Monday, June 29, 2009

happy birthday bastard

Hello Bastard,

This is your birthday note. Happy 29th birthday. I hope you have a blast. I hope you remember all the good times.

I hope you remember your youth group. Your devoted followers. How we looked up at you like you were the center of the universe.

I hope you remember the first time I called you daddy. You were caulking the bathtub. Hell, even that was an omen, huh?

I hope you shrug on your worn leather jacket that reeks of you and remember that I used to wear it. I wore it home every time I'd leave school after lunch. Remember?

You came to find me once. I had locked the door. Locked and bolted, because my goal had to be accomplished. I had to be clean. I couldn't let you find me with red eyes and smelling of puke.

When I walked out to the enclosed porch I could smell you. Aftershave.

You came to save me. Or something like that.

Big strong youth pastor to the rescue. Taking care of the flock. Nurturing the sheep. Loving the unlovable. Planting seeds (what kind of seed?).

Remember your daughters birthday? She was one. Her face had just been mostly cleared of chocolate cake and I said I'd take her to bed while your wife was talking to my parents and your other two were playing downstairs. She was being so good. You weren't. Helping me, huh?

How could you do that stuff while your daughter was in the room? She wasn't old enough to understand, but it felt like she was.

How about your wife? She is beautiful. But she wasn't enough. She was insecure. . . so you found a girl who puked her guts up for self-esteem.

She was a faerie, your wife. She was my best friend.

And you were a vampire. What are you now?

Have you repented, like you told the judge? Forgotten your sins; let Jesus clean your heart? Psalm 51.

Happy birthday.

Do you remember the night I came over to figure out a plan to stop my cutting and purging? You showed me all the pictures you could find on Google images of deathly looking people. You read me the symptoms. Heart attack. Death. Infertility.

And then you put a condom in your pocket, just in case you got lucky with a 15 year old girl.


And the thing is I don't hate you. I feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry for you because you wore holey briefs and you stunk of sweat and cheap hair gel. I felt sorry for you because your phone kept vibrating as your wife called. I felt sorry for you when you finally got done because you were ruining what you said was everything to you.

Everyone reminds me of you.

Everyone with funny fingers, funny faces, funny noses. Everyone who cares.

What really hurts is that I haven't been able to move past you.

Everyone who touches me has your deformed hands and your glassy eyes. They all fake love.

When you carried me home in your arms after I'd OD'd, was that because you didn't want to see a girl die, or because you liked the way a vulnerable, quaking little girl felt in your arms? When you endured smelling like puke as you waited in the emergency room, was it because you really wanted to make sure I would make it, or because you wanted to know that I felt like I owed you something?

I question everything, you should know that.

I also say I'm sorry too much.

Did you choose me because I was someone who you wanted to get to know, or because I was the most vulnerable? Did my writing really intrigue you, or was it just another way to gain my trust?

You were the best and the worst thing that ever happened to me, Joseph Aaron.

I hate you.
But I can't hate a soul.

You must be tormented. At least, I hope you are, or else there's no hope for you.

How can you look at your children and not feel pain? You deprived them of their father for years. They don't know what happened now, but sometime in the future they're going to ask why daddy has a criminal record and why they can't have their friends spend the night. What will you say?

Are you going to tell them that there was a girl named Annie who wrote sad stories. Are you going to tell them that I loved them more than anything? Or are you going to tell them that there was someone; there was a mistake, and she's gone now?

Was I the mistake, or were you?

Life's unfair.

But you know, I'm happy.

You taught me that no matter what happens, even the worst thing I could dream up, it all has a purpose. People become stronger when they're faced with challenges, and when you break, you eventually heal.

I think.

And now, PJ, I can smile when I think of that year, because it was also my best. I met friends in the weirdest places and it's all thanks to you.

Really. Who knew loony bins were so darn cool?

Who knew I'd learn who I wanted to be?

Or that I'd finally fly?

Screw you.

And thank you.

And I'm sorry.

Happy birthday.


P.S. The kids from Bethel still talk about you. You're a legend. They will never trust again, and half of them don't want to step into a church. They've lost the faith because the one who showed it to them lost himself.

I found myself through your breaking me.

I hope you've found yourself, or something.

Say "Hi" to Trish and the kids. I think of them constantly.

Saturday, June 27, 2009

live life loud

Life life loud, live it unapologetically. Life fiercely.
Take the moment; grab it by the neck and squeeze every ounce of enjoyment out of it.
Don't look around you and wonder what people will think. Don't let others opinions of your actions stop you.

