I am scared by the state of the world also, dear reader, but you didn’t come here to fall back into the hopeless pit of COVID-19. You came here, dear, sweet reader, to laugh at my expense–and oh boy has this isolation given me some material to work with.

Haven’t let you down yet have I? I thought not.

As a writer, or perhaps more accurately, because I write the way I do, my lot in life is to bring some chaotic good to the people who choose to read. It is with this in mind that I continue to confound, annoy, and embarrass myself in the midst of a pandemic.

Not to worry, dear reader, I am doing this from the (relative) safety of my own home. The seriousness of all of this is not lost on me–we all use humor to deal, so chill out. You know you laughed at that COVID meme. Don’t lie to me.

All this and still I can get into plenty of trouble whilst sheltering in place. The idle time has actually lead to some hilarious blunders taking the form of attempts at “bettering myself as a person.”

If you feel bored, hopeless, painfully stagnant–you’re in good company here. I am all of those things; so much so that eating baby carrots has become an activity. Seriously, like I do this for fun now.

I thought I might compile a list of things I’ve been doing to keep myself busy, albeit still nuts, in a world of social distance. I promise upon the first read you will judge me, but when you can’t sleep at 3 am because you napped all day, you’ll be thanking me. I guarantee it.

 

How to Have a Heady Quarantine :

1. Teach yourself ukulele, practice for hours, then overhear your roommates complaining about the “horrible noise.” Cry briefly in the shower, and decide that now you will only play when they’re gone. Which is never. Because quarantine.
2. Bake cookies, but eat so much of the raw dough that you lose the both the motivation to bake them, and to continue living.
3. Watch four seasons of The Great British Baking Show, and then call your mom with advice on how to properly bake bread–though you couldn’t even manage the cookies.
4. Lay on the floor in preparation for for a hearty workout, crunches and all, but fall asleep for an hour instead. At 2 pm.
5. Fall down a Youtube rabbit hole so thoroughly that you can, with confidence, tell anyone who God forbid asks, who truly sang various Broadway bangers the best.
6. Read Sylvia Plath and rediscover the depths of your depression. Remember the oven thing, and decide that maybe it was a good thing the cookies never made it there.
7. Resist the urge to nap, moderately successfully, by dwelling on all the wrongs you’ve done, and all those who have wronged you. Begin plotting.
8. Ask a friend to explain a quote that mentions quantum physics, and receive an answer in 7 parts that is so beautiful you you stay up till 4 am thinking about it.
9. Become confused.
10. Google “how to suck a dick like a porn star.” Regret this and hate yourself briefly, then rally and congratulate yourself for you’re limitless thirst for knowledge.
11. Write someone’s name in calligraphy. No joke, here. It’s rather soothing.
12. Get crumbs in your bed. But not cookie crumbs–oh no. You just HAD to eat the batter.
13. Brush the crumbs from your bed onto the floor, pretend not to see them, and vow to vacuum as soon as you’re SURE you don’t have the virus. Even though you’re already sure. Just as a precaution.
14. Wash your hands in different, and increasingly fun ways–like using only your mind. And soap. And water. And your hands. Don’t be an idiot asshole.
15. Read or reread this blog. I promise you’ll laugh more at my expense, or at least feel better about your own, isolated life.

 

Cheers, dear reader. Take care, please. The world will wait for you.

 

I lost my journal, dear reader. And oh boy, am I scared.

The fear is always there, sure. I am incredibly anxious–a self identified fretter. Most benign inconveniences terrify me to the point of complete stagnation. But this, this is bad.

This particular journal came into my life at a very tender time. I was figuring out how to be in a body and not actively wish to starve it into oblivion–I was figuring out how to love and be loved–I was figuring out how to have an orgasm while actively hating my naked body. Spoiler alert–not easy. Spoiler spoiler alert–not impossible. Ayee.

But now you see why each and every cell in my body is writhing in pain at the thought of a classmate, professor, lyft driver, boyfriend, or boyfriend’s roommate finding and reading it.

So in true crazy-girl fashion, I will reveal a few secrets to lessen the inevitable blow of someone, somewhere, having them to read and reread at will.

 

I think my boyfriend sold his hands to the devil to play guitar.

His best friend scares me because he can read minds.

