Charlie wasn’t someone I was supposed to know. I don’t think he was even supposed to talk to me directly. What he was supposed to do was make sure that I shot the dogs.
I had to do this once a month, but it was something I always had bad dreams about. The only trouble for me was the noise, really. I hated the crying, especially the last choking sound that came out, a whimpering howl of resignation. I didn’t know how to not feel evil when I heard that.
I think that’s why he talked to me, Charlie, because he felt bad. He could tell I was hesitant, that I was missing shots because my vision was blurred. Charlie tried to explain to me that the dogs weren’t so innocent. That they would eat the food the Army would bring for my family's rations, and that they would bite soldiers on patrol.
I asked him what the soldiers were patrolling for. Charlie looked at me incredulously.
"The dogs," he said.
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Wednesday, May 29, 2019
Vampires in Africa
"It's hot."
His voice ripped through the hush of chattering leaves. It was aggressive but soft, as though his vocal chords were sandpaper scratching out sounds. It sent his recent sip of whiskey out with the consonants, clear brown drops sticking behind the peeled skin of his lips. All she could think was that, if he was taken, they wouldn't get much blood out of him. His body was raw and dry, and anything tangible was peeling or chipping off. His leg was the most frightful. Just a mass of tangled flesh at this point.
"Here," she said, thrusting her half-filled Nalgene of burnt water against his chest. "And stop talking."
She reached forward to the lantern and turned the key, dimming the flame slightly.
He took a drink, holding himself back from finishing it all in two swift gulps.
"It hasn't rained...in 9 days," he rasped.
"It may not rain again," she said softly over the flame. The dancing light created shadows like hyenas against the canvas wall of their tent. She dared not move closer to him, or else the heat would fully take wing. "The blessing of the Hunters has been mocked. It is known that a human must avenge."
His eyes fought to focus on her face."I won't let you do it," he breathed.
That is good to hear, my love" she said, grasping for the last drop of whiskey, "because I am no longer human."
His voice ripped through the hush of chattering leaves. It was aggressive but soft, as though his vocal chords were sandpaper scratching out sounds. It sent his recent sip of whiskey out with the consonants, clear brown drops sticking behind the peeled skin of his lips. All she could think was that, if he was taken, they wouldn't get much blood out of him. His body was raw and dry, and anything tangible was peeling or chipping off. His leg was the most frightful. Just a mass of tangled flesh at this point.
"Here," she said, thrusting her half-filled Nalgene of burnt water against his chest. "And stop talking."
She reached forward to the lantern and turned the key, dimming the flame slightly.
He took a drink, holding himself back from finishing it all in two swift gulps.
"It hasn't rained...in 9 days," he rasped.
"It may not rain again," she said softly over the flame. The dancing light created shadows like hyenas against the canvas wall of their tent. She dared not move closer to him, or else the heat would fully take wing. "The blessing of the Hunters has been mocked. It is known that a human must avenge."
His eyes fought to focus on her face."I won't let you do it," he breathed.
That is good to hear, my love" she said, grasping for the last drop of whiskey, "because I am no longer human."
Tuesday, March 12, 2019
Do you think you are a good person?
I have been working on repeating positive phrases to help me overcome my inertia, and I am noticing the language I choose is unhelpful. One thing that I feel the need to say to myself constantly is,
"I am not a bad person."
As I continued to say that to myself, I noticed that it was centered on the negative, so I started trying to say,
"I am a good person."
I have yet to repeat it more than twice. I start to feel queasy. I guess I don't believe that it's true of myself.
How can I break through to a place where I can allow myself to see myself as a good person? I am genuinely realizing for the first time that I have not once seen myself as a good person, and I am not sure why.
Yeah, I've done bad things. But why did I do them? And why didn't they? I just want to know.
"I am not a bad person."
As I continued to say that to myself, I noticed that it was centered on the negative, so I started trying to say,
"I am a good person."
I have yet to repeat it more than twice. I start to feel queasy. I guess I don't believe that it's true of myself.
How can I break through to a place where I can allow myself to see myself as a good person? I am genuinely realizing for the first time that I have not once seen myself as a good person, and I am not sure why.
Yeah, I've done bad things. But why did I do them? And why didn't they? I just want to know.
Thursday, April 28, 2016
Lessons learned from a liar
Do not trust anyone.
The one you love the most will be the first one to abandon you.
You are not worth the effort.
Your past defines you.
Put your guard up, and never let it down.
Get your shit together.
There is no such thing as unconditional love.
There is no such thing as love.
The one you love the most will be the first one to abandon you.
You are not worth the effort.
Your past defines you.
Put your guard up, and never let it down.
Get your shit together.
There is no such thing as unconditional love.
There is no such thing as love.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Autumn harvest
The sea was baking.
The air hung with the smell of everything dead underneath the sand, as if it was being brought back to life by the heat. The rays of sun were fingers of mist that slowly dipped beneath the surface of the water to soothe its long reach to the shallow floor
ripping out every mollusk
and half formed starfish
and black crustacean
and anything fast and dumb enough to bury itself
boiling every green mussel
plump with ship oil, soon to be duck fat.
It is a seance, with an 100 degree medium bringing alive every
spindly carcass and
tangled canvas
animating what is rotten to the core.
