We need glitter bombs and hips

#5: I swear on this, no matter how extensive my current musical elitism:

I saw ‘NSync in concert when I was 15, and when the lighting went crazy, and the girlish pubescence swelled into a frenzy, and JC Chasez (the specter of my wet dreams) threw a janky towel in my direction, I swear–that I had peaked. My heart knew it. My body buzzed with approval.

For a few seconds, I had a lived a fulfilled life.


And later, if a person is wrong about that feeling, after they’ve witnessed the scope of a messy, unpredictable, human existence, I wouldn’t sweat it. Our instinct shouldn’t be to diminish the past in the presence of knowledge or foresight.

One should feel so sure about a moment at least once.

“Take, take, take–“

#4: I can still feel you next to me.

I hate that when it gets dark enough in my room, or in my head, that I’m there again–sophomore year, in a dorm room that smells like dueling man musk, with the glow of The Godfather video game for Playstation 3 (or was it 2???) hovering over our bodies. I was already drunk, but you pressed that bottle against my lips until I complied. You did it again, and again, until the images surrounding us were well-past muddled. Transcendent, even. You waited until I was pliant enough, when resisting felt as if I were pushing against the rock collective that make up Stonehenge.

I hate those words, prey and predator, because they imply an inevitability. They’re ingrained in the notion of eventual victimhood, but that’s what you did, right? When you told me to stay after everyone else had disappeared, when you smiled, when you chose to drink nothing because you were sick–you waited. Back when I used to think of waiting as a passive activity.

I’m not that foolish anymore.

Instead, in my dark, there are pinched nipples and cold hands down my jeans. There are words that you don’t hear. That you ignore.

And then there are things I remember and choose to forget.

But what you told me after killed me. I almost laughed, would have, had I not been so angry. They came at next day’s end after you spent hours chasing my ghost all over campus. You wanted to explain before I told someone ‘important’. I never did.

“I always liked you,” you said. 

That had I been your sister, a mythical being for you to foist your culpability upon, that you would be furious with that ‘other guy’. You gave these sentiments in between nervous apologies, but you might as well have said nothing. I would have preferred it.

You ruined me for a while, you know. I used to think you ruined me for other men, but I know better now.

I have evolved.

The Workplace Panopticon

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

While I’ve done nothing to upset the boat (in fact, the boss folk [with their alien heads] have been complimentary of the current workplace dynamic since my arrival), I still feel aloof. I crack lame jokes.

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

I have a tail.

Un peu grande vérité

#2: I miss you, too.

You close your eyes when you laugh. For brief moments, you lean and hunch your shoulders; your arms cross. Your body is so beautifully overwhelmed with life, that it becomes concave. As if its natural response is to contain the expulsion. But why?

A laugh from you is joyful disintegration.

“And now for something completely different.”

My year of radical (selective?) honesty.

365 days.

365 posts.

365 anythings.



Because I believe in my making myself uncomfortable for the greater good. I don’t stand for much, at least not in the traditional sense that always seems to taste like integrity or some kind of fuck. But I do think finding catharsis in withholding has left me with pieces instead of fortification. And I’d like to think of myself as whole. Or at least weightless.

And sometimes, you do shit… just to do shit. But wouldn’t it be great if you turned out to be all right in the end? Better, even? That the shit led to a sum of all your pieces?

(I think I’m funny.)

Maybe we should think in dreams instead of resolutions. They’re both constructs, but I like how the former has bit of panache. Empire waists and sequins. I close my eyes and they’re still dancing. It is how I know that they are important.

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Here’s the thing–

–I’m trying out this new concept based on what we talked about. It’s a little strange. Perhaps, it’s a little too radical for me and the good ole buckle. But today, as I drove from uptown to downtown and back again, I thought about the way honesty fits my skin now and how much I like it–as if my shallow layers have been sloughed off by the old Brillo pads my Mom keeps under the kitchen sink.

Tonight, babe: I’m shiny. I wrote this uninhibited and I’m unveiling all my parts. Tick, tick.

In my brain and at my lips, the mot du jour is revelation.

