It took me years to realize it wasn’t just me, and that the labels for women are created by men’s "standards". I wasn’t a ****. But what does that even mean? Men use “equality” to manipulate women with their standard: its fun to experiment at the time, but the girl will always be remembered as "the girl who did that," in hometown suburbia. Who’s going to end up with a woman they did nasty things to? In traditional marriages, no one wants that kind of wife. In today’s corrupt society, no one wants to know their wife was raunchy and experimental.

But what about the girls who are like that? Can’t you imagine moving away? Moving away from mistakes and stigmas and just start over? The hypocrisy and judgment against experimental women and gay men is still happening today with the "man’s" standards—the holy, good-natured man’s standards. Why are there gender roles? Why are women a minority, the curious exploring people we are? Why deny humanity for power? But humans do it to animals too! So it’s not just among gender, it’s among species! On this earth we should live with animals, but we **** and eat them for power. They **** and eat each other too, but as the knowledgeable species we are, we should respect them for there is a reason we share this earth.

But the hostility with having power is what it is to be a man. That’s how it’s been all along. And in the world men aren’t the majority, so why are they STILL treated like one? THEY are the actual minority, but they still have power! Because of religion! Straight men—who wrote the religious texts— dismissed everyone else! Slavery has been around forever! Also think monarchy and royalty—among humans we’re equal, but the power of civilization and class status and material and monetary value goes against nature. Because religious texts prove how religion started the world. These religious ideas created by certain men of misogynistic, violent, racist, homophobic creatures manipulated! Why aren’t women respected in the holy books? BECAUSE MEN WROTE THEM! And that’s why *** is reserved for marriage in religion, because inadequacies and insecurities branch off of ****** experience and the uncertain nature of what comes with exploring various lovers. It’s complicated for everybody, but men like control because they are the ultimate pessimists.

And religion has its perks by providing the one answer throughout history: "why do we exist," but it’s completely sexist! And within the misogyny formed by the different cultures of various religious men, of an evolving species, they realized manipulation could cause them power. And feminism takes away from the religion! Women are optimists, but they’re impressionable by burdens! Civil rights and democracy and spreading-the-wealth for all humankind help! But money creates problems—including environmental—on and for our earth! But why is it sexist? Because throughout the world these particular different societies created by ignorant men are still letting this happen!

And with this power, they still control women! Equality for humankind starts with feminist movements! And when it comes to sexuality, whether gay or straight, what’s the big deal? Society! Because why are so many homosexuals punished, and why are so many cultures sub missing women? Why does **** and molestation still happen? There is no greater form of disrespect towards another person! But making a consequential decision to have ***, with anyone excluding a “good man,” as according to that society, most-likely founded by a group of men its wrong? Profits don’t exist, because no single person can understand what it is that created the universe.

And hetero-****** *** isn’t supposed to be nice, because it’s aggression towards the other gender and the determination of who won the battle: the gender of child. And that could be why psychology suggests that there is an under-lying ****** nature for fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. And there is: gender aggression. But the gender that actually creates the child is the woman, and knowing this, men have made us submissive because although they’re bigger in size and aggressive, women would be the dominant side. The curiosity of the female reproduction has been a subject of fear throughout the millennia.

Bisexuals who don’t pro-create, however, usually resent straight men unless their having attractions toward them. The philosophical possibilities of experimenting with everyone to know everything is frowned upon by on all governments founded by white men. Wars have been created and people have been slaughtered! There can be peace on earth! But everyone needs to unite and eliminate prejudices and stigmas and live as people naturally, and sexually. There is balance in this universe and "living organisms" are true examples.

Women and men reproduce, to create another part of a balance. The universe, however, is impossible to ever completely understand, and the possibility of understanding it is an idealistic facade. We don’t know why women and men balance out the way they do (with an occasional mutation among humankind), but it balances with the universe. But sexuality is the purpose and the weapon, the heaven and the hell, the good and the bad and the euphoria of possibility. It’s denied in society with a civilization where one certain type of group can be the best and create power. And this balance is the key to all knowledge achieved by biology to "attract to reproduce"/"win wars". That kind of war is not in our power as humankind.

Men are a species and women are a species. To be human is to be an element of the evolving universe. Homosexuality usually isn’t a threat because it provides understanding, but in this world ruled by men, it isn’t! To compare humankind to a basic principle of the universe, the atom, a woman is a proton and a man is an electron. "Mutations" are neutrons. The man has the negative, aggressive nature and women are usually kind-minded and nurturing. But in a society where sexuality defines women, women are up against each other.

People are an element in the universe, and we reproduce due to gender aggression, or realistically, physics. We’re recycled stardust, after all. The point of this hypothesis is to provide an ideal for Utopia, where everyone is bisexual, but men and women are forever reproducing. Everyone is "wild" but wise and having *** to pro-create and understand our kind. We are evolutionary atoms. And love is two very powerful charges reacting strongly in a sequence. That’s what the universe does, it expands and creates.

The products of Earth—topography, geology, history, anatomy, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, oceanography, zoology and psychology–expand and create as well. Maybe there is a Great Creator, but it’s not comparable to the negativity created in the religions dominating societies.  It’s essentially what created the entire universe, not just what’s on earth, and not just humans. Humans, animals, plants, weather, planets and stars are all recyclables. We on earth are equally products of the universe, and after we die we’ll become something else. But religion, humanity and science aside, something made this universe. Something made our life and ability to think with secrets and balance, and whatever it is, it’s a ******* creative.

(written 3-18-2014)



I just needed something different, something to think about: an alternative night, a different scene with new environmental stimuli. It’s true that if the stimulus is unchanging we will adapt, but for me, I live best being able to react to different things. Yesterday was fun for that reason.



I was going to drive, but then Alistair said Yarab was going out too and he offered to drive. I considered the gas money and how I would prefer to drink and not worry about driving, so I agreed. At this point, you and I were in amidst a discussion regarding me coming over too late– or not at all– and I was in a particular mood where I didn’t want to think about the relationship strain. I knew I was causing it, but it was nothing new, and nothing bad. I just wanted to actually see my brother since I was so suffocated and domesticated. I wanted a night away from Giovanni’s room, which made me feel like your little housewife, your obedient certainty assigned love.



Why did we stay so ignorant when we started with uncertainty? It was a beautiful stage of development, a coming-of-age stage of accepting my sexuality and exploring sensuality. We we drunk college girls, amateur philosophers and ****-smokers, confused about the world but idealizing a better world. That was the ideal of us. The truth was too tragic, but we endured it for so long that for one night I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to get away. I didn’t want to think about you. So I didn’t. It was inconsiderate of me to consider you worrying and upset, but at this point I wanted to enjoy myself and have fun with my brother when I figured you’d be sad and disappointed no matter what happened, so I may as well enjoy myself. I thought hard about it, but decided since it was Alistair’s birthday, I didn’t have work until 6:00 p.m. the next day, and yes, it was St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to go out and celebrate. Sorry you didn’t want to come.



In the car, Alistair packed the bowl. They were smoking it on the way up and I declined but instead had a cigarette. Yarab said he was working with an artist who made glass pieces resembling scary, mystical-like creatures, and the bowl Alistair packed was one of them. It was mostly blue, and the front of it was a head where the **** would go into the top of the head. It had wide eyes, a big, sorcerer-like nose and big, scary-looking teeth. “Trippy, right? The line is called Enoch based off the book of Enoch in the Bible—which is actually removed in most but still a part of Russian Orthodox.” They packed it twice throughout the ride and I sat in the back, smoked my cigarette and thought about you and the night before me.



We were going to Harrington’s Irish Pub but it was packed (naturally), so we tried Cadillac Ranch (the bar was full there too), so we finally decided on Public House. We each had 3 Washington Apple’s between beers and conversations before getting food. I had two Yuenglings, Alistair had a Yuengling, three Irish Stouts and Yarab drank 3 Stellas. Alistair and I split nachos and a hummus plate. I’d never been there before, and I appreciated the upscale environment compared to cramped and loud local bars I was used to. It was quiet enough that we could talk and hold conversations, and our bartender, Sarah, was pretty, friendly and attentive. I thought about my restaurant experience and briefly thought about her and her life.



My favorite part of the night was when we were at Public House. The conversations were just interesting; they talked about Putin, Ukraine and Russia and how “of course the U.S. wouldn’t let part of the country join into Russia” and the proposal would be rejected by the UN; we talked about birdhouses and fireplaces and utilizing space in people’s yards, so that if the world changed for the worse and we needed to survive we would be able to; we talked about being arrested; we talked about the Zionists and the fake group of evil Northern European people who migrated and were rejected by both Islam and Christianity, so they essentially took over Judaism—and how the conflict between Israel and Palestine is a struggle for power with the Zionists and U.S.; all of this was relevant to our talk about how we don’t live in a Democracy but a Corporatocracy, and the world is determined by whoever has the most money and power.



Yarab talked about tolerance for other cultures and intolerance, telling us about the other day when his stepfather was at their house going over notes with a woman from Sudan. She and her company wanted to use a product (he was a rocket-scientist and worked on a greener product in 1967 which weapons would have less of an environmentally hazardous effect) of his, but before going over the professional aspects he basically insulted her culture and country, criticizing how wrong they were. Yarab said he was in the kitchen getting water and had to leave because he couldn’t help but laugh, saying how his step-father was brilliant but very opinionated and could be rude. “He’s a buddhist-atheist,” he said, and I thought of us chanting. I brought up Niechren Buddhism and the lotus sutra, expressing how nice it made me feel after. He said any way to get peace is a good one, but atheists shouldn’t be ignorant when talking about their non-beliefs because that’s just as bad as religious people talking about their beliefs. Alistair commended him on never forcing his beliefs on Alistair, and I asked what he thought of God.



He described himself as polytheistic, saying that there wasn’t just one god but many, and because of how everything in the universe connects and resembles each other there must be something to cause it, because it can’t be explained. I thought about the mystery of life and how it’s developmental to wonder about it, and felt secure in the fluidity of my beliefs which has a general principle, that life may not be a coincidence but it is comprised with a series of coincidences and connect factors which cannot always be explained or determined, but rather appreciated and analyzed to create a memorable life in which existence is valued. I didn’t ask further about his gods, but I figured the idea he held was similar to the atheistic view Alistair held and the scientific-spirituality I held as well.



It was interesting talking to another person about it besides Alistair, and the discussion changed and added to the one we had the night before, when Alistair and I were drinking ***** with ginger ale (while I tinted with green food dye). I’ve always appreciated drunk talks with Alistair because they were some of the most real conversations I had. I brought up the hour-long documentary “Obey” and confessed my frustrations about the consumerist-capitalistic society we live in, where it’s nearly impossible to change the system as we’re being monitored. Big Brother is among us, I noted, and I praised George Orwell as a prophet and how we are living in 1984 even though so many people fail to realize it and don’t care or consider the bigger consequences of it. There was something so mystical in our depressing little talk, and I felt empowered to reexamine my life and work towards something with meaning.



While maybe more spiritual than existential, I knew Yarab could understand these ideas and provide even more insight to the social issues which confined us, the same ones we were so immersed in. We toasted to Alistair’s birthday; we toasted to being Arab; we toasted to Franklin Lamb; we toasted to Palestine; we toasted to peace.



Alistair was in the bathroom and I asked Yarab whether it was possible to live outside Capitalism without rejecting social conventions, being isolated and living off the Earth away from society. He replied it was very hard not to feed into the system, and explained how even he felt like a hypocrite for living in the U.S. and being American when his family and people were in Syria enduring the hardship of resources, lack of employment and political regimes. He explained that it was necessary to be a part of the system but not buy into it, to use the system and eventually work towards changing it. “Like Robin Hood,” he said. I told him it was hard because it seemed so easy to get ****** into it, and he said work towards what you believe in. “You’ll have a clear conscience.”



Alistair came back from the bathroom, and he talked about going to Lebanon toward the end of summer. “I could study Arabic at AUB,” and I supported his idea. Yarab chimed in that he deeply respected my father because of his work. “He actually cares about what’s happening and he speaks from the heart.” I was proud of my father for his work, despite everything else, and thought it interesting that the one Syrian we happen to encounter in our small town was immersed in politics and actively followed my father.



“You should take over what your dad is doing,” Yarab said to Alistair, and Alistair agreed it would be a good thing to do. Alistair mentioned Fatima Hajj and my time learning about Palestinians and spent in refugee camps. “She died a week after Louisa interviewed her.” “Three days,” I corrected him, and I felt my insides turn as we reminisced on my accomplishments. Almost two years had passed, and I made no progress on my activism, besides an article. Two weeks was not enough to change the world, although from my feedback it was clear I had inspired many.



I told them both how I felt so stagnant and unintelligent, boring and unproductive regarding any progress of working towards something of importance.”Do what you can while you’re able. Even if you don’t see it grow, you can still plant the seeds. You can be a sheep or you can be a Lamb.” I was grateful that my brother had a friend who could think about the world in a way differently than the normal crowd of friends he had who just focused on losing themselves in substances with no thought of life beyond their boring little lives.



Alistair suggested I visit Beirut for a month to see visit Dad, make connections and see what else was happening in Lebanon, Syria and throughout the Middle-East, and my heart sank with nostalgia and the prospect of a dream. I could see us going to Lebanon, and if I went I would feel inflated with purpose, the way I felt when I went before, the way I felt I could change the world. Yarab agreed with Alistair and supported my journalistic endeavors, while Alistair mentioned Mediciens sans Frontiers. “I don’t know if I’d be able to,” and I thought about you, Camino and Arizona. I thought about ASU and AUB. “Rachel would understand if you went for a month right?” I didn’t want to listen what I knew would follow.

After finishing our food we went outside to smoke. Alistair drank his beer, I chugged mine and Yarab left more than half of his second Stella. “I have to drive,” so Alistair picked it up and emptied the cup in two stealthy gulps.We went back to the garage and the plan was to drive back to a house party in Accokeek. I didn’t know Elton, or what to expect, but from the company I knew they kept in Accokeek, I expected a drastic change in environment from the bar talk with two like-minded Arabs.



