Block It.

Feeling very much like this for the past few weeks.

What, Where, Who Am I?

I'm getting old. Not the sexy, wise cougar old. The senile, drooling babbling kind of old. For a week I've been patiently observing my rapid deterioration and for a week I have slumped into a deeper and deeper state of depression and hopelessness. No! Nay! Don't try and stop this spiraling crazy (yes, I am referring to myself), just let it happen.

So Close to Twenty Followers... Sad.

No, my title has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm writing about today. I've decided my blog is going to rebel against sanity and all that is proper and decent. Nay, I will not be controlled by the "norm." Instead I will rave on incoherently, indefinitely, ridiculously. Actually, I have been mulling over a pretty serious topic of interest that has not only infiltrated the hearts and minds of the country but also irritates the hell out of people and can be extremely offensive. It's a question you're asked whenever you purchase that loaf of bread and eggs and lunch meat. Or every time you pile tofu, flax seed and oatmeal into your shopping cart. You know the question well, "Paper or plastic?" Nowadays that is almost like punching someone square on in the mouth. WHAT DID YOU ASK ME?! PAPER OR WHAT?! I HAVE MY OWN BAG THANK YOU. Ah, yes. The people who not only use age old rags fashioned into bags in order to avoid the blasphemous, sinful, just plain wrong option to take a plastic bag. Ok. Do not get me wrong. I LOVE MOTHER EARTH. I'm all for her flourishing forever and ever, living a long, healthy fulfilling life, BUT, I do have a problem with people who get incomprehensibly angry at people who don't use reusable bags and have an air of disgusting superiority that you cannot penetrate... without fists of fury. I'm really just mad at the people who are oblivious to class and don't see how this little privilege is just that- a privilege. Making blanket statements that smother logic and destroy my nerves. There's nothing wrong with being environmentally conscious. Hell I'm all for that shit. I love recycling. Upcycling is my new obsession, but let us not forget that it is a privilege. Sigh. Class. What a slippery slope. Man, I'm just a ball of sunshine today eh?

And to really drive it home... My new favorite song...



I'm out.

Race Riot

There's this whimsical, unrealistic illusion in society that race relations have magically disappeared and that everyone observes tact when speaking about their opinions on the subject. No. That no is emphatic with a touch of misery and disappointment. I realize that people are raised differently, exposed to different or not so different things and I don't hold that against anybody. You can't change where you grew up, however, I would hope that after 25+ years in the world there would be some kind of conversation with yourself about how to approach certain heated topics and situations. I would hope there would be some level of consideration when speaking so confidently about such a topic. Nay. There is nary a stutter when I hear off-hand comments carelessly spouted after two beers. I'm tired of it. I'm exhausted from all the excuses I formulate after speaking candidly with said people. I'm annoyed that people feel it's okay to say certain things in front of me assuming I won't mind or care. I'm tired of writing about these occasions so consider this the LAST POST I will write on the subject. My fingers are cramping over these keys, trying to get this shit out for the lasssttt timeeee. Alright, you and I both know that will not be the case, but at least for a while I will cease. No more. For a while. And now to cheer you up... my girl Ri Ri. Yes, it is ok that your jaw has hit the floor. I too am amazed at my seamless turnaround. All it takes is one video directed by Melina Matsoukas featuring Calvin Harris for me to drink the cool-aid. Man, I'm all up in it.



I'm out.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I've been asking myself this question for over 3 years now, "What makes me happy?" And depending on the time of day, the amount of food in my stomach, the weather, the company, the answer(s) change. The key is finding the constant. What constantly makes me happy regardless of outside, uncontrollable factors. I have come to the conclusion that not only does happiness lie within the beholder, but in all the important relationships that have manifested, sprang up, reigned down on me in the past, ones that I hope will form in the future and the ones that I cherish now. My happiness is also affected by what I do. For a long time I've been suppressing the obvious. Negating to tap into how I'm really feeling, I just kept ignoring my feelings of defeat and anxiety- mostly annoyance, now that I think of it. Everyone says you're suppose to hate your job. It's normalcy. And I used to agree. I used to accept the inevitable and struggle through my day praying that I would eventually become numb to the incessant insanity and dehumanizing task of folding clothes, tracking numbers, and pretending to care about something so trite and ultimately soul crushing. After a series of fortunate/unfortunate events I now realize what's important. Happiness. People. Life. And actually not loathing your job and everything it stands for. Life is on the up and up minus the awful down and down of the weekend.







I'm out.

Occupy Reality

After being deprived of a computer for I don't know how many months I have finally gotten hold of a machine long enough to update without feeling guilty, or worse- rushed. I've gone through a lot since the summer and I promise I won't bore you with the sad, gritty, head-scratching, exhausting, mildly amusing, gruesome,incredible stupid details. Recent events prevent me from speaking of frivolous summer follies and ridiculous regrets. You know what I'm talking about. Occupy Wall Street. The endless coverage, chatter, and arguments that have revolved around this... this thing that has grown into a massive, conflicting, contradicting, yet wholly beautiful collective of people- minus the disgusting, inexcusable behavior of law enforcement, of course, has leaked into so many conversations I've been having with people.

Here we have massive amounts of people gathered in front of, yep, none other than Urban Outfitters. They were marching down 6th Ave and apparently were attempting to lure the greeter to join them. I walked by wishing to sweet Jesus I was more impulsive and didn't need a job to survive.

I love all the people clinging to their UO bags as if they're protesting something entirely different. 'Cuz they are. They're like the anti-protesters, and I sadly am apart of they're putrid game. I know full well how dramatic I'm being. You shush.
FIGHT THE POWER.

This movement has been a chance to show the world that Americans are not as pathetically apathetic as everyone (including Americans) expected. However, there seems to be a slight problem with the fact that there is no single voice or reason behind the occupation. I personally like the idea of a fluid movement like this where ideas are constantly circulating , but to some it gives the impression of disorganization and whimsical idealism. I have no solution. I am merely talking about an issue I would like to know more about.
Many people I know are involved with OWS and I couldn't be prouder of them! For weeks now I have been trying to get down there and have failed at every attempt. I really have no excuse. It's actually getting kind of ridiculous at this point. I should give myself a date. I need some motivation, too, so if anyone feels so inclined to be my pushy, persistent OWS mate PLEASE lemme know!

Now I want to talk about how awesome my internship has been. So, as I have stated before I began working for this start up called Krrb and have fallen in love with the entire concept. Not only have I been learning massive amounts about social media, marketing and pr, but have been given opportunities to write. WHAT. SO GOOD. Anyway I'll stop talking about it now, but KNOW HOW AWESOME IT IS AND USE IT. It really is a breath of fresh air compared to the angry bowel of criagslist or the overwhelming sense of doom and disappointment associated with eBay or Amazon. OH! And we're teaming up with Film Biz Recycling and Jessi Arrington for a silent auction! COME. There will be $1 tacos from Oaxaca and FREE BEER from Brooklyn Brewery. Just $10 to RSVP! I'm super stoked about it. I've been blowing up every social media site I have about it. I'm sure I'm pissing people off ha and it's awesomeeeeeee!

