Tuesday, December 11

Time Warp

Has it really been since July that I've posted?

What am I doing with my life?

Saturday, July 28

Where the hell am I going to be in 10 years?

I have this package of watermarked resume paper that I bought when I was so young that everyone I'd ever known in my life was still alive. I used a few of the pages immediately, enticed by their thickness and suggestion of importance.

Over the years I must have taken them a page or two at a time when circumstances could benefit.

I finished the final few pages of that package this past weekend, constructing a bible to protect us during our trials at Otakon '07.

And I thought to myself tonight, as I was throwing away the stray drawings still left in the box, that I could have never imagined the fate of those pages all those years ago when I thumbed through them, freshly purchased.

Isn't life intricately unpredictable?

Friday, June 8

Listen to my Heart Pound. Listen to the Love Sound.

You're lying to yourself if you think that you didn't know. That your emotions were fooling you. That you truly thought you wanted to be with me.

If you had felt anything like I did, you wouldn't have followed your question of consummation immediately with a what if.

"Will you go out with me? If it doesn't work out, please promise me we'll still be friends?"

I was taken aback when it was asked. The thought would have never crossed my mind. I agreed simply because I was so sure, so sure that it would never come to that. We'd been skirting the issue for months and when d-day finally came I couldn't do anything but entertain my neuro-chemicals as they fired randomly as if in sleep. I had such a rush of endorphins and adrenaline I doubt I could have walked a solid line if accosted by a suspicious authority figure.

So I said, of course we'll still be friends.

But it didn't turn out that way, really, did it? We fought for a long time. Too long. Every day with no sign of you, nothing but short quipped answers to questions, nothing to indicate you had any interest in me at all. I'm sure, from your standpoint, it seemed the same of me. I holed myself up, I cried and ate gummy bears. I didn't frequent our internet haunts for some time. I avoided you. Perhaps not consciously, perhaps so.

We moved past it. We're back to the way we were, as if our whole innuendo had never happened. We're skirting the issue again.

It kills me everyday, but still I want it. I don't want to go back to avoidance. If we never again reach the benchmark of relationship, I can live with that. I'll be lonely a lot and if you leave me, I'll settle for someone new and different and not nearly as in tune with my emotional parameters as you are. Not nearly as good as you.

And when you ended things, you said, "What if I find someone new?"

I could never leave you for someone new. Never.
I could settle.
I could pretend.
I couldn't ever actively leave you.

That is the difference between us.

It may seem sporadic, these breakdowns of existentialism I am prone to. Months go by that I seem emotionally stable and then suddenly, there I am again. A puddle on the floor. It's been over 8 months since our relationship ended, four times the length of time that it lived. What does it mean that the wounds are still as fresh as they were the day they were carved? What does it mean that I've gotten so talented at covering them with gauze and forgetting them for days or weeks at a time?

I think I'm dying.

Pyloric Romance

Everyone assures me it's platonic. It isn't. Platonic is I care about you and I want to help you with your homework and know everything that happens with you and all your girlfriends and I want to keep you safe and spend time with you and know you're happy, while at the same time having a completely separate life on my own with separate relationships and separate events.

Not this.

Platonic is the kind of relationship you have with a brother or a sister or a good friend you've known your entire life and couldn't see yourself thinking any differently of.

Not this.

Platonic is a cop out. "I love him, but it's only platonic. He's like a brother to me." is a symptom of a girl with no hope left. A lie she tells others in hope that she'll someday believe herself.

She wishes she was gullible enough to believe the lies she tells herself.

Not this.

I am one hundred and infinity percent sure that none of that applies to me. I care and I want happiness for him.

But all I want is him. I just want to latch on and never let go until I'm completely absorbed and living unnoticed and incarnated as a pillow-soft cushion to take the strain off his heart. I go to sleep thinking about him. I wake up thinking about him. I spend my nights dreaming and my days noting all of my life events to be later told in a dramatic fashion in hope that they might ignite a smile or chortled laugh from him. I live for those moments and those moments alone. That is my livelihood. I see no other way.

I would live this way a thousand years, nursing that burning hope deep inside me and preying on every scrap of compassion and inclusion he sent my way.

He owns me. His choice of phrasings can build me or break me. His wants and needs unconsciously become my own. I follow him loyally and make sure the hem of his robe never touches unworthy ground.

