Finding My Way Back to Me

7 12 2017

Kill the writer. Remove the block.

I decided I was going to become a writer when I was 13. My grandfather had just died, my great-grandmother had just died, and my dog had been hit by a car–and died. Writing was the only thing that helped relieve some of the pain. If I wrote it down, it would go away, it would be over there in the notebook instead of inside me. I could revisit the ideas if I wanted but I no longer owned them, the notebook did.

I’m not sure what happened, but at some point in the last couple of months, I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my desire to write. I’ve lost myself.


Every day I look at my computer and I think how I should post a tweet or a Facebook update. I should express my point of view. I should return to the world I know so well. Yet, I freeze. I sit for hours staring, saddened by the turn of events that continue to happen every day on this earth; I feel paralyzed. What could my thoughts actually do to help any of them? Who am I in the greater scheme of things?

I am just like everyone else.

We are all the same.

We are all different.

My voice, just another sound shooting through the airwaves, internet waves, waving at no one in particular, hoping at least someone hears me, sees me, waves back. A thin line of connectivity. The string that ties me to humanity. If I cut it, I’ll lose myself.

Maybe it’s time for that self to go.

Kill the parts I no longer need.

Rise above the mainstream machine.

Find more of me as I remove the layers that others have glossed, painted, laid over me.
A product of my generation. Of this time. Of the before and the after.

The math that doesn’t add up.

The apathy from never being good enough.

The ego of always being better than.

Never one or the other, always neutral with the weight of experience pushing one up more than the other.

Words come out, but do we ever really say anything?

A First Snow Free Write.

25 10 2012

One splotch of nail polish left on one nail, all the others are bare, stained yellow from colors prior, the shapes all rounded and jagged and square. Nothing matches. Nothing is uniform. The room is littered with a hodgepodge of fall and winter attire, costumes and coats, socks curled into themselves like delicate rotting flowers. There is no way around it. When it’s here it’s here and there is no going back to a warmer time. One starts to wonder if there ever was a warmer time. Was it possible that I did sweat due to the sun that now seems impossible to find? Was there really a time when I needed an industrial strength fan? Is it strange that people here drive much better in the snow than in the rain? As if one form of water is more tolerable to them than another. It was never my intention to stay here long, but no other place is tempting me more. I don’t really know what that means. When I was a kid I don’t remember what I wanted to my future career to be, except once in 6th grade my friend J and I decided then and there that we should steal the red corvette in the parking lot, head to California and become actresses. Now, that was a dream. In my dreams last night I was playing volleyball; the men on my team where being rather sexist and I remember wanting to spike the ball in their faces instead of over the net—our team did not win. It’s funny how we have a calendar that tells us when the seasons change, when we can just look out the window and tell what time of year it is. I wish I had a calendar that would tell me what kind of mood I was going to be in that day, because I think that would prevent a lot of problems. I’ve almost picked all the paint off the nail. Then what, I just paint them again? Such is this cycle. But what color represents this new season, this new mood?

Re-Focusing My Focus: Moving Away from Abstract Concepts.

11 09 2012

It won’t be long until summer is gone and everyone who felt something will be cold again.

It’s weird how the season’s change people. Just like the days of the week. I wonder what this year will bring. Strange because I feel like the end of the heat is the end of the year.

I had to give up on a boy (again, I know) and that is fine.

But always sad.

Take S for an example. He was around me a lot during the winter then suddenly he fell for someone else and moved basically to a different planet. All I got as a response from other people was, “yeah he does that,” like, if I had been in a better place I could have gotten him to go anywhere with me. But no, now I’m still here, bouncing from bar to bar, drink to drink, questioning everything and coming up with no answers.

And it wasn’t that I was even in love with S–he’s the example because I wasn’t.

Was not.

I was in love with his spirit, his ability to get super excited about ideas and possibilities. I guess I loved his love he gave the world. Perhaps that’s the same problem I’m having with this other guy. But if this is the case, do we ever really love a person or what that person represents? I loved R because he was creative and challenging, so maybe I just loved creativity and challenges? But is it so wrong that people are the representations of these things? And is it so wrong to love them because of that–because why else would we love them? Just because they exist? Their existence doesn’t do anything to heighten our own existence, unless we find in them something we’re either missing or wanting more of. I mean why else do we socialize? To feel connected in some way… but to feel that connection we have to have something unifying us. Perhaps that’s why so many people are obsessed with sports. Not because they have any connection to the players but because the team represents where they’re from/who they are and it gives them something to talk about with others in the area, which then makes them feel a part of something bigger than they are. It’s unfortunate that it has to be something so trivial and useless as football, but simple things never seem to be taken for granted.