Alistair packed the bowl again, and I was offered to smoke but again declined. “We stopped smoking.” “Rachel smoked with me while she was waiting for you to get off work one day.” “What? Recently?” “Yeah, like two to three weeks ago or something. I was in disbelief. “Are you serious? We were stopping together! She didn’t even tell me!” I was angry, and resented feeling like a fool, believing that we made a decision together—only to discover my efforts were stronger than hers. “Don’t ask her about it though.”



“No! I’m going to. Here I am, not doing anything and she does it? Doesn’t tell me about it?? It’s not that she did it but she didn’t even tell me. Typical *****. We talked about it since and she just chose not to bring it up? And she’s here accusing me of things when I’m not doing anything wrong?”



“She’s probably projecting her guilt on you.” I thought about other times I didn’t know about something and remembered finding out and feeling so stupid. “Do you want some?” “Maybe I will.. but no. Not right now.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.



But I did. I asked you and we texted about it, and in the car I felt annoyed and unincluded, rejecting the **** that was offered to me. By the time we got to the house, I left my phone in the car. I was there to spend time with my brother, not get into a text fight over something that didn’t matter anyway. We went inside and I didn’t recognize everyone. I suspected I was the youngest, and I couldn’t help but observe I was the thinnest girl. People were playing beer pong and sitting at a table. Someone offered me a beer. I sat down on a couch. Alistair was getting hugs from girls and handshakes and fist-bumps from guys, and I made brief introductions with no real effort of talking to anyone. There weren’t many seats, and the most comfortable couches were facing the television where rap videos were playing. I hadn’t heard any off the songs that were on the playlist, and felt uncomfortable by the blatant sexuality and objectification of girls in the videos. The drunk girls were dancing to the music and singing along with the degrading, raunchy lyrics. “Can we smoke?”



I hesitated and held the bowl in my hand, staring at the green. I thought about putting it down. “I haven’t smoked in two months and twenty-one days,” I vocalized, and some guy (who didn’t smoked) responded “but who’s counting?” “Come on Weezee,” and after further hesitation I decided it was nothing new, and nothing bad would happen as a result. I brought the piece to my lips, lowered the lighter and inhaled. It was smooth, and I held it in my lungs for several seconds before slowly exhaling. I couldn’t feel it at first. It was passed around, and I took another hit. I thought about what you might be thinking about me, but pushed the thought from my mind. A guy made brief eye contact with me, and something about him seemed familiar. He had a beard and was wearing a hat, and I thought it was impossible I could know him. The other person who lived there asked if we could smoke in the room because the guy who asked me who was counting, and others, didn’t smoke. So we went. I hit the bowl once more and as we were standing I felt the high come to me, the surreal feeling of being and experiencing. In the room was myself, Alistair, Yarab, a guy with a ‘fro, Elton and the guy with the hat and beard. Someone packed the **** and handed it to me, but I refused; I was pressured and still refused. “I haven’t done this in a while, so no, I’m fine, and I’ve been drinking.” I think some were taken aback by how adamant I was not to push my limit, because it was so clear many people there viewed partying as pushing the limit.



Alistair introduced me to the guy with the beard and the hat as Mat, who worked at Chevy’s and now McCormicks, and I instantly recognized him. “Oh hey!” I said and hugged him, and he said “I thought you looked familiar. How’ve you been?” “I’ve been pretty good,” and I explained to Alistair that he worked with Alex at Bonefish Grill and was our server when we went in to her work once, years ago. They continued to smoke and I stood among them, half paying attention to conversation and half thinking about anything and everything else. There was a familiarity being among these people I’d never met, and the surrounding of burnouts. I wondered if everyone there was a server and that was all they did. I told Mat I worked at Buffalo Wild Wings as a server, my first serving job, yeah I like it okay, I guess, and he told me he knew Alistair through McCormicks. “I’m serving there too,” and I wondered how many restaurants he’d been through so far.



He told me he graduated from tech school and I congratulated him and asked, “which one?”, where he replied Lincoln Tech. I wasn’t surprised it was that type, and I told him I graduated from Salisbury with a degree in Psychology, which he congratulated me for. I felt it necessary to disclose I was taking the GRE in May and imply that, yes, while I am serving in Waldorf and my college degree doesn’t give me much to do in this area, I am going back to school and I am going to do more than stay around serving, like you. I was reminded of a poem I wrote and th

Friday, August 01, 2014, Buttes-Chaumont Parc, Paris, France.



Why do I need feminism? We all have our reasons. We all have our stories. Let me tell you about my day:



I was sitting on a hill in the grass at Buttes-Chaumont park, a lovely historical area in Paris. I wanted to be relatively by myself so I could write in peace and smoke without drawing attention to myself. I’m sitting, book in my lap, a pen and cig between my fingers, when I am approached by a man. My main concern was determining whether or not he was the po-lice, but he had no characteristics of cops. He appeared emotionally stable and had good hygiene so I wasn’t too uncertain, (isn’t it kind of bad how we judge people on that stuff?), still, I wondered what he wanted, dreading having to talk to someone when I was merely trying to write in peace. I figured he was going to ask me for something to smoke.



He didn’t. Instead, he asked if he could sit by me. I look around and scan all the other vacant spaces he could sit instead, making it obvious that there was plenty of room to sit instead of right the **** next to me. It’s a pretty big park. “Si ca ta derange pas?” I wasn’t planning on staying long anyway, but I knew he wouldn’t be dangerous as there were many families and couples and runners and walkers, old friends and young kids playing. I felt safe enough, and he seemed harmless. I figured if anything, I could practice my French, which was always nice.



I said okay. He sat, and for a moment we sat in silence. I made myself a sandwich with baguette and cheese and offered him some. He politely declined. We started talking.



I asked if he was Parisian, and he told me he lived there for a while but was from Afrique. I didn’t catch which country, but I don’t think he specified which region. He asked about me, and I told him I was American, born in DC, but I came to France every so often and it was my first language. We talked about travel. We talked about the chaos in the Middle East, and how it was prophesized in scripture. He told me he was Muslim. I told him I wasn’t religious.



I told him I acknowledged the importance of texts, but I believe our ability to think has evolved in 2000 years and we have more information now than we did then. I told him there was too much life and I could not fit it all into one magic being which sprinkled glitter and said “Let there be” and we were created. I told him I really liked the Asian philosophies of Buddhism and Daoism. We talked about peace. We talked about Human Rights and the beauty of diversity, and how marvelous it was people could live among another in peace.



I said it was cool, and I even said it was cool that even as a black man in Europe and an Arab-American woman, we could talk freely without hostility and social division. We talked about closed-mindedness and Conservativism. I explained cognitive dissonance contributing to conflict, generated by opposing views and resistance/reluctance to consider new ideas. We talked about Psychology. I told him I was a writer and I told him about Cabaret Populaire in Belleville and the poetry community in Paris. I told him I love Paris. We talked again about travel.



He told me he was in Germany last weekend, and I told him I was in Langen Tuesday night. He told me he always wanted to go to the U.S.A. We talked about immigration. We talked about the American Dream. We talked about money. I told him I was proposed to the last time I was in Lebanon. We talked about reasons people marry. I reminded him today was the first of August, which meant I’d been with my boyfriend for two months. We talked about love. We talked about monogamy, polyamory and infidelity. We talked about Islam. We talked about racism.



We were sitting there talking for an hour or so, which I was especially grateful for, because besides having an interesting conversation I was able to speak in French for all of it, as he did not speak English (apparently he spoke German, though). I stood up to leave and told him “Enchanté,” but before I started walking off he motioned for me to look at his phone. I was wondering if he was trying to add me on Facebook or follow me on Instagram or something, but I am instead confronted by a picture on his screen of him laying on his back on a bed, with an ***** ***** as the focal point.



Furious, I asked him “Pourquoi tu ma montre ca?! J’ai pas demande a voir ca!”



The stupid smile on his face disappeared and was replaced by a look of slight hurt, confusion, and surprise.

“Bordelle! C’est dommage—mais c’est ca—des hommes et femmes ne peuvent pas parler normalment, vraiment!”



And for the vile words I wanted to spout, I scoffed instead, too much of a lady to shout or get emotional, but I made sure to call him out and stand my ground, exuding negative energy and making it clear with my few words that that was not okay.



I gave no impression of interest in seeing his ****, so why did he do that? Even if he thought I might want to (hell never) he should have heard me ask or vocally say “yes, you can do that.” However, I did not ask; there were no prompts, hints, innuendos or even suggestive, flirty phrasing that would serve as an indication of ****** interest on my behalf.



I don’t want to be cynical and assume all guys are perverts and avoid any conversation because I’m not a rude person (generally). I’m not sexist. I value conversations and friendships with people without emphasis of gender importance. I try not to assume that everyone is sketchy or has ****** up motives. Some people just want to talk.



I wasn’t going to blatantly ignore or dismiss him because he was a man, nor because he was black, foreign, or Muslim. But where the hell is he from that he was socialized and thought that was appropriate or wanted?

I did not ask. The worst part is that he seemed like a genuinely alright person, but then he had to ruin it by whipping out a **** pic. Gross. What’s even more gross is the sense of entitlement he had, thinking it was acceptable to do that. You are a stranger. And I don’t want to see your ******, you disgusting *******.



I really don’t like assuming **** about people or making generalizations. I’m not going to assimilate one ****** with every group they are assigned to and stereotype against every person of that respective group. But fuckkkk. It’s annoying and disappointing that what I thought was a pleasant talk and exchange of ideas with a friendly stranger was actually a plot to show me his ****. ****.



The moral of this story is to say why feminism is needed, because this happens to people every day. If you still need further assistance understanding, please allow me to elaborate:



1)      I need feminism because it allows me to stand up for myself and feel confident about stating that I’m uncomfortable with unwanted behaviors and I’m not going to tolerate them.



These behaviors include, but are not limited to:



1)      Showing me **** pics

2)      Assuming it’s okay to show a girl you met not even an hour ago a **** pic (Do not even say it’s because of a culture difference, because I know of Frenchies who don’t do that)

3)      Approaching me because I’m sitting alone (I accepted that because I assumed he wasn’t going to violate my mind like that (good thing I don’t have photographic memory) but I didn’t wave over and say “Hey, you look friendly! Come over and talk to me!”)

4)      Asking me how serious things are with my boyfriend

5)      Asking me about my bisexuality—only to invalidate it

6)      Assigning me behavior expectations because of my gender

7)      Trying to control the way I do or do not reproduce

8)      Expecting me to behave a certain way because of my sexuality

9)      Judging me based on my sexuality

10)  Openly discriminating against people and expecting me to be okay with prejudice

11)  Using racist terms… because you’re a racist

12)  Dehumanizing the oppressed





Because I don’t know what you studied about it (wait—most people who disagree with feminism haven’t and are completely misinformed) but:



Feminism is about equality, and it doesn’t feel very equal when I show someone respect but I get no respect in return. And if you associate feminism with fauxminism and misandry, please educate yourself. (If I had Tumblr still, you better believe I would’ve already posted this). To quote the great words of Jay in Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back: "Remember, don’t whip your **** out unless she asks."

12-17-2013

The constant chatter
lowly, gathering attentions
apprehension--that's the matter
thoughts are shattered
the noise: rushing, crushing, bustling in
and flushing out all rationale
growing louder, shouting over morale
and one who can no
control it, cowers, trying hard not to
a persevering temperament, one
who silences the sounds of increasing volume
madness boomerangs again;
pain returns once again.

On hindsight, I realize the true meaning of love comes from my siblings. Nineteen years old, when I came out of the closet and realized me and my siblings were “flawed”, or human. Seventeen year old sister—***. Twenty-one year old brother—rehab.

“Do you think it’s ironic that we’re doing this on a playground?” called a voice from the assorted group of friends sitting on the sea of pebbles under the monkey bars. Another voice replied, after a quick cough and croaked, “No, I’m pretty sure everybody does this.”

“I bet the teachers do it too,” agreed the voice of an eighteen year-old boy.

“I’m going to be a teacher one day,” spoke the philosopher girl, who drifted from the conversation into the fog of her thoughts. As a junior in college and an ambitious girl, she lived her life in paranoia and curiosity from the outside world.

As the college students rose from the pebbled area of jungle-gyms, swings and slides, they approached a basketball court in passing to return to the neighborhood.

“Look!” yelled the philosopher girl. “There’s a ball over there, we should play.”

Their evening plans were determined when one boy concluded “We can’t play. The ball is flat.”

Rather than attempting to relive the innocence of childhood, the students under the influence of marijuana watched the possibility of recapturing pure childhood memories diminish through their loss of interest in what was once a childhood gratification of positive reinforcement. Recess was very important to any child in elementary school. My earliest memory of recess consisted of the earliest bonding time with my sister. It was my fifth birthday, and back before my parents divorced my mother was very involved with the community at our schools. My mom set up a birthday party for me in first grade, and my two year-old sister was brought along. My sister, the adorable baby that she was, received all of the attention. On my fifth birthday I wanted everyone to pay attention to me, but my sister was stealing my thunder. I resented her very much for always being the more beautiful of us two, and she always had the most grace. I’ve always felt awkward, quirky, and possibly weird, but it never seemed to distance my sister from loving me.

On that day at recess, while everyone was cooing over how adorable my sister was, I was off sulking on the swing set. I was always the one ignored of my siblings; my brother was the oldest of us three and the only male, and my sister was the youngest and most beautiful baby girl. I was always awkward, alone and blending in with the background. This being said, I made myself solitary from those neglecting my absence and looked up at the clouds. Five years-old and alone on a swing, I watched the cloud pass in the sky and morph from what looked like a snail, to a tomato. Before my very eyes approached a wide-eyes toddler with brand-new teeth and smiling eyes.