I wouldn't change it for anything.
I couldn't want more, unless to have him turn and lift me from the ground with ambition to hold me for eternity. Or, even for a moment. I'd gladly drop back down to my knees.

Every time I touch you a fire ignites in my fingertips and runs it's course through my body jostling nerves I'd forgotten existed and waking the butterflies that hibernate in my rugae.

Tuesday, May 22

God Hates Shrimp

I wish I were so gullible as to believe the lies I tell myself.
I wish I were so wise as to not read so much into tiny words.
I wish I were so numb as to not feel the seer of hot.
I wish I were so talented a puppet as to move freely with no strings.

I wish you were so kind as to save me of these wishes.

We make plans. We clear dates, we clear wallets, we clear time. We get excited. We wait, we fidget, we anticipate.

We never do.

It makes those plans so easy to make. I'm going to buy a continant and fill it will lime green jello. I'm going to spend a summer in the Congo studying gorillas in their natural habitats. I'm going to meet the queen. I'm going to. I'm going to. Watch me go.

You went.

I'm still here, dreaming in anticipation.
And I miss you.

What if next time you don't come back?

Saturday, May 19

Megan's Law

Everyone always asks if we're together, and it's the most horrible feeling in the world when to have to say that we aren't.

Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen?

Monday, May 7


There is just so much to do.

I feel like I'm running a hundred thousand miles an hour, straight at a field of anti-gravity. The promise of being suspending in time and space when all of this comes to a rushing halt is what's keeping my feet pounding in rhythm on the cracked drought-weathered ground.

I hope I'm not disappointed.

Friday, April 27

So, in the future if I rave or rant, just set it down to literary ebullience.

I just bought this book of love letters called "A Literate Passion" and I strongly, strongly recommend it to anyone who may read this and is currently breathing. Despite the fact that Henry Miller is a right ugly cheating dickwad and Anais herself is a beautiful one, the passion between them is intoxicating. I can't put it down. I can't help it.

"I lived it with the consciousness of the poet, mind you, not the consciousness the dead-formula-making psychoanalysts would like to put their clinical fingers on--on, not that, no, a consciousness of acute senses... We went to the edge, with our two imaginations. We died together."

"And today, in the most precious good health, I had a very languorous, pleasurable sensations of aches in my arms-- from holding you so tightly."

Tuesday, April 24

Downhill Slopes Thrive on Gravity

You hurt me.
And I'd bet it'll take me years to admit that to you.

Every jab I'd thrown at you pales hideously in jest, and you can't deny it.
Honesty is a tetanus shot.

Sunday, April 22

Saturday, April 7

Long Distance Relationships Will Kill You

It's hard to swallow again and I wonder if maybe it won't go away this time.

Monday, April 2

Why is it so gundamn hard to be happy?

It isn't fair. She gets everyone she wants, I swear. She could pick anyone out of a crowd and be dating them within the week. How can she be so happy having no substance? How can she move so easily through relationships without tying any heartstrings? How can she not see that nothing will ever come of that? Where's the goal? Where's the purpose? What's she looking for?

Why is it so hard to watch?

It's like she's skiing down a hill with her eyes closed. She glides so easily without ever needing to stop and look at where she is or where she's been or think about where she's going. She just exists on a track of life that lets her fly.

And I'm walking down that same hill, in steel weighted boots. Each step takes the entirety of my strength and I spend hours regaining it staring at everything around me and contemplating the entire journey. I can see far enough to know where I'm going-- I just don't know how I'm ever going to get there. I'm too scared of crevasses to want to do anything but lie in the snow and stare at the horizon.

Because it's so fucking far away.

Saturday, March 31

Vicious Cycle

I read through the archives today. Apparently, like 90% of the things I document in this webblog are ridiculously depressing.

And so, I've recounted every of the searing events of the past four months in a crash-course 14min.

I can't even begin to describe how I'm feeling.

A Day in the Life

"Should I wear these jeans or..."

"Didn't you get blood on those jeans?"

"Yeah, but it came out. We have a good washer. So yeah. These jeans... or these shorts with a hole in the crotch and a ducky diaper pin instead of a button?"


"... okay, should I wear this shirt or the other shirt?"

"That one."

"Okay, should I wear these, or..."

"Dude, you should definitely wear clean undwear."

"Okay. Now, Flipflops or sneakers?"

"With jeans? Flipflops."