Oh and yet another racist event has given me the willies. I can't go into detail, but the N-word was said in a kind of nonchalant way that almost made my eyebrows fall off and my brain leak out of my ears. You're very welcome for that beautiful delicious absolutely disgusting image. I am so completely naive to think talk like that nowadays is so uncommon. Obviously people are still stupid and will continue to be that way for oh EVER. It's just so disheartening when it's someone you were growing found of and looking forward to starting a friendship with. Sigh, the thought of amount of work/time that would be involved with de-stupifying (I made that up) this person is just plain nauseating.

Oh well...


I'm out.

You Have Got To Be Kidding Me

Over the past few days I have encountered numerous strange people and gone through some awkward occurrences. Let's list a few things that I have unfortunately experienced, greatly affecting my already jaded perception of reality:

1. This isn't so odd but by golly it's frustrating to see job posts with more misspellings than a dyslexic five year old's spelling test. If you don't know the difference between your and you're then why the hell should I?! And if I see one more scam job I think I might explode.

2. I was eating brunch and out of the corner of my eye I see this guy yapping away to himself with a haphazard, willy-nilly contraption on his back that had a rod that dangled a camera in front of his face. AWKWARD. I asked the friend I was with if this dude was crazy and he said no, he's just filming himself. I on the other hand am a little apprehensive to proclaim his sanity.

3. I had an interview at a place and was asked why I haven't worked in my field yet and thankfully before exploding with anger I calmly said I don't know instead of HAVE YOU BEEN LIVING IN THE SAME AMERICA I'VE BEEN LIVING IN?! YOU KNOW THAT THING CALLED THE ECONOMY?! IT's REALLY NOT DOING TO HOT WHICH IS CRAZILY ENOUGH HAVING AN ADVERSE AFFECT ON EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITIES!!! AHHHHHH!!! But I didn't say that. I should've, but I didn't.

4. There's this homeless guy that has set up shop near strand who I've been meaning to write about not because I think he's crazy or strange, but I have this weird admiration for him. Every time I see him he's reading something. Be it a novel, a newspaper, a magazine. He's always entranced by the words, ignoring the bustling world around him. He has a little, nonobtrusive piece of cardboard that politely asks to show some kindness and spare some change. I have a kind of disgusting, romanticized admiration for him, but I still haven't given him money yet. Errr....


If I remember more things I'll be sure to add them!







I'm out.

Fiction: part 2

She thought about it for a while. Weighing the pros and cons heavily. It felt like hours as she sat there wondering how she would explain checking herself in to an insitution to friends and family, who have no idea what she's been facing for months. She wondered how her mother would react. A simple woman with mild interest in her daughter's affairs and irresponsible with her own. She would probably encourage the break from society in hopes she would not have to deal with her daughter's detachment from reality herself. She would idly suggest a vacation or a nap. Laughing to herself, Cyrille dismissed the thoughts and decided to make the phone call. Looking at her phone thoughtfully she began to dial the numbers that would hopefully lead her to freedom and tranquility.
"New York State Psychiatric Institute. Beatrice speaking, how may I help you?" Her voice was warm and inviting. Cyrille almost hung up immediately but there was something in Beatrice's voice that made her stay on the line. She wondered if Beatrice was hired for that particular reason.
"Hi. I'm- uh..." She struggled to find words. This was the first time she spoke aloud to anyone about her ailments, "I have a problem. I would like to check myself in and was wondering what the procedure was?"
"Now, there is no reason to be nervous. I will gladly assist you. How are you feeling right now Miss-"
"Temple. Cyrille Temple."
"Yes, Miss Temple. How are you?"
"I feel absolutely insane." She blurted.
"Well, sweetie, where are you?"
"Home."
"I can send a vehicle to pick you up."
"Please." Cyrille was near tears. After exchanging information Cyrille hung up and began packing her belongings. Shortly after putting some jeans in a duffel bag she stopped. Everything seemed so futile. She would be wearing the same thing anyway and the though of changing outfits everyday made her nauseous. Clothing was a reflection of self and she had no idea who she was. A pair of jeans became a threat. A t-shirt was a mocking gathering of fabric and jewelry was diminutive, useless clutter. So she decided to sit and wait in the dark instead. Listening to the wind blow through buildings outside, wishing she felt as free as the air penetrating the city.



to be continued....

I'm out.

Fiction: part 1

She thinks about the decision she made. Mulling over the pros and cons as she sips her hot chocolate staring out her window onto the street. She smiles, realizing that this is what she wanted all along, accepting that this is what needs to be. The sweet, warm drink soothes her throat. After crying for days it is a welcoming sensation. Cars drive by noisily, honking their horns, the drivers yelling profanities. It's music to her ears, a melodious intermingling of mechanical voices and urban salutations. She looks back at the computer screen at listings wondering who wrote them and what the circumstances were that lead to particular job openings. That company lost their marketing manager to a drug habit and an existential crisis, or this company's art director left after realizing his passion for music and nonconformity. The world is constantly changing, a fluidity reminiscent of spilled milk flowing over counter tops and splashing onto the floor, spreading freely, thickly, without calculation, but with purpose. She shifts in her chair. Trying desperately to focus on her task at hand. She closes the classifieds window and opens the page she's been trying to avoid since she sat down. New York State Psychiatric Institute. She looks over the website with terror and contempt, but also understanding and longing. The voices haven't stopped in weeks and her sanity seems to be flickering on and off in her head like fireworks, a burst of clarity and then a slow fade into the unknown. For weeks she's tried to function like everything was okay, going to dinner, going to work, going out, but all with a pang of regret. Happiness was now a distant memory she thought she could recreate by ignoring her incomprehensible feelings and embracing the simplicity of complacency, but her quick-fix emotion betrayed her. Ignorance was most certainly not bliss. She clicked on Looking For Treatment, her hands shook as she scrolled through the information. Filling out the form for clinical studies, she prayed there would be one to fit her needs. She briefly thought about just calling the hospital and checking herself in without telling anyone...



to be continued...


I'm out.

SHARK WEEK

There are quite a few things that confuse me when it comes to hipster culture. This month one in particular has been circling my consciousness- SHARK WEEK. Is there some sort of Wes Anderson reference buried deep within the marketing that is reminiscent of a dog whistle that only hipsters can hear? Is the reference Life Aquatic? That would make sense. Or maybe some obscure philosopher made some hearty claims about how sharks represent nihilism and embodied cognition. Perhaps it was some ethereal novel that spoke about sharks in relation to societal deconstruction and ultimately eventual, universal compassion and concord. Shark week, your popularity has eluded me and trying to figure you out makes my head hurt. Sigh. I guess everyone's partiality for Shark Week probably comes from the fact that sharks are just plain bad ass and watching them tear through things is really fascinating. I mean Jaws. AmIright?!





I'm out.

I Think It's Time To

Mix it up.

^-^


I'm out.