Everyone was following her, but she was following me. When she was the one of us preferred, she never failed to love me and remind me she was there.

When recognized as attractive for the first time, I was eager to be wanted so I threw away my virginity.

My sister, always so beautiful and classy didn’t need to put out to be well-liked, desired or noticed. Classy like my mother, my sister determined my fate as the black sheep in my adolescent ****** rebellion.

When my sister and I smoked with work friends, playing on the swing-set together like we had fourteen years earlier, I found out that she was a ******. The illusion of the pristine, classy and virginal sister shattered, but welded back together with love. My sister was not perfect, and my insecurity to being the un-unique, unnoticed and boring middle-child had ended. My older brother always considered the most-intelligent and most-successful was sent to rehab after 4 months of turning twenty one. The self mutilation was concerned as a big issue, and a mental illness could have him removed from the military.

Flawed sibling relationships brings closer bonding and relatable experiences, so exploring life together builds a unique and covalent bond between siblings witnessing life together, having difficulties and disappointments with family. While fulfilling the all-time question of mankind for “the meaning of life”, life interrupts with irony.

I want to want someone. I can’t remember the last time *** wasn’t casual. But after two nights ago, I have hope for the future. He’s instilled hope once more, the hope of making love.

I once had *** with a thirty-three year old man in a storage unit.
I once had *** without kissing at all.
I once had *** with a man who I loved who never called me again.
I once had *** with a boy just in spite of his older brother, who I loved.
I once had *** just to have ***.
I once had *** just to have *** with a ******.
I once had *** just to see how big his **** was.
I once had *** because I wanted to have *** with a black man.
I once had *** only because it was New Year’s Eve.
I once had *** because I wanted to get back at my boyfriend for cheating on me.
I once had *** because I was drunk.
I once had *** because I wanted to have a ******* with two guys.
I once had *** because I wanted to have *** with a girl. We were both fourteen.
I once had *** because I was on the rebound.
I once had *** because I wanted to say I had *** with my brother’s best friend.
I once had *** because I wanted to be in control of having ***.
I once had *** because I’m a ****.
I once had *** because I’m sexually liberated, and I don’t give a **** about what society thinks.
I’ve had lots of ***,

But two nights ago was different. We didn’t have ***.
We didn’t even kiss. He held me. He told me he liked me, and he wanted to feel my body. It was only my back, stomach and ribs, but it was nice to feel touched without having ***. It was nice to feel **** without the ***.

I wonder if he thinks about me. He told me that he liked me in the summer, but the way he held me two nights ago I’d say he still liked me. He invited me out of the blue. I’m happy he did. He likes Alternative music. He also likes my favorite band. I snowboard, and he skis. His favorite color is orange, just like mine. We’re both tall. He’s blond; I like Aryan men. Maybe I really am a submissive woman—a complete product of society.

I wonder if he believes in God. I wonder if he’ll look down on me, because I don’t. He doesn’t mind that I don’t eat meat. He said I have a pretty voice. I wonder if he fantasizes about me. I haven’t fantasized about him before two nights ago.

There was one time over the summer when we went to a Hookah bar with friends. We smoked *** first, with a group of friends, before we left to the place in Virginia. I was pretty high, so I don’t remember most of the conversation, but I remember once when he brought up his girl friend. I took a puff of hookah, before I exhaled, and asked, “You have a girlfriend?” He replied, “Unfortunately.” I never understood this until two nights ago.
I don’t know if I want him, or someone like him.

I wonder if he’d think I was pretty without make-up.
He didn’t seem repulsed when I chopped off my long pretty hair, but I’m sure he couldn’t handle my moodiness. We’re both somewhat strange, but my impulsiveness and possible sociopathic nature deviates from the general humanistic thinkers. I don’t consider myself a hypocrite, because I honestly feel as if my feelings change more often than not.

We’re both twenty years-old.
He’s a long time relationship kind of guy; for the two years I’ve known him, he’s always had a girlfriend. There were only two, but he seemed to like them both.
I wonder if he loved either of them. Maybe he loved them both.
Did they love him? Did the resent each other?
I’ve never understood the resentment of women in regards to other women.
I’ve always been for sisterhood; I’ve always believed that men were corrupt.
Maybe that’s because I’m attracted to women.

I just feel like women should get along; they should understand women, given that they usually feel the same towards women. I feel like women hating each other is the result of a sexist society. Some women don’t even realize that they’re victims of a man’s world.
I don’t think he’s like that.
He’s not the kind of guy who manipulates.
He’s not a one-night stand.

He’s not the fairytale of “I once had *** because:”, he’s not someone I would want to forget, use, or manipulate.
I was supposed to go snowboarding with an ex-boyfriend next week.
He lives in SC, and I would’ve had to take a plane down to visit, in addition to paying for the lift tickets.
I blew him off.
Better yet, I told him that being friends was pointless.
We’re so different, and our relationship was crap. He was boring and ignorant.
The *** was boring, and occasionally I’d get off because he’d go down on me.
His ******* was the best part of our relationship.

I bet the guy from two nights ago is a great lover. He’s also tall, so he’s probably got a good-sized one.
I’d like to try it out sometime, not immediately, but maybe in a few months.
Maybe we could build a relationship.
Maybe he’s just like every other guy, and I’m just a delusional idealist who’s alone.
Who’s alone though?
Not me; I can have *** on command. I have, at the top of my head, six people who I could spend the night with (some who I’ve been with already, some not).
If I’m always in company, how can I be alone?

Could I tell the guy from two nights ago all of this? Would he run away like the others who have mattered? Or would he cling onto me like the others who didn’t matter?
Would he give me flowers? Would he think I’m a *****?
Would he view my glass of personality as half-empty or half-full?
Maybe he wouldn’t talk.
Maybe he’d just hold me like he did two nights ago and say so much without saying a word.
We’d breathe together and our heartbeats would breathe together.
Maybe he’ll dream about me.
2012 will tell.
He asked if I’d be around; I told him for nine months, I would.

I don’t mind being criticized
If I’m wrong, tell me so
Let me know, so
I can go about doing right
And I just might find the solution
The retribution
The redistribution of answers
Being held from us
Preventing us from knowing
What knowledge is growing somewhere else in life

That’s what they say
But that’s what they all say
Convey threats to war
Scare us because they know we’re not sure
Send warnings then bombings exploding
everything, incessant destruction
so maybe it doesn't matter
if I'm right or wrong, I'm being criticized
as long as I can adapt to thinking
and can think about adapting
I just want to do what's right
so I write to figure it out
But I doubt what I see,
do my hand deceive me when
my words show that everything is wrong?

I wrote several years ago, a scrap of paper with wondering thoughts--lost.

Delinquent, ovulating, *****, lovers, ***
devil, ****, lies, logic, science
dalliance, omission, legality lost, sultry
does oppression look like ***--yes:
It was forced, it ran it's course
but it still runs, runs runs
silently, but in actuality, loud
quietly, but it prowls, hunting for calamity
a sad reality-- a tragedy
with wicked twists which linger
on my wrists, hips and thighs
charred with scars and lies,
I lied: with my thighs
when i let you in, it wasn't a sin
but a lesson I learned, as a girl
and education I didn't earn
--but I sure paid for
no cause for concern
but I find it discerning, sick
and disturbing--you seek dolls
so fine, glossed pretty pink lips
that shine, lips like mine
but there is no crime,
put a price on a doll
and say she's worth a dime.

The inverse of error
A metaphorical math
Because I rhyme so sick in season
You can call men Sylvia Plath
You can call me Sylvia Plath
Spilling verses accidental
Spilling blood like pen and paper
Give me rock paper, scissors—construction
Philosophy of metaphors—the reciprocal of destruction
Creation in deviation
Multiplication in meditation and mesmerizing memorization
Mad in the head, but I’m a mat-hatter for love
'A zombie by neuroses
A zombie by drugs
But on those pharmaceutical
Cause cut **** is for thugs
(3% probability
Is in the margin of error
How many times have we ******
And would you even care?
Oh, despair. The plague of a woman-
Slick wit like slick ****
And you can call these rhymes grimy
Because I’m cleaning your eyes with it.)

Write about being seen, really being seen.
(Remember to go with your "first flash," and write for 10 minutes without stopping or thinking.)

I was so humiliated. Besides feeling humiliated, I felt like I was on display. Each step I took down the hallway, every person in every little group glared at me, glanced away, and the whispers were buzzing. I felt it unjust, but I knew I brought it on myself. I cannot say I felt betrayal, as I was the original betrayer, (well, he was, but our emotional volley had collapsed with the weight of my action) but I hated him for savoring the revenge of my ruined reputation. I knew the pain I bestowed on him wouldn’t go away, but his smug satisfaction of broadcasting my shame only added to my humiliation.

When is graduation? Exactly two months away. That was April first, and I would have my high school diploma June 1st. I was a survivor, for my whole life, and although it was awful, I knew I could get past it. Still, every step I took in the hallway following that dreaded day, every move I made, every word I spoke, every breath I exhaled– was noticed, and I was judged without given the opportunity to provide an explanation of my perspective. High school rumors were ruthless, but what was worse is when it wasn’t a rumor. It was a scandal.

Even though no one dared to ask about it, to obtain information from me, I knew they all knew. Everyone knew, and once the basic information was known, details were not important. I wondered how many other girls experienced what I was experiencing, having to hold their head high and act proud despite the shame. It was strengthening, inadvertently, but the only other option was to hide away and avoid everyone. Even with a reputation, I couldn’t do that. Peers whispered and laughed degrading words, female faculty cast judgmental stares and all male teachers avoided eye contact, to avoid any association with me.

Call me an alcoholic,
Druggie, ******. I am none of these things.
I have my fits and fiends of wanting **** and wine, but
I am fine.

Have you ever written letters you don’t send?

I don’t think it was really unfair of me, but there were certainly better ways. It might’ve been easier if I’d said no—a jab to alert you of the no-ness—but I wanted to say yes, even though I knew I would possibly say later “I can’t”.

I’ve liked you for a while. I denied it for some time. Even though we dated briefly and it seems like smoke now, it validated the summers we spent together. Even in 2011 I liked you; last year I did and was scared to; this year I let it happen. I couldn’t control it. I saw you and wanted you, I had to; I had you. You were more than summer ******* and we both know it. It was hard to say and acknowledge though, because summer things come up. You’re not like other “lifeguards” I “******” though, and I know I’m not just another lifeguard you ****** either. We’re friends. We were something.

I’m sorry I left suddenly, rashly and didn’t talk to you for a week.. but I know you’re not emotionally weak and you dealt with it even if it confused or surprised you. It was a defense mechanism on my part. I wouldn’t have known how to approach you or maintain a long distance relationship, especially since I’m living with Rachel.. of course you could’ve visited, but it would’ve been uncomfortable once you left and we both know that. This situation has already been mapped out and I think we both knew the outcome of this fall. We’re friends however, well, I actually value you as one, and I would like to see you and hang out. Maybe I’ll hit you up when I’m back in the area—if you want to see me, that it—and as I said, if you’re in Annapolis and want to go out some weekend that’s possible. I wouldn’t even have to stay with you if it were too much; I could hang out with Katie. But either way would be fun, I think.

So I didn’t want a relationship. Yet here I am, trying to communicate and write you… yesterday was weird. I realized an entire week had passed since I left you and didn’t say anything. I wanted to write you. I texted you to make sure it was okay. Maybe you thought it was a bit ****** up or maybe you weren’t phased, but either way I’m sorry I left like that. I didn’t know how else to leave.

Please know, however, that I wanted to be your girlfriend, even if it was just for a little bit of time. I used to think dating you wasn’t even something to consider because neither of us seemed to be interested in a relationship and we are the type of people who don’t usually get attached. I have problems with that. And right now I’m in an awkward situation here because I told Rachel I don’t want to have *** with anyone right now—which I don’t (Salisbury is STD and I’m clean, plus I’m kind of emotionally drained and even though *** is physically fun it brings a lot of baggage.. not that I’m attracted to anyone here anyways but this fall is about ME and getting awesome grades/working on grad application stuff/trying not to lose it)—and she is included in that.

I did have *** with her when I came here though… I guess it was “I missed you,” ***, or “I don’t want to feel with emotions regarding Drew so I’m going to ******* as a distraction” ***, or maybe even “I wonder if we can just have *** as friends without any relationship ties,” ***.. which can’t happen either. She likes me still, or loves me, or whatever. I don’t know how because I’ve been so emotionally distant but I guess she misinterpreted me being nice/being down for *** for still caring about her that way. Between finishing my class, worrying about working and being around her (just her for now, the other roomies should be here next week) I’ve pushed down thinking about you because it was hard to. I remember last year and how it was then, too. Things don’t seem to change much.

Rachel asked about you. I told her honestly. I told her that I couldn’t attach to her the same and that I liked you and I’m sorry I hurt her this summer, but last year she got a boyfriend and I had you.. then I left and she still had him and I wasn’t sure how you felt, but I met Ben and when I realized it wasn’t the way I perceived it to be in my head she was there when I was alone and vulnerable. It took her a long time to admit she liked girls but I’m over it with her, honestly, even though I find her sexually attractive.

When I talked about you, however, she said she would get whatever needed to satisfy all aspects of my bisexuality.. but I told her there was a difference in the way it feels to be with a man, and I thought of you—your warmth, strength and ability to excite me with such passionate heterosexual compulsion.

