one of these names

oh my god, i hate you

what are you, like some kinda talented writer dude?

some talented, writer chill bro

just pick one

you can't be a chill bro as well as a talented writer

it's not fair to us common men!

hating you would be harder if you weren't such a chillax

writer of prose

so stop it already. stop being so talented

stop being humble and nice

and a well rounded individual

you're a kickass individual

this elicits hate from me

stop paying your bills on time

stop holding the door for strangers

just stop being kyle beachy

but most importantly

stop beating people at arm wrestling whom

you have no business beating

my hate for you will drop 100% if this occurs

actually

i'd 100% not hate you

Ghost

2012-01-16T11:03:00.000-08:00

by Maeve Deswaynyo

CLICK IT TO MAKE IT THE BIGGERS

Maeve Deswaynyo's dad drives a race car. Google it.

Molly Wally Polly’s New Year’s Resolutions

2012-01-16T10:57:00.000-08:00

by Molly Wally Polly

To not masturbate on my mommy’s bed to get even with her when she prepares my Campbell’s Cream of Potato soup with a cup of water instead of a cup of whole milk.

To not hide my sibling’s tampons when she comes home and eats my box of Annie’s Classic Mac and Cheese.

To treat my heinie gentler and not subject it to immoderate wipings based on the off chance that the Janjaweed will invade my all-white suburban enclave and gang rape me.

To not slit my wrist when mommy forgets to buy the loaf of Italian bread that I asked her to.

To kiss pop superstar Jason Derulo on the mouth (but no tongue -- that’s icky).

To try and be friendlier to girls even though they all hate me and envy me because my pussy tastes better than an everything bagel and I am the most talented young woman of letters since Ann Frank.

To get the A&F jegging in green and in red.

To set aside a couple of minutes at the finale of each day to sit and reflect and ask myself, “Molly Wally Polly, is there any opportunity that you might of missed today that would’ve lead to you being blissfully ravished by 15 black studs with pulsing horse cocks?”

Last night, Molly Wally Polly watched Heathers.

Exclusive Interview With Frank Hiton

2012-01-15T12:56:00.000-08:00

Frank and I met in an intimate, little cafe on a Sundayish Sunday morning, tired weighing down our eyes like a fire blanket.

She said, "I'd like a coffee, please. Black as night."

I said, "that'll be two seventy-five."

She paid, took her coffee, then wrote veraciously on our macbook for hours.

Then, twelve years later, I interviewed her on facebook:

Thanks, Frank!

Exclusive Interview With Steve Roggenbuck

2012-01-12T17:18:00.000-08:00

Facebook interviews are the future of literature.

I Must Provide for My Family by Ralph Walldough

2012-01-11T11:38:00.000-08:00

Because I believe I must

provide for my family

I buy food at “Chili’s To Go” and

carry it onto the airplane

As it taxis on the runway

my beautiful little daughter

lifts a flaccid strip of cheesed chicken

in the pale light, and bites it

The clouds over Milwaukee

below us are blackish-purple

In the medium distance

Jesus Christ, in female form,

hovers with glowing hands

Bolts rain downward

in all directions

Jesus Christ electrocutes

every human in the United States

The pungent smoke from our bodies

floats over the oil

sands of Saskatchewan

The plane stays aloft, miraculously

my ghost drifts along the aisle

Because a ghost can only sense

a living human and not a ghost

my ghost is alone

It tries to direct the plane

to the North

to no avail

When it crashes

my ghost remains

near the wreckage

Passing its frilly hand

over the crispy remains.

Faceborg

2012-01-05T12:01:00.000-08:00

Like us on the internet, I guess, and stuff...

http://www.facebook.com/happydogmomlitjournal

uggghhh

my very important story

2012-01-04T15:03:00.000-08:00

by Nannerz Hildebrandt

oh, that's right, my important true story, i almost forgot to tell you guys. it's about how i got shat out of a massive bird. it's very important. and all true.

so one time i was questing my way up a naturally-formed spire when i noticed, there at its cartoon apex, a very large egg. the egg had a particular, peculiar tint, like almost a type of shimmer you'd call "serpentine," and i realized it would go perfectly with the pop-surrealism painting i have above my fireplace at home.

i am pretty sure the painting is a todd schorr, but i can never keep those assholes straight. all i know is, i can't afford murakami. you know, with all the smiling daisies? that's murakami. no, the OTHER murakami. oh, well, that's ok; he was really "in" a few years ago, just so you know. anyway, this oversized egg had just the right touch of "whimsy" my living room needs. hmm. if i could just somehow fix a large glass plate atop the egg i'd finally have a size-appropriate end-table, i reasoned blithely.

so i was thinking about what types of coasters i should buy for my new end-table, but i was also trying to figure out how to hoist the egg back home. i really needed this egg. and i had JUST constructed a complicated machine, an entire system of levers and pulleys made up of a hundred little moving parts, all using naught but stones and ropes and twigs, when i suddenly heard this "caw caw, caw caw" overhead. that was when i first noticed i was actually standing in a large birdnest, which inexplicably i had heretofore not acknowledged.

from inside the great bird i began to really pace around and consider where i had gone wrong. there was all this shortsightedness, all these chances i'd had to accept christ as my lord and savior, all these house parties i might have not ruined with an ill-timed joke. if i could only go back! if i could only retrace my steps, find the error and correct it! finally i stopped pacing and became thoughtful. i sat down. i used all these twigs i'd been keeping somewhere on my person this whole time to make myself a tiny bonfire. as i watched the smoke curl and dissolve, i became increasingly determined to refashion myself as WEEDLORD, CHAMPION OF ALL THE LAND. i decided, for once and for all, happily ever after, i would loosen my straits and learn how to party.

there was only one thing left for me: i had to cut my way out of the mighty bird!

i fumbled around, feeling my hip-waist-thigh parts for my adventurer's sword. oh. i'd left it outside the bird someplace. fuck.

so, ok, that part wasn't as triumphant. anyway, this is the story of how eventually i got shat out of a gigantic bird. the whole thing was very disorienting. i kind of had to work my way, well, you know, toward the butt. then i had to wait a really long time. if you've ever been inside an animal that is gigantic, you already know this type of thing, um, takes "longer." so it was an unhappy process, and painful -- especially the part with the acid -- but i came out mostly ok.

just kidding! i am actually telling you this story from inside a gigantic bird. please send help.

Nannerz Hildebrandt tells a lot of longwinded stories at the campfire, especially ghost ones. They are all true. Seriously, check Snopes; I am not even making this up.