7/26/12

I feel like I’m having a midlife crisis at the ripe old age of 21. Everyone thinks growing up that they’re going to have this awesome, fabulous life. That somehow they’re just so special that they’ll slingshot over everyone else who leads an average existence and become some super happy person with a super fantastic job and a super fantastic life. Accepting that I’ll lead a very average life in a very average way with probably a very average job makes me feel like a fifty year old who wants to buy a Camero.

7/25/12

Saturday I’ll be gone. My roommate doesn’t move out until the first week of August, but apparently she absolutely had to move all of the silverware out with her this weekend. For the next four days I’ll be living off of forty four plastic knives, three plastic spoons, and a giant spatula. I’ve packed everything of mine except for one frying pan and one pot. Though I’ve cooked enough food for the week that I probably can pack those up, too. But still, you don’t see me taking silverware from her. It’s not like I’m still here or anything, no, thinking of others instead of yourself is silly. By all means, take my silverware. I’ll go back to caveman days and eat with my hands. Or make bizarre chopsticks from plastic knives.

7/24/12

There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with me.

The idea being that if you say something enough, it becomes true. It's all about acceptance, dietitians and therapists say. Accepting yourself, being happy and comfortable in your own skin. Being aokay with being who you are, because dislike doesn't cause change that sticks, being comfortable lets change happen gradually.

Yeah, sure.

7/23/12

Alphabetical Exercise Cont.

Look for the extraordinary in the ordinary, you're told, everyday has an adventure you're not seeing yet. Maybe it's because you're too busy running to auditions and rehearsals and trying to pay the rent and eat in the same month, but you know you can't do both. Or maybe it's hard to see the excitement when your neighbors party and fight 'til three am while all you want to do is practice and sleep. People don't see you as you, you're "alternative", living the lifestyle that doesn't need a nine to five and a white picket fence with 2.5 kids and a dog named chappie. Question your reality, that's what they want, to pull you into the normal and boring. Relax, you live in a world of glitter and sequins, of performance and stages of lights and booming sound. Slip into the comfort of that alternative world and run from ergonomic chairs and keyboards. Tomorrow you'll wake up to worry all over again but tonight it's you, the audience and that stage. Under the cloak of blackness, you're ready. Wait for it. Xanadu, my Xanadu, live in a world of your own accord! Your life is your own and it's full of bourban smiles and red velvet curtains being opened. Zap, you're there, live it.

7/22/12

T-minus four days 'til lift off. We have a go, I repeat, we have a go. Ready to launch. Launch where? What next?

7/21/12

They stare at you as you lay your blanket down next to theirs. It's strange, they think, that you're there. But why is that? They're there too. Why is your arrival so strange? You're stared at like a shiny new penny until your luster wears off and they go back to staring at the water. Suddenly you're less interesting.

7/20/12

Alphabetical Writing Exercise

"Audience" is just a fancy word for a group of people you've forced and coerced and tricked into listening to and watching you, despite their better judgement, despite their flailing bank accounts, in spite of their overwhelming urge to run and leave in search of something less artsy fartsy, more raunchy, like a club called Bottoms Up with a waitress wonderfully named Chastity, trading a gilded theatre for sticky floors and neon lights with which somehow seem safer and more anonymous than a theatre full of sleepy patrons, all discovering their insomnia is suddenly cured but all all battling like Vikings to stay awake until the end, if only to join in the pseudo-intellectual lobby conversations to follow. Bottles of bourbon roll across your dressing room floor that night, a tinkling reminder of your lack of energy on stage. Creativity, it's a drug. Don't get addicted, but of course you already are. Even a drop, they say, can hook you for a lifetime. Forget family, fame, friends, finances and chase that next hit that'll never be as good as your first. Go out at night and twirl in the rain 'til inspiration strikes, because that's what artists do, right? Hole up inside your apartment with blankets and Mrs. Grass Soup because you, Madame Super Artist, are not impervious to germs. Ideas strike like mocking lightning , knowing that you're down for the count and can't even open your eyes to jot them down. Joke's on you, you laugh, 'cause you're a performer and your memory is a hard earned skill. Keep from crying when you realize you're full of shit.

TBC

7/19/12

There's no way to politely say, "Your writing bores me." And there's no polite way to hear it.