The air hung with the smell of everything dead underneath the sand, as if it was being brought back to life by the heat. The rays of sun were fingers of mist that slowly dipped beneath the surface of the water to soothe its long reach to the shallow floor
ripping out every mollusk
and half formed starfish
and black crustacean
and anything fast and dumb enough to bury itself
boiling every green mussel
plump with ship oil, soon to be duck fat.
It is a seance, with an 100 degree medium bringing alive every
spindly carcass and
tangled canvas
animating what is rotten to the core.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
When I was a child, I was a lonely child, and I relied on adverbs and disclaimers to make my presence felt. When I became an adult, I told children that it was okay to be afraid and that there were books they should not read. I told them that they could not know what was best and that it was best not to know.
When I became an adult, I read newspapers whose articles I did not understand, and I acquired a form of language so basic that it hurt to put what I was thinking into words that I could say.
When I was a child, I believed that there was a strength to literacy, and I held it like a shield, but once I began to strip the words away, everything began to hurt less. To be free from the words that pressed themselves into sentences, like the way my mother squeezed her children's feet into year-old shoes, made me feel better. I started talking again, and I was thankful that my small vocabulary left me with less to say. It was easier to be truthful, and it was easier to lie.
When I became an adult, I read newspapers whose articles I did not understand, and I acquired a form of language so basic that it hurt to put what I was thinking into words that I could say.
When I was a child, I believed that there was a strength to literacy, and I held it like a shield, but once I began to strip the words away, everything began to hurt less. To be free from the words that pressed themselves into sentences, like the way my mother squeezed her children's feet into year-old shoes, made me feel better. I started talking again, and I was thankful that my small vocabulary left me with less to say. It was easier to be truthful, and it was easier to lie.
Monday, May 18, 2015
sagewalk part one
One of the things that I remember most about wilderness camp was the "impact letters" we all received. The impact letter was obviously supposed to make an impact on us, but it was more an outlet for our parents to describe the effect our choices had had on our families than a tool to help us feel compelled to change our lives.
After about a week of being out there, your "parent(s) and/or guardian(s)" sent you an impact letter. This letter described to you all of the bad things you had done and how they had negatively affected your family. Each girl had to read their impact letters aloud. The first time our eyes touched the paper, we had to instantly convert what we were seeing into something everyone else had to hear. You tried to be strong, and mostly you tried to remain unbiased, but often times, our voices betrayed our reactions.
I remember hearing the other girls' impact letters. They were pleas for their daughters' salvation, in a way. They read more as poignant narratives, no emotion betrayed. "This is what made me fear for your life. I want my daughter back," the letters would say. "I remember the first time I ever held you in my arms, the way your eyes lit up, how big your smile was. All the nurses said you were the first smiling baby they'd seen in years. I don't know what else to do." The girls' voices would crack or waver, but they would plow through because they had to. I remember crying indiscriminately at each letter, until I read my own.
My impact letter came late, at the two week mark versus the one. It met all of the criteria, and the instructions were well-adhered to. It's hard to describe it as a letter, though, because it was more like a list, an accountant's tale of my systematic immorality. These are the things you did: one, two, three, four. Each instance was separated by dashes and bullet-points, in almost an outline form, one, two, three, four. You started cutting; you became sexually promiscuous; you began abusing alcohol; you got beat up in the park and the police brought you home. These are the things you did: one, two, three, four.
I read it just like the way I'd read newspaper articles in class, because I wasn't really reading it, and I didn't really think about it until I saw the way the other girls looked at me. I was, at that point, happy to see any letter at all, and happy to see the familiar circular script of my mother, but even a counselor admitted to me that my letter wasn't quite what they had hoped I would receive.
I want to take some of the blame. If I had known at sixteen my wantonness and selfishness would have impacted the functionality of my already desperate three-member family, maybe I would have reconsidered my actions. Maybe I would have felt as if I held a little more weight in all of the other family decisions that I believed I had no voice in. But at the time, I truly felt that everything I did affected me, and only me. I know now that I was wrong. I needed to hold myself accountable, and I made many mistakes. It was hard to fully accept the responsibility that the horrible decisions I made when I was sixteen determined the outcome of a family, but it did. And that is my burden.
But if I am truly honest, I guess I can't help but think that it's funny. And I realize that I'm bitter, but I think it's funny that the way that the parents raised us girls, who were sent to wilderness camp, was neatly paragraphed and eloquently formed into a letter that attributed it all to our own choices. It seems that we are the mutations in what would have been a spotless gene pool. Thank you, impact letter, and blizzards and tepees and coyotes and bow drills, or else I would have never realized the travesty that is my position within my family.
After about a week of being out there, your "parent(s) and/or guardian(s)" sent you an impact letter. This letter described to you all of the bad things you had done and how they had negatively affected your family. Each girl had to read their impact letters aloud. The first time our eyes touched the paper, we had to instantly convert what we were seeing into something everyone else had to hear. You tried to be strong, and mostly you tried to remain unbiased, but often times, our voices betrayed our reactions.
I remember hearing the other girls' impact letters. They were pleas for their daughters' salvation, in a way. They read more as poignant narratives, no emotion betrayed. "This is what made me fear for your life. I want my daughter back," the letters would say. "I remember the first time I ever held you in my arms, the way your eyes lit up, how big your smile was. All the nurses said you were the first smiling baby they'd seen in years. I don't know what else to do." The girls' voices would crack or waver, but they would plow through because they had to. I remember crying indiscriminately at each letter, until I read my own.
