Seventeen and a half mosquito bites.

I am sitting on this wet apolstered living room chair outside of this shaken government housing plot. I hide behind this veil waiting for the strange pipe full of dirty smoke that stinks like moth balls to pass inside the house that already smells like rotten milk cartons and unclean sheets. The long, black pick up truck across the street has two men in lawn chairs trying to sell homemade birdhouses and old exercise equipment out of the rusted back hatch. One time I heard that if one of those old men left the right door open, they were selling something else as well hidden underneath his patchwork overalls. The dripping pipe beside me is puddling to the same rhythm as the baby upstairs with the six hour old dirty diaper and the Latino woman who is vacuuming at one am to drown out her husbands drunken snoring. I question her sanity and then my own as I scratch seventeen and a half mosquitoes bites on my calf. There’s a shirtless bakery employee beside me and I can smell the brown paper back whiskey in his 25 cent Kangaroo gas station slurpee cup he borrowed from his eight yea old asleep in his race car bed.  I come inside because I can see two black eyes staring at me between the neighbors curtains.  Inside, the fan pushes around the thick, stinky fog and I pray that I breath shallow enough to slip under the radar of the smoke. I pick one of the mosquito bites and I watch the long trail of  thick blood leak its way like ink down my leg and onto the Goodwill couch. No one even notices.

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Cups Full of Apple Juice.

My big plan of keeping a very detailed record of my podunk existence this summer here in the South fell a little short. I am not sure it is because I broke my Macbook or I was doing a lot of things that I maybe was too embarrassed to write about. Which is extremely telling because I write very openly, or as my mom would say, maybe a little too openly.

I came home with this huge chip on my shoulder, this frustrated furrowed brow that was very positive that I was going to work, make money, learn to play the piano, read every play possible and completely rid the nasty, unpredictable mistakes from my life. Well, its now practically July and I worked very few days down at the ol’ marina  job, make little to no money for my useless billion dollar art education, still cant play the keys, haven’t even seen a library in this town, and have visited my dirty, ridiculously confusing, gut-wrenchingly crazy past several times now.

Every night I lay in bed, reading the fourth Harry Potter book again for the eighteenth time even though my doctorate father has every classic novel possible, and I stare at the wooden beam ceiling and I literally question every choice I am making these days. When I left school, I was on top of the world. I was cast in three shows for the upcoming semester, got a 4.0 for the semester, had the time of my life with my friends, and was just living the life I have always dreamed of. However, underneath all that facade happiness caused by extreme amounts of coffee and determination, there was this sadness. This void, this giant trench that was once filled with these gorgeous moments, but someone came in and decided to remove it all, filled it in with bad soil and thoughts of dirty sheets and late night drunk calls.

My point is,  now that I have gotten through with all of that useless detail, now I am here. Staring at the beams of the ceiling, or sitting on a park bench with these hands that I dont know what to do with, or sitting on the roof of my sisters car and listening to her make plans for murder of my past, or laying on these dirty sheets questioning the last 24 hours, and I see that it doesnt matter. I am never going to do it right. I am never going to figure it all out. I might as well just have a good time and send up a big screw you to anyone who questions me.

I am young, I am bold, I am really loud, and I do alot of things that people dont always understand. But this is the time to do them. This is the time to go crazy. This is my last summer home and I plan on doing the stuff that I want and stop caring what my ninty-four readers, including my mom, are going to say about it.

So here is to life, my friends.

Here is to my summer with raised glasses full of God knows what.

Apple juice probably because I am so damn poor to afford anything good.

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howling out prepubescent mating calls.

I traced the candy red package with my index fingers. My red lips curved around the last sugar stick and I burned the end with the blue red flame from the stove trying not to singe my perfectly arched brows off. I opened the screen door, the bottom has been punched off at our last dope crib party, causing it to make a crashing clang, echoing three times at it settled in the hinge. I sat my lace traced shorts onto the still salty concrete stairs. I took a sickly drag from the candy stick that burned so delicately from my lips and watched the haze create a veil in front of the license plates that stared back and laughed at me. The air was creamy, thick with silence and I bathed in the regret of six days of nothing. I waved the ember from the candy stick in front of my eyes, checking my reaction time, seeing how out of reality the sickening night had cast upon me. The little blaze mocked me so I flicked it towards the license plates with disgust, two chews too early. I regretted it immediately, we could have made up. My “holy” back pocket squirmed with your call. I waited until it stopped and turned black again, like my internal organs, hollow and quiet. A gang of twelve year olds on bikes drove against the traffic, howling out prepubescent mating calls, until the olive skinned leader ate pavement, and a trickle of thick blood outlined the arch of his shoved out jaw. I watched in complete un-interest and my phone lit up like fire again, begging to end a silence I screamed. I sat back on the pavement, salt stuck in the open wound in my palm. I counted every gram of salt I had ingested, still tasting the rough metal in my cavity. A nine foot tall woman with a tiara and rotten sash comes running past, echoed by six box blondes. Maybe her boyfriend screwed half of her two hundred person hometown too, maybe a wannabe trash piece who begged to be me called her too. The sweet blood from the bike wreck fills in the pot hole and a women screams in Spanish, shoving herself into the puss-filled wound. No one fills in my wounds. I bum a candy stick from the slowest of the now, non-existant bridal party and we talk about asparagus and tredmills. I pull a stolen hat from my bag, I took it from one of the bean bagged, spray painted sweat box parties I tripped through. I smear the blood from my hand on the windshield of the car with the license plates and watch ink leak slowly from the olive skinned boys eyes.

