Friday, August 30, 2013

random lake

There is a place called Random Lake in Wisconsin. My mind wanders the perimeter of this body of water in hopes of seeing things emerge, such as a balloon, a frying pan, maybe a rocket, all of the atoms that make up your being; I am being irrational, I know. There is no better place to be groundless than right here. Is there a wrong here? Can the very place you find yourself ever be wrong? I stretch out my legs on the land and feel uncomfortable.

Inside the canoe there is a locket. Can you see it? Picture it being precious and rusted and about to split open. Inside the locket is a natural outflowing of love on the left and a photo of your spine on the right. Let's drop the locket into the crater and let it sink. The sun is about to rise and play tricks on our eyes. Has the crater cracked open? Is the yolk being released?

We are broken down by processes. We stay sedentary. Sometimes something will come along with the sole purpose of shaking us up, but we remain frozen. We forgot to answer the question of where the ducks go in the winter. They are beneath us, they are starving.

To let you go like a stone or a locket or a balloon or a rocket would make this decay bearable. But you are my parasitic barnacle and I can't shake you if I tried.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

loose moon

We are loose and broken and we are as strong as the moon. We are necessary. We control the tides. We are hidden.

Sunday, August 25, 2013


I've given us the nickname "Pangaea." We form, we break up, there may have been several others before Pangaea. We'll drift apart again. Don't be so cynical; it's cyclical. Besides, you always said you were an island and I never learned how to swim.

You've been asked what you would save in case of a fire. We've all answered pictures. There you are, eating your cake with your hands on your first birthday. And now you are six and wearing a funny bonnet. Why do you look so gloomy at 18? And now we've got a collage of our 20s. Pretending with cigarettes and seducing the camera with smoke. Parties, reunions, trips to the tips of mountains, your feet. Hands placed around waists. Maybe something in black and white. Fragments keep us whole, flames keep knocking at our front door. Take what you can.

In an emergency evacuation, separation is inevitable. After detection, decision, alarm, and reaction there is movement. At last at last at last there is movement. We move to an area of refuge. You can use the arms to embrace or shield.

And I get ambitious. And I get acquisitive. And I want to gather the coasts. I want to gather them all like seashells, selfishly stuffing them into my pockets for me me me. But a precise line that can be called a coastline cannot be determined due to the dynamic nature of tides. There is a spatial zone where interaction of the sea and land processes occurs. You slip through my fingers. You are a ghost.

Is there even evidence of existence? Are there pictures? Fragments offer proof, but what we're offered we do not always accept. Give me your arms; I need to shield myself from the approaching storm.

Friday, August 23, 2013


I am numb at the computer reading the Wikipedia page on Hong Kong while you fix yourself a peanut butter sandwich. There is nothing poetic about this and I can't stand it because in my head I am constantly in a love sonnet or a melodrama. Can you please just put away the peanut butter and stab me in the heart in fourteen lines?

All of the rope in the world wouldn't tie us down to the tracks.

I am going to track you down. I am going to crawl inside your eyes and wrap your lids around my chin. If dreaming is a must, then we must dream together. If living is a bust, we've always got the past.

Passing you in the hall is a choreographed dance. Look over in that corner, I'll look up here. Count. Keep counting. Okay now. We're good. You're in kitchen with your peanut butter and I'm in the living room with a city known for its expansive skyline and deep natural harbor. We are okay until one of us has to use the bathroom.

You will continue to wrap me up. You don't need to perform such an elaborate task, but you do. I escape through the trains and the trails running through my brain that won't shut off until a nuclear disaster happens. East meets West. Let's trade off.

As a result of the lack of space and demand for construction, few older buildings remain. I place my tired bones next to your ear. Can you hear? Can you hear the hunger?

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

lie awake

When we lie, we lie.

Lying next to you, I counted down the days when I wouldn't be. A vacant space between the sheets is better than a blank stare. Hold back my hair, please. My eyes need to see, my face needs to breathe.

We terminate the sounds that displease our surroundings. The way you say you like me better when I sit up straight, the way I say you'd be better off with a cardboard cut-out. But we don't cut out the sounds. We bring in more sounds to blanket (like a razor like a record like a reading of a book we'll both fizzle out on halfway through).

