I have feedback on eBay as Ndebt333 and GBE1979. I am not trying to cheat anyone, and I will do my best to combine shipping AND get items out as quickly as possible. (I do work full-time and usually don't get off till the post office is closed, but I do ship as promptly as humanly possible and would be happy to upgrade to expedited shipping for an additional fee.) If you want to make SURE your item gets there without problems, tack an extra $2 onto your total to cover delivery confirmation/insurance. Otherwise, I am not responsible for what happens to the item after it leaves my hands; I've had the post office do everything from destroy a poster tube to apparently dunk a package in water, and in both cases there was nothing I could do.

Items are described to the best of my ability, I will only give a refund if I have GROSSLY misrepresented the item or its condition.

I prefer Paypal, but money orders and very carefully-concealed cash (preferably with Delivery Confirmation) is alright too.

I will consider trades if you have something I like.

Items I'm looking for:

-Goth or punk clothes, size 18/20
-Shoes, size 10/11
-Makeup
-Anything pertaining to Jackass or anyone involved in the Jackass crew. (Lemme see what you got, I have a collection going.)
-Finnish rock/metal memorabilia (Negative, The Rasmus, Nightwish, etc.)
-Kat Von D stuff or any other tattoo-related items (Ed Hardy, etc.)
-WIGS!!!!

I am also looking to trade stuff with someone who does DIY work on t-shirts or jeans and could make me some really funky custom pieces of clothing. Show me what you got!


Thanks for checking out my stuff!

ALL T-SHIRTS ARE $8 SHIPPED OR 2 FOR $15 SHIPPED. I WILL BE HAPPY TO CUT YOU DEALS ON BUYING MORE THAN TWO, JUST ASK ME!

( T-shirts and band shirts )

DRESSY TOPS ARE ALL IN NEAR/MINT CONDITION UNLESS OTHERWISE NOTED.

( Dressy tops, hoodies, dresses, etc. )

All items are described as accurately as possible. No refunds unless something is wildly misrepresented by me. I accept Paypal (no credit-card payments though!) and US money orders, no other form of payment. All items include shipping in the USA. I will combine shipping if you buy more than one thing. I ship on Fridays. If you want to upgrade to faster shipping or get a tracking number on your item, I can arrange that for an additional fee. If you do not pay for insurance, I cannot be responsible for items lost or damaged in the postal service. I WILL NOT SHIP OUTSIDE OF THE USA, please don't ask. I can't calculate international shipping, and people complain to me about how long it takes them to get the items because I ship by the cheapest method possible.  First-come, first serve. I will not be able to hold items, please do not say you 'want' something until you have the money to pay for it. At this time I cannot accept trades, I am hurting for money very badly. However, if you feel that one of my prices is unfair, I will consider negotiating with you. Any other questions, please comment, they will all be answered promptly. You can check my eBay feedback under ndebt333. Thanks for looking!


All jeans are described to the best of my ability. Fit varies due to different styles, but I wore these anywhere between an 18-22 and they fit fine at each stage in between. Jeans are $12 shipped per pair or two pair for $20 shipped.

I can't decide if sadness is something inherent in the air we breathe or if you can be sad just by force of habit.

When the same thing hurts you so many times, do we cry out because of the actual pain, or because it's a ghost memory of the pain that preceded it?

After the first step on hot coals, the rest feel so much easier.

After the first heartbreak, the first seem so much more bearable.

After the first lie, the truth seems so much more subjective.

I ended an eight-year friendship tonight by telling the boy to kill himself. I want to say that I didn't mean it, but I don't. Karma will get me for this sentiment and I don't much care at the moment. This is someone who's had every chance known to man, more than any one person deserves. He's used up all of his own chances and stolen some from other people who would've made good use of them. As such, he's a 30-year-old drug addict, divorced father of three, working part-time at a coffee shop to support the fact that instead of putting back money for an apartment of his own or a car or even some decent clothing, he is renting a laptop by the week so that he can sit online and roleplay and chat with people on Vampirefreaks.com. He's not grounded in reality. And as such, he fucked my head so many times. I spent eight years crying. Living for something that was never real.

But tonight when we fought, I didn't really feel anything. I could feel the tears going down my face as I screamed at him on the phone and told him to drop dead, but everything else felt numb. It didn't hurt. It used to feel like a sharp pinch between my eyes, but now it's just like someone put a weight on my chest and left it there. Just that dull throbbing pressure. Maybe that's how a heart really breaks. Not with a bang but with a whimper?