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Seven stories in my back pocket.

There are seven stories I could write right now. Seven different things going on in my half muted brain right now, but I cannot even begin to sort out one.

The bathroom,

where my back pocket became a handle.

Where I felt nothing. I thought that I needed to prove something, to my past,

to everyone else, to that “birthmarked-up” hand. I thought I should indulge in “gin and jazz”, give my five bucks, enjoy hating my life like the rest of the twenty something crowd that I so often try to blur myself into.

I looked into the bathroom mirror,

stared at my reflection, the single crack that so accurently went down the center of my face.

Then my whole face fell off into the sink and I watched it flow down the drain.

I always feel nothing.

The serious questions of “are you pushing me away?”


I am always pushing people away.

The stupid boy in my pocket keeps calling. Asking what he did wrong.

You fornicated with a bunch of Walmart box blondes.

Even after I gave you all my trust. even when I let you in my secret world and gave you the six oblong things I stole from the medicine cabinet at your moms house, those things in my pocket that day on his front porch. I gave you them. And you told me you weren’t mad.

I can’t do anything but laugh at you.

And then immediately after, laugh at myself for being so stupid to let you in.

Back to the bathroom,

back to the city,

The peanut butter bread that I packed into the Christmas gift purse from stupid freckle hands sisters, was gone about ten seconds after I ate it, seeing that I washed it down with “gin and jazz”. The emergency sandwich, created to keep me from being an idiot,

didn’t do it job.

“Am I bad at it?” was all I can ever say.

When I washed my face down the sink, there was nothing left when I looked back at the mirror, but two empty sockets staring back at me. Thats all that was ever there. Two empty sockets.

And no matter how many second hand Italian boys, using my back pocket as a handle, I shove into those eye sockets, I will still feel nothing.


And I stole an oatmeal bar from Dunkin Donuts.

Happy Easter.


There are seven stories in my head right now, and I cannot even write one.




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Reborn from the pitiful galls.

I let the sidewalk crunch like glass between my toes,

ripping my feet apart,

Leaving a trail of blood behind.

Spray painting a stain; a memorial.

The monster unhinged its jaw, swallowing me,

and gargled my body like waste,

swirled me around its toxic jugular.

He spits me out into a globular cyst on the chalky concrete.

And then I fall,

deranged, dirty, disposed of.

But I peeled back the afterbirth from my eyes.

Reborn from the pitiful galls.

the panic is over.



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talking about dubstep and stupidity.

I was sitting on the ledge of the balcony, overlooking the giant city today and all I could think about was the Southern podunk living that I will be returning to in like 30 days.

I think nothing scares me more.

Not finals, or playing Blanche from Streetcar in class, or opening the show where I am the lead, or all of the papers that are due before that.

All I can think of is getting off that plane and being absolutely lost.

Don’t get me wrong, I mean there are a million things that I am looking forward to. The flowered couch laughing uncontrollably with my brother and sister, mornings overlooking the lake with my coffee and my blanket before anyone gets up when the lake looks like it sheet of glass, spending time with my dad discussing books and life, hilarious house parties with my friends where we draw creepy stick figure drawings on the pong table.

But then I think about that town that is only an hour and a half away, housing my past, my past that was nearly my future.

I think about all the nights we spent on the front of the cars in that apartment complex with the stupid boys with only last names, and their bandanas and talk of dubstep and stupidity. I think about when we jumped in at the dam in our clothes and would float down to our crappy, underage beers before we would do it all again. I think about that music festival we went to when time stood still for four days and we lived on sweat, stolen food, and bagged wine, screaming “Slap the Bag!” I think about you getting packs of cigarettes and gum, while I get black coffee and a honey bun at eleven thirty, ten minutes before we danced all night at that lame ass club, our heads crammed with bad local bass until our eyes felt like they were going to pop out of our heads, and I begged you to touch my arms cause you wouldnt believe it.

I think about how that is all dead and gone.

That summer of madness, no sleep, idiot choices, and absolute sheer bliss.

I think about how that is all dead and gone.

I mean, this summer is the last one. The last one of returning to that Southern country life that cracks my city friends up, that I could actually be from there. The place where I serve beer to old men with mullets and listen to my Southern accent come back with full vengeance. I think I put it on, play the part, just because I can.

But I love it. I always have.

The sun bakes my pale skin on this balcony. And I remember…

Oh, do I remember…

Here is to life, my friends.

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blog post #5

So there I am, laying in bed and I am high on coffee because I slept until 2 pm, so my last cup of “morning coffee”, so like the ritual 9th cup, was at 6 pm. So I am wired.

So there I am, laying in bed. And I start thinking about the little mustache from back South. See this is very different from the freckle hands from home. I had a rendezvous with the little mustache Winter break of my freshman year of college. This is when freckle hands and I were taking a big, ole stanky break. Well, little mustache and I had actually gone out before. And when I say gone out, I mean that our respective mothers had driven us to the Cinimike 1o one hilarious Christmas Evening of my horrendous 6th grade year to see Christmas With the Kranks. Terrible Tim Allen movie. He had this hilarious late 90s fishing looking hat on. And our matching braces gleamed in our prepubescent nervous sweat. But I’m pretty sure I dumped him two days later on our ten day anniversary, which was a big deal if I do say so myself, for a boy on the baseball team with a Bible name.