You are so pure. I still see your hands at night and imagine them as a child's.

If there's a ceremony before bedtime, let's perform it. Rituals, like flossing and setting an alarm, console. The soles of your feet feel rough, but they are there and that's what counts. And we count sheep, but instead of sheep we count ways to say goodbye. There's the train station and the doorway and the sudden rainstorm. We fall asleep before counting to an emergency room. We've said our farewells in too many rooms anyway. We sleep.

There are dreams of falling into an oblivion. We can't take off running because we never hit the ground. I still see a paradise in your hands, but I can't reach them, I can't reach them.

It takes all I have to shake myself awake.

Tuesday, August 20, 2013


If there's one thing I just absolutely love, it is disappointing people. Gotcha! April Fools! You weren't expecting that because it is August 20, not April 1. Man oh man, did I just punk your ass.

Yeah. Disappointing people is the worst.

But what might be slightly more worse is suppressing my needs and desires for whatever anyone else needs and desires. And (wo)man oh (wo)man, I do have perfected this. My people pleasing has become an art of sorts. I am completely qualified to teach seminars (webinars?) on the art of people pleasing. I will title it "Zen and the Art of People Pleasing: I really hope you like this seminar: If you don't like it, I am so so so sorry: Please don't hate me: I'll do whatever I want." I won't even charge for this seminar. I'll, like, give the audience money instead.

This really has to stop.

Tonight I told my dad that I was listening to "Monster Mash" in my car with my windows down, but changed the song because I didn't want people to wonder about me. My dad caught me and said, "No. No, you need to stop caring what people think of you." If you know my dad, this statement is a big deal. It also meant a lot. Despite how obvious and simple his words may seem, it left me speechless. Was this a moment of enlightenment?

I know I appear flaky. And by "appear" I mean "am." I am flaky because I will make plans with people or agree to something knowing damn well that I either a) don't want to, b) already have plans, c) am damn tired, or d) need me some good old soul searching alone time. I procrastinate and avoid and when it comes down to the last minute, I cancel! Guuuuh, that's so obnoxious. Then I feel bad about cancelling and then I think I'm a selfish brat and then I make more promises I can't keep and then I feel overwhelmed and I am just one giant mess of neuroses, now aren't I?

So I need to stop. I need to stop and slow down and maybe even disappear briefly so I can regain my footing and confidence (and maybe a little peace of mind). I want to straighten things out in my life; I want to discard what is unnecessary and energy draining; I want to reclaim my space in this world; I want to reach out to my own true self and tell her that she's perfectly imperfect and okay just how she is right now.

(Cheese award. To me. And that's okay.)

They did the mash. They did the monster mash.

Monday, August 19, 2013

fumes and phones

I am being suffocated by paint fumes as we speak. Oh yeah, we aren't speaking. I am typing. Let me begin again.

I am being suffocated by paint fumes as I type. Oh yeah, I'm not even typing. I am CREATING. I am creating poetry and breathing life into that poetry so that it may live and give and touch the souls of many! Psych. I am still just typing. Typing like a woman who is being driven mad by the smell of paint fumes.

Here's my blog: One entry is obnoxiously nonsensical, the next is obnoxiously abstract. Sometimes you will get ho-hum I'm-so-depressed entries as well. On the rare occasion that I post a picture, it will most like be whatever comes up from the Google search "mormon cats wearing pioneer hats." There. Now you never have to read another post by me ever again. LUCKY BASTARDS. And bitches. Lucky bitches. Today I told my phone that it was being "a little bitch," which is unfair to my phone because it is I that has filled up my phone with useless apps and even more useless selfies. My phone's just, like, "What did I do?" And I'm, like, "I wish I could answer that, but I am currently being suffocated." "By me?" "Yes, by you, but also by paint fumes and the city life." "Bummer." "More like BONER." "What do you mean by 'boner'?" "I don't know. Why don't you ask Siri?" "Don't bring up Siri. Not now." "Why shouldn't I bring up Siri? Don't tell me who I should or should not bring up. Siri is a bitch!" "NO!" "Oh god it feels good to finally say that. Sweet lord! Siri is a bitch!" "That's it. I'm staying in a hotel tonight." "Go right ahead! Why don't you make it a week?" "Fine! Fine, I will. You'll miss me when I'm gone! You won't even be able to load the dishwasher without me around." "I'll use paper plates!" "Fine!" "Fine!"

