unfaithful

I am wearing a jacket.

It is heavy, and it is a boy's. And it's keeping me very warm on this rainy, cold day, the only way that a boy's jacket can.

It smells faintly of cigarettes, dried wood, cologne, and a tint of dry sweat.

All the good boy smells.


This jacket I'm wearing, belongs to a boy who is not my boyfriend.

and the smells I'm smelling on this jacket, are making me outrageously horny.
Like, fantasize, arouse yourself, and masturbate kind of horny.


and I'm just wondering:

Does getting off on a different boy's smell constitute as cheating?

you have stinky feet

There are subtle changes in the ways our relationship unfolds each day. Not bad, just different. Like when we first started sleeping together, drifting into dreams holding each other’s hands. I’d wake up, and find our hands still clamped together, in the white-knuckled anxious way of children clutching balloon strings. Now when I wake up at night, your arm is slung over my body, my leg resting on top of yours. Your form beside me is a familiar warmth, one that I’ve come to expect. To need.
After nightmares I wake up, roll over, and burry my head in the nook of your chest, (the one where your shoulder meets your neck and it’s the perfect size to rest my forehead on) and wait for you to subconsciously reach around my back, pulling me in closer. It’s a simple exchange that our bodies make, one of a mutual closeness. While I’m drifting off to sleep, I absently wonder if my brain signals can jump from my neuro-receptors to yours

If You Ever Went Away...

You would forever ruin the following things for me:
Walking at night
Bike rides
Drums
Music in general
Monkeys
France
Ice cream
Movies
Dreams
Any form of snuggling. Ever
Cooking dinner
Jazz
Lil’ wayne
Blond hair
Blue eyes
“Fierce”
Coffee
Tattoos on biceps
Mini golfing

I am an insomniac

Dear Stephenie Meyer,

I hate you. I loath you. You insult the whole field of literature merely by existing.

I hate you because I am an insomniac. My insomnia is in no way related to you, but our only connection (thus my resulting hatred for you) resulted from my inability to go to sleep. Therefore it is your fault I am awake.

I hate you because my sweet, thoughtful grandmother purchased ALL of your books, and for Christmas gave them to me.

I hate you because I have spent nearly seven consecutive hours reading said books, and have consequentially missed two meals and an important phone call.

I hate you because reading your books has left me with the sensation of eating a whole pie, in one sitting, by myself. And resulting from this I have an insuperable urge to vomit. And shower.

I hate you because you spell your name with an "e" instead of an "a".

I hate you because you have produced four of the most poorly written, anti-feminist, and abusive relationship enabling books of the century, possibly of all time.

And you win the award for most unnecessary and excessive use of adjectives of all time (page 71, paper back edition). And on several accounts, you failed to identify the pronoun for about 3 1/2 pages.

I hate you because I could eat alphabet soup and shit out a better book than the ones you have produced.

For all of these reasons I hate you, but the biggest reason I harbor such unresolvable ill-will towards you, Stephenie Meyer, is because your literary vomit has awarded you roughly millions of dollars, and for all my anti-materialistic sentiment, I am really fucking broke.

... the story of my life ladies and gentlemen

My penny pinching Jew of a mother explains to me in increasingly loud and irritated tones that by not raising the thermostat above 67 degrees we are saving incalculable amounts of money.

This is of little relief to my freezing and currently feeling-less phalanges.
As a direct result of this I sulk to the basement, dig around in a sawdust covered, black mould filled crawlspace and dig up an electric area heater.

I crank it to high and go to sleep.
In an ironic twist of events, I wake up covered in about four quarts of my own sweat and the thermostat now tells me that it is eighty degrees in my room.

I'm going to write the makers of this area heater a strongly worded letter of gratitude and praise for engineering such a superb piece of machinery.

It is Fucking Cold

You're playing "Nostalgia" in a cafe in a dodge part of town. It's the coldest it's been all winter, and that fact seems to amplify how dark it is tonight. The cafe is filled with the usual: an old, greying man, reliving his own jazz memories, several middle aged women, commending themselves on being cultured and musically intellectual (a direct result of listening to live jazz), and elderly man escaping the frigid night and possibly a vacant lonely house; a reminder of the family that left him. And me. Your Girlfriend (I feel like that should be capitalized). Devotedly attending another musical event at which the actual level of your musical prowess will escape me. All I'm aware of is that the music you make is beautiful, and inspires me. And that I love you (seemingly unconditionally).
That, and the look on your face when you're playing is the same one you have when we make love. It's a totally new and unexplored level of jealousy when your envy is directed at a drum set.
Regardless, this cafe, surrounded by an otherwise dark and unconcerned world lit only by headlights bouncing off ice, is my bright and warm fixed point in the universe; a warm place of light pulsating with the sound of jazz, and kept in tempo by the steady rhythm of the drummer whom I love.

Did perpetual happiness in the Garden of Eden maybe get so boring that eating the apple was justified?

I feel like humans are not totally different than bears in the winter. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that we are not different than squirrels, or some other small, hibernating rodent. Perhaps the most honest thing to say would be I am not very different from a hibernating rodent. In the summer and spring I am a social animal, extroverted if I may. My internal balance of happiness is totally dependent on the frequency and quality of interpersonal contact. Despite this totally universal and basic need for social interaction, come late fall/wintertime, I get upset and positively irate if I have to see more than two different people a day and am also expected to act cordially among them.

Instead during these colder seasons, I find myself turning the proverbial eye inward and am much happier to observe and reflect rather than participate and experience. And I also notice that I have no middle ground. I'm either 100% engaged in my social relationships or I'm a recluse.

To this observation I also have a theory: F. Scott Fitzgerald (my personal hero and an author to whose level I aspire) said that a writer is not a person who writes of many people, but many people whose thoughts and reactions are described through the life and reactions of one person. I am immediately drawn to and repulsed by this statement (perhaps further proving his point?). It appeals to me because who wouldn't want a personality so multi-faceted? It vexes me because the one thing I really pride myself on is being able to maintain a level of artistic intelligence while maintaining a certain soundness of mind.

But inevitably I must concede. I feel as though I have hundreds of contradicting personalities, each contending strongly for spotlight via my pen. That being said, let me be clear. I am not, nor have I ever shown any clinically definable characteristics of schizophrenia. Or any form of mental disorder. With the possible exception of ADD. But let's be honest. That's obviously a bureaucratic term to be given to and inevitably treated in people who in reality are just living in a world that they are so devastatingly bored and suppressed by.