i'm worried
sincerely worried.
i know you have trouble opening up
i know you have trouble being depressed
i know you have trouble with yourself
i know you have trouble with drugs
let me be there
let me help
i want to be the light light that guides you home
tonight when you held my hand, banished my cell phone, and had me just collapse on the ground next to you
it was so surreal.be ok
just let me know that you actually mean it.
you told me you loved me.
i wont believe it till youre sober
you locked the door to your room
so typical of your perspective of life
lock everyone fucking out
but im not leaving.
youre worth it to me
i dont care if it takes me years
you will open up to me.
you will be ok.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sunday, June 13, 2010
old character sketch
“Look at that freak!” The children yelped. “Look at THE freak!”
Solemnly, the overweight man dressed up in a large, smiling hot dog costume turns. His thoughts cycle through his cynical mind like a rusty merry-go round. Acknowledge the children. Wear your silly costume with pride. Do a funny dance. Get these damn kids to buy a shitty hot dog from the fine wiener establishment behind you. Closing time is at five. Then you can get high. With a smile, Jeffrey suppresses any urge to smack the children and opted to wave politely instead. He then continued to trudge along the freshly paved side walk, back and forth, tracing and retracting the same steps he takes every day from nine to five. In his hands he cradled colorful coupons, promising discounts and free sodas. Jeffrey could barely see out of the eye-holes of his costume. The cars and pedestrians blur into a sea of color as they pass him. His last trip of LSD had left him hazy.
As Geoff shuffled in front of Stan’s Hot Dog Emporium, he observed the exchange of words between Frank, the loyal trusty mail carrier, and the sweet elderly Mrs. Harper, who was the organist at church. Frank’s thunderous voice boomed over Mrs. Harper’s quiet tones.
“Good afternoon Mrs. Harper, don’t you look lovely........I’m fine, thank you………How’s little Jeanine? I heard she did a fabulous job at her piano recital last week! Isn’t that just swell……..Why yes, the weather is quite stunning today…….oh don’t fret, this sunshine should stay next week for our Town Fair! I ought to hurry along now……..Give my best to the family! So long Mrs. Harper!”
As the merry mail carrier trotted away, Geoff couldn’t stop the wave of jealously that flooded over him. The hot-dog man wished that people would smile warmly at him and engage in small talk. Maybe if he started telling people that they “look lovely,” or develop a Colgate smile, things would be different. Maybe then people wouldn’t point and laugh at him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be shunned from their picture perfect society. Geoff took a breath and surveyed the town called Brighton, the town that was slowly suffocating him.
Across the street from the hot dog restaurant was the giant supermarket, flooded with “lovely” housewives buying roast beef. Next door was the bakery, packed with fresh desserts and customers who never gained any weight, but obnoxiously maintained their trim waist size, despite their frequent consumption of desserts. But of course, if Geoff even looked at a cookie, he gained twenty more pounds. Displayed in the front windows were delicious treats, stacked up and coated with a generous glaze of frosting or powdered sugar. Oversized donuts, double layer cakes, cookies with huge, obnoxious smiles painted on them lined the shelves. Each dessert was baked to a such a degree of perfection that it was slightly sickening, much like this town. A cardboard sign was propped up next to the door. In perfect print, the sign read: Every Monday 10% of Sales Go Towards Children’s Hospital! Buy a treat- MAKE A DIFFERENCE! There is no sweeter deal than that!” Geoff scoffed at the sign. As if the donations of one puny bakery would really rid the world of disease and save dying children.
Geoff shifted uncomfortably in his large, cumbersome costume. It hung awkwardly off of his large frame. The heavy fabric was itchy and made him sweat profusely. Wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead, Geoff longed from his shift to be over. Then, he could walk twelve blocks to his apartment on the outskirts of town, feed his cat, and call his dealer, who lived a few towns over. To cap the night off, Geoff will eat a bowl of stale Captain Crunch and smoke a bowl of the earth’s finest plant. By nine, Geoff will be lulled asleep on his ratty couch, listening to the hum of the townspeople watch their crime shows and tuck their children into bed.