7/18/12

The sunset wasn't orange originally. That's something that came from humans. It's beautiful though and we know it, and even though it's from all the crap we're spewing into the atmosphere, we can still sit on our decks at sunset with a mug in our hands, relaxing to the toxic sight.

7/17/12

I don't know the origins of my anger. I'm sure there's a genesis they can be traced back to but I'm not omnipotent enough to find it. Those moments of sadness only linger for a few instants before dissolving into that rage pit. Uneasiness, fear, sadness, all melt to gut burning rage, like the dankest whiskey attacking my organs. It's so much easier that way.

7/16/12

There's a religion called Origin on a sci fi show. The priors mutilate themselves and travel around hurting others, terrifying and threatening them into believing. Violence, burnings, death. They use sneaky science to make it look like gods are reaching from the beyond. Now tell me, how's that any different from religion today?

7/15/12

I'm away for your birthday for the first time in twenty one years. I'm far away and sorry. Birthday dinner and waterskiing trump stumbling through poems and vacuuming.

7/14/12

12 days. So, what now? 15 years later and the carpet is being pulled from under my feet. I'll land on my butt with no idea what to do. Looking up at everyone towering above me. Then what?

7/13/12

Heroine and heroin. So close, yet one saves lives and one twists them into inconceivable wrecks. Savior and killer.

7/12/12

Pantsless Wednesdays are back! The roommate is gone, the days are hot, I'm down to not caring. What's obscene in public rocks in the privacy of your own home.

7/11/12

Chesty Morgan was a Polish stripper before Wishman made her a movie star. A 73 inch bust and a heavy accent only gets you so far. How much is too much?

7/10/12

Clothes don't matter much in summer. The heats get to the point where no one cares what they look like, they'll dress like a slob or skank to avoid dripping sweat and heat stroke. As Alissa says, no fucks given.

7/2/12 - 7/9/12

7/9/12
Three weeks, counting down. Halfway through a half of a quarter, buckle down, nut up or shut up, put on your big girl panties and let's get it done.

7/8/12
My hair was in a ponytail when I got burned. My scalp is streaked with red like tiger stripes. Brushing makes me wish I was bald, so I was slather on a thick layer of sunscreen. They should make sunscreen shampoo.

7/7/12
You're a slut for taking plan b. You're a whore for buying condoms. You're a skank for being on birth control. Close your legs! He's a badass for taking Viagra. Enjoy your sex!

7/6/12
She's pregnant. The four super christian couples are married straight from high school so they can finally have sex. Dropped out of PLU to get married and have a baby, though with no aspirations to go back. It's like watching Jerry Springer and realizing my life ain't going so badly.

7/5/12
They say when you get your tonsils out, you'll stop being sick. They're dirty liars. Two weeks later, viral meningitis. Three months later, swine flu. It's my immune system they say, sucks to be you.


7/4/12
He says he loves to save girls, loves the ride to the rescue and beat up the bad boyfriends and pull them into the safe arms of a loving relationship. It's impressive, he thinks, telling girls about how he hates woman beaters and abusive men, though he fails to realize that's just common decency. He'd love to save me, he says, if I ever need it. I say I'm a fan of women pulling themselves up by their bootstraps. He laughs. Misogyny is one step from what he hates.

7/3/12
"Eagles are dicks!" One circles the mama and baby ducks and disappears, comes back with two more eagles as backup. "This ain't no nature show! You get up and protect those baby ducks!" 

7/2/12
Vacation starts and the world fades. I forget the internet exists.

7/1/12

I love it when people show up at my door without warning. Like a little surprise party in a messy apartment with no food and people who you aren't really sure you want to see. It's great fun, feeling trapped and assaulted in your home with no way out and unable to kick them the one hundred miles home.

6/30/12

26 days. My life fits in six plastic tubs. Books line the bottom, clothes I never wear (and probably shouldn't own) pad the tops. Things I want aren't the same as what I need.

6/29/12

The sink is metal, that didn't seem like a problem 'til later. A knife is left, skin is split and the metal becomes red. Responsibility, it's something that should keep your knives from being blade up.

6/28/12

Sweatshirts don't belong in this weather. Sweat is gathering and running from my upper lip. My face's tinge is getting deeper and deeper until my cheeks are warm and reddened. My paper is nothing but a weak fan and my clothes are oppressive, confining. Here you are covered in wool and fleece and I hurt just watching you. Are you cold? Is it because there's no meat on your bones?