"Are you sure you like this shirt better?"


"How is this shirt better?"

"It isn't. Wear the other one."

"... Really? Are you sure?"


"Okay, okay. Jeeze. I need hair conditioner and a towel."

"No shampoo?"

"No. I'm a conditioner kind of guy."

Friday, March 30

They do.

Does it comfort or kill you to know that everyone feels exactly as you feel?

Wednesday, March 28


In case you were not previously aware, there are some things wrong with me:

<-- is not pretty
<-- has no skills valued by modern industrial society
<-- has a C in anatomy
<-- fan of potato chips in ice cream
<-- says terribly stupid things
<-- cannot speak Japanese
<-- flawed
<-- desperately wants to bury the dead
<-- loveless
<-- heartless
<-- soulless
<-- probably a masochist
<-- doesn't even really like ATHF at all
<-- writes false stories for onesentence.org under a false name and obscure email address just to hit home with life points that have never happened to me
<-- is a fraud
<-- is in love
<-- is a conformist
<-- has a very large ass
<-- worships Meatloaf
<-- backstabber
<-- frontstabber
<-- addict
<-- narcissist
<-- anti-confidant
<-- voted most likely cling to an abusive relationship by a jury of peers (voices in my head)
<-- loves the smell of wet dirt

<-- failure to thrive at the age of 19

Monday, March 26

My Heart Hurts

Why do I sit around creating problems when you have enough legitimate ones to cover us both?

Friday, March 23

And how.

The best part about having no class on Thursday is that Friday feels like Monday, but at the end of the day, it's still Friday and Tuesday is the weekend.

You get what I'm saying?

Saturday, March 3

Targa, Targa be my Lover! Love me, Love me Under Covers!


love targa.tga files.

I just wanna go SHAKE someone! AHHHH!

Wednesday, February 28

Shot Through the Heart and You're too Late

Sometimes I hate myself just for imposing myself on you. Honestly. Like you don't have enough shit to do and to deal with that you need me on top of it? And worse, when I throw MY shit at you? And worse when I create shit for you to deal with?

Who does that?

Oh yes I care so much for you. Allow me to make your life totally suck.
I'm sorry for the guilt trips. I'm sorry for whatever I thought I was going to get out of any of it.
I'm my mother.

Please when I make you feel this way, just tell me to fuck off. I'd rather I feel lonely and unrequetted than to ever cause negativity to infiltrate your emotional perameter. And I'm meaning this in all honesty. You know I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. I'm saying it because I feel it.

Not to make you feel like shit.
Not to make myself feel better.
Not to piss you off.
Not to validate my existence.
Not to make you feel however I wanted you to feel or to reap whatever I had wanted to reap out of this kind of talk in the past.

I mean it in cold hard plan-spoken English.

Please don't let me do these things to you.
You're worth so much more to me than that.

It isn't your fault I have the emotional stability of elemental francium.
I just keep stealing your electrons without asking. Imposing my charges.
Fucking with equilibrium.
I've never hated myself more than I do at this very moment.

Saturday, February 24


God, I feel so empty.

Please don't let this be over.
It can't be over. It just can't be.


Revive me.

Friday, February 9

Fool me twice...

Sometimes I get sort of nervous. Worried. (Indefinitely jealous but that's another story.) Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing the right things. Sometimes I have to ask myself how safe it is to do this again, to offer myself up to walk that tightened heart-string over a familiar lake of caustic lava, and for what? The chance that I'll fall again? The chance that I'll burn?

The chance that you'll push me?

And then I stop being ridiculous and I take a few moments to truly think about it. If this isn't one of those things in life worth risking for my dear, then what the fuck is?

Because, what do I get if I stay on that rope? You.
What do I get if I fall? Nothing.
What do I get if I never try? Nothing.

To never try seems eerily similar, doesn't it?

It was absurd to think so much, anyway. I have that problem-- I think too much without being rational. I know myself well enough to know that I love that warm comfortable heat that comes from standing so may stories above heartbreak. I love the feel of that string cutting into my skin.

I couldn't stand to give up a chance to feel it again. I'd jump in a heartbeat onto that rope, even assured it would break, just to feel that feeling for one final second before I crash and burn. Just to entertain that glimmer of hope that it might hold.

Because that is a risk I'd just have to take.