I guess the more important question here, since this is not about anyone else, is what am I missing? Do I need to find someone to fill that void or can I do it myself? Does this person need to be someone I’m intimate with physically or just a friend? Is it multiple people I’m seeking? Multiple activities? What do I need to let go of? What do I need to embrace?

I think I do need someone to challenge me. To keep me accountable. But it’s weird because I almost feel like I have to “like like” this person and I have to feel that if I do not do impressive things that this person will not like me back. For example, I could have my mother tell me to get some writing done and I would do it or I wouldn’t because I want to write anyway, but I know that even if I don’t get any done she’s still going to love me no matter what. I guess I need someone to love me only if I’m writing. To love my writing. To perhaps not even love me at all and only love my writing. Or to love me only if I’m a writer, writing, and not just one of those people who claim their a writer but actually never write anything.

Maybe I just need deadlines.

Also since grad school ended I lack the intellectual stimulation that I need. I feel I am going stupid. I want to stay up all night arguing about post-modern theory, whether or not Barbara Kruger is brilliant, why Snookie and the like are reproducing when there are already 7 BILLION people in the world, if there will ever be a time period when more Americans have tattoos than don’t etc. etc. etc.

I need to do more things than just go to bars.

I need to make things.

At this point perhaps I should just start a creativity club—where people come over and we work on whatever we need to work on and then we share it or we don’t depending on our moods.

Or a book club.

Or both.

The mega problem is that I never have the same days off of work. So, I don’t know how to make this a regular thing. Maybe I’ll tell my boss I can’t work Monday nights since they’re the most boring nights in the entire world to work. Every Monday we (whoever we are) will unite over our own individual creativity and intellectual stimulation and make shit happen. . . who’s in?

22 +/- It all evens out. It always does.

29 02 2012

I haven’t been writing because I haven’t had anything to say. You know how they tell you, “if you don’t have anything nice to say. . .” and since people want me to be “more positive” I am now at a lose for words.


Because I am not positive.

I am not a positive person.

And I think people just need to get over it.

I am also not a negative person.

Just because I complain about something or am depressed or pissed does not mean I hate everything and everyone and myself.

It just means that I am upset at whatever it is that I’m complaining or depressed or pissed about. That one particular thing.

Though lately it has been a whole list of things—which is why I haven’t been on here—because I don’t know where to begin and if I start I may never stop.

And no one really wants to read about it.

But. Why not. I’m here. You’re here. Why not have a little go at it.

11 Things that I am depressed and pissed about.

1) I am pissed that I have two masters’ degrees and have yet to be able to use them to their full potential.

2) I am pissed that everyone cares so much about money.

3) I am depressed that I have to care so much about money to the point that I might even start doing things for money I never thought I would do. (Retail)

4) I don’t get why people sometimes will text back and sometimes won’t. Or sometimes message back and sometimes not. If you have an issue with me or are scared of me or don’t like me just fucking tell me. Ugh.

5) I am pissed at this table that was next to us while we were eating out. I don’t get why parents would not only allow, but also encourage their pre-teen daughter to make fun of other people in such close proximity to them at a restaurant. Learn some fucking judgment etiquette. Always do it from afar or at least do it quietly.

6) I am pissed that the internet goes in and out at my apartment all the time BUT on a positive it forces me to do other things, like read books and do yoga.  And we don’t really pay for it. So I can’t complain that much.

7) Why are there so few jobs available?

8) On different note, why do authors still put “he” as the dominant pro-noun. I still am depressed about this.

9) I don’t really like it when random people write comments on my blog about how I should live my life. I also don’t really like it when people I know do the same thing. Basically, I don’t really like people telling me what I should do. I will, most likely, do the opposite. But don’t try that opposite-trick on me either because I can always smell it.

10) My mom is driving me nuts. I know she’s going to read this, mom you’re driving me nuts. I’m doing all I can. And it’s okay for me not to be perfect. I spent 26 years of my life trying to be perfect, to do everything that I am supposed to do and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. I was in a loving relationship, living in a nice apartment in a beautiful city, working for a non-profit that somehow mixed BOTH of my degrees and then it all fell apart. So now, it’s time to just be. And to be okay with just being for a year. I need a break from trying to be successful—which to most people directly correlates with making money—which I can’t do because there are no jobs. I got my undergrad in 3 ½ years and 2 Masters in 3 years. I think it affords me a year off, just saying. I did all of that way faster than most people. It’s time to take a breath.

11) What’s so wrong with taking a breath? It’s like if I’m not constantly doing something or making something or being somewhere there’s something wrong with me. I really can’t handle it any longer.



