'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.


Whimsical Outings

A Classical

What drew me first of course, was the design
Tattooed on his temple, following the numerous imprinted jewels
He set as stone into his face
Punctuated by the girth of his rings, I had thought, “those must pack a punch.”
And even entertained to comment had he not been
Otherwise muted by his headphones
For no other reason than this tangible compulsion I felt
To ask instead, “May I listen to your headphones?”
Hoping you would not decline,
You ask why?
“On the off chance that you’re listening to classical, I might have judged you wrongly.”
Gamely thing to say, I applauded myself with the swell of wit
Diminishing as your retrieving figure stood at the corner
Of the intersection while I crossed the road
Out of the corner of my eye I saw as the bus rode past
You embracing another dark figure
Go figure, I thought, “that’s a classic.”
I finally said aloud

Tell me something.

 These weren’t the original words I wanted to say.

I watched a grown man failing the resistance to validate himself in the window reflection on the train ride home. Quick tug to his hair, shake of a head. Repeat. Touch to the bridge of the nose, quick sniff of the index. Repeat. Almost like he was superstitious. A prayer that his real life prominence lived up to the one in his mind.

This repetition realized my impatience for the world’s loose vanity. But I’ll get to that.

Sometimes life can feel rather unmitigated and similar to an ass.

That’s what I wanted to say.

Life comes at you in so many different ways, we owe ourselves as authors here online. I feel like I’m googling the same words over again as I come across this trend to ensure my sanity;

Allegory, cipher, maxim, parable, adage

When they say farm to table, I think of this precise trail of words – small digestive pieces of information that the modern viewer is capable of. And yet when I come across bloggers that showcase their life in these precise bubbles; when the shots are too candid, the select words too deliberate. When I can feel the loose coolness behind the scenes, like a grown man who can hardly stand himself on the train, I immediately opt out.

I don’t want you to sell me your life.

I want the odd blogger with their due aplomb, their black comedic humor, their observations.

Recalling that man in my mind, I wonder what it must feel like to be so sensitive to one’s appearance. Was his lack of self truant from our seemingly collective desire to know-all/be-all? I had it in my right mind to smack his hat, afloat on its brim as not ruin his hairstyle, right down and tell him to cut it out. That I can’t fathom how simultaneously as a female, I would have the fear of men walking in the dark despite myself, yet have the strength to not fidget seeing my own reflection.

People still often mistake me for older. I don’t remember when the internet was connected to your phone lines. I never had a walkman. I hardly remember an Ipod. So what panel decides that my person appears to supersede my otherwise inadequacy in world trivia?

I switched off the alternative rock and just let myself be swayed by the acoustic sounds of mellow indie/pop. It felt less like a front putting up a fight against the world. Suppose this is what one means to settle into your skin. Likely I overestimated these thoughts as one does walking alone at midnight. So instead I arrived home and put my effort into furthermore contemplating the ‘extra bit’ that dangles while my cats trot away from me.

Take yourself a little less seriously.

A Protagonist Voice

Let’s pretend that we are all characters in this larger than life fictitiously real novel (as if none of us has ever fantasied about that – I mean you’re here reading this random blog on the internet aren’t you? Thinking in the back of your mind that it’s some other piece of short fiction in another person’s very surreal-real made believe life. ) That’s besides the point though. No sense in driving you off any who.

So, assuming we are all characters in this bad humored play, there’s no denying that it appears there’s always an attached sense of novelty with this sort of idea. As if everything else we thus pour forth henceforth isn’t of the same humanely fault as it would have been judged for otherwise. It all ties together with a great deal of human ego I assure you. No other animal in the kingdom would bore their life away thinking their life would ultimately be summarized in say, 15 to 30 chapters and that’ll just be that.

I’ll provide an example, no worries, at the very expense of my coming off as a complete insensitive asshole. But then again, that’s besides the point. My mind’s eye as an audience is certainly going nowhere. How did you think we ended up here?