6/27/12

Things I've Found

An anorexic version of my sister. Strange to see such a similar face peeking out from a wasted body, sack of bones held together by skin and luck. The gaunt cheeks and ratty hair aren't hers.

6/26/12

More Things I've Lost

My childhood love of bugs and the creepy crawlies. Somewhere along the road to adulthood caterpillars stopped being fun to pet and the fuzz became ominous. Rollie pollies stopped being mini armadillos and became things to step around. Worms stopped being slimy friends and became slimy holders of guts.

Spiders have always been evil.

6/25/12

Things I've Lost

My faith. Though does it count as lost if I've never really had it? It was given to me by my parents, but I never really owned it. Pretty stories, ugly myths.

It must be lonely, people say, living this way. Not at all, it's a comforting hug for certainty and mystery, of science and beauty. I don't know, and you don't either.

We are all made of the universe itself. Dust from exploded stars make up the dust of our bones. We are of galaxies and suns and the universe. Stardust people, how can that not be beautiful? We're small, but part of something oh so big.

6/24/12

Tension is gone, packed in her bags. Oxygen isn't full of sulfur, breathing doesn't hurt the chest. Freedom, happiness, alone.

But...I always assumed that when the zombie come, they'll eat her first...

6/23/12

What are you if you walk through walls? What if you walk through Walla Walla?

6/22/12

I have 37 copies of the Harry Potter books. The American and British hardcovers, an American set for saving, most of the American and British deluxe/special editions, and some of the British adult editions. Why? Couldn't tell you. Because I'm a fan? They're pretty? They exist so I need them?

I want to know more. I want the stories to get into my head.

6/21/12

If I walk into a bookstore, I'm coming out with at least one book. It's unavoidable. It's not as deadly an addiction as some, but just as expensive. From leather bound editions with gold or silver lined pages to crappy, waterstained copies that in a previous life were used as coasters, I need to have them. The discovery of two dollar books at thriftbooks and abebooks.com has been my bank account's downfall.

6/20/12

We are eccentric oddities here. We are all colored bright. The town has white haired lovers, the lovers have wills of iron. They're not really seeing us. No one really sees us, not the elders, the mayor, or neighbors. We wish to banish the seagulls by the marina, we run for shelter when they fly over the walkway.

SUMMER QUARTER 6/19/12

When I first stepped onto a boat, I was sure clumsy me would fall. Maybe my legs are secretly for the sea because I stumble on land and trip over nothing but on the water I traipse around like a bizarre ballerina in sweat pants and Converse.

5/31/12

I count the days and close my eyes. Pretend time moves faster.

5/30/12

Bones grind, arms twist, ribs crackle. Emotions don't break you but sometimes they try.

5/29/12

When he smiles, he becomes a shark. Too many teeth showing, maniacal eyes. I've never wanted to hug a shark so.

5/28/12

T-minus 59 days. Countdown, launch life.

5/28/12

Flowers curl up under the radiation, curled up husks of purple.

5/27/12

Cranes just up from the waterfront, dotting the line like AT AT Walkers from Star Wars.

5/26/12

Mola Ram, she hates him. He'll take your heart if you aren't looking.

5/25/12

Fingers glide over rough surfaces, tacky with goo, like petting a fish.

5/24/12

It's a calming sound, like water over small rocks. So different from the screaming of rubber against cement.

5/23/12

Trees spot the landscape, light green fading to dark, brown muck crawling up their roots. A garbage truck breaks through, a hunk of blue metal stabbing at the woods.

5/22/12

An elephant was on my chest, laughing at me as I gasp.

5/21/12

Branches reach, scraping sides of houses and dropping bits on water on decks. Overgrown, a nuisance. Natural.

5/20/12

Rain hitting the pavement makes the same sound as the sizzling sound of barbequeing steaks. It doesn't make me hungry.

5/19/12

Bright red lips and hoop skirts, sexism and smiles.

5/18/12

Victory is a drug, sloshing through my muddled veins and jerking my up like a marionette on strings, controlled by a spastic operator. Then my strings are cut and I realize it's time to start all over again.

5/17/12

There's an IV in my arm, sucking all the money out. I wonder if this education is worth the amount I'm paying.