As the clock strikes five, Geoff has already clocked out and started his journey home in his bulky hot dog costume, since the monstrosity of a uniform doesn’t fit in the storage closet. As Geoff shuffled home, he tried to make eye contact with all the people he passes, as they make their way to the church prayer group at 5:30. Please, Geoff begged silently. Just give me a smile Won’t you share a little sunshine with me? But the citizens of Brighton offer him an emotionless face.
“There goes that freak,” they all whisper among themselves. “There goes THE freak.”
Solemnly, the overweight man dressed up in a large, smiling hot dog costume turns. His thoughts cycle through his cynical mind like a rusty merry-go round. Acknowledge the children. Wear your silly costume with pride. Do a funny dance. Get these damn kids to buy a shitty hot dog from the fine wiener establishment behind you. Closing time is at five. Then you can get high. With a smile, Jeffrey suppresses any urge to smack the children and opted to wave politely instead. He then continued to trudge along the freshly paved side walk, back and forth, tracing and retracting the same steps he takes every day from nine to five. In his hands he cradled colorful coupons, promising discounts and free sodas. Jeffrey could barely see out of the eye-holes of his costume. The cars and pedestrians blur into a sea of color as they pass him. His last trip of LSD had left him hazy.
As Geoff shuffled in front of Stan’s Hot Dog Emporium, he observed the exchange of words between Frank, the loyal trusty mail carrier, and the sweet elderly Mrs. Harper, who was the organist at church. Frank’s thunderous voice boomed over Mrs. Harper’s quiet tones.
“Good afternoon Mrs. Harper, don’t you look lovely........I’m fine, thank you………How’s little Jeanine? I heard she did a fabulous job at her piano recital last week! Isn’t that just swell……..Why yes, the weather is quite stunning today…….oh don’t fret, this sunshine should stay next week for our Town Fair! I ought to hurry along now……..Give my best to the family! So long Mrs. Harper!”
As the merry mail carrier trotted away, Geoff couldn’t stop the wave of jealously that flooded over him. The hot-dog man wished that people would smile warmly at him and engage in small talk. Maybe if he started telling people that they “look lovely,” or develop a Colgate smile, things would be different. Maybe then people wouldn’t point and laugh at him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be shunned from their picture perfect society. Geoff took a breath and surveyed the town called Brighton, the town that was slowly suffocating him.
Across the street from the hot dog restaurant was the giant supermarket, flooded with “lovely” housewives buying roast beef. Next door was the bakery, packed with fresh desserts and customers who never gained any weight, but obnoxiously maintained their trim waist size, despite their frequent consumption of desserts. But of course, if Geoff even looked at a cookie, he gained twenty more pounds. Displayed in the front windows were delicious treats, stacked up and coated with a generous glaze of frosting or powdered sugar. Oversized donuts, double layer cakes, cookies with huge, obnoxious smiles painted on them lined the shelves. Each dessert was baked to a such a degree of perfection that it was slightly sickening, much like this town. A cardboard sign was propped up next to the door. In perfect print, the sign read: Every Monday 10% of Sales Go Towards Children’s Hospital! Buy a treat- MAKE A DIFFERENCE! There is no sweeter deal than that!” Geoff scoffed at the sign. As if the donations of one puny bakery would really rid the world of disease and save dying children.
Geoff shifted uncomfortably in his large, cumbersome costume. It hung awkwardly off of his large frame. The heavy fabric was itchy and made him sweat profusely. Wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead, Geoff longed from his shift to be over. Then, he could walk twelve blocks to his apartment on the outskirts of town, feed his cat, and call his dealer, who lived a few towns over. To cap the night off, Geoff will eat a bowl of stale Captain Crunch and smoke a bowl of the earth’s finest plant. By nine, Geoff will be lulled asleep on his ratty couch, listening to the hum of the townspeople watch their crime shows and tuck their children into bed.
As the clock strikes five, Geoff has already clocked out and started his journey home in his bulky hot dog costume, since the monstrosity of a uniform doesn’t fit in the storage closet. As Geoff shuffled home, he tried to make eye contact with all the people he passes, as they make their way to the church prayer group at 5:30. Please, Geoff begged silently. Just give me a smile Won’t you share a little sunshine with me? But the citizens of Brighton offer him an emotionless face.
