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Sixteen ounces of coffee, four gallons of gas
Twenty-dollar bill among reassuring words
An unmade bed, an incomplete paper
Glass of water with melted ice cubes.
Yesterday’s dress and last year’s scarf
Fresh ringlets freshly twirled
“Are you going out tonight?” asks the woman
At the convenience store, and she has more fun.
Try harder
Pining
Stay longer
Grueling
Be better
You can do it.
They’ll be dancing and drunk, shouting
High heels and boots, all the looks
Laughing at somebody in some way, engaging
Compelling the night away.
“If only.”

Styla-notsomucha.

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WEDNESDAYS ALWAYS BRING A PLETHORA OF EXCITEMENT. My day starts at noon when I wake up, and ends whenever I zone out, generally during the last 10 minutes of Creative Writing. Then I come home, sit down to some good eatins’ and “family time” with my lovely roommates (tonight’s feature entree was Manwiches)(Kacy, I can already see you squirming in your seat) then at approximately 7 p.m., we turn the television toward the kitchen table engage in the eye candy that is America’s Next Top Model.

Recently, my Wednesday evenings have been extended by last week’s premiere of CW’s Stylista. I love style, and though I am nowhere near qualified on any basis of fashion, I find this show absolutely ridiculous for about 85 reasons (I will only state three):
a. The cast members cause more drama in 8 seconds than I’ve had in the past 8 years of my life.
II. Anne Slowey, you are not Meryl Streep à la The Devil Wears Prada. Please stop, you’re embarassing yourself.
3. Within the first two episodes, contestants have prepared Slowey’s breakfast (“I don’t do almonds unless they’re soaked overnight,” “I only take iced lattes with a small straw”), gone to the emergency room, put up with Kate’s boobs and tears, the incessant bitchiness of Megan, and created pages for Elle — straight out of a high school yearbook. Nice work, team.
 Ridiculous.

Sappy (You’ve Been Warned)

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SOMETIMES I’LL SAY, ‘I MISS YOU.’ Sometimes I’ll ponder, wondering where you are and how long it’d take me to get to you, or what it would take to get to you, or if I could get to you. Sometimes, foolishly, the word ‘love’ crosses my mind and I digress to think of more sensical things. And sometimes, I know the deeper feeling is that being solitary is the only basis of my thoughts for you. I’m just fine. Really, I am.

But today I felt something more sincere. I was walking on sidewalk freshly scattered with leaves, shuffling my feet between the layers of fresh gold and crunchy brown, enjoying what was a beautiful fall afternoon. I’d step, extend my leg back and swiftly kick up, sending the ground’s quiet blanket in every direction. 
The thought came without prompt, somewhere in mid-boot. Grandpa. 
I counted the time it’d been since I’d seen him, how quickly December is approaching to add another year to the count. His face, his glasses, his smile. The way he parted his hair, or stepped out of his Blazer in front of the house, stopping by with vegetables from the garden and hand-me-down magazines, hello’s and simple words, a pleasant laugh. Four years. Five years. Too long.
Sometimes I’ll say I miss someone. Sometimes I’ll ponder, and wonder where they are, and how long it would take me to get to them, or what it would take to get to them, or if I could get to them. And then the word ‘love’ crosses my mind, and I don’t feel so foolish…
Because I know where you are, and how long it will take to get to you, and what it takes to get to you. And I really, really love you.
And I feel slightly more aware of demarcation between true and false.

Musik

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Song o’ the DAY.
This song, for no reason in particular, makes me feel that life is grand, that everything is going to fall into place, and when the ebb and flow of confusion and vexation at long last draw up, well…
 it will be unthinkable. 

Living things need to be free
Like everything wants to be
You are free.

Here I AM!

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THIS PAGE HAS BEEN LEFT BLANK over the past couple of days, in correlation with my idle thoughts, lack of time and overall sour mood.

An account of my existence: The witnessing of my favorite author; nosebleeds, uncontrollable and daily; a dirty bathroom; a new pair of shoes; the registration as a voter in the state of Minnesota; the feeling of inferior that comes along with the workplace; the uphill battle of photography and life in a darkroom; the illogical ways of the American primary and secondary education systems; attempting to write, creatively; coffee, in a remote corner; fighting with my bedtime; contemplating whether or not reduced fat ice cream is legitimate; a fresh haircut, clean laundry, and cupboards of groceries; a hole in my pocket; registration of spring semester classes abroad; exhaustion of the election; and lastly, attempting to organize my thoughts into coherent, meaningful paragraphs that others can meaningfully enjoy.
For the sake of this page being filled with what Sark would argue as “unjuicy words,” I will finish now and must be on my merry way to put on my ball and chain, a.k.a. work.
Love, love, love.

HuHair? (that’s what I want to know)

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DEAR MADAM.

I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE for the hair in your food. These locks may have a mind of their own, but they certainly did not make their way into your yaki-shitty. 
Being that this establishment is, “a buffet” (for lack of better terminology), I am going to assume that those loyal patrons perusing through the “buffet” line have hair on their heads, that does, in fact, fall off of their head on occasion. 
That in mind, please note that I am not going to take it to my liberty (though as much as I would enjoy) to personally request that each customer wear a hair net while pillaging. If you would like to do so, be our guest, but don’t tell me I didn’t fucking accommodate you. I don’t run this place, I just allow it’s grease to soak into my skin and ensure the Jasmine tea is suitable to your liking.
And BY THE WAY, I waited on your table with a goddamn nosebleed. A nosebleed! As in there was a “substantial amount” of blood coming from my nose when you claimed there was a “substantial amount” of hair in your food. Look lady, we’ve got nothing to hide. I mean, our grill is in the center of the room, what more do you want? The discount lies within the manager. I, on the other hand, am here to assure you that a strangers’ hair never killed anyone, life goes on, and for the love of Pete, go back up to said “buffet” line and make a new plate of slop already. Geezus.
Bite me.
Sincerely,
Lover, fighter, loather of table 15
This is how the food business makes me feel sometimes: frustrated.
And I am not an angry person, generally speaking. I am a happy person!
Argh.