Go ahead.
Head bang.
Sing the "Singing in the Rain" song in a downpour.
Hell, even twirl one of those ridiculous yellow umbrellas around. (You know you want to! Where would one buy a yellow umbrella, anyway?)

If we lived our lives wondering who's watching and what's running through their heads, our lives would be normal.
And who likes normal?

Normal is everyday; it's mundane. . . it's boring.

If it doesn't go against your morals and it wouldn't go against others (stumbling block) do what your heart demands.

I've been known to break into song in the middle of grocery stores. It drives my best friend crazy, but you know what? She's loosened up since I met her. The first time I did something like that near her I thought she was going to have an anurism. Thank God, she didn't, and now she kind of appreciates me for my crazy weirdness. I don't think she'd want me to be normal. I think she'd be bored.

Most of all, I'd be bored.

I was normal once. And, God, did I hate it.

Now? Now it's great. I can dance around the house in my underwear and my parents don't even notice anymore (unless it's a thong, then they notice). They almost expect me to say something silly. I swear there are these ultra-awkward silences that follow anything anyone says in my household. My theory: they're giving me time to respond.

Like after my dad said something about how it's not a "butt" it's a "rear end" and I told him "Fine then, would you please scootch your arse?"
Believe it or not- he laughed. The man laughed.
I don't think I've heard him laugh at anything but knock-knock jokes. Ever. Especially something "crude" like that. It was great. I actually felt like his daughter for once.

Live life loud. Make people notice. Whether your cause is the environment, how Bush was really a great president (shout out to my best friend) or like me, love, make yourself known. The world isn't changed by people who sit back and hope that someone else will say something they agree with on tv- it's changed by those who speak to their friends, their family and any general public who's there to witness the soap box.

Come on now, people. You aren't dead yet! Live like it. Sometimes I wonder if people in the church haven't been slipped a little sedative before walking in. I wonder if I'm the only one who disagrees with the pastor. I wonder if they believe in anything at all.

Most of all, I believe in a loving Jesus. No matter what religion or deity you believe in I'm sure that somewhere deep in your heart your wish is that Jesus does truly love you.

I met someone a couple months ago who has become one of my dearest friends. Her name is Emily. She smokes more pot than Bob Marley did, recently got her nipples pierced and is bisexual. Emily has an eating disorder and claims she hates Christians. They made fun of her in high school for being bi. She says she'd never want to be one of us.

You know what? Neither would I.

Emily believes in Jesus though. She tells me she reads the Bible and that she likes the Jesus she sees in there. She sees a contrast, though, between the one that's in the Bible and the one we preach and supposedly emulate.

She's absolutely right.

We've come so far, they say. Yeah, we have. In the wrong direction.

I'm not saying that Jesus would pat Emily on the back for liking girls and liking sex. I'm just saying that Jesus wouldn't make a girl cry, even if that girl sinned.

Everywhere in the Bible I see Jesus comforting, loving and healing. I don't see anyone with a right heart being turned away.

We've come a long way, baby. Now we turn people away at the doors, refusing them entrance into God's house because of how they look. What would God say?

If I ever start a church, I'm going to go find the "scum of the earth" and bring them in. Be they prostitutes, transvestites, gays, lesbians, televangelists that look like Barbie on speed, self-injurers, anorexics, murders, liars, cheats. They'd be part of Jesus' church too, if He started one here in the United States today. You know why? Because when He sent the invitations out to all the preachers and deacons and Episcopal priests they were all busy.

They were all working on their ticket to heaven. They were all wearing their golden crosses that just kept their neck weighed down and their eyes cast to the ground. They were too busy to come see the true Jesus, just like most of us Christians are too busy now.

So Jesus sent His servants out to the wayside to find guests for His party, didn't He? He got the homeless and the dirtiest. And I bet they had a blast. I would have given anything to go that party. Because it was real and honest.

I bet there was a lot of rejoicing going on there. A lot of healing. They probably never got around to the fattened calf.

Can you see Him? He's surrounded by people begging to be healed of their sorry sins and their ravaged hearts. And He's healing them all because they are broken.

Come on, people. Wake up. Jesus wouldn't hang out at our churches. He'd be down at the corner of 5th and Capitol at that abandoned Lutheran church drinking coffee with the homeless. He'd be drying the tears of a prostitute. I'm thinking He'd only step into our churches to tell us we're like the white-washed tombs. We might look nice on the outside, but inside- we're dead and rotting. We're stinky.

I don't wanna stink. Especially when I finally meet Jesus. I wanna smell good!

Philippians 4:18b
Your gifts are a soothing aroma, a sacrifice that God accepts and with which he is pleased.