However, one funny day over Winter Break of my freshman year of college, keeping in mind that we had never really spoken in those seven years between, we started hanging out again. So there I am, 19 years old, home from the big city, playing queens (this stupid college drinking game where I think I had to get into my bra and everyone just felt bad for me so we stopped playing that rule)  on his kitchen table waiting for the ball to drop signifying another awkward year of my life had flown by. All I remember is being in his room, wasted off of like two Heineken beers, which taste like formaldehyde., and we just started making out. Which I am glad we waited for, because our braces probably would have gotten stuck together in that disgusting movie theatre so many years before. He rocked at it.

Anyway, the point is,

I was talking to little mustache today, and I was thinking about how much fun we had that Winter Break.

And I was thinking about how it had nothing to do with freckle hands.

I can’t plan my life. I have no idea what is going to happen. I have no idea what the future holds. However, I do know that I can do whatever I want. I can kiss a million boys, I can kiss no boys. But its my choice. And little mustache made me remember today that there was a time that I did that, kissed a nice boy because i wanted to, and it rocked, and I woke up the next day a little older and a little wiser.  I don’t plan on kissing little mustache any time soon, primarily because I live in the city and he lives in bumblefuck, but thats not the point. My life is more than just what it has always been.

Tonight is the first time since the epic laundry falling on my head of last week that I feel good and  I have decided that I am ready for tomorrow.

Here is to life, my friends.


Don’t hate me little mustache for calling you little mustache if you read this. But you did at the time and it was very funny.

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Brown shag carpet.

“I just wanna feel everything.”

Standing between the white walls, holding this cup with the lighthouse on it.

Staring out the window at the little asian man taking a picture of a long crack in the sidewalk.

My feet sink into the brown shag carpet.

The black ink creeping into my ear, trickling down each arch in my vertebrae, swelling up my belly.

Thick smoke leaks out of my pores, like a iron pot of browning sick.

The blackness behind my eyes boils red and I found it.

Back off, its mine.

“I just wanna feel everything.”

I reach down into my shirt and my ribs trap it in and

I lace my fingers around the precious blister.

Every hair turns gray, falls out, and paddles across the fake hardwood gaps.

And I am left, my hands sheltering the bloody unborn infection that never scrubs off.






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blog post #4

blog post #4

I just realized something extremely important that I think I may have forgotten in the midst of all these piles of dirty laundry that got dropped onto my head off the side of a 62 store building unexpectedly five days ago.

I have so much to do. I have so much to live for. I have a million and six things that I want to do with my life. I want

-to originate a role on Broadway

-backpack through Europe

-to take a religious trip through India

-to take a missionary trip to Africa

-to do a show at the New York Theatre Workshop

-to do shows at the Wilma, Arden, Walnut, Simpatico, 1812, Improv Sports, Plays and Players

-to go to Grad School at Yale

-to kiss a nice boy and not regret it

-to be a part of the Sundance Film Festival

-to win a tony

-to go on National Tour with a musical

-to live in the village

-to pay my parents back for every book, every class, every piece of gum they ever lent me

-to teach

-to learn Spanish

-to tell my story to bone thin girls in a circle of metal chairs at the community center

-to absolutely live every day

I forgot all about these things. These lists of things that I want to do in the notebook in my room right between Salinger’s Franny and Zooey and a book on mustaches. I have so much coffee to drink, to read everything from August Wilson to Neil Labute, to learn every dance between the dance circles at Occupy Philly to Jerome Robbin’s original On the Town choreography, I have German to learn, French to re-learn, freckles to get off the dock at the Marina where I smell like fried pickles, sweat tea and some guy named Jethro, I have nights on the porch with my brother to learn the secret of his Ace Ventura impression, beer pong tournaments in abandoned fields with my five drunk boys, I have bad Four Lokos to drink at Kesha parties where the glitter never really comes out.

I have freckle boy to see one day when I am ready,

but by then, I will be so filled with the life that I have ahead of me and the things I want to do that no one could hold me back. Not even the past, that lead balloon tied to my ankle that I almost love, even when peels away all the skin.

I’ll dance, as the wind whips through this unbrushed mass of hair, blaring the Animal House soundtrack on my way to play Nora Helmer and I will flourish. I’ll be the best me I knew could exist. And I will check mark every little thing off that list squashed so perfectly between every book in my room that I will now re-read.

And I will unwrap that lead balloon from my ankle

and freaking soar.

Here is to life, my friends.


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blog post #3

blog post #3

I guess I figured it was bound to happen as some point. The stupid phase of “I know I shall get superbly wasted every night, but this specific night get flabergastively drunk and make an ass of myself.”

I think that sentence actually went through my head at some point last night.

I have kinda been feeling like that if you were to cut through me right now, like with a razor blade, you would find it all to be frozen. Like the blood, the veins, all the tiny streets inside me to be stopped like in some horrific accident on the freeway in China. Stand still. Like those bodies you see on creepy detective story shows that have 28 seasons on Netflix. They always seem to find a body in an ice rink  that is completely hollow on the insides, like frozen solid.