So my phone has been a little bit of a pain lately.

UUUUUUUGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH why did my neighbors have to paint every inch of their apartment today? I'd like to paint every inch of their FACE.

So here's the thing about this post: I shouldn't reread it. I also shouldn't post it, but there's a 100% chance that I will. I like taking chances. I like taking those chances and then suffocating them with pillows.

My brain has gone mush mush. Mwah mwah!

Saturday, August 17, 2013

from the obsolete word coppe

Spiders started making silk to protect their bodies.

I'll begin by wearing what is pleasant, what is nice to touch, what has that "maybe she's a sensible person" look. You might notice. You might like my shoes. These feet have walked on your back when you said it would help. The knots need tough love, you said.

Spiders gradually started using silk for hunting purposes, first as guide lines and signal lines.

You watched me walk across the street carrying an orange flag. I was trying to be safe, I said. You are trying to be funny, you said. Not everything is a joke, I said. Not everyone laughs, you said. I put the orange flag back and we continued to walk in silence to wherever the crosswalks led. Look both ways, but not back.

Webs allow a spider to catch prey without having to expend energy by running it down.

You were there. Just there. You knew what books were good books to read and you cleaned up nicely. You fit perfectly into a warped mold, so I decided okay. Then your things started appearing on my nightstand and I couldn't take it. I never wanted scented candles or baseball cards. And your books were starting to bug me. But you were there.

However, constructing the web is in itself an energetically costly process.

Enough said. We never talked.

Spiders do not usually adhere to their own webs.

It's the idea that catches me and holds me and strangles me until I can't do what I've always done when I can't do anything else -- breathe. The idea of you, the idea of me, the idea of another life that frees me from a control I've chased after since before we were a we. How do I complete that part of me? How have spider webs existed for 100 million years and I've only gotten caught in one?

Wednesday, August 14, 2013


Another list because why not.

1. It's not really a list of anything, now is it? It's just random thoughts spewed out onto the digital page with numbers in front of them.

2. Break rules! Breaking Bad! Meth! Don't ever ever ever try it, sweethearts. Why would you smoke drain cleaner when you can *hypothetically* smoke the good earth's herb? You know what I be preachin', mon! One love!

3. Speaking of preaching, I wish to be religious again. So sue me! But if you sue me, you'll have to sue GOD and GOD ALWAYS WINS.

4. Why do I dislike the number 5 so much? It's not even the number 5, really, but numbers that add up to 5, such as 2 and 3 and 1 and 4 and well, you know how to do basic math. I believe I am just obsessive compulsive and probably autistic, so that pretty much explains it. Basically, I dislike 5 because let's say you needed to split up into pairs, well... SOMEBODY would be left out and then probably killed because whoever made up the rules said that those not in pairs must be swiftly executed and I am probably a little less autistic and a little more clinically insane.

5. AHHHHHHHH!!! (See above.)

6. It's so cool that we can all exist and create our own world and love who we want, even if it's unrequited even if it's of the same gender even if it's of the opposite gender even if it's with ourselves even if it's destructive but it maybe shouldn't be destructive because you are worth more than a shitty destructive relationship.

7. More like "Se7en," am I right?

8. I like 8. Eight is good. Eating is also good.

9. I started this off with "Nein?" and then I slowly pressed the backspace key FIVE times so that "Nein?" was no longer what I would start off number 9 with. Excuse me -- "With which I would start number 9."

10. This one will definitely go to ten. Ten it is. Definite. No doubt about it. No doubt, just faith. Faith in a god or a preacher or a preacher's son.

tortilla flat

More lists. I love lists. You love me, you love my dog. Wait. I meant to say that if you love me then you will also love lists. Wait. You could love me and hate lists. You could also love me and hate me. You could also love me and hate, say, tortillas. But why in the "fuck" would you hate burritos? Wait. Tortillas. Not burritos. But I am guessing if you dislike tortillas so much, you probably aren't the biggest burrito fan, which is a damn ("damn") shame because burritos are fudging ("fuckin'") delicious ("so goddamn delicious"). So if you love me then you must love dogs who make burritos while wearing funny hats. Who wouldn't love that?!


