i never realize how much i miss my bestfrand
until he messages me

...the *******.

i was in love with him for awhile
blue Skys are tempting
any time of the year
i have a thing for
boys with smashed hearts
but i
got over it
can't chase blue Skys
my whole life
high as **** Brian S.'s come along
cocky Dougs
slick Adams
****-naked Gregs
smooth-talking Wayne Gilberts
and smiling Elliots
and they take up the time
inbetween
they give me reasons to smile
or cringe
at least they
******* entertain me
keep me
busy
that's all i look for
i guess

...i'm shallow as ****
and i don't even care
i'm just glad
my blue Sky is back
i don't love him like i used to
but he still loves me
and that makes it
ok...
time to raise hell...
blue Sky
and summer time
go together
perfectly

planning

The other day Anna created a Pinterest board of wedding ideas (Cheesy, she knows). “It’s time to hop on the bandwagon,” she said. She insists every other girl she’s aware of - except her weird Yale roommates - has one.

We think her girls back home (in Oregon) - who didn’t go to college, are matching up with the Larrys and Gregs who stayed home to become auto mechanics and carpenters - and are now serially getting married. This trend seems to be exerting an odd, psychological pressure on Anna.

“You may be jumping the gun,” Sophie observes.

Anna’s never even had a long-term boyfriend before, but she wishes she had one now. A part time BF anyway, because who has time for more? Anna is self-proclaimed awkward with guys, especially cute ones.

She created a tinder account and uses it to see how many matches she can get - but she refuses to meet any guys there because she says she’s not “desperate.” She thinks everything about tinder screams awkward, unless people are just hooking up there - and that idea, in her mind, is absolutely disgusting.

saving the planet

Late last Friday night, a graduate friend of Peter’s threw a party at his house - far from campus. The house was packed with people and the music was thumping, the crowded rooms jumping - practically ******* - in time to a Sacramento horror punk band called “The cramps" that was playing on loop.

I made it through the living room mob to the kitchen, which was oddly empty and well lit. There was a disheveled girl gripping the island bar with one hand, like we’re on a rocking ship, while trying to light a cigarette with the other. I gently wangled the lighter from her - so she didn’t set her hair on fire - and gave her a light.

Afterwards, I slipped the lighter into her skirt pocket, and noticed half the island had coke spilled all over it. “I gave it a drink,” she said, slurring and wavering on her feet, “it looked thirsty.”

That’s when I noticed her now-empty *** and coke cup next to a soaking wet little cactus plant, two ice cubes now lodged in its dirt. I reassured her as I helped her onto a chair, “you were saving the planet.”

I was brought up on a council estate,
I had 53 aunty's and I was everyones mate,
We played out till dark or till we felt hunger,
We'd beg mum or dad to let us play longer,
I had holes in me shoes but they made me run faster,
I had national health glasses held together with plaster,
Dried snot on me face mixed in with the dirt,
Corporation pop stains all over me skirt,
But I was happy,
Go of for the day with butties of jam,
If we where lucky, some biscuits of me mam,
An old fairy liquid bottle full of cold water,
There's one we'd always chase, but never ever caught her,
We'd make dens in the woods from old boxes and trays,
Be princesses in a castle, oh what joyful days,
We'd sit in the field, making daisy chains,
Play rounders and hido, and loads of games,
Run to the mobile for a 10p mix of sweets,
Sit on the curly wall at the bottom of our street,
Pinch a bunch of flowers from St Gregs ground,
And say to mum "honestly they where found",
Get grounded for giving cheek or answering back,
Walked along the ralla, the old train track,
Wait for the icey, all of us in drones,
To ask him politely for any stale cones,
Played out in the rain, got soaked through and through,
Just some of the things we used to do,
In those endless summers of my past,
That have gone far to fast,
But they have made me who I am now,
A ****** of Mother and a miserable cow.
Haha joking,
I'm proud of my childhood, I was very lucky.

Hello poetry is public matters Id say because I walk this streetlamp eating nutty butterfingers total blown down deeper than the throat young yella bone chicanos can fap maniacally as ***** ***** dancers watch me much much munch. I am Hello Poetry yet Id **** a microphone in the closet because my eggcrates ache grunge album that do not belong to Yyclef. I lied **** head but butter me up buttery enough that my under pants don't snag my inchy tagged and tickled gnome. "Oh Underpant we ****** Old Gregs crack pipes he leaves on cold countertops this month for this be Off season." I weep. Why not my pans or my pun tease these ******* growing mickey mouse thunb prints before my nuts become cheese. Good greaf I'ffy if me sneechy ***** beach teacher teaching toddler that the fingers thumper. Thump my thumb. Pinterest my buns before I *** critters all in tune to teepee creaking creeps kitchen chicken finger fetching fists before *** educari gets carry on that vibes to Marshals mashed potato. Mathers you do matter much. I love the gleam of your crust. Tears up to the Beautiful song that becomes songs and weeps once more.