In an all-too-rare burst of ambition tonight, I put on Aerosmith's Big Ones before resolving to put a load of dishes in the washer and clean up a bit before exercising. The idea is that by the time the third track, Rag Doll, comes on, I'll be just about done with cleaning and energized by the music, ready to conquer some cardio. It doesn't work out this way.

The state of my house-- and by house, I mean cheap-ass, soul suckingly unwelcoming trailor that I had hoped and prayed to be out of by now-- is such that I find myself exasperated and overwhelmed just trying to put it into words. The mess is no one's fault but my own, and, possibly, to a lesser extent, Zack's, but all the same, I feel victimized by it. And feeling victimized by and responsible for something awful is a very bad feeling. I'm not sure if you know.

Peter Walsh, the author of It's All Too Much, says that one of the major warning signs of a clutter problem is if you have trouble with "flat surfaces"-- that is, if every table, counter, desktop and shelf is constantly, and forever covered. Picturing this state will give you a very accurate foundation upon which to build the mental image of my household, if you so masochistically dare. In the kitchen, there is a kitchen table which we've literally never eaten a meal of any kind at, and an air hockey table, displaced from a spare room during a short stint when a friend inhabited it a very, very long time ago. Both are piled high with...jesus christ, what a hateful list it is. Coats, hats, scarfs, a banjo, unpaid bills, unused envelopes that have been sealed shut by the humidity in the air, and then boxes-- four or five different kinds of boxes, holding useless things that we have not had occasion to so much as glance at since they've been put into those boxes. Zack has...a great deal of boxes like these, containing knick-knacks that he is pathologically protective of. This fondess for odd little things, I think, would have the makings to be charming, if not for the fact that, as I said, these things are all in little plastic boxes that are never opened, but seem to have some sacred right to their places, scattered throughout the house: three on our kitchen table, one in the pantry, some buried in the closet in one corner of the spare room, others catalogued on a colorful rack in the other.

These boxes, let it be said, are not a topic of conversation, lest that conversation should become evidence of my attempt to finally and completely assimilate him, having, evidently, no respect whatsoever for his earlier way of life. As if, were I some mastermind manipulating everything to get my way, this is the way I would choose to live.

As it happens, though, the boxes that are entirely his are not the only ones around. It occurs to me, only now, that what I once respected as Zack's great ability to be focused and productive when cleaning and organizing is merely his tendency to put things into boxes, and then leave them somewhere out of the way. Another box which is just as much a permanent feature of our house as anything is the one that stores items we got for christmas several years ago-- things we never wanted, needed, or asked for, but they show up in stockings and in brightly-colored paper anyway. This is my fault, too-- isn't everything?-- because, at christmas, I've made such a big deal out of pacing myself as I open my gifts, so as not to run out of presents while everyone else has something left to open, that I must be sending the message very clearly that I value quantity just as much as quality. I imagine, though, that it would be impossible to avoid either way, to some extent-- everyone has some aunt who has no idea what they like but makes a losing effort every year. The one that gets Zack sports paraphinilia. The many that get me candles or talking clocks or something of equally broad unappeal. This christmas box appears every year-- a new one, I mean. I wonder where Zack has put them all. Found one under the sink the other day.


There's a lot to say. Closets filled with ripped sheets and boxes of notebooks and cans of paint. The bookcase with just as many books piled on top as there are on the four shelves. The fact that we've never had a permanent place to keep clean socks or underwear. The joke of a filing cabinet. And all the stuff-- so much stuff-- that should have been taken out of here years ago. But let's skip to "the trouble with the situation." The trouble with the situation is this: the place is not only incredibly disorganized, it's also incredibly dirty. And this puts me at an almost philosophical standoff-- which to conquer first? It's very difficult to just clean up if there isn't anywhere to put anything-- if almost everything that is on the stained counter, on the dirty stovetop, has no place else to be. But you have to put it somewhere first, before you decide where it finally goes. And that place is likely to be a box. And then we are likely to run out of energy, and leave it there, into perpetuity. At the very least, you need some space in which to gather all the homeless objects before finding homes for them, and that space just isn't something we have.

I feel like this has become more of a rant than anything else, and I'd probably be suspicious of anyone who showed interest in reading it. Still, there was a point, a moment of inspiration that caused me to start writing this, and wouldn't it be a shame if that got lost in the clutter, too? Oh, did I mention that? The losing things? How something you just fucking saw is all at once gone, absorbed by the doom around you, and there's this feeling that you get...sometimes it's rage, sometimes it's nausea, sometimes it's despair. That was one part of my point.