How do you smell to Jesus? Minty fresh? A little B.O.?

Living life loud means standing up and being counted.

Let's live life loud, and let's release a good fragrance unto the Lord.

(When did I turn into a black preacher?)

I, for one, renounce Christianity completely. I don't want to be part of this social club. I want someone who heals hearts, and that's not the white Jesus with the beard I see as the head of today's churches.

I'm waiting for the Jesus who's dirty and ragged and who was bloodied for me.

Nope. I'm not a Christian. I'm just a lover of people.

Can I get an Amen?

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

for you, poet boy

This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.

This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.

This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.

Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".

They are wrong.

I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.

You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.

The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.

It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?

I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.

I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.

For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?

I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.

Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.

And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.

One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.

No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.

But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."

Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.

I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.

Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?

Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
A weight.
A menace.

Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.

For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.

All things must come to an end.
Even good things.

I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.

I'm sorry.


Monday, June 22, 2009

right now

I am very broken.

Sunday, June 21, 2009


Vampire, sweet teeth, venom-dripping ivory tusks- bite me.
Legend, story after story, written on parchment and paper and glowing screen,
Quill pen, ball-point, typist's speech,
You are a ghost.
A mirage.
Here today, disappeared tomorrow.
Like a song echoed from far, far away on Spanish soil, you are.
Oh come back, ghost, I want to touch your shaven face and run my hands through your unruly hair,
I want to show you truth.
But you are a vapor, and all that remains is poetry, your smell and a stripped fedora on the concrete, right next to the edge of my party dress.
Oh boy, oh ghost, you are far away now, ran away, running still.
Halt for a second and listen to what I'm saying.
I don't mean to tie you down, tether and ball and chain and scriptures have I not.
I am a bird but I am small and weightless, and I have strived to become this.
Don't leave me alone, because I am scared of the dark even more than I am scared of you.
I am scared of loosing you more than I am scared of being completely consumed by you.
Come back, ghost, and rest your translucent hand upon mine, and feel my beating pulse.
Trace the white lace of scars on my arms.
Watch the wind tousle my curls.
Hook your hands with mine and pleasure me.
Let me look into the deep pools of your eyes and let me remember what it's like to be safe, and you, you can look into my eyes, and tell me if there is sanity still reflected inside them.
Don't leave me now, for it will not do you any good, and it will break me.
You have already wooed me with your soft lips and your river words, you have already branded your name to the heard on my sleeve.
Come back, boy, for I am just a ghost, a figment, a shell without your mirror to show me I am beautiful.
Come back, and I will smile for you, I will twirl in the sunlight and the moon beams and I will make you happy.
Come back, for I am your ghost.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

tikkun olam

Tikkun olam (Hebrew: תיקון עולם‎) is a Hebrew phrase that means, "repairing the world" or "perfecting the world." Wikipedia

NORAH: That reminds me of this part of Judaism that I really like. It’s called Tikkun Olam. It says that the world is broken into pieces and it’s everybody’s job to find them and put them back together again.
NICK: Well maybe we’re the pieces, you know, maybe we’re not supposed to find the pieces, maybe we are the pieces.Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist

God contracted the divine self to make room for creation. Divine light became contained in special vessels, or kelim, some of which shattered and scattered. While most of the light returned to its divine source, some light attached itself to the broken shards. These shards constitute evil and are the basis for the material world; their trapped sparks of light give them power.

Basically, Adam was supposed to fix everything, but the mess he and Eve got into made that impossible, thus trapping all of us, his descendants into the shards of light too.

This all means that it's our turn. We have to go and collect the light that has been scattered and the souls that have been lost. By doing so we will separate this physical world, the tactile stuff from the spiritual, mystical stuff of life, thus causing the world to go back to its sinless state- the way it was in perfection. In other words: heaven.

I find this concept beautiful.
It makes me want to go dance in the rain.

I'm not Jewish, but I certainly accept this in its entirety.

You might hear more about this in blogs to come.

Tonight, I watched Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, thus the quote. I had actually heard of Tikkun Olam before, in Bee Season (great movie) but had sort of forgotten to Google it.

The movie was great, by the way. The music in it makes me want to run out and buy the soundtrack right now.

This blog is about nothing in particular. Just felt it was time to blog again.


Saturday, June 13, 2009


I promised more, so here it is.

Christianity has evolved into a monster. It has morphed from it's original state- love for God, love for others and hope, the good news, the Way. . . into a deranged thing. It seems that now, all we care about is numbers, money, and making it seem like we're doing the right thing while we're actually doing whatever we feel like, right or wrong.