I’ve often read in those casually slippery real life novels about being in a situation near a person of death and how a true protagonist might react to it. That is to say – nobly. The most prominent presence I felt while visiting my grandmother in her senior home was just that – the feeling of death. A cloak of sweet sick yellow light that just as quickly waned from the glories of summer into the cold sweat above my lip. I turned my eye up to look at where my mom had settled herself in an odd fetal position on a pull out chair and thought how much this was like a mother’s womb of sorts. We were all half suffocated and tied down with lethargy, like the mother ship is calling us home. Of course, I averted my eye away before realizing in an odd clairvoyance that this was all there was to life. It was a ridiculous 28 degrees outside on a Saturday and here I was having my dress stick to my ass in a old people’s home. I felt, for lack of better words, just like a boiling pot of hate.

The accompaniment to this sort of lazy, die-away afternoon was my grandmother’s most incessant wordless mumbles. A constant oscillation of a desultory sort; where you only catch drifts and bits of it but it’s enough to let you know that you don’t want to know what she’s talking about. It’s a fantastic way to voice the prelude to death if someone had asked for it. I hadn’t asked for it.

In the drawn out time my grandmother had gone downstairs to fetch – now I forget what – my mother managed to have me promote the unfeeling tacitness of my general personality to a straight laced captain; I was so fed up. Why do people have to do that? I kept thinking to myself, Why try to lay over this sort of stand-still icky feeling with an obtuse enthusiasm about your goddamn store bought sushi. I just kept sipping at my other store bought Asian lemonade drink. I’m pretty sure I actually commented aloud about this vocal feature of her’s, to which she only pouted and said I ought to accept her for who she is – and that’s just who she is. And this is who I am. She might have gone on for another extensive 5 minutes, but I said, Okay, alright. So why are you still talking about it? That shut her up.

From the corner of my vision I saw her watch me. Or that might have just been another slick trick of the human mind – when have we not caught ourselves once imagining a trained eye on us to find nobody had really taken notice. It’s cruel to say, but the more pronounced my mother’s efforts became, the more I wanted to stick to my obstinate silence which I knew drove her to further pursuits of empty happiness. I just kept my scowl and she kept her semblance of a pout.

We were a mother and daughter sulking pathetically on a visit for grandma.

The strange thing is that I had never quite felt this way at my grandmother’s senior home. That statement may very well be laid over with the basic human adaptability to soften any past offences, but I will stick to it. I had never felt so sick to be in that room and felt so strongly in that I was surely wasting my life away. I still do presently feel a fondness for my grandmother. Perhaps this is just natural human ego trying to deface death. She’s plenty healthy though, so let’s not get onto any ominous ideas of jinxes and what not.

In the end it only turned out to be an hour and a half’s visit. It still rung in my head when my grandmother barely raised her voice to complain that we were leaving so soon and the reaction of bitter annoyance was immediate. We left, really, because I asked whether it was time for us to get ice cream. I am, I suppose, at the age of a young adult and I’ve really just outdone myself in this matter.

This is just one of those strange things where, as a writer, or whatever your virtue and vice might be, you have to cloak it in the chaos of a story you might have come across at one time or another. Place yourself in the very real yet theoretical shoes of lovable bastards from Nick Hornby’s poetic venture’s of the world’s finest blokes, to hateful and angry, abused young adults-still children penned by Wally Lamb that ultimately are not hateful themselves at all. Or of the simple day to day life of a certain colorless Japanese man given the name Tsukuru Tazaki whose very basic summary as a story wouldn’t account to much but you still happen to find yourself thinking back onto it and feeling gratified that it appeared so much sensitivity within the immediate rushing throngs of people in Tokyo.

It’s all just too much to take in and claim it to be your’s at times when you find yourself frowning and pouting about what to do for the rest of the day when your mother was only asking to be kind. I don’t know..I just don’t. Do whatever you want – why do you even ask? We do inconsolable things like scolding our mothers for dumping her rest-of-her-life on us by throwing us into the deep end about investments and shitty financial advisers that should have known better – all the while thinking dreamily in our heads about whether the slightly attractive young adviser we met today had been interested at all. At least the slightest graze of human moral reminds us that weren’t we supposed to be harboring and brewing over a senseless crush on a coworker because of an odd occasion of nice-sity?