My mind is so ****** right now. Both of you are part of my past and present although it’s different. I’m not going to sleep with Rachel, and I’m not around to sleep with you (not that you would anyways—although I’m not sure you wouldn’t if the moment was right) so I’m not going to sleep with anyone. *** isn’t always just *** and I am in a situation now where I’m being influenced by feelings and ****** ties and I don’t want any with her. I think about you, though, and it’s easier because I’m not around you but it wasn’t very long ago that I was. I guess I took it for granted. It’s really over now since I’m not coming back to PMSI, but it at least made me happy that I could validate the way I felt towards you. The last boyfriend I had was three years ago, and, besides Rachel, I haven’t been in a relationship. It’s hard for me to like people sometimes, and I don’t know if I can like anyone fully.. that’s why I didn’t want to try with you, really. I didn’t want to lead you on or give you expectations of how our long-distance relationship could’ve been, but I want you to know that I still like you and will have to eventually get over you, but I am going to let time do that instead of distracting myself with other people—that’s what I used to do.

You told me once I was a void you were trying to fill.. I don’t want to be that. I want to be a piece that something can be built on; I want to be an experience on which you can reflect fondly and acknowledge that, although brief and often unclear, was real. You influenced me, shaped me and changed me, for the better, I think. I think we’ll always be cool and I’d like to keep in touch and see you.. but I understand that things may not be as casual regarding the way we act towards one another.

Otherwise, things are okay. I’ll have two jobs this fall, five classes and hopefully a bit of time for chill activity to maintain my sanity but I don’t want to be with anyone here. There’s no way I could. Rachel asked about us.. I told her I didn’t want to talk about it with her. I don’t. I hope she moves on but she’s in her room currently hanging out and I’m doing the same. It’s nice to have time alone to think. I can’t help but feel bad for her.. but feeling bad makes me accessible to her—which I need to stop.

12-17-2-13

Her face flooded with scarlet
her nose flushing out bright red
Did I do it?
Did I do that?
How could I just do that;
was it someone else instead?
She says three separate people
control the thoughts inside my head.
"which one is the realest"  she asks.
I'm not pretending when I ask for amending.

Call me Scherezade, *******
Don’t give a **** about riches
I have wealth in my soul
And I love humanity as a whole
And I have millions in support;
I don’t need paper per se,
And If I have a little extra
I will give it away,
To feed the hungry,
Love peace and solidarity
I will give it to others
To feed my sisters and brothers

You want to say some ****?
Get with it, *****
Because the issue is a great one
Threatening all of our nations

You can say I’m naive
But in my mind I believe
I have a dream for peace
But I’m not a piece of ***
And if you show disrespect
I’ll kick your ******* ***

Haters. All day it’s what they do
Sorry you’re bored have no friends boo
But I’ll stand up to you
And so will my friends
You wanna say some ****
We’ll shut you down in the end

I have my crew,
Know what to do
I have a movement in Beirut
I am a Middle Eastern princess
Leading the Israeli resistance

Radical as can be
Americans for peace
Americans for love and solidarity
I want smoke with my homies,
**** with my bromies,
Help the suffering others
My sisters and brothers

You want say some ****?
I’m a princess *****
And I’m smart as ****
With eloquent wit

And for you man-children
who hate on feminism
Are some ignorant ******
So I dismiss that ****

I have a degree and I’m working for me
You can call me a *****, you can’t call me a *****
Of the D’s I want, I only want three,
My doctorate, my boyfriends ****
And destruction of the patriarchy.. aye

Say all the **** you want
Because you stupid *** ******* have nothing but taunts
I won’t hate you I won’t tell you to ******* and die
Because we’re all part of this earth
And we are fighting to survive…

Know me *****. You think that I won’t?
I have goodness in my heart and I share with those who don’t
I’m a princess, *****, maybe young and naïve
You ****** watch I call the shots
One day I’ll be the queen of peace

Six oh six a.m.
Saturday the thirteenth.
Today came in through twilight
When last year it came through dusk
Through a different man’s musk

A different moon’s scent
And I prevent myself in wavering for favoring others
Because how can you decide
if you can’t compare another brother?

Don’t call me Jezebel, *******
I’m Scheherazade on these snitches
Hippolyta—A lover and a fighter
Ariel--a  forest nymph, bound
Sappho and Joan of Arc—United
Call me the Queen on the ******
But I own that ****
As I am.

They call me crazy: I guess it’s in my right. I’d say I parallel Plath and Dickinson in their poetic plight. It’s a part of life. It’s something I’ve always known. And this holiday season shows how my disdain has grown for lies; I even hate the Christmas lights. I’m a Grinch-like *****. I won’t pretend to love consumerism, plastered-smiles of family—I lose my sanity every night there’s a holiday party. I sneak multiple glasses of wine. I text my lovers while my parents laugh at boring stories my relatives share. I am the coal of children’s stockings. I am the hair in the drain of the virtuous people showering off Christmas cocktails.

I was raised to be scared. I was raised to believe magic. It was so ******* tragic when I found out Santa was a lie. I held him in such high regard, the accord that I’d get some kind of reward if I was always nice. These terms included rejecting all vice and feeling faith in the stillness that even mice couldn’t be heard. I wouldn’t ever share a word of any sadness or doubt and this shutting of my mouth would promise prizes. Santa was my savior, my lord. I had a hard time adjusting to the fact that he was a fraud, but even worse—my parents were. My mother was a Mary. I couldn’t see her having *** as a means to create me. She was the wholesome, proper etiquette of French perspective and Muslim heritage. Santa was a separate thing. Santa was my father’s way, his mechanisms and faults that taught us to be loyal kids. I prayed., I prayed. I prayed to a mystical man who’d promise me goodness and accept me for myself, only if I followed his guidelines. I could be rewarded later, later, and my dreams on Christmas Eve of this anticipation would keep me awake and wondering: “sleep, sleep” they said, so I’d lay my head on my pillow and think of marshmallows and wrappings and peppermint and cookies and milk. “Santa will love my favors,” I thought. “Just be a nice girl and he’ll provide all you want in exchange for your virtue and goodness. Toys and family are all you need to be happy.” I accepted this notion, along with wine and bread and didn’t question the thoughts in my head that asked for a better understanding.

I prayed. “Dear Santa, I want a pony,” all the little girls said. Who would know in reality how much I’d dread cleaning up **** and taking care of it like a child or sacred possession? I wanted something to ride, to love. “Don’t question Santa—he lives above in the North Pole. If you asked him he’s bring a whole bag of presents. His presence will bless you if you stay a good girl and twirl in nice dresses and count all your blessings.” I wondered about all children in the world. “Well how can he fly all around the world at night and serve everyone? How does Santa know who deserves any one certain present?” “It’s not a competition—just be a good girl and don’t worry your little head about the mechanics of Santa’s magic: get good grades in school and listen to the authoritative teacher who expects you to learns but scolds you for asking questions. Listen, but don’t be heard. Believe our word that Santa’s coming to make your life better. Just be a good girl.”

I remember stacking cookies on a plate and leaving milk. The last time I might’ve been nine and I felt such guilt for not having them fresh-baked but leaving Chips-Ahoy! I went to bed but my brother’s ploy to catch Santa in the act—to prove for a fact that he existed—persisted beyond my parents answers and later went to destroy my fantasies of merriment. They call me crazy, but I’m not the one who lies. I found out later that Santa was a disguise. From sitting on the lap of every man who wore a hat and went to pat my thigh after asking for a bicycle, I learned Christmas was a cruel cycle of lies. I thought beyond it and wondered why my parents would deny the fiction they instilled. Did God advocate this kind of ignorance towards a child? Three years before I found out about Santa I learned about life and knew about death and realized one day my parents would die. I cried every night. I wondered when it would happen and the thought that no particular circumstance could rob their life made me anxious inside.

“What’s beyond life?” I’d wonder, in my little girl way, and my parents would reassure me to chase those thoughts away with Barbies and rainbows and sunshine. “Everyone has their time. There’s very little chance I’ll die tomorrow.” Tomorrow would pass and they’d still be alive but I’d ask about the day after and they’d chide me without providing answers. “How did Mary give birth?” asked the thirteen-year old me. I knew enough about biology to wonder how Santa and Jesus combined to make “merry”—a holiday of lies.

Adults despised my young eager mind and talked about a bible, a fairy-tale of St. Nicolas who once did this thing where he delivered socks to houses. I was wrong for my investigations and grown-ups had no hesitations in telling me so. “I don’t know,” they’d say, but just have faith and all will be okay. I knew about the Santa hoax so I figured Allah and God were also a joke I was too young to understand. Christian neighbors would reprimand my efforts and tell me about hell—saying they would show me the way and take me away if I went to church with them on Sundays. They were so nice and so threatening. “(Your Muslim friend is crazy but we can sway her back to normalcy). Would you like to try some bacon?”

Maybe I was crazy. I fetishized naught and nice later in life and I preferred the role of naughty. I thought if someone taught me a lesson I could get some answers in exchange for being bad. All I came up with was touching in the private parts with a warning “keep your mouth shut unless you want to be put up for adoption.” My mother was away. “Be grateful for your step-dad—that dead-beat Franklin isn’t the one filling your stockings.” I couldn’t endure talking because my silence was the exchange for “stuff”. Merry Christmas indeed—when mom was away we celebrate with shots of peppermint schnapps. “Do you remember those days?” I’d ask my siblings. “No-but I don’t really want to.” I wanted to ask “Does it haunt you in the same way?”

Mother was away. My siblings were estranged. I had no one to talk to so I used my own gift to make new friends. “Cute,” they’d call me, right as I was hitting puberty. “I thought you were older—when’s your birthday?” “Several weeks before the holiday,” I’d say. I’d find a boy with a nice sitting-lap and I’d talk about all the crap I couldn’t share otherwise. They’d sometimes stroke my thighs while they pretended to listen. I’d look in their eyes and see irises glisten but I didn’t know what I thought was trust was the human condition—a sin called lust. I wanted someone nice to provide me with goodness, but in my heart I knew that naughtiness earned the ultimate prize. I grew to despise the accustomed way men would lie and top of me and sweat out their secrets while robbing my thighs. I went with it anyway. You deal with this kind of celebration during the holiday and you don’t think twice about the lies—just do your best to be nice. I was nice in so many ways. They called me crazy.

Wednesday, May 29, 2014

Subject: You know how I am about letters



Do people notice when it starts to happen? Maybe not the first time—it can be hard to tell—but do they recognize a pattern? Are they able to appropriately react? Is it easy to detect such feeling, a reoccurring newness? When it happens, it swells and expands: building within and pushing out, resonating a specific sound, paralleling the pang of olfaction from the heavy stench of pheromones. It stimulates the senses and sends the hypothalamus into hyperactivity, the mind clouded with confusion.



I’m glad it happened. I’m glad we got to be friends, the way we were, the way we could still be. It’s easy to be around you, and I appreciate the feeling you instilled in me. Four miles and six beers later, I found myself with you, in your house, talking to your parents, experiencing a part of you I’ve never known. Shortly after, there we were, on your couch, and you were against me and I held your core, warmed by the heat of your skin radiating from beneath your thermal. It was nice, but it was the type of nice which is prone to burn. I didn’t expect to be there.



I could’ve anticipated that drinking so much would release my inhibitions, and given our mutual attraction and history I would have succumbed to you. Obviously, I did. Nothing more than a kiss, but I’m glad I did, even though to actively be swept away in the moment is dangerous. I’m notoriously attracted to it, and sure enough as I write this, I feel a mix of nausea and a dull inner ache. I want it to go away, yet I endure it, understanding it’s a consequence of recklessness. I wouldn’t doubt it’s karma. I don’t think you are, but I notice myself around you and can decide that I am often being reckless with my frivolity. It feels good at first, but like coming down from rolling, there is a lingering feeling of synthetically-induced haze.



I honestly didn’t plan on kissing you, but the night took us there. I did plan on giving you that poem, however. I’m sure you have interpreted it correctly, as I’d assume you’re capable of distinguishing metaphors (you do have a college degree), and now hopefully understand my perspective of our situation.



I wanted to run with you, I wanted to get a beer (also I had a rough day/week so I was kind of down to drink—coping of course) and I wanted to let you read that poem. Those are things I wanted to do, and while I wanted to kiss you, I didn’t. I’m glad I did and it wasn’t a mistake, but I think doing that too many times would be more detrimental than productive. I’m sure you got that theme from what I wrote you was influenced by the weekend I came to Salisbury; maybe you can see certain themes of that weekend in it.



I don’t know. I was just thinking about you and I wanted to express what was going on in my head. I wanted you to know. I was somewhat sad when I left Salisbury, wondering why you gave my no affection when saying goodbye, but I was relieved and grateful you didn’t. But now… I think about us meeting at my house in Fruitland and the four of us drunkenly deciding to live together. It just so happened that Rachel and I were discussing the possibility of her moving to Salisbury and she mentioned Scott finding a house, with my landlord, for $300 a month. Talk about timing. I don’t know what to make of it.



It’s unfortunate that timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling; ironically, more often than not, timing sabotages it. Personally, I have always romanticized things that were doomed to end. The reason I love Shakespeare so much (besides intellect like no other) is because he conveys tragedy in such a beautiful way. Consider it like thanatos vs. eros—there is greater appreciation for something that cannot last forever, because there is only a limited time to enjoy it. It’s sad to think, too often, we’re unable to enjoy things to their fullest because of this notion. Like life and death—if we could live forever would we value our time as much? Hell no, we would take everything for granted (humans already do, as we are prone to do so) and never give a **** about anything. What makes anything matter is being able to appreciate it, despite of how long it lasts?



In that regard, after coming to Salisbury again, I thought about you coming home and what would happen. I assumed you’d be moving to Massachusetts sooner rather than later and wondered if we would even talk. I still wanted to hang out and go running, but I realized it might not happen and I recognized that could happen.



I never expected anything from you. I know we always had a thing and have been flirty towards each other, but to establish a foundation of sorts didn’t ever seem like an option. I liked you unattainable, impossible, a little too late, the right person at the wrong time; it seems pretty sick the way I describe it and I’m well aware, but you were the perfect protagonist of the narrative of my painful romance with Rachel, where you restored my mojo and provided me with the ability to feel and create again. You broke up the dam of my writer’s block with your flow. You were a muse of sorts. I am not idealizing you, just describing what you provided me with.