What you really need to understand is that while it may seem that I live in a very dirty, cluttered house, what I really live in is a metaphor. A perfect microcosm of the larger life which it contains, the larger life which the house is only one part of. What better representation of the hopeless-feeling confusion of my finances, the sisyphusian pursuit of my sex life, the infinite rubik's cube that is my health and happiness. Though, honestly, if I could ever conquer those first three-- the house, the finances, the sex-- health and happiness might just fall into place on their own.

It goes without saying that by the time Big Ones played through, I hadn't begun exercising, and, drained by the disorder around me and my fruitless attempts to make some iota of progress with it, no longer had any intention to. (On a related note, Peter Walsh's second book is called Does this Clutter Make my Butt Look Fat?) I was, at this point, on the couch, writing checks for some unpaid bills simply because I had no where to put them, as the final track, Livin' on the Edge, was playing. I never thought very much of this song before. I assumed, without listening very hard to the lyrics, that living on the edge referred to living a dangerous way, a throw-caution-to-the-wind, devil-may-care, rockstar way, the way a Steven Tyler might.

In that moment-- and I don't know if it was when I was shaking and sucking the end of my dying pen so that I could finish writing my return adrress, lest I have to somehow find another one, or when I was putting two thirty-nine cent stamps on the envelope because all my stamps are old, and even if they weren't, I have no idea what the price of a stamp is nowadays, and it's worth mentioning that it was a miracle I could find the stamps after all-- I don't know which of those moments it was, but I heard these lyrics:

"Tell me what you think about your situation.
Complication, aggravation is getting to you."

And I knew. That song isn't about his way of life, it's about mine.

I notice the bill says I should detach a stub and include it with my payment, but it's not perforated. I turn for the pair of scissors that, characteristically out of place, was sitting on table in front of me moments ago. They aren't there now, and I feel nausea well up inside of me.

"You can't help yourself from falling.
You can't help yourself at all."


On with it.

You tell me: did this one slip through the cracks, or have you heard about it? Because I've yet to hear anyone gossip, horrified, around the watercooler about it, and it's that kind of news.

In a small town in Belgium on Friday, a man in black and white face paint breaks into a daycare center and, unprovoked, starts stabbing babies with an 8-inch knife. Kills a nine-month old, a six-month old, and one caregiving employee, and wounds (I hate how vague that word can be-- stabs) ten more children and two more adults. When they found him later, he had the addresses of two other day care centers in his backpack.

This is doing with news what movies like Saw and Hostel did with entertainment (and I use that term loosely)-- ripping a jaded generation harshly out of its comfort level of "shit happens". I don't consider myself a particularly sensitive or maternal person, but, walking into a daycare center and stabbing babies? What the fuck?

Obviously, an outpouring of support and condolences have manifested themselves in every form, and apparently there is a facebook group you can join if you'd like to take a stand-- that is to say, if you'd like to boldly make that controversial political statement, "I don't support baby stabbing." I have to wonder if these kinds of measures really bring any solace to the victim's families, or if it is simply the kind of reaction that happens an overstimulated, internet-bound generation finds itself, for the first time, shocked.

Perhaps I'd be more inclined to offer my cyber-regret if not for how quickly my sorrow turned to annoyance: the end of the first article I read about this truly heinous crime ended with this sentiment from a local bakeshop owner: "It's something you here about in America, not here."

As a jaded, young, American national, we have now seen how it takes baby stabbings to shock me, and, evidently, the accusation of a free-wheeling, baby-stabbing morale climate to offend my ailing sense of patriotism. You expect this to happen in America, Belgium? Really? I guess our ignorant, benevolent attitude towards you isn't a two-way street: all we every expected out of you were waffles. I tried to put this quote behind me, reminding myself that this was the attitude of but one, traumatized baker; then I realized that a similar quote I read in a seperate article wasn't a second translation of the words of the original man, but a second expressing the exact same idea. "We thought that things like this only happened in the United States and now we see that in Belgium, in a small village like this ... that such a thing could happen, it is very, very bad,"


There's a lot to mourn for here. The loss of two young children, the injury of ten more, the hurt and killed caregivers, the traumatized community. The loss, perhaps, of the entire Belgian nation's innocence. And, not insignificantly, the realization that this is how bad things have gotten: we all knew that America's standing in the eyes of the world took a beating during the Bush Administration. I guess we just didn't know it was such a bloody, wailing massacre.