Tuesday, February 6

Ketchup Seed

Sometimes I just look at her and I don't understand how someone could live like that. How could you stand to be so naive? How could you walk outside everyday and not think about things? Not wonder how things work, why they are the way they are, or why we're here? How could you live without knowing how to spell the words you use everyday? In what comfortableness could you breathe having no idea what intelligent conversation truly is? How could you wake up every morning having never felt that urgency to convince others of how you truly, deeply feel? Without having satisfied that hunger to absorb information?

How could you do all of these things and not realize the incredible world you'll live within and never know? How could you be so...

simple minded?

And then, I realized. I, am a hypocrite. She may be narrow-minded, but I am narrow-hearted. I live my life with one goal, one sight, one outstanding reason to let my heart beat. I walk a straight line everyday never needing to follow my heart away from the beaten path. I live, I breathe, I exist. I am one-hundred percent, perfectly content.

I don't want my heart to know another. I don't want to grasp manically at every available possibility to love like I do every instance with which I can learn. I don't need to feel the desperation to intimately know as many people as possible and to open a gushing heart to each and every one of them the way I need to let the workings of my brain beat down upon everyone I meet.

She is simple-minded. She lives in a blissful kind of naivety, without any need to expand herself.

She breathes.

I am simple-hearted. I love hard, direct and unwaveringly.

I breathe.

We are different, most definitely. But alas, we are so very much the same.

Saturday, February 3


Sometimes I get philosophical. Other times I think rationally.

Oh, How Many Years May Pass in a Fraction of a Second

Sometimes I just get so scared.

And I know so well the irrationality. And I know I'm wrong.

I pray I'm wrong.

And I know that things can't possibly have gone as I think they have.

But I am so scared.

And I wake up alone and I stutter to breathe and the flesh on my neck crawls to attention and my eyes travel manically in the dark.

But, then they focus. They focus on the tangled mop of hair and sprawled limbs of your perfectly untouched existence. My ears perk to hear the sounds of your sleepy breathing and hearty snores of an undisturbed rest. I am assured of your safety. I am assured you exist unharmed. And finally I breathe.

But not one second sooner.

Wednesday, January 31

No Substitution Will Do

I think I am a masochist. Why else, I ask, would I continue to do these same things, harboring the same feelings, causing the same reactions, the same pain, the same tears, the same chronic heartsick illness, and never for a single moment think of stopping?

It's like pulling teeth. You don't want to-- God, don't you want to. But what else can you do? Every time you pull a tooth another gets infected.

It would decidedly help not to floss with barbed wire. But, it's what your mother did, and you're her tax-deduction.

Monday, January 29

Top of the Line and Totally Mine

Omg, dude.


Dude. I totally met this dude.


Dude. And he's like, totally rad.


Rad. We do like, all these like, things that are like, similar and stuff.


Totally. But, sometimes I like, don't know what he's like, thinking or whatever. Like I don't know what he like, wants.

Like he like, kisses you and like, says like, "Get the fuck out of my truck."?

No. He doesn't do either of those things.

Friday, January 19

Lay thy Sword in the Womb of the Rock and be Praised by Angels

Take thee to thy blacksmith. Browse his shop. He will gift you armor, woven stiff in threads of gold or golden straw. You shall not know the difference.

Take of him thy armor. Give him thanks.

Bare thy gift into thine greatest battle. Let thy armor take the blows of arrow and sword.
Let the gold protect you. Bleed into the straw.

Or, if thou art coward, do not wear thy armor. Shear thy armor in thy home. Bury it in shallow grave.

Bleed uncovered, having never known its strength.

Thursday, January 18

I Hear a Train a-Comin'!

That means more to me than I'm going to even begin to twist into words. For that I'm not good enough.

I just want you to know, that I am always going to be here. Take that in stride if you wish, but it's going to be harder than that to get rid of me.

I can't ask you to change anything. You have to do what you have to do, and I understand that. I apologize for any guilt tripping I may have done in the immediate or max dated past, but everything I've said has been honest.

And that's all I do qualify to ask of you. Don't say things unless you're absolutely sure you mean them, because I believe every every word and letter and comma and especially any left carrots succeeded by numbers. I trust you as I've always trusted you, and I trust you with that responsibility. Again, I can't help it if you wish it taken in stride. I just thought it fair that you be made sentient of the fact.

