Writing, Writer, Writest

Katie McMahon - Needy People

2011-12-01T09:46:00.000-08:00

“And that was Kiki Dee and Elton John with ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.’ Thanks for listening to WLMNOP!”

I pressed stop on my Sony dual cassette player/recorder and ejected the cassette tape. I carefully placed it into my dual tape deck/CD player and looked on the floor for my most favorite cassette tape.

“Where is it?”

Where was it? I looked under the bed and found a red sock and what looked like a tooth and a brush full of Jenna’s golden dog hair.

“Where is it?”

I started to panic. I opened my closet door and dug through the pile of clothes. Jeans with elastic waists, striped turtle necks, oversized t-shirts, snow boots, but I couldn’t seem to find the tape. Where was it?

Where was Barbra Steisand?

The name of the album was Barbra: The Concert. The cassette was released a couple years before in 1994, with not just one cassette tape, but two, totaling 28 tracks by Barbra. Earlier that year I had read an autobiography on Barbra called Barbra: Her Life, by James Spada, a man who must have been just as obsessed with Barbra as I was because it was not only his first book about Barbra, but his third. The book was almost six hundred pages, weighing in at three pounds, but I could not put it down.

I wanted to live in a New York City flat with a bathtub in the middle of my living room. I wanted to be tormented by the rejection of auditions and coldhearted lovers. But most of all, I wanted to be a star.

Every day I would come home from school and every day I would watch Barbra on my VHS tape of Funny Girl, co-starring with her dark-haired hero, the handsome and charming, but sometimes devastatingly insensitive, Omar Sharif. When Barbra would sing, I would sing. If my family was home, I would go into the basement and throw up my arms, singing “I’m the Greatest Star” and one of Barbra’s most famous songs, “People”, which I would eventually sing in my elementary school’s talent show. While other kids sang songs from The Lion King or the theme from the 90s hit sitcom, Friends, I would wow mothers, grandmothers, and gay uncles, with my rendition of Barbra’s clingy love song, showing the world that people who are needy and overly dependent on their loved ones are the best people in the world.

I looked up at the stamped signed photo of Barbra on the shelf next to my bedroom window and my heart sank. I could hear her long fingernails click, click, clicking against the glass frame. Barbra was looking right at me. She was beckoning me. She was stage whispering, “Find me, Katie, find me.”

After ripping out the drawers of my dresser and turning the entire room upside down, I sat cross-legged on the floor and I began to weep silently to myself. Slowly, my sobs grew louder and louder until the room became an ocean of my tears. I wailed. I screamed. Not only would the radio show have to be canceled, but life itself would be canceled.

I began opening and slamming my door to let my frustration out on the world. While crying and screaming alone in my room got me nowhere with my parents, the annoying repetition of a door slamming and echoing out into the hallway always got me the attention I needed.

My dad unhurriedly rushed to my rescue.

“What is going on?” he shouted into my sniveling, chubby red face.

“I – can’t – I – it’s lost – I, I, I, she… Barbra!” I howled through hiccups and snorts, rubbing snot onto my 101 Dalmatians nightgown.

I could not stop crying. No one could console me. There was no longer any reason to go on.

I can think back on a lot of not-so-great things that my dad did when I was a kid. He had a severe drinking problem. He seldom was interested in any of the plays or choir concerts that I performed in. Sometimes he would eat all the cookies and treats in the house and blame it on me, so that my mom would take all her anger out on me and leave him alone for a day. But I will always remember that night, crying and coughing into my dad’s chest. I will remember him leaving the house and driving away in his baby blue Chevy pickup truck. And I will remember him returning, less than an hour later, with a brand new, cellophane wrapped cassette tape of Barbra Steisand’s Barbra: The Concert.

In 1999, when my brother would go off to college and I would take over his room, I would find my original Barbra Steisand two cassette, live album in the back corner of my closet. I would tell no one, especially my own personal, light-brown haired hero: my dad.

Marsi White - Saturday Morning

2011-09-25T13:16:00.000-07:00

Deserted on my couch, my kids have gone to feast on the type of cereal that makes a dentist squirm and will give them energy for only about a have a second. “Stay home day cereal,” as it is coined in my house, may only be consumed on the weekend.

“Maddie, you have to leave in an hour for gymnastics!” I hear myself shout. Routinely responding, my husband responds, “I know.” My daughter does not respond, wrapped up in what ever cartoon that she has been mesmerized by showing on the kitchen television. I think it is Sponge Bob. Having little patience for cartoons, I try to be somewhat aware of what they watch, as any responsible parent would claim.

Such is a typical Saturday morning in our house. I am up with the birds, making the coffee and routinely washing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen from the night before. In this case, no one did dishes at all the day before....so the pile in the sink was more like a mountain. My mom would shudder. Seemingly a cruel and unusual punishment, the coffee finished peculating way before the dishes were clean. My disciplined response was to finish the dishes before taking my first sip of coffee. My mom would be proud.

Finally, dishes done and coffee in hand, I ventured to our living room to complete my Saturday morning ritual through checking my Facebook page, Twitter and, of course, Words with Friends. My daughter came and joined me after a short period, followed a later by my son....and suddenly, I am a mom again. My lovely, personal quiet time has been replaced by a quiet time of another sort. The time that I considered so very precious...when my kids are just my kids. The fighting has not started; responsibilities have not started and the T.V. is not on. I am not yet the waitress or the nag. Just the mother of two gorgeous children. We may share a couple of laughs. We may barely talk at all. It does not matter. The comfort of the morning hours satisfies my soul, and I bask in its normalcy.

As the clock ticks forward, these fleeting moments are replaced by our hectic family schedule of soccer games, gymnastics and other responsibilities. Our day ensues. But, as I go to bed tonight, I know that my thoughts will turn to my Sunday morning coffee and I will look forward to the Sunday’s quiet moments, hoping that they will be enough to quench my thirst for time with my kids for the rest of the week.

Marsi lives in San Diego, CA with her husband, two children and dog. A private foundation grants writer by trade, Marsi explores her creative side by contributing to Writing Writer Writest. She is a breast cancer survivor and keeps a blog of her journey, entitled Nip-It.

Mike Gamms - Chapter Five: Even Winners Can Be Losers

2011-09-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

We arrive to Vegas just around sunset.  Eager to continue the buzz we started in the car, me and Roger hit up the liquor store while the girls go get strippered up in the bathroom mirror. I promise Jacki a bottle of whiskey, a task I have to borrow money from Roger to complete.

On the way back to the room we stop at the casino so Roger can play some black jack. I'm quickly reminded that I actually hate this city a lot more than I had remembered.  I'm not sure if last time I was here I was too drunk to notice or not unhappy enough to be bothered by it, but on this visit I'm already miserable. The people I hate are being celebrated as cool. Those cocky fucks in their designer suits just trying to show off how rich and pretty they are. I'm so poor I can't imagine what it's like to even want a 300 dollar suit, let alone actually own one. The money I make off unemployment and donating plasma barely leaves me enough for a bottle of cheap whiskey.  Seeing people bet even a 100 on a hand of black jack is enough to make me sick.

10 minutes and a grand later, Roger is ready to go. When we get back to the room, I'm not sure if Jacki is more excited to see me, or the bottle of booze. I already feel like I'm striking out with her.  Whenever I'm around a pretty girl I get nervous.  And surprisingly all the drinking didn't help. I'm not sure if I fell in love with her already or just in love with the thought of a girl that hot even being remotely interested in me. Either way I look pathetic. I know I'm too much of a pussy to get with her sober so I start racing to get drunk as soon as possible.  I can tell by the way she's keeping up that she needs to be drunk to hook up with me too.  I try to pretend like it's because she's nervous but I'm not dumb. I'm too much of a self loathing little shit to not have seen it coming a mile away. I'm not sure why I'm so fucking miserable when we'll probably still fuck anyways.

I decide it's best not to think about it, and crack open the Grey Goose bottle. Not that I would ever buy that over priced douchebag vodka, but Roger thinks it's cool to show off. Trying to impress his large breasted lady, he invites up a friend who claims to be a Vegas club promoter.  I'm unimpressed because I hate everyone, but to girls as sleazy as these two, club promoters are kings. Especially when they bring as much coke as this one.

Him and the girls have already done a mirror full of lines and are feeling pretty hopped up.  This is clear when he pulls Jacki's panties aside and licks her vagina. She laughs and doesn't seem to mind. Neither does anyone else in the room, so I shouldn't either. I begin to wonder why I fall in love with girls who flirt and fuck like it means nothing, but I direct my attention to the coffee table lined with blow instead.

After a few lines, I've forgotten about Jacki, I've forgotten about the bugs, and I've even forgotten about how much I hate myself. I have no concern for what I'm doing. My only worry is having as much fun as possible and feeling as good as possible. At least that's what I tell my self as I try to let the drug take over.  I've had enough of being in charge of my actions and drugs are a get out of jail free card for making bad decisions. I can be whoever I wanna be, do whatever I wanna do, and I have a perfect scapegoat for all of it.

Roger is just as snow blown as me but on a different planet entirely. After doing a line off his girl's tits, he declares it's time to go. I grab a bottle of wine for the road. Whenever I do hard drugs I think it makes me Hunter S. Thompson. No one buys it, but it sure as hell gets me drunk quicker.

I'm too lazy to fight for pussy so I just let Jacki have the club promoter if she wants him. She grabs my crotch in the elevator. Clearly ignoring her turns her on. When we finally get in the club my chances with Jacki continue to improve. The promoter is no longer a threat; he disappeared as soon as he brought us passed the line outside and into the club.  He stuck around long enough for what I can only assume was an expensive handshake with Roger.

The coke high has shifted from extremely elated to arrogant and judgmental. Everyone in the club annoys me.  All the women have matching fake tits and fake personalities. They may pretend like they want to be models, but deep down they just want to a marry a rich foreign guy, and spend all his money drinking with her girlfriends by the pool. It wouldn't be so annoying if all the guys in this club weren't the exact guys who want nothing more than to land themselves a fake empty wife.  This club is a breeding ground for everyone I hate. These people think that being rich or attractive will compensate for being so damn uninteresting, but I don't buy it.

Jacki makes the rounds through the club leaving me to entertain myself with a head full of coke and a liver full of vodka. We both know I'm her plan B as long as I'm able to keep quiet and not weird her out too much. I keep my distance and venture towards the dance floor.

When you surround me with people I hate, I get bored easily and make trouble. I start repeatedly stomping on the feet of people around me while I pretend to be dancing. After they get pissed and realize it was no accident, I move onto to a different part of the floor. After I run out of toes to step on, I go find Jacki. I get a rush off the reckless danger and it gives me enough balls to ask her back to the room.

A few minutes later we find ourselves in the elevator.  I'm not sure if it's out of nervous fear or incredible loneliness, but I try to hold Jacki's hand.  She playfully slaps it away and grabs my cock instead.  She tells me it's big but I know it's out of pity. It's more insulting that she thinks I'm the kind of guy who needs his ego stroked than it would have been if she had just said I had a small dick. I decide it's best to keep my shit together and ignore my issues long enough to get a load off.

We burst through the door to find Roger and his girl already at it. He hammers her from behind, each hand full of her fake tits. He continues at it as he shouts across the room to us.

"Hey man don't let us interrupt your fun. There's plenty of room in the bathroom for a good solid fuck!"

I'm not confident in my abilities enough to fuck in front of a crowd, and she's horny enough to do it just about anywhere, so we take his advice.

That much coke and booze is enough to slow down even the quickest semen, but I'm still ready to go after only a few minutes.  The only reason I hold it in is for the girl's benefit anyways. I could care less about getting her off at this point; it's not like she's getting much out of it.  I'm too awkward to make conversation and I'm sweating like a pig. But I can tell by the occasional moan she lets out between text messages that she doesn't mind it too much. She's about as into me as I'm into her, but at least she's not so tripped up on her own bullshit that she can't enjoy a simple fuck. Whether it's an ignorant denial of the situation, or a nihilist I don't give a fuck attitude, I'm jealous of her marginal contentment with life.

I close my eyes and pretend like my dick isn't only hours behind the club promoters tongue for a few more pumps before letting it out. She kisses me on the forehead, says thanks and skips out of the room.  The fact that this girl has come to expect such unsatisfactory fucking only makes me feel more pathetic.  I pop a few sleeping pills I stole from her purse and curl up in the empty bathtub. I won't feel any less lonely than I would in bed with her, that's for sure. The pills kick in fast and I survive another day.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Luke LaGraff - 200 words

2011-09-16T19:51:00.000-07:00

Well there is really no reason to write about God, now is there? I don't think or believe it's a topic to write about. I just think God-writin' is a purely fictional undertaking, and therefore kind of ridiculous to write about.

At least if you're writing about the big G man in a serious tone.

And I'm not saying God is fictional. But writing about God would have to be considered fictional, of course. How the hell do you know what God is or isn't? If you do know, please find out why egg nog can't be around all year? I love that shit. God will know the answer and the remedy. Can you mention that at the next company picnic?

So, we've covered a lot of ground on this topic today. And good, no questions. Wow, I seemed to have affected everyone's mind on the futility of writing about God.

Again, just for good measure- It's illogical to write about God. Yet, it's logical to write about people who write about God.

So I've got a problem with conjecture.

I, too, do.

I, too, want to know the 'end'. Not as much as I used to. My story is right about... now.

Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.

Debra Crosslin - My One and Only Catfight

2011-09-15T20:40:00.000-07:00

Back during the Vietnam War I knew John. One night we were making out in his car. He was a great kisser.

Suddenly, John says, “I’m going to Vietnam.”

Well I was just thinking, "Let’s kiss some more," and then John asked me if I would write to him in Vietnam.

"Sure", I said sure, thinking about his kisses.

I wrote him, mostly about friends in the neighborhood. After one year, he came back. Thank God! His sister Nina wanted her friend and me to fight over John. If you like to hang out at Burger Chef with your friends and smoke you would just have to fight.

We fought and I was winning. All of a sudden, John’s older, fat sister jumps into the ring and sits on me. The loser girl kicks me in the face. My friend jumps on Nina and yells, “No fair!”

She was bleeding, but that kick in the face cost me a black eye.

I can go to Burger Chef and smoke! I am in line and there is John. I said, “ Look at my shiner all because of you.” He left and I never got to kiss him again.

The Vietnam War sucked!

Katie McMahon - Words

2011-09-15T12:57:00.000-07:00

I have learned that everyone else’s bed is more comfortable than my own. But you came here, choosing to sleep here with your fingers in my hair and mouth because your bed was too small. With your feet hanging off, you say you can’t sleep; you won’t sleep. I dream that parts of my hair are missing and I can see bumps on my scalp, but when I wake up, your eyes are closed and little sounds fall out of your nose. I see a bright, fiery circle in the darkness of my eyelids and it fades whenever I open and close again.