“There goes that freak,” they all whisper among themselves. “There goes THE freak.”
just part of my memoir
Looking back on my experiences in the academic world, first grade was and continues to be the worst year of my life. Maybe it was the fact that school lasted six full hours, opposed to kindergarten’s measly half day schedule. Maybe it was the fact that I was missing my two front teeth that year, which caused me to have a horrible lisp. But after reminiscing for awhile, I’ve come to the conclusion that first grade was the most dreadful year of my existence all thanks to my teacher, Miss Colleen Lindsey. Though she was in possession of youth and beauty, she was as strict as a nun and as cruel as a copperhead snake. Miss Lindsey insisted that the Lego bins were color coordinated and that our desk space was kept immaculate. She was also a rather unapproachable person. She sneered when I asked questions about math problem. She made sarcastic remarks when I asked questions about the spelling homework. She rolled her eyes and sighed when I asked questions about anything. By October, I had stopped asking questions.
One thing that Miss Lindsey despised more than questions was crumbs. She forbade her students from bringing in snacks that could leave such loathsome residue, whish is practically impossible, since any food that a group of seven year olds munch will undoubtedly leave crumbs behind. One cool afternoon in late autumn, I opened my Blues Clues lunch box to find that my mom had packed me a small bag of pretzels along with a love note written on my napkin. Immediately, I realized this snack was forbidden. But the hunger burned ulcers in my stomach, crying out for some nourishment. Discreetly, I attempted to feast. Yet the moment Miss Lindsey’s wolf-ears heard the crinkling of the bag, I was reprimanded. “Throw that out!” She screeched. So while the rest of the class ate their morning snacks, I sat silently, hands folded on my desk, stomach rumbling so loudly that I’m sure the art class down the hallways could hear it. Only Lisa Monetti and Justin Zadrozny could eat such snacks. They were “neat.” Miss Lindsey had her favorites, and those two beloved students fell into that category. But I, with my sloppy handwriting, nervous stutter, and forbidden pretzels, was certainly not one of them.
Another event that even furthered Miss Lindsey’s dislike for me occurred on a miserable, rainy Tuesday afternoon in January. After completing the exercises in my Phonics workbook, I looked up on the chalkboard to see Miss Lindsey’s familiar, brisk handwriting that instructed us to begin lunch after finishing the assignment. Miss Lindsey would much rather make us read the itinerary on the board than having to use her voice and explain it to the class. As I searched the coat closet for my beloved Blues Clues lunch box, I made the startling discovery that I had left my mommy-made lunch at home. As a sensitive first grader, this occurrence was devastating to me. So while the rest of the children gobbled up their brown-bag lunches, I sat empty-handed at my desk again, except this time, tears drenched my cheeks, dripped down my chin, and stained the front of my sky blue t-shirt. Miss Lindsey scanned the room and stopped at me. Her hawk-like eyes narrowed as she marched towards the insubordinate seven year old that I was. “Katie G, you aren’t listening to the directions, Katie G,” she snapped, without a hint of compassion. I hated that she called me Katie G. I was obviously the only student named Katie in the class. Adding the first letter of my last name just added an unfriendly hint of formality. Stifling back sobs, I tried to explain myself.
“I-I-I…….for-got……. my……. luuunch!” I wailed. There. I had confessed my sins. I had hoped Miss Lindsey would comfort me, call my mom, and have her drop off the much-missed lunch. But I had no such luck. Coldly, Miss Lindsey told me to go to the girls room and wash my face. Then I was to go to the nurse’s office and get an “emergency Sammie”. This ridiculous term meant that the nurse would give me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich that she kept stored in her mini-fridge for all the other students who were unlucky like me. The sandwich was cold and tasteless. This brand of peanut butter used on the sandwich was the disgusting kind that stuck to your throat as you swallowed. Needless to say, I never forgot my lunch again. Yet Miss Lindsey’s disgust for my cry-baby tendencies stuck worse than that peanut-butter.