Good luck turning it around for us, Obama. If the rest of the world is to be believed, you better hope you don't let us down.

On with it.

My iPod is playing alphabetically by song; moving from Simon and Garfunkel's "America" to Damien Rice's "Amie", it confirms that feeling I suspected I was having. Late night, Zack asleep, only the light from the monitor in the room, the sound of casually beautiful music playing, and me, wanting to write. This is a feeling I once had often.

I can't tell you the source of my silence, whether it's complacancy or shame, a new sense of purpose or udder confusion. I suspect I've past that adolescent need to leave myself open and vulnerable, that need to be loved wholly, and to the core, or not at all. I've grown pragmatic, I suppose, and it's not a particularly inspiring place to be.

The alphabet isn't as generous at the end of "Amie", and I skip past "Amish Paradise" by Weird Al and Aerosmith's "Angel", finally deciding to switch it to shuffle-- it was made for moments like these afterall. "Kill Ya Momz" by Sage Francis. Nope. I let it play Brandi Carlisle's "Wasted" as I struggle to formulate that last sentence, and now it's onto Paranoid Social Club's "In My Headphones". It's clear some iGod is toying with me. He knows this isn't coming easy to me, not anymore, and he's not gonna make it any easier. Let's see what happens when I press next.

"Crazy old Maurice, hmmm?
Crazy old Maurice, hmmmm?
Lefou, I'm afraid I've been thinking."

"A dangerous pastime."

"I know."

You can say that again, Lefou.

And now Christina Aguileira's Dirty. And now The Clash, Guns Of Brixton. Maybe I'll let this one play. My mood has changed. After all, it's a song about putting up a fight.

Of course, it's a fight your almost guaranteed to lose. But aren't they all?

On with it.

FieryGwenivere: Karl.
Karl: what?
FieryGwenivere: I was touched and saddened by your (away message) that no one cares. So much so that I began writing a Karl-dedicated blog posting about how much people do care, for all the wonderful intricacies of Karl, even if they are unbeknownst to me, even if I cannot think of your last name
FieryGwenivere: but the computer ate it
FieryGwenivere: It went away
FieryGwenivere: and that is very frustrating for a writer who is trying to write again for the first time in a very long time
FieryGwenivere: Anyway, I was going to end it by doing some random act of charity on your behalf
FieryGwenivere: And my post is gone. It is dead
FieryGwenivere: But I don't want to waste the act I had intended
FieryGwenivere: what would you have me do?
Karl: give a stranger a compliment
FieryGwenivere: Okay. Is that all?
Karl: yep


Okay. Let's all do that, for Karl.

F&^%ing computer.

On with it.

There's a feeling I get when I try to insert something into myself. It's taken me five years to outgrow this feeling, not so much that it's gone, but so that's in no longer towering over me. It's taken me five years to make it something that I don't need to instantly run from. Now it's something undeniably present, lying their with me, subdued and aching. Maybe "outgrow" is the wrong word-- now, this feeling and I are just about the same size. She and I, we're in the same weight class, and we look oddly similar.

Laying on the bed, I am trying to triumph over it. The part of me that consents is trying to calm the part of me that is being raped. It's an unfortunate thought I have now, in the aftermath, that this is probably true of any woman forced, repeatedly, into a situation where she must give what she so wishes to protect. Important, I suppose, to cling to the key difference here: I am doing this for my wellbeing, for my husband, for my life. I am not giving in to inevitability.

Tonight, I am thinking of the way must look. I've come to recognize the feeling of my muscles laying just so on my bones. It's a face that correlates with the sad determination of my begrudging strength. I am thinking of how I must look, and I am thinking of which of my friends would know what exactly this face means. Which of my friends would be here, with me, if they could.

There are the people who would be there for you in the most familiar cases of struggle and defeat. A true scenario where in one, brilliant moment, you have obvious and unmistakable need for the people you love to be cheering you on. How often are these hero's trials so neatly wrapped up? How often do we really get to stand as David, dwarfed at the feet of a single, looming goliath, one epic pebble in hand? And who wouldn't show up for spectacle like that, anyway?