With this being said, I hope you believe that the sentiments I wrote to you were honest, as were my actions. I have nothing but positive regard for you, despite the periods where we didn’t speak and knowing you was somewhat uncomfortable. I have only known you for a year, but we’ve been through a lot and I consider you a friend. As I stated before, I didn’t mean to like you, it just kind of happened. And like you told me, that’s life. It’s curious, but I wonder if I would like you as much if we had a chance. I know it sounds cold, and I hope reading it doesn’t sting, but I am only trying to be realistic. I’m sure you too have assessed it.



The point of this cyber-letter is to just let you know that I liked you. I’m glad we got to know each other. You influenced me and you left your mark, forever contributing to the me I’m going to be. You taught me a lot about a lot of things. However, as I stated before, timing doesn’t always accommodate feeling. You are a unique “perhaps” in my life, nonetheless. I wonder what it would be like if we were ever together in another world, but I cannot quite imagine it. I dream, but I am bound to servitude by analyzing each intricate detail of the situations in front of me, despite my occasional bouts of impulse. It’s a way to survive, and there’s a pattern to it. It all unfolds so suddenly, paralleling behavioral, weather and astronomical patterns. More recently, I have experienced this. I wasn’t hoping for it or expecting it. I was surprised.



You know how they say “If you’re looking for something you won’t find it, but things are found (or given?) when you’re not looking?” So far 2014 has been a great year for many reasons. Even the  little after -graduation struggle was a transition to build into what is now and what will be.



So….you know how I snapchatted you (and most everyone on my friends list—you may notice I ask questions) asking if going to a park was a date? Well. It wasn’t the first. I wasn’t sure the first date was even a date. He made no forward advances to indicate any kind of ****** interest. I thought he just wanted to hang out, and offered to pay because he knows I don’t make as much as he does. Right? That sounds valid. But still, I wasn’t totally sure. I initially assumed my brother would come with us, because we hadn’t ever been exclusively in each other’s company. So, he said he’d pick me up at 8:00 p.m. My brother told me he was going to hang out with his friend Chelsea and hadn’t heard from him. I will admit I put effort into my aesthetics, perhaps as a slightly narcissistic compulsion to emphasize what is heterosexually considered feminine. Even if we were just hanging out, I wanted to make an impression; also, some places in the National Harbor are really nice, so I wanted to look nice too. We talked for two hours until they were closing and then he dropped me off. I was home by 11:00 p.m. That was May 4th.



I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you served an egress from thinking about work, my brother, my mom: everything. Six beers deep and I was caught up. I did miss you. It was selfish of me to indulge in it, but I wanted to savor you one last time. I don’t think that’s a crime, but I acknowledge it’s emotionally irresponsible. Despite that, when I think about it all, knowing I have to decide, I realize it’s more logical to pursue that which has less risk of becoming hazardous. Am I to deny myself that opportunity? It’s divine how patterns align: specific variables, whether assigned or accreted, determine the true outcome. The rest is what we do, how we behave, and how the mystical law of cause and effect affects the subsequent possible outcomes. Such dissident circumstances are attributed to timing.



It’s been described as a chaotic sequence of events, life. But isn’t there order in chaos? Astronomical and Neurological perspectives serve as two notable examples of materialism establishing the foundations of life, as we observe it functioning, from both holistic and reductionist views, yes. It’s not irrational to wonder if, in a complex way we have yet to fully understand, we are a miniscule, yet essential, part of a functioning unit. The struggle is especially prominent when how we live is based off how we obsess over the desire to understand why things happen. Despite the patterns, it often becomes unpredictable and gets so ******* frustrating. Still, isn’t it wonderful how we can revel in fascination?



I’m sure you weren’t expecting all the prose, but I wanted to be honest and straightforward…writing is the way I know how to be. I want you to know I regard you as a cool person and I really like talking and running (and smoking?) with you. I know you’ll be around for a little bit.  I’d still like to hang out with you, but I understand if you think it’s awkward or there will be tension or something. Regardless, I like your company and our friendship, our memories, our bullshitting, etc. I’d still like to watch some FIFA games, too. Feel free to email me back or use whatever means of communication you prefer.

“It’s going to storm tonight.”

“Yeah.”

He honestly was just going to drop her off tonight, he said. She masked her disappointment with a long exhale of cigarette smoke as she flicked the cigarette ash out the window. She inhaled again. The car ride, although only ten miles and some, to her house, seemed longer than usual. She had nothing certain to look forward to. He was nothing certain. But sometimes she looked forward to him. Him, both strangely attractive and unattractive. Him, both perceptive, thought-evoking yet ignorant and uneducated. She hated how he stereotyped. She hated how he didn’t seem to care for her.

But didn’t he? She thought he might. He would rub her feet at work. They would joke together at work and mutually smile and laugh. His teeth weren’t straight or incredibly white, but she loved his smile. The way he kissed her when they had *** seemed to be passionate. It was the summer. It was July 5th. She would be leaving for college in August, and that weekend would go to her college and see the room she’d be renting in the fall. She would meet her roommates—a family from Delaware who had a house with extra rooms, which non-smoking females could rent—that weekend. She talked about how excited she was to be leaving. He never really made any comments about the matter. She stopped talking about it.

“You probably broke that guy’s heart.”

He was referring to the guy she met at Dash-In while pumping gas, the guy she spontaneously gave her number to. She wondered what made him say such a thing; he didn’t appear jealous. She struggled to understand how he felt. He never shared anything. Since they started sleeping together, she’d already told him five times that she liked him. She wrote him a poem. He smiled, but never acknowledged her efforts. She liked him but didn’t love him. She knew she never would—they had nothing in common. He was merely a summer dalliance, one of many she’d had in her life, and he wouldn’t be her last. She didn’t crave him, but she craved romance. She craved answers. She struggled with the here and now. She knew her feelings would dissipate once she went away, but she knew herself well enough to know that being around him, for another month and a half, would bother her.

She took it personally that he wouldn’t return to her house. She took everything personally. She took it personally that he never expressed any emotion towards her. She knew he had it. She knew it wouldn’t last. She didn’t want it to last, in fact, she regarded herself as “out of his league” in every possible aspect. He was twenty-five, managing a pool, still, and he never went to college. She was twenty, entering her fourth year of college and finally moving out of her house, with a double-major, and she taught swim lessons and lifeguarded as a summer job. She was a raging narcissist. She was vain, and she expected everyone she slept with to praise her for her beauty and wit. When they didn’t, she took it personally. Often, with the men she slept with, she received no such praise. She took it personally.

She assumed, because he was giving her a ride home, he would enter the house with her, and like the last time, two days prior, they would have ***. When he dropped her off at her house, she left him five dollars for gas. Several minutes after, when she was inside, he texted her and told her that she didn’t need to leave him money. She never responded to that text.

Instead, she texted her neighbor. Like her, he liked to drink. Like her, he liked casual ***. The attraction and un-attraction was mutual. Unlike her boss, she had no feelings for this neighbor. Unlike her boss, she  didn’t feel rejected by this neighbor. Unlike her boss, this neighbor was nineteen, not twenty-five. She wondered if her attraction to her twenty-five year old boss stemmed from the resemblance of another twenty-five year old, one she once loved. Her boss, like the other twenty-five year old, lacked ambition, lacked expressing emotion, lacked the intellectual compatibility that she searched for in a prospective boyfriend and was once addicted to drugs. She found the parallels. In her own way, she considered it closure.

She questioned if she actually liked her boss or if she felt automatically attracted to him because he resembled someone she once loved. The *** was similar. The after-*** was similar. The kissing wasn’t. She saw her boss almost every day. She contemplated ending the summer affair with her young manager, five years her senior, due to the resemblance of the man, the broken mirror who so sickly twisted shards of himself into her, forever damaging her own reflection. This man, her boss, while likable, could never amount to the man, the compost, her former twenty-five year old had been.

The here and now, and the concept of time, in general, had flooded her head with numbers. Dates: she started sleeping with her boss that Father’s Day; they had *** five times since, and he confessed his feelings for her zero times. She hated herself for always wondering what he thought. She hated herself for not actually being sincere. She sensed this man, her boss, was not generally accustomed to such ingenuous women. She was used to stupid men who felt threatened by ingenuous women. It was an emotion-evoking cycle; she would always plunge herself into situations where deadlines existed inevitably. He was writing material.

She took the *** and transformed her thoughts into stanzas. When she was uncertain about him, she wrote prose. She had a boring summer, and while she tried to read books, her writer’s block ate at her. Desperate for material, she resorted to the easiest—and her favorite—method of provoking thoughts: ***. She sometimes grew attached to the person after ***. She’d let herself fall, just a bit, before ripping herself away, emotionally, from the men she was sleeping with. These men only thought about her only once her behavior towards them grew distant and subtly acrid. She knew they knew. They knew she knew. The writing material fell into her lap as she fell into the laps of her men.

She was a poet, a writing fiend, a ****** up girl who only wanted to be interesting. She liked her boss’s smile. She liked his back, and she never minded scratching it while they worked together. She looked forward to going to going away to the university. There, she knew, she would be surrounded by peers who would be legitimately interested in the same things she was, and maybe then she could find someone she could actually let herself become attached to.

For now, her boss, although she liked him, mildly, was all she needed for her creativity just until the summer ended. Although he kept adding soda ash to her pool of affection, she knew that although liking him had become more basic, the summer would soon be over and the pool would be closed.

“You ask too many questions and it makes you seem desperate”
Friends don’t really exist
But companionship persists
Every little competition is more
Than trying to only win
I have to win them all
Recreational soccer and tae-kwon-doe taught me adequacy derived from strength
Inner power makes it worthwhile
Things only matter when they’re worthwhile
It gets to the point where it becomes petty too, saying
I’m better, I have the most, the most, the more
“I’m taller,” or “I run faster,” “My life ***** more than yours,” “I’ve had more lovers,” “I’ve been to more countries” and “I will die youngest”
Compare and analyze
Texts reveal things
They don’t teach you that in public school, you have to pay for it
Money buys knowledge, mobey in exchange for truth, but neither really matter,
Years of life are wasted on propaganda and it makes me sick
Be like this, if nothing else, because you don’t know what else to be like
Control control when vulnerability strikes
But who really has more knives?
Let’s compare scars, inner and outer, to reveal who you are,
But some of these humans have their own tricks, scars on the outside to substitute the inner ones being washed away, like scratching a name into the sand with a stick, washed away, turned to steel, unafraid
Recycling elements and the nonsense of existing—learn this, be that, make money, reproduce, consume
Pretend pretend pretend
What for?
Who are you really? Really? How can you be a who? A specific person like every other,
Matter doesn’t matter matter matter matter I hear that word in my head so many times I feel like I could spend my life writing lines of it “matter matter matter matter”
Until the day I die from years of writing the same words over and over, only when the pencil drops, hits the floor and breaks, will nothing matter.

In an overpopulated world, vanity is necessary for survival. The need of the self, above all else, becomes a main factor in the daily pursuit of happiness. Anyone who’s made a difference was extremely aware of themselves, and that was the difference. Humankind is raised to do so, or at least the strongest among it are.



The depression came and went like strong tides. It seemed to be controlled by some satellite, indeed, some forlorn object which she could neither control nor pinpoint. Still, the presence was always there, surging predictably in what she considered routine cycles. “Is my entire life to be lived like this?” She looked for meaning in it. She looked for meaning in the root of it. The cause was disappointing.



She grew up to be a tall American stunner. She didn’t have to try to be slender and she didn’t have to try to be pretty—she merely was. This realization didn’t occur until she was eleven years old, though, and she went through childhood being gawky, wishing she was privileged and had male parts. As a younger girl, she noticed the gender differences among her peers in the ways they interacted. In elementary school, during recess, it was assumed that the boys would dominate the basketball courts and other “balled” sports and the girls stuck with jump ropes, hopscotch and jungle gyms. This carried on outside of school also.



The boys of the neighborhood would play games outside, showing off their competition, athleticism and strength, and she too wanted to play. She was occasionally allowed to partake in such activities of privilege, and her cousin who was similar in age lived across the street. “It’s okay, she can play with us,” he’d vouch for her, but if the majority ruled her out, she had to leave. Depending on who was present, the situation played out differently. “She’s a girl!” was the general excuse to not include her.



One day, however, the neighborhood boys did allow her to play a game with them. This game involved throwing and catching a ball, but whoever had the ball was targeted and sought after to be “smeared”. She felt proud that the boys finally decided to include her, although she didn’t question why they didn’t at first—the acceptance itself was enough for her. She stood on the field eagerly, reaching out her arms when she saw the ball fly in her direction and calling out to have the ball passed to her. They wouldn’t.



She was an obstacle, something to avoid running into another body that served no use to the boys, and therefore she was ignored. She was slighted by this, but retained her optimism and ran around in proximity, pretending to be involved. After several minutes of this, one boy, who was about to be smeared and had no other options of passing, tossed the ball to her. Thrilled, she caught it and ran. She was chased by the boys because she had the object they wanted, but once she gave it away, they immediately lost interest and chased whoever had it. That was the way the game was played.



The ball was passed to her twice again after the first time, before a particularly aggressive boy, who she recognized as one of the boys not wanting her to play, tripped her. She did not possess the ball, but he targeted her for some reason which she did not know. She stood up and resumed playing, but his aggressively towards her resumed, and he tripped her again. This time the other boys noticed. He laughed audibly and the other boys stared. Her humiliation caused her to shed tears, and the humiliation was further extended by this weakness. The drive of anger was stronger, however, and something inside her desperately and obsessively stirred.

She rose, and the act of standing up charged her wildly, so much that the drive of attacking him seemed like something she couldn’t suppress. She ran over to him and tackled him. She leapt towards him and forced him on the ground, and he pulled her shirt and tried to pin her down. She kept her legs strong and loose, maneuvering her body on top of his in a straddle he couldn’t escape. She looked down at his wretched face of what she viewed as hatred and she punched it again and again, cocking her right fist back and giving relentless blows as she could deliver them. He thrusted his hips up, knocking her off balance and slung his arm across, slapping her face and knocking her over.