That is me. However,

alcohol seemed to do something to me last night. It was like I was the frozen dead body on the ice rink and some ugly detective with her ugly detective partner that she sectretly desires but he is screwing some other, young, hot detective (I am wandering off topic aren’t I?) Anyway, its like I was that body last night and the detectives poured a gallon of hot water (or ten beers) over my body and it came back to life for just a little.

There I was in the floor of my living room, laying on this disgusting shag rug that I am sure has dog shit crusted in it from its previous owner. And I am with some red beard and the red beard is like “I totally bet your ticklish”, and I am like” no way, its six o’clock in the morning and I am drunk, and a girl so of course I am not. But hey I will squirm around in a way that totally turns you on so do it!”

Yeah, I hate my life right now. I feel like I should add that in there.

Anyway, nothing happened. I was terrified. I was awkward. I was fifteen years old again, not knowing what to do. The red beard fell asleep with his big head on my pillow and I walked outside, watched the sun rise and trained on some cancer that has been a habit in the last three blog posts. I looked out at the 345-C5 license plate that I always post about, thought about my life, thought about the freckle hands, thought about the freckle hands in the bumblefuck South porking some dumb Walmart box blondes while I waited around like a helpless housewife, ignorant and naive, and I thought,

I am better than this.

I went through some old letters and stuff in the secret box under my bed that still has the m&m wrapper I took from the movie theatre where I got my first kiss in the seventh grade. In the box are these letters to God and myself, and like old school typewriter posts before blogs, and I used to be so cool. I was so crazy and fun, but in like the optimistic, positive, fucking right on kind of way. Not the drunken, sweat box, Dubstep, piece my nose, steal things from Dunkin Donuts at four a.m. kind of way that I have been for too long.

I wanna find her again. That sweet, passionately funny girl I used to be on those typewriter written letters in the secret box with the black and white photos of my grandparents and the stolen fork from my first real date.

Here is to life, my friends.


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blog post #2

blog post #2

I have to say that I finally cried. I actually didn’t cry for like 24 hours. I almost made it. But my heart, which I froze really quickly yesterday to keep it from dying, cracked. And the flesh was exposed. And it oozed out onto the floor. And it was gone.

Last night I laid in bed and I couldn’t think of anything else. Especially not after the large cup of coffee I had drank past four p.m. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling which has this terribly ugly water spot and all I could see were these flashbacks to parks we had been to, music we listened to, his stupid freckle hands, that flowered couch, and all the crap  that was making me miserable, and at this point, I hadn’t cried yet.

So I decided to count. Back from 100 until I fell asleep. Focusing on every number so that I wouldn’t think about him. Focusing on the color of the letter, the texture, anything. I counted down from 100 eight times before I decided to say, “Fuck you, sleep. If you won’t have me then no one will.” And I got up, put a pair of jeans over my sweatpants, got ready to go biking to the park at five a.m. to watch the sunrise and then I remembered that some stupid sociopath hobo would rape me in the park and then I got back in bed. Counted down from 100 and then somewhere between shouting at God to not leave me alone and focusing on the number 62, I fell asleep.

I thought today would be easier for some reason. But really this day consisted of me, swallowing big gulps of air every couple of minutes so I would splatter all over the walls. All of my insides splattered on the walls, exposing that I was weak.

If I were to do my usual blog post rant, it would be me making a huge list of neatly arranged, very detailed times that the two of us had together. They would be specific and interesting and sad. They would be the part of the blog that showed you all of the wonderful times together.

But I just can’t do it right now. I can’t bare to look at the screen with those words written on it. Because then I would have to let myself know its all really over. And then I would have to know that I dumped him.

I wanted this.

blog post #2


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blog post #1

blog post #1

So there I was in the shower, staring at the cracks in the molding, not sure if I had already conditioned my hair or not. Nothing really makes sense right now. Did I even shampoo it yet? How long have I been in this shower? How long have I been staring at the long, extended crack in the tile of this shower thinking about the fact that I am now, in fact, single.

I feel like that my insides have been painted that spray on alumninum color that is suppose to look like chrome. Like everything has been hardened, hollowed, and blank. I feel like everything that I ever thought, everything I have ever wanted, everything I believed has been painted and sterilized. Now I am laying in bed, towel on my head, one contact in because for some odd reason God thought that maybe being able to only see this strange world from one eye may cause some less pain or something. I have not much to say, other than the giant walls of the city are sitting on my chest and I am sitting here unable to breath. Everything in my brain is so fuzzy. I think back to seven hours ago when everything was fine and dandy, my life like an Norman Rockwell painting. Everything planned, everything perfect. How interesting it is that one little buzzing from my back pocket could change the course of the rest of my life.

I am nothing more than the blank canvas before the painting was made.

Yes, I know all will be swell and I will wake up and everything will have to go on. The bread factory down the street will be bellowing in the morning, the Indian women next door will continue to complain about the cigarette butts in front of her house, those little girls with the millions of braids in the park will keep pretending to be Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.

It seems so melodramatic, but isn’t it? I believe more in God in this very moment than I ever have before. I believe in forgiveness, and I believe in honesty. I cannot go back and I will not. I feel like Troy, I have fallen and all my citizens have been raped and pillaged.

But someone built a whole city on top of Troy, didn’t they?

They did.

And I believe that city is still there.

Breathing, and buzzing, flourishing, and living.

And I will do that too.