I try very hard to not say, “Please don’t leave me,” or “I am so sad when you are not here. Sometimes I wish we never met,” or “Tell me why you are here, but make it what I want to hear.”

I want to say, “I like you so much. You make me feel different than before.”

Sometimes, a lot of times, I think I’m saying the wrong thing. I’m using the wrong words and I’d like to just create new words that were easier for me to say, that made lots of sense to everybody.

Katie McMahon writes and works. And writes. And works.

Marsi White - Second Day of Middle School

2011-09-13T08:57:00.000-07:00

The foreign, deserted hallways were foreboding. My second day of middle school, the halls did not have the eeriness about them, when my dad walked me to my classroom for the first time yesterday. Only dropping me at the curb today, I watch as my dad speeds off. With a gulp and a twitch, I turn and face the school once more. Would today be as boring as yesterday? Are my skinny jeans and graphic t-shirt cool? Who will be in my PE class that go to for the first time? Will I be able to open my combination lock again? My steps are slow and deliberate, giving someone else a chance to get to my homeroom before me. My thoughts continue to wander. I am baffled that so many 7th grade girls talked to me yesterday. I wonder where they might be this morning. Was it a fluke? Suddenly, I hear a car door shut behind me and my named called out by a familiar voice, “Rollie!” Comforted by nothing and yet relieved, I realize it is my best friend. My heart smiles and my nervousness subsides. My second day of sixth grade is off to a good start.

James Littlejohn - 200 words

2011-09-12T17:49:00.000-07:00

This kid shows up at my door. A six-week newspaper subscription will help him and his classmates go to Europe or something. “Why do you want to go to Europe?” I ask him. “I went, and it’s overrated.” The kid doesn’t have an answer, he hasn’t been out of the county, let alone the country, in over a year. He does his best to sell, but they stuck him with a bad product. I tell him I can read the news for free anytime I want. He doesn’t have an answer. He looks like he’ll be addicted to drugs in a few years. Maybe that’s stereotyping. Maybe that’s the truth. Maybe Europe’s what this kid needs to get his life turned around before it goes off the deep end, like it did with all my friends in High School. They didn’t go to Europe, and maybe that was the problem. “What am I talking about?” I tell myself. “This is nonsense, I can’t afford this, besides, I gave that guy on the freeway off-ramp some change last week.” I say no. He turns away. I change my mind. “Here’s five bucks,” I tell him, “but I don’t want the newspaper.”

http://www.jimlittlejohn.com/

Coco Higgins - Television is Real: The First-world Whinings of an Art Historian

2011-09-08T10:16:00.000-07:00

This semester I am taking a Theory of Knowledge class in the philosophy department. I am an art history graduate student and am required to take two classes outside my field. I’ve never taken a philosophy class before, and have only been exposed to such topics tangentially through looking at art. So I thought, hey, why not beef up my elitist resume (nay, CV) by taking an actual, official philosophy course? The best of intentions, I swear.

Since this is an outside-department course, I am allowed to take it at the undergraduate level. You know, because art historians are in fact idiots who pretend that they are interdisciplinary but in fact know nothing else outside of the world of art objects. In any case, I am in a class full of undergrads who have all taken philosophy courses before. (That is a requirement that I weaseled my way out of by virtue of the fact that I have graduate standing, which should theoretically mean that I am an intelligent person.) These undergrads, however, are ten years younger than me and are much more well-versed in the mumbo jumbo that is philosophy.

Then you have the professor, who is habitually late to this god-awful 9:30AM class (did I mention that I am a nocturnal creature who abhors the thought of waking up before noon?). He barges into the classroom all in a tizzy, the residue of his morning coffee forming Frankenthaler stains on his pants, and a wrinkly unlaundered shirt. His hair is uncombed of course, because he has no time for such trivial niceties. He drones on and on in his velvety but low British voice, mumbling most of the time, and occasionally cracking lame philosophy jokes. Of course he’s disheveled and couldn’t care less if we understand him, because of course he’s probably been contemplating some serious philosophical problem all night that OF COURSE caused his brain to implode.

Meanwhile the smarter undergrads (this is such a degrading thing for me to have to admit) are all sitting there just listening, barely taking notes, because OF COURSE all they have to do is absorb this man’s jargon and contemplate it for the rest of the day and all is perfectly fine. Then they name-drop various dead philosophers, “Oh didn’t Martin “Card Carrying Member of the Nazi Party” Heidewhogivesafuck say that consciousness of blahblahI’mshowingoffblahblah?” Whereas, here I am writing feverishly about shit I don’t know and am now realizing I don’t care a lick about.

What is the nature of knowledge? Am I real? How do I know I am real? How do we know that we know something?

Okay, I don’t give a rat’s hairy ass. I know that “I’m not real. I’m theater. And You and I are just rehearsal.” Said Lady Gaga, the contemporary philosopher. Ever hear of HER? Right, didn’t think so, because you live in (Plato’s) cave and haven’t ventured out into society to decide that you probably don’t like her.

Okay, maybe this sounds like sour grapes from someone who can’t hang in a philosophy class. Maybe that’s true. But you know what, I don’t care. In the art history realm, I am probably more engrossed in theory than my peers (and have been criticized for it, but this is not the time or place to get into methodological politics). I’m not gonna talk about my thesis project here, because I’ll probably just be accused of being a pretentious, insufferable academic asshole. And that’s at least 70% true. Okay 90% true. Alright, let’s be real here, 100%.

But it’s absolutely jarring to me to be in a well-lit class with people just TALKING. Especially about bullshit questions in la-la land. I sometimes can’t even stand just sitting around with friends just TALKING. There needs to be something else going on, namely the (ab)use of one or all three of the following: cigarettes, booze, pot (in that order), perhaps in conjunction with a movie or at least music. Call me socially mal-developed, but I need some kind of distraction for my eyes, ears or hands. And art history classes provide that. The lights are turned down low, grainy images are projected on the screen, and we all start masturbating. Ok that last part isn’t true, but that’s where that sentence sounded like it was going.

Art historians look at and analyze images. I need to LOOK AT something. I can’t just talk about NOTHING. I’m not Seinfeld (thank god, he wore the ugliest pants). And I’m not interested in thinking of the origin of thought and knowledge. Who cares about the origin of anything? Logocentrism is soooo passé. (1 – pun intended. 2 – again with the pretentious asshole bit.) I am alive today, and I’d rather think about lived experience TODAY. (Wait, am I really alive today??? No, I must be in hell because I have to go to class at 9:30AM today.)

So anyway I am tired of the mumbo jumbo and it’s only one week into the class.

And I just wasted a bunch of time writing about it just so I can procrastinate on doing my reading. Who cares, I don’t care, a horse’s ass is better than Descartes’. “I think, therefore I am.” Well, monsieur, I THINK the class is boring, therefore I AM dropping it.

And I’d rather be watching television, because television is REAL. (Actually, no it isn’t, it perpetuates representation, which conceals that which is real. But the actual physical object of my television is real. It’s sitting there on a stand. I’m having a phenomenological experience with it now. Oh my god, one week of that dumb class and I’m already brainwashed into thinking like this. And that last sentence is a conscious realization of my own mode of thinking. Ugh. I hate myself. I hate philosophy. Holy shit, maybe I shouldn’t drop the class. No, drop the class. Join the world of the living.)

I also realize that this whole essay is pot-calling-the-kettle-black. But I have to draw the line somewhere in the sand of bullshit wackadoo pseudo-intellectualism. And I draw it at art history. I think that’s far enough.

Debra Crosslin - Mind Controlling Bullshit

2011-09-07T22:28:00.000-07:00

Television, computers, electronics etc. are all owned and operated by the Corporate Elite. The enemy of the free. How much more money and damage can these Corporate assholes need? Somehow, someway they need to be stopped before it's too late. To stop them is to be positive and fearless. Power is not is money; money is just a way of forceful evil. Power is in using your own intelligence and intellect to question the Force of the evil elite. Do not ignore this or take it lightly. Try to make some sense of what you hear and see everyday. Ask to be released from this horrid, mind boggling bullshit. At first it maybe painful, but I promise you it gets better. Fear is what kills and fear is exactly what these monsters use everyday and every minute. What can they do? Kill everyone, take away our freedom, censorship, throw us a few tokens of Mac and Cheese, put us all behind bars, drug us, lower our pay, break unions, bail out banks and Wall Street, send off innocent poor kids to fight a meaningless war, close schools and fire teachers. This is only the beginning of what they have already accomplished.

Every newspaper, TV station, website, book, movie, and any other source of the information highway is corrupted. "How do I know?" you may ask. Practice, practice and more practice. Count how many times a cute newscaster uses the words fear, danger, or catastrophe in one half hour broadcast. Look at people who have lived and worked in the same city all their pathetic lives, especially the skilled, young robots of the technological generation, and ask them to spell a major street in the vicinity. Without thinking they get out their iPhones and look it up. They tell you and forget about it. Information in and information out. Try not to ask an open ended question or an individual opinion they can't find on Wikipedia, they will not know what to do. Panic will set in and they may explode right in front of you. What little ass pussies. They cannot or do not know how to think for themselves.

Simply listen to the commercials that big drug companies have on, continually telling us that we are depressed, even our pets are sad. It makes you want to kill yourself. Oh, that is one of the many scary side effects! Political campaigns are an endless drama of lies upon more lies. Please just throw me a little box of fruit roll-ups. Watch out for the fanatical religious zealots who scream that gays, dykes, transsexuals, blacks, Mexicans, Arabs, Asians, and Frosty the Snowman are all condemned in the Bible of the greatest prophet that ever lived, Jesus Christ. Was his last name Christ? I thought he was born a Jew. Whatever you do, do not get a High School Diploma online. Another Corporate money making idea. Charter Schools make even more money for the Elite Corporate Maniacs overtaking the young generation. I always wonder where they learned to read: From a teacher, a professor, or a giant mongoose in the sky?

It is just so very sad. It makes you want to vomit. What more can I write? Nobody is listening anyway. Run to your computer or television and listen to the propaganda of the day. Get fat, thin or turn blue. Use some cosmetic cream to get rid of the pollutant ugly mess on your body. Get a face-lift, liposuction, pimple cream and erase your memory and implode! See ya later alligator! Nice knowing you. Bye!

Debbie Crosslin RIP

200 words.

2011-08-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody! I just started school and a new job this week, so I thought to myself, "Why not add on the task of persuading people to write every week for the WWW blog?" So that's what I'm here to do.

Summer is over. Kind of. Or almost. So it's time to get back into the swing of things. For us here at Writing, Writer Writest, that means... well, writing. Please send me any ideas you might have for upcoming themes. I've tried updating the blog a little bit, but if you'd like to see something else on here, I am very open to suggestions.

Due by the weekend of 9/2: "Television." I feel like this theme is self-explanatory, but if you have any questions, let me know!

Due by the weekend of 9/9: "200 Words." This is more a less similar to our 20-minute stories theme that went over so well. Sit down in front of your computer and write 200 words, no more and no less. Submissions must be exactly 200 words (I will send them back to you if they're not!). After writing your 200 words, send your essays, short stories, poems, etc. into writingwriterwritest@gmail.com.

I hope you guys are still out there and I hope you still have your hands to write/type with. If not, I'm sure there is some type of technology that can help you.

Thanks,

Katie

Marsi White - Getting Back on the Horse

2011-08-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

Mischief and mayhem,

I heard it has been said,

That friends are bonded,

Through the stunts ahead.

The whispers and planning,

The very next game,

The cocktails, the parties,

Rich, loud and untame.

Fun had by all.

Though its the glorious few,

Who scheme and connive,

Motivate anew.

Out of sorts, out of time,

Personal restrictions.

Friends pulling me back,

To their chaotic missions.

Cherishing every minute,

Holding their hands,

Like leading me to water,

My soul fed, commands.

Through thick and thin,

Girls, saving me,

From myself and the mundane,

From my problems and worries.

Mischief and mayhem,

They most definitely start.

But they do it with love,

They do it with heart.

Marsi lives in San Diego, CA with her husband, two children and dog. A private foundation grants writer by trade, Marsi explores her creative side by contributing to Writing Writer Writest. She is a breast cancer survivor who is fighting a long fight. She keeps a blog of her journey, entitled Nip-It .

Scott Joel Gizicki - Untitled

2011-08-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

acrylic on canvas

Scott Joel Gizicki is just another one of those new Los Angeles residents that acts and enjoys writing as well. After being born and raised in Detroit, he finally made it 3,000 miles to the city he's always wanted to live in this past August. He hopes he can stand out from the crowd; at least a little bit.

Susmita Paria - Being Yourself

2011-07-16T11:40:00.000-07:00

Right since my childhood, mom always enrolled me in various extra-curricular activities be it swimming, Indian classical dance, playing the keyboard, calligraphy classes et al. I never complained for I enjoyed being engaged in some or the other activities. It gave a purpose to look forward to that particular day, to learn something new, to be better than others and to learn something that others didn't know! Over the years I learned how-to dance, swim, paint and, in short, find happiness at being engaged in these activities. They shaped the way I am, the way I conduct my self, the way I see myself for I know "how-to" do a lot of things.

Unfortunately, I have met people or rather parents who force their child to learn to do many things be it how to cook, how to play guitar or how to be better than others and burden them with loads of expectations that they have to meet. The parents should understand that everyone is an individual entity, each one having distinct, unique characteristics and child is special in their own way. It is not correct to fulfill their dreams and expectations by using their child as a medium.

As we grow up, life throws some rhetorical, never said questions at us which further comes in the way of "how to be yourself." How to be an ideal daughter, wife, woman, sister, friend and how to be ideal in society only increases the pressure on us. The society has certain perceptions about everyone and anybody going against those perception is not respected or looked up to!..Our actions, speech and movement are closely watched by everyone and the end result might be that a person behaving as opposed to his/her natural conduct of life. In short and simpler words "being fake." So who is at fault??..society, friends, peers, colleagues..?

There's no definite answer as each and every individual have different perspectives, like to be and are different. The mantra is to have immense trust in yourself, to love yourself the way you are, to be positive about yourself and receive and give positive vibes. Life is simple, but our actions, thoughts, and approaches to situations make it more complex. I wish one day not few but all of us live, behave, and speak the way we want to and not get burdened simply by the two words: "how-to"

Debra Crosslin - How to Take a Compliment

2011-07-13T12:45:00.000-07:00

One of the hardest words for me to say is, "thank-you." So I had to learn "How To Take a Compliment."

Let me break this down in a way that makes it easy. Maybe you can relate.