Spokesperson

I'm not sure if I've ever written about this but I'm pretty sure I haven't. Last night I went out with some coworkers and awaited to hear comments I knew were brewing behind curious eyes. Bar settings seem to be a breeding ground for socially-charged conversation that is normally a little uncomfortable/awkward? The conversation got interesting when we started talking about guys, what type of guys we were into and other fun dating-related subject matter. When I tell people my "preference"it doesn't seem to be met with too much surprise, but it is met with unbridled assumption that I somehow hate myself or think I'm disconnected from my heritage, which is I assure you not the case. It's an understandable conclusion to draw, but it simply is not true. However, this was not what got under my skin. What really irritated me is the notion that every single black person is a spokesperson for their entire race. I was asked why a lot of gay black men prefer white men. Um. Ok. I have no idea. Number one I am not a gay black man, but even if I was there is no possible way for me to conceive the thoughts and actions of all gay black men no matter how smart or informed I thought I was. I honestly enjoy talking about race, but in a situation like this with a presumptuous (unintentional I know) leaning it's hard to have a desire to continue the discourse.

I had a conversation with one of my friends about how the world perceives me and my ongoing battle with my indifference towards the world's perception. I am me. I can be no one else and considering how short life is I don't want to be anyone else. It's too hard to conform when conforming means losing yourself. And I'm not saying by any means that I'm "different" or "better" in any way shape or form. All I'm saying is that I can be nothing else or more than who I am. It's devastating to realize that individuality is a privilege- a privilege denied to many, many people. My face is suppose to represent every African American person (not even just women apparently) without question or doubt. My utterances carry the weight of my entire race- my history, my ancestors, strangers, people I know, people I'll never meet, people who hate me, people who love me, etc. You get it. Imagine having THAT much pressure on yourself every day you present yourself to the world.

I forget not everyone took race/sociology classes in college and aren't aware of certain societal constructs, rules, stupid "normalcy" that we're taught oh so subtlety. So I am by no means mad at this person for asking me such a loaded question, more disheartened by the reality that most people see nothing wrong with asking questions like that in mixed company... or ever really.

And as a tribute to the late Amy Winehouse...

RIP girl.





I'm out.

Subway Social

Ok. Let's talk about it. Subway etiquette- rules that aren't written down anywhere, an unspeakable code with which to carry yourself on public transportation that should be inherently known, but is often ignored. Countless times I have seen people effectively ruin other people's days by choosing to exclude themselves from common decency. There are a few subway faux pas that really grind my gears. What are they you ask? Well, don't mind if i tell you...

Space Hog
Listen buddy, it's 7am, everyone is delirious and wondering why the hell they even got up for work at such an ungodly hour to get to some terrible job they hate. These people don't need you to make their lives any worse. You, leaning on the subway pole so no one else may be allowed to balance themselves as they whiz through dark tunnels underground, rocking back and forth like a newborn deer. You who sit with your legs so wide open it's as though you're performing some kind of cirque de soleil feat. You who puts their newspaper on the seat next to you instead of rolling it up and putting away like a normal human being. Nobody likes you. We are all staring at you on the subway car in sheer disbelief and disgust. You are a selfish, ridiculous piece of work. A piece of work I'd like to punch in the stomach.

The Seat Grinch
I see you standing there, eye-balling the subway car like some deranged animal, anxiously awaiting a seat vacancy that should be given to the decrepit old man standing next to you. No. No, you don't see him do you or you just don't care. Once on that train you lose respect for yourself and others and become a flagrant asshole, diving into seats, shoving innocent people, and just being a self-centered cretin.

The Loudspeaker
Not one person wants to hear your conversation other than the person you're yelling to on the phone or right next to you let alone an entire car of people. And your use of the English language is shameful and appalling. If it's not your skin-tingling use of colorful language it's the content itself- mind-numbing facts about obscure bands or a dumb story about some drunken antics the night before. NO ONE CARES HOW WASTED YOU WERE. Oh and you who are not saying anything, but are kind enough to turn your headphones up to extreme volumes so we could all enjoy the awful music that is deteriorating your ear drums and simultaneously pissing everyone off. And you're oblivious to it all, bopping your head along to some rhythm-less metal song, tapping your toes to a brainless pop song, or horrendously attempting to rap along with a hip hop song that you've learned the words to by listening to that one song on repeat for weeks. YOU'RE NOT IMPRESSING ANYONE, WE ALL WANT TO KILL YOU. So, kindly stfu.

There are more- MANY MORE inappropriate behaviors I can describe, but those are the most infuriating. I mean there's kids playing on the train like it's a jungle gym, guys doing pull ups on the bars, kids selling candy, mariachi bands, any kind of performer on the subway, train announcements about your belongings that freak out tourists, oh the list goes on and on. Stop being douche bags on the train people. Respect.





I'm out.

Family Affair

So I had a huge dose of family this weekend and needless to say- it was an experience to remember. Never have I been so tense and annoyed in such effortmless succession as I was this weekend. Nary a day went by when I was with my mother that I didn't want, at some point, to tweeze my eye brows out one hair at a time, then move on to my eye lashes. This weekend helped me realize a few things about myself, 1. I have a strange a strange interest in kids shows (not in a gross way- promise), 2. I'm so lucky to have the best big sister anyone can ask for, and 3.- the most depressing of all- No matter how hard I fight the reality it's true that I am I different person around my mother. I'm a shell of myself, an echo, and afterthought. Anyway, it was an unfortunate discovery, but I've always felt that way, it's just now it's becoming a problem. I'll figure it out. I won't bore you with sappy details.

On a lighter note! I feel as though I have finally turned over a new leaf and have been writing more consistently for myself! Yay! Now it's time to go to shows and start reviewing the bageezus out of bands, going to bars and blabbing about my experience on here, and possibly reading books to review. The last one probably won't happen too often because I'm not really a fan of reviewing books, plus I hate reading. Oh I keed. I'm reading Hitchhiker's Guide right now and never realized how heavily that book has influenced pop culture. It really is tremendous. READ IT. 42.





I'm out.

Newborn and Forlorn

Arriving, groggy, motion-sensitive, and exhausted, I made the trip to VA from Brooklyn with my uncle, aunt and two cousins along with an adorable dog named Daisy to see my sister and her family, namely my newborn niece. All in all it seemed like a sitcom on the way down. Before even getting into the car I was hounded by my uncle to pick up my phone while at work. After some heated text messaging there still didn't seem to be any understanding that there would be repercussions for picking up the phone on the clock, so I ignored the angry, loud buzzing notifications until I was off work which was oh, 20 min. later. The absurdity did not end there however, for I had about 5.5 hours to acquire some fantastic memories. For instance, the strange pang of guilt I felt for traveling with a small animal. Little Daisy was a champ throughout the entire ride, but her trip was far from over once I was released from the four-wheeled prison. Their ultimate destination was Miami.
Being in a packed car is hard enough without having to hear my uncle tell the same stories over and over and over again and then to top of the horrendous way he speaks to his wife, it felt like I was in some kind of terrible off Broadway drama about male dominance and dreams lost. It was depressing. All I could do was sit there and witness an unspeakable reality and be completely helpless in remedying the situation. It was a testament to the heartbreaking seriousness of volatile relationships and the painful affects of an unfulfilled life if you're not careful. All of these heinous thoughts vanished however after a good night's sleep and seeing my little niece for the first time.
There's something about a newborn child that gives you hope, a new life in this world of chaos and deceit. She is a ray of light, unknowing and innocent. Although, I fear for her as well for obvious reasons. It's so easy to be a cynic and succumb to negative thoughts and doubt. The world is a scary place, but there is beauty. It's an important thing to remember. It's not all bad. There are little miracles like life to remind you of the significance of family, friends, love, and the crazy, beautiful spontaneity of life.
Life is beautiful. She is beautiful.