I hate Jcrew more than just about anything, and have written several 5 page long rants about the fucked up way they size their clothes.

I actively hate vegans. I’m sorry.

I have trouble doing basic math because instead of doing the math, I spend my brain power worrying I’ll get it wrong.

I’ve been using a fraudulent bus pass for like, four months.

Once, a bus driver caught me and threatened to call the police.

I had to walk away quickly, not because I was scared she’d call the police, but because I was laughing so hard.

I write a lot about Sylvia Plath. More than anyone should. It’s real lame.

I write her letters when I have no one to talk to.

 

Not the juiciest ones–but those will do for now. Find it if you want the real ones.

 

I love you.

 

 

 

 

I wrote this for my sister and her boyfriend. This is a true story, dear reader, except for the needlessly poetic descriptions of the night stand–you’ll get it when you get it. For some reason I write a lot about night stands. Odd. Anyway. Here.

I love you. Jean holes and all.

 

The Hole In his Jeans

For Mac and Molli

 

Mac wanted two things; to work with his hands, and to be somewhere with music. It was a short list that could put him almost anywhere. There was a girl too, but he could handle that. She was moving to New York, and he knew he couldn’t follow her.

He was renting a house three miles from the lake-where the city was busiest. He had liked how it sounded immediately–how the city felt out the window. Mac had never owned a car, but he brought his bike. Three miles felt like the right amount to him; a good, solid number.

He got a job over the phone a week before; he was going to put up tents. The woman who hired him said the company did mostly concerts and festivals, so he was happy enough. The only problem seemed to be that he would only get paid as long as the company was hired; he wouldn’t know how much he’d have at the end of each month. Rent was $750.

He moved his boxes from the truck to the downstairs hallway, and from the hallway to the smaller of two bedrooms. The house was old. He leaned against the wall, took a curtain rod from an open box, and placed it on its side next to him. It rolled from the wall to the center of the room, and cradled by the sloping floor, rocked. He felt numb. The house was old, but it was only three miles from the lake. He didn’t want to sleep until the boxes were empty.

He wanted to call her.

He met the girl at school. She was studying math, and had a kind of easy way of talking about it that he had liked immediately. He had met her parents, and she had met Will. She liked Will, and so he knew she’d visit him in the city.

He couldn’t feel anything about it yet–New York. He was almost convinced she wouldn’t go, and completely convinced that if she did, she wouldn’t much like it there. People there wouldn’t be able to hear her.

“How’s the house?” She was asking him.

“It’s alright. It smells like hell but the windows all open and the stove works.”

“Did you eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Peanut butter dinner?”

He smiled, “And breakfast.”

He couldn’t picture her there, in an office on some floor of an anonymous building. People didn’t talk like her, not in New York, not anywhere. She liked to talk with her hands; to make big gestures. Even now, he was sure she was holding the phone with her shoulder.

Sometimes, she would lick her index finger, and draw circles on the edge of his nightstand. She would watch them dry, and in the time that took, she would say at least one thing he’d never heard before.

One night she had rolled over, eyes heavy with sleep, drew a circle, and whispered to him, “Do you know how I knew I loved you?”

“How?”

“You had a hole in the side of your jeans from carrying your skateboard around.”

“That’s why you like me? My jean hole.”

“Mhm.” The girl had smiled and closed her eyes. “That and because you’re spectacular.”

The girl sounded wide awake on the phone now, full of the energy that made her speak in good, long sentences. She told him about being home, and that her house felt like it was full of static. He understood.

She had to go, and so they said goodbye. She told him she missed him.

He slept then, a good sleep–without dreams–without the fuss of falling asleep.

 

Self Portrait as a Diagnosis    —    Mark Brasuell   — Charcoal and Handmade Pastel on Paper

 

Walking through galleries has always intimidated me: I feel so small next to someone’s soul laid bare on canvas. Without a screen between the art and I, the experience is intense. It’s beautiful, really. Like standing next to the ocean.

Mark Brasuell’s collection of pastel pieces included several “self portraits”. This felt incredibly bold to me. Walking around the Lincoln Gallery, I was pulled to a large, bubblegum-pink piece at the front. I hesitate to distill an entire piece to the word “pretty” but it was. It was pretty. I couldn’t write confessionally about “pretty” because that is so far from how I would describe myself. To the right of the bubblegum, was a smaller, chaotic, mostly green piece. I looked at the title: Self Portrait as a Diagnosis.