And that sickens me.

What sickens me more than the selfishness is the way we (Christians) treat people "out there", which is a bad term to use, but I can't think of another one that seems to fit better.

The outsiders, heathens, and sometimes "seekers".

We have code words. We will "witness", "evangelize", "plant seeds".

Some people have good hearts. . they really do want to usher these people into a better life, but I say that they're naive and misled. They don't know.

The church, and thus Christianity itself has bothered me for a long time. I used to think of a church as a sanctuary, a safe place, a haven, even. . . until I started paying attention. The church was still all those things I just mentioned, but only when it was empty. When people were inside it, it turned into a confusing, scary place.

Not only did people either ignore me because I was young, they also shunned me because I was someone who questioned their beliefs, or because I was screwed up.
Because I had scars on my arms and scars in my heart. Because I was someone who had been raped by one of them- and that scared them. What scared them more is that I could see right through their games.

When they were on a platform, they were God's holy and chosen people, "sanctified" and "set apart" but when they stepped off, they were jealous, angry, discriminatory, and sometimes shit-faced. But people tried to ignore that stuff. Covering up your brother's nakedness.
Sometimes women from the church would take an interest in me, a wayward child, and try to get through to me. We'd go out for coffee, or lunch and talk. Problem was, they didn't like what I said. It confused them.

Rape, self-injury, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, hunger.

I said things they didn't like. They were bad words, they were supposed to be unspoken. But I spoke them.

I didn't call them "homosexuals", I called them friends. I said words like masturbation. I knew that it had wrapped it's chains around the feet of too many of my friends.

So, after our talks they would say something like "We should do this again sometime" and then they'd leave.

When I'd see them at church, they would avert their eyes and walk on the other side of the hall, or duck inside some random Sunday School room.

What would Jesus think of that, I wonder.

Poor Jesus, His gospel has turned into a marketing plan, and His followers have now turned into bloodsucking leeches, they get their fill of whatever they want, money or gossip, and drop off, never to be heard from again.

It breaks my heart.

I hate it.

I propose a revolution.

The two greatest commandments are 1) Love God, and 2) Love others. It's pretty simple really, though I'm still working on it. If we just did those two things, the world would be a lot better. Peace would certainly reign among us.


Let it be so.


velvet elvis

I've been reading all night.
It started with New Moon. . . which, in my humble opinion was far, far, far too sappy and didn't resolve all the way. The story is still decent, as was the first book, but it leaves something lacking. Maybe it's the fact that Bella is selfishly concerned about other people's needs (meaning: she acts like she's doing it for their good but there's always something in it for her, and she knows it and likes it).
Second in the list of tonight, since I finished New Moon in a matter of hours (this is how you win reading contests, too bad they don't have them for kids over, say 12) was Velvet Elvis by Rob Bell.
It confused me at first, and then I kind of stopped thinking about what he was saying- stopped dissecting it, and just read. Ah, it was great. I'm about half-way done with it, and am probably going to finish it today, unless I suddenly get sleepy, which rarely happens.
He talks about so many things. . and I don't have time to really hit on any of them, since I'm deathly afraid my mother will come find me typing away (she doesn't understand that I feel the most inspired when I'm sleep deprived).
More tomorrow- I promise, but for now, suffice to say that I am giving up on Christianity as I have known it to be so far. It sickens me to death. I hate it.



Friday, June 12, 2009

oh, butterfly

You are cunning, crafty, and far beyond wise.

When I look past your long, curling eyelashes I see an old soul, far older than my own, but one who is struggling to breathe.

Maybe you have become too old, and it's time for you to be laid to rest- or maybe, you are experiencing a new birth.

You hide from me very well, like a butterfly flitting from flower to flower and hiding behind leaves and petals- you are mysterious, always leading me on.

Hey boy, you have me in your hand, and breaking is unavoidable. You can't enchant a girl and then tell her to go away, it doesn't work that way.

Hey boy, I miss your liquid eyes and your funny hands and your words.

Your words, they are full to the brim of meaning and intuition and magic, and you spin them; sentence after sentence of magic. You let them dance around me for a while, so I could watch it reflect the sky, and then you pulled them away, leaving me breathless.

Come back, butterfly, your cocoon is far too warm and welcoming for it to be a challenge, and you cannot fly if you don't spread your wings.

You are far too honest, at times, as am I. You told me the truth, and I was left standing there waiting for your face to be close to mine, again, and for your breath to fall on my palm.

Come back, boy.

Flying away is sometimes easier than staying. Turning around is the hardest, sometimes.