I'm out.

Birthday Time

Every year I seem to have an awful time on my birthday. Going through numerous existential crises in the midst of coming a year closer to inevitable death has always been a normalcy on my day of birth, however, this year I'm hoping to shoo away all negative, pessimistic thoughts and focus on a more festive, carefree celebration. In high school I remember sitting my grandmother's house, in the den, in the dark, waiting for the traditional "surprise" to happen once I walked into the kitchen. All I could do was wonder why the celebrating was necessary. It was one year where all this attention was on me, but why? What had I accomplished in my meager 17 years to deserve all this crazy attention. Man, I was one angsty teenager, and now I've blossomed into a wonderful, cynical angsty adult.

Happy Birthday to ME.


Word.


I'm out.

"I don't know about my dreams. I don't know about my dreamin anymore."

It's been a while, but I finally have some down time to update this thing. A lot has happened in the last few months what with my lease ending, starting a new job and rearranging my dreams, future... hm, maybe that last part is a bit of a stretch. I have been mulling over different possibilities but a clear cut plan has yet to come into fruition. I have hope though! Hope. What a word. It's been a distant thought for a while. Doubt had such a stronghold on everything in my life and now, well Hope knocked down the door and kicked doubt's ass so everything's cool.

I've moved into a brand new place and it has opened up endless possibilities. Side note- MOVING SUCKS. Ok. Done.
I know you should never depend so much on your environment that you let it dictate what you want and/or who you are, but as I'm writing this it just sounds wrong... also impossible, so maybe my stagnant inclinations were inevitable. Well no more laziness, no more complaining, no more wishing. This summer is going to be an experience, I've already decided. All I have to do is write more. It's so simple yet so insanely hard to do. I was speaking with someone about having a "passion" in the city and how difficult it is to be successful or even work on your "passion" if you don't focus. This conversation is by no means new or surprising, but it is very, very applicable to so many twenty-somethings. Just yesterday I was perusing okcupid (don't judge me) and so many profiles had the phrase "existential crisis" tucked comfortably away in "About Me" or "What I'm Doing With My Life," and it's not hard to see why. Grappling with where you thought you'd be and where you are now is something that can be hard to come to terms with. It helps though, that there are so many people having the same depressing thoughts. Maybe I should join some kind sort of collective. Also probably find some will power somewhere. I could probably get that off e-bay, right?

Let's talk about friends. I've found that in this year and a half I've been here friendship has been one of not the most significant concepts I've had to reconfigure. When we were younger it was so easy to make them. Go up to someone and offer them a pog or a marble, hell a leaf and ask coyly, "Friends?" And the answer would always be yes. Now making friends is a lot like dating. You have to sift through a lot of trash to find that treasure haha oh okc... (don't judge me.) Finding the right friends has an impact and if you have a crazy one, well then lord help you. Having a circle of people around you who genuinely care about your well-being is something that can be really tough to find so if you have those people you should never take them for granted. The beauty of friendship truly rests in each individual you allow into a very private part of your life and yourself. Oh lawd, I'm starting to sound like a self help book again. All I wanted to say is that I am so grateful for everyone in my life and have learned so much through all my relationships and experiences with so many amazing people. This city can easily eat you alive, so it helps to have some people in your corner. A crew if you will. Ha.

It's time to be more consistent again. I wonder how many times I've said that in this thing. A LOT. I know that.


LOVE HIM.



I'm out.

Who Cares? Let's Buy That Thing We Don't Need.

I was talking with a coworker last night about Apathy. It's so weird to witness so many uprisings in the East about failing leadership and/or despotism. Our country has gone through many questionable changes in government and curious- downright outrageous events have surfaced with mild repercussions, facing a terrifying reality. NO ONE CARES. It seems like with the increased use of social media to convey news and entertain we are all losing a very valuable ability to acquire knowledge by reading more than 140 characters and feeling horrifyingly satisfied with that modicum of information. We also seem to be losing our sense of humanity and compassion. More than once I've seen something wildly inappropriate be tweeted about a celebrity, lacking an ounce of decency or tact, and all of this goes unnoticed save me (though I'm sure I can't be the only one). I always feel so self righteous (but also awesome) about responded to weird "twedlines" (I just made that up). For instance, a celebrity died and instead of writing something like "*Celeb name here* dies at *age here*" this fool wrote *Celeb name here* DEAD. With a little extra finesse that headline wouldn't have been so insanely devastating and careless, which is a perfect segue into my most controversial blog post that will ever grace the interwebs.

OSAMA BIN LADEN DEAD. *Commence patriotic bs*

Twitter was blowing up on that fateful day the human embodiment of terrorism died. Fireworks exploded, people were dancing in the streets, it was like a good ol' fashioned New Orleans funeral except everyone was literally celebrating the death of someone. It wasn't one of those parties held in memory of the departed. It was a crazy dance party in celebration of the end of someone's life, wishing them to the deepest depths of hell. I am by no means condoning any of the inexcusable, unspeakably evil things he did, but I am questioning the reality of it all. Though he is dead this does not mean terrorism will cease. All this means was that a figurehead has been taken away from a diabolical group of fanatical maniacs, but they still exist and we probably just pissed them the f&@k off. The causalities of his ceaseless tirade against America will not be brought back to life, their families may feel some relief and find a bit of solace in revenge, but ultimately those people that were lost are still gone. And now Osama's gone and there will probably be some kind of ridiculous retaliation against the US. Death and more death. Killing and more killing. I will never understand how power can be gained by taking lives. I will never fathom war and its important roll in what is means to be patriotic in this country. I will never forget how much I cried when I saw that episode of Intervention about a soldier who returned home completely broken after seeing his superior die, subsequently killing himself and his family slowly with alcohol abuse and severe depression. I will never forgive this government for sending all these young people to face an atrocity unimaginable to privileged upper class America, yet vehemently defended by the same blubbering bigots.
And all Americans seem to be good for is consuming while all of this happens. Instead of getting angry about billions of tax dollars going to a war more than half of the country has no idea is still going on, apathy has settled so snugly into the masses. Blanketing us so gently with its warm, blissful ignorance Apathy squeezes us ever so gently so as to entice Lethargy. In turn, we become empty shells ready to be filled with whatever garbage is deemed necessary to fill us with so we don't see the "big picture." Recently, the death of Bin Laden has been keeping us from wondering why there are starving children on the streets, why food production is so unsanitary and dangerous, why not everyone has equal rights, why education is more of a privilege than a necessity, why rent is so damn high, why our lives are dependent on green paper a metallic round things, why the hell Donald Trump would ever utter a word about anything remotely topical and believe he sounds the least bit intelligent. All of these things we are forgetting in lieu of one person's death. There's still a war going on, there are still people dying in mass genocide, there's still human trafficking, there are still giant corporations exploiting helpless people, the AIDs epidemic is still an EPIDEMIC. Instead of relishing in the death of this guy, how about we start a revolution and change this world for the better. Humanity can't be completely lost. Can it? Where's the love?