My impact letter came late, at the two week mark versus the one. It met all of the criteria, and the instructions were well-adhered to. It's hard to describe it as a letter, though, because it was more like a list, an accountant's tale of my systematic immorality. These are the things you did: one, two, three, four. Each instance was separated by dashes and bullet-points, in almost an outline form, one, two, three, four. You started cutting; you became sexually promiscuous; you began abusing alcohol; you got beat up in the park and the police brought you home. These are the things you did: one, two, three, four.
I read it just like the way I'd read newspaper articles in class, because I wasn't really reading it, and I didn't really think about it until I saw the way the other girls looked at me. I was, at that point, happy to see any letter at all, and happy to see the familiar circular script of my mother, but even a counselor admitted to me that my letter wasn't quite what they had hoped I would receive.
I want to take some of the blame. If I had known at sixteen my wantonness and selfishness would have impacted the functionality of my already desperate three-member family, maybe I would have reconsidered my actions. Maybe I would have felt as if I held a little more weight in all of the other family decisions that I believed I had no voice in. But at the time, I truly felt that everything I did affected me, and only me. I know now that I was wrong. I needed to hold myself accountable, and I made many mistakes. It was hard to fully accept the responsibility that the horrible decisions I made when I was sixteen determined the outcome of a family, but it did. And that is my burden.
But if I am truly honest, I guess I can't help but think that it's funny. And I realize that I'm bitter, but I think it's funny that the way that the parents raised us girls, who were sent to wilderness camp, was neatly paragraphed and eloquently formed into a letter that attributed it all to our own choices. It seems that we are the mutations in what would have been a spotless gene pool. Thank you, impact letter, and blizzards and tepees and coyotes and bow drills, or else I would have never realized the travesty that is my position within my family.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
i would walk to the deserts of arizona
even if my bones turned dry
but i want the sea with the sails and the swells
and the deep sand i call mine
i'm not afraid of the dirt or coyotes
or the ghosts of the indians and squirrels
but i would tremble at the thought of leaving
all these clear waves edged in pearls
even if my bones turned dry
but i want the sea with the sails and the swells
and the deep sand i call mine
i'm not afraid of the dirt or coyotes
or the ghosts of the indians and squirrels
but i would tremble at the thought of leaving
all these clear waves edged in pearls
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Monday, November 24, 2014
Friday, November 14, 2014
Monday, October 20, 2014
dream #1
I was asleep on the couch, but I wasn't sleeping. My eyes were closed, but I could make out every dim outline and soft shape that hung in the dark. I knew I was seeing all of this for reason. I knew I wasn't alone
Within what was a split second of realization, I felt myself being pulled from the couch by my four limbs. My eyes flung open, and I saw pale hands clutching my wrists and my ankles. It was only two people, a man and a woman this time, and I could see their shoes. I knew instantly who they were, and that I was going to die. They had finally come, and I could already feel the tightness of the dog kennels and the drugs rushing through my veins and the dead men kissing my life away.
I was completely paralyzed. The most I could manage was to roll my head from side to side and move my eyes furiously across the room. I was being dragged now, and I knew the rug was being pulled beneath me because it burned against my spine. I could see the white door moving closer, approaching slow like a mountain. I tried to scream. I had to scream. I could feel it rise up in my throat like gravel, I could hear it choking out in violent gasps, ringing clear in my head but leaving my chest only in rattles. Nothing escaped my mouth. The white paint of the front door illuminated everything, including the woman's face with the clear blue eyes and heart shaped lips, and her striking resemblance to my own reflection, except that she was more beautiful, and much less terrified.
I had to scream. My life depended on this sound, now, the vocal ability I once took for granted, wasting decibels on rock shows and roller coasters, throwing the power of my voice like sand to the wind. I tried to push the air through my ribs, and I pushed until my eyes fell back into my skull. And soon, the sound crawled its way out of my lungs, clawing through my throat, and the silence was cut with a ragged, horror movie scream, exploding through the darkness like shattered glass. I was suddenly able to fling my body upright, gasping for air as if I had just been brought back to life.
Maybe I had been. Now I was restless on the couch again, and I was next to my boyfriend. The room was empty, and the white door stood as motionless as it ever had. He was awake, rubbing my back, breathless. My scream had woke him, and I could tell it had scared him. His hand on my back and the sharp air I was breathing in calmed me, but it was still so dark, I couldn't even feel him beside me. Something wasn't right. I was aware of him, but he was barely visible to me. He might as well have been a ghost. He reached to touch my shoulder, but I flinched and pulled away. I was aware of something else, too.
He asked me what was wrong, if I had had a bad dream. I could hardly even hear him now. I was still trying to come to, my eyes feeling around the darkness for something familiar. He moved to touch me again, but I was already throwing off our blanket and turning to the black. Something wasn't right. The room, it looked different, and nothing in the dark could seem to hold its shape. For the second time, I was overwhelmed with the sensation that I was seeing everything through closed eyelids. He began to speak, but I grabbed his wrist and put my finger to my lips. Something isn't right, my mind repeated. We are not alone. They were out there still, somewhere. Waiting for me to close my eyes again.