5/16/12

The balcony is almost empty. Spiders make silky homes, leaves cover the dirty ground. I put a potted plant out  there but there's no table so it's sitting on the ground, a splash of white trash color against the brown.

5/15/12

My car is adorned. A mustache on the hood. A bumper sticker in the back that says "Nice Truck, Sorry About Your Small Penis." An X-Men logo on the side. A Star Trek emblem on the back. If a car could encompass a personality, it'd be spot on with me.

5/14/12

Noodles. Finagled. Fruit. Supercalifragilisticespialidocious. Atrocious.

5/13/12

"Women make it happen in the kitchen." There are reasons why I don't go to church, the sexism screaming. The message is clear, domestic women keep the world turning. People like me have no place here right?

5/12/12

Being overwhelmed is like being drowned, squished. You're not presented with anything hard, anything out of your control, but you sink and sink anyways. 

5/11/12

Sun kissed. Sun warmed. Tan. Burn burn burn.

5/10/12

The lizard's tongue slides over the harmonica, tongue flapping out occasionally. He made history.

5/9/12

Education is supposed to make you more competent. Yet every time I learn something new, I think that's one more thing in a whole new subject that I don't know and am already behind in.

5/8/12

Thunder only happens when it's raining...

How true. The loud and beautiful comes with the cold and the wet. Sometimes, in the right time and the right place, the rain is warm hands tickling the face, the thunder the rumbling laugh of someone with their arms wrapped around you.

5/7/12

Waking from a nap is like waking from death. Power nap, cat nap, it'll make you feel great. No, it makes you a sluggish mess. I stumble, stab myself, fall on the ground, fuck it I'm going to bed.

5/6/12

"Cinco de Drinko" is code for "LET'S GET DRUNK AND YELL AND OH MY GOD IS THAT A CAR ALARM BUTTON ON MY KEY CHAIN BECAUSE THIS IS THE COOLEST SHIT EVER."

I slept. And ate shrimp.

5/5/12

I'm stalked by Christians, begging to save my soul. They tell me how great their god is, how horrible sin is and how hot hell will be. I tell them how awesome lesbian sex is. I love seeing their face when they realized I'm some godless pagan, like being near me will drag them down, too.

5/4/12

It's burnout they say. You're lazy they say. Only a few months left, you'll be fine they say. I'll break your nose, I say.

5/3/12

My dad wants me to name my fish Glub. Why? "Because if you get two fish they can be Glub and Glub, GlubGlub! That's the sound bubbles make!" A few days later I get a card in the mail with two goldfish covered in glitter, congratulating my fish on having a new home.

5/2/12

The burning oil splatters my arm, burrowing into my skin. Mustard seeds pop, snapping like little land mines under the chicken. The peppers set mouths on fire, and they smile.

5/1/12

Muses fly around me, laughing. They toss a little dose on my head, just a glimmer of an idea almost out of reach. I can see it, almost taste it, then by the time I go to write it down, it floats away. And there they sit, laughing.

4/30/12

I wonder about vacations. A long weekend away from the monotonous, driving life cleanses the soul. But coming back breaks the heart. Are those few days of freedom worth the sickening depression that follows?

4/29/12

Sometimes people lie. It's ugly and disgusting but true, just like the life.

4/28/12

The bar scene is full of older men and younger people, all striving for attention and when they catch it, unsatisfied that it's from the elders and not the youth.

4/27/12

She pants and scratches up my chest, licking my nose and forehead. No one loves you like Bells.

2/25/12

Homework doesn't get done when I'm in a good mood. It's only when I'm terribly cranky that anything close to productivity is achieved.

4/24/12

She lumbers over, sighs, but I won't give her the attention she covets. She sighs louder, then clunks around in the kitchen, banging the pots together that she should be washing. I won't ask her what's wrong, you couldn't pay me to care. Sigh.

4/23/12

People croon and squeal over babies. I see drooling blobs, feces filled bags of goo. I am disgusting they say, to not think my life will be fulfilled with a screaming waste of money.

4/22/12

"Toot your own horn," they say. "Make them want YOU for the internship." It feels like lying, I say.

4/21/12

People like to think skin is smooth. Some skin has bumps, and divets, and marks that prove it as less than perfect. Most skin is jagged and unreal.