For three years doctors, therapists, my family and friends–they’ve all seen me as a disorder. Weak. Anorexic. People who don’t know my diagnosis see a small “girl” who is both accommodating and unintimidating. There is no risk to be taken with me. If they were to paint a portrait of me, it would read like the first poem. I wrote it angrily, then with defiance wrote the second. I wasn’t sure if anger and defiance were what I wanted to use to paint myself. But I think Ms. Plath, the confessional poet dearest to me, would have done the same. 

 

 

Self Portrait as 75 lbs

 

To touch me is to read in Braille 

the story of my bones.

Osteopeniactic. Hollow. 

Needing but refusing filling.

 

Double jointed–detachment issues 

And a brain fed only Girl Juice*

*A fancy name for water and the occasional piece 

of sugar-free gum. 

 

Diagnosis: Girl.

 

The inside of bacteria.

Green: Inexperienced. Infected

Doing only wrong to the home. 

My directive is  wreckage 

 

Between sheets scolliated spine cracks

Teeth weaker with every lunch date revisited 

In my Holy Porcelain Palace of

Weak Constitutions. I don’t like it

 

When my knees knock.

But the doorbell wakes the dogs.

 

 

 

Self Portrait as a Eulogy

 

 

She folds tablecloths on dinner dates

Makes galaxies

Of water glass rings. She speaks

In broken Spanish pirouettes

Line dances because it feels good

To hold a stranger. She likes bland

Triangular triscuits.

The color pink, in theory. 

Second place jeopardy contestants. 

Eye contact. pacing.

Pregnant silences.

Sad music written by people who are no longer sad.

Her mom, the Scorpio. 

Contra dancing.

Lending books to nurses. artificial sweeteners.

Memoirs with sad beginnings.

Certain songs played many times. others only sometimes.

Trey Anastasio.

Women. Spacious eyelids.

Male, Canadian figure skater, Roman Sadovsky

A clean face.

“Girls with weird eyes.”

Kurt Cobain’s interview answers.

Watching other people do impressive things.

Androgyny.

The song landslide played at opportune times, inciting tears.

Crying hard.

Harry Styles’ collection of billowy shirts.

The first bite of a new food. She loves

To eat.

When she feels safe and

Even if Saturn’s rings

Dry on the edge

Of her night stand

She’ll still be there in the morning.

Beautifully Average-

Floating somewhere between 

Teacup stars.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are times when I think my body might not be worth saving. There are moments when I am so stagnant that I feel I may as well be asleep in the compost bin. Rotting food and eggshells.

And me.

The fear of loneliness feeds isolation. Sounds deep, but it isn’t–it’s real dumb. I’m afraid of being alone, so I am often alone. Real logical stuff here.

I figure I am only real when I’m in someone else’s company. If I am not speaking, emoting, writing–communicating in some way–I don’t exist. So the longer I’m alone, the less real I am. The closer I am to the eggshells.

Watching every episode of the 90’s version of Sabrina the Teenage Witch while I stress-chew entire packs of gum doesn’t feel like I’m doing the world any favors. Though I am now well versed in the subtle art of campy sitcoms, I can say little else for the time I spent with a young Melissa Joan Hart.

As compost, at least I’d be giving something back. But here I am, a human woman, folding shirts and trying not to fall asleep too early–making sure I don’t wake up with too much of the day beside me.

Instead of asking for help, or telling the people I love that I’m lonely, I come to you, dear reader. I talk to you–write you love letters. Here, I can communicate while I am alone; I can be afraid and still exist. So, thanks. Thanks for reading, even if there’s only one of you. 

Even if there are none of you, at least I’m here. Less of an eggshell, more of an egg-well she’s trying. Oof. If you made it this far just to read that, I’m actually really sorry.

I love you dear reader. Here’s a poem if you want it. To borrow or keep. It’s rather odd.

 

Whistle 

 

No, sir

I do not drink water, I

Cover my mouth with the hair

From my head and do not speak

To anyone.

Unless they are very kind

And gentle with doorknobs and

Don’t put the kettle on

Until I’m gone.