They aggressively rolled around on the ground, and the other boys stared in amazement at the bizarre display. She felt the need to crush him, to hurt him, to show him pain he wouldn’t expect from her. She was awakened and aroused, strong and determined, and the rush of fighting gave her strength to use her body in ways she never before imagined. She regained her position on top of him, locking her legs against his side and began repeatedly scratching his face until she felt his skin cells collecting under her nails. The power she felt encouraged her to scratch harder, and his squirming body and scrunched face crying out in discomfort began to grow red. Lines of blood scattered across his face in vertical and diagonal directions, and her relentless lust for making him pay hampered her ability to measure the price paid.



A neighbor’s door opened, and before she could see who might see her, she rose up and ran away. The boys who stood staring rushed to the boy on the ground with the scratched face, ignoring her flee. She ran across to her house before anyone could notice. She never looked back, and when she got home, she hid under her bed for hours. During these hours, she felt the fear of having challenged conventions, and having lost control as a result. The combination made her feel in control for the first time in her six years of existence. Eventually her mother came into her room and asked what she was doing. “Nothing,” she sheepishly responded. She crawled out and left the room. Her mother’s initial concern subsided, as she knew her daughter was a queer girl.

It’s an Epic Poem.
A Litany, so to speak
a long list of malapropisms and algorithms.
The decade started in 1991.
It was the revolutionary, the lucky twentieth century.
Decade strikes two.
To who? To whom?
The last seven years were the Silence of the Lambs.
It was a little shop of horrors,
Little girls as little ******,
Dolls to be bought and played with.
I am
Ach duh
Je suis
The genie trapped inside,
Bound to be freed through suicide
And I did so
So many times.44544rtftfrfrtg]

I think this was the first (and only) nervous breakdown I’ve ever had. I was nineteen.



The noises from the plane were terrifying enough to wake me up. My relaxed heart started racing, and I thought of a late-night bomb attack, via some middle-eastern country, which would bring war. I clutched the blankets to my chest, and expected the dooming flash of light which would instantly take my life through vaporization. After several minutes of laying tense yet catatonic in my bed, my late-night delirium began to slowly fade. Whether it was one plane or several, I know not. I just remember hearing the horrible ripping noise echo through the sky by my window and I instantly awoke. Were the planes this loud every night? Why did I never notice? Perhaps I restarted my sleep cycle and being back in level one, the loud noise frightened me. But did that mean that if these planes did indeed roar, every night, that I always slept through them? It seemed very unlikely. I cautiously checked my phone to inform myself of what time the war had started. Three-eleven a.m. How depressing. Why would an enemy attack in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep? What cowardice. Why would an enemy attack at all? Why would we have an enemy? As my paranoia faded and my fatigue crawled back, I went to the bathroom. I figured if I were to die, I wouldn’t want the finders of my body to think me gross for soiling myself with the tea I drank right before bedtime. As I sat on the toilet and released the pressure, the pressures of life invaded. I looked up to the sky-light in my bathroom and decided tonight would not be the night where I was killed while sleeping by a late-night plane of an enemy, but if it were to happen, I’d have no control whatsoever. Sadness struck me as I envisioned myself being robbed of motherhood, still and unaware at nineteen-years old. I thought again of the planes, and while they no longer seemed threatening, I wondered what caused them to rip across the sky in such force. It seemed destiny had spared me that night, but would it always? June was a non-war month anyways; I should relax, enjoy the summer and keep caution for autumn and winter. Those are war seasons, when wars began. The night was still once more, but I felt completely drained—the way one feels when descending from a *******-high. I straightened my blankets, rolled onto my side into a comfortable position and squeezed my eyes shut trying to hold back tears.

In her own way, she always wanted attention. Perhaps it’s because she was the middle child of her family. Her mother would take her out shopping when she was younger and every time her mother became distracted she would run away and hide in the clothing racks. She remembered watching her mother begin to panic and frantically search for her little girl, becoming more alarmed with each passing minute and eventually calling for help from the store employees. She would hide until her mother was on the brink of tears and only then would she emerge, smiling and innocent looking, having the pride of winning another hide and seek game her mother never knew about.



Vanity liked winning. Her definition of winning, however, was much different from that of many of her teammates. Although there were other girls who played sports, many weren’t as aggressive or skilled. The boys would often acknowledge Vanity’s gender and openly criticize her skill for it. She hated sexism—introduced to it at a young age, it took all of her energy to maintain her polite demeanor and “be the better person.” She knew, by doing this, she was betraying herself and accepting her environment.



Vanity, even at five years old, felt accomplished if she kicked the opposing team’s best player hard enough in the shins to send them out of the game. She felt especially proud when they had to be carried off the field by their coach and were crying. Vanity was not an angry little girl though; this was just how she played. When it came to competition, she fought hard. She wanted to be the best. She often played football or tag with her old brother and his friends and she felt special as the only female.



Occasionally some boy from the neighborhood would, like her teammates, criticize her for being a girl and tease her for not being able to keep up. There was one specific occasion, when she was six years old, and a boy, Justin, decided he didn’t liked her playing with the boys. He would purposely shove her and knock her over to demonstrate her physical weakness, and in so he would laugh. Vanity felt hurt that the other boys wouldn’t help her. It was only then, she learned, that no matter how mean they were to a girl, boys would stick together instead of helping a girl out. Boys stuck together and girls stuck together.



Justin pushed Vanity over one last time, hard, and once she fell to the ground and watched him laugh as he started at her brushing the dirt off herself she tried hard not to cry. Instead she rose and ran over and tackled him. Once he was on the ground she climbed on top of him and started punching his face over and over again, and only once his nose start to bleed did she alternate between scratching and punching. All the boys watched her fight and she didn’t stop hitting him until the front door opened and Justin’s mother called out too see what the raucous was.



Vanity ran home and hid under her bed until her mother found her about an hour after. While hiding under her bed, Vanity felt both scared and excited for what she’d just done. At six years old, she knew what she’d done was wrong but she felt such a rush. She justified her actions with the misogyny, however, and she felt proud that she and only she had so well defended herself. The boy deserved it. Justin was in no way better than she, and the fact that he was nine and had a ***** did not justify the way he treated her. Vanity liked to fight. She liked to keep up with the boys and beat them at their games. She couldn’t always run faster, but she could hit and tackle and was not afraid of body contact.

It used to be fun but I’m not myself anymore. This brand of whiskey has two first names, the latter name plural, Cheap and vile. Swig. Shot. Giggle. Hold his gaze. Break it. Sip mixed with coke. Gulp. Chug. Chew the ice. Suppress urge to *****. Is my nose bleeding? No—just runny. Still numb. Too many lines. Euphoria beats sitting home alone wanting to hang myself, but I shouldn’t have done this. He touches me. Laughs. What a narcissist, a drunk ******* narcissist. I want to slap him. Instead I reach for his belt. How are my hands functioning? He helps because I’m struggling. We laugh. We get naked. I stumble on top. There it is. Turn my face away because we don’t kiss. I’m sweating. How long have I been here? His shoulders and head are leaned back, his hips thrusting upward. His slight cringe and increased breathing indicates I’m done. I rise. He smiles. I fake it. Get up and get dressed. My heart is pounding. I should shower. I put on my bra, then dress (where’s my underwear?)

3-14-2014

I don't want to be like Plath, Woolfe, Bishop or Dickinson who confess depression on paper. I want to describes objectively and subjectively my experiences and reality as I perceive it, painful and aching, beautiful and healing--and what makes such moments so.

I want to record my observations and arrange them into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, , and interpretation of the shards of my life collected where my true self is reflected and others who feel the same can relate and also feel sane.

“Should we wrap it up?”



“No… **** them.”



And so she held it open and I shoved the contents in, a navy blue national geographic mug with a gold globe and majestic lettering, suggesting prestige and class, and a worn paper copy of ‘Ender’s Game’. My stomach churned for a moment as I feared that I perhaps forgot to remove the bookmark, but the pages held nothing but themselves, and the words of Orson Scott Card, not me.
“You’re not going to write him anything, are you?”



Why did she ask that? She had a right, but didn’t she trust me? I did write him something. I used the bookmark, in reality a half-piece of paper folded twice, and wrote



“Thank you for letting me

read this

it took a while to

get back to you but

I see why you like it.”



I suspected he wasn’t as dense as his misogyny and drug use suggested, and in my form he could find an alternative meaning, the kind I provided him with, the kind when he said he wondered what I meant sometimes.



I reread my penciled note, my last farewell, and considered writing “good luck with everything”. What would he think if he read it, if they read it? They already laughed so it’d be nothing new. I decided against it. It would be a response to his arrogant, empty text, where he triumphantly, probably drunk, sent a blank text. Did you have to tell me you had nothing tell me? She was furious. I never did respond, and handwriting was too personal.



“I have nothing to say to him. I just want to give their **** back and get it out of my life.”



I didn’t check the price of the over-sized, padded envelope I was about to purchase, but I appreciated the convenience of the post office for making my task an easy one. There was something freeing about being passive and sending mail, rather than making the three hour drive for no reason other than to experience another awkward situation, and perhaps worse, another yelling altercation.



I was worried the glass would break in transit, for the fear they would open the package and see it as deliberate, and I imagined their conversation: mocking our relationship, calling us *******, suggested we did it on purpose, saying anything malicious to assert their manliness and inflate their egos.



“Should we send them separately?”

“Don’t waste your money on those ******.”



So I sealed it. The small, bulky package contained things to return seemed heavier than needed. I imagined their faces when they saw who sent it, their outward responses to one another, and their immediate reactions once opening it.



“This will shut him the **** up. I can’t believe he thought I stole it.. I thought it was yours when I packed it.”



“You don’t need to say anything,” she demanded. “He’ll get it back, you don’t need to explain.”



She was obviously more annoyed at the two than I, although I was immensely annoyed. He thought I stole his mug. Well, I am so kindly sending it back. Perhaps this would be enough to get a response regarding subleasing.



“I really don’t want to pay $300 a month for a place I’m not living,” I pleaded.



“If they don’t respond then we’ll put locks on our doors. I don’t want them using our rooms and letting their friends sleep there.. they’d probably let people live there and pocket the money for themselves.”



The line in front of us gave us enough time to contemplate the situation, the whole situation, and it reminded me to check if he said anything. Message read, Tuesday 10:10 p.m. No response. I didn’t dare write the other. Neither would she.



“Six-thousand one, Autumn Avenue,” I said out loud as I wrote the address. A strangeness filled me, as I looked at the names I’d just written and the address of my former college residence. We don’t live here anymore. I was glad of it. I was glad to be standing there with her, running a necessary errand of alleviating ourselves of the burden of owing them anything. No longer would we need to endure video games, constant presence of the boy who slept on the couch every single night, despite his room, rewatching Gordon Ramsey’s ‘Kitchen Nightmares’ over and over until he memorized them, nor did we need to deal with hearing the door slam at 3:00 a.m. and an alarming “I’m home, *******!” from a drunkard. No more cleaning up beer bottles and bowls with cigarette ashes, no more listening to hockey or male-dominated conversations lacking substance. No longer would I feel trapped, as if Giovanni’s room, in the upstairs loft, tension rising up the stairs and filling up the whole house, the way burnt Ramen would smell when he forget to monitor it. The “he”’s would be out of our lives, as soon as they signed the lease. We stood there at the table before the checkout, patiently, thinking of the same thing probably, except I imagined her wondering if I liked when he ****** me.



She took the pen from me and hovered it over the package, pretending to inscribe “Love, the girls” with a heart next to it. She laughed, and I did too. I could imagine them opening the package, the one retrieving his mug, undoubtedly making a snarky comment, and the other ******* about the bottom left corner of the cover of his book being bent. I wondered if he’d wonder whether I read the whole thing through.



I hoped the cup wasn’t broken. There was a crack on the bottom of the handle, and I imagined him sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and having it snap and spill all over his lap.



“Next,” the woman called us and we stepped to send it off. “Would you be interested in the priority tracking shipping? It’ll cost— ”



“No thanks, we’re not in a real rush to get it there.”



“It’ll be the same price as without it, $5.79.”



“Then sure.”



I paid in quarters, retrieved my change and we left.



“Hopefully now that he has his ******* cup back he’ll sign the lease.” We were both worried.



“Do you want to get some wine?” And so we drove. Up the street, left turn, on the main road, right turn through the drive through.



“Hello,” I said to the man in the turban. She gave me her license and her card. “Could we have a double-bottle of Yellow Tail’s Cabernet Sauvignon?”



“Big bottle?”



“Yes sir.”



“I wonder how much those Backwoods cigars are.. sir, could you tell me how much for the 5-pack?” He reached for the pack on the left. “$7.49.”



“Oh no. Do you have Black and Mild’s?



“Apple, wood-tip, wine—”



“Could we have a wood-tipped wine one?”



“It’s better than cigarettes.”



“I haven’t smoked tobacco since Christmas Eve so I’m okay with it. I need it after today.”



He handed me the goods, I gave him her card, we waited, I smiled at her and she smiled back, her pale face and sweet, soft features, like a little pet, and he reached down to give me the clipboard to sign her name.



“Thanks, have a good night.” And I drove off.

You *****—I bet you know this—
All along you knew it was wrong
You were too insecure
You wanted what wasn’t yours
You corrupt ******* *****

I swore to be nice
But it was really hard, twice
When you brought it up
Shoved it in my face—
I wanted to put you in your place
But I knew, too true, it was all you could do
To regain a feeling,
Feel like you had meaning,
And were worth something to him

But your summer skin was not enough
To make him stay, you were a piece to play,
A piece to hold and let go of right away
An action he made
To throw my world in disarray

You stupid *****
He never gave a ****
That’s why it was a hit and quit
—was it worth it?
To be a *** and make me feel bad?
We both know
He never loved you,
And that’s pretty ******* sad
I bet you were ******* mad
When he used your ***,
then tossed you aside like trash—
for a drunken smash, trying to hurt me--

you were nothing more than
a slick slit to stick his ****
and I bet you feel like ****
you were a shard to break my heart
and you did—you betrayed a sister
for a mister who only used you as a quickfix
—that manipulative ***** had you tricked!