A compliment is a form of sincerity and admiration. For example: Somebody may say, "Wendy, your new outfit looks great on you." Just say "thank-you" and smile. Simple stupid! Practice makes perfect and saying something nice to other people helps too.

I used to say, embarrassed and looking down on the floor, "No, not me, this old thing." Or "Awe shucks." Or blush and sigh in utter disdain and actually say nothing. Nobody wants that kind of attention.

What if somebody you like a lot says, "Mary you are so beautiful!" You used to say, angrily, "No, I am ugly. You are crazy." Thinking what does this person want from me? "Liar!"

What if you think you were amazing or did something amazingly great. Nobody says, "Wow! You are amazing." "That was a great performance." You get zero, nada. Or maybe somebody says, "You suck." "Just who in the hell do you think you are?" Now you are hurt and feel like somebody popped your balloon. Turning away, not wanting them to see the tears in your eyes, you walk quickly away.

Professionally, you can either give up or you hold your head up high and continue. You can even say, "Fuck you asshole." I think it is better to just laugh in their face. People are ignorant. They may be jealous or intimidated by you. It makes them feel better about themselves.

The problem is you may have been verbally abused growing up. An example is an insecure parent sees their child happily dancing and singing. Maybe mom or dad is tired or hung over from a night of heavy drinking. They can't stand the noise, it gives them a worse headache than they already have. So they yell at this innocent child and say, "Stop it you little fool. You are a terrible singer and you dance like a clown. Now get your ugly face away from me before I slap the shit out of you!"

Boom! This beautiful child may never dance or sing again. The sad part is she or he really can sing or dance. It is too late. The damage is done.

So say, "thank-you" for a sincere compliment. Just forget about the darkness, be positive. Remember life is dynamic, not static. Like the old song says, "Ooh, ooh child things are gonna get easier. Ooh, ooh child things well get brighter. Someday, yeah, we'll get it together and we'll get it undone Someday the world will get lighter." The lesson here is be careful of your words and actions. Love one another.

Scott Joel Gizicki - How to Walk

2011-07-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was in college looking through what courses could count towards my Phys. Ed. general requirements and I laughed at the walking class they offered. I'm not laughing anymore. Coming from someone who is strictly a pedestrian - people don't know how to walk! OK, of course not all people, but there's a large majority out here that need to abide by these rules.

1. Look Up
-Pretty self-explanatory. So many people walk looking down or side to side or even at their cell phone. While I'm incredibly guilty of the last one, I still manage to keep looking up and stay vigilant. You never know who or what you may run into, which does bring me into the next rule.

2. Pick a Side and Stick to It
-This is especially aggravating when there's only one person in front of you that you need to pass. There are so many walkers out there that do not realize they sway when they walk. You need to imagine sidewalk as having dashed lines much like the road. You cannot be moving in and out of these imaginary lanes. Not only is it annoying as shit but it's hazardous! What if I was one of these look downers and I don't realize you're suddenly in my lane? Boom! Collision!

3. Maintain Your Speed
-It really doesn't matter what speed you walk as long as you are also abiding by rules number 1 and 2. All I ask is to be mindful of your surroundings. Kindly let people walk by you if you're a slower walker and don't rudely push through crowds if you're faster. There is a real method of walking through bigger crowds safely and efficiently. This skill comes to great use especially when walking in areas that attract a lot of tourists.*

4. No Sudden Stops
-I get it. Sometimes while walking you need to stop whether it's to rest or to tie your shoe. Again, pay attention to your surroundings before stopping. This is so painstakingly annoying especially while attempting the inter-weaving in larger groups of slower walkers or when getting on and off of staircases, escalators, elevators and/or public transit. There are others behind you, so get to a safe and less crowded area before you suddenly stop.

5. Public Transit
-Aside from the above mentioned stopping as soon as you get off public transit, my worst pet peeve in this category applies especially to the trains. When you are getting ready to board a train, first pay notice to see if there are others trying to get off. This is made quite clear by the windows on the doors! It drives me cuckoo bananas to see a mob of people standing in front of the doors creating an obstacle to get to the stairs. Come on people, move! It's even worse when they try to walk in as people are exiting. Oh! Another thing that drives me crazy is more applicable to the buses. When a bus driver asks you to move all the way back and fill in all the seats (especially when trying to make room for the elderly or handicapped) for Pete's sake just move back! It's not that daunting of a request!

These are five very simple rules that could make life for all foot-dwellers a hell of a lot easier. Please share and abide!

*Rules do not necessarily apply to tourists considering they've a lot to see and they are over-whelmed by all senses. However, it does not make tourists any more tolerable to be around.

Barbi Beckett - MG, Pinto, LTD

2011-07-02T17:07:00.000-07:00

If my mother were to take a personality test, the results would read: Male, approximate age: fourteen.

This was evidenced in her knick knacks; a stuffed frog, whose red tipped phallus flopped out when you picked him up, a carved hand, whose erect middle finger wore her rings and a novelty strong man, who peed if you tried to lift him from the shelf. But nothing could set off my mother’s cackle like hearing her third grader tell a joke. Here’s one she taught me to perform for her friends:

Three sailors go into port. They are very excited to go see the whore who lives on the hill because they have heard she does nice things for sailors. The first sailor goes, gives her five dollars and returns with a BIG smile on his face. His friends ask, “What’d she do? What’d she do?” and he says, “Well, she sprayed whipped cream all over my dick and then she licked it off!” (We’re going to cut to the third sailor who gives her fifteen dollars, returns looking sad and explains -) “Well, first she sprayed whipped cream all over my dick and then she sprinkled nuts on it and put a cherry on top.” The other sailors all are, “Yeah, yeah and…?” and the third sailor says, “And, it looked so good I ate it myself.”

I bet you can hear the cackle from there.

Still, my dad never objected (that I knew of) when she would come whisk me away on a road trip. Even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered; I worshipped her and my life centered around her visits. In the car we’d listen to the same 8-track tapes over and over. I belted all of the words to House of the Raising Sun (Dolly Parton’s version) but when Helen Reddy sang You And Me Against The World, I just sat and tried to hold my shit together. I never succeeded though; Toward the end of the song, I always had my head cranked to the right, pretending to look out the window so she wouldn’t see my wet face. Of course, by the time the little girl voice said, “I love you, mommy” and Helen Reddy said, “I love you too, baby” the snot was flowing, so, she knew. That’s probably why she played it so much.

My mom would drive until it was long dark, then she’d pull over, fold down the Pinto’s rear seats and we’d snuggle up for the night. I loved seeing where we were in the morning, as the terrain would have changed since the last daylight. We’d get out to stretch and pee in the bushes or tumbleweeds then head to a convenience store for breakfast. The meals were one of the best parts of spending time with my mom. Breakfast was Dr. Pepper with Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes. Lunch was Dr. Pepper with bread and peanut butter (you’da thought she’d discovered a scientific phenomenon the way she went on about how easy it was to spread peanut butter when it got hot in the car) and dinner varied, except for the Dr. Pepper.

Occasionally we’d stay at a very cheap hotel and have dinner in a restaurant with the money my dad had given her for my share of the trip. I preferred the car though. At one hotel I asked my mom, “What’s this dark sticky stuff on the bathroom door?” She glanced over and said, “Probably blood.”

When I was in middle school I took a cross country drive with my mom and her third (and fourth, same guy) husband. We drove from El Paso to New York City then down to Biloxi, where the husband got on a plane bound for Greenland. When he wasn’t being an angry drunk he was all right, I guess. He didn’t necessarily have anything to say to me and I definitely felt like a visitor in his back seat, but at least he had the couth to push her chubby hand away when it started riding too high on his stout thigh in the front seat. Also, when I was five, I once kissed him goodbye and stuck my tongue in his mouth, as I’d seen her do. He got upset and told on me. That marked class.

When we finally reached Biloxi we stayed overnight in the barracks of the Air Force base he’d be flying out of. We washed up in the shared bathroom down the hall from our room, which was fine because there was no one else around. My mom and Number Three got the queen bed and I had a twin about four feet away. Less than five minutes after lights out, the whispers and foreplay began. Unfortunately, the pair were perfectly silhouetted, so I was soon treated to the scarring image of a corpulent incubus aloft a rotund succubus, fat legs on high.

Feeling desperate, I got out of bed and fled to the latrine, knowing the room door would lock behind me and they’d have to stop to let me back in. I hung out for a while, pacing along the sinks under bright fluorescent light. Finally, I went back and knocked. Someone opened the door; I didn’t care who. I got in my bed and was relieved to hear the apparition snoring. I bet for another thirty bucks they could have scored two rooms. My dad definitely would have sprung for that.

In the morning they pretended nothing had happened so I made a joke about seeing a moaning ghost hovering in their bed. She cackled, he was embarrassed and humiliated. If you know which is the appropriate response, you’re not my mother. If you have a realistic sense of how long it takes a person to fall asleep, you’re neither one of those chumps.

When I was twenty my mother and I took our final road trip together. Not final because she died, but final because I couldn’t stand her anymore. The only reason I went was because she was heading to Portland, Oregon to track down her oldest son and I wanted to see my boyfriend in Seattle. Plus she had money to burn from her most recent divorce (from Number Five) so she was paying. It hadn’t entirely occurred to me that my big brother, who hadn’t spoken to his mom for over ten years, might not be thrilled to hear from us. I was the only one from our family that he’d invited to his wedding six years before but even I’d lost touch with him. We pulled into Portland at night and she made me call him from a payphone. I’d begun to wonder if leaving all of us was the only way he felt he could get away from her. I suddenly knew it, though, when we pulled up to the address he gave me and I saw his figure sitting on a step in the dark. I felt the weight of the phone call he’d just received. I felt guilty and wished I could turn the car around, turn the clock back an hour and leave him in the relative peace of his life away. I do believe that the return of my mother into his world marked the onset of that brother’s decline.

My brother and sister-in-law were gracious and my mother over-stayed our welcome. Two weeks later we headed back to El Paso after my brother convinced me to go home, pack up and move to Portland. His mom had decided to move there too so, inevitably, she and I would be roommates. I would share a roof with my mother for the first time since I was four years old.

Our drive back to El Paso did not bode well for the impending living arrangement. I was so out of my head miserable by the time we reached Vegas that she had put me on a plane. The ticket was funded by my dad, who understood the importance of getting the hell away from her. In that same vein, Pop would, four months later, fully support me in moving to Seattle from Portland to shack up with my black boyfriend out of wedlock.

Tragically without clue, my mother has managed to drive everyone away, some to other realms. My dad (Number Two) used to nurse my mommy-wounds with, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, she’ll get hers; What goes around comes around.” And other stale chestnuts. But, as I knew at the time, a sick, scared and lonely old woman in the final scene, does not give good schadenfreude, not in theory, and not in reality.

Scott Joel Gizicki - Memory Lane

2011-07-01T13:49:00.000-07:00

Isn't it amazing how one little thing can take you back to what sometimes feels like a life time ago? For example, whenever I wash dishes and I get to washing knives I think of my father. I had to have been real young, but as a kid I loved doing the dishes. I used to pull a chair in front of the sink and kneel down on it and wash away. There was one time in particular that my Dad came into the kitchen as I was scrubbing away. He told me he wanted to see how I washed a knife. He did this to ensure that I was indeed safely cleaning the utensil. I held on to the handle as I safely soaped up the blade with the sponge and my father was glad I was knew what I was doing. I distinctly remember thinking to myself that I was going to show him even further how good I am. I then touched a safe part of the blade and began scrubbing the handle to clean that as well. Dad of course told me not to do that because I could hurt myself. I remember feeling this disappointment that my over-zealous actions did not impress my father. Looking back now, I know that he wasn't upset but just looking out for his youngest. It's funny the things we hold on to from childhood.

Another icon that puts me into time travel mode are packets of condiments like mustard or ketchup. This story also involves pulling the chair up to the sink. I recall always wanting to squeeze one of those packets until it exploded. Well, on this particular day mustard was my drug of choice, but I knew well enough to try and prepare for a messy clean up. Over that sink I kept squeezing when "SQUIRT!" The mustard shot right up in my eye. I love that I can take trips like that all throughout my day. Such as when I walk into 7-11 to purchase their incredibly delicious Monterey Jack Chicken Toquitos and spot the FunDip candy (formerly known as Lik-A-Maid) I can't help but think of eating that with my mother as a young child. She never liked the Marshmallow-flavored Lik-A-Stiks used for dipping, so I'd wait in anticipation for her to pass them off to me.

These little trips that we get to take are so incredibly precious. It reminds us of where we came from. There are of course those little trips that remind us of more embarrassing times. In my Junior year of high school, I along with two other friends dressed up as the Three Blind Mice for Halloween. Subsequently, the children's nursery rhyme will always transport me to my lunch period that day when I tripped on absolutely nothing causing my food to splatter on the floor along with myself. Thankfully I was in costume, so I announced to the gazing eyes and chuckling laughter around me that I was only playing the part. Even if my face gets a bit red recalling that graceful moment in the history of Scott, it's still so vitally important because it is in my history.

Everything that has happened in my life has built who I am today. Without it, I would have never written this albeit late entry for WWW. I also wouldn't be that person that is so proud to be me, either. So, every time I find myself washing another knife, I smile and say to myself, "Look, Dad, I'm washing it right." I know he smiles back at me and says, "Great job, son." It's the little things that keep us connected to ourselves and maintain our humanity. I urge all of you to allow yourself those little trips down Memory Lane. You may be pleasantly surprised or blind-sided with embarrassment but either way it can keep you on track to reach your next destination in life.

Sanam Shahmiri - The Tourist

2011-06-30T20:42:00.000-07:00

They stood in doorways
picturesque postures
symmetrical eye makeup
objects for your gawking.

I was fifteen
surrounded by drunkards
and out-of-towners
pockets dripping euros.

They call it the red light district
‘cause you can’t help stopping,
eyes strive to capture
these pleasure domes,
scenes set to singe innocence.

The neighbor raps on the door
for a cup full of condoms
and the stairs spiral upwards
uncomfortably narrow.

I was fifteen
and it didn’t bother me,

at first. Next stop, Iran;

where even doorways

tuck away, in shame.

Katie McMahon - Oklahoma?