I don’t know.. I just don’t. 

Sometimes it’s quite exhausting even pretending like you’re some fantastical character in a slightly hopeful and marginally above average novel. It’s more along the lines of slouching on your grandmother’s twin bed, knowing your mother must be thinking how she doesn’t know this child of her’s at all while not really thinking anything real nor concrete in your head – for a rarity – the only constant is the dreams of driving coast side and catching the sunshine spilling out of the trees in between your fingers. Just driving on and on, in a road that stretches, bends, ebbs, and pulls away into another corner. The yellow and white marking as your guideline.

No Soliciting Alcohol, Period.

Following up on my last post, for the rest of my life commencing from my very own mother and sister’s onslaught of offers last night, I will be battling (victoriously) the nay sayers to my no drinking rule. Since my most effective argument as of yet had been they were in fact soliciting illegally, I have since lost my edge as of 12am on May 14th.

Rather, I ended the evening just as I had wanted in my old grandmotherly ways – had myself a mean English Breakfast – paired with those pretentious brown sugar cubes that served just well as the puny metal teapot that screamed picturesuqe as I was putting down my white napkin beside it upon leaving. Ah, satisfaction.

That was only after the smart word battle with my sister’s boyfriend about how much a particular white wine of nonsense German name tasted like apple juice. Sour apple juice, I added. Just like you would get when you leave a carton of milk in the fridge for another month. But of course, it’s just like apple juice to the T I said, and of course there is no underlay coaxing for a lie, so therefore no need to try myself.

I smile sheepishly at this thought and think that I might just as well have been tipsy on the night. Or just that I had seen the flash of my future years with this scene as the opening credit, and only human stupidity would veil that ongoing life struggle with silly endorphin’s.

The rest of the evening was uneventful in comparison. Bland even. What else could come up to par with alcohol seducing of a no longer minor?

So as we toast to each other, my glass of half emptied water to their Old fashioned and that German wine starting with a G, continuing with a ‘euqch’ or something to that liking, prompting a pronunciation of someone right before they retch, we say happy birthday.

I did have a moment of indecision though. Right before they gave up – for the next 10 minutes in striking deals of my ‘first sip’ – whether I should just get rip roaring drunk and have actions speak for themselves. Now, having never been there, only my fondly inappropriate imagination could be my friend. It was comforting to run through movie ideals of the worse type. I could first start chattering uselessly and try to hit on guys like that main character did in “He’s just not that into you.” But hell, they were all ‘main characters’, beautiful ladies. All of ’em. So either I’m saying I’ll get cheated on, be the one cheating, or have cringing encounters with the opposite sex. I mean, I ought to know now. My roommate’s cat does prefer to sleep on her bed over mine. And only mine when she closes the bedroom door. And he is a male. A proper representation of the entire male world, I think. Point taken. I might just pout on the profoundness of this realization, enough to induce a slew of lonesome a-few-years-too-early spinster tears that would bring about the confession of the tattoo I had just gotten during the day. Oh…no, don’t you mind the gooped up blood drying on the folded and taped paper at the bottom of my thigh. It don’t hurt so bad. Naw. And somehow along these lines, I began to become old schooled Texas. Or Mexican. Huh. Probably something ridiculous American, I’ll give you that much.

Instead, I put up with the damn camera flash until my eyes blinded and watered into what probably reflected to be Elephant eyes behind my glasses. Except I don’t have old people glasses – what, bifocals? – so they were probably just sad drowning Asian eyes underneath normally reflected eye glasses.

And I still wouldn’t understand the concept. $9 for some petite tall glass drink that’s probably less than 3 ounces altogether if you would just take out those exasperating bubbles. Compared to my luxurious tea? $3? And I’m the one accused of rigidity.


So happy 19th to myself.

download_20150511_124249This was Mother’s Day. Don’t mistake it. But if you were to be caught thinking my mother there in the middle was me, then at least you made someone deliriously happy. I won’t sing praises on how she undulated stretching out her hand to the gentlemanly main waiter that night, nor how she danced down the street to our car. I think my birthday dinner speaks enough for no alcohol.