Rebuild and flourish.

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Saggy, Soggy Hibernation.

There is this community center by my house where these kids play basketball. I watch from behind the chain link  fence with bags of groceries in my hands. Their hundred dollar eighth generation Air Jordans slide across the black top causing the most jarring squeaks to the little girls playing hopscotch and learning how to be Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. Their long braids fly around the sunny chanting.

Winter comes and all the sounds disappear. I pass by with my bags of groceries underneath my eight scarves and marshmallow coat. I come to the fence and lace my fingers around wire. Six inches of snow covers the black top and long, threatening icecicles hang from the abandoned nets. Even as the streets melt away, leaving puddles up to the waist of small neighborhood children, the black top stays covered in a  blanket of stingy winter.

This is how I have been this winter. Covered by a blanket of stingy winter. I am like the kids huddled around the windows of the art classrooms in the windows above. Desperate for it all to pass, the cold, the aching sadness for no reason at all. To once again feel the sun bake the freckles deeper into my face, to hear the squawking birds huddled around the fresh green patches, to finally see the blue win the battle against the white in the sky. I have been the small children with their multi-colored barrets, dying for nothing more than for winter to finally tag in spring.

I have been nothing but a sloppy, sad mess for weeks. Overcome with sadness, loneliness, and hatred for everything around me. Stress from school and stress from a lack of stupid Southern love had drawn all the ink from my eyes and left me flattened and dry. I have been a cardboard cut out version of myself for weeks, unable to even speak to the people I long for on the phone without crying. Disgusting, I was. Desperate, I was. Very, very sad, I was.

Today, I went to the grocery store. I was excited because it seemed as if I wasn’t going to need my big marshmallow coat today. I had music screaming in my ears, taking me to the summer, slowly melting away this hard sheet of glass that had been surrounding me for these lonely months. Then, I saw it. I could see the sun shining on the giant puddles on the court. I could see the baggy t-shirts jumping up and down, I could see the little girls with their braces gleaming. The first day of pre-spring.

I feel myself coming back to life now, after months of saggy, soggy hibernation.

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Cartoon Grinch and Mint Toothpaste

Usually when I think of coming home for Christmas break, I think about the year where I was sleeping on that brown leather couch in the living room with that awful grandfather clock that ticket all night. I was single. For the first time in years and I was bound and determined to make this holiday break absolutley traditionally memorable and exciting because I was none of those things right now, memorable or exciting. It was my first Christmas break home from college and I was feeling extremely out of place in laying there in my cabin socks with the cabin quilt on me, listening to this backwoods cabin my parents decided to empty nest splurge on, make cabin noises. I could actually here the coyotes chasing the wild turkeys on the island across the lake. I had gone from city street lights, sirens, and screaming prostitiutes at three a.m. to these harmonious hums of Southern rural life. I was lost.  The more I laid listening to the sounds, the more I thought about him and how I couldnt be thinking about him and I needed to stop right now, thinking about him.  I remember finishing my only friend Salinger and turning down the light and letting my eyes adjust to the ghosts I felt around me. Ghosts that did nothing but piss me off and make me want the city ghosts instead because they were, at least, quiet.

I remember the next morning waking up at the crack of dawn to the sunrise, so about 7:24, and making breakfast, making coffee, and forcing myself to watch the cartoon Grinch because that somehow meant I was into the Christmas spirit. I waited, for like two hours to hear the rustle of anyone who wasnt stupid like me to wake up. I wrapped presents, I turned on Christmas music, I brushed my teeth with mint toothpaste, even though I hate mint, just to make myself feel holiday-e.

I am sitting here, two years later, no longer having to not think about that boy, and everything is the same. I guess some people would say I dont get into the Christmas spirit because its not about cartoon Grinch and mint toothepaste and spice tea drinking when it tastes awful, its about Jesus and all that. But I think I have it figured out more than that. Its the fact that I never just let myself live and enjoy the moments. Its gonna slip right by me like it always does and I will be back in that iron jungle of a city racking my brain on where all my time went.


I dont care if its the some nasty home town bar, or someones ratchet couch in the boonies, time is time. I have to stop wasting it, wishing I was spending in some other way that means nothing to me.


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Four paint cans holding my life together.

The amount of time it took me to log into the computer. The amount of time it took me to log into this website. Just the fact that the flag outside the window today was waving so fervently at me and I did not want to wave back at all.

Its happening, I think. The hatred, for everything. The fact that my friend and her beautiful auburn hair just came and waved at me through the glass in the computer lab next to her perfect boyfriend who she sees every perfect morning when she wakes up and they are perfect together. I think its terrible to hope they both fall off the eleventh story of this building, but I think I do.

I wanna sleep. All the time. Just like, all the time. Sometimes I go to bed and like sleep for five hours during the day. And then I roll around at night on my futon bed that was left in the basement by the previous owner that is being held together by four used paint cans. It makes a terrible sound that wakes the entire neighborhood when my boyfriend comes to visit.

When my boyfriend comes to visit.

Side note, I dont know if you know this, but shut the hell up everyone in the library. Its a library. Dont make me come over to your face and pick up this monitor and throw it at you. I will.

I think it is possibly terrible that I use social media devices as a way of stalking.

