The Hipster Brigade
Are you still writing? I mean obviously something more than croony adolescent sob stories to try and win me back? I remember you were the only boy that could compare me to an eggplant without insulting me. Eggplant lust, you used to call it. I might miss that.
Oh, and by the way, I still think of you every time I see maracas.
Your hands used to sweep through my hair like the fine bristles of a paint brush. Every morning was the same. I'd wake up to you moving the hair from my face. Kissing my lips softly -- telling me your deepest secrets this way. I lost count. Of the times you did this, of its importance, of you. I got lost on the way to grandmother's house. I lost my destination. Then I lost you. I think of you when I ride the train and I see girl with giant eyes and an awkward smile.
Tell me something. Anything.
Do you remember the way we fought -- gritting teeth and kicks to the shins? The way you left bruises on my arms that I had to cover up for days. The apologies were never enough, but I thought I was in love, so I gave in to your charm. Your blueberry pancakes in the morning. Your shoplifting from Barnes & Nobles. The paperclip bracelets. I adored it all.
But then I woke up.
________________ or for lack of better words
it's starting to get to me.
i'm not talking about the world right now, obviously.
i'm talking WWII Nazi Germany death camps
and crowded train cars
and the smoke stacks
and the ovens
and the fake showers.
it's all getting to me.
i'm starting to have panic attacks
and this didn't even happen to me
but just to know that it did
Some days I'm sorry that I ever moved here. Away from you. I remember sitting watching the rain with you. Walking in the rain. How you said I looked like a drowned rat and that was cute.
I'm too tired to pretend that I'm not sick. Sick of thinking of you, but I can't help myself.
When we were together I was alone. Now that you are with someone else, I am nothing. I don't know if I miss you, or the idea of you. Your tiny hands, moving across my body like the cocoon of a silkworm. Your little giggle. Your morose eyes and heavy tears. Are these the things I miss? Or just the things I want to miss? Or is it, that I miss you being alone while I am alone-alone and miserable together. Two entities on the same path.
all my fantasies include you
wearing a nurse's uniform
on top of a grand piano
singing cake's version
of "i will survive."
i have problems.
Remember, that one time flying down Hampton Road with the top down on my convertible? When your hair got caught in your mouth and you made me pull over why you put it up in a bun? I think of you everytime I go to the library. Is your favorite book still High Fidelity
? I was never as cool as Rob Gordon in your eyes, but you still didn't mind holding my hand in dark movie theaters. Now, when I go to movies, my hand gets goosebumps.
I suppose this is the last person you thought you'd hear from, but here I am writing this to you after 5 cups of coffee at 3am Sunday morning. I'm just remembering the days we'd sit on the front porch watching lines of ants: making up their names, former occupations and what the life of an ant must be like. Back then, we didn't know any better. We could just sit there and enjoy doing nothing and now it seems like I'm always rushing around. I want to get that kind
of lost again without being yelled at by my subconscious for being a lazy bastard.
Somedays I miss the cold of your hand on the small of my back.
please do not be scared, young ones.
do you know this man? i suppose he is a part of this website called ebaumsworld
. well, send him over my way as i have started a small cultish following. swoon!
there could be nothing better than a bit of royalty in your blood
i've been thinking a lot of "majesty
" and of the awesome
lately. i'm thinking of new requirements for people that are of the awesome, which is that when we sign our names it will be majestified. i mean just go ask an awesome broker
and i'm sure he'd give you the same advice.
but i could be wrong. i have been before.
THEY HAVE DONE IT!
i had slowly been collecting a small pile of due date cards in my room. i wasn't going to be fined if they never made it back to the library, eventually they'd break free of the overly crowded dorm room. and last week, they made it there in a pile of overdue books. only for me to find that they are no longer giving out due date cards.
i cursed myself; wanting the small mementos back.
so today, not so secretly, i took the due date cards wherever i could find them. on the floor. in returned books. and stuffed them in my pockets and purse. and now i have about eight of them and no use for them whatsoever.
but i can't help but feel a bit of pride.
if you want stardom all you need...
i'm pretty sure you're a guaranteed rockin' musician:
if you're a male and wear purple converse chuck taylors.
old news for people that like being told exactly what they are missing
i never wish to return home again.
in current events:
-updated the useless things about me section
-added a new picture type section
-am wearing plaid pants
-someone just dropped a bowling ball in the room above me
-yes, the very same room where i'm positive i overhear 4 hour long sex sessions from
-i keep thinking about this girl. i have to warn everyone that this is the scariest thing i have ever seen. it terrifies me and makes me extremely sad at the same time. i hope this commercial
makes people understand. my thoughts are always
saying farewell to nostalgia
the other night i was restless. i tossed, turned and turned, and decided finally on a good cry. as i sat there crying, my dog moving further away from me. not closer. i couldn't decide why i was crying. some combination of missing boston, leaving home, being lonely and wanting to just leave and never come back.
maybe my motives are backwards but instead of finishing school, i'd rather be in california. berkeley. hanging out at copy shops with aaron cometbus printing my own zine. wearing leather jackets and torn chuck taylors. driving a vespa. crossing the line between mod and punk.
i have a lot of dreamy moments. things i wish i'd been. places i wish i was. i guess the future tense of nostalgia. places i want to remember fondly.
just some days i wonder if this is where i'm suppsosed to be.