 

 

 

If Robert Frost had been a disillusioned twenty year old, he would have had curly hair, chapped lips, and attachment issues.

As I stumble forward in a new city, on the other side of the country, surrounded by people I’ve known for only months, I cannot help but think of good old Robbie.

Path choosing has never been my forte–I am almost certain I’ll die at a crossroads. They’ll find my body smack in the middle, facing up rather than towards either path.

I’m lost, and I’ve picked up the habit of punishing myself for it. I’ll be standing in a bar and I’ll see a beautiful, smiling girl dancing near me. All at once I will feel completely inadequate. I’ll disappear into myself, where no word, no song can retrieve me. I feel like a fawn–wobbly and meek. A chihuahua–shaking habitually.

If I were a dog, I wouldn’t be a chihuahua, no matter how much I quiver. No, I’d be a pug. They weren’t made for this world, but somehow they’re still here. A biological experiment that hung on only by oversight.

So I suppose whatever path I take, it doesn’t really matter so long as I’m moving. My presence here is mostly an accident, so stumbling forward should feel like a victory, right? So why doesn’t it?

In the bar, when I feel like a fawn-chihuahua hybrid, I wonder if all the people around me speak a language I wasn’t there to learn. I was sick that day–or faking it. They move, speak, act, breathe, eat–differently. So not only am I stumbling forward, but stumbling forward past signs I can’t read. Braille, maybe. Where everybody else can feel the words, I can only use my eyes.

Rob took the hardest damn road and called it valiant, while I’m out here just trying to stay on my feet. I wrote a poem about this feeling. An ode to Mr. Frost, if you will.

It goes like this:

 

Stumbling Drunk Down The Road Not Taken

 

I took the one less–

I took the one–I

Took one. I must’ve taken

One.

I’m wearing walking shoes

I must at least

Be going.

 

The Earth is Braille, and I

Stumble forward over

Hills

Made to give direction

 

In Greek or Latin but

I was never one for classics.

So I’ll trip and tumble,

Stub a toe. Fall.

 

Feet sore lips dry the

Altitude thins me.

I took the worst one, certainly.

I haven’t seen someone

In ages.

 

I fall asleep between

The words–

They hold me in their palms.

Maybe this would be enough. To lie back.

It’s nice here with eyes shut–I

Hardly remember falling.

 

But the Earth, too loud

For sleep, shakes and I am up

On knobby knees, asking

Myself–there is no one else–

Why I haven’t moved

At all.

 

 

I love you, dear reader. You’re the cutest pug I know.

 

There are two things I know with absolute certainty: Avril Lavigne is dead, and if you’re wearing a MAGA hat, I’m gonna find a way to spit in it.

This Halloween, in the spirit of being spooky, I went to get sushi in a full Wednesday Addams getup. I had purchased a black, collared dress from the children’s section of Walmart, and by six o’clock, I was beginning to wonder at what point in the evening I would give up on keeping my ass covered.

My two housemates and I got the special “tea table” at my favorite sushi place; this meant we got to sit on pillows and take our shoes off. Needless to say, we were thrilled–I’m a sucker for good theme adherence. A glorious start to a glorious night, right?

Not exactly, dear reader. Not exactly.

This story is both a triumph and a tragedy. Lucky for you, the triumph comes first.

The waitstaff were all in costume, which I loved–again, theme adherence. There was a tiger, a dragon, a bottle of sriracha, and a “nerd” (quotes because aside from being an incredibly lazy costume, “nerdy” dress is very in.) There was a busser, however, who seemed to be without a costume. He had only an apron and a hat.

This made me sad; this was one day of the year where dressing ridiculously was accepted in the workplace. Halloween is rad as hell, even for us lowly minimum wage workers.

This pity lasted five seconds–the length of time it took for him to get close enough for me to read his hat.

Mother. Fucking. MAGA.

For reasons that I’m sure cause you as much mental and physical pain as they do me, I lost my appetite.

I am in Boulder, CO–the HIPPIE CAPITAL OF THE US–and there in front of me, holding a tray of half eaten raw fish, is a man wearing a MAGA hat.

I ordered a glass of wine and began scheming.