1. "So you're a poet." "WELL..." "It says on your resume that you won first place in a poetry contest." "WELL..." "So?" "WELL..." (A real conversation I had today with a man wearing a black polo and smoking a cig!)

2. If I were a magazine, I'd like to think that I would be The New Yorker, but who are we (me) (am I) kidding? I would be shitty Seventeen with Kylie and Kenner Jenner on the cover. Okay, so I just did a quick search and it turns out that there is no Kenner Jenner. I guess her name is Kendall??? It SHOULD be Kenner.

3. I want a dog. And a one-way ticket to New Mexico. And a burrito. They make great burritos in New Mexico, or so I've heard. And by "they" I mean the dogs! The dogs of New Mexico! Not a racist. That was just a weird joke I made earlier... Dogs making burritos... Remember?

4. I forgot what 4 was supposed to be.

5. "I think therefore I am." NOT ACCORDING TO SARTRE.

6. More like SEX.

7. If you are a fan of Instagram, I've got something you might like EVEN MORE! (Is that even possible?! Instapossibilities.) Okay, so it's this thing called "real life," but it's real life WITH FILTERS. Like, you carry around with you about 8 or 10 different sunglasses with different colored lenses and you can wear these sunglasses whenever and wherever and see the world through filtered filters and it's like a walking Instagram and/or like an Instagram movie staring YOU walking down the STREET feeling COOL because you are wearing 8 to 10 sunglasses AT ONE TIME. Mind blown.

8. Someone buy me flowers and grapes and lez cuddle.

9. Oh yeah! I remember what 4 was supposed to be!

10. All good lists go to 11.

11. This one doesn't.

12. It goes to 12.

Tuesday, August 13, 2013


Distant relative: "So, how's it going?"

Me: "Yeah, things are fine! I worked at a charter school for awhile. Pretty challenging!"

What I really want to say: "I have been fucking goddamn depressed for at least a decade and a half now. An eating disorder almost killed me. I was published multiple times for poetry you would probably hate. I dated some assholes and some sweethearts and I am currently single and oh-so-lonely-and-bi-curious. Have you ever been to the Utah Museum of Contemporary Art? Because I volunteer there. They are great. Art is great! I have a huge interest in art. I actually know a lot about art if you are ever curious. I also read a lot of books a lot of the time. Currently I am interested in Sartre and his idea of the other. You are the other! You are hell! Ha. But seriously, I am in hell. So you still go to church? That sounds dreamy. I often have dreams that I am trapped inside of an amusement park. I also have dreams about being raped. Should we discuss rape right now, because I am fully prepared to discuss it! No? Okay, I can respect that. Anyway, yeah, I worked at a charter school for awhile. Pretty challenging."

it's how you fight/don't fight it

I do not care about:

Kim Kardashian's post baby body. Or anyone's post baby body. Or anyone's baby.
Getting gauges.
Your girlfriend.
Ayn Rand.
Your Mormon Mommy Blog.

I do care about:

Continental drift.
Not fainting.
Women. (Does this mean I care about your girlfriend? And Ayn? And your blog? And Kim? And female babies? And female babies with gauges?)
How to fight loneliness.

Monday, August 12, 2013


Boys on the side! Why is this phrase stuck in my head? I've never seen the movie, but maybe I should? I'm cool with Whoopie and I'm a fan of the '90s Barrymore when she wore daises in her hair and flashed David Letterman. But yeah! Boys on the motherfuckin' side! Girls. I like the gender and I like the TV show. I like the way the word "girls" sounds better than "boys." "Boys" has that weird "oy" sound that makes us all cringe. (MOIST! OINTMENT! MOIST OINTMENT WITH A SIDE OF OYSTERS!)

Okay alright fine, boys are still pretty coooooool, some of them. And sometimes girls can be pretty crrrrrruuuuuuel, some of the time. And most of the time I have to remind myself that everyone is an individual and to stop stereotyping and that, in the words of Sartre, "hell is other people." That last part about Sartre was just me pretending to be smart. WAIT. Stop it, Meg. You ARE smart. Stop putting yourself down. You are not a side character in your own life. You are the MAIN CHARACTER and the main character deserves a little attention and consideration and maybe even some respect.