My mood swings have been off the charts lately and I'm honestly afraid sometimes for myself. I know I'm manic or something similar. I go from fine and lively and excited to broken and crushed and crying nonstop for hours on end in a heartbeat with no real trigger.

Earlier tonight I started thinking about small things. I was cleaning my room and kept finding things. The scissors I used to make a scrapbook for an ex-lover. In all of those pictures we are laughing and smiling and touching. I have a folder of photos of us kissing. I know I should throw them out but sometimes I look at them and remember what it felt like to be that happy, to be enough for someone, the way she'd put her hand on my cheek and for once I wasn't thinking about if I had a double chin at this angle or needed to shave my legs or anything else, just how she always tasted the same and how she smelled when we slept all day and stayed up until dawn talking and watching music videos and cuddling. I found a box she made me out of crepe paper and ink, things about crows written on it, and inside is a necklace I can't wear anymore. She bought it as a totem and when I put it on now it doesn't help me. Crows are supposed to carry your soul from a dark place to where it belongs. The one on the cord around my neck just makes me think about ice cream headaches and scratch-off lotto tickets and the time she showed up with a skirt on and feathers in her hair and I thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

I can't pinpoint when everything changed. All I know is that it did, hipbones got sharper and so did our tongues until each kiss split our skin and let infection in until lockjaw stifled any "I love yous" we might have used to break the stony silence between us. It took months to die. We were children with magnifying glasses hovering over an anthill, prolonging torture and avoiding each other's eyes.

I never meant to hurt you. It's just the easiest thing to do sometimes, shitty as it sounds.

I feel this pressure on me constantly now, belt around my heart on its last notch. We will have to punch a new hole soon. Clavicle corset cutting off oxygen, but dying is too merciful. I've thought about it. My fingers kiss razorblades and broken glass like sorely-missed lovers and I wish I could give in and take them back into my arms. They never made anything better but they never made it worse, which is more than I can say for some modes of therapy. I still say I love you once a day. I don't know if it's more because I want desperately for you to believe it or because I'm a glutton for punishment and it makes my throat close the minute the words leave.

I found out today that my father was not only a coke addict, but a heroin addict. The same drug that broke Kevin and Jinx and Novak also worked its magic on my father. He never had love to spare for me or my mom or my sister, it was all caught in  the barrel of a needle.


Everything you do, you do it to destroy me
Waiting for the darkest hour to put me down

Time is gradual, the surface is all you can see
And if I told you the truth you will not understand me...

Looking in the mirror all I see are flaws. I see blemishes and scars and badly-done tattoos and sagging breasts and fat rolls and stretch marks. I could trace them and show an atlas of my life. Start at the coordinates of the heart and veer south, you'll find a birthmark no one has ever kissed on their way down to eat my pussy even though every time I hope they will. Move right and you'll find a scar from when I fell off a picnic table while using a pocketknife and cut myself open. Move up and you'll find shave bumps and the ghost of everyone who has fucked me before, and if you spread my thighs you may hear me crying because I let a memory or two slip loose from their bear traps inside my head. I'm sorry about that; usually I keep unwanted hands and thrusting cocks in the Alcatraz of my memory banks but some of them are no good at taking 'no' for an answer...



I don't remember what it feels like to feel beautiful. I guess at some point in my life I probably did, but I can never remember anyone else ever making me feel that way.

I am now 21 years old, as of an hour and 23 minutes ago. Fucking weird to think about. I don't feel any older. Just sad and more or less disappointed that, like every other day of my life, I'm spending my birthday alone, depressed, and thinking about the past mistakes I've made.

We... could make beautiful music together.

Today made me remember how much I love my job. How easily I could do this for the rest of my life, if only I could move out of my house and do it.

I offered to pick up shifts at the bookstore, which has been my home away from home since I was a sophomore in high school. Whether I'm picking up the odd hours or working my ass off for a week straight, somehow I never get sick of the feeling of that place. It's crowded and plays hell on my allergies and the A/C doesn't work as well as it should and there will always be a customer asking for a "red book that came out last month" and expecting me to know what they're talking about... but fuck.

