Your nightclub darling.

A soft "ping" interrupts the restless dream I was about to succumb to. I see my phone at the end of my bed, a green light is blinking. A green light, far away. "Like Gatsby", I think. A symbol of hope, but ultimately, sadness. Oh, it's you. It's you. It's you!

I feel the pang. That one you get when someone says, "we need to talk". "This is all so old and cliché," I decide, as I imagine the bodies piled up in war. Those walled up in towers, burned at the stake, stoned, tortured, car accidents, murder. And who am I to suffer over you? You are not an implement of pain, except to me.

I feel the tears run down the side of my face. I think about what to say, but instead I wish you could see. Let my tears be the ink and they will write unspoken poetry as they trail down your neck.

I want to die of a broken heart, please forgive me. I want to take the path I know leads to a void where I will be left empty and alone, but all the while I travel through the velveteen darkness suffocating me... and the parties, and the shoes with the buckles that make it so I can lean into you just the right way, and the three drinks too many, and the couch with stories to tell, and the fact that I would do it over and over again just to write these poems on bar napkins for you, and I'm so tired but I am teeming with life.

7-6-16

I know very well you're bringing me down
I will follow, I will follow
For a little piece of heaven
I am ready, I am willing to drown

I've been waiting on your love
Baby, for too long now, too long now
I thought that I could change you like the others
But I don't know how, don't know how
It's gonna backfire
It's gonna backfire, baby
Gonna backfire, gonna backfire, baby
We've done it a million times before
Yes, I'm up for it a million more

6/21/16

:)

I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

So I love my new officemate, however like almost everyone in my town, she's super religious. Within the first few days of meeting her, she said that every morning she wakes up to read her bible for an hour. I think I grimaced involuntarily after she said that, and had to quickly form an expression that didn't suggest I think she's batshit insane. Her desk has become polluted with creepy religious stuff, like this rolodex of bible quotes, art, and Jesus quotes written on post-its stuck all around her kleenex box. Maybe blowing your nose is a sin. If I was a total asshole, I'd hang up my own art to balance things out in there. Ying and yang, freedom of religion and all that. I'd hang some nice artwork:

So she invited me over to watch a movie ages ago, and I kept making excuses. Finally decided to get it over with, since I didn't have anything going on Friday night. We grabbed dinner and headed over to her place, and sat down at the table. There I was, a sitting duck. A fly caught in a web. The Christian pamphlet was pulled from her purse. "So, how much do you know about Christianity?" It had begun... I've never actually been in that situation before. Usually I avoid religion talks like the plague. I had to be good,and vague. I have to work with this person. We have to get along. She said she liked talking to people with opposing views, but little did she know just who she was talking to. I'm not just non-religious or agnostic. I'm severely atheist to the point that religion disgusts me. She said that occasionally her beliefs are put to the test, but the overwhelming evidence that god is real justifies everything. 

Then she asked me if I think I've ever sinned, and I had to stifle laughter. Like, hell yeah. I sin like it's an Olympic sport. Never been so damn proud of anything in my life! I deserve a medal for making it out of there without being a total sarcastic asshole. I don't even like arguing with religious people. I just want them to fear me. I want them to think I'm the embodiment of evil just wandering around. It's way more fun that way.

I followed some atheist stuff on Twitter a while ago, and people with really religious sounding usernames started following me. I was wondering if they'd start harassing me, but nothing... silence. Then I realized, maybe they wanted to see how am I, what may have went "wrong" with me. I'm just a case-study. The funniest thing is that I'm boring as hell. Not sure if they expected me to be dishing out secret cult agendas or something, but my tweets are always like, "I like eggs benedict!".
I them imagine one of them sees that, perks up, grabs a pad of paper and writes:

I'm a horrible person.

So I was reflecting on past relationships and how much I'm enjoying being single, when I started thinking about the topic of dealing with the families of exes. When you date, you have to be cordial to these people, which can be challenging. I want to write out some funny stories about my first ex's mother, who was rich but yet the cheapest person I've ever met. Now my family is super poor, but my mom had a ton of class and dignity. When guests came over, we used the finest dining set, etc. I absolutely do not require any sort of lavish lifestyle, but I do have some damn standards.... like, not using disgusting things for one. I remember the first time my ex's mom served me breakfast and I sat down at the table. She puts down in front of me pancakes on a warped plastic plate that looks like it was carved into by a sadistic killer. You know what I love? 20 year old gouged plastic plates filled with BACTERIA FOR BREAKFAST THANK YOU ROBIN. As if I wasn't overcome with enough joy, she offered me a glass of milk, which idiot me, I said sure. She gave me an aluminum cup with some sort of coating on it that was peeling off, and there was a flake of it floating in the milk. She mistook my glare of horror as interest somehow and said, "aren't they neat?! I found them at a garage sale! They were super popular when I was a kid". Cool. I need a tetanus booster after this "meal".