I will spare you the hour my roommates and I spent eating edamame and deciding if we should take the hat with force or with wit. But trust me, the conversation was seriously entertaining.

We decided on our plan of attack, and then we waited.

The fascist in question did not come close enough for me to speak to him until we had our check. By this time, I had consumed no less than three glasses of wine, and more than my body weight in self-importance.

He came to take our dishes. And it was so on.

“Hey, are you all set with these.”

“I am, but I was wondering–are you always an asshole, or are you just dressed as one?”

He takes a beat, “Both.”

“Huh. How bout that.” Another beat. “Can I hold on to the hat for a bit?” I smiled as sweetly as I could manage.

“Sure! Just give it back when you leave.”

We each spit in it–good hefty spits–with the intention of giving it back. But no matter how much we wanted his head to be covered in body fluids, we couldn’t do it. We could not allow this horrible thing to continue existing, no matter how much spit it could hold.

We payed our check and took the hat with us–under a jacket. We threw it out a block away. Yes I know that is environmentally irresponsible, but it was justified.

Oh, dear reader, how I wish this night had ended here, with this glorious win for the little guys. But sadly, it did not.

I went to my partner’s house with the intention of going with him to a Halloween party in a few hours. Here, I continued to drink with a stomach that had been too sad for sushi. This, my lovely angelic, reader, is an example of Poor Decision Making.

The night came to its dramatic climax when I lit the wrong end of a cigarette.

You read that right.

There is a unique shame that comes with this specific error–one you can’t come back from easily. It is the epitome of white-girl-wasted. It is an unacceptable mistake. My skin crawls even now.

What’s worse than this, and oh yes it can get worse, is I was outside with my partner’s best friend. Yes. Take in all the secondhand embarrassment.

Fortunately he’s a good guy; he laughed and told me not to worry. But unfortunately, I value his opinion frightening amount. I was mortified.

As an attempt to regain my coolness, or perhaps, gain it in the first place, I gave him a black eye.

With makeup–he was dressed as Rocky. It was actually pretty sick. BUT BACK TO THE BLUNDERS.

After spewing a few more stories at a table of my boyfriend’s closest friends, I went to lay down with him, and never got back up.

We never did make it to the party.

But hey, I stole a hat from a fascist, and that’s gotta count for something.

I love you, dear reader. Make good choices.

 

 

 

Hey.

I wrote something that I’m proud of, and I wanted to share it with you. Even if no one reads it, which–let’s be honest–is painfully probable, I like the idea that it’ll be out there somewhere.

These two lines, “I’ll name a city block after you/When it all falls apart that’ll have to do.” got stuck in my head the other night. It was completely unprompted, and frankly, super dumb. But, I decided that if it was going to be in there, I might as well do something with it.

They sound like the lyrics to a whiny Lana song. I am fully aware. But, hey. I wrote a poem anyway.

It’s not a love poem, and it’s not about heartbreak. It’s not about finding myself. Well, it might be. I’m not sure. Could be a lost cat. Fucking sue me.

Is it from the perspective of a cat? Is it me? You really get to decide, thank God.

Ball is in your court now, bitch.

Sorry you’re not a bitch. Please, dear God, if you’ve made it this far don’t stop now. We’re almost there.

I love you, dear reader. Here you go.

 

 

When It All Falls Apart, That’ll Have To Do

 

I’ll name a city block after you.
It will smell like cigarettes and
Draining water but
The flowers will be sturdy and purposeful.
There will be rust on the hinges.
The doors will lock twice.

When I find it, I will be still.
I will stop dragging
My toes in circles through the
Sand I can take down the signs.

Having found a stoop to perch on
I will call your name.

Call it by your name

I will raise myself on the corner
Sharp and defined by this place
Where I’ve sewn you into the pavement–
In the walls in the smell of cooking dinner in
The light cast sideways in the way it bends
Like I used to before

You

Must be on Neptune now.

Where there are shadows
I’ve already seen. Where it’s simpler.

And still these dirty heels
Want me to hurt till I find you.
Just as I left you. Red and smiling.
Hand extended.
Hailing a cab

home.

There is no time to be insecure.

I am infuriated at the amount of time I have spent questioning what I should and should not say, do, or wear. I’m pissed that I used to spend even a fraction of my time trying to be a pleasant, palatable girl.