2011-06-28T17:58:00.000-07:00

Luke Lagraff - Everywhere for Me

2011-06-27T10:43:00.000-07:00

I feel I've been more places than a lot of people. I've been more
places than one of my friends. I know I have. I've been more places
than almost all things. And by things I mean animals. Except birds I
guess. Well, the ones that migrate and shit. They fly thousands of
miles. They eat fish from the same little lake each time. They eat from
the same family of worms, too. That worm family must not like them. If
I was in that worm family, I'd be like, "NOT AGAIN! That same swooping
bastard ate my 349th born child!" I'm not going to check if worms have
that many offspring, I'm just assuming they do. Because worms don't
have much to do that's fun besides get it on.
I went to Memphis once. It was alright. I got lost in Soulsville. I
thought that was cool. I've been to Knoxville hundreds of times though.
Some were fun and some were forgotten. One time that wasn't forgotten
was the most cathartic concert I've ever been to; Phish is a helleva
band. I've been to Nashville a number of times as well. I had sex in
Nashville once. In the backyard of a house that was for sale. I never
had sex in Knoxville. I've been to Martin once, too. They have a
college there. I went to Bristol once to see a cirlce race. Yep, they
all went left. I've been to Crossville, Clarksville, Kingsport,
Murpheesboro, Dayton, Dunlap, Soddy-Daisy, Gatlinburg, and Manchester.
I saw all the bands you'd ever want to hear in Manchester. Bonnaroo is there.
Fun. I didn't have sex there, nor did I see anyone having sex. But, I
did see Elvis Costello, Beck, Radiohead, and Ivan Neville's Dumpstafunk
one day. On another day, in another year, I saw Modest Mouse, My
Morning Jacket and Widespread Panic. Two years ago I saw Al Green, TV
on the Radio and Phish on one day. Our camping neighbor that year gave
me something called Molly. He gave it to me for free! His name was
Apple Butter. I really shouldn't have taken it. At least not as much as
he gave me. I remember looking up after 15 minutes, and seeing a flag
for the Pittsburg Penguins and knowing I wanted to find a place to
watch Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals, I headed straight towards it. I
found some people from Maryland who luckily gave me the hat I was
asking to wear, for my head was boiling and I feared it might begin to
melt off. They were nice. I got scared though after they went in to
hear music and left me at their camp. I began calling all in my phone.
Nobody answered. Then my friend who I came to the weekend with called.
He said he was at Al Green, and asked if I'd like to meet him. I said
that was probably the greatest idea I'd ever heard. When I arrived and
heard the full band tearing through 'Love and Happiness', blissing my
brain out, I remembered why I took the drug in the first place. Later
that night I sat down to rest next to a volunteer. He was beside one of
those signs for 'Sharps' disposal. In this case meaning needles. I
found this odd, and hilarious that the staff would provide a place for
the junkies to drop off their used syringes. But he told me it was for
diabetics and I realized this was a good idea. Soon a couple of local
chicks parked it next to us. I had gotten their attention by telling
them,"We'll talk about it later!" They were wondering what I meant. I
asked them where the ground was. They both had on makeup and were clean
and obviously had just come into the festival so they were curious what
I was on. I said,"Nothing, anymore." One of them said,"NAW. You on
somethin." I kinda wanted to hang out with this pretty, country girl.
She then non-sequintially asked me if I have any kids. I said, "No, do
you?" "No," she said, "oh wait, yeah I do." Damn Tennessee girls let me
down that time.
Six years before this I came with some friends to Venice and swam in
the Pacific Ocean on Valentine's Day. I had bet my friend a beer that
I'd get in. I won. The water was cold but the air was around 80 degrees
that day. And cloudless. It was perfect. We drove the PCH and cut
through Topanga Canyon. We made friends on the 405 as we sat. It was a
great trip. I even got stuck in Dallas on the flight back because of
ice. So the airline gave me a $300 voucher towards a future flight. But
I lost the voucher.
But, I went back to California six years later. Actually, just a few
years after I had gone to Massachusetts. And one year after I had gone
to Toronto. And 15 years after I went to Stratford-Upon-Avon. And
London. And when I got to California, this time having driven. Alabama,
Mississippi, Louisiana, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona all having been
wonderful, I went to sleep. When I got up it was so nice. I felt grand.
I ate fish tacos and oranges and sushi and drank rum. I went to a
comedy club and Hollywood Boulevard. I got stoned. I, I didn't have a
way back though. Nope. This time I had come all the way to California
with no plans on how I was getting back. Back being Chattanooga. I had done
this when I went to Massachusetts. Also when I went to Knoxville once.
Don't do this, as it pisses off people. People who care about me and don't
want me sleeping on their couch. I ended up trading a very stylish Foster's
beer shirt that had a pouch sewn onto it with the words 'The Big Taste From Down
Under' on it. My friend who I traded this with said it might be worth
$90 at an L.A. boutique clothing shop. The plane ticket it got me was worth
it. On the trip home I had two dollars and 21 cents. I bought a taco at Taco Bell
during my layover in Denver. I was still so hungry. TSA had taken my
soup and Chef Boy-R-Dee at LAX. I boarded my connecting flight to Orlando. The
woman sitting next to me passed on her complimentary beverage so I
asked her if she didn't want her peanuts, could I have them? She asked if I was
hungry. I said yes! She immediately got up and went to the back of the plane and
came back with eight bags of peanuts, 4 bags of pretzels, and three bags of
cookies. She said she used to work for American Airlines! Thank you, ma'am. Thank
you very much. I continued reading Macbeth a much fuller man. When I arrived in
Orlando I knew only a little about how I was going to get to my third
flight. Sanford, FL to home in Chattanooga. Sanford is about 45 minutes north
of Orlando International Airport and I had no money. I found out the city bus
would take me within 2 miles of Sanford's airport. So I went to sleep and got up to
board the first bus at 5:05am. I showed the bus driver the 19 pennies I found in the bottom
of my backback and looked as helpless as a person with all working appendages
could. She said get on. I had to be at my flight by 7:30am. Busses are slow. I was
becoming more and more worried that I'd be stuck here for days, missing my
flight and reciting monologues from Shakespeare's 'Three Great Tragedies' for more tacos.
The bus dropped me at Airport Drive with 35 minutes to get to my flight. It was
August in Florida. It was around 93 degrees and so humid it was so humid it was
just so damn humid. I tried to run. That lasted 50 seconds. I had a backpack and a
large piece of luggage as well. I trudged and trudged along the road. I flipped my
thumb up but had no luck attempting to hitchhike. I speed walked! I sat. I walked a little
more. I sat. I was so hot!! I was sweating sweating sweating. I was becoming pissed for the
first time on my trip. AHH! Why do I get into these situations! I think I yelled rural
sayings like,"Y'all suck!" at the passing drivers in their cars and trucks and lawnmowers.
I was beaten down. I was desperate and worthless. Pathetic.
I saw a guy taking out his trash. I couldn't see the airport. I asked
him if it was close. He said, "About a mile." I kept on walkin. Damn
this heavy ass luggage. I didn't need to bring all this stuff. I
probably wore two different shirts and the same shorts the whole trip.
Why did I bring these hats, these CD's, these boots, these books, these
rollerblades! Why did I bring rollerblades?? I used them once when I
went to Massachusetts and often at home as a portable, free way of
traveling; I got make fun of.
-"Hey? You goin' to the airport?"
What. Was that? That was the garbage taker outer. "Yes, sir."
"Do you want a lift?" he asked.
"Yes. Yes, that would be the greatest," I answered.
I got in his air conditioned SUV and found out he was a heatpacking
Homeland Security Officer that was not scared of me or much else. His
wife graduated from the same college I got a 0.0 at and she was from
Knoxville. She wanted to move the family back there in a few years.
I got dropped off at 7:22. I made my flight.
My friend picked me up at Chattanooga Regional Airport and took me to
see 'Inglourious Basterds' that afternoon. It was like I hadn't left. Or
something like that.

Riddhi Mehta - A Letter to My Child

2011-06-25T22:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Child,

You are not yet a part of my world. You are not yet a part of this world. Yet I know you. I know you as a reflection of myself. I know you as I know me. I know you as I am a reflection of my mother and her mother before her. I know you as I am a reflection of my father and his mother.

I know you dear child-for you are my reflection. My reflection-yet to be reflected.

Know this dear child; I love you no matter what. Know this dear child; you don't have to be the best of the smartest or the fastest for my love.

I do not expect you to live up to the expectations-others or my own.

I do expect you to respect the expectations of others.

Yet dear child-reflect at what you do... for what you do is a reflection of you.

Yet none of this matters!

You don't exist. Your reflection doesn't exist.

But I reflect upon this. So it matters to me and not to the faint reflection of you.

Best regards,

Your mother's reflection

Katie McMahon - Letter to a Girl I Used to Know

2011-06-25T11:01:00.000-07:00

Dear girl I used to know:

You should never put blood on paper because blood browns, and that can look pretty gross. If anyone ever saw it, they would think something was wrong with you.

It is horrifying for people to look at things written in blood. Just use a pen or a pencil. People look at that and they think it's more normal, so they go on reading. Anything you are writing in that blood is going to seem crazy and questionable.

If you like how it looks, I don't know what to say to you. I guess I will just remind you that it's not going to look like that in five years, or even five days for that matter.

Even if you don't think anyone will ever see it, someone will see it after you're dead, or you might show it to someone when you're drunk or feeling desperate. People will think that you carry disease. You could be writing, "I love sunshine. The world is so beautiful," but people won't care. They will just see the blood and some of them might even throw up in their mouths.

Why don't you just step outside? There are people and things bleeding all around you and not using their blood to write on anything. Some of these people fear bleeding too much, and they go to a hospital or use strips of elastic to stop the blood from emptying out of their bodies. This could be you, too.

I know what you're thinking: "But the sun is out there." I know you might not believe this, but scientists are saying that a little bit of sunshine is good for everyone. It may even make you want to write with things that aren't so permanent, like writing on the sand with sticks or writing in the fog on the car window. Plus, they have this lotion that you can put all over your body that will block the sun away. Just keep your eyes closed.

From,

somebody who writes with pens, pencils, and laptop keyboards

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Anonymous - Phillip

2011-06-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

Phillip,

Yesterday was your day and I didn't even think about you. I didn't whisper "Happy You-know-what", or wonder what it would be like if things were different. I only think about how you are in me when you come out because I'm angry, even though you are there every time I take a step. It's a testament to genetics, because I have never seen you walk, but I will always have your gait. I have your ghost in my feet and I hate it, and when people ask, I explain it away; how I have a weird little step in my walk “just like my biological father", and then I hope that they don't ask me anything else about you, because it is a very long story, and I grow tired of retelling it.

I do have your temper sometimes. I never experienced your fury firsthand, but when I was a teenager and I would get so angry, mom would always point it out to me. "You're just like him when you act like this." She didn’t even have to use your name; I knew. I hated to hear her compare me to you. I don’t think I’ve ever told her that. How much it hurt to resemble someone that hurt her, even while I hurt her myself.

When I remember you, it’s only to hate having any of you in me. How can you still hide inside of me when I know nothing about you? I’ve never seen your face, and I don’t dare to look for photos of you. I don’t want to see you in my face when it was hard enough to accept that you are somewhere in my heart, living through little quirks, despite how you never cared to be around when you were alive.

I lie; I do know of your token visits; I just don’t know if you meant them. Mom told me you stopped by grandmother’s to see me a few times when I was growing up, and you would bring your new wife’s son. He and I would play together, and you would watch me but not say much to me at all. I know it was too long ago for me to be able to remember it, but if I try hard enough, I can see this scene like it’s from an old movie; it looks like faded film on a summer day. You stand by mom and watch me and your boy from the orchard fence, and you and her barely say anything, besides her bragging on me, and you just stand solemn and stare. I wonder what you really thought when you would watch me. I don’t know enough about you to guess, and when I try, I know I’m just putting my thoughts in your head and my words in your mouth, but I can’t help it, and do it anyways. When I think in your head I am so proud to have a healthy, beautiful, kind, and intelligent young boy, and excited to think of the man you would one day be. I would see myself in the little things you do. I would see myself in the way you walk, and in your face. I wouldn't know how to express it, but I would know that things would be better for you without me around, and I would hope to talk to you one day and explain why I did the things I did, and why I made the choices I made. I wouldn’t know what was growing inside of me. I wouldn’t know I would never be able to tell you any of these things. It would grow inside of me until I was not the same man, and one day I would leave you in the span of a gasping breath, and without a second thought.

A man doesn't always want to be a father, and I understand that, but a real man will be one anyways. I know you never had a chance, and I know I need to forgive you, and maybe I will some day when I am a father, and when things like having a son and a wife to be there for aren’t so black and white, I'll be able to put it to rest, but for now, besides this one time, I do my very best to forget you.

Yesterday was your day, Phillip. "Happy You-know-what" to you.

Emily Idzior - Letter to the Moon

2011-06-24T15:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Moon,

I’m sitting in a coffee shop sipping iced pomegranate oolong tea, what are you up to? I see you are starting to rise in the reflection in the window next to me. How are you doing? You seem cold but I know you must have a warm core in there somewhere. No matter what science says.

I’m wondering, I’m wondering if you could tell me why I always say the wrong thing. You hang there listening and never say anything at all. You must have learned something about us after all these years looking. What am I saying, you’re not God. You’re not even a god. You’re the moon. The glorious bright beautiful big round moon. I’m over you. I’m over the moon for the moon.

Dear Moon. I write you letters and you never reply. Why couldn’t there be a real man sitting on your surface reading my words, writing a response? I’d climb a ladder to meet him. To meet you. You’re famous. You’re famous the way no one on Earth could be famous. Famous in a way even the Earth could not be famous.

I want to get drunk and drive to the middle of the desert and hug you. I want to get drunk and slink into an observatory and watch you sleep. Or wake. Watch you change your makeup, change your seasons. The moon is always female so I assume you wear makeup but forgive me if you do not.

What do you look at, perched like a bird, suspended in space? You must see me. Or someone who looks like me. Do I look pathetic, grasping at the air like a lunatic? I’m a lunatic. I’m obsessed with you. Why don’t you see me? I want love like any other human. You must want love. You must want warmth. Some blue. Some white. A little wind, a little water, a little bit of electricity under your surface.

Oh, Moon. I’ve done it again, haven’t I? All talk and no listen. Listen, Moon, whatever you need to say you say it. I’m here waiting. I’m waiting for the phone call. For you to tell me what’s going on in that big satellite above me. To tell me what you see. What you hear. What you wish you could unhear. I’ll say the wrong thing, I promise. I’ll say all the wrong things and you’ll wish you never called me. But that’s okay, just this one time I want to pretend to be good at this.

Listen, darling, I have to go but call me won’t you? Call me some night, tell the wolves to find me. Tell the prairie to call for me. Tell the ocean to call my name. Tell the whales to sing out to me. I’ll be there.

For now, loving you,

me.

Emily Idzior can be found on her tumblr (http://unravelher.tumblr.com), twitter (@ylimejane), and, rarely, Blogspot (http://ylimejane.blogspot.com). She and her husband reside in Michigan with 2 kitties.

