Owning a bird is such a dick move. Don’t get mad, my dream is to have a ton of hawks resting on my arms so I can pickup babes at the mall so I’m not trying to be super judgmental or anything. I’m consistently a hypocrite so bird people, still like me. But like, birds fly. That is what they do. If birds weren’t able to fly, they’d be trash animals. I’m cool with penguins (they are birds, right? they are not some weird type of manatee?) I’m cool with penguins and other birds that can’t fly. But if I had to deal with blue jays strutting around all day, I’d be heated. They’d be no different than squirrels except with beaks and stupid, unnecessary hands.
Birds only exist because they get to have fun sky adventures and watching them fly gives hope to us all that maybe, in our own less cool metaphorical way, we can fly too. So why take that animal and put him in a cage and feed him bits of small carrots? THERE’S A GOOD CHANCE BIRDS MIGHT BE BORED BY ALL OF THAT. And what does the owner get out of this? Less carrots? Motherly love? He just wants a nest again.
(Talking birds is a whole different story. Hearing a bird say “Sup?” is on my bucket list)
Travel 500 miles to see her. Maybe 5000. I don’t know distances. You travel halfway across the country to see her. It turns out that people in coach don’t get free drinks. You spent all of your airplane cash on Starburst and magazines and cigarettes that you won’t be able to smoke for another 8 hours. You thank the stewardess for the watery ginger ale but she keeps walking.
The plane lands at 11. The airport is desolate. All the shops and restaurants are closed and you begin to understand that you are now very far away. You see her and you meet her and you’re happy and she’s perfect but you can’t connect this airport with real life. It could be the jet lag or maybe the Dramamine you abused but it’s taking its toll. This does not feel real. You can barely remember getting your luggage but you’re already wheeling it out to her car.
You tell her you need to sleep and that you promise to be energetic the next morning. You wake up at 12. Still tired. Still confused. You never get an appetite and beer is making you too full to get drunk. You meet her people but you instantly forget all their names and you forget to make eye contact and then you forget to listen to their stories. Eventually, they only talk amongst themselves and you spend 6 minutes trying to find out the name of the bird in Aladdin on your phone so you can feel less pitiful.
The time passes far too quickly and you can’t believe you’re already in the car heading back to the airport. You see this unfamiliar landscape for the first time. Hills made of dust. It finally hits you that this trip was real and it was wasted by fatigue and ambivalence. You spent more money than you could afford and there are only so many hours left. She is sitting next to you but soon you’ll be alone again. Soon you’ll be back on a plane. Soon you’ll be home again.
You want to take the days back. You want to meet her again at the airport. You would change it all if you could but she doesn’t cry as she hugs you to leave for work and you weep for two hours before eating a pancake brunch at a motel. You realize on the plane that no one took pictures and the only souvenir you’re bringing home is a pack of cigarettes with a different state tax stamp on the bottom. For weeks after, you replace the cellophane on new cigarettes with the one from the trip; a whack, whack romantic gesture. You know you’ll never go back. You know the whole relationship will collapse in a matter of days or weeks. Her voice was colder and you will never have that kind of money again.
The plane lands and you’re in Boston again. A friend picks you up and updates you on the things you’ve missed but nothing resonates. There are few cars on I-93. This does not feel real.
a portrait of May
I lost all my friends
defending Ke$ha’s honor
she’s just trying to make people happy
she said once
I told them
I told them
as they wandered away
I’m candysick more in my mid twenties
than when I was 12
and I look half drowned
and my heart hurts now when I smoke
which is new
so I go back to bed and to sleep
and I watched the first half of Krull at 4 pm
last Wednesday but that’s all I did
for a week
This girl from Western Civ
dies in my dreams
3 rows in front of me
1 to the right
we never spoke
she never looked back
every night she gets hit by a train
and I wake up tired
like I never really slept
and my view gets narrower
and I understand less
and I wake up tired
and my view gets narrower
like I never really slept
and I wake up tired
like I never really slept at all
Yesterday, I stumbled upon Amy’s Baking Company’s Facebook page without really knowing what it was about. There was just a ton of statuses in all caps yelling and flipping out about yelp and reddit and the wrath of god and it was tremendous. When I found out it was because of an episode of Kitchen Nightmares, I was ecstatic and when I found out it was 45 minutes long and it was on Fox OnDemand, I sprinted downstairs to watch it.
It was all my hopes and dreams come true. Nothing they did made any sense. The opening minutes consisted of a montage of the couple kicking people out of their restaurant and pushing customers. It was rad as fuck. Amy, the woman running the bakery, tells Gordon Ramsay that she had 3 kids but wait, her three kids are cats and before Ramsay can even process this, Amy starts meowing and drinking out of a decorated cat cup.
