Words, words, words

#10: I am filled with broken promises.

And after a while, they don’t hurt as much.

Sometimes, I wonder what kind of life I’m setting up for myself–a world where the minutia feels like vapor; where ‘this and that’ don’t sting, but they should.


The Workplace Panopticon

#3: I’m in constant fear of getting fired from my new job.

I’ve done nothing to upset the boat (in fact, the boss folk, with their alien boss heads, have seemed complimentary of the current workplace dynamic since my arrival). And yet, I still feel aloof. I crack lame jokes. The air conditioner whooshes “imposter” under the guise of fluorescent lighting.

Someone let me into a secret club that gives money and healthcare and they haven’t yet noticed that I don’t belong.

I have a (secret) tail.


When you realize that someone doesn’t love you, your first reaction should not be anger, although it often is. It’s an understandable and expected response. You’re suffering a loss that you never really gained—the absence of whispers, defining moments, and lifelines that could have been.

Recently, I’ve learned to buckle down what I refer to as The Upset; I strap it down until I’ve figured out its new shape and how heavy it might be during this go around. I envision The Upset as a sulky disheveled monster, born and amassed from the salt and iron in my veins. The Upset is the part of me that I can’t predict and frankly, shouldn’t have to. It is as exhausting as it is transformative. It is all encompassing. And I strap that unruly bitch down because I don’t want it tethered to any part of me. I don’t want hulking rocks in my shoes to make each step away from you harder than it should. And in spite of my resolve, the quickness in my stride, it’s still a struggle.


A pictorial of what I envision to be “The Upset.” The artist, my friend, calls the piece her emotional diarrhea. A beast by many names.

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Poem Friday! (because I don’t dabble there enough)

In response to Billy Collins’s Love:

The boy at the far end of the train car

kept looking behind him

-Billy Collins

The girl with her large black case

in the unmistakable shape of a cello

watches the boy at the far end of the train

though she pretended not to.

She ignored him in that peculiar way,

eyes averted and feet planted due north,

though the tone in the air had shifted

and she felt his electric wave beneath her skin:

like when a hand holds another for the first time

and knows that it has just done something wonderful.


My characters notice things. A lot. There are also several realizations, as in, I realize that my father is a douche. These are the minutia that fine tuning (neurosis) should fix.

You know, once I figure out how.


Oh hey there, July! You go Glen Coco July! I thought I’d be less stressed by now. Finished with certain things. I like a challenge. Also, stress and ulcers make you lose weight!

I don't know why. I just like it.


One page is a victory. In a day that can be spent at the best beach in the United States, exploring the richest parts of the Long Island like I have a real job, reading anything and everything at the Borders in Riverhead that has seen better days, one page can do a soul justice.

I can take that.

Even though the days are numbered here and time can no longer accept one shots. It needs miles.

I need miles.

Doing work on the rim.

It feels like a good writing day. My mind has met the necessary peaks. I have the right pens (Staples Opti Flow – black). The tunes are rocking (Arcade Fire – The Suburbs). My Moleskine is open with the last few chapter outlines scrawled down.

Check out that handsome chicken scratch!

Today is the day for brush strokes.

P.S. I realize how hipster shit this sounds. Just letting you know I’m aware. ‘Kay? Thanks.

Facts for June 19th 2011

1. I celebrated my 24th birthday on Friday, June 17th. It was the way you want to ring in a birthday. You wear a pretty dress. You have a quiet, but shenanigan-filled pub crawl, surrounded by good people and good booze. And if there be dancing, you move like you’re fluid. Like you’re freaking weightless.

2. I was born on June 18th, 1987 at 2pm. Somewhere in Houston, Texas. I came into the world with a sirens’ wail, my Mom said.

3. My father had a heart attack on the 18th. My brother tells me this via a series a text messages around 10am. Even though my Mom told him not to. Even though, my Mom called 8 that morning to sing me “Happy Birthday” per usual. Even though I thought the wavering in her voice came from me not being in Texas or me growing up or hell, me graduating from my Masters. Me, doing my own thing. I should have acknowledged the presence of we in her voice. I felt it.

4. Letting your friends take you to see Glee: Live on your birthday to distract you from the fact that your father had a heart attack, does in fact work. But it’s only temporary. And when Chris Colfer goes for that high note in “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” you have an odd sense of art imitating life.

5. Today is Father’s Day.