Mary Pritchard - An Open Letter to the Universe

2011-06-23T17:45:00.000-07:00

Dear Universe,

How are you? I know you’ve had a lot to deal with lately, what with the parade of natural disasters spiraling across the globe and of course things like global warming and the melting of the polar ice caps and all of that. And as a whole, you’ve been very good to me—no major complaints. However, I do have one question: Why must you keep stealing my friends?

I’m a natural people-person. I have a tendency towards co-dependency, to be honest, so I’ve always had at least one best friend. But lately, universe, you’ve been a little haphazard. First you set each of my friends from high school on our own paths. Totally necessary, I understand. We had to learn to grow up. Then you gave me some amazing friends in college, only to have us all move apart—as far as California, Hawaii and Australia. Okay…Seeing the world, I got it. And now, living on my own in a new place for the third time in so many years, my close friends are so consumed in their romantic relationships that they no longer understand how to manage their platonic ones. Hello? How is that fair? Do you realize that I’m on my own here?

I’m a GOOD friend, Universe. I bake cookies and cupcakes for birthdays, or just because. I host weekly dinner parties. I make handmade cards for holidays and buy real Christmas gifts. I write poems and make hand-paper-turkeys for your refrigerator. I write letters and send postcards when we’re far apart, and I send thoughtful texts and emails even when we’re not. I am loyal. I am dependable. I am adventurous, and spontaneous and creative. I am everything a best friend should be, and yet you continually challenge my ability to hold on to a quality friendship for more than a few years.

Is it me, universe? Am I not worthy of a confidant? I feel pretty worthless, to be honest. You keep stripping me of my comfort blankets. I lay awake at night, texting people who don’t give a shit about me, because I’ve lost the ability to connect with the ones who do. On long drives I reminisce about the times when I had my choice of people to call and pass the time with good conversation. Remember that, universe? Remember the friends that I cared about so much that I would overcome my dislike of talking on the phone? Remember the friends that would make time slip away from me as we sunk deeper into thought?

I remember.

I remember the feeling of living with the security of tight-knit friendships. Wearing them like a safety vest, sure that if my boat were ever to capsize, I would keep my head above water. You wanted that safety vest back, didn’t you? You wanted me struggle, to tread water fiercely just to keep breathing. You wanted me to get tired, to give up.

What kind of cruel universe wants that?

I’m not asking for world peace—I know it will never happen. I’m not asking to be beautiful, or famous, or rich. All I’m asking for is a new best friend. Someone to ground me to reality. Someone to give me the assurance that I mean something, to someone—to help me feel like I have a place here.

I feel like, in the scheme of the universe, that’s not such a difficult request.

Think it over, and get back to me.

Sincerely,

Mary

Mary is a somewhat recent college grad who still hasn't quite figured out where she wants to live or what she wants to do with her practically meaningless degree. She is currently settled in the cornfields of Northern Illinois working in the Annual Fund at Northern Illinois University, and spends her time dreaming of a world where she could get paid to write and drink coffee all day.

Scott Joel Gizicki - Letter to My Brother on the Eve of His Wedding

2011-06-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

Dearest Brother,

Watch those cold feet

You may slip down the aisle!

How I am so proud of you

Proud of the grown man you have become

And so proud of myself

I took care of you, Little Brother

Yes, I am one hour and 17 minutes older

Yet still wiser

We came from the same womb

On the same night

It was mother who so bravely

Pushed us out that tunnel into a brave world

A brave world

All in all, my love is growing stronger for you

I find your actions foolish, however

How I miss the smell of your hair

In the morning

I taught you all about women

I don’t take all the credit

You taught me about man

The only man I long to be with

I want to drink your skin

Feel the pulsating of your blood

Deep within my safe haven

I hear your voice every time I shower

“I must listen to Little Brother,” I say.

I tell the nurse to quiet down

I say no more

Do change your mind

Do come back

Do come

With every limb

With every muscle

I quake and long

For you.

Sincerely,

Older Sister

Debra Crosslin - Pissed Off Letter

2011-06-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been enraged and pissed off at some asshole that is suppose to be your friend, co-worker, boss, lover, family member and so on?

That person was rude, obnoxious or just fucked-up. Their uncalled for opinion embarrasssed the shit out of you. You may even comtemplate murder, revenge, pay back time sweetie! ...even though you may love or respect them. In the end my suggestion is to write them an angry letter and afterward simply throw it away. I guarantee you'll feel better.

As an example: some complete asshole outright lied about you in front of some splendid company and totally ruined your happiness.

READY!

Dear jerk-off idiot,

You are mean and nasty. (good start). When you were born the doctor slapped your mother and declared the baby as the devil child.

I have seen pictures of you in condom ads stating, "Do not let this happen to you. May cause unecessary, life long pain and suffering."

Next, in the police station you are pictured as the FBI's most wanted, along with an ugly profile and an evil smashed in face. Warning: Wears many diguises and is dangerous and armed. Beware! Wanted dead or alive. A zillion dollar reward for information leading to the capture and conviction of this monster.

As a revenge I would love to capture and tortue you. Something worse then washboarding. Mmmm... tie you up and handcuff you to a small uncomfortable boat in Disneyland at the "It's a Small World" exhibit forever.

Or simply cut your tongue off with a very, very dull knife and leave you for dead.

Get the picture? Sign it and read it over a few times. Laughing with errie delight. Then destroy the letter.

Next time you see this asshole just thinking about it will put you at ease.

Please send all evil ideas to me. Not about me, but about your asshole companion.

Josh Grimmer - Camp Granada

2011-06-20T08:31:00.000-07:00

Hello mother, hello father.

Camp Granada is not as fun as the brochure would lead you to believe. First of all, the weather isn't great. I mean, sure, rain happens, but this stuff is corrosive. It ate through my clothes. I spend my days huddles under sheets of corrugated tin, hoping to escape the elements, and even then I have to make sure to avoid the poison ivy.

The food is awful. I've been throwing up for days now. I'm caked in what I know must be vomit, but I cannot identify the source, seeing as I haven't eaten at all. I have no idea what this all could be from. I thought about escaping. The forest is full of bears. The lake is full of alligators.

The staff is almost as bad as the environs. The counselors and waitstaff are constantly fighting for reasons that nobody has bothered to explain. The head coach just sits around and reads James Joyce to us all day. And despite the fact that it's a danger to everyone at the camp, the kid who I share a bunk with has malaria and the counselors won't just send him home. Thank God I insisted on getting that intramuscular quinine shot before coming.

I need you to come get me, please. Please. I'm willing to meet any demands you set. No more messes or noise, even when other boys come over. I'll even kiss that wretched aunt of mine, Bertha. I'm not kidding. Please. I am your son. I am broken and deadened. Save me.

Love,

Your son, the nut,
Allan

PS: Please send my deepest regrets to the family of Jeffrey Hardy. He was a good guy who just ended up in a bad situation.

Josh Grimmer lives in North Hollywood with his wife and cat. He used to run this blog, but now he only sorta runs this blog. Let him know what you think about his dumb bullshit at http://twitter.com/JoshGrimmer

Katie McMahon - Flirtation Device

2011-06-18T21:50:00.000-07:00

I had a dream last night that I made out with your face.

We were laying on the ground on a blanket in the grass and we kissed. You put one hand on my hip and you wrapped your other arm around my shoulder and put your fingers in my hair.

Do you realize that I've never felt you like that? It felt good. We fit well, my arm intertwined with yours. Our lips fit together perfectly, like when you snap a lid on a container of leftover spaghetti.

"What!" you shouted over the music. "I can't hear you. You had a dream about me? What for?"

I've never felt you like that. I think once we hugged, but it was because I was crying and you didn't know what else to do.

Even though we don't touch, people at the party keep asking if I'm with you. I keep saying no. I tell them you are with someone else. An older woman I've never seen before asks me if I'm with you and I find myself saying, "Yes. Well... sort of."

I lie! I lie right to her face.

You are stuffing your face with potato chips in the corner, trying not to talk to anyone. I like this because I am often uncomfortable and very nervous at parties, but you are worse. This makes me feel like I'm okay. In a different time and place, I don't think we would ever fall in love, but I would still like to kiss you once before I am dead. Dream kisses are always better though, so I bet it would be awful.

Still.

I am always wanting to date someone fat so I can feel small and petite and feminine, but then I am also scared that they will die of a heart attack.

All of the people at the party are talking about you, since it is your party afterall. And they made your favorite foods. They keep saying how much they will miss you, but I think they may be lying. People usually just like making food and talking and eating the food they made and saying things they feel like they should be saying. Then they forget about you. I'm sorry to say this, but in between their jobs and getting married or even more simple parts of the day, like making waffles or carrying groceries to their cars, people are not always missing you like they said they would. Perhaps they feel a little twinge in that place between their chest and their stomach, but they build that up to anxiety or hunger and they don't even think about it being you.

"This music is awful," you mumble and go out onto the porch to find a cigarette from a stranger. Somebody that somebody else who knows you brought to the party, saying, "Come on, it'll be fun. It's so and so's so and so."

If this party were at your house, you'd be playing jazz. I'd be wearing a black dress with a sweater and black nylons and no shoes and I'd be smoking cigarettes out of a long cigarette holder. I know you'd take the holder from me and snap it in half. Then you'd take your hands and place them carefully on my shoulders and push me to the ground.

I know you wouldn't do that. I guess the whole idea seemed silly, so I made that last part up.

Now I feel silly.

You are outside smoking with the lady that I lied to and another lady who is not very, very skinny, but is thinner than me. You laugh and let her touch the sleeves of your coat. How does she do that? Where can I learn how to do that? I don't really want to do it, though.

I do think that everyone should touch your sleeves like that so when you go, they can say, "At least I touched so and so's sleeves," incase you never come back.

Sometimes you look at me through the window for longer than two seconds, which is a long time to look at anybody. I don't know what you're looking at. I know it's not really me.

Barbi Beckett - Grandma's Car

2011-06-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

Mrs. Collins was unimpressed when I pushed a red haired girl called Charity down to the ground and laughed. I didn’t laugh because I hurt her but because of the way she slid across the floor on her knees. Charity was the younger sister of Faith and Hope, reason enough to push her across the room. Our third grade teacher didn’t think so, though, and her disappointment shut me right up.

Mrs. Collins was in her fifties, slim, with an airy, gray bouffant that gained her five inches. I would write her love notes and she would write back. Here is an except from my diary the day I brought Charity to her knees:

March 8, 1978

Dear Diary today I was bad in class I wrote mrs. collins a letter she wrote back and when school was out I said thank you to her and she said tank you to me my brother bugged me agin today.

I had watched teachers nostalgically greet classmates as they called roll on the first day of school, “Are you Oscar’s younger brother?” I didn’t share a last name with my siblings, plus, my next youngest brother was six years older and already a drop out. I didn’t expect to garner any special esteem based on family ties. But, somehow, Mrs. Collins and I put together that she’d been Ken’s teacher and, to my delight, she was delighted.

For two years Ken and I had been under separate roofs. I lived with our dad, my mother’s second husband and nobody’s biological father, while Ken lived with our grandma. I spent weekends with them. I’d been feeling the clouds descend around my brother for a few years. That baleful air was confusing and never made clearer by my grown ups. When I brought the curious spray paint laden tube sock and paper sack into my grandma’s house from the backyard, I never expected her to yell, “That goddamn boy!” and burst into tears.

Another diary entry:

February 8

Dear Diary tonight my Brother got picked up by the please cause he had merawana on him and my dad has to pick him up. my other brother went to a class he will see a film with people throwing up and he bugged me agin.

On another confounding morning Ken and my grandma stood in the hallway near the refrigerator where she screamed at him to drink more beer since he liked it so much. They were both crying and he was saying he never wanted to drink it again and he was sorry. I sat on the living room floor trying to escape into my coloring at the coffee table. Our mother was over and I remember looking at her with a vague sense of, “Shouldn’t You have some part in this?”

One afternoon Mrs. Collins quietly knelt down and told me that I was needed in the office. Her sweet but forced smile told me I wasn’t in trouble but should be worried. When the administrators in the office saw me, one picked up the phone and another opened the low swinging gate allowing me passage beyond the tall counter. On the phone my dad told me that Ken had stolen my grandma’s car. I was not to go with him if he came to pick me up after school. I went back to class where Mrs. Collins gave me a knowing look and I felt the burden of worrying about my brother was not mine alone.

On the twenty minute walk home I was all perked. But the cars whizzed by and, when I turned onto my block, the driveway was empty. I wondered why he hadn’t come for me. I flashed on the night before. My dad had come to pick me up at Grandma’s house. I picked up my bag and said goodbye to Ken but he stepped over and hugged me, a long hug, and he whispered, “bye.”

Several days passed with no word. One night, on our way home from Long John Silver’s, I suggested to my dad that we drive by Grandma’s house. We knew it was bingo night and she had arranged a ride but there, in her driveway, was the long, blue LeBaron. By the light of a street lamp we could see a blanket in the backseat. The carport was only steps from the front door. We knocked and waited but, even though he had a key, my dad didn’t go inside. Instead, we went to the neighbors house where Pop borrowed the phone. A few minutes later, one police car pulled up and then another. The blue and red lights flashed around while we all stood back from the house as if it might explode. It was quiet except for the staticky jabber from the police radios. I shuffled around a bit with the others but mostly stood leaning back against my dad wondering what the big deal was – why was everyone being so cautious and mysterious? There was a light on inside the house. It shined one bright stripe between the drawn drapes. That window looked through the dining room, into the living room; Ken was either in there or he wasn’t. I pictured him sitting in Grandma’s chair watching TV, oblivious to the small crowd gathered outside.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. I walked across the yard and climbed up on the tall brick planter box in front of the window. It never had flowers in it but Ken and I liked it because, standing up there, we could write messages to each other in pencil under the eaves of the house. I peered through the crack in the curtains and saw across to the empty living room. Then I heard a cop yell, “Get down from there!” Another cop came from the other direction, grabbed me, and ran to the sidewalk. It scared the shit out of me. That’s when it occurred to me that they were not imagining my brother inside, oblivious, watching television. They were imagining him in there, scared, with a gun.

My grandma’s bingo ride dropped her off and an officer slowly escorted her to the door and into the house. I’d already told them, through shaken tears, that he wasn’t home but they still acted all coppy.

The following day we learned that Ken had parked the car in the driveway and headed, on foot, to the police station to turn himself in. He’d been all the way to Dallas and back, hoping to join forces with our outlaw sister.

A couple weeks later, on a Sunday morning, Ken and I were lying around on his bed. He entertained me with a Hotwheels car which he used to perform a routine that I call “One Time When I Had Grandma’s Car…”. He would open each bit with “One time when I had Grandma’s car” and go on to describe and demonstrate increasingly absurd adventures in driving. “One time when I had Grandma’s car, I had to swerve to miss hitting this dog but I clipped a curb and went up on this ramp and the car flipped in the air and landed in a spin.” The images of that tank of a car behaving so sprightly had me in stitches.