I'm out.

Creatively Challenged

I have such talented friends. Painters, Sculptors, Photographers, Editors, Designers, Actors, Musicians, Drag Queens... the list goes on... into tiny micromanaged categories. However, when I think of me and what I do I hardly consider myself an artist or even creative. I've been beating myself up recently for being unable to find enjoyment in anything creative- save writing. This contradiction has not gone overlooked. Writing is creating, I suppose. I don't understand my ambivalent reality at all, and I don't like it and I'm always trying to refute its unstable implications. I rarely draw except when I doodle which I haven't done in months. I don't make things unless that counts putting together a sandwich. My hands are tools I stare at in dismay wondering where in my life they surrendered to a life of banality. I don't own a camera but use Instagram like it's no body's business, but I would hardly call myself a photographer. I've been feeling less enthused with the idea of being called a "writer," for the simple, narcissistic fact that it just doesn't seem cool anymore. When the age of the internet began so did the fall of the writer. Bloggers took over the internet and made actual writers redefine themselves and what it was to be a writer. They are now all unemployed... or working terrible retail jobs... Jk. I have no idea (but probably). Then again, what is a blogger? A writer. As defined in the dictionary a writer is: writ·er/ˈrītər/Noun
1. A person who has written a particular text. In that case there is no difference between a blogger and a writer. Oh, but there is... there has to be or my efforts have all been in vain. Is blogging going to be my life? Should I succumb to the inevitability that sharing my ridiculous thoughts on the internet will eventually be my career. I can't. Oh, but I can. WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN? This whole argument is a plethora of insane discrepancies and unfair assumptions.

I used to relish in all types of peoples' indulgences in the internet. I used to take in all the wonderful excitement that buzzed heavily around twitter and facebook, and friendster (is that even real?), and the list goes on. Now, I feel like the internet took something away from me. A solid voice.
In this constantly changing environment with the amount of turn-over in trends and the decreasing attention span of the nation it's terrifying to think of where I'll fit in. If I'll fit in. How I'll fit in.

I'm rambling again. It's becoming a horrible habit.

Apologies.




I'm out.

Interspew

Interviews- N. One of the most devastating realities in our culture, where desperate job seekers are thrown into an incredibly awkward begging process incited by generic questions and assuming holders of their future. I'm not sure if there's anything I dislike more than having to sit in a group of others all outwardly hoping they give the most enticing answers and that you screw up. Group interviews are worse than one on one interviews for numerous reasons, but the one that gets me the most frustrated is the fact that in a setting like that people tend to be a little bit apprehensive to show themselves. It may be out of insecurity or from sheer, incapacitating shyness which I guess can be a result of insecurity. Anyway, that's not always the case for the "quiet interviewer" as I have now dubbed that person we've encountered at least once. The person sitting in the corner, staring around anxiously, praying the hour goes by faster. However, these "quiet interviewers" are not necessarily bad workers or innately timid people. In a group interview, though, it's hard to give them a chance if they don't speak. I know I know that's the whole point I suppose, to weed out the seemingly socially handicapped people in turn for boisterous, borderline obnoxious, enthusiastic applicants. Sigh. Something just seems wrong about that kind of logic. I bet there are hundreds of people being affected by this ridiculous group interview process and there's nothing we can do to stop it. All I can do is write about how unfair and inefficient it is and advise anyone who does happen to be thrown into that horrible situation to SPEAK OUT!
Oh and my internet is working again!
Woot!


Mumford & Sons are my new favorite!

I'm out.

Numb3r5

For most of my adult life I have been encountering alarmingly consistent experiences with numbers. For instance, almost every day since I was in college I have caught the numbers 4:20 on a clock. This has nothing to do however, with my serious marijuana addiction. I'm convinced the reason for seeing this number resides in some strange cosmic destiny that I must fulfill. What destiny? I have no idea! And no, I am not as avid a pot user as one might assume haha, that was a joke. A terrible one at that considering my age and location and the not so secret predeliction writers have for drugs. I'm not saying I'm a writer. Well, maybe a self-proclaimed one. I do enjoy it's visceral pleasantry that graces my being every so often. Sigh. Man, I am TIRED. I'm barely making sense... May as well keep going.

Another number I see often is 42, just on number off of 420. WHAT DOES IS IT ALL MEAN?! In an effort to allay my frustrations and acquire some knowledge I decide to look up the numbers in Wikipedia and see if anything significant popped out at me. NOTHING DID. Minus my surprise by the amount of mathematical jargon in both articles, however, upon further reading about 420 I learned about some interesting gatherings help every year on- you guessed it- April 20th. Apparently 420 is a BIG deal in Boulder, Colorado. I should ask my friend from there about her experiences on the date. Canada and New Zealand also tend to get a little wild for the green holiday and massive amounts of people come together in a haze of smoke and wonder to enjoy collective euphoric moments. It sounds like a blast.

So, in my research I have found absolutely nothing to quell my curiosity or conclude my confounding inquisition. Wonderful. SO with that I will retire to bed and continue to see these numbers without an iota of understanding.

HELP ME.


Ew. It's edited.

I'm out.

Just Do It

Battling for months with this ongoing uneasiness with life and where I want to be and who I want to be and all that existential garbage prone to a paranoid, absurdly self-aware, judgmental being, I have finally concluded that I need to "Just Do It."* Not only does this apply to my career, but to everything in life. For too long I've been scared to just leap into something without knowing exactly what the outcome will be and not fearing it wholeheartedly with the nerves of a tadpole. So in my continuous attempts to better my situation I shall try a different approach. No more excuses, no more talking, no more half-assed attempts, it's game time. I got my helmet on, and I look ridiculous but I don't care. Complaining about things is starting to wear on my nerves, and I'm sure my friends would not be completely opposed to never hearing me say, "I need to get outta there," ever again. Sorry guys. Also, I really need to focus time on creativity. I haven't written anything decent in months... Infuriating writer's block is to blame for this horrid dry spell. However, so is laziness and apathy, two emotions I've been all to found of for the last few weeks. It's so easy to just not care. It's so easy to just let things happen and not focus on goals. Goals. What a scary word. It has so many weird, complex connotations. It means so much, but can also be so fleeting. Anyway, I need to dedicate time to doing something I've grown to love beyond words haha get it... cuz it's writing. Sigh. Clinging to that ounce of passion I know is floating around in me somewhere I've got to get my drive back. I also think I need to get out of the city for a little bit to help me put things in perspective. I feel like with the constant motion of Brooklyn and Manhattan it's definitely easy to loose a little bit of yourself amongst all the flashing lights, all the moody people, all the sounds. I need to go somewhere not so... loud- all that racket- yes, I'm 85.
Well thanks for reading everyone, I really do appreciate you taking the time out to read my narcissistic indulgences.


Story of my life.

***Let it be known I denounce any affiliation with Nike, for obvious political/moral reasons. Damn them for creating such a relevant tag line.***

I'm out.

Will You Be My Friend?