But you know what?
You deserved it—you heard it
In my fake voice—the restrain
Not to tackle you and beat your face
But I refrained, still the pain:
For you and me both,
But it sure ***** to see how
You could never be
The girl he loved the most.

Are more than basic questions
and constantly questioning "why
did I leave?
So suddenly?"
and "did I do the right thing?"

Was I selfish,
only thinking about me,
my future and my reality
was it only an escape
because I thought I couldn't handle it
and couldn't cope
or because I wanted a challenge and to broaden my scope

3-19-2014



I feel torn again. The sky has been a consistent white, the white of dull, sad, desolate winter, for three straight days I can’t help wonder if someone, somewhere, is collecting data on social networking sites and analyzing moods based off what is being posted. If weather changes moods and weather is a subject of conversation, surely someone with the access would find a pattern interesting? Anthropological-technology studies must be popular somewhere. I’m sure someone could be focusing on weather, moods, and who is affected, especially if the HARP conspiracy is accurate and weather modification is possible. Besides that, and the prospect of our environment and climate being controlled as well as the NSA keeping a close watch on us, I have been thinking a lot about my place in the world and what I want to do.



Do I want to go to school? If so, I’d need to save up to move out, then begin saving in general, and essentially tie myself to pointless jobs for the next several years. Do I want to make a difference? How could I, unless I was to reject all social conventions and mores decided by the capitalistic corporotacracy in which we live? Do I have the courage to be radical? What would I sacrifice in deciding to be, and deciding not to be?

Why wasn’t it accepted? Is it not good? It’s as good as anyone else’s. Who determines what is accepted and what isn’t, and why are they given such a privilege of deciding? How did they earn it, assuming they did? Did they try; did they work harder than I?



When it comes to acceptance of any sort, these are the basic questions I pose. It’s impossible not to compare myself to others, as the world in which we live demands so; it seems to all be a competition, where the standards are high, varying across many different areas to be judged. Do I fall short, even surrounded by incompetence?



It all seems to be about survival. Whatever is necessary to advance needs to be done, and even if progression is unlikely, sustaining is required. There is no other alternative in life, as falling behind leads to ultimate extinction.



How do you reconcile such conflicting thoughts and emotions?



The differences are obvious while the similarities are astonishing.

Drinking beer by a garbage can
Does that make me ******
No, it makes me sneaky
Flies surround me
It's better than being caught
And scolded: "drinking is bad"
Sketchy things I do to drink alcohol
I still consider it worth it.
I watch the wispy clouds, and flies
Buzzing, mirroring my mind as I  wonder how I made it to 23 years old
So fast.

“If you had the chance to rename yourself, who would you say you were?”

“I’m not entirely sure what you mean,” the girl coughed. Her eyes were rimmed with the red of sleep-deprivation, wine and stimulants.

“Give yourself a title. A name. An alternative.” The pen was ready in her hand. What a fascinating case, she thought. This was the kind of thing she’d worked hard for, and all her efforts had been put into it. Sylvie Citron was a young psychologist who had struggled for a long time, uncertain what to make of her brilliance. Coming from a wealthy family, she never had any option besides success. Her passion for science was adopted from her father, who spent his life as a neurologist before his death; a result of an aneurism. Her mother, a former ballerina, committed suicide when she was nine. She always resented the arts, and suppressed her emotions, attributing the most valuable parts of life to reason and science. Art was for the fools, but she was fascinated by such jest. Having never gotten anything below an 85% in any subject, she prided herself on her academic competence. She was settled in her office on the corner of 15th and Patriot St., among other young professionals who were also prematurely successful and intellectually manufactured for success and nothing less.

Oftentimes, she’d see her fellow neighbors in the offices across the hall and on various floors in the elevators, in the city, and always in company. She never shared the likes of such company, but she was envious of those who effortlessly were successful and never alone. The young lawyer across the hall, Kaitlyn Stone, was an example of such. The two knew each other only in passing, but Sylvie’s ears were susceptible to all sounds of Kaitlyn’s seemingly ideal life dampening her own ion comparison, resulting in her inadequacy. Kaitlyn, the young, beautiful lawyer, hadn’t passed the necessary exams to enter the doctoral program she’d dreamed of, and therefore was stuck with no alternatives to taking the bar exam. Sylvie sneered at Kaitlyn in passing, but was greatly disturbed by the reminder that she would never be as charismatic. The girl sitting in front of her, however, was a golden opportunity.

The girl in front of her opened her mouth, only to close it. She swallowed. Her wavering eyes stared at the psychologist curiously, long enough to motivate the psychologist to inquire further but short enough to eliminate any progress.

“I can’t say.”

Sylvie readjusted her posture and leaned forward towards her client. “Hey,” she soothed. “This is a safe place. You can tell me anything.” The girl stared straight through. He brown eyes glimmered with thoughts until her sadness pushed through her dam of self-control, drowning her eyes in tears.

“You may think it depraved,” she wavered.

“You can tell me anything.” The eye-contact was impenetrable. Sylvie, while awkward in her own right, was **** good at her job, especially with her emotionally disturbed patients. It was her talent.

“I can’t say… I can’t access it in spoken word.”

Sylvie pressed her personal opinions down and focused. Sylvie, who was not exactly judgmental, found herself taking her job too seriously. She viewed the mentally ill as weak, and thought her intelligence should be used to restore the damaged human mind, to strengthen and rationalize the behavioral and cognitive components of the sick. This girl before her was hard to crack. She assessed the girl, scars on her arms from qualms causing harm, and decided to take a different approach.

“I would like you to pretend you’re standing across from someone. I want you to imagine this person as a neutral, compassionate person. Imagine you only have five minutes to speak to them. This person isn’t like anyone else, for this person possesses a trait which attracts you and compels you to trust them. You look in their eyes, you look past into their mind and see reassurance. They ask you your name. What would you say.”

The girl leaned forward on the couch, elbows on her thighs, propped so hands could support her head, holding her chin against her knuckles. Her bloodshot eyes said it before her mouth did.

“I would pull out poems. I always keep some in my purse. I have them on scratches of paper, napkins, impulsively writing as I felt it enter me. I wouldn’t need to say my name, because if you mean what you said when describing this person, they would know me. They would already know my name.”

“What would they call you?” Sylvie consciously monitored her tone, hoping to not sound too desperate. She knew girls of this kind had the ability to manipulate.

“Well, they would already know. And when knowledge is a shared thing, what point is there to say it? You can only address something so many times, but feeling it is the difference, That’s where the significance lies.”

Sylvie exhaled, trying not to sound too exasperated. It was nearing four o’ clock, and she already felt bored of the girl’s hesitation. “How does that person know who you are? How would they know what you’re called.”

Her eyes darkened, redder than ever. “They would know, because by having already known, they would feel it—not see it, and not hear it. It’s a force, not a title, not a name. It’s a being.”

“What is this being?”

“It’s my existence. It’s in my poetry.” She moved her hands and reached for the water glass on the table, took a gulp swallowed. She delicately smacked her lips, adding a seductive lick. Sylvie kept the same face, peering past the girl’s distracting gestures. “Maybe you can see it sometime.” Her voice was marked by set syllables of monotone and dull.

“Bring it next time.” Sylvie consciously tried not to rush her, but she couldn’t help but grow impatient.

The girl stood and collected her belongings. Sylvie stood also, guiding her to the door, the way she did with all patients at the end of all sessions. The girl was walking towards the doorway when she nonchalantly added “You’ll see it soon.” She left shortly thereafter, and Sylvie never saw her again.

Writing Prompt: July 20th 2014

4 août 2014
  

Write starting with this line for Yeats: "Now all the truth is out.."

Now all the truth is out.. and he knows. I haven’t told him, but such truth cannot be concealed. It’s too real, like a baby discovering its ability to bleed and heal. It’s too real, secreting from my adrenal glads, quivering my hands, my heart punching against my truth. It’s too true, like it was planned, a surprise party for me where I return home and am unexpectedly greeted by love.

The truth is out, but it was never really hidden, I just didn’t find out until now. It was not a secret, and nothing was omitted, but I hadn’t known how committed I was until I felt I would die if I wasn’t. My love, surging, forceful, moving as the sea–moving me–we are in the age of Pisces indeed, and he is my divine intervention without the lies of religion. My prophet, my prince, is it too soon to say I love you? Is it too soon to say I want to?

The truth is out: there exists an abundance of Sams and Bobbys and Rachels and they are all the same, but the man I call Habibi is as unique as his name.

He didn't know that he invested in being left and getting cheated on, bereft of commitment, suddenly it all went wrong; I took a turn back to what I had before, just to reaffirm I don't have that anymore. Vows: we never said them and I don't know that we will, but I'm honest as can be when I say I love him still.

The passive-aggressive note board read something different every day. Its original purpose was to write reminders—mother’s idea—and we would collectively contribute to it, whether it was a doctor’s appointment, a phone number to call back and job interview dates and times. That was the purpose, until it became otherwise.

The heavy, carefully-written, uppercase letters with sharp edges burned into my mind and I hated him even more. The authoritative tone, while dormant for a while, had returned, not in yells but in written words. It was the most passive way to demand anything, and being in the kitchen where everyone passed, it sat on the wall, a fat display of hypocrisy and power-plays.

This morning, after my steady awakening, the awakening of a person with no obligations, I saw it. My otherwise pleasant morning was interrupted by the letters. I imagined him waking up early before work and writing out the whole list of chores to do, using words like “please” to make it seem better. I imagined his short, stumpy arms reaching and writing these orders and I gritted my teeth.

It was a reminder of my resentment, especially since my mother probably put him up to it, she who was more passive and unable to control anything. He was her lapdog, yet she was the *****. What a sad life.

Today it read “Rent is due for last week. 50.00 each. No one is doing much of anything to help.” I wondered if my mother saw it and I figured she had, and my disdain for her grew even stronger at the thought. After the catastrophe of my last living situation, my mother welcomed me to return home and live in her and her husband’s house. It was reassuring to know that my siblings were there and I had allies, but I knew there would be a personal toll on accepting defeat. “Yes, I did just graduate college, no, I don’t have a job, no, I don’t know what the **** I’m doing.”

No one is doing much of anything to help. What an ironic sentence. I felt the very same way about Social Services, when I confessed to a beloved college professor that I had experienced trauma as a child, the kind that latches onto your soul and ***** it dry, taking all the sustenance, leaving identity hollow. It was the trauma created by a seemingly trusting adult, a person with the ability to intimidate and discipline children, an unexpected *******. Mother didn’t believe me. Social services didn’t care. No one is doing much of anything to help.

I stared at the board for minutes, barely blinking, letting my retina absorb the sentence and its meaning. Do they expect me to pay for this? He never did. I was eleven when it first happened, it happened consistently until I turned twelve, and once again when I was 15. He tricked me into thinking drinking was fun. Mother was never around of course, like she never is. All while looking at the board and thinking about these things, it was harder to think of who I hated worse.

They both ruined me. They both got off. Justice didn’t exist, and I refused to remain a prisoner for committing no crime. I thought about Genesis and Eve’s crimes. The crime of woman. The crime of sexuality. At the time, I didn’t realize a prepubescent girl was an object of ****** desire. When I did, it wrecked me forever. In my solitude, sitting in the kitchen of a huge house of secrets, empty except my presence, I concocted a plan. “What a wonderful plan!” I exclaimed internally, and I poured myself a bit of *****. I drank it, winced with the sharp taste of alcohol, and poured myself a bit more. No one would be home, and it’d be perfect.

Self-fulfilling Prophecy

When I walked to Jerusalem
And I saw people following
I thought to myself
What the ****.
All day, all night
No sleep, alright

Because I’m carried by my dreams-- so it seems
I hit cloud nine; because I crashed
Against a glass—ceiling
When I hit my head
Too high

Coming down, aye, down and out
Looking for a substance to drown in
But not go out in, ****
I’ll spray some **** like graffiti on these walls
I’ll color skin blue and purple
When I get into brawls
Because I fall hard. I mean I ball hard.
But I get right back up and play
If you too wrecked—to-confront-these-lyrics
You should stay the **** away.
I hear it? Do you hear?
I can hear my wedding bells
And when I hear people laugh
I hear the sound of inner hell.
Hellion!! Devil--seductress,
baybe maybe I please
get in some of that sugary sin
Maybe consult Confucius door-hinge
--Ask if the juice is worth the squeeze.

When I walked to Jerusalem
And I saw people following
I thought to myself
What the ****.
All day, all night
No sleep, alright

My suffering was a blessing
Say if the Israeli’s got me
Journalist, Arabic on my wrist
Words of wisdom in my lisp
Those Zionists would have shot me
Thank Lord.

Riley—I wonder why you found me attractive. I know why I found you…

You were so inappropriate that I couldn’t not like you. You were the thing I needed, the fuse, providing me with a connection with which I could use to cause such destruction. You were wrong, and dark, untouchable, unmentionable and unlovable, but I loved you anyway.



He was sad, or so it seemed. I saw him for the first time I graduated college. He confided in me his ****** use. I never thought he would do such a thing.



He told me I lost weight. Afterwards, I went home and ran, skipped dinner and consciously worked out my abdominal muscles. It felt good to hear him say; it felt good to know he found me ****.