He was surprised when I told him about being called to the office at school. “Really? They thought I’d come get you? I wish I’d thought of that.” I told him about Mrs. Collins’ concern and he quieted down. We shared a distaste for disappointing her.

We never would have let Grandma hear us carrying on about her gravity defying landboat. And our tones were hushed when he talked about his disgust with himself for hurting her. This would prove to be a pattern; Ken takes advantage of Grandma’s generosity and lack of spine, Grandma’s crushed, Ken hates himself for abusing her trust and kindness. The salt in those wounds was that he’d learned by example. Grandma spent some serious time in the wringer courtesy of “that goddamn boy” and our outlaw sister. At least she wasn’t alone:

January 18

Dear Diary my sister still isn’t home I know any one eles wood be wreryd to cus if they had a sister that has been in troble so much even jail. I’m scerd that she went off with some gey she don’t even know and he mite hurt her I don’t know about her she may get hurt very bad.

my mom is gone.

my brother shot me tew hi and hurt my but.

Grandma had a comrade in me, even if I couldn’t articulate that. Mrs. Collins was a kind lady but teachers had too many boundaries for my taste. And, their stint in our lives is short. My grandma and I were stuck with those kids, year after year, shenanigan after shenanigan. No doubt we appreciated days like:

January 19

Dear Diary nuthing exiteing happend today so I allmost forgot to right. and my brother bugd me agine.

If you can read, you can write.

2011-06-14T23:46:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody, I just wanted to say a quick hello. Thanks to anyone who has sent in submissions lately. It's been pretty slow the past couple months and I haven't had the time to encourage people as much as I would like to or come up with brilliant themes every week. Shocking, I know.

The funny thing is, I think we've been gaining more readers, which is totally awesome, except for the fact that we don't have many people writing. There's nothing that readers hate more than not being able to read anything. I was thinking maybe that these new readers could also become writers and then they'd have something to read.

So that's my new plan.

Readers, get writing!

What to write? Well, everyone's written a letter before, am I right? Maybe I am. I hope that this can be a fun exercise, especially since letters don't usually have any word length requirements. It can be personal, impersonal, professional, creepy, silly, whatever you'd like it to be. Letters are always helpful when I want to tell someone something, but don't know how to say the words outloud. These are letters that won't be sent, so it's not as scary, or maybe it's scarier. It can be however you want it to be.

Do you absolutely hate this theme and hate me for coming up with it? Try it out. The point of WWWritest is to get you outside of your comfort zone, to challenge your writing skills, to make you suffer (not really). Done trying? Leave me a comment with ideas on themes you'd like to write about. The other point of WWWritest is to provide an outlet for creativity.

The other other point is to make everyone happy all the time. This one is near impossible.

As always, send your submissions in to: writingwriterwritest@gmail.com and keep telling your friends!

Thanks,

Katie

Debra Crosslin - Cruising

2011-06-14T23:34:00.000-07:00

A Christmas Eve Party

A few years ago, we were inadvertently invited to a Christmas Eve party. The home was worth over a milliion dollars. This is what I've heard ahead of time.

The house was not a home. I am not person of envy, but this house smelled of riches. On the tour, I politely said, "beautiful," "lovely," "wow, that's expensive," etc.

The wine was flowing. Fantastic vintages! One could not help but taste it.

It was a small gethering of ten to twelve guests.

After drinking some wine, dinner was served. Wine with the dinner, of course.

I was seated next to the youngest son of the family. He was 29. Previously, I had been told of Scott's drug addiction. Nevertheless, I liked his intellect and converstional tone.

As we talked, somone asked Scott, "What are you doing with your life?" Scott smiled and replied, "Cruising." His answer stuck me as funny and I laughed uncontrollably.

Looking around the dinner table, I noticed everyone's faces were appalled. No one was laughing. Not one person thought this reply was amusing.

Scott talked with me the rest of the night. We broke into the wine cellar and he asked me to cover the security camera. With me as the look-out, he proceeded to take a few hundreds of dollars of fine wine. Quickly, we went into the kitchen and he poured more wine for everyone. One could not help but taste it.

Laughing, he took me to see the unbelievable rooms in the house. Every room had a television, phone with intricate details and antiques. Even the bathrooms.

Eventually, we had to leave and I hugged and kissed Scott on the cheek. We said our good-byes and thank-yous to our host as we left.

Scott lives with his grandmother. His ability to cruise through life is funny and very sad at the same time. He does not have to work because he receives money, clothes, food, transportation without a job.

I am not being critical of the continuous access to wealth. Many wealthy children are generous hard workers. Many unwealthy children are drug addicts.

Money may be a necessity, but may not be a gift. Love is the only important gift you shall ever receive. For those with ears to hear.

Katie McMahon - silverware

2011-06-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

I want to make someone fall in love with me. Someone random. Someone just walking past me on the street or buying a coffee or sitting across from me in the library. For no reason other than that they just do.

This is not creepy. I am not asking for much. This could be any person anywhere. I am really risking a lot here by saying that. Any person really means any person. A homeless person. A married man. Someone who likes karate. Anybody.

When I was five, my grandma would take me to what she called a "dime store" and she would ask, "What do you want me to buy for you?" And I would say, "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just appreciate having the experience of being in this store with you, Grandma. I want nothing more and nothing less. Just to be alive is enough."

Then we would sit at a counter top where a man with suspenders and a mustache would serve us little glass dishes full of vanilla ice cream covered in globs of hot fudge that we would spoon into our mouths off of little silver spoons.

I could very well sit down and eat ice cream like that with someone and make them fall in love with me. It would be different because the person would not be my grandma, but just a person like me.

My parents took me once to this huge store full of silverware and cutlery. It was seriously huge; sets of forks and knives and spoons lining the walls. I didn't know why I was there, but it took us forever to drive there. It was far, far up north and we spent hours upon hours walking along the walls, staring at forks, but we weren't allowed to touch anything. How would I know if I liked a spoon if I couldn't feel the weight of it in my hand? My opinion didn't really matter because I was only six, but I disagreed with their choice. For years I used spoons and forks and knives that I didn't agree with. They felt too heavy, too shiny, too bulky, too obvious.

"You are obviously a fork. And you a knife. And you, you are a spoon."

It really felt like we were there for days.

From that point on, the things that were supposed to be exciting became boring and all the boring things in life were suddenly supposed to be exciting. I hated it. I still hate it. I want to eat off of forks that strangers owned and spoons that have little winking faces on the end. I like eating cereal with little spoons because it takes me longer to eat, but that's a different story altogether.

I don't know. I feel like after visiting that silverware store, I was supposed to limit myself to only eating off of plates and out of bowls.

When people say you stop giving a shit after you get older, they are lying. They are really caring much more. You can see it in their little gold chains around their necks and how they always want to eat foods like lobster or drink champagne. "Oh we don't care how we spend our money," but oh, they obviously do. I never drank champagne as a child, did you? I went straight for whatever I could find on the bottom shelf, whatever didn't have a label, whatever got me closer to getting older, whatever was the cheapest and roughest on my body. Older meant less caring, less talking in my brain, less feeling, and maybe a job where I would carry around a briefcase full of whatever snacks I wanted to eat.

Things have been hurting more lately. You would think it would be the opposite. I don't mean emotionally, like oh my heart is broken or oh, I can never seem to stop crying. I mean physically, pain is happening physically, like tiny little martians are inside my chest squeezing my lungs and punching my heart with their tiny fists. They leave bruises all over my arms and scratches on my shoulders.

I'm sure you see it too.

I think sometimes I made up all these stories or they all seem like they happened to me on one day, when really they make up multiple days and years. But I can only remember one day and this is the day when everything happened. And a lifetime crammed into twenty-four hours is a lot for a kid to handle.

You know, I think that humans could do a lot of great things if they weren't so lazy. If they weren't so greedy, like if they didn't do bad things to get lots of money to spend on matching silverware.

I think I could do a lot of great things if I wasn't so scared. I think then everyone would fall in love with me. I don't mean that to sound wrong. I think if everyone was doing great things all the time, everyone would be so in love with everyone else.

If someone had asked me, "What do you want?" as we were slowly walking around the dime store, I could've gotten a lot of great things if I had said, "This. And this. And this and this." I could've gotten a new camera or some candy or a string of colored lights or even a new toothbrush.

But I am always feeling a little limited. What are you feeling?

Luke Lagraff - You Bonnaroo

2011-06-09T22:50:00.000-07:00

Burnt light like muck,
drizzles life over the night music
for us to strut.

Molly talk with these sounds,
reaches into desire and the flower
shades the fun.

My mind and its’ eyes
blind in its disguise

Of health on the inside
for fear of the far side;

And to ascend the magical search
I require the furthest perch.

Great dark like freedom,
opens the soul sublime to see
even needs your worst friends need.

Travel the fields like a kite
forever now you dance in spite
Belching rock and loving blues
forever now you Bonnaroo.

Leif Nordberg - Limits of a mere man (autobiographical)

2011-06-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

Number of cups of coffee: 3 (until eye twitch)

Minutes listening to stories about your cat: 0

Minutes watching videos of your cat: Approaching infinity

Consecutive number of words writing: 750

Consecutive number of words reading: 400, cat video, 400, cat video, 400, etc.

Number of times listening to Donald Trump apologize: Irrelevant, never happens

Consecutive hours driving: 20

Number of times driving 20 consecutive hours in a lifetime: 1 (firm)

Minutes listening to talk radio: Approaching 0

Minutes watching NewsRadio: Approaching infinity

Number of times being in love: Undefined

Number of times saying "I love you": Unknown

Number of times saying "I lub woo": Irrelevant, never happens

Number of times writing "I lub woo": 2

Number of meta limits in a list of limits: 2

Thank yous for reading: A lot

I'm just a man. I have things. They are here.

Luke Lagraff - And Beyond

2011-05-28T09:40:00.000-07:00

And beyond a skyward eye
Little clouds are alive
Sweet mockingbirds strike a cord
Loud assumpions come on board

The deal of night is mixed with day
That light that's merry and on its way
A thought that might reveal the deal
Is there for me to see with zeal

Priceless life, once and for all
Has begun again to question its fall
The answer for my mind is kind
But revels around from bind to bind

The deal of night is mixed with day
I thought from birth it might go this way
But taking away the dead of life
Will score away the thread of strife

Katie McMahon - Five o'clock

2011-05-27T23:39:00.000-07:00

I hate when someone says they know what you mean and then they go on and on about something you don't mean at all. Like they just felt like talking about whatever they were thinking and what you meant really means nothing to them. Or they spout sayings at you, like you're just going to soak that all up.

Everything from now on feels made up, do you know what I'm saying?

On the way home, I saw Jesus walking across the street and he was wearing pants. Khaki pants. He was carrying a cross too, but it didn't look heavy at all. He seemed to have no problem, just carrying it around with him everywhere, like it was a box of crayons or a newspaper just sitting lightly in his hands. And those pants. Fuck khaki pants, seriously. Khaki pants make everyone look miserable. At my first job, when I was sixteen, we had to wear khaki pants. Mine were baggy and always wrinkled up by the end of the day, like so wrinkly I'm surprised I wasn't fired. I worked as a cashier, ringing up groceries and clothes and televisions and whatever you put in front of me, but I was always just standing there, so I don't know what was happening that made them so wrinkly, but always by the end of the day I looked like I had been wadded up and sat on. Jesus looked pretty miserable too, as he carried that cross from street corner to corner, while some middle-aged black man skipped behind him shouting, "Jesus makes me feel like singing!"

This Jesus? Or Jesus Jesus? Was he talking about the same Jesus?

No person or person pretending to be a person makes me feel like singing today. I keep having this dream about this guy I met randomly last week, which is just so strange because I really like him a whole lot in the dream. We really get along. We listen to the same music and we laugh a lot. He cooked for me last night, can you believe that? I remember nothing about what he cooked, but it was awesome. He's so much fun, but not like crazy fun where he might take off his clothes in public or steal jewelry to prove how romantic he is; you have to meet him. In the dream, he makes me feel like singing or like doing something sweet, like singing to him or singing about him or singing him to sleep or singing in the shower, cracking the door open and hoping he's just dying out there, wishing he could see me singing naked in the shower. I like myself naked a lot better in dreams than in real life. He does too. It'll be awful if I see him again for real. I think he lives with his parents and he didn't even know who Don DeLillo was. Christ, that shouldn't be a prerequisite for me, should it? Anyway, if he knew who he was, he might hate him anyway. He might hate everything I love.

But in the dream he's pretty rad.

Anyway, I might hate everything I love too. That's where I'm at right now; looking at my things and thinking, "Who is this person living in this room?" I have six books just sitting there on the ground that I haven't even picked up, but I wanted them so badly. I wanted them to sit in my room so I could look at them and whisper to myself, "I love these books."

I think, quite possibly, I just want to get enough stuff so I can go through it all in two years and say, "Why did I save this?" That's what people say when they move, all types of people, and I want to be just like them. Because they go on to save things and save more things and throw some things away, and that's how people are. That's how I want to be. Just like a regular person.

Everyone in my building is always moving. I have never seen the same person twice. Okay, that is a lie, but really I have only seen a few people twice, everyone else only once or not at all.

There is a woman living in my building that likes to have sex at five o'clock in the morning. I have never seen her in real life, that I know of. She is extremely loud. Deafening. I am sure she is on drugs. I really thought she maybe was dying, until she started using real words in her screams. Five o'clock is both too early and too late to be screaming, "Fuck me!" out into the courtyard. Even when you're wearing earplugs and you've shut the window, anybody can hear "Fuck me!" echoing through the courtyard and into their ears.

I hate when people scream, "Jesus!" when they're having sex. I really do.

Five o'clock is too late and too early for almost everything... except when you're talking quietly and you don't have to work in the morning and your eyes are only halfway open and you're halfway looking at someone you love or at least think that you love. Five o'clock is too late and too early and too lonely to be awake by yourself.

Barbi Beckett - Pilfering

2011-05-27T16:51:00.000-07:00

My neighbor Karlia and I started drifting apart after we ran away together. When we were still occasionally hanging out, I busted her for stealing some sample vials of sweet scents that my grandma had given me – plus part of my lip gloss collection, Dr. Pepper and Sprite. I knew she was a thief. I’d thieved with her from K-Mart and Gibson’s (which would later become Walmart). We’d walk two miles in blistering heat just to be in the refrigerated air of a department store – running on the exposed stretches of sidewalk to piteous spots of shade. We didn’t have any money to spend in the store. All we had was what we’d dug up from the couch cushions, usually enough to buy one small coke at Diary Queen.