My mother was in town which put an abrupt halt to the festivities last weekend was to entail. At first I was a little irritable, as EVERYONE decided to have parties that very weekend, but the feeling was fleeting because well my mom's awesome. Sigh. She bought me enough food to feed a third world country and enough paper products to stock an elementary school for a year. In her absence, I have been feeling a pang of homesickness that has not shown itself EVER. However, the sickness is not really for home, but for my family, though the warm Miami weather does not hurt.

Anyway, enough about that. I want to talk about meeting people online. At first the entire concept horrified me, made me want to runaway screaming, bleeding from the eyes... I've been watching way too many horror movies...ok, just Pan's Labyrinth.
Anyway, the whole idea of meeting up with people on the internet has been instilled in us since we were young as being not only dangerous but incredibly stupid. However, sometime within the last 5-10 years this idea shifted from "DON'T EVER DO IT!" to, "Eh, if they don't seem too psychotic and you meet in a public place, I guess it's alright." What made this change? Obviously the social media explosion and our dying ability to go out and meet people in person- COLD, with no chitty chat behind the comfort of your computer screen before hand. Though, it's convenience is not to be ignored. Like I said in an earlier post, it's hard to meet people, but by being online some of that nasty pressure is relieved and gives a bit more leeway for honesty, or straight up lying. Sigh. I guess that argument can truly go both ways- a blessing and a curse. It's interesting to see whether or not any lasting relationships will come of it... in my case. I have friends that have found significant others online, but my curiosity lies in the question of "Can you make friends online?" We shall see, I suppose. Ought to be interesting. Hope I don't get killed in the process.


Random Note: I would like to thank Portlandia and, subsequently, YouTube for turning me on to Washed Out and Air France. Also, I would like to thank my upstairs neighbors for being kind enough to lend their Internet for a bit. Thank you. Adieu.



I'm out.

A Tale of True Ninnies: A Story About Hope Lost via The Internet

As a result of being utterly unable to figure out where my main Internet box is I am resorting to using my iPhone to update. Why don't you go to the coffee shop next door, you're probably saying. Why don't you just go to a friend's house you're probably chuckling. Well, there is a simple, yet stupid answer for that. I've kind of always wanted to test the capacity for this here iPhone. Is it as convenient and necessary to my existence as I've always thought it to be? YES, yes it is. It's convenience is to a startling degree. I'm not sure whether I should be excited or horrified that the thought of losing it make me shudder. Definitely horrified. Anyway, it's been a while since I've updated, mainly... excuse me, SOLELY because of this whole Internet debacle. Explain the situation? Why, I would love to: A few weeks ago the Internet just decided to stop working. Thinking it was just a matter of unplugging the machine and turning it back on I did not panic. Then, after doing that oh 5 times and then frantically calling verizon I realized the problem was external. Verizon would have to send a technician to fix the problem. Sighing with relief, thinking that would only take like 15 minutes, I immediately scheduled an appointment a few days later, being off and extremely ready to get my Internet service up and running again. The technician came in the morning, poked around the router, went outside for 10 minutes, came back in and told me there was nothing he could do. "You have to find out where the main cable box is in order for me to fix it." I thought to myself, how the bloody hell would I know where that is? And yes I tend to think in a British accent. So he left with a quickness of a thousand winds and didn't look back. I remembered there was confusion when they first installed the Internet and I remembered something about them wiring it through an auto body shop behind my apartment so I call the technician and tell him that and all he says to me is "No, it's in a abandoned building by your apartment," and abruptly hangs up on me. At this point I'm furious so I call Verizon back careful to keep my temper in check because obviously it's no fault of whoever picks up the phone but of that crass a-hole know-it-all. Oh gawd, he's probably right. So the battle commences. They're telling me I have to find out where this mysterious "main box" is and I have to call them once I've found it. This search has resulted in hours of brain-cramping super sleuthing and many awkward phone calls to strangers and it's almost been 2 weeks since the Internet's stopped working. I'm at my wits end trying to resolve this insane situation. So, what I'm really asking is.... Can I use your Internet?

Sent from my iPhone



I'm out.

formspring.me

Go wild. Ok, not too wild. http://formspring.me/CrisisScarlett

hi babe are you on any other social networking internet site?

ALL OF THEM. You name it, i got it... um, babe? yikes.

Ask me anything

Brooklyn, why are you so lonely?

In this growing age of social networking and online-media based relationship building it's kind of hard to understand the disconnect amongst people when in social settings, i.e. bars. I remember walking into Union Pool the other day observing people, seeing unbridled loneliness seep from their eyes with pathetic certainty. It's a state people are used to, I suppose. Looking for the next person to fill a void in their ever-growing confounded hearts. What can be done about the loneliness? This incessant, unrelenting profoundly infuriating reality is something I have been thinking about for quite some time now. I have figured out it's not just my own manic predilection that is feeding into these thoughts. It's not some wild delusion. Many people have voiced their concerns with being able to meet people and not just romantically, but the entire process of meeting people seems to be convoluted and daunting. There's really no conclusion I could come up with to remedy the whole situation. It's all to do with individuals and not being a prisoner of fear and rejection. I dunno... it's just something that's been on my mind...


Shudder.


I'm out.

Life, Time, and Sleep

It's unnerving what a job can do to you. It's frustrating to see the very core of yourself shifting solely because of a dream that seems to just be fading rapidly in front of your eyes. It's mind-numbing how your entire day can be a ceaseless string of monotonous, painfully futile events that involve other people's conceit and incorrigible ability to be the sloppiest, most uncaring individuals. It's terrifying for me to see myself turning into a shadow of a thought in my mind- violently swirling with confusion. I need a change.

Life is amazing. I love Life, but right now Life is not reciprocating. Right now Life seems to be in constant motion, fleeing as far from Reason and Sanity as it can go, taking Time with it. Well, NO MORE! Life, you bring your wayward tuchus back here, calm down, and sort yourself out. I need Time, Life, okay? Time and I need each other in this trying period and right now? Well,right now you, Life, are being very stingy with Time. Time needs to be free and let itself just go. Time might just want to slow down and enjoy things, but you Life, you're always on the go! Life, I'm just trying to help you out. Together, we can do this. Life, Time, can I call you Lifetime? You belong to me and I need you to know that I expect great things out of you, okay? So let's do this. And while we're having this little heart to heart let's also try and give Sleep another shot, huh? I mean, it won't hurt anyone.

Man, I need Sleep.



Dedicated to a new and improved Life. ♥


I'm out.

Valentine's Slay

Oh how I loathe thee, oh day of love, oh day of corporate mocking. It's that much closer ladies and gentlemen, the day singles dread the most (besides wedding days), VALENTINE'S DAY. A day of monumental, overtly scathing gestures of affection that not only induce your gag reflex, but make you question your threshold for pain. Suddenly your insides start to tingle and the thought of hand holding makes you want to kick something soft and cuddly. DON'T! Believe me... don't.
We all know this holiday is just another excuse for stores to push some ridiculous, gimmicky themed crap like heart shaped sticky notes and pink EVERYTHING, so why does it still sting so much on Vday when you don't have a beau? It's because it's being thrown so obnoxiously in your face, but you know what? It's okay. It's okay to be single for a plethora of reasons. List them? Well, don't mind if I do...

10. You don't have to think up thoughtful trinkets to give your loved one on Vday, instead you can buy an entire box of chocolates and scarf them down yourself.