There’s something about sitting at a cafe after hours. It may be brightly lit or dimly luminescent, you can make it your own. I could imagine a crowded city coffee shop or just between you and I, a bluntly sparse residential space that might crave in its empty seats the warmth and bustle of human murmurs, but the chairs and tables seem to speak on their own all the same.

They tell you stories of people that have been there before. Ghosts of your own imagination that appear to be just one proper touch away to bring it about into sharpness when you look across the room to a certain couch. And when its dark outside on a windy evening, the apparently singular street lamp appear to illuminate the thin showers only for your sake to tell you that time is indeed passing by. With your hands cupped around your cooling tea, your eye sight dims and presses dryly against your pupil. It’s a sleepy, nonchalant thing. Against your companion you don’t really know anymore what you’re saying, so you pull words out of the window pane from what you can catch of its history and create your own. Just like that an hour and a half has gone by and the dinner in your stomach has settled. The crinkles of your clothes are no doubt pressed neatly against yourself to impress on your skin, just atop the thin layer of a day’s worth of the same count of time passing by in a different manner. A different matter altogether.

Coffee shops and lethargy does that. Sipping milk and tea with the scarcity of a cat lapping water out of its dish in the summer. Sweet, sweet laughter that hides the discontentment for the night has come to an end. So the parade packed up its bags and headed home, out the door where the European coffee shop owner carrying scars of crinkles in the canvas of his face like an old retro Mexican movie bowed slightly to bid you good night. Adieu. Thank you. You almost hear senorita, but I think that was just the coffee shop speaking again.

Lurid Questions

IMG_20150418_184413~2Sometimes I would like to know just what am I feeling so anxious for; like you are waiting for something, like you are missing out on so much. It’s terrifying really, because it happens to you during those slow lethargic hours when your limbs are phantom and your mind is lulled. You eyes might be quick enough to catch the brief glimpse of a life time, but you find your brain has been too fried to carry out the thought process.

And in this moment you might feel slightly disconnected from the world, where each velvet stroke of sunlight becomes a form of cosmic star burst and you know it no longer ties to this certain plain of reality you stand on. It must be the early spring dusk, it must be the fairy dust in the air that causes this cathartic effect upon your eyes. The intensity in which you recognize the world we live in, it is a lonely beautiful trait you wish to share with someone who hasn’t quite come along yet, and you begin to doubt if they ever will. And with each step you take it’s only that you have been stepping backwards into the tepee of our universe’s loophole, and each seared vision is the way the world leaks into our living room door with an open mat policy.

I am humbled, beckoned by this call for duty, catapulted only in stark realization several hours later when the lights have gone out and the night soothes your senses in maternal fatigue. I cannot even describe for you the chronicles of this event. It’s as if one has died to see the tunnel of light and came back to life. You are stunned and oddly mistaken to think to speak of this tongue where one might reckon it to be a siren’s call. It will tell you if you listen that you should known we have been here many times before. The dissonance in your mind will surely be telling. Best to perceive it with blurred vision and try not so hard to discover the many secrets of this world. The lucidity would be offensive otherwise.



We’re All Headed For Home

Sometimes when you have too much time on your hands, spending your day(s) at home, your head gets into pondering too much deep shit for your own good.

I vaguely remember asking myself, “What if we were all headed into the same direction at life, ultimately.” Like at a convergent point, that’s where we’d all meet.

It wasn’t so much a question relating to death as it was to the brink of our cognitive sanity. People discuss all sorts of things over the blogosphere. Stupid things. Funny stupid things. Stupid things that sometimes need a kick in the ass to be funny. All in all, a lot of people out there struggle with something I have always taken an interest in since middle school. Depression.