When my ex and I moved into our apartment, I tried my hardest to supply everything we needed from my family, but the ever insistent crass other side decided they needed to contribute as well. What did we get? A tv stand from a friend of one of their friends who was throwing it out, or something like that. It was gaudy and I hated it, but I just had to laugh at the fact that these rich fuckers had to ask around to get us this heavy as fuck 70's wood and tile monstrosity when I would prefer it to be a simple $10 table at ikea that's new and nice. That's not the best part. Robin got us a bag of silverware from a garage sale. It was so old and dirty that the once transparent ziplock baggie that housed them was now opaque, and I had to muster up extreme amounts of civility not to bash her head in with the bag. Are you fucking kidding me?! Kmart has silverware for like $5. You'd rather us use someone's disgusting garbage? Do you know what's on that silverware? Shit. Human shit. Don't ask me why or how. Do the forensics. Every. single. crevice. Shit. The minute they left I threw it out. How insulting, I'm not a savage.

So I knew better than to ask those people for anything. The ex and I went rug shopping at some point, and couldn't find one. To my horror, I came home from work one day and my ex's family was all there with a rug laying on the floor. I stared at the rug like it was a corpse. I poured over every detail. It looked... new. I.... was a god damn fool. Skeptically, I started asking questions about the origin of this fuzzy, cream-colored point of contention. The vague answers lulled me into disarmament, and I thought naively, perhaps this rug is okay. As they were leaving, I thanked them again for the gift. Robin looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Oh don't even worry, we found it in a dumpster! There was some cat barf on it, but it came right out." My pupils dilated as I ascended into an anger-induced coma. Well, there are 2 possible scenarios here. #1, this rug was a prop from some twisted porno. #2, it's evidence in a crime. Then I thought to myself, maybe I will make it evidence, considering they're going to find the bodies of my ex and his mother rolled up in it out in a field if this square of knit vileness isn't extricated from my home immediately.

I had to start watching what I wished for in the fear that it would be repeated, and like some sort of twisted chinese-telephone, granted in the most woeful, debased form. After our vacuum started to act up, I felt the words, "we need a new one soon" escape my lips. In a moment of sheer terror, I locked eyes with my ex and gave him a look that conveyed he better not even dare. I thought in my most sinister, angry voice.... if your mother even comes within 500 feet of my apartment with some used, disgusting old vacuum filled with other people's boogers and hair, I WILL STRANGLE YOU BOTH WITH THE CORD.

So, this is why I'm single and a horrible person! ♥

3-28-16

This absolutely will not help my sudden insomnia.

starman.

I haven't been able to really check tumblr, because nothing will load. It's either my internet, computer, or both. Luckily, I'm solving both issues. Hopefully by the end of the week I can bother with internet life again.

It took me a very long time to be able to listen to David Bowie after his death. I had a long conversation with my mom about it today, and it was cathartic.

"There's a starman waiting in the sky
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
'Cause he knows it's all worthwhile"

3-1-16

Dearest porcelain tub, blue water, bath salts of chamomile and milk: I must leave him. He's moving to California, but my heart is here. There's too much sunshine and smog, though the license plate would look nice on my car. I'm in the dark with a lone candle flickering the outline of my cat perched on the sink. I think she's my guardian sent here from a place of pure love. I love listening to sad music because it pierces me in the chest and every inhale is like honey in my lungs. I'm going to try to speak to people telepathically. I want to sing through my eyes because my voice is too weak.

soup.

When I was a teenager I had a tumultuous relationship with my mother. I decided to live with my dad in an apartment, and when he wasn't home she would sometimes swing by. Some days it was to harass me and others it was just to visit. One time when we were on good terms, she stopped by and said she had some soup for me. She handed me a little generic clear packet with cardboard stapled on top. Inside were thin, short noodles, and a yellow seasoning powder. "I know it looks generic" she said, "but sometimes those are the best ones". When she left I stared at the packet. The directions on the back of the cardboard were minimal and the design on the front was modest. My heart began to hurt. I couldn't bear the burden of all that the little packet suddenly represented. The soup needed to be good, otherwise it was too emotionally painful. For one, I imagined the struggle of a tiny, family-owned company trying to market their little product on the shelves with the big name competitors. I am a sucker for handmade things, homely designs, cutely-named businesses. To me they are infallible by default, because I just can't accept that they would be corrupt. Second, because my mom saw the good in something unassuming, and I wanted to confirm her intuition. I cooked the soup the next day, and as I had unfortunately theorized, it was neither bad nor good. It was just bland. Looking back at it now, it was likely because it lacked all the addictive "bad" ingredients found in most commercial brands, like MSG and lots of sodium. I don't remember if I never mentioned it to her, or I lied and said it was good.

Years went by, and my relationship was still rocky with my mother. We had very wonderful times, and very bad times. Every once in a while I thought about the little clear soup packet and what she said, and my heart would ache. "Sometimes those are the best ones". The packet started to represent a lot of things to me. It was the way that my mother helped me stop and see the beauty in things that would be overlooked. It meant not to take things for granted, and to always give things a try. It meant to be unconventional. To not be afraid of what other people think. As my mother's mental health declines, these little memories haunt me in the best way. It's a page of warmth in a heartbreaking novel that I can always reflect on when the bad days seem overwhelming. They say that chicken noodle soup will heal you, and the memory of that little packet does. I will always have that in my heart, no matter what.

The soup was very good, mom. Thank you.