I took a breath. A long one. I went outside, got some air, took a walk.

Now. So I don’t seem like the most Negative Nancy of ALL time:

Here are 11 things that I love and make me happy.

1) Obviously even though they drive me nuts sometimes (as I do them) I love my family. It’s clear that they really care about me (and I them) and it is amazing to have that in my life.

2) Water. I love water. I love being made mostly of water, I love drinking water, I love swimming in water, showering in water, getting caught in the rain of water. I love beer made from the finest mountain water. The oceans, the rivers, the lakes, the ponds, even the puddles..

3) Running. Okay. I have a love/hate relationship with running. I love doing it and I love how I feel when I’m done running. I do not love the mental battle, the fight that it takes for me to get dressed and get out the door to go running. Also…I don’t like seeing other people run because my mentality switches to both jealousy and guilt.

4) The Sun. Oh yeah, I’m picking really easy ones to day, but the simplicity makes them all the more lovable. The warmth on my skin. The brightness it brings to my day.

5) Pickles. Seriously. If I could, like if I were rich or had an unlimited supply I’d probably eat at least a jar a day. Dill. Spicy. Bread & Butter. Any and all pickles.

6) Learning. I LOVE learning. Every day there’s something new to learn. Right now I’m focusing on a new language so I can start complaining bilingually wohoo.

7) My roommate. She’s fucking awesome. I don’t know how she puts up with me but she does so very well.

8) And with that, still being able to live in an apartment somehow, even though I don’t have a job. It’s rather magical actually. I’m not quite sure how it’s happening.

9) Music. Music has saved my life. This is not an exggeration. If I didn’t have certain songs in my life at certain times I probably would have jumped off a cliff. It’s about connection, knowing other people are going through the same experiences, feeling a part of something, being aware the feelings aren’t crazy or wrong or weird and even if they are, it’s okay because we’ve all been there at one time (which is why I’m drawn to writing but that’s a major love/hate relationship).

10) Drake

This song hasn’t really gotten me through much, but I still love it and it makes me happy.

11) Checking myself. Sure, there’s a lot out there that pisses me off and depresses me but I definitely have my share amount of privileges; white in the U.S. living in an apartment with internet access, my own computer, food to eat, clean water to drink, access to gain knowledge via library/countless books/google, friends, family, a car, a tv, a clean bill of health. Yeah. It ain’t so bad.

My. Day. Of. Birth.

16 02 2012

Here is series of videos for your enjoyment.

And I would ask that you watch them on youtube so I can maybe make some cents/sense IDK.


Drunk. Very drunk.

Morning. Hangover.

More to come later.

This is now later.

Black. Lipstick.

6 02 2012

Give me a topic, a hot topic, not like the store that place is a hot-goth-wanna-be-mess; I used to shop there, it was my favorite so dark so cool I probably spent the most money there than anywhere else in regards to clothes and such when I had disposable moneys though isn’t all money disposable anyway I mean really it’s so obscure a number system that chains us to a system we don’t really enjoy, a date once said to me that money is a tool I think that’s the best way to look at it, maybe not the best way, but it makes it seem less controlling that way. I just cleaned the bathroom it took me like 3 minutes I should probably clean more often–I am not lazy there are just other things more appealing to do   vogue is full of weirdness just layer a bunch of textures together on your body and you’re in it to win it I don’t have weird enough clothes I’ll never be cool but that’s ok I have my dignity not really but that’s ok too I’ll just be or let it be or is it out is be become being leaving like a leaf in a bad season don’t be the reason to flee from treason oooohhhhh ladededadeedeeda not a word but a hum a sad song sung alone in a brightly lit room with echos echoing from room to room with feet going numb from sitting on being sat on being smashed by body mass I need to free write in a new space or find a place that gives me less freedom sometimes it’s too much so there is nothing here at all that’s why I need a topic, not like hot topic but maybe a word or a phrase or an idea that can stir something a little more restrained with like more punctuation and stuff; I like chipped finger nail polished fingers and uncombed hair but I don’t work for vogue so what do I know put sequins and faux fur together and you’re onto something, add some shoulder pads to your elbows and you’re really there– wear a slip with combat boots lace with tree bark limbs sticking out every which way blush made from the left-overs of kate hudsons dinner soup don’t soap it off leave it to be licked off by the dogs of some d-list celebrity on a reality tv show that people will only watch six years later and never ever recognize you the straw that breaks my back is a futon bar up my ass do people still do it up the ass I wonder how often that happens core power to the rescue in the black and white flames of downward leaping cougar side angle split dog don’t spit on my homegirl she got moves you ain’t never seen and will never see cuz she keeps it clean while driving around on electric gasoline that’s one of those cars that go both ways like me but more than both, like all ways because there are always more than two choices, more than two kinds of people, places, things, ideas, and love should be multiplied not divided. But I’d never be a wife of any kind. I wouldn’t even play one in a movie, unless they paid me tons of money. I don’t have any secrets because I am a secret no one sees me even if front of these huge windows. I am not the fairest of them all but I am pretty pale. I’m growing little hairs in places new it’s either a getting older thing or an off-the-hormones thing either way I will not shave. I will be furry hairy old lady with blue eye shadow and a mustache if need be. Juxtaposition. Balance. The combination of that which is considered feminine with that which is considered masculine. I like it. The androgyny. Better than misogyny. Or bigotry. Words that shouldn’t even be written because they lack positivity and that’s what I’m about this year. Ha. Not really. Considering becoming a Satanist but they probably wouldn’t take me because of all the money I at one time gave to hot topic which just sort of mocks them. I need a new topic.