What I've learned about heroism is far more often a weak and weeping persistence against and endless force. The refusal to run away to the tempting land of anywhere-but-here. The middle-class man who works faithfully every day to provide for his family, putting his dreams on hold, resisting fantasies of all sorts. The would-be pedophile who weeps and scratches and wails in the shame of his unconsummated desires. And me, night after night, for five years, stabbing into my most delicate flesh with soul-dulling resolution, that one,certain face looking up at the ceiling.

I imagine what my friends what would say if they could see my face, what they would feel. I think about the people who I've come to accept as people who love and some specific faces come to mind, accompanied by an unspecific voice saying the one thing I want most to hear. The voice is small and tinny; I think it's one of mine.

Not much later, I'm on my feet again, bringing the dilators to the bathroom to be washed before they're put away. I catch my face in the mirror. Whatever is true about my self-esteem or lack thereof, whatever is true about whether I love or hate myself in the long run, there's always been a part of me inside that sees it all, and responds to it with a very, deep, maternal sympathy. It's not too far off from the part of me that longs to be seen for everything I am and loved, despite. I've been thinking a lot lately about where this feeling came from-- a man I believe has led his whole life with a shame so deep and private, he could never trust in the love that anyone expressed for him. And my husband; how differently he reacts to the same fear, it would seem. He spends his whole life hiding things so that he does not lose the love of others; I spend my whole life revealing things so that one day I might feel I truly have it.

But this is all the fodder of another post, when and if the mood strikes me to put pen to paper, so to say. It's been happening less and less lately, you might have noticed. Could this indicate a steadily decreasing shame? A slowly-building confidence in the love I've earned? Or is it what I've suspected, that I'm just starting to lose my debilitating self-interest?


The voice said, "I still think you're beautiful."


On with it.

Without checking, I think it was in the last entry that I mentioned a conversation I had with Elorza about whether or not I thought of myself as a writer, and what it meant to me to be one. Tonight, I had another conversation with Dan in which I informed him of one of the little secrets I am less and less compelled to share with the world: that I recently wrote took the time to commit one of my many story ideas to paper, went so far as to hire an editor to work on it with me with aspirations of publishing it, and then, just as I was putting the finishing touches on it and quite by coincidence, found out about a contest that seemed so custom-tailored to my story that I sent it off without a doubt in the world it would win.

It didn't, of course, but that's old story. The one we're talking about, the one I wrote, well, that's still fairly new. And so life, inevitably, goes on.

I'm finding I do very poorly with failure-- so poorly, in fact, that it's beginning to make me question if it was fear of failure, all along, that kept me from going out and accomplishing all that it was so evident I could. This isn't something I ever suspected of myself. (I am taking a moment to imagine, at this point, my loyal readers-- the ones that are a thing of my fantasy, who have read every word of this blog since it's wailing, bloody birth and have grown to know me better than I know myself-- scoffing. "Linda!" They laugh, shocked but in a good-natured tone, "How could you not have seen this, all of these years? Poor, sweet girl.") Indeed, I have thought of those quotes by all the great minds, too many to name-- that failures are merely steps on a path to success, that there are no mistakes-- as gospel, never did I question the wisdom. I guess this kind of weakness is the worst, the kind you have no concept of. I suppose, then, that by the same logic as "failures are successes", I should think of this revelation as nothing more than opportunity. I, Linda H., am a not a coward, but one who has been presented with the opportunity to overcome cowardice!

Is it me, or is it getting a little hot in here?

The conversation with Dan culminated, of course, in his insistance that I continue to seek to get the story-- a picture book manuscript-- published. I assured him that I never had any intention of giving up, that never had even a wisp of the idea crossed my mind, and it was true, of course.

Unless you count the sound of my heart as it beats out "give up, give up, give up." with a growing, Poe-like intensity.

The first time I submitted a picture book manuscript to a publisher, officially, was in elementary school. I had written a story-- a horrendous story about sledding down the wrong side of a hill-- with absolutely no concept that it was utter crap. No one had told me it was bad-- no one had any reason to, hell, I was....seven? Eight? They all told me it was good, and it was, for something written for someone in my age. I was a smart girl, and a good writer, and that much I was always confident of. Sure, I was vastly unpopular. I was wearing hand-me-down clothes and my hair was unkempt, and yeah, I probably smelled funny. But I was smart, and I knew that, they couldn't take that away from me. I guess they all assumed, though, I was smart enough to realize that, realistically, it was unpublishable. I wasn't.