Sure, there are tons of definitions out there. You can string together a cohesive line of literary term to box together this state of mind. To me though, it appears depression happens in such a way where you’re slowly slipping, and it all happens in your head. You may appear perfectly normal, but it’s happening. It starts with the supposed ‘normal’ syndromes. You always feel lethargic You’re more isolated. You become mechanical in your day to day life. Wherever you’re slipping to is something I would challenge those wild scientists out there to define for me. Though there have been impressive statements out there allowing us a peek into the mind of madness, I think without having been medically diagnosed, I am playing with something very close, or at least similar.

Right now, it feels like a dark waterfall. Maybe it’s in a cave somewhere, with no lights. And the place smells strong of something earthy, a sort of rock or another. Nothing expensive, but it fills up your senses like too much chlorine does at the public pool. It sounds like a waterfall. The sounds are somewhat comforting to know that it could be a beautiful sight, only you can’t peer further than the edge of the drop. It’s dark at the deep end. I imagine it would be cold, very very cold.

It reminds me of when I used to swim with my cousins at our aunt’s pool. We were so terrified of the 8ft ‘deep end’, where the water became a deep dark blue. You couldn’t see your toes there, and that scared us.

Anyway, this whole waterfall idea I thought of while doing my dishes. Moments of clarity happen in strange ways. They come in the same train that a smart sentence might come to. Somewhere in my head floated the thought, “Well, perhaps we have to intentionally drift off. You have to fall off the side and become the worse version of yourself. Now whether you get any better from there, or whether that’s a sort of salvation… I can’t answer that. Of course, it was a conversation in my head. It’s not that weird until you put it into words aloud.

Now I’m sitting in my bed. Re-reading what I just wrote, I think along the lines of over medication in our world. So many little things that could be easily explained, but somehow so much more soothed with just the name of something that sounds vaguely terrible without the consequences. I sure hope I’m not one of them, thinking to myself at times whether or not I may actually turn out to be bi-polar. Just food for thought when I recall how fragile my emotions can be. How one can burst into tears that you never even knew were dwelling. Or how amazingly one can put up a front for show when the pressure of obligation hits you just the right way, without cracking the code to your mental skull. Maybe I’m just perfectly ‘normal’ in this world.

I wonder how many people out there search up all they can without professional help on this subject and go over a mental check list. The con’s probably never being severe enough for them to go enlist for help. Not enough conviction, I think. For those that went as a pre-emptive strike, I wonder if those same professionals were made so immune to the way the faint of heart visit for for such trivia, that they are conditioned to unknowingly scoff at the sight of someone so apparently normal turning in questions of their sanity.

How would that feel?

Maybe that fear is the most imminent obstacle beyond all other doubts. The deep end can go where it belongs in the face of such terror, such humiliation; Right up your deep end.

After all these years of researching, reading and watching documentaries and productions made under the central idea of our psychological state. Even tampering with it in my own mind. Maybe it’s the author’s imagination. A creative soul can be called either blessed or just wickedly cursed. God, if I was ever that creative.

I remain neither. In cryo. Suspended. It’s like a bad dream; I’m told there are only two ways for you to wake up in real life – I forgot the first, but the second is to feel the sensation of falling. I am floating above the deep end in an impossible situation. I cannot tell whether that body, the very one that looks like me, is under my control. From this mental perspective, I can pan in onto the face, where my eyelids may or may not be rocking back and forth, I cannot decide, because if they were, that means I’m dreaming. Am I? I do not know whether or not I will turn over, and if it does, I somehow know for sure that the current impossible suspension will be dropped. I will fall.

Then what?

Unclasped : Self Composed Comatose

“Up to date, I do not envy the birds. For while dumb beasts like you and I can admire the lurid beauty of the sky, they are but a piece, blinded from the inside, this mantle of a work of art.” 

It’s a weird thing when you become more intellectually aware of your sexuality. This is something I became recently conscious of. One of those things where you look down and realized, oh right, I’m a mammal. But on some levels, it’s more in depth than that, and hopefully much more romantic as well.