Off track. There never WAS a track to begin with. "With which to begin." Is that correct grammar? Is "screw grammar, punk!" also correct grammar? I have a fierce love for and connection to the females in my life. The males seem to have cotton in their ears.

Point is, grow a pair of ovaries and win my affection. I kid. Point is, I will develop my relationships with women and let boys be on the side... For now. Who knows what the future holds! Who knows how much my bladder can hold! Apparently not much because I have to pee once again. Now you know.

And just so you know, I still love you, despite your penis.

Sunday, August 11, 2013


I really like writing pretty things, but sometimes I want to write ugly things.


Is it creepy that I Google Map his address and peruse through his neighborhood, imagining walks we'd go on and talks we'd have about a) life, b) religion, c) romance, d) ALL OF THE ABOVE DUH.

Is it bad that I regret "letting him go" and am trying to find ways to find my way back to him (and his good graces)? He doesn't want this. He definitely does not need this. And I don't care.

I think I'm just going to ignore her.

I am definitely going to ignore her.

I have fantasies of living a life on a yacht. Not ACTUALLY living a life on a yacht, but having enough money and Sperry Topsiders and champagne glasses that, yes, I COULD live on a yacht if I so chose to.

I find perverse pleasure in self-destruction.

I feel like I am playing a deadly instrument when I am typing on my keyboard.


Things I tell myself on a regular basis:

You are no Hemingway.
You don't even like Hemingway that much, except for the Nick Adams stories, which you LOVE.
Please learn how to pronounce "Sartre."
Please learn French.
Please don't do this.
Yeah, it's probably best to not text him, but chances are you will.
Text him!!! Great idea!!!
That was a stupid idea.
You should take a picture of yourself right now because your hair looks really good.
This would make for a great Instagram picture.
(S)he would get along well with my family at Thanksgiving. I want to marry her/him!
You hate kids!
You love kids!
You just want to be a kid!
You just want to be a writer/art critic/teacher/wife/stand-up comedian.
You just want to be happy/miserable.
You probably need some food.
You need to buy batteries.

I ALWAYS need to buy batteries.

Saturday, August 10, 2013


I want to wake up with my arms asleep because they have been trapped under your back all night.

(The coast of your bones shows through your skin as I collect broken seashells. We see what is on the surface, we know what is below.)

We crawl into the ball of sheets like a hermit crab into a tin can. Can we dispose what we've outgrown?

I float. The mattress is a float. We are in a parade in the middle of the sea and how we ended up here is of little concern. How we keep from drowning occupies our mind and time.

(You are a waveless coast, I can't find my way back home.)

Sunken ships are recovered for their scrap metal value or to clear channels. There are veins leading to your heart, there are ways to claim what little ground exists.

I wake up with my arms asleep and empty. I've always had poor circulation.

Friday, August 9, 2013


I know this is a blog and all, but I am soooooo sick of talking about myself. I am tired of being in love with people who are bad for me and I am tired of being in hate with the one person I should love (WHICH IS MYSELF). So where does this leave me? It leaves me still talking about myself! I will never escape myself, so maybe I should learn to accept myself? Is there a pill for that? A self-acceptance pill? I am willing to take it because I ain't willing to put in the work. Let's make this as easy as possible.

Interview/Review. This is what I need to do with myself. I should interview myself and then review what I say. Chances are I will be, like, "Oh hell no! I can't believe she just said that! Why would she admit to something that atrocious? She is a fascinatingly selfish being." To quote my own Facebook status (ugh): "I am turning into an obnoxious, intolerable person who spends her days reading Sartre, eating various canned meats, and writing messy plays that will never be published or performed. It's probably time I get out more."

When did we all start finding it acceptable to use "LOL" and ":)"? It will never be acceptable, but I'll never say that outside of my blog. And Twitter. Oh dear. Twitter. My one true love. No! No more writing about love! No more mentioning the L word! Unless I'm talking about the sexy Showtime series.

Not to freak anyone out, but I seriously feel like I am dying. WAIT. We are ALL dying ALL of the time. Each day, closer to death. Anyway, the hospital seems like a pretty nice place. I still have mountains to climb, sure. Okay, sure.