For the record, I don't care how far away you are or how often you pop up in my proximity. Well, I don't care in the respect that it doesn't change much for me except the amount of time I spend missing you. Missing you while having you and missing you when not are two very, vastly different emotions.

I'm so goddamn selfish.

Wednesday, January 17

< love> You < /love>

The worst part about our situation is all of those awesome things that happened before we died. You used to say all these little things to me that made me smile and feel that fabled warm fuzzy feeling in my gut and all the butterflies would rush up my throat and bring a redness to my face. I don't know how much of that you knew. Most of the time, the sweet things you said were digital.

I <3 you. You're worth all the text messages in the world. Tell him I'll pay him to kill you. It's understandable, really, considering we weren't together for almost half of our relationship, but it's still a notable thought. And you know what the worst part, out of everything that ever happened and everything you said to me and I said to you? You told me those things were lies. Those little things I was living every day to hear from your lips or precede the enter button on your keyboard, they were lies. And yeah, later you told me that a lot of the things we had both said we hadn't meant, and it wasn't really as heartwrenching a blow as it must have felt, but it still felt. It still feels. I think the, "I never really loved you," part of it would have stung a lot less if you hadn't made it feel like you had before you said it. When you whole world whips around on you like that it's bound to leave some cracks around the middle. Do you know how I know that this was the worst of it all? It's the only thing I still cry about. I can recall the words you used when you severed romantic ties, I can remember the heartbreak I felt in the week before when I knew what was coming and didn't know how to stop it, I can remember the emptiness I felt when my question of <3? at the end of a conversation went unanswered. Of all of that, of everything, it hurt the most to know that you were there, all the time trying to make me feel the wonderful way you made me feel, and all the time knowing somewhere inside you that you didn't mean any of it.

I would have never done that to you.

And I know somehow that you didn't mean to do it to me, but, knowing and allowing myself to feel closure over the fact are two very different things.

It's okay though. The crying usually doesn't last long, and more times than not happens while I'm in the shower. A convenient way to hide it from everyone else in the entire world. It makes me wonder sometimes if I'm the type to take hits like that and crawl back, or if it's just you that makes me that way. Despite all the hurt and all the heartbreak and all of the everything, I still want you. I still love you. I still get that butterfly feeling when you say anything that might half-consciously suggest that you care about me at all. So what if I still cry about you? Doesn't the rest of that make it a mute point? Despite everything, you're still the moonlight in the night and the sunshine in the day. Sometimes I forget you're there to think about, sometimes I curse you for being too bright or not being bright enough, sometimes I wonder if you ever think about me. But if you ever left me completely, well. What a cold, dark unfriendly world I'd be, wouldn't I?

I worry sometimes because I know you read this, and I'm not always sure it's meant for you to read. I guess, it doesn't really matter. You're the only person I feel comfortable being such an open, pathetic book to. Maybe I'm just better at being honest when I'm writing things digitally.

Let me just find that enter key. There it is.

Thursday, January 11

I'm all alone all the time, all the time

You know what I realized today? You're the only person I ever miss. I have friends, sure. Really good friends, who are really good people and mean a lot to me and my everyday life. It's just that, when I'm away from them (especially if I'm with you) I'm easily distracted from the fact that I'm living life without them. I could live a year with you and you alone and have no need whatsoever to see the other people in my life. I don't know if that's good, or healthy-- but it's the truth.

And it works both ways. I could be surrounded by everyone else I've ever met and I'd still miss you. I'd constantly note things in my mind that I want to tell you, things that I wish you could have seen or heard. Sometimes I even offer up to conversation, "He would have loved that." And people look at me with that pouty puppy look that says "I feel so very sorry for you and your difficulty."

But really? I wouldn't want it any other way. It makes those few minutes I get to spend with you absolutely worth it. I would trade a year of my life for ten minutes on your couch.

The worst part of this is that I can love every gundamn inch of your body, and it isn't enough. It's never enough. I could love everything from the disheveled hair on your head to the funny little mole to the feet you relish holding three inches from my face-- and it isn't enough. It isn't even close. I have hair and moles and feet. I have habits and mannerisms and an overall presence that isn't something you can ignore. I know that. It tears me, but I know it. I almost accept it. I don't think I'll ever be able to fully accept it. You can't just pretend something that devastating doesn't exist.

Monday, January 1

Does that make sense?

I never miss you more than I do when I'm with you.

Why is it that every time the phone rings I secretly hope it's you?