"Baby. Come back to bed," His voice was firm now, and I allowed myself to look away from the rest of the room and into his eyes. He was afraid of me, I could tell. I needed to stay calm, but now the couch was facing a different direction, and he hadn't seemed to notice, or at the least, he wasn't at all bothered by it. I turned away from him. He couldn't know.
"Baby, why are we sleeping out here instead of in your bed?" I spoke finally, my voice flat and urgent.
"I don't know. I can't remember. Just come back to bed, baby." His eyes lit up. The white door was burning like a beacon and brought out the green beneath his eyes. Fear began to pour upon me like sheets of rain.
"They're still here." I know that I had said it, but the words were almost inaudible. I felt him stiffen beside me.
"Who's here?" He looked around incredulously, unable to make out anything, and when his eyes met mine, his stare was wary. "Who's here?"
"The ones I left to die." I had to stand, but the muscles between my thighs felt like burned rubber and seemed to melt when I tried to rise. I knew I needed to move, but I was frozen again.
"Baby, there's no one here. It was just a bad dream. Lay with me, I want to keep you safe." I remained sitting and still. I couldn't look away from the white door.
"Then wake me up," I whispered.
He paused, and I could sense his disbelief. "What?" he asked plainly.
"Please..." I reached behind me to feel for his hand, and when I met it, he laced his fingers with mine. "Please, you have to wake me up. You can't save me, like you want to, if I'm asleep. I'll die in this dream."
"Baby, you're awake" his voice sighed with a smile, "and even if you aren't, if you know you're dreaming, you can do anything you want."
"No," I said. "No, it's not that kind of dream." Slowly, the darkness began to move with a pulse, flooding the floor and spreading like tar over everything. It had its own movement, its own breath. His muscles tensed, and I knew that he could finally feel what I felt, and maybe could even see what I saw. When he spoke, I had to strain to hear.
"Then what kind of dream is this?" The darkness was sinister now, leaving a palpable chill hanging between our bodies.
"The kind where they always get back what they've lost."
"And how does it end?" He clasped his fingers tightly around mine, and our knuckles turned white. I pulled my hand away and turned to him. I touched his face and tried not to kiss him.
"I don't know, baby," I shook my head. "I'm usually awake by now."
"So if you wake up, do I stay here?"
"I don't know."
"But if you stay, you die.
"Yes."
"Okay." He kissed me, holding me by my shoulders, and once he pulled away, he began to shake me, telling me that I needed to wake up. My head snapped back and forth on my neck, and my tongue caught between my teeth with a flash of dull pain and a froth of hot, bright blood. The white door was opening, so he shook me faster, and everything spun away, the paint, the dark, his eyes, and soon, a sharpness of light beat against my skull like an epileptic fit.
When I awoke, I was alone, and the sheet was spattered with drops of blood as red as paint. Hia side of the bed was still warm.
Within what was a split second of realization, I felt myself being pulled from the couch by my four limbs. My eyes flung open, and I saw pale hands clutching my wrists and my ankles. It was only two people, a man and a woman this time, and I could see their shoes. I knew instantly who they were, and that I was going to die. They had finally come, and I could already feel the tightness of the dog kennels and the drugs rushing through my veins and the dead men kissing my life away.
I was completely paralyzed. The most I could manage was to roll my head from side to side and move my eyes furiously across the room. I was being dragged now, and I knew the rug was being pulled beneath me because it burned against my spine. I could see the white door moving closer, approaching slow like a mountain. I tried to scream. I had to scream. I could feel it rise up in my throat like gravel, I could hear it choking out in violent gasps, ringing clear in my head but leaving my chest only in rattles. Nothing escaped my mouth. The white paint of the front door illuminated everything, including the woman's face with the clear blue eyes and heart shaped lips, and her striking resemblance to my own reflection, except that she was more beautiful, and much less terrified.
I had to scream. My life depended on this sound, now, the vocal ability I once took for granted, wasting decibels on rock shows and roller coasters, throwing the power of my voice like sand to the wind. I tried to push the air through my ribs, and I pushed until my eyes fell back into my skull. And soon, the sound crawled its way out of my lungs, clawing through my throat, and the silence was cut with a ragged, horror movie scream, exploding through the darkness like shattered glass. I was suddenly able to fling my body upright, gasping for air as if I had just been brought back to life.
Maybe I had been. Now I was restless on the couch again, and I was next to my boyfriend. The room was empty, and the white door stood as motionless as it ever had. He was awake, rubbing my back, breathless. My scream had woke him, and I could tell it had scared him. His hand on my back and the sharp air I was breathing in calmed me, but it was still so dark, I couldn't even feel him beside me. Something wasn't right. I was aware of him, but he was barely visible to me. He might as well have been a ghost. He reached to touch my shoulder, but I flinched and pulled away. I was aware of something else, too.
He asked me what was wrong, if I had had a bad dream. I could hardly even hear him now. I was still trying to come to, my eyes feeling around the darkness for something familiar. He moved to touch me again, but I was already throwing off our blanket and turning to the black. Something wasn't right. The room, it looked different, and nothing in the dark could seem to hold its shape. For the second time, I was overwhelmed with the sensation that I was seeing everything through closed eyelids. He began to speak, but I grabbed his wrist and put my finger to my lips. Something isn't right, my mind repeated. We are not alone. They were out there still, somewhere. Waiting for me to close my eyes again.