Pleasant to look at, pleasant to speak to.

There is too much at stake right now to waste any time at all filtering ourselves to fit an image of what we think is most appealing.

I get so angry when I think about the vanity that is dumped on all of us. We are expected to be sentient perfection–appearing beautiful, asking for nothing. Spending hours at the gym, or meal prepping a vegan lunch that requires a grocery list the length of my arm.

I am livid that for years, the need to be palatable was ingrained in me. It was so fucking boring. Who wants to wear Forever 21 rompers and nod politely?

I think it’s so cool to love what you love, and to do so loudly. Editing yourself is such a chore, and we have better things to do.

I cut shirts from Goodwill. I wear knee high boots and a dopey grin.

I got a tattoo of a tree with my best friend just because she loves them.

I moved across the country to a city I’d never been to, into an apartment I’d never seen.

I’ve taken three medical leaves and transferred twice. In January I’ll be starting at The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics.

These decisions have been loud and messy and painful.

Being honest–being loud–is hard as hell, but it’s the most fun I’ve ever had. There’s really no more time for nodding politely.

I’ve learned over and over the past few years that saying what is true is infinitely more  important than my palatability. Every time I don’t act honestly is a massive waste of time.

Do what you love and talk about it loudly.

If someone is wrong, tell them why.

You don’t have to ask your friend if you look like a prostitute before you go out. Just wear what feels good.

Wear whatever the hell you want–it’s so much more fun.

I love you, dear reader. Be strong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I hate the idea of admiration. It’s such a cop-out.

Saying, “I admire them” is such an unemotional, adult way of relating to someone.

Admiration literally means, “respect and warm approval.”

That is not how I would describe my feelings for most people in my life, but for the drama, I’m gonna talk about my Junior year lit professor. I do not “warmly approve” of him. That is a whole fact.

But still, I don’t want to write my phone number on the back of a scantron and wink when I turn it in. So I feel inclined to say I admire him.

Admiration is platonic and easy on the mind.

I don’t want him, so it must be admiration, right? It must be respect and warm approval?

I dunno, seems kinda vanilla to me.

When we grow up, we learn that in order to keep ourselves safe, we must hold logic in one hand, and certainty in the other. These are the tools we use to define our experience–to make it safe for us to be human in a world of other humans.

When we use logic, and require certainty to relate to others, we give complex feelings simple names. We lose the intricacy of this wild human experience, and instead choose something cyborgal. I made up that word. Cool, huh?

When we decide what we’re feeling is “admiration”, often, we are simplifying how it feels to be drawn to someone.

In simplifying our feelings, we put distance between “us” and “them”. this make things clean and logical and safe.

We push away interesting, childlike intrigue because it cannot be easily named. We cannot consult the dictionary of logical human relations–we cannot easily categorize this feeling in a respectable, platonic box.

That wouldn’t be safe or normal or easy to dismiss.

How dare we be drawn to someone in a nonsexual way, without being unemotionally impressed by their accomplishments? No, no. If I don’t want them, I must just admire them.

Dude. No.

Maybe we are, and stay with me here, just drawn to them. Maybe we are intrigued. Maybe the way they speak is interesting and different and maybe its exciting when we see them.

Why do we have to categorize allure? Why do we have to define interest?

Why does it have to be Love, Lust, or Admiration?

There is nothing wrong with my lit professor, he is a respectable man who one could easily “warmly approve of”, sure. But the reason I’m writing this isn’t because that’s all I feel.

This is important so pay real close attention–I don’t want him, and I don’t want his life.

I don’t revere him–Jesus, he isn’t like, the second coming. I just like to be around him, to listen to him speak, to see him get excited about things that are important.

Why do I have to hold so tightly to logic? Why do I have to ask certainty to define what it is I feel?

Why do I have to want you, or want to be you?

Why can’t I just listen to you speak, because there you are in front of me, and it is making me feel something different. I don’t need to call it admiration. I don’t need to call it desire, either.

I don’t love my lit professor, guys. But the point is, if you say you admire someone, you may be doing yourself a disservice.

Life is weird–feelings are weirder, and not everything has to have a name.

But I’ve got one for you, dear reader.

Spectacular. Isn’t that just such cheese?

Whatever. I love you.

good night.