He paid. Usually I did, or we split, but since I picked him up he brought change to buy me coffee—he even had enough for a refill. We were wired, talking. He was so caffeinated and talking. He told me he was going to see a psychologist to see if he had Asperger’s . His struggle to pay attention and act appropriately in social settings made him think so—his girlfriend had spent her life around autistic people and she thought he might. I would’ve never thought he had anything of the sort, rather I thought he was merely an eccentric and that made him interesting. I asked him if he thought drugs accelerated the process, he said yes, laughing. I wondered if I did—I didn’t dare ask because I couldn’t handle the blame or shame of having once been so manipulative.

My mind is buzzing from the over-sleeping, cups of coffee brewed too strong, and thoughts about the future, stuck in the present. To be stuck in the present however, is to be stuck in the past. Every moment that passes becomes the past, and the present is an unattainable concept, forever lapsing. Like water pouring from a kitchen sink, the present falls, is no longer new, and is never again. So here I sit, in the past, at 2:08 p.m. on a Wednesday, stuck with my tangled thoughts.

I really need a job. I have a job, as a server, and I’m ashamed. I work at a food-chain sports bar, where I’m encouraged to heavily line my eyes and have my mascara looking perfect, have straightened hair pulled back in a pony-tail and sass that leaves an impression. It’s not the worst job, at times I’ll admit it can be fun, in a superficial, extrovert type of way, but it leaves me depressed. Two months after having received my Bachelor’s in Psychology, and I am a part-time waitress.

I wait for the phone to ring. I want them to call me, as I consider myself a fit candidate, but I wonder if they will. “We’ll start calling people on Monday to schedule interviews.” Well, it’s Wednesday. So I called around noon, shortly after I woke up this morning. There was no real rush to wake up this morning, as there is no real rush to remind myself that I am once again trapped in my forsaken parents’ house, the one I swore I would never return to. A man answered, and I gave him my name and asked about interviews, saying I hadn’t yet received a call. “Her assistant will be calling people for interviews this week.” Pause. “Do you know when?” I asked. “No, sometime this week.” “Okay thanks.” And that was all.

All of this is in the past. Having occurred only moments ago, when I chugged my last cup of coffee; hours ago, when I woke up and called the place I wish to work; months ago, when I felt so proud for graduating college and holding promise the world (and employers) would view me as accomplished. It’s all the same, cemented in the past, the same past that decides my future. I wait for it.

Waiting for it is hard. It leaves me bitter and impatient. I feel weak. I want to spend my time asleep, but sleeping is a placeholder for facing reality once again. The future beckons, and mocks me. I inch closer to it every minute, trapped between it and the past in this abyss considered the present. I am stagnant. I am the collected drops falling from the faucet of the sink, running water spinning down the drain. I never fall to the pipes, but I am constantly lingering at the metal bottom, waiting to fall but never doing so.

I think. I think about all the courses I’ve studied, A’s and B’s I’ve earned in classes, C’s I’ve gotten on tests, D’s I’ve gotten on certain papers. Even then my mind was buzzing. I don’t even smoke *** anymore, but it seems I was better off then. I had a purpose. My schedule was to work, study, and complete assignments. I could socialize as I felt able and appropriate, and the past made my present validated. My presence in the present is absent. I yearn for those days, and consider going to school again. I stall in my thoughts and remind myself that I don’t have the money to go, nor the desire to take out more loans. I would need to study for the entrance exam. My mind, while buzzing, is mush. Even my vocabulary is lacking. I’ve lost the ability to think critically, and I waste my days in routine, bored and struggling to look forward. The days blend together. I don’t work until Saturday. The time is 2:25 now

I cope through poetry. I cope by confessing through writing what I cannot say yet want to convey. So here it goes: I suppose you wonder why I went astray, in my mind, in our reality, why I packed up and left, as if I wanted to forget, how much we meant to each other; my brother: if you knew how I wept in your absence--I hate to think of you as past tense, but know this: I did not dismiss your heart but rather I wanted a new start, and it's still for you my love burns and one day I will return.
I know it's concerning but my love's still burning, for it's you I adore like no one before, and now in the moment I'm torn with great torment, wondering if in time you might change your mind, and yet while it's my doing, it's just you I'm pursuing.
Though my presence may lack, I expect to come back, and return to your arms, free of all mental qualms, though I am a bit queer, my affection perseveres, and don't get me wrong, it's been you all along, I just needed some time, to find what's going through my mind, and I admit I got scared, for such love I felt unprepared, but my feelings are discerning and it's you for whom I'm yearning, and although I hesitate, I hope you can endure the wait; please just say you won't perish boo because I love and cherish you, but should you say we're done, just know I had a lot of fun, and I would never ever spite you, because love, there's no one like you; I'll never forget you and I'm so happy I met you.

Love like ours transcends Thanatos versus Eros

Your roots ripped apart my concrete heart

And instead instilled life, and growth, and hope

I hope, I hope that you think of me like that too

Reviving vibes: the energy love revitalizing you.

He threw
his half-filled
aluminum can of Asian pear juice
Out the window of his moving car.
I informed him of what he did,
And he reluctantly acknowledged
his pollution.
He asked for a kiss and I
reluctantly pecked
his lips and wondered
what number and rank
I was. I went inside and
He left, so
I took a hot shower, brushed my teeth, took
my medicine
and made hot tea. As I watched the soggy leaves brew
and the brown whispers seep,
I watched the water
turn into something else,
something else for me to drink—
and I’m quite fond of tea,
but I surely prefer water,
and I think my hands knew
because I
accidently spilled some
from my drinking glass into the brew
but it remained the same.
But anyways, it isn’t so bad,
It’s only a plant
causing this
change.

History doesn’t repeat, it reproduces,

It ***** us well

into the darkest hour; we hold it so holy as

it wholly condenses, contracts, cracks, grasps and

Moans. It’s a venereal haunting,

ghosts of a ruthless world that doesn’t give

a **** and only cares about ******* **** up and *******

to be the fittest, survival of the wittiest.



You all want to reproduce your kind

but with the reproduction of your kin

your kind comes out sludge—

the soggy excuse of an abandoned mind

rotting away into “we’re not the first—

it’s always happened, all the time, is that a crime?”



Wreaking havoc amongst a species of your kind?

****! Me! Yes! It’s serious!

To trudge the earth for proof

that birth of war was something

of divine? Is it fine that people die

and never know of the privileged life—the life



We ******* live, ******* for Capitalism

But still getting ****** the same—

Like parents—if you won’t ******* take the time

to ******* notice what’s there and what’s right

what’s not and what is, sometimes—

what is sometimes more than one or two times;



The world is your baby, you can’t just decide

When to care and when to pretend you do

It’s true, getting ******, we all have—just a few

everyone is getting ****** in the entire ******* world

***** ******* with their ******* only want control

Hypocritical ***** in the government—they’re the ones creating ******

We the people, America the ******, swallowing what’s ******* from stores

Money’s flashy in that aspect it can buy whatever fetish

It can satisfy and pleasure

It can torture it can ruin it

It can break a nation’s soul;



Does Earth seem like a hole?

It gets ****** objectively, free of sentiment or affection,

It gets pillaged, ripped and hurled. It fights back

Vulnerable and totally ordinary—rare for our kind.

Who gives a ****, Earth doesn’t have a gender,

It’s not going to tell anyone,

You had a lot to drink,

It was social influence:



It was the way of human kind,

******* for any kind of benefit,

Privilege, artificial sentiment

******* to keep going

Like everyone else

Maybe one day we’ll have a family until,

Until,

they too, will die.

I don’t want to be like Plath, Woolfe, or any other female writer who is categorized by confessing depression on paper. I want to describe my subjectivity and contrast it with objectivity, record reality as I perceive it, and analyze my most relevant moments; I want to collect soothing ones, painful ones, and all outside and in between, arranging my observations and most prominent memories into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, an interpretation of a specific type of life where I am riddled through the spaces, cracks, unfinished bits, rushed strokes and flaws, filling what’s unsaid with myself, where I am what’s reflected. My life is a mosaic where everything is broken and together, beautiful, but nowhere near perfect, and I cannot stop staring at what I’ve created from what has been provided. The pieces I arranged I did so with variety; some were carefully placed, some impulsively stuck, and some I smashed myself, to be destructive and see what it would look like after. Moments, like assorted glass, are sometimes broken, smooth, colorful, jagged, curved, sharp and dull, but when they are placed together, their individual qualities are no longer emphasized, and the importance lies in the whole piece of what is created. A mosaic is the essence of the artist with the ability to reflect the artist’s design, like a mirror.

With each passing day thoughts scurry faster and holding on to ideas is a fallacy. How to stop one’s ticking mind? The obsession of thoughts and pretenses of wisdom don’t plague everyone, do they? So many people seem to be so happy, so sure of themselves in simple humanity. Simple. Yes, to be American is so simple. Americans are not free, rather, they are made within the capitalist nation and sold at face value. To be American is to worry about appearances above morality, although appearing to be a moral is part of the appearance. Morality is a side effect of appearance though, and Rigorous figured if she were to live a life that was completely hers, she would have to defy this notion and wreck it completely.



How many people are actually wise? Who considers thoughts so vast Information is not to be savored, but processed. Humans are lazy machines, and it seems with the more work to consider the more forgetting is involved.



It was initially hard to consider the idea that men were needed for a happy life, but as she realized herself, her ability to succeed in the world and hold some kind of significance, or so she thought, she knew in a man’s world she had to do what men wanted.

We had *** without *******
But more like a consummation of selves.
He entered me with his hands and his eyes
His thighs against mine when we were kissing and touching each other.

I blew him and I knew him well enough to get him off twice
I knew it meant nothing but still it felt nice.

I saw his smile for the first time and a while and he almost looked happy to see me. I’ve still never met anyone with those eyes; I instantly forgot his old lies and how I’d always cry. His smile was happy. I remember how he’d laugh with tears after we made up after a fight. I remember looking into his eyes when they were an inch from mine; we’d be kissing and smiling and miserable in love.  The true misery came when absence cured the pain his love left. Even now, having coffee on a Tuesday night, his smile, like ice, expands to fill the crevices of my soul only to later drain away, leaving me aching and cold and wet in this bitter winter. I want to cry. I’ve done it hundreds of times. I hated him while and after we dated, and I don’t know if love was enough. Maybe I’m the crazy one. Maybe I was always crazy, and I chased him away. Maybe we were too perfect in our differences, and the universe in its cruel existence ripped us apart without explanation. Maybe he’s made a deal with the universe. Did he ever love me? Can sixteen year-olds love? What about when they’re twenty? He ruined my life. He made me who I am. 2009 was the worst year of my life. I’m glad I forgot about him, but weirdly, I’m glad he came back. I liked looking across the table from him as I sipped my coffee. It was bold and warm. He doesn’t eat meat either. Maybe we were meant to be together. Maybe I should never see him again because I keep having stupid ideas about love lost. Maybe I should cry. It’ll take months and months to forget the feeling I got from the smiles he shared in the two hours of our conversation. Do I love him? I don’t. That’s the sad part. I loved him. Why do I still feel this way though? Shouldn’t it be over? He doesn’t love me anymore. Does he? He started contact. He smiled at me. Life is long. Things change. They change, but they can change back. Maybe he does work with the universe. He could’ve made a deal and this is our parallel universe where we end up together. We could still. Life is long. His smile is something worth trying for. His smile and his eyes made me real. They trained me. They broke me. The shouted and cried and gave me mean stares and pleaded and suddenly disappeared. Could they be back?

One of my favorite things about art is that no one can prove you’re wrong or you aren’t doing it right. It’s entirely subjective.  Of course there are snobs who consider art to be based off a standard that some elitists decided to define it as. Art can be vague, obscure, messy, precise, detailed, sharp, among many other adjectives which capture a piece and its inspiration. You can’t define art. Art is not defined of determined by conventions. Art, raw art, is creation. It’s expression. It is a language, and it connects and communicates with the viewers to whom it speaks. It is completely open to interpretation. There is no set standard to measure it by, and it is open for discussion without  being an argument. I don’t know if those who try to see art in concrete terms appreciate it much, like art always needs to have a purpose and be analyzed. Art doesn’t have to have an assigned meaning, and the belief that it does only reflects the arrogance of a critic who aims to immediately understand what may be confusing.



Colors happen accidently

In trying to find the perfect shade

Mixing and blending colors that are there

Creating ones that weren’t

The ones before now aren’t

It was the little things,

like doing dishes and folding laundry that

set me off.

“FOLD LAUNDRY! WASH THE DISHES! DO CHORES!”

He’d yell and she would just sit there and watch.



We got cursed at and she’d look away.

We’d get spanked and she looked away.

We got full-body massages at nine and eleven;

she looked away.



We, the royal me, yes, was a clean, polite girl with no self

Esteem, who sought perfection but saw flaws

And scars. We could cook and clean and

****, we used manners,

We smiled.



But we, of a degenerate kind, had

the nerve to use our mind and explore

all kinds of places. we used it

in thriving and dying, we used it in wailing and lying and failing

and crying—we used it in intellect

in friends—in the happiest of situations—unlike in adolescence

we surpassed it, kicked it’s *** and learned a thing or two about the brain;

all kinds of literature proved we weren’t just insane!

These ideas, these geniuses, these mistakes amongst ourselves

Let us see how life can be such a glorious hell!

Art and fiction, the laws of science, seeing the universe in our soul:

It makes us feel whole. But even in with this kind,

unstable state of mind, we regress when

Set off by treacherous memories like doing dishes and

folding laundry.

What are you thinking about?

4 août 2014
  

You’re only as crazy as they allow you to be,
Because you’re not crazy at all; you’re free
You walk, you trip, but what is a scratch on the knee?
To wobble and stumble so blissfully
Keep going, keep going,
There’s more to explore
Keep going
As you’ve ****** up what was there before
Just leave it, keep going,
And pray for amends, forgive what it was
before the storm descends, you need to trot onward
it was getting too comfortable
a traveler who grows restless often loses control
roll on
walk along
nothing around for miles
these walks, stops, contemplating where to venture
makes this life worthwhile.