"Baby. Come back to bed," His voice was firm now, and I allowed myself to look away from the rest of the room and into his eyes. He was afraid of me, I could tell. I needed to stay calm, but now the couch was facing a different direction, and he hadn't seemed to notice, or at the least, he wasn't at all bothered by it. I turned away from him. He couldn't know.
"Baby, why are we sleeping out here instead of in your bed?" I spoke finally, my voice flat and urgent.
"I don't know. I can't remember. Just come back to bed, baby." His eyes lit up. The white door was burning like a beacon and brought out the green beneath his eyes. Fear began to pour upon me like sheets of rain.
"They're still here." I know that I had said it, but the words were almost inaudible. I felt him stiffen beside me.
"Who's here?" He looked around incredulously, unable to make out anything, and when his eyes met mine, his stare was wary. "Who's here?"
"The ones I left to die." I had to stand, but the muscles between my thighs felt like burned rubber and seemed to melt when I tried to rise. I knew I needed to move, but I was frozen again.
"Baby, there's no one here. It was just a bad dream. Lay with me, I want to keep you safe." I remained sitting and still. I couldn't look away from the white door.
"Then wake me up," I whispered.
He paused, and I could sense his disbelief. "What?" he asked plainly.
"Please..." I reached behind me to feel for his hand, and when I met it, he laced his fingers with mine. "Please, you have to wake me up. You can't save me, like you want to, if I'm asleep. I'll die in this dream."
"Baby, you're awake" his voice sighed with a smile, "and even if you aren't, if you know you're dreaming, you can do anything you want."
"No," I said. "No, it's not that kind of dream." Slowly, the darkness began to move with a pulse, flooding the floor and spreading like tar over everything. It had its own movement, its own breath. His muscles tensed, and I knew that he could finally feel what I felt, and maybe could even see what I saw. When he spoke, I had to strain to hear.
"Then what kind of dream is this?" The darkness was sinister now, leaving a palpable chill hanging between our bodies.
"The kind where they always get back what they've lost."
"And how does it end?" He clasped his fingers tightly around mine, and our knuckles turned white. I pulled my hand away and turned to him. I touched his face and tried not to kiss him.
"I don't know, baby," I shook my head. "I'm usually awake by now."
"So if you wake up, do I stay here?"
"I don't know."
"But if you stay, you die.
"Yes."
"Okay." He kissed me, holding me by my shoulders, and once he pulled away, he began to shake me, telling me that I needed to wake up. My head snapped back and forth on my neck, and my tongue caught between my teeth with a flash of dull pain and a froth of hot, bright blood. The white door was opening, so he shook me faster, and everything spun away, the paint, the dark, his eyes, and soon, a sharpness of light beat against my skull like an epileptic fit.
When I awoke, I was alone, and the sheet was spattered with drops of blood as red as paint. Hia side of the bed was still warm.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
buen viaje
The worst part about loving a ghost isn't the fact that you are loving someone who isn't real, or at least, will no longer be real. It isn't that you're tending to something that will never exist, or at least, will no longer exist. The worst part about loving a ghost is having to admit to yourself that you are making a choice--a choice to put your life on hold, a choice to deter your own progress, for the promise of loss, the hope of pain. All for death's sake.
This is the truth we deny, the reality we ignore, the certainty we can't delay. We both know that this will end. We talk about it now like it's a story, something that hasn't taken root because there are months between it all. And for now, the days are going slow. But once the hours begin to breathe down our necks, the days will start to drop like flies. And then the weeks. And before long, there won't be any months left. There will only be a single moment.
The moment you leave.
This is the truth we deny, the reality we ignore, the certainty we can't delay. We both know that this will end. We talk about it now like it's a story, something that hasn't taken root because there are months between it all. And for now, the days are going slow. But once the hours begin to breathe down our necks, the days will start to drop like flies. And then the weeks. And before long, there won't be any months left. There will only be a single moment.
The moment you leave.
Friday, October 3, 2014
the truth sucks, and you're probably a terrible person :)
The doctor liked my breaking bad shirt.
You said you felt better because you were with men in business suits
when you were finally alone in the waiting room.
And the movies were bad, but they were inherently good
they made all the girls laugh.
an iv and 98.1
competing for the latest Vogue
issue brings us closer than
the real issue.
An agonizing, brutal wait.
I couldn't see the nurse's face
behind tinted windows, and
patients cant drink the water, ma'am.
A girl who didnt have a ride
was throwing up, but never cried.
My shoes looked stupid with my shorts.
It was so much better being alone.
There was no pressure to act normal
or laugh at any stupid jokes.
Instead I had a McDonald's breakfast
and 1984 responses to my questions.
I very much enjoyed the drugs,
but it wasn't your's, and it wasn't us.
I couldn't hear anything
and this has given me everything
I feel better now, and that's the truth.
There are so many good things that I have left to do.
You said you felt better because you were with men in business suits
when you were finally alone in the waiting room.
And the movies were bad, but they were inherently good
they made all the girls laugh.
an iv and 98.1
competing for the latest Vogue
issue brings us closer than
the real issue.
An agonizing, brutal wait.
I couldn't see the nurse's face
behind tinted windows, and
patients cant drink the water, ma'am.
A girl who didnt have a ride
was throwing up, but never cried.
My shoes looked stupid with my shorts.
It was so much better being alone.