Kidding aside, maybe it’s the lack of grounding in our obnoxious North American discussions, but questions arose surrounding my role in perpetuating the way a modern screen can offer so much leeway for absolute bullshit in the fields of sexual release. In hopeful terms, we otherwise referred to the field as romance, back in the days when people actually spoke to each other and if dared to, used the precise pick up lines they do today. I recently read a public comment stating that one could say anything, anything at all and offend somebody in our Western culture, as it will be most absurdly taken in retort to attack racism, sexism, ageism, degradation etc. Truer words have not been said. On that note, I wondered to myself as the posting was regarding the way our current generation sort of folds on top of itself in ridicule of the very same crowd leering after each other on social media exchanges, should I be in accusation of integrating this stigma?

While a typical stranger can be told off as harassment in their sexual advances over text message, I asked myself what of those mutually consented exchanges ? What about the honesty and trust in pushing buttons and feeling out boundaries in a new relationship? An area I did not necessarily care to tread too deeply into, but had a fair share of in the least. It seemed so emotionally disconcerting how quickly one became removed after exposure to the presence of a trending stupidity in explicit expressionism. Its as if, the arguably most blessed continent in the world could not exercise its rights to its inner asshole enough.

I no longer understand the behind-the-scenes gestures that may provoke the obscenity that is made to eclipse for the most part, how our culture decidedly chose to speak out in the freedom of their sexuality. There is simply no more taboo, apart from personal discretion, of any terribly disturbed coupling that could take place today. While I may bravo the gals that stand their ground in the face of constant direct advances, I find a part of myself doubling back on the true intentions of why we put ourselves out there in the first place. Why display ourselves and write a short bio to try and encompass something so much more, to state even that the females (in most cases) are not looking for a casual encounter, in presumably one of the most casually taken places for mixed matches.

For how much of this influence actually took root in my mind, I battle with constantly. I mean to say that I know perfectly respectable women and men alike who have taken the former route and I say to myself well, “wouldn’t it all be so much easier?” For sure, its akin to casting a wide net and just seeing whether or not you still have the game, even if there was no intention to bite the bait thereafter. Psychologically speaking, perhaps it has more to do with an ego boost and self optimism to know that you’re still desirable. At this point, and I do hope this applies to beyond myself, I wonder what are the percentages of people, and once again I feel this applies to females (in my experience) that would actually translate the above ego boost to a physical connection in which they would feel just as sexually liberated. For me, there’s been a huge disconnect. That supposed lineage to gathering your arms for when you will need them showed to be only a tangent from the full circle you were looking to discover. Not in the least fulfilling at all.


From this remark, I started taking time in front of the mirror to simply examine my bare body. There’s nothing flattering under bathroom fluorescent lights so I ask myself, “Do I like what I see?” – the way the lines of the female body sensually glide into each other; how the eye naturally follows the lines from the arch of our back to how the shadow of the pelvic bones beautifully compliments the subsiding abdomen, where further upwards the soft fall of my breasts crave out their own share towards the truest form of femininity, and above them the deep indentation at the collarbones nestle with ease; it always reminds me of a sharp intake of breathe, like it can’t handle the image it’s faced with. Maybe its another placebo ego boost, but one that is slowly imprinting its genuine acceptance on the physical being. I’ve started to like it.

For one, you might actually be able to compatibly fit the image of yourself into a sexual fantasy. Not everything unfolds like porn after all, but I wouldn’t be on any level of disappointment.


Now when I walk out on to the street, just sitting at a coffee shop or exiting a doorway onto a busy downtown sidewalk, I was taken as of recent to the perhaps illusion that I was missing out on so much potential. Like the other day having a tall gangly gentleman interrupt my line to the mall entrance, “sorry” he said, and it was a shy smile he gave despite his casually reserved appearance. A few minutes later I found the both of us passing each other on the street, our respective umbrellas bobbing along under the Vancouver rain. If he did perchance saw me and gave that same shy smile to himself, would I spark enough of an interest for a conversation? What if just one party had enough guts to do something about that devil we call our inner flirt – a sorely underrated lost art that should be reassessed with no particular invitation, but just as a simple engagement. Treat it like foreplay. Stimuli to our natural nerves, above the hustle and bustle of day to day life. I walk away in my long fall coat and my knee high boots, and I simply dare someone to approach me. I think it would shock people in how naive my reaction may be, in contrast to how sophisticated they may have originally gauged my impression. Reading through the many real life scenarios of current men and women bypassing each other in strings of morbidly funny and sadly disengaging conversations over text messages and internet exchanges, I can’t help dreaming otherwise.

