April 2012
15 posts
2 tags
“Begin to wonder what you do write about. Or if you have anything to say. Or if...”
– Lorrie Moore
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Blackout Remorse
I am embarrassed for being unkind, but not for feeling.
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Remember that time you asked me if I thought this was as good as it gets and I said, “Probably,” and you said, “Really? This is it?” We should have stopped going to bed together after that.
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“Gone mad is what they say, and sometimes Run mad, as if mad is a different...”
– Margaret Atwood
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Pretty is such a pastel word. I want you to call me beautiful. Beautiful is the deep red of the back of your throat, of my painted lips, of exhausted joints in Norman Rockwell paintings. Pretty is such a kind and polite word. Beautiful is heavy and invested and honest.
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(not)sane
Being very sad, hopelessly sad, when everything is going quite well, when life is giving you no reasons to be sad, is called depression. So you are deeply depressed. You keep living, but sometimes you consider no longer living, but you don’t tell anyone this because then they would be even less likely to leave you alone. You get medicated and things fall apart and you keep living. Nearly...
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“I’d tell you all you want and more, if the sounds I made could be what you...”
– David Foster Wallace
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What if crying didn’t mean that I was too young and un-deserving?
What if you hadn’t seen the tears streaming down my face?
What if I didn’t attempt to justify my breakdown?
What if it was a sign of health and stability?
What if we didn’t have to talk about it?
What if, at the very least, it made you more intrigued to know me?
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I have good friends.
I most certainly have good, beautiful, great friends. The question is why I still end up drinking alone.
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Last words.
It was both a pick up line and a press release.
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On not having it together.
Adding to that tapestry of intriguing folklore. Things that will eventually be good brunch stories.
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Everything she wrote was a love letter. Everything she wrote stood in stark contrast to the three words she refused to say.
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Sir Friend
I passed her in the late afternoon. The sun was slowly moving from acceptable sunglass wearing to inappropriate wearing. I had taken an unusual path, avoiding the sidewalks and cross walks in preference of grass, mulch, and tree roots. I questioned whether it was her. I stared at her behind my sunglasses. I thought to give her more space, but dodging her seemed too provocative of her dislike of...
2 tags
“Healing is a small and ordinary and very burnt thing. And it’s one thing and one...”
– Cheryl Strayed 