There was no pressure to act normal
or laugh at any stupid jokes.
Instead I had a McDonald's breakfast
and 1984 responses to my questions.
I very much enjoyed the drugs,
but it wasn't your's, and it wasn't us.
I couldn't hear anything
and this has given me everything
I feel better now, and that's the truth.
There are so many good things that I have left to do.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
No one seems to understand how hard this is. I never wanted to have to make the decision I'm going to have to make. Not ever. Everyone talks about it like it's a blip on a radar, or like the solution to the problem is so obvious, like getting a root canal. Yeah, you probably should've flossed, but now you just have to take care of it and be done with it.
People always talk about how we're so lucky we have choices, but this isn't a choice. We have the same power of choice as we ever did. Now, we have options. I see that I have options. But in this matter, I truly have no choice, unless I want to choose being destitute, miserable, and alone.
The only choice I had was the decision to take a risk. I backed myself into a corner, and I knew what I was getting myself into. That was the choice I made.
People always talk about how we're so lucky we have choices, but this isn't a choice. We have the same power of choice as we ever did. Now, we have options. I see that I have options. But in this matter, I truly have no choice, unless I want to choose being destitute, miserable, and alone.
The only choice I had was the decision to take a risk. I backed myself into a corner, and I knew what I was getting myself into. That was the choice I made.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
say anything
You were my crutch
Now I've escaped your clutch
so how is that worm's eye view
I have grown two broad wings, and now I'm above you :)
Now I've escaped your clutch
so how is that worm's eye view
I have grown two broad wings, and now I'm above you :)
Monday, July 7, 2014
True love
I hate modern dating rules. It makes honesty really difficult. I mean, I like you, but I'm not supposed to talk to you or something? That would be weird, right? I don't know. In my experience, more than half the time that I wanted to contact a guy, he also wanted to contact me. But we both didn't because we were equally worried about the other's response. And, of course, we discuss years later about our missed connection. Isn't that just complete BULLSHIT? It's like, if you feel a connection with someone, what if there is some sort of validation there? Maybe it isn't something you're just making up in your head. Maybe you guys are actually hitting it off, and you're not just imagining it all.
But then again, maybe you are. And maybe it's pretty awful. Maybe it's that every-time-your-phone-goes-off-you-hope-it's-him kind of thing. And you know that it's most likely your mom making sure you're still alive, or your boss calling you into work, so why are you so excited over your cellphone vibrating like it did every other day before you started thinking about him? And honestly, why would it be him? You hung out alone, like, twice. You already had sex, so it's basically over. Maybe technology is one of those things you just aren't ready for. Sounds like it's opening doors of entitlement and unfulfilled expectations. True love isn't going to manifest itself via SMS or Facebook, unfortunately. They've thought about it, looked into it. Lesson brutally learned by everyone but you.
Anyway, apparently it's not okay to feel this way anymore. If you have butterflies in your stomach, you better reel it in, because you are getting a little too carried away. No one wants you to text him good night or remember the sandwich order he made these days . That shit is creepy.
But then again, maybe you are. And maybe it's pretty awful. Maybe it's that every-time-your-phone-goes-off-you-hope-it's-him kind of thing. And you know that it's most likely your mom making sure you're still alive, or your boss calling you into work, so why are you so excited over your cellphone vibrating like it did every other day before you started thinking about him? And honestly, why would it be him? You hung out alone, like, twice. You already had sex, so it's basically over. Maybe technology is one of those things you just aren't ready for. Sounds like it's opening doors of entitlement and unfulfilled expectations. True love isn't going to manifest itself via SMS or Facebook, unfortunately. They've thought about it, looked into it. Lesson brutally learned by everyone but you.
Anyway, apparently it's not okay to feel this way anymore. If you have butterflies in your stomach, you better reel it in, because you are getting a little too carried away. No one wants you to text him good night or remember the sandwich order he made these days . That shit is creepy.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
anna's relationship science
You most likely won't end up marrying the guy you hooked up with the very first time you guys hung out. It's science.
Thursday, July 3, 2014
My letter to Steph Curry
I wrote this to him after Mark Jackson was fired
Dear Stephen Curry,
I know you may still be mourning the loss of your coach and mentor, Mark Jackson. As someone who would blindly marry you and bear your oatmeal-colored children, I want you to know that I'm here to help.
Mark Jackson has been a huge asset to your career and undoubtedly played an important role in your success with the Warriors. I know he provided you with motivation and positive energy. He saw what you were capable of, and most of all, he believed in you. If I had to make some sort of analogy here, which is custom in letters like this, I'd say he was the soil that helped you bloom. You're like a...I don't know, a sunflower. Which isn't a half-bad comparison when you think about it because, like a sunflower, you'll continue to reach great heights, even without that specific Jackson brand fertilizer. And you may or may not kill everything else around you in the process. We'll see.
So now, I suggest you take this time (this is what we call a "mourning period") to remember the good times you had with Mark--whether it was a poolside afternoon or a late-night heart to heart with a bottle of wine, or a crazy weekend on a houseboat with lots of other NBA players who are, for the most part, really tall and mostly good-looking. And maybe these things never actually happened, and I'm simply listing the things that you and I have done in my dreams (and can do in the future, might I add), but I'm sure the two of you have shared similar experiences. At the least, you know that there's been a couple of passionate locker room pep talks to take with you wherever you go.
