twenty and residing in chicago. journalist by virtue, poet at heart. once a lover, now a writer.
i live to create and inspire.
to love and be loved in return.
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February 9th, 2010 0 notes
i love displays at the hollywood mirror. even if they do have signs everywhere that say “no cameras.” oops!
February 8th, 2010 2 notes
Took this photo of the Jersey Shore years ago. I’m going to pull the “I-was-there-before-it-was-cool” out of my pocket now. Hmph.
February 8th, 2010 3 notes
February 8th, 2010 1 note
February 8th, 2010 3 notes
this is a letter, even if it doesn't look like one.this isn’t the kind of letter that starts off with “dear,” because we’re not that kind of proper. sometimes i don’t think we’re any kind of proper, considering the way we crash into each other with even the slightest of disagreements. we’re improper because we don’t talk about things like love; we prefer to keep our conversations dulled to those of porn and drugs and catalysts. we lay in bed all day smoking cigarettes and having conversations like,
“nothing will happen to you if i’m there. i’ll protect my baby.” (that’s you, and it sounds sweet, but it’s really kind of cliche.)
“what if there’s an elephant stampede?” (that’s me.)
“i’ll shoot them.” (because you’re good at making things like guns romantic.)
“what if my car overturns and catches fire?” (this is where i test you. let’s see how you answer this one.)
“i’ll pull you out of the flames.” (that’s you again. good answer.)
“what if there’s an alien invasion?” (i want you to say that you’ll get all brad-pitt-sexy on their asses and take them out, but what you say is:)
“you’re fucked.”
you will probably be surprised when you realize that i remember this conversation. the undignified way we lust about doesn’t provide for long-term memories or adoration for specifics, but even though you aren’t a sundance film romantic, i write about you because i don’t know how not to. (i write about all things that find a place in my heart, though usually the softest spot is reserved for some off-beat boy with raven vocal chords and anti-anxiety pills in his pocket. the most ironic and comical thing here is that off-beat boys are not really atypical at all. you, with your cropped hair and college education, are atypical, to me at least.)
the only way i can describe our irregular patterns of bashing heads (and so early for a relationship, too!) is by comparing them to conceptual fuck-ups with distorted senses. being with you is like smelling the color red, like tasting a fire alarm, and like hearing a ripe tomato. the thought of these things is just so droll and i can’t help but love every second of our quirky perception.
we are not callow enough to think that will not be times when this peculiarity gets the best of us. for that (and for today’s instance when i hurt you): i am so, so sorry.
i won’t classify you like i do the off-beat boys. i won’t talk about indigo-ocean eyes or go into too much detail about the silver-screen way we’d been introduced (a new year’s eve party and you kissed me at midnight). i won’t pin unorthodox adjectives on you (see: letters to former boyfriends) or write you up into a pretty box and sign it with a satin bow.
even if our sensations are fucked, you are tangible. you feel concrete at six in the morning when i wake up all sweaty because the sun is beating down through the window on us. in all of this, i want you to know: i feel you.
i feel you.
(i’ve been told that i feel too much, but i really feel the same as everyone else; i just know how to put it on paper.)
in all of this, what i’m really trying to tell you is that i still think you’re brad-pitt-sexy even if you won’t kill aliens to save me.
February 7th, 2010 1 note
I want a Lafcadio tattoo terribly. I decided at a very young age that I wanted to be a writer, and Lafcadio, by Shel Silverstein, was one of my first influences. Lafcadio also happens to be an album by my favorite band, who took their name from this book.
I am thinking of either the lion on the cover (pictured) or another illustration from inside the book. I want it somewhere semi-hidden, and I want it to be very small. Does anyone have any ideas of where to get it?
February 5th, 2010 0 notes
February 5th, 2010 5 notes
someday, i'll let you read this.it’s 2:14 in the morning. all i’ve got for you tonight is a list of things i’m too scared to say.
i want to call you right now so i can hear your voice, even if you’re a little drunk and can’t hold a conversation. i want to hear you breathing through powerlines so i can pretend you’re back home and tangled up in these sheets with me. just knowing you’re holding me up against your ear makes it that much easier to imagine your lips on my forehead and my cheek on your jawbone. i misswantneed the spidertouch of your fingertips on my spine and your sad kisses goodbye at four in the morning.
i’msosadsometimes. you worry that your past is too heavy for our future to hold, but i’ve done terrible, deplorable things that i am too ashamed to ever tell you. i was once so flighty that the slight of a chair against a hardwood floor would send me into an earthquake panic. i would wake up, days later, shivering beneath the coffee table. because you found me one of these times and held me until it was over (and at the risk of your own safety) is exactly the reason i will trust you despite your past.
i know that you don’t understand me most of the time, but i like that you know you don’t have to in order to make me happy. i am a fountain of words and of the articulation of emotion, but the language of logic and reason leaves my lips broken and foreign. i think too much and not enough. i am unbalanced, and in case i slip, i need you here to break my fall.
i love the way you hold me. i feel tiny. safe. home.
every star, heads-up penny, and 11:11 is used to wish on you. because i have you close, but i want you closer. so much that i won’t even yell at you if you crush my ribcage a little. when i’m with you, the concept of time doesn’t matter and i don’t need to wish because i feel like i have everything, and that has to mean something. right now, i miss you so much that my bones are aching.
here’s the thing: you are not just on my mind when i’m drifting off to sleep. you are my company when i am waiting for the microwave to beep, when i’m making a deposit at the bank, and when i am laughing at a joke. we are not perfect. we are both headstrong and a little stubborn, and there are people who want nothing more to pick at our bad parts and tell us we are wrong for each other, that i am too overdramatic and that you are too indifferent. but i believe in you (and that says something, because i’ve always thought that if you believe in one thing, you’ll believe in everything.)
i wanted to write this so that one day soon, when we understand each other a little better, i will show you this and say:
look, you fool. i’ve loved you all along.
February 4th, 2010 2 notes
let the bad in.if he were to
dig a hole in
the shallows
of my chest,
cut back the
muscle folds
on a heart too
brittle to bend
and dust it
for prints,
he would
find it clean;
perhaps the
problem lies
somewhere
within.
