Category Archives: Writing.

Heartbreak.


“One likes to think there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.”

Richard, from Donna Tartt’s The Secret History

I’m not in a somber mood, really, but I do love this quote and am re-reading my favorite book, which it’s from. Mostly I love it because I agree with it, having all my life tried to placate myself with silly bullshit whenever someone’s wronged me. But, at the ripe old age (ha) of twenty-eight, three things are happening: I suddenly can’t stand teenagers; I’m being increasingly confronted by death; and finally, I’m slowly stripping away behaviors and nuances from my personality that I’ve come to hate. It’s like peeling an onion for me, because I am tenacious when it comes to holding on past all reason. And, I have a tendency to defend the weaknesses of others, to turn the spotlight onto my own deficiencies in an effort to distract from those in the people I love. It’s exhausting and I don’t want to do it anymore.

Today is not a bad day. This is just a really good book, and one that reminds of the many things I want to be and more than that, the very, very many things I don’t.
***

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Today.


Sometimes I wish it was my sole responsibility to just sit on my couch in my Team Edward shirt and sweatpants, eating cheese and writing until my eyes ached.

If anyone wants to pay me to do this, hit me up.
***

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Humans.


“The thing is, I don’t understand you. In fact, I’ve never understood you. You make decisions based solely on how the consequences will affect you, only you. You love me one minute, then hate me the next. You tell me that you can’t stand qualities about me that you exhibit yourself on the regular. You blame me for problems you’ve created in your life, problems that it’s not even feasible I could be responsible for. You lied to people about me, in a most unacceptable fashion, thinking yourself safe and justified in your cruelty. I know you don’t see it that way and I suspect you can’t, not even with a magic mirror. Not even with me telling you, right now. And, right now, you’re probably thinking that I’m the crazy one, the delusional one, the weak and unhappy mess that can’t overcome anything without someone else to blame. But darling, that’s you all over. You in a processed nutshell. I cared about us, I really did, but you’ve pushed me out with such violent silence and emotional wreckage that I can’t even muster enough emotion over you to be angry anymore. I just don’t really care. A little, sure. How could I not, when I’ve loved you so long? But not enough to try to bring you back to me. If you want to go, please go. If you want to stay, you know where to find me. Just know that I know more about what you really think of me than you’d ever suspect. You should’ve kept quiet. Humans, in general, are not trustworthy. It’s a unfortunate truth, but in this particular case, it allowed me to open the drapes and see the sky again. I’m not by any means the only person who knows what you are, and somewhere inside that broken heart of yours I suspect you know, too. You’re not dumb, just blind. Unwilling and really, irresponsible. A lot of us choose to be blind. I chose to be blind, with you, and so did so very many people. But from that blindness came confusion, pain, sadness, rage. I’ve cried over you for what seems like years. And now that I’ve realized that I don’t understand you, I’ve also realized that I don’t really want to. You’re a wreck, darling. And you’ll stay that way probably forever. Waiting for you to change is like waiting for angels to rescue me from this half-life I’ve created to make you happy. To hide from you, and your inexplicable outrage at anything and everything that displeases you. I’ve got nothing left for you, darling. You already took away everything I had to give, and when that wasn’t enough, you discarded me like a piece of unworthy trash until you needed me for some paltry errand again. When you fall from grace–and you will fall–I don’t want to be around to watch. And I certainly won’t be there to clean up after you. Not this time.”

-Natasha’s monologue from “Humans,” a short play by Maria Berkovsky. Translator unknown.

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Ode to a Hypocrite


“Oh, hypocrite! 

How confident you sound, how small and tritely you behave

How cowardly, which is, of course, the opposite of brave.

Oh, hypocrite!

Spew your godly advice into less shrewd ears

Rescind your exaggerations, your crocodile tears

Your fabricated talents bred from over-zealous fears!

Oh, hypocrite! 

How offensive, how disgusting, how impossible that you don’t know

It’s never what you say and it’s only what you show.”

-Anonymous

 

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Another reminder.


“You can’t demand recognition. You can’t demand validation, or proof of emotion, or that promises stay forever promised and unchanged. If it were so simple to know, absolutely, that you were loved and appreciated, needed and revered, there would no longer be a motive for passion or discovery. If every promise we’ve ever made to our reflections or to each other stayed unbroken, we would ourselves remain stagnant and quiet, soft and weak from the protection of self-inflicted ignorance. A person with nothing to learn and nothing to question becomes quickly bored and quickly useless; a husk of themselves, that once was filled with drive and desire. I want nothing of boredom and nothing of silence. Should I forever be restless and wondering, imagining, dreaming, questioning, curious and confused, I will consider myself luckier than any person who wholeheartedly, stupidly believes that they’ve answered all of the questions they will never have the courage to ask.”

