Thoughts From The Floor

I’ve published and deleted two essays this week. Neither sounded like me–they sounded like a girl sitting in her bedroom trying to be a writer. And reader, we all know that trying is deeply uncool, and I apologize to all three of you for these mistakes. 

So I’m nursing a headache born of an emotion I’m not sure I can name (something like insecurity but way cooler and sexier of course) by holding a bag of frozen peppers to my forehead. They are starting to thaw, my face smells like a ripe fajita, and I am in that really lovely space between laughing and crying–the one that feels a lot like scraping your knee but being really really tough about it. 

My room is a mess and this doesn’t help. If my room is a reflection of me–I am bits and pieces of cut up paper and old makeup brushes covered in glue. There’s a metaphor in there I can’t be fucked to find because, dear reader, I refuse to try. 

Don’t worry though, I’ve cleared an Allison sized space on the floor. I’ve gotten right on down there. I’ve laid my little head against the wall. All to write to you, my dear, sweet, singular reader. Just for you. 

I’ve returned to the floor to share with you, if you’re there at all, my most prolific twitter drafts. Why I write them here instead of there where instability is marketing and sickness is sexy–why I write them at all, actually–I really do not know. But again, not trying to understand. Not tonight. 

Oh, before we get started, I fully moved across the country. I’m in Nashville now, which is very cool and very hot and very exciting and a little terrifying. I wanted to get out of Boulder, and I did. And I’m proud of that. More than this though, I’m close to the dude I love. He’s so cool, dear reader. He’s so cool.

I also started two new jobs, which are okay I think? We’ll see. I’ll keep you updated. More writing and more coffee slinging, which is honestly pretty dope. I’m happy here, dear reader. I really really am. 

Thing about happiness is that sometimes I don’t know what to do with it. I wanna hold it so tightly that I don’t have to worry about the eventual fall–but of course that ruins the whole point of the whole deal, right? That ruins everything. I’m happy and sometimes I take to the floor and stay there. It’s really all okay. 

Some days I hate my body and believe with every hair on my knees that I am worthless and unlovable. Some days I eat cake and a cat falls asleep on my chest and I feel like an absolute smoke. It’s whatever. It’s all there is. It’s the point. 

Speaking of my point, here it is. Collage of drafts meant for a cesspool of comparison, horniness, piping cold, faux-divisive takes, and idiocy which, as you know, I just never seem to get enough of. 

 To borrow or to keep.

Have fun. 

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“I’m not here to judge.” — Judge to herself in the mirror on her wedding day. 

Yeah, I’m dating the QB. Cute Boy. 

Applying to be the hot young mailman your dog loves and your husband hates. 

Blaming my overwhelming failure on the fact that I have not eaten a little something sweet.

Tits out for Jesus we call that Thots For Prayers 

I’m not depressed, I’m at the laundromat vending machine. Want anything?

Hey I’m outside the laundromat where are you?

My favorite part of television is when someone dials 911 then  immediately says, “hello, 911?”

Moving across the country to be closer to a specific Walgreens I have fond memories of. 

Love bombing but its watching a Beatles documentary and being sneak attacked by Eric Clapton’s face. 

Chain smoking with same song on repeat for planning to enter nirvana      (Allison, what?)

Help neighbors don’t know their music is keeping me from essential third nap of day. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about how nobody is “good at lying.” You’re just good at finding people who want to believe you. Not something to be proud of.

I can get through this. It is just that I simply do not wanna.

I think, never mind when I said I quit smoking. Never mind, this evening. 

I am a writer the way that no worries if not. 

Stoked to be in the same city as my bf, but sad I’m not West of him anymore. I used to spit into the rain just for him. 

Therapy is not enough I need to tie a bandana around a baguette and hop on a moving train. 

Guys I got burgled lol.

Happy Birthday I’m sorry I burned your breakfast.

Rehearsing a Satanic dirge for my 6 am flight tomorrow. 

Cover letters: WAY less sexy than you’d think!

I have a Pavlovian response to train sounds (horny)

No therapist has ever told me, “and that’s all the time we have for today.” And that, kids, is because my problems are much more interesting than yours. 

I can imagine today being hard for some people. But not me, suckers. I’m in love! Sucks to suck!

Cyber Bully is a dope name if you really think about it. 

OCD is cute because I’ve had the phrase “gefilte fish lemonade” stuck in my head for 12 hours. 

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That’s all for now. Take excellent care, okay? No floor laying for you–only I can be sad and floor-ridden. 

Love u.