The good news is that it's not like he's dead, so you guys can still be friends. Unless, of course, Steve Kerr doesn't let you talk to him anymore, probably because he's jealous and wishes that the two of you shared a similar bond, and he knows that he can never replace Mark Jackson in your heart, and it becomes this ever-present seed of doubt that grows inside of him until he decides that he has to BECOME Mark Jackson, so he starts doing everything Mark Jackson used to do until eventually he gets fired because the franchise is like, Wait, I thought we already fired Mark Jackson!? Then you guys can be friends again (this is what we call a "self-correcting problem"), but it's probably gonna be a little weirder now that you started hanging out with the NEW coach, since Mark's feeling a little slighted and all, and although he's not gonna make you feel bad about it since that's just how he is, there's definitely some awkwardness there.
Anyway.
From this moment on, your team will be different. Hopefully the change will bring you even more success than you've already had. I want so badly for the team to do well, and I have faith that this will bring good things for you guys. Next year, you will be #1 in the Western conference, and Mark Jackson will deserve credit for building you guys up to make it that far. And if not, and you guys just start sucking--like, REALLY sucking, like before 2012 sucking, like 2007 never happened sucking--at least you aren't a huge asshole like Blake Griffin, that ugly crybaby ass bitch. Honestly, I just really hate that guy, and this has nothing to do with you, but I would love so much for him to wake up one day to discover that he's playing for the Cavaliers, and no one even mean tweets about him anymore, and not even Baron Davis will return his phone calls.
But yeah, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold, or some random mostly white girl to make out with indiscriminately, you can always find me on Facebook and other various social media outlets, such as your Facebook, or your Instagram, or your Twitter.
Your's truly,
Anna Marie Hobbs
P.S. Please continue to wear checkered three-piece suits with a flower on the lapel, except next time, I think it'd be real funny if it was a water-squirting flower, and you squirted people in the face with it.
Dear Stephen Curry,
I know you may still be mourning the loss of your coach and mentor, Mark Jackson. As someone who would blindly marry you and bear your oatmeal-colored children, I want you to know that I'm here to help.
Mark Jackson has been a huge asset to your career and undoubtedly played an important role in your success with the Warriors. I know he provided you with motivation and positive energy. He saw what you were capable of, and most of all, he believed in you. If I had to make some sort of analogy here, which is custom in letters like this, I'd say he was the soil that helped you bloom. You're like a...I don't know, a sunflower. Which isn't a half-bad comparison when you think about it because, like a sunflower, you'll continue to reach great heights, even without that specific Jackson brand fertilizer. And you may or may not kill everything else around you in the process. We'll see.
So now, I suggest you take this time (this is what we call a "mourning period") to remember the good times you had with Mark--whether it was a poolside afternoon or a late-night heart to heart with a bottle of wine, or a crazy weekend on a houseboat with lots of other NBA players who are, for the most part, really tall and mostly good-looking. And maybe these things never actually happened, and I'm simply listing the things that you and I have done in my dreams (and can do in the future, might I add), but I'm sure the two of you have shared similar experiences. At the least, you know that there's been a couple of passionate locker room pep talks to take with you wherever you go.
The good news is that it's not like he's dead, so you guys can still be friends. Unless, of course, Steve Kerr doesn't let you talk to him anymore, probably because he's jealous and wishes that the two of you shared a similar bond, and he knows that he can never replace Mark Jackson in your heart, and it becomes this ever-present seed of doubt that grows inside of him until he decides that he has to BECOME Mark Jackson, so he starts doing everything Mark Jackson used to do until eventually he gets fired because the franchise is like, Wait, I thought we already fired Mark Jackson!? Then you guys can be friends again (this is what we call a "self-correcting problem"), but it's probably gonna be a little weirder now that you started hanging out with the NEW coach, since Mark's feeling a little slighted and all, and although he's not gonna make you feel bad about it since that's just how he is, there's definitely some awkwardness there.
Anyway.
From this moment on, your team will be different. Hopefully the change will bring you even more success than you've already had. I want so badly for the team to do well, and I have faith that this will bring good things for you guys. Next year, you will be #1 in the Western conference, and Mark Jackson will deserve credit for building you guys up to make it that far. And if not, and you guys just start sucking--like, REALLY sucking, like before 2012 sucking, like 2007 never happened sucking--at least you aren't a huge asshole like Blake Griffin, that ugly crybaby ass bitch. Honestly, I just really hate that guy, and this has nothing to do with you, but I would love so much for him to wake up one day to discover that he's playing for the Cavaliers, and no one even mean tweets about him anymore, and not even Baron Davis will return his phone calls.
But yeah, if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, or a hand to hold, or some random mostly white girl to make out with indiscriminately, you can always find me on Facebook and other various social media outlets, such as your Facebook, or your Instagram, or your Twitter.
Your's truly,
Anna Marie Hobbs
P.S. Please continue to wear checkered three-piece suits with a flower on the lapel, except next time, I think it'd be real funny if it was a water-squirting flower, and you squirted people in the face with it.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Technically, I've felt alone for a while. Not in that desperate, what am I gonna do no one loves me sort of alone. But in that separate sort of alone where I can't seem to feel like I'm actually a part of anything. It's as if life has always been a spectator sport for me, and I spend the majority of it wondering what I'm going to do with mine. I see other people, and they seem so thick with resolve. I wouldn't say that I'm envious of them, but studious. Curious. I wonder quietly what lessons they've learned that I seem to have missed. What insights into themselves that they've discovered in order to explain it all.