4/20/12

I made this mistake of leaving my window open. When I come back, a haze of smoke has drifted in from my neighbor's balcony. My couch is now a cocoon of weed.

4/19/12

The cigarette smoke clings to my hair long after it's left her thick locks, which seems backwards to me. His hair fans out between us and smells of coconut, which tastes disgusting but smells beautiful.

4/18/12

The police are sitting outside the apartment. Just one car, lights off, silent. Nothing has happened, it's unused, merely existing. And how is it now that I feel more at home than ever?

4/17/12

There's a trickster in the sky today. He laughs when he makes me fall.

4/16/12

You tell me when my biological clock ticks, I'll change my mind. I tell you you're a fool.

4/15/12

Four months, one week and three days.

Pizza boxes everywhere, trash, seeping gunk and creepy mold. Spit globbing up the sink, hair caked and molding in the drain catch. And she says to me, "Can you move your books?"

My brain is seeping out through my nose.

4/14/12

I'm an imagination, bright eyes, four heads and a scepter of spun sky.

4/13/12

It's beautiful and sparkly and antiseptic, covered in nothing and bathed in air.

4/12/12

I've run out. I'm a dried up husk of drained creativity.

4/11/12

Lightning brightens bubbling blackness, clouds clapping together in a deep symphonic applause. I feel beautiful in the storm, creative and inspired.

4/10/12

Home is an emotion. It's the joy of driving out of Bellingham at eighty miles an hour. It's trying your damnedest not to cry like a small child when you get the first glimpse of the Space Needle in front of you, or the sign that says "Entering Seattle" but actually is stating "Welcome Back".

4/9/12

Some are subtle, glancing from the corner of their eyes. Others are obvious, staring like I'm a deformed monster. "Mommy, why does that girl have a nail in her lip?" "Because she's mad at Jesus."

4/8/12

There's always someone in each class. They open their mouth and you immediately wish you were temporarily deaf. Or maybe in the tropics with a coconut and sand.

4/7/12

Sakura-con: pirates, faeries, aliens and furries. Let's go play pretend.

4/6/12

It's extremely depressing to drop ice cubes and not have my dog here to swoop in and scoop them up. Where is Bells when she's needed?

4/5/12

His hands are sandpaper over light glass skin. They caress, trying to find a way in but glass reflects all.

4/4/12

I wear my happiness like sunglasses, hiding sometimes from those peering in until they can  only see their own face.

4/3/12

Three days left until I put this place in my wake and five days 'til I'm back again. A snapping band of blandness to elation to depression.

4/2/12

Anywhere else umbrellas would be dancing through the streets, twirling like bright crumpled paper, protecting their owners from the rain. Here we have hoods halfheartedly drawn up to hide rosy faces, and people in shorts streaming through the miniature rivers winding down the hill.

4/1/12

I can almost feel it inside, that little life. It's just a cluster of cells leeching off my body, more of a parasite than anything else really. It'll make me vomit, swell up and claw its way out of my body while I writhe in agony. nobody likes babies.


 Nah, just kidding, April Fools.

3/31/12

When you can't breathe, it feels like you're dying. Your body thinks you're dying and sweat seeps from glands you didn't even know you had but you're quite cold. Asthma screams at your brain and cuts you off from your lungs until you're nothing more than a groaning mess. It's not elegant and it's not as serious as some diseases, but in those few minutes when you're sure your lungs escaped your chest cavity, it's the worst feeling in the world.

3/30/12

When you rub a finger over a spine, you can feel the ridges like stabbing mountains. I imagine those ridges pushing outwards, poking through the skin until there's a deadly, spiked spine like a porcupine mohawk down my back. What if I stab someone?

3/29/12

The hooks are rusting, curving like infections, beckoning fingers. They beg for lights or wind chimes or hanging baskets. I want to hang happiness.

3/28/12

Hidden behind wrought iron bars and a giant evergreen, it's a paradise jail. Criss cross applesauce next to a hand saw, half a pack of Diet Coke and plastic wrap. It's a trashy balcony, so no one else is drawn here. A hard toss up, either outside with the self righteous recycling fiends or inside with a whining child of a roommate. I escape to my scratchy tiled sanctuary, away from her and as far into Bellingham as I'm willing to venture. The branches open arms wide like the stereotypical pose of 'come at me bro' shielding me from the road. I am alone, staring through elegant swirling prison bars.