Not only did Miss Lindsey show no compassion towards me, she also managed to stifle my creativity and development- which is the opposite of what a first grade teacher should be doing. In March, we were assigned brand new reading textbooks. Though I was a poor math student, I had acquired a simply insatiable hunger to read.. The glossy cover of the new books, the fresh printer smell of their pages, and the crinkling sound of the spine as the book opened and closed was thrilling to me. During lunch and quiet time, I would pull out this marvelous treasure and immerse myself in its lovely stories, about magical foxes and creatures of the lagoon. Occasionally, Miss Lindsey would have the class read an excerpt from the textbook. But couldn’t bear to leave such mystical stories unread. One afternoon, Miss Lindsey caught me. “Those stories are not to be read on your own Katie G!” She scolded. In front of the whole class, she went on to explain that they simply weren’t my reading level. Refuting her claim hadn’t even crossed my mind. Timidly, I apologized. It was no big deal. I had practically finished the textbook anyways.
In March, Miss Lindsey assigned us a new composition. It was one of those mindless repetition pieces about what to bring to Grandmother’s house. For example, she wanted us to write: I would bring a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring cookies and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring a pillow, cookies, and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house….etc. I could have written a beautiful, coherent essay describing the bicycle I brought to Grandmother’s house, down to its blue crusty paint flecks. But I could not grasp this concept of a distinctive pattern. Especially since I had been in the bathroom while she was explaining the project. I knew Miss Lindsey hated to repeat herself, and I knew not to ask questions unless you were bleeding. Even then, I doubt she would point out the way to the band-aids. Therefore, I sat at my desk, baffled, trying to choke back tears once more. Determined to figure out this complicated piece, I worked all afternoon, even through lunch.
As the class turned in their assignments, I held my breath as I handed mine to Miss Lindsey. “Maybe she won’t read mine!” I silently prayed. But of course, my un-legible handwriting caught Miss Lindsey’s snake eye. As she squinted to decipher what was written, I said a few hail Marys. I wasn’t even Catholic. The rest of the class returned to their seats silently, while I was left standing in front of the room with Miss Lindsey. After a moment of analysis, which felt like an eternity, Miss Lindsey had reached her verdict. “This makes no sense, Katie G!” She barked. Glaring at me, she clutched my paper with her claws and tore it up vertically, into two jagged pieces. “This is garbage,” she snarled. A deafening silence swept over the whole class as Miss Lindsey dropped the remnants of my composition in the waste paper bin. She didn’t even have the heart to recycle. The bell rang and I ran from the room, too shocked to even cry. With the flick of her wrists and sting of her words, Miss Lindsey destroyed all confidence I had in myself as a student. I was diminished to junk. Never in my eighteen years of life have I ever felt so humiliated.
One thing that Miss Lindsey despised more than questions was crumbs. She forbade her students from bringing in snacks that could leave such loathsome residue, whish is practically impossible, since any food that a group of seven year olds munch will undoubtedly leave crumbs behind. One cool afternoon in late autumn, I opened my Blues Clues lunch box to find that my mom had packed me a small bag of pretzels along with a love note written on my napkin. Immediately, I realized this snack was forbidden. But the hunger burned ulcers in my stomach, crying out for some nourishment. Discreetly, I attempted to feast. Yet the moment Miss Lindsey’s wolf-ears heard the crinkling of the bag, I was reprimanded. “Throw that out!” She screeched. So while the rest of the class ate their morning snacks, I sat silently, hands folded on my desk, stomach rumbling so loudly that I’m sure the art class down the hallways could hear it. Only Lisa Monetti and Justin Zadrozny could eat such snacks. They were “neat.” Miss Lindsey had her favorites, and those two beloved students fell into that category. But I, with my sloppy handwriting, nervous stutter, and forbidden pretzels, was certainly not one of them.
Another event that even furthered Miss Lindsey’s dislike for me occurred on a miserable, rainy Tuesday afternoon in January. After completing the exercises in my Phonics workbook, I looked up on the chalkboard to see Miss Lindsey’s familiar, brisk handwriting that instructed us to begin lunch after finishing the assignment. Miss Lindsey would much rather make us read the itinerary on the board than having to use her voice and explain it to the class. As I searched the coat closet for my beloved Blues Clues lunch box, I made the startling discovery that I had left my mommy-made lunch at home. As a sensitive first grader, this occurrence was devastating to me. So while the rest of the children gobbled up their brown-bag lunches, I sat empty-handed at my desk again, except this time, tears drenched my cheeks, dripped down my chin, and stained the front of my sky blue t-shirt. Miss Lindsey scanned the room and stopped at me. Her hawk-like eyes narrowed as she marched towards the insubordinate seven year old that I was. “Katie G, you aren’t listening to the directions, Katie G,” she snapped, without a hint of compassion. I hated that she called me Katie G. I was obviously the only student named Katie in the class. Adding the first letter of my last name just added an unfriendly hint of formality. Stifling back sobs, I tried to explain myself.
