Nana thinks the magazine is the devil.

“THE PEOPLE WHO DREW THE BLESSED ****** MOTHER OF OUR LORD AND SAVIOR JESUS CHRIST IN A BIKINI ARE GOING TO HELL.”

Whatever you say, Nana.

When we left my Nana made us tacos and tamales. She gathered all the food in the house to send us off and took all the cash she had and stuffed it in my pocket. She purged the cupboard of all the bananas, plums, nectarines, and apricots and placed them in a bag with two bottled waters a coke, a diet coke and sprite.

She told me that she loved me and that she hated to see me go. That, “I had just gotten there” and that she would “miss me so much.”

Before we left she sent me with a card that was “very important”. It was a picture and a coin embossed with my guardian angel that she bought at the church gift shop.

My nana loves me more than anything else in the world.

My nana still calls you my friend.

and not in that pathetic delusional fat girl kind of way, and not in the fact that he is corny. No, my boyfriend is like a corn-dog because there is a big layer of nutritionless fried spongey batter that covers his insides. That batter is made up of three level cups of nice. Which is not to be substituted with "honest" or "real". No, nice is the only ingredient that can produce such a meaningless spongey layer to cover up the "love" "sincerity" and "caring" that makes up the center. That golden brown skin enticed me. But, it is what is inside that gives me substance.

I spent my last eleven dollars on a plastic bottle of ***** sitting on the refrigerator.

It is right next to the ibuprofen and the giant salad bowl.

Last night we drank our plastic bottle of ***** in glasses.

Our eco-friendly toothbrushes sit together in the cup on the counter but today I didn’t brush my teeth. The snow is great. Want to know why, because the snow doesn’t give a **** how anybody else feels and it doesn’t ***** its feelings all over twitter. The snow knows that nobody cares.

The snow never says “anyways” or “whatever” or “oh god”  and the snow doesn’t undermine what I have to say. The snow is cold and it *****, but at least it doesn’t question me. It doesn’t ask me if I need space. Nope. It just keeps snowing.

The snow and I are on good terms. It isn’t polite and it doesn’t try to be anything that it is not. It doesn’t cook barley with kale and it definitely doesn’t pretend to like it.

I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.

You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.

I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?

I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.

I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.

Did that make me stand out?

and my thoughts are incontinent


                                                                                                                    I cant hold them in

                                                        
                                                                     my head may explode


      verbal diarrhea


                                                                spews from my lips


                                                                                                     all that I say

                      Is watery nonsense


                                                          ideas splattered everywhere


fester and decay

                                                                                            
                                                                                                              staining this space

                                   with ***** disillusion


  the brilliance I once had


                                              is useless from  exhaustion



   tiredness: the cause of


                                                                                                              my skulls distention

The garbage in my room
Smells like embarrassment
It’s the hot Cheetos bag that sits in my desk
It’s the q-tips with earwax
The ideas that float around in my head
And my roommates toenail clippings

The garbage in my room
Clutters the free space
Taking up room that it should not take
The shopping bags and boxes
That held beautiful things
Now empty and cumbersome

The garbage in my room
Takes up my memory
Forgotten blog posts and poems
Fill the hard drive in my brain
Silly thoughts and quips
Only attempt to clear it out

The garbage in my room
Sits in the can
Thinking of ways to grow
Out of proportion
Waiting to spill out onto the floor
And start crawling up the walls

The garbage in my room
Needs to be taken out.