I waited and waited for my claim to come in the mail. I spent the time doodling pictures of my literary agent-- he had tacky, hollywood personality and a red convertible that he referred to as "Beaut." Among other things I didn't understand, I thought that writers got the same sort of glamorous treatment that movie stars got. The future always holds so much when you have no clue.

My response came, quite unexpectly, two full years later. In the letter, a sweet woman praised my talent and suggested that I try submitting my story to a magazine featuring work written by children. I never did. By the time I received the letter, my age was in the double-digits, and I knew already that the story had been crap.

I may have been dejected for a while, I don't remember. What I remember was my mother telling me "You've gotten your first rejection from a real publishing company! You're an official writer now!" And we celebrated.

I bragged about that rejection for months, about my status. Never did I think of it as a failure-- I was too smart, too golden, too young for that. Honestly, at that point in my life, I never thought failure was an option for me. No one mentioned it; no one was worried. Never had even a wisp of the idea crossed my mind. When my heart beat, it said "You will, you will, you will."

I think about the progress I've made, the way I've struggled away from that smelly girl in the hand-me-downs. Maybe I've traded one brand of confidence for another. Maybe I've just lost it all around. It feels, though, like I could stand to get a little bit of her back. I could handle the unpopularity, I think, if only to get some spark of that sureness, that bright-eyed naivety in the face of tomorrow. Sometimes it seems I have nothing in common with that little girl at all.

I shouldn't be so hard on myself, though. I still smell pretty bad.

On with it.

Two responses to my call for writing prompts, questions and requests have come in so far: The first is from the young Dan B., who submitted the following last week:

"I find myself, nowadays, defining myself by myself more and more, even as I believe it is the groups that I am and am not a part of that define me. I've yet to figure this one out, but what do you think defines a person in the grand scheme of things? Is it their actions, their beliefs, or is it what groups they're a part of, like I'm thinking? While we're on it, how do you define yourself?"


Oh, Dan.


In all of the thought that I've given to this question since I've read it, I've been finding myself unable to really commit to a message. I'm reminded of a conversation I had, a few months ago, wherein Elorza, in an bit of an ornery mood, I thought, was challenging my own definitions of myself in the context of being a writer. He asked if I thought of myself as a writer, then was somewhat angrily incredulous when I answered with a simple "yes." He pushed for more definition-- if I was so brazen as to call myself a writer (when he did not dare to call himself one), then what was a writer to me, and what was it about myself that qualified myself as one? What accomplishments did I have, what passion?

I found the whole conversation annoying, really, but not nearly so maddening as he seemed to find it when each of my answers refused to give in to his demands for specificity and reasoning. I tried to explain my preference towards not clinging to a set definition for concepts that mean many things to many different people, but this was seen as a cop out. His definition of a writer, it seemed as he went on, must have been one who is unafraid to define things in the world in which they live, making me seem, somehow, the hypocrite of the conversation.

Had I been willing to give in to what he wanted, I might have told him that it was my willingness to put myself out there, to commit my thoughts and feelings to words and then submit them to the judgment of whoever should care to read that makes me a writer. But that, then, would invalidate all those who write purely for themselves, as part of an inner dialogue or self-exploration, or for whatever other reasons a person chooses to write privately. And while I've never had any particular respect for that kind of writer, I've never had any particular disdain for them, either.

But that doesn't answer Dan's question.

I'm reminded, also, of a friend I had who thought herself a virgin who was particularly incensed when I told her I didn't think of her as one. My explanation --that while she thought of a virgin as someone who had never engaged in coitus or broken their hymen, I thought of is as someone who had never had sex in any form-- did little to comfort her; neither did my insistance that she ignore my definition. I told her that I wasn't judging her, that I had always known the facts as they had happened and simply because those facts translated, in my mind, to a different status, that status was basically irrelevant to who she really was, to her true definition, if you will. She then enlisted the help of others to help win me over, so sure she was of her own virginity. Everyone else involved felt the same way: a virgin was someone who had never had vaginal sex. I tried to agree to disagree. It wasn't enough for them.

Thinking that their definition was the most popular, and therefor convenient, when I was asked many years later if I was a virgin (after my first encounters with oral sex), I said "yes". The person who was asking me, not the brightest needle in the haystack, then responded with "You've never even kissed a guy??" I didn't really get the relation, but I moved past it and told him "No, I've kissed people, and I've had oral sex. I've just never had vaginal sex." "Oh," He said. "Then you're not a virgin." "Okay." I said. Because it was.

My definition of what a virgin was didn't change who I was. I knew what I'd done and what I hadn't.