You may find your biggest nightmare waiting, but you might also find life.

Hey boy, it's your turn to choose. Read this and think about it as you always do, and either write me a love song for the moment, or write me silence in the stars.
Carpe Diem doesn't mean not being scared of the moment, it means embracing the fear and the expanse of everything around you- maybe even me.

Butterfly, I'm sorry if I crushed your wings. I am thoughtless and I am hasty and I like to take more than to give.

Butterfly; boy, if you need to fly away, take my blessing with you, and if you want to remember me, please do.

Either way, butterfly, I'll remember you.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

the color of hunger

What if hunger had a color?
In fact, what if hunger had a face, a name, and a personality?
What would it be like?

Hunger on low would be green. It would be just bright enough to remind you that something needed to be fixed, but not too alarming.
Hunger bordering starvation or physical damage would be orange- alerting you to the problem, but not scaring you as much as red.

Hunger's face would be taught and there would be wrinkles everywhere- across the forehead, around the mouth and around the eyes.
Those eyes. . .

They would be an icy blue and as far as eyes are concerned, they'd be shallower than most, and dry.

Hunger's lips would be cracked and broken in places, so you could see the flesh inside them, and maybe some blood. There would be saliva trickling down one side of Hunger's mouth.

Hunger would have long, artistic fingers with pointy fingernails that were very clean and well kept.

She (for she cannot be anything but a she) would have long white-blonde hair that reached to the middle of her back and flowed free except for a few random braids.

Her skin would be a pale, pale white- almost blue color, translucent and unearthly.

Of course, her frame would be the slightest- a mere skeleton, and maybe even less than that. She would tremble and sway in the wind, threatening to fall over, yet standing as tall and strong as a cedar.

She would be wearing white, probably a dress of some sort, a long one that covered her feet. Only a few of her toes would poke out, her big toe would be long and skinny, and the toe after that would have a silver toe ring on it.

If Hunger could speak, she'd probably say something like "Feed me". But after a while, she'd start talking more, about other things. .

"I am lonely. I am broken, too. All but a few of my friends have deserted me, preferring a life of health and happiness. But they do not know that there is happiness to be found in hunger too".

Her words would be drawn out, the syllables stretching farther than you ever thought they could stretch. Her voice will be high and almost screechy- like nails on a chalkboard, you figure.

She may continue, "I am hard to find in my fullness. . but you have succeeded. You have drawn me out of my restless slumber, unafraid to see the horror. Oh, but you know it isn't only horror, but beauty too that mingles in my blood. You are fascinated. Self-abuse carries high dignity, eh young one?"

Her soul would be old, reaching farther than the depths of humanity. She is a god. A frightening but wondrously enticing god- a seductress.

A shiver may run through you when you first glimpse of her skeletal beauty and you may feel your heart start to pound in your chest, threatening to jump out. She will beckon, and you will follow.

That's what Hunger is.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

stars are the twinkle in god's eye

It's early morning. 1:20.

Hunger is gnawing at my stomach. Damn thing needs to stop.

Band of Horses is in my headphones, which are much too big- you know, the heavy-duty ones that look like they belong in a recording studio.

My mother made me promise that I would go to sleep before 5, because yesterday she woke up to go pee in the middle of the night and saw my light on. I can't tell you how extraordinarily creepy it is to be reading a book, totally lost in a magical world, when your mother creeps into your bedroom in her nightie and jolts you awake. I hope you never experience it, friends. It almost put me in my grave.

Today is Tuesday. Tuesday is a very insignificant day, unless you go to the Voice, which I've stopped going to. Seeing Curtis makes me sad- especially since I haven't talked to him since last week. Maybe he's mad. I got him a (I thought) cool leather journal thing with his name engraved in a little metal label and The Dark Knight. Rachel said it would be perfect, you know, since he's a writer. . .

"Hatred is a sharp knife held by the blade".
"Love is a thing that you can't define".

I wish I was a lightning bug. They actually gross me out. . . But they're beautiful, if you just look and don't try to touch. They kind of flicker and float- like faeries. I guess if I was a lightning bug I wouldn't be grossed out by myself. I guess I'd think I was beautiful.

I would come out when the sun went down, just because.

I would stare at the stars, too. . . maybe I'd think that they were what fueled my bright little behind. Maybe I'd come up with some kind of lighting bug theory, and become lightning bug famous.

New topic.

I'm reading the Uglies/Pretties/Specials trilogy. I loved Uglies, got turned off at Pretties and am wading through Specials. The story is good, but seriously, can you make it any more drawn out? Maybe I'll change my opinion when I finish the last book. . .