I’ve been bummed out ever since.
I always thought Ramsay was the meanest, scariest dude but he came across as genuinely likable. He wanted to help and seem genuinely concerned about the way the staff was treated. But Fox is pimping out bonus footage while Amy is having a colossal breakdown in real life and thousands of people are attacking her and the line of human decency has been dashed into the wind.
Amy was childish and delusional and horrible to her employees and to her customers an shouldn’t own a restaurant at all but is it really okay to drag her to the top of a pyramid and cut her head off for the sake of pleasing an audience and prolonging the longevity of cookery programs? I hope not. TV’s immersion with the internet has always been annoying. The Governor from The Walking Dead has no business being on Twitter. WWE lets fan vote on what matches they want to see on RAW via phone app but is it a good idea? The match-ups aren’t significant and the outcome is probably the same so the fan’s ability to interact becomes illusionary at best. Seeing entitled rich people with untreated personality disorders get taken down on TV is satisfying but when you can find their Facebook profiles and their houses on Google Maps, maybe it’s time for reality to cut back on their exploitation of villains.
(edit: so the governor doesn’t have a twitter page but AMC probably thought about doing it and you get my point anyways)
I haven’t finished my BA in English yet and my big novel might never get published so take this all in stride
I usually start with a sentence or two that I repeat in my head. It happens when I’m waiting in line or in the shower or mowing the lawn. If I can remember it later, I use it. It filters out the trash and gives you ownership. You can defend yourself better. You can argue that you’re not ripping off Bukowski and even if it’s similar, he could never write this. You have to be defensive. Poetry is gay and there is no future in writing and nobody has any reason to read your profound thoughts or your cat fiction so you have to be defensive because they are all wrong.
I think beginnings are a bad place to start writing. I write around the two sentences as an anchor instead of focusing on writing straight through. When it comes to physically writing, it’s all mind alteration. Sometimes I smoke pot or I drink. But sometimes coffee helps. Sometimes, I’m naturally at the place I need to be. It all depends on where my head’s at. So I don’t think drugs make you a better writer and I no longer heckle writers who use typewriters or sip scotch because I get it. You need to feel like a writer to be able to write. It all comes with time. The frequency you need to create. I got my flow at 22. At 18, I was writing garbage horror short stories and screenplays about how funny me and my two friends are. You just need to jump around until you find what you’re good at. Painters should learn the saxophone and poets should read about quantum mechanics. Forget that straight lines exist.
Also, thanks a lot. I’ll try to keep it coming the best that I can.
I have to turn in an 8 page paper by 5 today and I barely have the energy to shower (still probably won’t do that) so if you wanna send me krazy kool messages to distract me from myself and my rapidly disintegrating academic career, I’d be grateful.
So I have a ton of great ideas. I can’t think of any examples at the moment which is a bad sign but trust me ideas be flowing up in here. I came up with an app last night at 4 am while sulking over my crumbling life and it’s gonna change the world and save lives. (the depression backstory isn’t really relevant, just reemphasizing how sad i am all the time)
A yelp for locating various spooks and creeps and scares.
Say you’re a lady and you just moved into town or maybe you’re a guy that’s too afraid to leave your house. You dread darkness. You fear the unknown. NOT A PROBLEM ANYMORE, YOU GUYS. Ghoulyelp! is a GPS tracker that alerts you to all the dangers and haunts in your neighborhood. You can walk down the street fearlessly knowing that yep, that’s the house that’s filled to the brim with spiders. Yep, that’s where the guy with knife fingers lives. Oh creeps hang out under that bridge over there? Let me just avoid that forever. You don’t even have to worry about quicksand anymore. Ghoulyelp! has you covered.
I don’t know how to look at stars
or how to talk to god
I’m only ever talking to myself
I look up and say okay
and there’s no time for faraway things
I’ll be 25 in 3 weeks
and I feel I missed something crucial
lost in blunts and hamburgers
reduced to becoming lesser and lesser
and more tired
until my limbs fall off
or I don’t wake up
because I’m shitty at being a human
I read her note
after she left
and it could’ve been love
not just misery shrouded in sex
but I wasn’t paying attention
and I drank all her Dr Pepper
and forgot to buy flowers
and I still steal people’s fries
and sleep well into the day
Either the one where she goes skiing or the one where she goes to jail. I don’t know. Something about the theme song just pumps me up. I’d probably use it as my entrance theme if I ever became a boxer. I boxed in high school but I got punched in the face, hard, a bunch of times so I bounced. It’s a good theme song.
I just wanna hang out in Cabot Cove and eat lobsters with elderly police officers and talk about flowers and crime. It seems like such a rad life. These are all my Murder, She Wrote opinions. Sorry everybody.