But that doesn't answer Dan's question, either.


Dan, there are a lot of things I could say about this. What you've asked is what defines a person "in the grand scheme of things" so I guess that's easier to answer: The grand scheme of things, as I would define it, refers to the universe, existence, and on that level, I guess one person doesn't matter that much. On that level, an individual person gets no more definition than any other individual person. To the universe, person equals person, just the way that, to us, no one grain of sand has any defining characteristics to tell it apart from any other grain of sand.

But that's all philosophical B.S., so let's narrow "the grain scheme of things" to a level where it's most practical in this context: the world, the people in it. To the vast majority of the people in the world, Dan, you are defined by a the groups that you are in, from a somewhat statistical view: You are male, you are young, you are white, you are from North America. But that's not very interesting either.

So let's get a little closer: what defines you to the people you will meet, or who will know you in one way or another. In fact, let's start with what defines a person to themselves.

What I find most interesting is this: a person generally defines themselves by their thoughts, or their beliefs, as you mentioned. Within yourself, there is this whole world of self-interest. Every thing that runs through your head is part of you, as you see yourself. Every feeling, every question, every moment of consciousness contributes to your own definition of yourself, and in that way, you can see yourself a million ways: A philosopher, a poet. A person of great compassion, a person of endless depth.

But to everyone else who will ever know you, you are only defined by your actions. No one hears your thoughts or feels your feelings, they can only see what you do with your time. True, the action can be as simple as speaking your thoughts or writing them down, but don't forget how much is lost in translation, and, with that in mind, consider devoting some of your energies to something less self-serving.

Dan has asked a question, in his questioning way-- I've always defined him as a person of curiousity, a person who looks for answers. And I've answered it with my opinions, and I've always assumed people thought of me as someone with numerous and complicated opinions. What other actions are people defining us with? Good or bad? Or, as is most likely, totally mediocre? We should all remember, perhaps, to tread lightly in this, or, more aptly, to choose carefully when to really stomp and march. Ultimately, that tender knowledge of ourselves that makes us endlessly sympathetic of our actions and inactions, that's all us.


I honestly have so much more I could say about this, Dan, but how much is saying it really worth? Originally, I was going to go with a diatribe about how there is one of two groups a person can fit into that will truly define his life: the happy people, and the sad people. But I'm not sure if I believe it or not, if that's a group that you're in, or just another set of actions. Anyway, as a writer-- and I am one-- that's not the thought I wanted to commit myself to today. Too much of that to get lost in translation.


On with it.

It's not so much that I've lost interest in writing, as much as I seem to be having a temporary dry spell with regards to self-interest. Not something I could have seen coming. Heaven help me should this trend continue, and force me to develop world views, and opinions, and, god help me, convictions.

Anyway, I feel for the dusty facade of this page, the wistful ache of my fingers against the keyboard, the stagnance of my once ever-evolving craft. So, I ask of you, my loyal readers, and those of you who are here all-too-infrequently for reasons that are all-too-obvious, be my muse!

I am, as of today, taking requests. Demands, even. Give me a prompt, a theme, a keyword. Ask me a question. Challenge me. Whatever you want. Only the absolute worst will be ignored...in some cases, mocked.

Leave them as a comment, or e-mail me at SuedeCaramel@gmail.com.

On with it!

So it's been a while. I'm still here.

Hard, as of late, to get into the groove of writing about my life. So. Let's do a music meme.

Put your music player (iTunes, WinAmp, Windows Media Player, etc.) on Shuffle or Random mode, press Play, and list your favorite line or verse from the first 10 songs that it plays. Then get your friends to guess the artist and song title of each lyric. Fun! (You can skip instrumental-only songs, but no skipping of the embarrassing songs!)

Okay. I will. You guys gotta guess, okay?

1. I want all the self-conscious girls who try to hide who they are with make-up. (How sad that this it the first one that came up, it's an okay song, not at all deep. That's my favorite line by default.)

2. I'm running out of reasons for sharing and sometimes I can't think of one.

3. I had opinions that didn't matter, I had a brain that felt like pancake batter.

4. You were my only weakness for years and years and years.
(These last two really show more about how Zack has influenced my music choices more than anything else. Specifically, I put the songs of his I kinda liked on my iPod so that I would grow more comfortable with them, and then he'd hear me listening to them and say things like "I didn't know you liked this song.")