I think I may be going crazy or using this as venting or doing this because it is a way to not go follow the perfect auburn haired girl and her perfect boyfriend in their perfect relationship and jump out the eleventh story with them. I feel like the brisk air would feel very nice right about now on my warm cheeks.

Remember that time when she and I were friends? Now I see her in class and a look of disgust kinda rolls across it and I actively have to remove it before the teacher asks what the puss face is about.

I think Starbucks is the worst thing imaginable.

And that is only because I am too poor to have it right now so no one should enjoy it.

When my boyfriend comes to visit. Sometimes, I feel myself being the coolest girlfriend around. Then others, I hear myself sounding like an uber bitch but for some reason, I cant stop and it like rolls out and I start crying and then he says what is this about and then I always say I just miss you and then you say I miss you too and its okay.

Potted plants. Just stupid.

I almost got evicted because someone smoked pot outside my house at a party and the crazy nurse that lives next door who has to be up every morning at four to go save lives told on us. I figure that I will go and kill her in her sleep. She is a nurse, so she can save herself.

That last one was funny.

This will obviously pass and I am just going nuts because I am in tech for a show and am running on four hours of sleep, a stale piece of bread from my backpack, at least two entire pots of coffee, and some old texts I keep reading to make myself feel better. The silly thing is, I miss those summer days that I banged the keyboard about on how much I despised them. I would give my left testical to be sitting on that dirty couch with you, watching you play video games while we ingest an entire cardboard pizza while my mouth is as dry as a cotton ball, as it was that entire summer.

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hardwood look-alike flooring.

And I stand in the half bath located off the kitchen,

the one with the fake gold-trimmed oval mirror

that houses my anguish and self-loathing when my mother goes

shopping to buy food on a small list in her brown suede coat pocket

that I’ve told her I would ingest without forceful excretion.

She leaves and I creep to the bathroom like a emaciated mouse

sliding across the hardwood look-alike flooring in

white socks that sag on my ankles, when they shouldn’t, and

I stand there and look at the nonexistent dimples on my

upper thigh and I tell myself that it

was the eight spoonfuls of low sodium Campbell’s

tomato soup my father force fed me last night when I

devilishly watched the Food Network behind his head.

I stand in that half bath and stare at the layers and layers

of fat that engulf my sagging bones even though I know, somewhere in

the depths of my intelligence, that a little sunken-cheeked girl with the taste

of bile and limes in her mouth is actually

between the edges of that fake gold mirror

and I put my hands under my dress

and I squeeze the skin on my pelvic bone

and I sink into the tile made to look like marble

and I feel the cold air from the little flaking vent

and I hide


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In the evening, you may arrive at any equation you like

to run jumps in the film between

plucking hairs and erasing freckles, forgetting life started

forty missed periods before you fried your hair anime purple.

You can come to seventy-two life judgments before

realizing you wasted time doing four hundred nine Pilates V’s that most definitely

burned off the self-loathing of ten consecutive nights of

Kraft begrudgingly orange-colored bitterness sandwiches.

You may scribble down the perfect proof for achieving ecstasy

but elation walked right past your red bee stung lips eight helping of nothing ago.

You may boil down to the perfect square of making friends but your blue

but your eyes, swollen to the Five Love Languages, kissing the sculpted

ass of Lana Del Ray, missed the Sushi invitation of the ponytail down the hall who digs your shared Itunes playlist and simply wants to stop doing the math.

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Grease Stains on my Teeth.

Grease Stains on my Teeth

(A made up story for my poetry class.)


15th, Warton

my own shadow following me to close,

grease stains on my teeth

the bass line throbbing in my ears,

black dog barks behind a thin screen,

pimple of my face itches,

proactive is a lie,

“the kkk will rise” chalked out of the electric box,

urine practically  running down my leg,

radioactive cat piss in puddles,

neon “Open Late, So You Can Eat Great”

nine dollars in nickels in my pocket,

red umbrella,

red lipstick,

red, bloody fingers,

owl hooting,

no owls in the city,

that was a dirty alley cough,

lint stuck under my contact lens

Where am I?

“Betty Spaghetti”‘s panty line,

I think I just started my period,

fuck that boy.

I fucked that boy.


that’s my dads name too

prostitute with the taser

smells like festering Indian food

I hear someone yell “taco taco taco”

i hear someone yell “cunt cunt cunt”

Taste the Molly in my cavity,

the old people supply store is calling Yellin

woman in the car looks stoned

Where am I?

15th, Warton

Four Loko

Forgot to leave it at the party

No where to set it down

I hate Loko

Isn’t Four Loko an Asian drink?

Charles was Asian

I popped a bean bag chair with my heel

Vomit on my hipster duck sweater

my own shadow following me too close

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I think about that night before I escaped that town.

The grass was stomped and dead like burnt fried chicken

left in the cast iron pans, thick with Criso, for too long.

The grass laid flat from the bluberious rednecks stomping it with

their fat boots, family crest burned deep in the soul.


I sat there, cigarette hanging out of my mouth,

apple pie moonshine dripping out of my side of my crooked

stained red lips.

My trampy ass sat perched on the tailgate of  a candy apple truck bed,

like a watchman, elite.

I watched the podunk masses sip heavily on their

brown bags, stolen from basement wet bars and backwoods stills.

I watched them, drunkenly in pleasure,

for I was no longer going to be one of them.

Their wheels forever stuck in this mud-caked shit hole of a town.