the cycle of the cat
there is one cat that sleeps directly in front of the refridgerator door. she runs away everytime i go for the juice, and then runs back as soon as the door closes.
the other cat curls up on the kicthen counter by the dish rack at night. in the mornings, she is on the carpet under the sink. she paws and hisses furiously at the dog if he mistakes her for the other cat. she will have nothing to do with him. my grandma cleared a spot for her on the table, but she prefers the carpet.
the dog is goofy and has started following my every move throughout the house. i'm the only person who can seperate him from the Tokyo Terror (my grandma) and he must
sleep with me at night. if he's not there when i go to sleep, he is there when i wake up. it's quite alarming actually.
do you have a secret to share?
it's time to fess up.
do you have a
crush on me
back in the day
i'm twenty-two years old and i almost walked out of a Target store with a My Little Pony. it's been years since i walked up and down those aisles eagerly grabbing box after box off the shelf and shoving it in the arms of my mother. she always encouraged the buying of new toys. i think she liked them as much as i did.
i enjoyed anything miniature, especially animals.
and tonight when i showed her the pink My Little Pony and i said, "i guess i should put this back." she replied, "you don't have to."
now i wish i hadn't.
what happened to the toughies?
it doesn't matter how tough you say you are, but at one time in your life you are going to become gross. utterly disgusting. disgustingly cute. you are going to become a girl. it happens. it will happen. you will fall for some man. boy. guy. dude. and it will happen. you'll be reduced down to squeals and giggles. you will oooh and awww and say things like, "he's so sweet" with your eyes glossed over and your heart fluttering. sometimes it will go unrecognized but believe me, your friends will notice. the world will notice. they will say things like, "you're in love." which may be an utter falsity but sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between lust and like and love. they all become a little alike during this stage. the stage where you will buy your man a dr. pepper from the 24 hour CVS. the stage where you drop your metal helmut, still in hand, and just let yourself be happy. you put down the knives. you put down the stakes. i mean it happened to Buffy and it will happen to you. i know that some of you are shaking your heads no right now and that's okay. but one day, you too, will smash an empty can of pabst blue ribbon on your forehead, just to impress him. just to make him smile. just like he makes you smile. and tolerates the noise of the angry washing machine in his ear at 2:03am when he's already said he's tired and you keep pressing your nose to him in the slow motion style kissing in the ending of amelie.
but it's okay. you can still kick his ass in thumb wrestling.
she was always down
lost like stella
unfastening the button
down his fly
right above his waistband
and he shuts his eyes
and whispers, eyes still closed:
"suck my cock"
and she kisses his neck
and sucks on the fleshy bits of his earlobe
biting and licking
and breathing harder into his ear
her hand in his pants
and she can tell that he is impatient
that he wants it
making her want it
till she can't help but do what he wants
what she wants
and he's in her mouth
and she takes it
tongues the tip
and looks into his eyes
and licks around the head
and he moans softly
and he pinches her nipples
caresses a thigh
and she uses her hand
up and down
to catch a breath
like the birthday girl
wants pink cupcakes
she wants him
and she won't stop
when should i listen to the boys?
i remember when just the light touch of the cute cashier's fingers on mine would make me melt. make me fall apart. make me piece myself together in the parking lot. then it got harder and harder to get that feeling back. it had to be holding hands. hugging tightly. hand on my thigh. hand on my breast. kiss on my neck. hand through my hair.
more and more specific.
like i was becoming numb.
so i stopped.
and i started to miss the compliments about my soft skin. how russell told me i had a nice nose so he wouldn't fall into the category of normal boy. that the only compliments i got on my eyes were from women. that i had pretty legs with small ankles. and my white white skin. wishing i had freckles but still receiving compliments. and that i had beautiful breasts.
then someone told me i had gorgeous hands.
then someone else.
so when i handed my cash to the cashier i made sure to brush his hand with my own.
which made him smile
and made me tingle again.
what a reputation
although, my stay has been short i have acquired a few nicknames here. always something on the tragic side. that's how people picture me. mopey and alone and sad and serious.
"Quesadilla for Miss Serious."
i've had this name for two years. it doesn't even go away when i smile or play with my transformers in line. he still calls me the same name each time i walk in that store. Miss Diana Serious.
and just the other day the resident assistant asked me if i was okay. i had been looking a bit sad lately. i told her that i get that a lot. i swear it's a mixture of being too tired and too much thinking.
no one believes you can be happy without smiling.
i've been writing a lot of one liners lately. not jokes. just empty lines that might turn into something lately.
she speaks to me in whispers that i cannot hear
this one line is always with me. when i can't think of a single thing to write, i am thinking this over and over stuck on repeat. needle stuck in that groove. skip skip skip.
i cannot make it go away.
i fill my head with other things.
sex. flowers. headphones.
it still appears.
tonight, i cleaned out my desk drawers. just to dump everything back inside in a messy way again. this is what i found:
she was a poet, and like most poets saw only in blue. even when she removed her sunglasses the sky was still dark and grey. she cried everyday. it gave her inspiration.
i'm in the waiting room surrounded by six senior citizens. my second trip to the dentist in one week. three months in college and my mouth has become full of decay.
sometimes i read what i write and "oooh" outloud because it is still shocking to see that i am everyday getting a little better at something.
time does tell.