Karlia would steal earrings, candy, batteries – whatever. But I didn’t think she’d steal from me. When she’d first moved in to the rental across the street, I was smitten. She was so pretty with her long wavy light brown hair. And she could dance. She would tear up the shag to her Disco Duck record. In her room we’d admire the door length Shawn Cassidy poster and talk about the revolving sequence of her mom’s boyfriends. She’d brag to me about how much they liked her and we made like it was cool and dangerous that she attracted the attentions of these older men. But I sensed that it was sad and scary. We both knew it but we didn’t know how to say it or feel there was anything to be done about it. I always looked across the street at night to see if her bedroom light was on, thinking that some how meant she was alone and safe.

From the raised brick bench in front of her fireplace, we spent hours taking turns being Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb. We performed The Jazz Singer countless times, often when we should have been at school. Next to the Circle K near our house, we’d visit the barber and the old twin brothers who owned the dry cleaners. They’d give us nickels and dimes for performing back bends and front walk-overs because they were was bored as we were.

After we “escaped” our homes for an over-night in a strangers van and her little brother, who’d come with us, was sent away for good, we saw less and less of each other. I watched her transformation into a cholita, which was about the most contrived persona she could have adopted. She was as white as me but confidently donned the dark lipstick, baggy khakis and oversized plaid shirts (either buttoned up to the neck or left open to expose a tight wife beater) of her new sisters. She didn’t speak a lick of Spanish and her white skin with the new black hair and make up made her look like a spooky ghost chola.

During our middle school years we were bussed to institutions outside of our neighborhood. Karlia mostly went to the school for delinquent kids, which was a requirement for her club, but in ninth grade we both ended up at Magoffin. The school was seven miles from my house and one of the ineffective safety measures the administration took was to pat us down and confiscate any sharp or blunt objects, including pad locks, before we walked through the front gates. This didn’t keep my sweet friend Regina from getting the shit beat out of her by a gang of cholas after a basketball game one night. She was unpopular with that social sect due to her big boobs and flirtatious ways. (Reggie also enjoyed some shoplifting. She liked a store called Pic-n-Save. She’d pull a new pair of underwear out of her bag and say, “I picked and saved.”)

Reggie was expelled after she got beat up, for… getting beat up, I guess.

One evening when my dad and I had both come home we discovered that a box of Hershey’s chocolate bars that he kept in a kitchen cabinet was gone. And then we noticed that a tiny window within a larger set of windows in our living room was slightly open. I knew right away that it was Karlia. I also knew it wasn’t the first time she’d let herself into my house. I felt sick and furious. My dad went across the street to her house where her drunk mom came to the door and gazed through him.

I resolved to hurt Karlia. Physically. It wasn’t so much a decision as a need. The next morning at the bus stop, which was Mr. Hargrave’s driveway, I would beat on her. When I got to the bus stop she was already there. I absently said hi, as if nothing were wrong. I felt her guard go down; She was relieved that I didn’t know anything. I sat my bag down and said, “Hey, I want to show you something.” I reached into my leather jacket, heavy with Stray Cats buttons, pretending to retrieve a small object and when she got close enough, I swung to sock her in the face. A punch has never been so unsatisfying. Her guard hadn’t been all the way down and she leaned back from my fist, which only barely made contact with her cheek, and then she ran. I chased her, reaching for hair or anything I could grab to slow her down. I desperately needed to beat on her, but she was fast. And then the bus came. I went back to the stop, yelling at her not to move, and I got on. I was still catching my breath as the bus passed by her. All I had done was make her late for school.

So this is how it goes? One day you’re fourth graders working as a unit to carry your prickly-pear-wounded compadre through the desert without being spotted and a few years later you’re feeling violated and itching to crack a face bone.

As I recall, it wasn’t unusual for those early friendships to be that precarious. I wonder what changes. Maybe we learn that the only thing more difficult than being in relationship is not. We learn to be nicer to each other and yield. It’s too bad there were no big people around to guide Karlia and I through our conflicts. God knows we both could have a used a friend close by. We never spoke after I failed to beat her up and I never stopped looking to see if her light was still on before I went to bed.

Mike Gamms - Fear and Loathing on the 15 North

2011-05-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

I wake up to the sound of the phone ringing but don't answer it. I figure if it's important enough, they'll keep calling until I'm ready to pick up. There is a wet ziplock bag on my face and I'm on the couch. Roger must have dumped me here sometime last night. Despite being soaking wet, at least he was thoughtful enough to ice this rapidly developing shiner.

Honestly though, I don't mind having a black eye. As douchey as it sounds, it makes me feel cooler, tougher even. Besides I couldn't look any uglier. The scars from the bed bugs have only gotten worse, and my 5 o'clock shadow is now a full fledged beard. I light a cigarette and sit down on the shitter before finally answering the phone. It's Roger.

"Get out of bed. We're going to Vegas, meet me at my office in an hour. Oh, and bring something nice to wear."

Usually I'd tell him to fuck off, but I could use a Vegas trip. To most people Las Vegas is a fantasy world. It's a chance to escape into the seedy underworld of scumbags and degenerates for a weekend. For guys like us it's the only place we really feel at home.  We are a couple of booze soaked perverts and drug users, and in Nevada, this type of behavior is strongly encouraged.

Personally I relate to the losers in Vegas. The desperate types who lost everything they have. Leave me alone at the penny slots at Circus Circus, sucking down whiskey and I feel right at home. Not Roger, he relates to the winners. He loves the glitz and glamour of Vegas. Playing one-hundred dollar hands of blackjack at the Wynn. That's more his style. That's what I love about Vegas. No matter what breed of shitbag you are, they have something for you.

Obviously, I am immediately on board for the trip and start throwing some stuff together. Roger said to dress nice so I pull a ratty old suit coat from the dirty clothes. It's a size too small on me but it's the only thing I own that even half way resembles something nice. I stuff the rest of my shit into a plastic bag and head for the bus. I have to meet Roger at his office, and it takes close to an hour to get there on public transportation.

When you ride the bus in LA you can really feel the division of classes in this shit hole of a city. In case I forgot my place in society, the Lexus blaring it's horn at the much slower bus serves as a cruel reminder of just how shitty my life is compared to those around me. I think that's why they have windows on the bus. So successful people can take a look at the face of the losers during their morning commute to the office. Like them, the bus is the only place I can encounter people worse off than me. On this particular ride, I over hear a conversation between two young homeless guys.

"Yeah, it happened last week. It really sucks."

"Don't worry, I remember the first time I had my gear stolen too."

Something about this conversation really strikes me.  The way he says it, the FIRST time I had my gear stolen. it's like its some sort of rite of passage that they all have to go through.  As if after the first time, you become completely accepting of having nothing and no one. Maybe it's the way he responds to this with such normalcy that really stands out to me. Or maybe it's because I know I'm not too far away from being one of them. One bad break, one arrest and I could be sleeping on the street next to them. I decide it's best not to think about it, just ignore it. That's how the rest of society deals with all the horrible misfortunes all around them, I might as well too.

I finally arrive at Roger's office, and he's waiting for me in the parking lot. There's nothing like seeing a man in suit drinking a 40 while leaning against a Mercedes. I'm still 20 yards from him when he starts barking at me.

"Let's go asshole! We still gotta stop by the meat market and pick up some pussy!"

All class. At first, the thought of spending a four hour car ride with two women is enough to make me wish I was deaf. But the more I think about it, the better of an idea it becomes. The hardest part of getting laid while out of town is finding the girls, so if we bring them with us, we're half way there already.

We pull up to a place called "The Klassy Kat". Two girls with cheetah print suitcases are waiting outside the club. They both look like they just got done with a shift and I can't tell if their suitcases are filled with different outfits for their dance routines or clothes for the trip, but I'm sure there isn't much of a difference anyways. One girl has bigger breasts, and is clearly the alpha female in their friendship. Obviously, she gets first dibs on the man with the car. That leaves me in the backseat with girl number two.

I don't mind this one bit. She is a solid 9, and if I don't screw this up, she'll be one of the better looking broads I've ever been able to score.  And besides, I usually try to avoid the alpha females anyways. They are way too confident and are usually only attracted to their alpha male counterparts, so it's not worth the effort for a man as low on the food chain as me. I'd rather go for second fiddle. They are way more vulnerable and easy to get into their panties when you don't own a Mercedes.

I notice she brought "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" for the ride and compliment her taste. I'm sure she just bought it because she thought Johnny Depp was hot in the movie, but just the fact that a girl knows how to read is a plus in my book. Roger, eager to get me laid, immediately introduces me.

"This is Chuck, he's a writer too! People say he's the next Hunter S. Thompson!"

I think about correcting him by saying my writing is more like Charles Bukowski, but that would make me an even bigger douchebag. Just because I'm a fucking loser doesn't make me Charles Bukowski. It just makes me another prick who is discontent with his slightly below average existence. I just let it go and decided to play nice, that way I wont end up sleeping alone on the floor of our hotel room tonight.

"Nice to meet you Chuck.  I'm Jackie Daniels."

I think about asking her what her real name is. Maybe it will be as cool as when he asks for her real name in "Almost Famous," but I decide it'd be better to offer her a swig of the jug of wine I brought for the trip instead.

After about 2 hours on the road, and half the jug, I've got Jackie mostly figured out. She's a much more complex creature than I initially thought. I can tell at this point in her fucked up life she's had so many men treat her like a sex object, like her looks are all she's got going for her that she actually believes it herself. She cusses, talks dirty, and acts like an all around maneater, but I can tell it's just a front. She exudes this fake confidence in herself to hide the real Jackie inside of her. She's really just a broken, damaged girl who's been treated like shit by everyone. She needs to learn to love herself before she can let anyone really love her. I know this, because I'm pretty much the same way. That's what attracts me to her. That I can see myself in her. And not just in her vagina. This just may turn out to be the best Vegas trip yet.

Mike Gamms is a 24-year-old unemployed writer living in Los Angeles. Originally from Upstate New York, he occasionally writes awful things at www.mikegamms.blogspot.com.

Emily Idzior - Untitled

2011-05-25T09:43:00.000-07:00

Dear ________, Is it too late?

Is it too late to tell you how much I loved holding your hand? Too late to say how courageous I felt, the two of us, getting coffee, eating food. Late like a period maybe in a sentence. Too late to say you were my favorite scar for-- how long -- still, to this day? I touched your hair. Too late though, you wanted someone else. Or, simply, didn’t want me. I wore your rejection around like hair dye. You were my cherry berry red highlight. I gave you so much that when you weren’t there anymore I had to choose a different way. A more lighted path.

Is it too late to say how much I miss you? Too late to read you that poem just one more time? Laying across your lap. Was it too late then? You kept the book which I think is weird. I would have done the same.

Is it too late to apologize for the manic phone calls? I called and called and hoped you’d call me back. Invite me up. I walked by your apartment insane. Tired. Listening to music you shared with me. Hoped you’d dedicate something to me. Little old me. Little old ugly me. Was it too much to ask that you follow through with your little, drunk, typed letters? I think it was.Is it too late to submit this poem? I wrote it just yesterday. Could it make it in? Can you validate my life’s work? Deadline seems more like a suggestion but it’s not. It’s a dead line that will not get a funeral. Only other dead words. Is it too late to even try? I wait and wait for every deadline to pass, hoping I won’t have to experience rejection ever ever ever again. But I do. I still do.

Is it too late to apologize for that fight?

Is it too late to apologize for every fight?

You’re not dead but some part of us is.

Is it too late to go back to the way things were? Hugging. Two bodies together, innocent. Easy. Admiration without feelings. Laughter but not flirting. You’re far away in that other city. I’m married now, which I like. I like that I’m the one who made a decision. I like that you make decisions, too. I still check in, when I can, but, isn’t too late, isn’t it too late, it is too late to go back to where we were. I’m glad. I think I like you better this way.

Emily Idzior is an aspiring poet and librarian who has to shush people poetically. She has a MA in salad making and wishes she loved tea without sugar but, alas, has a sweet tooth. She cannot quit waffles or coffee and writes in her personal blog once a year.
Also she has a cat.

Debra Crosslin - Is it too late?

2011-05-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

Is it too late to rewind the movie? The movie of me because I am the star, the main character. The star that is shining, bright and beautiful. Is it too late?

I shoulda made a better choice. I shoulda learned to play the game. I shoulda done so many things. I shoulda played an instrument, learned to act, to sing, to dance with ease. I shoulda been a better friend, a better wife, a better mother, a better lover, so many things. I shoulda learned to run like lighting, to win the race, to drive a NASCAR, to surf the oceans many waves, to climb a mountain with powerful legs.

I coulda loved and cherished my life. To honor God, my kin, the light. I coulda been the better one, to understand, to listen, to believe and not to fear, not to cry, to trust and never lie. I coulda been more sensitive, to understand and not to judge. I coulda changed the world , to be positive , not give bad advice. I coulda spoke before I talked, more carefully with foresight and thought. I coulda loved you in a loving way, I coulda loved myself with care. I coulda did my best you see and not give into negativity.

I woulda been a professional. I woulda been who I am inside. I woulda been a sumo wrestler, a lawyer, a doctor, a movie star. I woulda worked with paint, with wood, with fabric, with sugar and spices, with dirt; a chef, a gardener, a carpenter, a fashion designer, a computer whiz. Or I woulda been the boss in charge and gave the orders to my staff. I woulda been the president, a healer, a yogi, the wise and powerful Oz. I woulda been just who I am and not a fake, so lame, unreal. My father said, "Time heals all wounds." Maybe, but you carry those wounds forever and remember.

I think it is to late for me, but not for you to learn from life. You do not have to cruise from birth to death. Bend the rules, change the game, fight for your right for all living things. Continue on because in my heart I cannot change the past, I cannot foretell the future. I can only live in the present and not regret the love and happiness I tried to give. May you think of the good you've done because the past will never return. Is it too late? Not for you, maybe for me; to follow your dreams, for your heart and soul to shine. In your heart there lays your soul. Do not live in misery.

Remember to follow and listen to your heart and never give up, follow your dreams. You are perfect who you are. You are love. Do not believe in anyone or anything? It is just not true. Love and live to learn to accept yourself exactly what you are. Maybe it is not too late.

Caroline Muniak - List of Chores

2011-05-22T14:11:00.000-07:00

Nobody likes to think of their list of chores. I know I sure don't. Unless I get them done, UNLESS, then they are a sure fire sign, staring me in the face (when I actually look at it) that I am still a fuck up, still a child, and still going to get in trouble for not doing them. Of course, these days the trouble is no longer getting spanked or grounded for weeks at a time, it's just still needing to do them and it getting worse and worse. And then for some reason I sort of self-ground myself. But fuck it...