Thursday, August 8, 2013


All I want to do right now is touch you and be confused.

so far

It's August?! Shiiiiiiiii


Shit. What happened to all of the months between January and July? What was going on during those months? To incorrectly quote Adam Duritz, "It was a long winter and there's reason to believe that maybe this summer will be better than the winter." What? Close enough. Anyway, this summer has definitely been better than the winter, mostly due to the fact that I love the heat (I do! Promise!) and I hate the cold (SO MUCH!) and I am taking iron supplements. Also, I'm less crazy, so there's that.

Less crazy, but still crazy.

What has happened so far this year, dears? Well, I have fallen in and out of and in and out of and in love. And they are always white hot and die fast. I've said I love you to someone whom I now love from a distance, but at the time I was not in love. I was, yes, "in love with being in love." And I was also crazy! We both were! And we both still are, but a little less so. I am happy I am done with that runaway train. Uhhh... runaway train never coming back? I tried.

I endured working with a child (and he endured me) who was IMPOSSIBLE.

I ate a few burgers.

I came to realize a close friend can't really be there for me when I need her, which is a tragedy. I'm sure I'm not the most available person, either. I want to be more giving, more understanding.

I reconnected! With a couple of people! And that made me want to continue to be more giving, more understanding.

Oh yeah, and I quit two jobs after the first day. Hooooooray!

What will the rest of August and the rest of 2013 bring? I hope a Booze Cruise. And a few letters in the mail. And quite possibly many more burgers.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

something else

Rilke said to not write love poems. So I won't. If Mr. Rilke were around today, I'm sure he'd replace "poems" with "blog posts." I will follow his advice. No more mourning lost loves on Blogger, folks. They are lost; I need to find something else.

So what are my something elses?

My something elses are stories. They are early morning hours, alone with my thoughts. They are learning languages and becoming gastronomical and remembering how to French braid my growing hair. They are writing letters. They are forcing myself to look inside myself, which requires me to step outside of my room and embrace what has always been there. They are embraces of all kinds. They are countless minutes spent upon rocks and in fields and under stars. They are definitions. They define my freedom.

To be free from what has tied me down will be nothing short of miraculous. To be free is to rebel; to rebel is the only way to approach something else.

How do we become infinitely interesting?

How do we become?


My dream was of a cat and a rabbit and a gerbil and a dog that I had to give away. The rest of the animals were kept in oddly shaped cages, sleeping until I could find them new homes. I checked an online dream dictionary in the morning to gain some insight. The interpretations were spot-on. Loyalty. Neglect. Hyperactivity and energy. Loneliness. The devouring female. How did it know? Was there a he or she behind it? I thought more about the origins of the online dream dictionary than I did of the interpretations.

And then there's Costa Rica. I still consider it occasionally, wondering if I would live in a cheap apartment with a shower that might eventually electrocute me. They take it easy there. They make fun of people walking too fast. They make hammocks out of branches and eat breakfast at noon. Maybe none of that is true, but I still consider it.

What do I consider to be true? The spine, for one. I consider the spine to be true even if I can't see it. It's there and it cracks and it keeps me relatively intact. And then there is the elephant. I had a large elephant stuffed animal as a child that I would hide in various spots throughout the house. I made sure my father would stumble upon it at just the right time and then have a laugh. It's funny to stumble upon a large stuffed elephant, especially when you are tired from a long day working at a community college, telling high school dropouts that first they need a diploma. That must be exhausting for everyone.

(rough draft) (to be continued) (or not) (who's to say)

Monday, August 5, 2013


There are people that I deeply miss, although I refuse to let myself miss them for more than half a day. For half a day I will allow myself to wallow in the past, perhaps write flowery poetry, imagine the two of us as tragic characters in some indie film, and then done. Then I'm done with the daydreaming and must move on.

Do I miss them? Or do I miss who I was when I was with them? Yes, we are mirrors. Yes, we are reflections. Yes, something something about consciousness and the Self and ego and something something.

Yes, I do miss them.

I may shelter myself to a fault. I may push and hide and deny and whine. I may miss opportunities and experiences that would "enrich and uplift." I may do a lot of things that are frowned upon. I will most definitely make you mad or sad or give up.