Or perhaps it’s timing, and in this case, the saltier end. It’s salty when the situation or circumstances aren’t quite right, but they should be. They could. If timing were in our favor, if distance, if parts of you weren’t still bruised, I’d take you out real nice. I would. Because you’re the type that deserves to be woo’d, too, once in a while. You’re worth the Stop-n-Shop flowers AND the pricey teacup dessert. (No, no, I’ll open the door for you.) And when we’re done, let me whisper them smooth jazz words like, “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours. I’m driving tonight. All night.”

And while I’m dreaming right now in my head, there’s the two of us and the moon–and we like the moon, don’t we? We admire the illumination when we can, but love feeling lost in the places where the beams don’t touch our feet. The moon could help us lose ourselves in an embrace, like that one night.

(You know the night. I do.)

Tonight, they’re strong again, if you’re curious. Diana, the Amazonian Princess, has got nothing on my shit.

Here’s another thing: my feelings oscillate between knowing too little about them and knowing enough to turn away. If you want a transparent answer, I just don’t have it for you right now. But I want to, babe. Honestly, I really do. I don’t know the spectrum of my colors quite yet. For you, my soft parts are less shades of gray and more purple. But tonight, those colors are getting close to what moves through our veins. You know, I think there’s a palette underneath my ribs. I think I’m trying spread out and reach something, reach you, but my hands aren’t deft enough to paint the scene quite yet. For now, that’s okay.

I realize that there’s no feasibility in the distance, or in the way your heart feels right now (how wrenching it open again ain’t worth the sweat and the mess. Them heart guts suck). And me, I can’t seem to massage mine open in a way that hurts the least.

I guess, what’s I’m really asking… what’s hanging on the precipice of this undefined situation, is for a chance to get to know you. For me to be able to show you my shiny parts because the alternative doesn’t suit either one of us.

And for tonight, and maybe the next night, and the night after that–

I want to have you.


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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Here’s My Obligatory December Post

Lately, I’ve embraced the influx. Admired the frequency of short bursts. I’m conducting this symphony and we’re barreling towards crescendo. Yes. This is what we’ve been waiting for.

I say, don’t shy away from it. Too often we encumber ourselves with mental blocks and edits and excuses. Even if the writing becomes too loud and messy for us to bear:

Press on when the music swells.

Spread the wealth, sailor!

Another post! It’s like I’m pouring a little out for my homies every day.

I’ve reached an impasse in my writing out of sheer disgust of the material that’s been coming out for Nanowrimo. (Watch live as I crash and burn here!) I know, I know, the point of pumping out a novel in a month is to get workable material and not necessarily Starry Night in a hat box and you have to give it time and bah bah bah blacksheep. Although I’m giving myself a plethora of ass-in-writing-chair moments, I can’t seem to make my brain function in that direction. (I blame you, television/alcohol/substances/myself.) I just don’t see the point of having several pages of worthless shit. (My thesis advisor would tell me that no work is worthless and that you’ll eventually find some use for some, if not all of the material. But pfft, what does she know?*)

These days, instead of building my word count, I find myself re-reading the beginning of the novel. My advisor has been telling from jump that these are my best pages. Not that the others should be burned in the ninth circle of hell, but some of them are just not there yet, you know? But how exactly does one go about capturing the essence of that material on the rest of the boatful of shenanigans?

Research shows (by the way, I made this shit up) that the first three chapters of any novel are the most solid. These are your babies. You’ve watered and fed them with the most amount of time and fanciful edits, as you should. They’re the lifeblood of the rest of your work. Here, the characters must be clearly defined, the dialogue sharp, and the wit a-poppin’. If those pages don’t make sense, then the rest of the novel is bound to fall apart somewhere.

And in terms of spreading the wealth, you also want a way of maintaining that level of momentum until the very end. Some of the very best writers can’t do this. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been annoyed by a great novel that ends up sucking in the last 40 pages. (I’m looking at you, Lev Grossman re: no one gives a shit about Fillory *cough* Narnia.)

So, what up peanut gallery? Any thoughts?

I wonder if he thought he'd become a punchline? Nah, I'm wondering if he kept the towel.