9. There's no need to keep that wondering eye in check, because it doesn't have to be fastened on anyone.

8. It's cheaper.

7. You don't have to check in with anyone if there is a change in plans and you wind up at a wild loft party instead of that quiet evening you said you planned with a few friends. Ooops.

6. You can sprawl out in bed without having anyone right up under you, shifting at your every move. Snorer? WHO CARES! Light sleeper? DOESN'T MATTER! Constant mover? NO PROBLEM!

5. More/better options. Out with the old, in with the new I always say... I've never actually said that in conversation... ever.

4. You don't have to worry about all these "feelings." Always talking about "feelings." Making sure these "feelings" are still there or if the "feelings" are hurt or shifting.

3. Not having to do things you would never want to do, but have to or else there will be a screaming match to rival the 100 years war.

2. You can hang out with whoever, wherever, whenever you'd like.

1. FREEDOM.


I hope this list helped. Oh and also check out this article from Gawker!

I plan on celebrating this Valentine's Day with my dates Johnny Walker and Jack D. It's okay, they know about each other.





I was going to post the obvious Beyonce song, but thought better of it- you're welcome. I've been on this Beatles kick, so why stop now?!

Happy Valentine's Day, ya'll



I'm out.

Skin You Alive

You have got to be kidding me. I can't believe I'm about to defend this show, but... sigh I had to.

image from poptower.com

I know you've heard about the "new" controversial show that hit the airwaves last week consequently riling up every bigoted, ignorant, and just plain hypocritical person/organization in this country. Skins, which is originally a show produced in England is about a group of teens who use recreational drugs, have sex, and are immune to common sense and monotony. This show has entertained American youth for years, but the minute it comes here as a remake there is this whirlwind of judgment and disgust based solely on our country's incredible ability to ignore our own sexual depravity when it comes to teens in entertainment. Ahem- Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Mandy Moore, Justin Bieber. Instead, the US is condemning a series that might just be the most honest (okay a bit exaggerated) representation of youth... besides Degrassi ha. Okay, I'm totally taking license here, but I'm trying to make a point.

Teens do in fact use drugs and they also- gasp - have sex, but with every fiber in their historically warped, willingly oblivious being, America does not want this all too real exhibition of growing up to be broadcast to the masses.
Advertisers have been pulling support from the show in fear of being ostracized and boycotted by a bunch of raving lunatics. This is from this article on msnbc.com: "THR.com first reported Taco Bell pulled out of the series — which chronicles teens having sex and doing drugs — because 'it is not a fit for our brand.'" I'm sorry. WHAT?! I cannot count how many times I have seen on their twitter account a retweet by a young person proclaiming their need for Taco Bell after a "reeedic smoke sesh." Also, we all know Taco Bell is the place to go when it's 2 in the morning and you've got a bad case of the munchies. Taco Bell knows all too well stoners' prevalence to ooey gooey melty crunchy or however the ad goes.
And to all you car companies who shamelessly fled from advertising during the show like cowardly ninnies, say goodbye to your ads exclaiming "rugged masculinity" and "toughness," because apparently, when the road gets too rough instead of powering through it you pull over and call your mommies crying.

On a more serious, yet wildly outrageous note, the show's being considered a violation of child pornography laws. Granted, I too am a little concerned with the age of the actors on the show. If, however, THEIR PARENTS consented to having them on it, well then I guess that's fine. Why? BECAUSE THEIR PARENTS CONSENTED. I will say nothing further on that particular matter, because I am sure there are more pressing cases of child pornography in the US that involve younger, more helpless children, and if this investigation is taking manpower from that dire, vile problem then I absolutely have no words. No words to express my immense discomfort and nausea with the thought that this legal, completely professional syndicated show is taking precedent over them.

The Parents Televison Council should be ashamed of themselves for undertaking this witch hunt that is undoubtedly a cry for attention. This organization reminds me of those crazy PTA members who wanted to remove Romeo & Juliet from the high school curriculum because it promotes indecent behavior. SHADDUP. There are bigger fights to be fought, but because this one has a bit more celebrity attached to it there's a mad (and I do mean MAD) scramble to announce their passionate aversion to it. There's a solution to all of this. RAISE YO KIDS RAISE YO KIDS RAISE YO GD KIDS. Watch them. Be proactive parents. Turn off the TV. Young kids shouldn't be watching MTV anyway (ahem Jersey Shore). I could get into a whole slew of things wrong with a parenting organization trying to oust a TV show from a network in the name of "protection," but I've bored you long enough.






I'm out.

Questions, Questions, Questions

Do you ever wonder what drives people to build relationships with certain people? And I don't just mean romantically. Actually, I don't mean romantically at all. What goes through a person's mind when they see someone and immediately know they have to form a bound with them. What unspeakable force draws us to the people we find ourselves surrounded by? It has to be more than just common interests because then everybody in Williamsburg would be skipping through McCarren holding hands and singing that Bobby McFerrin song, eating vegan ice cream and downing whiskey. There's an X factor, I guess. That incomprehensible knowing. That potential.
A more interesting question, since we humans love dwelling on negativity, is the opposite, what makes people write others off without so much as a "hello." You know the people I'm talking about. You see them and immediately you make a snap judgment. There's just something "off" about them.
And don't get me started about the whole, "boys can't be just friends with girls" foolishness, because that plain drives me crazy. Many times I have questioned this statement and wondered what ninny came up with it and all the idiots that repeat it. By the way, they totally can.
I dunno. I just woke up this morning with lots of questions about...life. About people. About events that turn out just to be another page in my diary. Sigh. Anyway, relationships are weird. I don't think I'll ever completely understand how they come into fruition, but that's not necessarily a bad thing... so...


This song makes me happy. haha



I'm out.

L O S T C ON Q U E S T

He stood with his back to the bar watching patrons drink and talk about subjects submerged under sober uneasiness and pride. The clinking of glasses irritated him, but also excited him in a familiar way. The sounds of nighttime always allayed his loneliness. Knowing others came to the bar to escape the unrelenting fate of solitude, he sighed with relief and scanned the room for the next person he would escape with. When he first started his job he was reluctant to introduce himself to pretty girls, sure that behind their kind eyes lurked only the inscrutable desire for attention and a free shot. Quickly learning that they were eager to offer more than their attention, he felt no harm in indulging in fleshy validation. Growing numb with every encounter and regretful with every number tossed away he began to fall into a blissful nothingness.

Music echoed loudly through the speakers. Girls danced provocatively only to get guys' attention, shaking and gyrating unspeakable wants. Guys salivated over the knowing motions and clumsily attempting to get attention by laughing too loudly and pushing each other. He watched with amusement this weekly charade in which he never partook. Then he saw her. She had been watching him from across the room, patiently waiting for him to notice her. He did. A panic came over him, paralyzing him. It was her. A girl. The girl? He had been with so many he could not be sure.