You wanna know what really got me? I'm sure you do, and if you don't, too bad. This my blog, and I can talk about whatever my little self desires. =] So there.
Okay, really now- I hated the fact that he did that stupid little thing with "The Cutters". No.

For those of you that haven't read the books: There's this world out there where every one has to go through an operation which makes them beautiful, thus eliminating racism and all kinds of injustices by making everyone equal. This operation also makes people stupid. So this group of kids decide to try to cure themselves from the stupidness by what they call being "bubbly". This consists mainly of adrenaline (that's my opinion anyway) and one girl from this group sets about getting "bubbly" by cutting herself.

Now- seriously? This isn't a psychological thriller, it's science fiction. Keep it that way. Plus, thus far, the author has not said anything about this action not being a good thing- only that it works for becoming "bubbly". Yeah, I know it's a story, but I don't like the underlying moral so far.

Plus, it's insulting. It makes it seem that real life self-injurers do it for the kicks and attention (this group later become really important in government secret operations), which is a very misguided view.

My opinion: if someone's going to do stuff like self-injury, or any other kid of self-destructive behavior, even if they are doing it for "attention" there's something to pay attention to! There's obviously some disturbance going that needs to be dealt with, and the self-destructive behavior is the red flag that is to alert us to what's going on.

Thank you. I'll get off my soap box now.

As far as music is concerned, Noah Gundersen is freaking amazing. Look him up, listen to Middle of June.

I love you, stay strong, keep being the awesome individualistic free-thinkers you are.


PS: I bought new toe rings today. They say: love, peace, and luck on them. I don't like the luck one. Oh well.

this one's for you

Every time you write me an email (which, if I might be so bold, have been sparse lately) I feel like I am powerful.

You've told me I march to the beat of a different drum even before you knew I love Thoreau, and you keep telling me, almost in every email that I'm special.

Some part of me knows you're right. Sure, there's always been this thing in me. . this itch; this feeling that I am going to do something great- maybe. If I rise above everything around me. One day I'll speak in front of a million people, write a book that saves lives, or become president. I don't know what, but something.

I hope it's something like what you do, quietly handing out wisdom that you've acquired through your years of teaching. I hope I save a life, not through some daring mission and being lowered from a helicopter, but through words, and love, and a hug that goes against the social mores we've all grown used to.

Another part of me says no way. Have you seen me? I can't even walk into a room without dying of fear, and I haven't called you (even though I sorely needed to because that college application was due oh, say, 4 months ago) because talking on the phone, especially to someone like you, is a crippling though. I feel like vomiting just thinking about it.

You are strong, and most of all- you believe in me, which makes me scared to screw up. Which I always end up doing, inevitably, by the way.

Whenever I see your name and a subject line, I smile, and wonder what new things you have to say. Every time it's different.

I know you expect something out of me, something great, because you've told me. Every journal I wrote in your class came back with "You should be a writer", "This should be your life's work; your vocation" or "Yes!" on it. You liked it, and you weren't just saying it (I though you were just flattering me for a while, until some other students of yours told me they didn't get glowing comments on their journals).
You make me want to be better- I guess you make me feel like I should always be spouting wise thoughts, a miniature Emerson or Thoreau or Whitman. If that were possible, believe me I would do it! If every word I said could have something extra, an oomph, if you will- I would do it without a doubt.

Sadly, most of my words come shrouded in lots of "Um"'s and "Uh"'s and I can barely thread together an intelligible sentence half the time!

What can I say? You're a hero!

Everything about you, from the regal way you carry yourself to the awesome hippy clothes you're always wearing (which I keep wanting to compliment you on, but always stop myself. You are after all over 50, and I'm 17. Some rule of conduct somewhere must say that I shouldn't like your clothes) you're just- perfect. I want to be like you, I guess.

If in, say, 30 years I end up being a college professor (not in Sociology, of course, I didn't do too well in your class) it will be because of you. It will be because I never realized a professor, or a teacher could touch a student's life in just one semester. Especially a student who never really reached out unless it was in neatly printed college-bound sheets of notebook paper. Actually, I never realized a human being could touch another human being that way, either. Oh sure, others have been sweet and caring and genuinely loving, but you were so much more. You saw a dream that was too scared to come out and spoke magic chants to it, and coaxed it out.

I haven't told you this yet, and I may never, since you don't read my blogs, but you will be the first acknowledgment in my first book because you told me to write. You told me there was even something worth writing amidst my ramble!

Thank you, Professor Watkins,
You're my hero.


Monday, June 8, 2009

buh bye. . .