CHORES, THINGS TO DO & PLACES TO GO

- brush teeth

- wash face

- go to therapy

- go to school & straighten that shit out

- eat somewhere in there

- doing my morning pages somewhere in there- go to the gym

- clean the dishes

- go to the gym

- clean myself

- sew a pillow, at least start

- eat... again...

- make brownies for tomorrow

- go to a meeting

- not hang out...

- GO TO BED AT A DECENT HOUR because I don't want to feel like killing anyone tomorrow.

Fuck me... It's possible the pillow and the dishes don't get done, but that's probably because I want to do those more than any of the others, except the baking... can't wait to do that. Who wants to lick the spoon?

Luke Lagraff - Flesh Poem

2011-05-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

I got flesh to live!
I got it to spend.
I got till the end.

I wanna ruin my body, wanna shove it into the dirt, I'll give another moment to death
A pale daydream, me looking at me, awake but not quite alive
A sad eye, half of it available, the other oozing liquid flesh

Got a chance to see tomorrow
If this flesh can stand
It might have been all spent

The town of my actions
Has divorced my floor
Nowhere to be, no body is me

Katie McMahon - anyway

2011-05-13T16:04:00.000-07:00

every time I buy a bag of those blue tortilla chips that I like, half of the bag sits out on the counter, stale.

I want to be with you so you'll eat the other half.

I know you don't really like those chips, so maybe we could buy something that we both like.

or you could eat them anyway, and next time we could share something that I don't really like.

and when it's your birthday, even though I kind of hate it, I'll eat chocolate cake anyway,

like on Tuesday, when you were full, but you ate dinner with me.

but right now, there's not enough for both of us.

maybe when we make more money?

Anonymous - Untitled

2011-05-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

I hate when people use Untitled for a title. I also hate titles, no more so labels. I'm also a hypocrite. Nearly three years ago something so catastrophic sat on my chest like a gremlin and tinkered around with my ticker. It was over, but there was a difference this time. It was over but I was not over. It was the first break-up that had hurt so badly but I persevered into a better person. I did some of the usual things. I built up walls around myself and just threw myself into tons of projects. For six months straight nothing outside of a grieving exchange of a kiss in the postmortem of a dearly departed broke down these walls. No contact. No dates. Just me. I was falling in love with me and swearing away all relationships. Screw labels. Screw relationship statuses. Screw Looking for. Screw a/s/l! (I applaud you if you can recall that reference) None of that was happening until this quiet fellow love-lorn companion came into my life and gave me an amazing, rewarding and positively challenging two and a half years.

Chapter 2
Breaking Up

I hate chapters with titles.
So now we're trying out this whole still living together and slowly breaking up into a friendship thing. What? I know, right? Who does this and mutually? I hoped we could. What's yours is becoming yours and what's mine is becoming mine. Why is this happening now? It's like trying to remove paint out of a sink. How do you separate this? I claim the cool glass stained wine glasses we got as a going away gift. Wine glasses are already in the soon to be non-counterpart's possession. Now I have some, too. What do you still hold onto to maintain that friendship. What do you let go of? This is how I've been dealing. I found out tonight how the other one has been dealing. The dangers of social dating apps. The danger of still living with your respectively ex-boyfriend. The danger of tapping into my pre-Christmas gift searching adolescent years. I tapped into that portion of the brain. The danger of leaving your iTouch behind when going out. Ignorance is bliss and I'm the dead cat. No bliss here. I hate titles. But I loved ours. Now it's gone. Well, at least I can say I still have what is mine.

Luke Lagraff - So This is Yours

2011-05-09T11:13:00.000-07:00

This is yours, a dirty plate, a rotten steak
This, too, is yours- 854-322-9957.
I want nothing but the plate.
Clean.

But, alas, I can't clean like you. I'm dirty.
Just reallly dirty. I can't clean. I can, but
only myself, up. Oh, also
when it rains.
(Can you make it rain)
You can't?!
Well get out then!

Please leave the bucket. I need that list.
To remind me of you.

You were what I loved. Excuse me, who, I loved.

Now what to do with today. You've left. But, I'm right.
Yeah, I tell you I'm right but you, you don't listen.
Cause you're gone

I left it all on the relationship: The sweat, the time, the way I tried my best.
The, the game was, never timed. As I hear, if it's correctly timed, there is no time- it's untime!

So this is yours. A few words, it's all that's free to me. I hope you can be, yourself without me. And I hope I can continue, myself without you.
Love you

ps. don't forget to call, here's my number 423 544 2332

Katie McMahon - Awake

2011-05-07T14:49:00.000-07:00

People are saying things that I can’t decipher. I have my headphones on and I keep thinking that the guy across the room is saying, “hot dogs,” when really he says, “hot sauce,” as he slams a bottle of Tabasco on the table.

Everyone is talking and talking and smiling with wide-eyes and laughing like everything is so funny.

“I can’t believe how big your salad is!”

“I can’t believe I’m eating this cookie!”

Ten people are writing screenplays. One guy is just telling a woman that he’s writing a screenplay, but he’s not actually writing it. He doesn’t know that she wouldn’t care either way.

And the red bus drives by and the sun reflects off the bus, making everything inside red and rosy. The walls are red. The chalkboard menu is red. That lady's salad is red and the tomatoes are still red too (the Tabasco from the hot dog guy is still red, maybe just redder now). Everything red. People’s faces are red. People's hands are red. Then it drives away, but his shirt is still red and your eyes are bloodshot from overexposure to the red, red, red bus.

I wonder how much coffee I can drink. I should really know by now that drinking coffee leaves a bad taste in my mouth. The best part of my day today was this chocolate chip muffin I ate. The top was all crunchy and sugary and I could taste the butter in every buttery bite. There was this boy sitting across from me outside wearing this weird hat and I kept wondering, “Why does he wear that hat? Really, why?” It was big with a flat all-around brim. All around his head there was a brim and then more brim. And he drinks water and Pepsi and even though the brim is so wide, he gets sun in his eyes as he tries to fit his straw between the clumps of ice. It sits in the cup, poking out awkwardly through the plastic lid. He looks around to see who’s watching and it’s me. So he goes away.

He walks away with that cup, but I can still see it in my head. I think about you and how you do not use straws. And then I think about you and how I always wake up first before you, and you smile with your eyes closed, pretending that you’re sleeping. I like that. The look on your face while you pretend to sleep is my second favorite look for you. I like how your hair falls when you sleep. It falls the opposite way from how it falls during the day when you’re awake. I like how you never wear glasses to bed because no one wears glasses to bed unless they’re drunk or so tired or sleeping on an airplane sitting up. They only accidentally fell asleep. You're sleeping on purpose. Fake sleeping.

I like it so much that you pretend to be sleeping because I can pretend that I’m awake, when really I’m sleeping right next to you.

I used to like listening to you talk. Very much.

But now sometimes I ask you questions, like, “Why did you leave me out here?” And you pretend like you don’t hear me or that I’m just talking to myself. What are you doing in there without me anyway? Maybe you are right.

Before, I used to take bites of you and pieces of your voice with me inside my head. I liked that very much.

The chocolate chips on the muffin form a chocolate chip mouth that laughs at me. Eat us and we’ll make you fat. It’s December and I want to be soft and fat, even though no one will love me when I’m fat. Right now I don’t want to be a lover and it feels nice to not be thought of or heard. Sometimes I think my phone is not working because no one is calling me, but nope; it is working just fine.

Sometimes I like to take baths at night and eat ice cream in the bath. The water warms me on the outside and a little in the middle, and the ice cream makes my insides cold. My teeth hard and shivering, feeling like they might fall out of my head, like cartoon teeth, onto the snowy ground, where kids can pick up the icy teeth and use them as bricks to make igloos.

Sometimes I don’t feel this way at all. I don’t want to eat ice cream in the bath or eat chocolate chips. I don’t even think about things like that at all. If I am not the person who thinks those thoughts or wants those things, why do I keep her thoughts? Why does that person stay with me?

Sometimes I think things that I would never think. When I cross the street, I talk quietly to any cars in my head, “Please do not hit me. Please do not smush me and make my bones crack into many pieces.” If I get hit by a car, I will be very angry for a minute before I die. I will be angry at that car that crushes me and angry at me for not being fast enough.

Someday, when I am crushed and dead, it will not matter how many things I ate or who I was pretending to sleep with. And we will be strangers and you will show up early in the morning to sit out in the cold with me again. Someday, you will stop looking at me like I'm someone I'm not.

Coco Higgins - The Self-Indulgent Whines of a Total Weenie

2011-05-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

April 29, 2011

Tonight I was at my usual coffee shop haunt with a stack of 75 undergrad papers to grade. A friend and fellow grad student shared my table. She pointed out that one of her students was sitting on one of the couches, and unfortunately this student may possibly be dumber than a box of hair. She wasn’t in my view so I stood up and performed the most obvious ruse to disguise my true intentions of having a look at this supposed dunce: I pretended to stretch. Upon doing so, I looked over and I saw a super cute girl.

Sure, she was looking slouchy in some weird sweatpants. This reminded me of George Costanza from Seinfeld. Did she give up on life and the world? Who wears sweatpants in public? Okay, they weren’t thick cotton drawstring sweatpants. They were black, of a thin fabric. But still – these aren’t pants that one would normally wear in public.

But she had short brown hair and a pouty face kind of like Kristen Stewart. Yes, go ahead, judge and psychoanalyze me all you want, but I like that angsty look. And of course it belonged on this girl. She’s an undergrad and probably at least eight years younger than me. (Good god, I feel old.) So despite the pants, I became a little smitten. Not twitterpated or anything, but you know, enough to get distracted from the monotony of grading endless papers about Egyptian sculpture. (“This sculpture was made by a human,” wrote one student. My comment: “as opposed to aliens???” True story. Okay, if you were an art historian you might haughtily say, “Maybe she meant that it was an acheiropoietos,” but I highly doubt that she even knows what that is, and this line of thinking should be saved for my term paper, and not this blog.)

The night went on and I continued to read the thoughtless, never-ending essays. The kid came over to our table to talk to my friend to ask something about the upcoming test for their class. They talked a bit, and my friend (god bless her heart), introduced me to Kristen Stewart. We shook hands, I smiled. Then she left.

As a side note, this is the same gregarious friend who, after the Lady Gaga concert, kept asking strangers, “Hey do you know any lesbians???” She was drunk and did this for me, to my embarrassment (not really). The point is, she looks out for me, in amusing ways, and I appreciate it.

Anyway, Kristen went back to the couch and I continued to grade my papers.

Then another girl came into the crowded coffee shop and got in line to order. (Not even gonna go into detail about the hot barista.) She was probably about fifteen feet away from me. Short girl, short brown hair. Totally adorbs. She sat outside, and eventually my friend and I went out there to smoke. We had eye contact for half a second and that’s about it.

Friend and I went back inside and continued to work. Eventually both girls left. Nothing happened. Outside-girl was probably straight, so I’m not feeling any sense of loss. But the other girl was slightly more promising.

What prevented me from going up to her and talking to her more? I constructed the following reasons, which ultimately paralyzed me:

I haven’t done laundry in 5 trillion years and I don’t like the clothes I’m wearing.
I’m a grad student and she’s an undergrad, and we were explicitly forbidden to have friendly interactions with these plebeians.
She’s apparently not the brightest crayon in the box.
I’m a weenie.

Let’s think about these again and why they’re irrelevant:

Who cares? My hair is still cute. She was wearing sweatpants for Chrissakes, so what if I’m wearing a ratty old shrunken flannel shirt and hole-y jeans?
Who cares? Not like I’m the one grading her (less-then-stellar) papers and tests. Besides, the department doesn’t need to know, right?
Who cares? I’m not looking for a life partner, just some fun.

So really it all boils down to this:

I’m a weenie.

I’ve lost all sense of game, if I ever had any to begin with. IF I ever approach girls, I’m usually drunk. Or it’s a gradual process that involves introduction by mutual friends. In a shared social situation, I can be funny and endearing. But as a first approach, I absolutely fail.

What the hell happened? I got out of my long-term relationship two years ago. I haven’t dated anyone the whole time I’ve been in grad school, and that’s approaching the one-year mark. My excuse is that academic life precludes me from having a social life outside my small circle of colleagues in the department. And I have very little time to devote to such endeavors because I’m too busy researching, reading, writing and grading student exams and essays.

But the truth is: I have all kinds of time to sit on my ass and watch tennis matches and follow all kinds of useless information on the internet. Okay, most of all this is done in the wee hours of the night/morning, so being an inverted creature forces the misanthropic behavior. But hey, Kristen Stewart likes vampires right? And I’m a vampire dandy!

But if I have all that time to do useless things, why can’t I get off my ass and do laundry, go to lesbian bars and hit on girls and get laid? This is really quite pathetic.

One of my friends has managed to date a few guys and is now in somewhat of a serious relationship. Granted, she went and looked for it, and clearly wants one. But if she can make time for it, why can’t I? I’ve been telling myself that I don’t want to be in a relationship, yet I am now beginning to question that line of reasoning.

I certainly don’t want a suffocating 24/7 relationship like the last one I had. Yes, true. But not all relationships are like that. I can casually date, or find a better relationship, a better person. But then I tell myself that I can barely take care of myself and my cat, and I’m too used to being single – set in my ways of being a slob who doesn’t do the dishes or vacuum, keeping erratic sleeping patterns revolving around class times and tennis matches, and engaging in pointless internet behavior.

No I wasn’t always like this. When I was in my last relationship, I was completely domesticated. Kept a job during normal business hours, ate healthier, made enough money to hire a maid, and stayed away from the internet. I seriously only discovered Facebook and YouTube in 2007, I think. But then while that all seems like a healthy lifestyle, I felt like a caged animal.

But is my life that much better now? I get to do what I want, certainly, and that makes me happy. But shouldn’t I want something more? The truth is, I enjoy being a nocturnal slob who trolls around the internets, lives in the land of art historical theoretica, drinks and smokes with friends and watches sports. Is that so wrong?

You want to know the ironic part of all of this coffee shop missed connection shit? The barista (not the hot girl) dude has become pretty friendly with me. He gives me free pastries in the middle of the night when there aren’t too many customers around. He also got my friend a shot of whiskey when I told him it was said friend’s birthday. One night I even got him to play the Xanadu song in the coffee shop. He’s been kind of flirty with me and went so far as to say “this better be worth my while,” before playing the dumb song. He’s also called me “so darned cute” and engaged in really childish flirting by consciously and openly trying to annoy me. I don’t think he knows I’m a lesbian. (Moral question: should I tell him, or just continue getting free pastries? Is that a soft-core form of prostitution???)

What the hell, MAN!!!!!!

I really need to get out more.