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the editors’ curse.


Pssst. HEY. I see you over there, trying to use words you don’t totally understand.

Or maybe you know what you’re trying to say, but you use the wrong word to express it. Maybe that word isn’t even a word, but you thought Hell, this SOUNDS right, it’s fine!

Guess what? It’s not fine. It gives me a headache. It frustrates me and gives me an eye twitch when I read your blog/ twitter/ wall. And it makes me, the detail-obsessed, appropriate-context-demanding, spell-it-right-or-don’t-spell-it-at-all, FOR GOD’S SAKE IT’S ITS NOT IT’S IF IT’S POSSESSIVE editor hate you, even if just a little bit. I know this is my own fault, at least partially; I was born a bookworm, but I chose to cultivate that sweet, sweet word-love into a profession. But dude?

FEENING? Is not. A word. You cannot “feen” for cake any more than you can “reed” a book, or make a “moo” point. You can’t premonition a movie, recall the time you teached a kid how to ride a bike, have took a photography class, wave a statement aside with irregardless (I don’t give a shit if it’s in the dictionary, it is wrong), losen your tie, “feed the children there dinner’s,” be writting a song or use a comma in place of an ellipses because you don’t understand how the nature of a pause changes when indicated by one or the other.

If I see one more person post “your going to love this!” I may actually die.

Please, before I have an aneurysm. Before I burst out of my clothing in a rage of muscles and teeth. Before I say something incredibly pretentious to you because the only way to correct another adult’s grammar is to sound like an asshole– PLEASE. Just. Check. The words. The apostrophes. The commas. Before you post. Or hit send. Or tweet. I beg you.

From all of the bottoms of the hearts of all of the editors in the world. Won’t you try? For us?


***

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The End.


“I will not cast you as the villain, then, but rather, that fallen hero from children’s fairy tales. The warrior who succumbs to madness in the face of an endless quest; the prince who fails the princess when doubt consumes him; the child who seeks to avoid their fate and at last, finds themselves its pawn. Once upon a time I trembled in the shadow of your assumed and gossip’d glory. But now, to see you as you really are–unmasked, base and human, and no more divine than an idol set upon the altar– this is my release from tyranny. From the chains I felt bound about my wrists and that were no more than a dry and dusty fear, a ghostly manifestation of my own making.

I know the truth; it has set me free.”

***

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In which we discuss Twilight, Bloodsucking Towels, and are incredibly judgmental.


Chelsi: I’m just reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman
: anything to get Twilight out of my head
: because every time I consider a story to write, it has something to do with vampires named Edward

Me: why on EARTH would you want to write about anything else?

Chelsi: LOL dude. It’s so bad

Me: CLEARLY THAT MARKET HAS NOT BEEN TAPPED ENOUGH.

Chelsi: seriously, if I were to try and write a book about towels right now, they’d end up being bloodsucking towels that shine in the sunlight

Me: THE BANDWAGON IS NOT TIPPING OVER AND SPILLING DEAD AWFUL BOOKS INTO THE STREET AT ALL.

Chelsi: I’m laughing so hard right now

Me: please
: please write about bloodsucking towels

Chelsi: LOL
: I have to finish American Gods, Anansi Boys…

Me: I will give you five cookies to write me a short story about bloodsucking towels

Chelsi: LOL
: done!

Me: FIVE COOKIES. I AM SO HAPPY

Chelsi: SO DONE
: IM STARTING TOMORROW

Me: FANTASTIC

Chelsi: and I will write it in a Stephenie Meyer fashion

Me: oh EXCELLENT
: so you’ll be using the word “pilled” at least 58 times, yes?

Chelsi: “the towel felt cool on my 98.6 degree body…”

Me: oh. my good lord.
: OH MY GOOD LORD.

Chelsi: “it was smooth… like marble. I traced the fibers with my tongue…”

Me: EW

Chelsi: “and that’s when it bit me”

Me: EW GOD
: SHE IS SO BAD

Chelsi: LOL
: I’m crying

Me: my face is the shade of Bella’s lips as she leaned towards Edward for a final kiss…

Chelsi: LOL

Me: omgIjustsnorted.