A smart remark. A grounded sense of self. A wicked smile, a softness to your eyes, or whichever your most striking feature may be. Give me a hard time. Laugh. Have the best sex of your life because now you’re only starting to see that the person you’re holding in your arm represents in their own way a whole universe. Every star and galaxy in the sky – there are some dark spaces in between those overlooked brilliance of pure cosmic energy – a supernova does indeed happen. Then of course that energy is fed off, taken apart, once again among vast uncharted spaces. And that’s how sex and our individual sexuality should be, if you wouldn’t mind taking my words for it.

The Weekends.

The room smells like sex – musty , strong, odorous, and muffling. But no such act took place, as I am the only resident here. Still, it is something I never took note of until I had stepped outside and came back in. There is no sex after all.

Instead I find that recently I have been very conscientiously listening to our fellow tenant-neighbor’s continuous arguments. I never hear the other woman say much in defense, or if she bothers at all, but for the sole voice that carries through the distance, it sounds like this,

“I hate you. You have ruined me. That man told you, and you never told me anything…you knew…the truck. You never tell me.”

You see what I mean? Fascinating ain’t it?

I recognize it is rather morbid to be so grotesquely inclined, but I can’t help myself. I try to refocus on the million and one things that goes through my mind, of which all ultimately accumulates to nothing when I try to put it into words. Puddy. At one point I go off the deep end again and imagine what it would be like to put a bullet through my temple. I’d imagine my body slumping against the wall immediately afterwards, slowly, the gravity pulls me atop my folded leg on the dining chair. Eventually the mass of atom will topple over, stay for the while, and I suppose that’s when somebody will come to realize the situation. As far as my imagination was concerned, it could be when the blood have dried on the wall. Crusted. Maybe.

The scariest part is that in my imagination it ended all too quickly. My life that is. Not as if that’s an unforeseen thing in such a situation. But still, too quickly is too quickly to wrap up and close up the wormhole of one’s life.

“I am here right now, with nothing to do, because I have no friends, because you took them away from me. You and your boyfriend…I hate you.”

I can’t say that I have never thought of sex as less than gratifying, but in that moment I fully came to the recognition of how visually ugly it can be. I imagined a scuffled middle-aged woman with silver lined hair, a weathered face bespoken of a true roofer. An outside job.

The raspy voice. The weed. The slight displaced accent – a lisp? The upstanding baby hairs. Those fray ends, like an unbecoming halo around the face…

“You are selfish. You are ignorant, and selfish and unapologetic…I can’t stand you right now. I want you out.”


I become fully attentive to their distress. I think I start to realize why I am so irrevocably attracted to their disaster.

“I can’t stand you right now. Can you hear me? I-don’t-want-you-here.

I am waiting for the break. The break off. Heightened senses, when did the disquieting surreptitious tingling of my spine get raised in anticipation? When will the twisted desire come to fruition, be satisfied?

It’s because they – or that prominent voice – is doing something I will never be able to do but want to. If I were to release my tension in such a way, my voice would escalate to phenomenal scales. Like wadding through muddy water with Hades and the pool of souls. Such scantily mapped grey area and they all grasp at you so feverishly…Too full in reminder of an unrecognized child; dulled edges.

But how this woman contains her voice. A warbling drunk alcoholic. They are the words of abandonment. They are brutal. It never wavers too far from its original tonality – dark, rusty, grey…

Something old from 2 months ago. Interesting how words still speak after they have been laid down. It’s like death is nonexistent.

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Tigers not daughters

celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

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bluebird of bitterness

The opinions expressed are those of the author. You go get your own opinions.

Ned's Blog

Humor at the Speed of Life

Bad Cat Chris

The Baddest Cat You'll Ever Love