5. I'm too proud to beg for your attention and your friendship and your time, so you can come and get it from now on.

6. I promise I won't squander your gaze.

7. I'll follow you in, I know you can't swim when you've been dead a hundred years.

8. She's in love with the world, but sometimes these feelings can be so misleading.

9. So if I capsize in your thigh's high tide, B-5, you sunk my battleship.

10. I wish that I could cry, fall down on my knees, find a way to lie, 'bout a home I'll never see.


I kinda find it impressive how many of those songs weren't emo. Not my favorites, though. Too bad. Because if there's anything this blog, and the world at large really, is lacking, it's insight to the emotional junk drawer that is my head.

On with it.

“What do you write?” My coworker asked at the register as when I told her I had come to buy the notebook to fulfill my yen to write.

“Uh, selfish, self-serving, self-interested prose.” I tell her. She replies with something snappy, but it would be out of character for me to remember what it was.

The yen to write was more a yen to write here at work; to write in public. This, I have always loved, a combination of my two passions—writing, and appearing deeper than I really am. It’s been said of me, when I am writing, that I have a certain aura, that I am different and special and everyone notices—said, of course, by only one person, and only one time, but as it confirmed a secret lifelong suspicion of mine, I will presume he was saying what everyone else was thinking. Ah, the clarity of drunkenness.

So I wanted not just to write, but to be seen writing. To spark the curiosity of others, be on their minds. When I write, I glow. I am focused and intense. I am mysterious and beautiful. I am literate and captivating and ten pounds thinner. Truly, this is the real me.

Thusly, it’s been so disconcerting that I haven’t written in months. This had occurred to me recently, at first with no real concern to it, but increasingly, I realized the urge to write was as absent as the words themselves. This had me feeling, sometimes palpably, nervous. I did not want to write—had my many flighty ambitions spread me so thin that I had finally abandoned the one thing I’d remained true to for years? The one thing that had outlasted every fleeting phase and get-rich-quick scheme, trumped my overdeveloped need for instance gratification and, largely unintentionally, developed over the years into the acutely honed skill that it is, so evidently, today.

Despite this fear, it’s not really accurate to say that the dormant lust for narrative had suddenly awakened within me. Indeed, with very occasional exception, there are only three great motivators in my life: self-loathing, avoidance, and the desire to eliminate split-ends.

In truth, I had gone shopping after work, for lack of reason to go home, and I’d picked out several pairs of size ten pants to try on. Old Navy would have you believe that you are one of three types of woman-- a diva, a flirt,or a sweetheart—and that this classification is in direct correlation with the placed you prefer your pants to rest on your hips. More accurately in correlation to that preference, to my mind, is your ability to accept your actual pant size: you may, in personality, be a diva, but if you are a size ten who fancies herself a size eight, you will not be leaving the store with low-rise jeans. As for myself, in size tens that would have confirmed my status as a mid-rise flirt, a daunting and important decision made through the process of elimination, I looked like the half-stuffed sausage that the butcher forgot. It would seem that in the months of lethargy that have crept slowly in between me and my former, fitness-driven self, I have slipped past my last-chance-for-self-acceptance size of ten. All evidence seems to indicate that I am now a size…oh, I can’t even say it. But it rhymes with "shame."

Faced with a dilemna such as this, a wise woman corrects herself, asks the clerk for the next size up, buys the pants that flatter her body for what it is, and revels in the self-confidence of a real woman. Without that wisdom, a rookie mistake is made: she buys the too-small pants anyway, having no doubt in her naïve mind that within a month or two, she will work down to her preferred size. And the new pants will act as incentive!

How many times have I made that mistake? But no more! I bought a shirt.

The newfound knowledge of my increasingly “real” body instilled in my a great motivation, through the aforementioned self-loathing, to exercise. This quickly gave way to a greater motivation to avoid exercising. And what a great time it was to start writing again.

My hand has gotten sore, I’m clearly no longer acclimated to this kind of work, and I find myself frequently distracted by my hair as it falls to frame the view of my promising notebook. I stop to examine the split ends, one by one, wishing that I could afford some revolutionary therapy whereby a specialist would strengthen my hair by criticizing it’s weakness. This prolonged and obvious contemplation of my own hair portrays, perhaps, the exact opposite image than that of the deep and mysterious literate that I so vie for. I get embarrassed when I am caught doing it, and this has happened once too often, lately. So I am writing here, at work, in public, to dispel this heinous misconception.

My hair looks great when I write.


On with it.