“I-I-I…….for-got……. my……. luuunch!” I wailed. There. I had confessed my sins. I had hoped Miss Lindsey would comfort me, call my mom, and have her drop off the much-missed lunch. But I had no such luck. Coldly, Miss Lindsey told me to go to the girls room and wash my face. Then I was to go to the nurse’s office and get an “emergency Sammie”. This ridiculous term meant that the nurse would give me a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich that she kept stored in her mini-fridge for all the other students who were unlucky like me. The sandwich was cold and tasteless. This brand of peanut butter used on the sandwich was the disgusting kind that stuck to your throat as you swallowed. Needless to say, I never forgot my lunch again. Yet Miss Lindsey’s disgust for my cry-baby tendencies stuck worse than that peanut-butter.
Not only did Miss Lindsey show no compassion towards me, she also managed to stifle my creativity and development- which is the opposite of what a first grade teacher should be doing. In March, we were assigned brand new reading textbooks. Though I was a poor math student, I had acquired a simply insatiable hunger to read.. The glossy cover of the new books, the fresh printer smell of their pages, and the crinkling sound of the spine as the book opened and closed was thrilling to me. During lunch and quiet time, I would pull out this marvelous treasure and immerse myself in its lovely stories, about magical foxes and creatures of the lagoon. Occasionally, Miss Lindsey would have the class read an excerpt from the textbook. But couldn’t bear to leave such mystical stories unread. One afternoon, Miss Lindsey caught me. “Those stories are not to be read on your own Katie G!” She scolded. In front of the whole class, she went on to explain that they simply weren’t my reading level. Refuting her claim hadn’t even crossed my mind. Timidly, I apologized. It was no big deal. I had practically finished the textbook anyways.
In March, Miss Lindsey assigned us a new composition. It was one of those mindless repetition pieces about what to bring to Grandmother’s house. For example, she wanted us to write: I would bring a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring cookies and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house. I would bring a pillow, cookies, and a bicycle to Grandmother’s house….etc. I could have written a beautiful, coherent essay describing the bicycle I brought to Grandmother’s house, down to its blue crusty paint flecks. But I could not grasp this concept of a distinctive pattern. Especially since I had been in the bathroom while she was explaining the project. I knew Miss Lindsey hated to repeat herself, and I knew not to ask questions unless you were bleeding. Even then, I doubt she would point out the way to the band-aids. Therefore, I sat at my desk, baffled, trying to choke back tears once more. Determined to figure out this complicated piece, I worked all afternoon, even through lunch.
As the class turned in their assignments, I held my breath as I handed mine to Miss Lindsey. “Maybe she won’t read mine!” I silently prayed. But of course, my un-legible handwriting caught Miss Lindsey’s snake eye. As she squinted to decipher what was written, I said a few hail Marys. I wasn’t even Catholic. The rest of the class returned to their seats silently, while I was left standing in front of the room with Miss Lindsey. After a moment of analysis, which felt like an eternity, Miss Lindsey had reached her verdict. “This makes no sense, Katie G!” She barked. Glaring at me, she clutched my paper with her claws and tore it up vertically, into two jagged pieces. “This is garbage,” she snarled. A deafening silence swept over the whole class as Miss Lindsey dropped the remnants of my composition in the waste paper bin. She didn’t even have the heart to recycle. The bell rang and I ran from the room, too shocked to even cry. With the flick of her wrists and sting of her words, Miss Lindsey destroyed all confidence I had in myself as a student. I was diminished to junk. Never in my eighteen years of life have I ever felt so humiliated.
dead river road
(found this on my computer from earlier this year. don't remember writing it)
And so speeding down dead river road
I sobbed.