I reared back my mason jar, letting the sweet nectar burn

my esophagus and drain my mind of its real juices.

A drunken man, eyes sunken deep in his thick skull,

beer belly protruding over his belt buckle

pulled me off the truck, sticking his rough hands

on my throat.

He held me high until my feet dangled like over the fried grass.


“What are you laughing at, girl.”


Sweat ran down his waxy skin.

My throat was horse and dry,

like chalky cornbread made with rotten canned milk.


“You ain’t ever gonna be anything but us.”


He dropped me, like a sack of dirty cow shit,

and spit on my face.


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I try to think about you, and where we will be when we are thirty.

I try to think about you, and where we will be when we are forty-one.

I try to think about you, and where we will be when we are sixty-four.

I try to think about you, and where we will be when we are eighty-two.

But I can hardly imagine what we will be like. There is no crystal ball, no time machine to hop in a find out if your freckles have grown darker with each passing summer sun, or if your mustache has filled in the spot on the right, or if your eyes still change from grey to green to blue with every moment. I cannot know where we shall be, or who we will be. But

I can think about you, and where we were when I told everyone you were gay at 14.

I can think about you, and where we were when we rode that ferris wheel in that parking lot at 16.

I can think about you, and where we were when you showed up and took me off my feet at 18.

I can think about you, and where we were when you held me so tight and said you would never let go at 20.


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inhuman gelatinous blog of my former body.

Today as I was sitting in class,  the carpet starting swirling underneath my feet. It spun and spun until it opened up into a black hole that sucked me in like the dirty soap scum after a long, hot shower in a public pool bathroom. I fell into a deep trench that stretched for miles, and I fell for hours. I flipped and turned and tumbled, swirling into an inhuman blob until my gelatinous former body sank into a heap at the bottom of the well. There was 48 inches of sludge that engulfed all of me, soaking into my pours until I was unable to tell what was me and what was the floor, we were one. I laid there, unable to move, unable to breath, unable to blink. All I could do was lay like a useless pile of bile, like a oil stain, like tar on a lung. After many turns of the short hand, I had enough strength to lift the lids of my eye sockets and see a strange, foreign sourced light above me. I strained my bulging eyes to see someone standing there, a boy. His mouth opened and closed, forming letters and sounds, but my ears had already drooped beneath my kneecaps, so I could not make out what he spoke. He yelled and yelled, waving his arms and begging me to join him in the sweet light above. My eyes, glistening with residue from my prior body, tried to tell him to come save me, but I was sunken too far, immersed, encased in the sludge.


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Playing with Fruitless Fire.

I don’t know what I would do, really.

When I imagine what would happen when I stepped up, my head starts spinning around and around, so much that I just close my eyes so tight that little tears pop out of the sides. I just shake my head, I shake it to make the image go away from what that digital image could tell me. I shake it away thinking it will erase that picture from my head, like a child shakes those sand art pictures with the two little handles away.

Sometimes I get close, close enough to put my little toe on its plastic surface. I push it a little until that picture comes in my head again and I am swooped back to a time where I laid motionless on the floor in a puddle of my own insides. I think of going there again. The idea is sour to my tongue. Like limes. I think of how far I will be thrown backwards if any of my other four toes are to join the one lone soldier who is playing with that fruitless fire.

I am there already, and I know it.

I hide. Like I always do. Hidden away inside this smile, this happy disposition, this gay attitude that blinds all, even my loved ones, why even myself.

I want to get on. For it to tell me what I already know. I just want to stand on it, for it to show me three symbols instead of two.

That lime taste is back. I just stare out onto the lake, the giant orb of a moon shining on my face, my expressionless face.

There is one in my moms closet, there is one in my sisters bathroom, there is one in boyfriends mothers room, there is one in the bathroom at the gas station in Mooresville, Nc., there is one in his sisters bathroom, both bathrooms.

My stomach lets out a long moan. I feel like I can hear it echo all the way across the water into the sea of trees across. Watch is skip like a stone, making sound ripples in the water, sounding like need, sounding like hunger.



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Gosh they are lame, but goodness my arms are toasty.

Well, it is down to about the two week mark. I thought it would be a good time to start recapping the summer (even if its a little too early.)

What as this summer been? Well, hell. Its been different, that is for sure. I don’t know what I will remember twenty years from now when I look back on it. I guess I will think about that apartment, that shitty one that housed my boyfriend that summer, the one that we climbed in and out of the window of because his roommate kept accidentally locking him out, three weeks before he kicked him out. I will remember that campfire, the one that summer that we got rampantly drunk beside with twenty Trek America kids who thought our accents were worth taking yet another shot. I will remember the pool where we cooked out all the time, secretly smoking cigarettes behind the shed and putting millions of butts into the paint cans because, who really is going to finish painting that fence? I will remember that damn bar at that damn marina, waiting on those damn rednecks, spilling damn beer on my apron. I will remember the three strangest managers,  three managers that would give the three stooges a run for their money on late night television. I will remember that stupid club, where we danced, dazed and gone. I will remember touching my arms and not being able to believe how soft they felt. I will remember all of his friends that summer, all of them that hit on me, secretly ticking him off to the nth degree. I will remember watching 182 movies with my parents underneath that bright orange snuggie. Gosh they are lame, but goodness are my arms toasty when I am eating my cereal. I will remember getting drunk on the boat with my brother and his friends, seeing my brother cut loose before leaving his college brain in the bar and put his big kid job brain in its place. I will remember rushing over to my sisters house, eating cereal on her green iron patio furniture, actually scared. I will remember saying 4/22/92 is my birthday at Applebees and it working, every time. I will remember him crying in the car and saying if I didn’t know how much he loved me, then he better start figuring out a way to let me know, because I had to know it. I will remember getting sick, again. I will remember my friends giant dog. And me standing outside for thirty minutes because I swore up and down, it was going to eat me.

