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

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.