I cried because I don’t know what I’m doing in life
I cried because I’m tired and can’t handle it all
I cried because you’re unhappy.
And I can’t be happy if you’re not
I cried because you don’t listen to me. You don’t take my advice. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless. And worse off, I’m vulnerable too.
I cried because I’m scared to die
I cried because I’m still alive
And so speeding down dead river road
I sobbed.
I cried because I don’t know what I’m doing in life
I cried because I’m tired and can’t handle it all
I cried because you’re unhappy.
And I can’t be happy if you’re not
I cried because you don’t listen to me. You don’t take my advice. I don’t know how to help. I’m useless. And worse off, I’m vulnerable too.
I cried because I’m scared to die
I cried because I’m still alive
Monday, June 7, 2010
I Believe in Closet Organization
I believe in one of the most holy sects of cleanliness- closet organization. While many people take this rather small, insignificant space for granted in their rooms, and lose track of what junk they fill it with, I cherish my closet. To me, this area is storage for everything, from my grungy t-shirts to my old Raggedy-Ann doll. I consider my closet to be my Mecca, my holy ground. And while this may be a strange philosophy, it helps me regain my sanity.
I believe that the best time to indulge in closet organization is when I feel like I have no control over anything else in my life. My teachers declare a due date for when my creative process must be terminated and the assignment must be completed by. My parents decide that it is not appropriate for their daughter to have blue hair or any piercings, so they ban my self-expression. So on those pathetic days when I succumb to teenage angst, I remember something. Only I have complete say in how my closet is arranged. Absolutely no other being on the face of this earth has any control over how my closet is organized. I will choose to place my trusty, worn-out collection of converse chucks in the most accessible spot. I have the right to push the fancy, unreliable high heels to the darkest and most remote corner; among the dust bunnies and health articles my grandmother cuts out of the newspaper and insists on mailing to me. I can, and will, place boxes of my old diaries, yearbooks, and disposable camera photographs on the top shelf, because I have begun to treasure them more with each passing day. My freedom allows me to reserve a special section in the back of my closet for the remnants of old hobbies. My tennis racket rests casually against the wall, with my drumsticks and video camera stacked neatly next to each other. While I gave up on these three particular interests, I don’t dare view them as failures. In my closet, they are souvenirs of my experiences as an athlete, a musician, and a film student. They are part of my history. Since it is my closet, I can twist things my way. Furthermore, it is my right to hang up all my comfy sweatshirts, though some flaunt the logos of colleges I won’t be attending, while I let the turtleneck sweater my sister bought me for my birthday fall off its hanger and remain balled up on the floor. Who says I have to display that giant wool monster? I am allowed to make such decisions. It is my closet and I can organize it exactly as I want.
Such a feeling of empowerment washes over me after I finish the task. I step back, viewing my marvelous work, and debating whether or not to leave the doors open and display the results of an afternoon at work, or keep the doors shut, hiding my world from everyone. After cleaning my closet, I feel relaxed and prepared to face the bigger messes. So while I may never have full control over some aspects of my life, this OCD philosophy helps me cope. Yes, I understand that I sound insane, but frankly, I don’t care. I believe in closet organization.
I believe that the best time to indulge in closet organization is when I feel like I have no control over anything else in my life. My teachers declare a due date for when my creative process must be terminated and the assignment must be completed by. My parents decide that it is not appropriate for their daughter to have blue hair or any piercings, so they ban my self-expression. So on those pathetic days when I succumb to teenage angst, I remember something. Only I have complete say in how my closet is arranged. Absolutely no other being on the face of this earth has any control over how my closet is organized. I will choose to place my trusty, worn-out collection of converse chucks in the most accessible spot. I have the right to push the fancy, unreliable high heels to the darkest and most remote corner; among the dust bunnies and health articles my grandmother cuts out of the newspaper and insists on mailing to me. I can, and will, place boxes of my old diaries, yearbooks, and disposable camera photographs on the top shelf, because I have begun to treasure them more with each passing day. My freedom allows me to reserve a special section in the back of my closet for the remnants of old hobbies. My tennis racket rests casually against the wall, with my drumsticks and video camera stacked neatly next to each other. While I gave up on these three particular interests, I don’t dare view them as failures. In my closet, they are souvenirs of my experiences as an athlete, a musician, and a film student. They are part of my history. Since it is my closet, I can twist things my way. Furthermore, it is my right to hang up all my comfy sweatshirts, though some flaunt the logos of colleges I won’t be attending, while I let the turtleneck sweater my sister bought me for my birthday fall off its hanger and remain balled up on the floor. Who says I have to display that giant wool monster? I am allowed to make such decisions. It is my closet and I can organize it exactly as I want.