But I will miss you. I will remember things you might not even realize you did or say. There's a stupid way that you cross your legs that fascinates me. You smile and close your eyes when you say the word "naturally." Why do you do that? I love it more than I should. I will give you up, but not before I give in to the tiny reflections that come together to form my version of you.

I can't help it. I crave.

Sunday, August 4, 2013

if only

I am nothing if not extreme. I want everyone to either leave me alone or give me their undivided attention. I want to either be single for life or have a ginormous family full of barbeques and reunions and matching polo shirts. I want to live in the middle of a desolate desert, but at the same time I want to live in the middle of populated Paris. Bare, adorned. Absent, existing. Depart, linger. My whole life is just one big "let's flip a coin."

If I only I was a little bit richer, I could blame my wishy washy-ness on privilege. If only I was a little bit more religious, I could blame my ignorance on, well, religion. But I am neither, so therefore I am selfish. I've decided. I've decided that I am in the perfect position to help/assist/educate/listen, but instead I harm/hinder/ignore/disregard. I've also apparently decided that I am undecided. My entire brain is saturated in contradictions that it's no wonder I seek some sort of security through food (or the lack thereof). It is about control, I promise.

But I also can't promise anything. I cannot promise that I will love you tomorrow or even three hours from now. I cannot promise that I will ever write anything worth reading, let alone publishing. I cannot promise what I cannot even give to myself, which is simply respect.

So how do I begin to respect myself? I welcome your responses and suggestions and ideas. I won't ask this question on Facebook because, well, Facebook kind of stinks lately.

I am nothing if not melodramatic. I want to quit this gloooooom and start being the person that I know is underneath all of this gloom. I don't know this person, though. She is a stranger who likes to hide behind potted plants and walls of steel. She is so frustrating, right?!

Saturday, August 3, 2013


I am eerily excellent at pushing people away -- or at least keeping them at a comfortable distance.

Did I already write this post? Are all of my words mere ingredients for one large soupy mess? The problem with soup is that sometimes you just want something to bite.

I keep forming various lives and people out of clay. I don't even know how to make playdough. What are the ingredients? Salt? Food coloring? And at least three more things. But what?

Why was she only known as "wife of Lot"? Her story deserves a name. She is called "Ado" and "Edith" in some Jewish traditions, but she remains nameless in the Bible. But she, whomever she is, is beautiful.

"Do not look behind you, nor stop anywhere in the Plain; flee to the hills, lest you be swept away."

She who shall not be named just wanted a safe haven. How human is that? Show your vulnerability, be concerned, want more, and be transformed, or rather, be irrevocably changed.

Maybe it was the sight of God. Maybe we don't know the whole story. Maybe we all have hidden, open wounds.

They say you can easily float on the Dead Sea, which is welcomed news because I usually sink.

Friday, August 2, 2013


I am desperate to disappear. I feel like I am being pulled in a dozen different directions by a dozen different people (eleven of them being different versions of myself). My energy is at an all-time low, my anxiety is at an all-time high, my people pleasing tendencies are out of control, and I can't seem to stop, or even care to stop, my self-destructive habits.

There are more wishes than there are candles to blow out.

Let's make it. Let's make it work so we don't have to try in our old age. Let's throw away whatever and whomever has held us back and just float along a coast, hidden by fog and uncovering pearls. There's a shore somewhere along these lines and a light to guide us home, a home we'll make and keep wrapped up safely in shells.

I keep searching and searching and searching and

I want to be vapor and able to dismantle at a drop of a hat. I can't stop the cliches.

Give me your heart before I give you my time.

Thursday, August 1, 2013


Note to self:

Get rid of unreliable people. If they can't be trusted, then don't trust them. Let them go. They'll figure out what they need to figure out on their own without your tears and distress.

You are beautiful.

Don't let him/her do this or that without your consent, okay?

A lot of people are cheering for you. You aren't hopeless.


For a few reasons I am finding the Wikipedia page on "boredom" to be totally sexy.

Get a load of THIS:

"Boredom is an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do, and not interested in their surroundings. The French term for boredom, ennui."

"Without stimulus or focus, the individual is confronted with nothingness, the meaninglessness of existence, and experiences existential anxiety. Heidegger states this idea nicely: 'Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference. This boredom reveals being as a whole.'"

Not sexy? Okay, fine. BUT THIS GIRL IS TURNED ON!