It was a night like any other when he met her. Immediately writing her off as an easy target, a notch in his bedpost, a girl to conquer and leave abandoned. Though she was different from the rest, uneasy in her approach, unsure of her fingertips that lightly brushed his arm. An unrecognizable timidity crossed her face when she laughed at his awful jokes and smiled innocently at his mundane, cliched compliments. Her eyes penetrated him when they exchanged anecdotes, she peered into a place he was so far removed from he knew it didn't exist. Yet he went through with the selfish, debilitating act. She woke up next to him in the morning and her presence startled him. Usually he opened his eyes to an empty room and a warm spot where a nameless victim previously laid. Demurely pulling up his sheets to her glowing body, she grinned at him with unknowing- purity. He felt sick. Telling her he had to be somewhere soon he feigned agitation as he glanced at the clock by his bed that read 10 AM. Without saying much, she moved quickly, repeatedly apologizing to him, dressed and left, but not before giving him the warmest, most sincere kiss he'd ever received since he moved to the city from his small town. In that single kiss he remembered who he had been and what he had become. She left. He looked in the mirror, trying to see that place she saw. He had been withdrawn for so long he forgot who he was. His face looked haggard and old. Dark circles ringed his eyes- black pools of malcontent and horror. He almost screamed. What had he done? What had he been doing? All these girls. All these people. He began washing his face, gently at first then feverishly, rubbing his face raw, trying to scrub away himself. In his search for affirmation he abandoned thought, feelings, reason. These girls were nothing but meaningless shells in which to hide his vulnerability. With every girl he marginalized he lost a piece of his humanity, a multitude of self-respect. He began to resent them, the girls. They never gave him want he wanted, what he needed. They were instant gratification, fleeting validation, false hope. But in one kiss he saw what he had been suppressing for as long as he could remember, but made a great effort to forget. And until tonight he thought he had.

The music all of a sudden got too loud. The charade on the dance floor turned into a frantic, impassioned fight amongst the sexes, then a mindless, erratic orgy. He felt dizzy. Nauseated. The room spun and he ran to the bathroom past eager faces clutching dollar bills, anxious for another drink, past lusting eyes, past apathy, past fear, past loathing, past everything and everyone that reminded him of himself. He let go of all the guilt, the pain, the anger, the bitterness, staring at it mildly, swirling around in a bowl of indifference. He felt better. Much better.
He sauntered back to the bar, holding himself gently. She stood in front him yet seemed so distant. He looked at her. She looked at him pitifully. He was pathetic, she thought, yet felt a pang of what she didn't know. Maybe it was understanding- or affection. Shuddering nervously, embarrassed by the thought of their passionless night together, she finally broke the awkward silence.

"Hi. How've you been." She had to lean over the bar so he could hear her speak.
"Fine." He lied. She knew he was lying. He looked down at his feet. She smelled how she smelled the night they first met.
"Um," she paused, he looked up imploringly, "Can I get a whiskey ginger?" He stared at her unable to comprehend what she said then finally replied,
"Sure. Yeah," he gave it to her, "It's on me." He said those words, pleading for her forgiveness. She refused his charity and his apology. She finished her drink at the bar, staring into his eyes as she gulped, the whiskey and carbonation burning her throat sweetly. She put the glass down. Waiting a moment, she pierced him again with her eyes. She kissed him. He could taste the whiskey and ginger on her cool lips. His eyes closed, she pulled away, put her money on the bar and left. He stood awe-struck. The music played. He never saw her again.




I'm out.

She Is Who She Is

Essence of crushed dreams sprinkle her aura like twinkling stars against a sheet of black hopelessness. She sits back on the bench in the bar, eyes closed, you could almost hear the thoughts wildly spinning in her head. There's an energy that emerges from her person, whipping you in the face- warm... too warm. Her eyes open and she speaks. She says things in rapid succession, you cannot follow everything. The nonsensical becomes a wavering, incoherent medley of sounds that you cannot enjoy or control. Berating listening ears with negativity wrapped tightly in insecurity. Pouring from her lips like liquid fire, her words burned in ways that no one could completely understand. A clusterfuck of self-destruction and malevolent intentions will her to a place unknown to some, relished by others, loathed by the rest. It's a place devoid of reason or reality, a diabolically personal manifestation of horror and disdain. Rapidly overtaking her body, threatening to unleash a fury of inexplicable, unsuspected proportions, alcohol coaxes this volatility with sweet mocking. Encouraging outrageous, perplexing behavior, the molten beverage succeeds in unleashing this incongruous person. Reeking of self-loathing and severe distress, the pungent odor of defeat stings the nostrils and burns as it enters your lungs and screams through your body. Being so close to such a strong energy depletes everyone around her. She is a walking vacuum, sucking positivity out of the air until it becomes stale and stagnant. She has been this way for as long as she can remember. With severe certainty she begins to lash out. She shrieks about her terrible life and her lack of love. She wails about the unfairness of humanity and colossal mistakes that riddle her life, inducing perpetual sadness. Then she begins projecting her insecurities onto others, images of morbid indecency lightly place themselves over the faces of others, altering their true selves, a distorted falsity that has become oh too real for her. Again she speaks with violent conviction, retorting coldly, rambling angrily, name-calling, accusing, belittling all in hopes of deceiving the pain and numbing herself. Of course, this never works and instead forces people to flee. Run away from her innumerable complexities that are divulged with overwhelming intensity when the liquor consumes her. She is someone we all know... maybe ourselves? Continuously struggling in this heartless, selfish society. She is who she is.


I'm out.

Missed Connections w4m, BLB

I'm about to admit something no sane person should admit. However, it's because of this inexplicable partiality I feel for this writer who has been serial-spamming craigslist with his writing. It hit me like a lightening bolt, tingling through me like electricity. Painful and illogical, but beautiful and precise. I'm not sure if it's sleep deprivation or this total stranger reawakened something within me I've almost forgotten- love, love for words, love for thought, love for the intangible, the ridiculous, the absurd.
Alright, here's my secret: I scroll through "missed connections" sometimes when I'm bored. It's become a habit born out of sheer curiosity and the hope that some guys could be true romantics. This leads right into why I wanted to write this post. There's a guy out there that puts up missed connections on craigslist, but instead of "looking for a blonde wearing a red jacket and black boots," he's writing profoundly insightful, heart wrenching poetry that has left me in a state of shock and awe. For months I have been terrified to write poetry on my blog. For weeks I have been putting off updating in hopes of discovering a topic I can write about freely, and then I find this guy's blog. He's like everything I aspire to be as a writer, fearless and unwavering. He writes in a way devoid of commercial, patronizing rhetoric. Instead he uses words with a biting, uncensored ferociousness. It's like he's fighting, constantly fighting. Fighting himself, fighting the words, fighting format and style, fighting conformity, fighting for his place, his rightful place in a world full of doubt and hopelessness, disrespect and sorrow. He shows no remorse in his words, his thoughts forming violent serenity, if you can call it that. That description makes sense when you read him, maybe it doesn't, but that's what is so appealing about writing, it's (in)comprehension. His writing is so poignant because he doesn't throw his intelligence mockingly in your face, but slips it into lines and phrases with stealth and careful thought. His name is Frankie Leone and he is Williamsburg, Borough of Lost Boys... or more affectionately, the "missed connections writer."

This is my very first post about another writer... It's fitting because of the New Year and all. A lot of firsts have been happening in these last few days, many interesting occurrences. This year really is going to be fantastic, I really can feel it.

I'm out.