Chelsi: “it was so effortlessly graceful, there on its rack”

Me: *chokes*

Chelsi: “I knew it would make the most sensual blanket on this sunny day.. . the first we’d had since June 12, 1943. But it wasn’t until I brought it outside, in the sunlight, that I knew its true power”

Me: “Suddenly I saw a shadow grace the wall. The movement was slight yet so obvious, like that of a pilled cardigan wafting in the breeze…”

Chelsi: “the shimmer was like nothing I’d ever seen…”

Me: “The fibers sparkled like the dew of a morning flower…”

Chelsi: “like a million sparkling diamonds wrapped around my body..”.

Me: “Trailing stars into the night sky.”

Chelsi: “as the last image I saw in my normal life, it was like going to heaven…”
“the next thing I knew, I too, was a shimmering, bloodsucking towel”
OH, THIS DELICIOUS NEW BODY

[fyi, readers, that line right there is why she’s my friend. Amazing.]

Me: “surrounded by a million shining fibers…I was a russet-colored towel, with russet trim and russet fibers.”

Chelsi: I JUST SPIT

Me: oh man
*whew
: LOL
: I keep thinking about it.
: how it just…soaks up blood for sustenance

Chelsi: I WAFTED LIKE I’D NEVER WAFTED BEFORE
: EVERYTHING WAS SO CLEAR IN THIS 1200 THREAD COUNT BODY

Me: don’t forget the qualifier…”Like a beach towel on the beach, only lighter, and more russet.”
: “I wasn’t quite Egyptian…yet not any longer a girl.”

Chelsi: THIS
IS GOING TO BE THE BEST SHORT STORY
EVER

Me: YES, IT IS
: oh but before she becomes a towel, make sure she gives birth to a half-human, deadly washcloth.
***

[After discussing S. Meyer’s other tragic attempt at literature, “The Host”]

Chelsi: it’s kind of like she thought the success of Twilight meant she could turn every batshit idea into a best-selling novel
: but dude, we were so ready for some vampires. It had been a long time. We couldn’t live on Anne Rice forever

Me: her timing was impeccable

Chelsi: and Buffy was outdated

Me: that slut

Chelsi: it WAS
: STUPID SLUT

Me: She really is a dumb slut.

Chelsi: it’s all in the timing. If she shits out another multimillion dollar series, I’ll shut my trap
: but NOT until then

Me: she won’t. She doesn’t have enough brain cells

Chelsi: also, I love Twilight

Me: oh me too, obviously
: but dude

Chelsi: thank you Stephenie Meyer, for Twilight

Me: one hit wonder

Chelsi: it is the inspiration for my towel story, after all

Me: HEH

Chelsi: what should I call it?
: Textiles?

Me: HA! Hrm…

Chelsi: Timed Cycle?

Me: Towelight.

Chelsi: lol

Me: TIMED CYCLE
: wow

Chelsi: HAHA

Me: “Hung Dry”…?
: I do like Timed Cycle tho
: it has DEEPER MEANING

[Later that day…]

Chelsi: I have a document in my Google Docs list titled “Threadbare Lovers.”
***

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Excerpt.


“Because ya see, John boy, we’re not sensible ones, not what you see in the films, with all the froofy-poofy junk. We’re no pussy cats that you can coddle and pet and put in your lap and expect that to be enough to make us purr, or even… even expect us to want it so common. It’s all wrong. You’re all method and no madness; all pull and no push. You gotta relax or you’ll walk outta here lonely. You can handle that, you’re decent; but you don’t cut off a sparrow’s wings and then turn around and ask it why it can’t fly.”
***

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Day to day.


C: What’s another word for poo?

A: um…shit? Feces? Deuce!
Number 2
Fecal matter
Poopoos

C: poopoos LOL

A: I died mid-type
droppings
excrement
crap
cowpies
GUANO!
SCAT!

C: GOT IT
THANK YOU

A: POOPLYOOPLIES

C: wow.

A: LOL
Well, what were you THINKING asking me that question?!

C: It’s for an article!

A: you are writing about poop.
Oh! Dumplings
(and now I’m crying)

C: omfg
I am not
calling poo
DUMPLINGS
on this website.

A: WHY THE HELL NOT
defecation
stool
waste

C: I went with crap.

A: An excellent choice, crap.

C: Thank you.

A: You’re welcome.
***

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