Free Writing: Surrounded By Horses.

28 01 2012

Yawn the heart shaped box won’t open for Courtney or you or me, super glued like a maxipad to a jr. high locker room high alert like a too short skirt and some very horny dudes who got the blues. Why do they care about women’s underwear? A little skin. Some freckles to bare. Fortunes on the floor. Not believed. Un believed. Unbelievable. Why a cookie would know anything is quite absurd. Wire mouth shut in silent groans of menacing pleasure claws scrape against drywall to protect the back of the nameless gentleman. A scholar in his own right, but never right around me. As in wrong, not off. Though he gets off way more than me. I’m denying myself pleasure because I’m a masochist. I also like power. I need to find my own kink. What gets me off. I should really just go for it, whatever I’m thinking. Why the passivity? I need sex all the time, to ease my mind. Orgasmic minds think alike on beaches of broken dreams pain in power powerful pain ecstasy escaping lounging on a cloud of back-breaking sweaty Mexicans with scars on their abdomens and cigars half smoked laying on truck beds. There isn’t beauty in the break-down but the re-building. The realizations. The consternations. The interweaving fabrics of lies and make-believe. My knuckle with marks from a night of belligerent farts choices are like whispers said in the dark; secrets shared with no one, you’re all alone with your choices. Like Patti Smith’s horses. Wild or tame, either way, you make them every second of the day. And no, there are not erasers. And no, you can’t turn back. And no, you deserve to be alone. Because you don’t even know who you are so why should anybody else? There are never cries for help when the heart shape box comes undone. There are never cries for help when sad songs go unsung. There are never cries for help. There are never cries.

Free. Writing.

20 01 2012

Word balloon carrying a tune that isn’t quite distinguishable to the ears like a dog gone wild in a forest of forgotten dreams like a bad movie come to life with unedited scenes a disappointing fart almost silent not close to deadly unlike breakups and too many bottles of booze mixing the two is a toxic combination a reiteration of self destruction unlike any other people do what’s the matter with you have you no soul no control no ability to make it on your own quit talking to me can’t you see you’re making me bleed internally so not really just dramatically with words which is just as bad if you ask me celebrate time alone close to a stereo and music meant for lonely hearts and anxious over-caffeinated trolls with hair sticking up and out never combed they’re just words you say words with meaning without but my life was like a purse you turned inside out spilling everything all over the ground then throwing the purse away contents in disarray no place to go no one to go to no longer a home and how can it be where your heart is when your heart gets squashed along the way when your heart gets thrown away it’s not just sweat to me but proof that I did something bigger than me that I got out there and ran all over you park ground city life mirror shining bright reflections of room never used utilize tenors and bass and high pitch races of minor distractions and major reactions like a drama turned comedy in the bar of some basement travesty a pigeon on the tip of my tongue undone like a board erased there was a time for fun but no longer sunshine fades and the grass grows dead the milkman never comes the tits are dried up wrinkled drooping bags of old silk freckles tickled to death and everyone laughs like it’s some kind of game like life is just one big comedy but what’s the joke supposed to be I don’t smile at your stupidity particularly if you’re on the same road as me particularly when I see what I see which isn’t very pretty not usually the clock ticks forcefully but I just glare and my head starts to pound at the lack of despair at too much to bear at the shear magnitude of nothing nothing not a thing no is there a leash dragging you around collared neck popped collar charmer not like a rapist more like a scholar no need to read books though you’ve made it this far intelligently designed rhymes that turn in your head like meteors flying at the speed of light however fast that is and there is crying when the light turns red because stopping is sort of like being dead and people can’t handle the cycle because there is pain involved and comfort is a charm we hold tight like cacti to the sun so many people flying away never escaping but smiling all the same