What I think is the most exasperating is that I know at this moment in my mid-twenties with a couple tens of thousands of dollars, I could do a lot of "fulfilling" things. I could pick up a hobby, travel the world, throw down on a condo, take out a loan and start a business. I am overwhelmed by this prospect. People always say, "You can be whatever you want to be if you try." As if the battle is trying. Whoever knows what they want is truly happy. I know I could do anything, be anything, work hard for anything. But I don't WANT anything. I don't CARE about anything. When I sit down and think, if I had no ties, no expectations, and all the money in the world, what would I do? Understand that I'm hoping the answer will reveal to me what I'm passionate about. But if I could have anything, it would be to no longer feel the need for fulfillment. Honestly, why can't I just be fulfilled by sitting around watching the NBA draft with a beer or reading the New Yorker in bed for three hours straight? I don't want to feel like I'm wasting my talent anymore by opting out of what some would call more "fulfilling" life choices. I want to be talentless, in order to save myself for this ever looming concept of unrealized potential. As a matter of fact, I want to have zero potential! That way when I finally DO do something, it's because I want to, not because I owe it to myself, or to society, or because it's a waste not to do it. Is that so much to ask?
The greatest thing that San Diego has taught me so far is that confidence is all you need. Literally, for anything, ever. Believing in yourself isn't overrated. In this life of utter bullshit, it's really really REALLY reassuring to know that you're not entirely worthless and you do deserve all the good things that you want. You actually really do. So no worries in the end, I guess. I'm just going to pretend that I drink a vial of Felix Felicis every day. If I just go with the flow and stay positive and be real, this alleged "potential" of mine will not be wasted.
What I think is the most exasperating is that I know at this moment in my mid-twenties with a couple tens of thousands of dollars, I could do a lot of "fulfilling" things. I could pick up a hobby, travel the world, throw down on a condo, take out a loan and start a business. I am overwhelmed by this prospect. People always say, "You can be whatever you want to be if you try." As if the battle is trying. Whoever knows what they want is truly happy. I know I could do anything, be anything, work hard for anything. But I don't WANT anything. I don't CARE about anything. When I sit down and think, if I had no ties, no expectations, and all the money in the world, what would I do? Understand that I'm hoping the answer will reveal to me what I'm passionate about. But if I could have anything, it would be to no longer feel the need for fulfillment. Honestly, why can't I just be fulfilled by sitting around watching the NBA draft with a beer or reading the New Yorker in bed for three hours straight? I don't want to feel like I'm wasting my talent anymore by opting out of what some would call more "fulfilling" life choices. I want to be talentless, in order to save myself for this ever looming concept of unrealized potential. As a matter of fact, I want to have zero potential! That way when I finally DO do something, it's because I want to, not because I owe it to myself, or to society, or because it's a waste not to do it. Is that so much to ask?
The greatest thing that San Diego has taught me so far is that confidence is all you need. Literally, for anything, ever. Believing in yourself isn't overrated. In this life of utter bullshit, it's really really REALLY reassuring to know that you're not entirely worthless and you do deserve all the good things that you want. You actually really do. So no worries in the end, I guess. I'm just going to pretend that I drink a vial of Felix Felicis every day. If I just go with the flow and stay positive and be real, this alleged "potential" of mine will not be wasted.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
jane says
she knows
they all want her to go
but that's okay, she don't like them anyway
janes says
i'm going away to spain, gonna get my money saved
im gonna start tomorrow
they all want her to go
but that's okay, she don't like them anyway
janes says
i'm going away to spain, gonna get my money saved
im gonna start tomorrow
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
life ls like salt
my love is like being stranded at sea
you're surrounded by water with nothing to drink
i fight past the break just to dream of the shore
i run from the waves cause i'm waiting for more
i'm not always sure what my body is for
but you remind me.
you're surrounded by water with nothing to drink
i fight past the break just to dream of the shore
i run from the waves cause i'm waiting for more
i'm not always sure what my body is for
but you remind me.
there's water everywhere
it's in my lungs, and it's in my bed
it's 30 percent of the hair on my head
i'm holding my breath, and it's not fair
i've learned so much from you
it was stupid to be angry with you
but i can't blame myself for the fervor felt when i was someone else
and i can't blame you for not loving me
so now i'm back to skin and bones
feeling at home in a place that's not my home
i'm glad i've shed the weight of you
i'm thankful to not have you to answer to.
i'm hungry everyday now.
everything is all how it should be
i say it in my sleep now.
it's in my lungs, and it's in my bed
it's 30 percent of the hair on my head
i'm holding my breath, and it's not fair
i've learned so much from you
it was stupid to be angry with you
but i can't blame myself for the fervor felt when i was someone else
and i can't blame you for not loving me
so now i'm back to skin and bones
feeling at home in a place that's not my home
i'm glad i've shed the weight of you
i'm thankful to not have you to answer to.
i'm hungry everyday now.
everything is all how it should be
i say it in my sleep now.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Sometimes making a bad decision is the best thing you can ever do
So thankful to have this weather and my friends!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
whatsssuppp