. . . coffee.
You have been a good friend, steadfast and there through many hard times.
I remember first meeting you when I as young, even when you were still forbidden tome for unknown medical reasons like a swollen head or sudden combustion. You were so precariously balanced on the kitchen sink in your lovely coffee pot home when I poured you out and sipped slowly on your black, pungent soul. You terrified me. You were bitter.
I learned to love you though, at first only to feel more grown up and fit in with the older kids I hung out with, and then later for your buzz.
Ahh, your buzz.
If there's one thing I will miss about you it would be that.
You could wake me up from my dreary sleep with your lovely wafting aroma drifting to my head-under-the-pillow stupor and clearing it all away. You were fabulous.
You even enhanced my "coolness" factor when I'd walk into class my hand wrapped around a Starbucks frap acting like I drank one of these every day, but in reality I just brewed some black and guzzled it.
You made me friends, even, and helped me get my best friend hooked on your adulterous taste-tingling seduction.

Goodbye, dear friend.
You will be sorely missed.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

bad (pt. 2)

Maybe, like you did me, you will mold her; shape her into the girl of your dreams.
Maybe you'll tell her to get contacts, to change her eye color, or to get highlights, and wear cuter clothes. Maybe you'll shove your hand in the back pocket of her jeans, too, because a girl's a girl, no matter which one. They all have the potential to be yours- all they need is a little trimming; a little fixing up, and they'll work fine.

We all have boobs and a butt and pretty hair. We can all have deep eyes if they catch the sun right, and weight can fluctuate depending on how high you let our self-esteem go.

You were an angel, and a terror.

Sex, drugs, music, and pretty girl at your side, right?

Well, lemme tell you this, honey, my favorite color is green, because it's the color of life, and life is something sorely missed many times.

My favorite TV show is Gilmore Girls, and I wish I was as innocent as Rory in her early days, before she became a woman.

If I don't feel fat on a certain day, I feel ugly. It's very rare that I feel half-way pretty, and that is in part to you.

I always wear colorful underwear, usually rainbow or polka dotted, because it makes me happy to know something no one else knows. On occasion, I'll show my underwear off.

I once held my breath for over two minutes on a dare.

The New Yorker fascinates me, and I do things most people consider boring on a regular basis.

Did you know any of those things? I bet you've tried to guess my bra size, but never even wondered about what my favorite color is.

Good riddance.


good (pt. 1)

Don't forget to remember me, okay? No matter what happens, where you are or what you're doing.

You told me I wasn't just another girl, that I, I was special. You said I had fire in my eyes and that when I danced the trees stood still and when I spoke they listened. You said "You'll go far, girl", and you stared into my eyes like they contained the answers to mysteries long perplexing.

I miss you, and sadly, I don't think you remember me.

Do you remember holding our breaths as we spun in a circle, each holding on to the others hands and focusing on the others face so that we wouldn't get dizzy? Do you?
Do you remember how you'd run your fingers through my hair and tell me it was okay, you thought it was pretty.

But those were just words, and I understand, if your world got bigger and your horizons widened. It happens to everyone, I suppose.

Did you meet a pretty girl? One with the deepest blue eyes and the silkiest brown hair? Did you stare into her eyes too, and tell her they held something (maybe ice? Fire sounds more poetic, but I do believe it works better with brown eyes than blue). Did you tell her that she was beautiful, even when she felt ugly? Or maybe she didn't feel ugly. Maybe she knew she was perfect, and flaunted it. Maybe she was better.

Will she go as far as you said I will, or will she go farther? What's the standard, boy?

Saturday, June 6, 2009


Sometimes time pauses, turns around and looks you straight in the eye- demanding an explanation.

But no, I am sorry, I do not know why you were broken.

Sadder still, I do not know how to piece you together again.

You are a clay pot, made to the Creator's specifications, fashioned by His hands. Painstakingly, meticulously, perfectly you were made; just right. A masterpiece.

But sometimes even masterpieces can be loved too much, if that was your downfall. Or, if you insist that the darkness took you, you were loved too little, struggling on your own two feet; fighting to be brave.

Who knew that time would take you? Who knew that even the best one's fall? We were all too young and inexperienced; naive, if you will. We didn't know anything about rape, or heartache, or breaking, and we hoped we'd never have to learn.

But life is a funny thing, and it grabs us by the neck and doesn't let go, even when we think it's all over.

You fought- didn't you?
Is fighting enough?

Yeah, you're right. Fighting gets you nowhere if you're fighting against time, and life and lessons. Stopping the seconds that tick by or the sand as it trickles down the hourglass is impossible unless you are God.