Its not over, oh far from it. This summer has taught me to be free, to calm down, but be spontaneous in every sense of the word at the same time. It taught me that I had to let go, to jump. It taught me that life is a giant can of disgusting worms, but its worth opening.

Here is to life, my friends.

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Methhead zombies and English Gorillas

An entry about the hot mess of a life I have been living:

I find myself driving through the middle of no where in a disgusting 2003 Yukon on a Wednesday with trash so far up into my ears that I can’t even begin to hear the screaming Beastie Boys blaring from the ghetto rigged USB port. We are headed to some boon ass house thats location directions included turn at the abandoned house next to the pawn shop. Upon our arrival there is a pit bull practically gnawing my thigh off only for me to get inside to find two twin sized beds zip tied together to make a king, strange Jesus books, thirty cans of expired wintergreen dip, a ton of scary unmentionables, and one boy that we were there to pick up with a scar from his chin to his man parts. He is the one who is waiting on about 1.2 million dollars because the owner of the restaurant who sells the greasy fish cut him open with his drunken company car. Although at the time of our arrival, his biggest concern seem to be where the aluminum foil was.

Last night I sat here on this couch reading Less Than Zero, a book completely mirroring the situations going on around me. Bored young adults shoving their empty heads with whatever fits and is cheapest. It was like a fun house of kids, once again only going by there last names or some form of it, drinking beers and trying not to throw darts into the wall or throw up yellow honey liquor onto the concrete. Because doing that twice in one summer would be embarrassing. Thats almost as nuts as the night before when we played with red Solo cups all night with the Trek America group, only to sleep two to a hammock all night as we listened to the pouring rain hit the tarp all night. Trek America got lucky in those hammocks, I will tell you that. But listening to gorilla sounds in a British accent all night made me only wish it would rain harder.

The next morning was me dragging my dirty hungover self into the Git N’ Go to get a cup of 79 cent coffee from Tanya. She totally knows what I got into the night before. I stare at her and wonder who has it worse, her or me. Cause she looks dazzling in that bright orange company t-shirt wanting to kill herself for the 7.25 she gets an hour. Oh, Tanya.

Now I am in the bathroom watching this fly buzz around the carcass of a two week old dead spider. That hero of a boyfriend only did half the heroic job. The fly keeps buzzing around the room in this same pattern, around and around and around, and then darts directly into the mirror. Six times, seven times, the pattern and then the mirror. I wonder if it knows how stupid it is to make the same mistakes over and over again. Then I look in the mirror and my head turns into the head of the fly and I run into the mirror over and over again.

Maybe that doesn’t happen. Maybe I am just sitting here on this couch watching the these two baby faced hooligans shooting methheades in this video game as I slowly imagine the best way to jump out the window beside me.

All i have to say is that his game is a sequel to the first. Who in their right mind thought that making a second one would be a good idea.


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The Amazing Adventures of our Lives.

Love is a rather strange thing. I thought when I was sixteen years old, staring up at the clouds in my driveway with the freckle faced boy that I had it all figured out. Oh, boy was I wrong. This boy that I do indeed love has flown in and out of my life for five years now.

Its actually kind of funny. We started out being friends in the ninth grade in the back of the band bus playing this game where you try and name all of the restaurants you can think of. Actually, the game still plays on today. (California Pizza Kitchen, I win.) We actually truly met when we were in the sixth grade and I told everyone that he was gay. I meant it. Screaming around the class, “gay, gay, gay!”

We became best friends instantaneously  after that band day, sweaty from our plumed-out jump suits, shoved in a stinky bus for two hours. You could always find him in my locker trying to steal my notes or sneaking packs of gum on Valentines Day  in there because he knew I didn’t have anyone to share the day with. You could find us like old chums, sharing an apple every day after school. (He always started it, I hate starting apples.)

He and I have had some crazy times together. He was there when I was sick, holding my hand in the brown fold out chair in the “family circle”, not really knowing if this girl was going to really be okay. He was just always there, my kickass partner in crime, my other half, myself in boy form. We always talked about the movie we were going to make about our lives. The Amazing Adventures of our lives!

I think when we got a second chance like eight months ago, I realized that while we had been apart, I was trying to fill his spot so hard but no one else was my best friend like him. No one was such a part of my past. No one knew me, inside and out, good and bad, awful days and perfection days. Days of yanking me off the scales in his mothers bathroom only to hold me while I sobbed to the days of dancing in fields, going nuts, hand in hand, only us mattering. There has never been anyone else like this.

So I guess this summer, I found out what love really is. Its finding that person who fills that hole. Love isn’t jealous. Its always there for you. You don’t have to try to be someone else, because they love you. Love is safe yet wild. It wants to go all out, crazy, balls to the walls, because you have each other and its awesome. The Amazing Adventures of our lives.

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