Such a feeling of empowerment washes over me after I finish the task. I step back, viewing my marvelous work, and debating whether or not to leave the doors open and display the results of an afternoon at work, or keep the doors shut, hiding my world from everyone. After cleaning my closet, I feel relaxed and prepared to face the bigger messes. So while I may never have full control over some aspects of my life, this OCD philosophy helps me cope. Yes, I understand that I sound insane, but frankly, I don’t care. I believe in closet organization.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
breakfast for lunch
what happened to me?
since i met you all i write is shitty poetry
i create my own structure
there's a occasional rhyme scheme
but lately (as in, the two years i've known you) my writing has been comprised of
the way my brain functions
im no longer worthy of being mentioned in your blog posts
so neither are you
he's a writer
he's nice
but i cant even think of anything that makes him better than you
except he drives a car and pays for me
he doesn't even get movies.
or kubrick.
is it really that hard to find a kubrick fan?
my god i'm outta my mind with pretentious crap
i try and think about eternity and mortality and it freaks me out
so i'll try this whole college thing
but if it epically fails
i'm moving back home with my mom where i'll write sonnets all day long and eat cake.
i'll wave farewell to the world and create my own parallel universe where kubrick is god and people spend their days in dark corners watching movies and reading novels. everyone lives online
and you're not invited.
not that i resent you
its just that i can't get rid of you
since i met you all i write is shitty poetry
i create my own structure
there's a occasional rhyme scheme
but lately (as in, the two years i've known you) my writing has been comprised of
the way my brain functions
im no longer worthy of being mentioned in your blog posts
so neither are you
he's a writer
he's nice
but i cant even think of anything that makes him better than you
except he drives a car and pays for me
he doesn't even get movies.
or kubrick.
is it really that hard to find a kubrick fan?
my god i'm outta my mind with pretentious crap
i try and think about eternity and mortality and it freaks me out
so i'll try this whole college thing
but if it epically fails
i'm moving back home with my mom where i'll write sonnets all day long and eat cake.
i'll wave farewell to the world and create my own parallel universe where kubrick is god and people spend their days in dark corners watching movies and reading novels. everyone lives online
and you're not invited.
not that i resent you
its just that i can't get rid of you
Monday, February 8, 2010
Tried =Tired (I and R are bitches like you)
I break the deafening silence
I lure him out of his dismal fucking cave
I make him write beautiful poetry
I'm exhausted. I'm empty. I collapse onto a few good days with him, a few good fucks with him, and few good lines with him,
Only to be dragged down again
No one can fully banish their demons
But can't they be silenced for once?
Just once, let me breathe.
Don't give me reasons to yell.
I'm hilariously selfish.
But i've learned to hold my tongue
Kill the cat that got yours.
No one can fully banish their demons
Not even me.
I'm done breaking the deafening silence
No longer will a lure him out of his fucking cave
I don't give a shit about his beautiful poetry
I've set fire to his cave.
And I'm waiting anxiously for the love of my life to resurface again.
You're welcome.
I lure him out of his dismal fucking cave
I make him write beautiful poetry
I'm exhausted. I'm empty. I collapse onto a few good days with him, a few good fucks with him, and few good lines with him,
Only to be dragged down again
No one can fully banish their demons
But can't they be silenced for once?
Just once, let me breathe.
Don't give me reasons to yell.
I'm hilariously selfish.
But i've learned to hold my tongue
Kill the cat that got yours.
No one can fully banish their demons
Not even me.
I'm done breaking the deafening silence
No longer will a lure him out of his fucking cave
I don't give a shit about his beautiful poetry
I've set fire to his cave.
And I'm waiting anxiously for the love of my life to resurface again.
You're welcome.
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