And God. Where was He, I know you ask, even though it is forbidden that you utter it. A sin, they say. Sacrilegious.

The only sin that was committed was that of the holy man, showing his plumage like a peacock, proud of his accomplishments.

I don't know why you were broken, or why anyone is broken.
I don't know how to put you together again; whether superglue or glue guns will work.
I don't know if anyone could have stopped it-
cold hands on warm skin,
the smell of sweat and sperm,
the moonlight pouring in through the windows- like a jail cell, barred,
the coarse carpet underneath your back,
the smell of hair gel,
his gnarled; malformed hands groping; hoping; finding.
I don't know.

I don't know why you were broken.

I am sorry.
I know what it's like.

I am you.

Friday, June 5, 2009

no time left to breathe

Words have been coming really slowly lately, like a leaky faucet. It's just the drip, drip, drip of thoughts and ideas, and nothing of a stream.

The music speaks for me lately, all kinds of songs on repeat, mostly stuff by Jon Foreman and a couple Molly Jenson songs.

Today was the SOHO music festival, and I went with Aimee. We basically sat around and talked and stopped at Subway and Coldstone. Wandering around town is what I do anyway (funny I still don't know my way around still) but it was fun.

I don't really have anything to say. Tomorrow I'm going to Curtis' graduation party (maybe) and Rachel's graduation, and then Sunday is her party.

I really wish I could spend the night at her house, because we haven't been spending a lot of time together but her parents don't want me around during the busy weekend.
Next week she'll be in Missouri and then a few weeks after that she's off to China for 3 weeks.

How are we going to survive?

Somehow I feel a little broken. I'm not sure why, but maybe it's because so many things are changing all of a sudden, and I feel left behind.

College is such a big step and I know I've always been so ready to move out; to finally be independent, but suddenly I'm scared.

Bad decisions come really easily to me. Much easier than good decisions, and I can see myself screwing my life up terribly. (In My Arms- Jon Foreman is a great song, people, listen to it!) I'm not talking booze or smoking, I'm talking total chaos.

Yes, (Curtis =]) I know I've promised myself that I won't drink, and I won't. . . but I don't know. I'm so stupid sometimes. No, all the time.

I haven't made a good decision since. . . well, I guess going on a quest to find the Truth was a good decision, but that was more necessity, so I'm counting it out- so it's been years. Or something like that. It feels like eternity. Because I'm like that. I get bored easily, and good decisions are definitely boring (usually).

I'm going to go watch the Andy Griffith show and eat white cheddar cheeze-its (God
s gift to man-kind along with peach iced tea).


Wednesday, June 3, 2009

"are you lonely? are my scars too deep, or do you have them too? or do you only love the ones that look like you?"

Do You Only Love the Ones That Look Like You - Molly Jenson and Jon Foreman. It's pretty much the best thing ever, so thank you to Jamie for telling us about it, huh?

Are you lonely? Are my scars too deep, or do you have them too? Or do you only love the ones that look like you?

Today is Wednesday, and I have the choice of going to church- or not. Not.

I had pancakes today, but we didn't have any maple syrup so I had to be creative, finally settling on strawberry preserves and whipped cream. Not bad, but not as good as chocolate chips or syrup.

There's this book, and I just finished it. It's about rape and boys and obscure music- it's great. "Just Listen" by Sarah Dessen. If you're reading this, you should read that, because it's good. . . though she takes a hell of a long time getting to the point. It sort of annoyed me, but once she got there, she was right on. It made me wonder if she'd been raped, the way she described the separation of body and emotions, one blocked the other just present; just alive.

Music is the main thing that's been happening these last few days, mainly U2 and random local bands. Hopefully going to SOHO this weekend.

I leave you with this, I thought it was really cool. . . a song with a title that's me:

Annie- Mat Kearney

I'm caught in a moment out in the rain
Tell me there's something we can say
Help me to find a light
Something that's worth living
Shes walking the backbeat out in the grave
Tell me there's something we can change
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out

Holding the line from the back of the car
Miles and miles from where you are
Maye the hardest things are the dreams that we've been given
And you scream and you sing and you shout
There one way in and there's one way out
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out

There's one love in the morning
Add three days in the grave
Fall back in the evening
Now our lives will change

I'm caught in a moment out in the rain
Tell me there's something we can say
Help me to find my way back down

Cause Annie's got to get out
Before she never can
Were chasing for the ceiling
I'm grabbing for her hand
Were calling on a thin phone line, tonight
Cause Annie's got to get out
Oh Annie's got to get out
We sing......