I spent the majority of the time thumbing through the comics I've missed while I wasn't there. I'm not into the Spandex and superhero vein of things unless the story is truly outstanding; I have nothing against the X-Men or Spiderman or any of those (I actually have a raging crush on Remy LeBeau from "X-Men"), but I can't read them because all of the stories started decades ago and they're on Issue 7392 or whatever, there's no way I'll ever get to read them all. It's so much easier to just pick up the one-shots or the mini-series, or get involved in the new series through the smaller labels. The exception being "Rose & Thorn" a few years ago, which was put out by DC I believe. Pretty good, and on a major distributor. So yeah.

Anyway, today I read possibly the most fucked-up zombie oneshot ever, called "Pieces for Mom". It's put out by Image and if you're a zombiewhore of any kind, do yourself a favor and shell out the four bucks for it. It's only one issue, but it's so good. And the art's fucked up. I bought a few extra copies so that I can distribute them to people I think will appreciate the sick-ass humor in them.

I also read a few chapters of "Waiting" by Debra Ginsberg, which has nothing to do with the movie of the same name but is also a look at what goes on with the waitstaff in restaurants. It's a pretty interesting read.

And then I had a herd of little kids come in pawing over the picture books. You can't even get mad when they destroy your perfectly-organized section, or when they ask how much every single book they pick up is, or when their parents tell them they can't have any after you've spent a half-hour helping them find just the right book--- there's just so much enthusiasm in them, and if you can find a book they'll like, then who knows? Maybe they'll become avid readers later in life. Maybe someday me helping kids pick out books will make a difference in their lives; they'll come across a dogeared Dr. Seuss or a coverless Louis Sachar and remember the nice girl at the bookstore who gave it to them.

An old black man came in with a duffel bag full of brownies; he is a pastor at a local church and he's raising money for a family whose home burned down a few weeks ago. I couldn't give him any money because I'm pretty strapped for cash thanks to the road trip, but my co-worker gave him two dollars. He was a genuinely nice man who seemed very thankful for our support, and he thanked us and said "Jesus bless you" all the way out of the store. When he was gone, some loud woman and her teenaged son came in bitching loudly about how this town is full of 'panhandlers' and that she's so sick of these people asking her for money. I tactfully mentioned that the money was going to a family who had lost their home, and she snorted and said "Isn't that what the Red Cross and Salvation Army are for? He was probably going to use the money for crack." Her son just sort of looked away embarassed while his mother ranted loudly enough for the whole store to hear.

There was a man at the discount table, a very respectable-looking man in a button-down shirt and tie. He kept farting, those squeaky semi-quiet ones that take a moment for the smell to actually smell, and I sat there and watched him, not even pretending not to notice. He would fart, then look around as if to say "Did you hear that too?!" Yes sir, your ninja gas-release skills are astounding. He bought a handful of cheap paperbacks and left, but his smell took awhile longer to depart.

My favorite customer of the day, however, is this man we'll call Chuck (because that's his name). He's downright ancient, in his late seventies or early eighties, but still brilliant and very articulate. He used to be a doctor, but is now retired and is an avid reader, a humanitarian, and a beautiful old man. He has the most lively gray-blue eyes I've ever seen and his nails are long and very clean. He always wears a sport coat with the elbows patched; tweed in summer, corderoy in cooler weather. He always asks for writers like Salinger or Kerouac or Hemingway, romantic-type whimsical stuff. Most men his age read Louis L'amour. He is incredibly polite and his laugh can fill the whole store; he's someone that, when you make him laugh, you feel a little surge of pride at having coaxed that sound out of him. Today I wore my Bukowski shirt, and his commenting on it while I tried to find him a copy of a rare Dickens novel started a conversation where we discussed beat poetry, the linguistics of Kurt Vonnegut's name, and whether Kerouac was good or full of shit. He is a huge Bukowski fan as well, and when he left my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. He held up the line to check out for about half an hour, which meant my co-worker had to ring people up over my shoulder and lean around me to get to the register, but I could have cared less. When that man dies, the world will be a sadder place almost instantly. 

Even when it hit six o' clock and we still had one of those maddeningly-irritating customers (who push their way through the door at 5:56 insisting they "Know exactly what they've come in here for", then begin to browse leisurely while we do everything except turn off the lights on them) digging through the young adult novels, I was smiling.

Being surrounded by a few thousand square feet of words, how can anyone not?