Say it to me.



I miss you. You’re barely around or I’m barely around. I miss those few days after we met when I felt like you saw me, and when we were talking, I felt like I was the only person in your eyes. I know it was just a few days, but I feel like I’ve lost an eternity.



Isn’t everyone the definition of a different time and a different place? Figure that out for me.


I just walked you to your class. Guess attraction is perfectly intact. I submit. But not like that.



Day after day….


(I swear to God, girl, I’m gonna evict you.)

(Avoiding your destiny like it’s the plague, huh????)


Oh I see how it is

Dear Eireann,

I hate that I never knew you wrote me back until you told me. Let’s not talk about it.

I don’t know what I hate more, the fact that you think we’re the definition of “a different time and a different place” or the fact that it’s a fact. I hate how you’re so set on everything. Or maybe I hate how un-set I am on anything. Either way there is really no arguing with you. Either way, you don’t know how much I think about that weekend for a million different reasons. You don’t know what it meant to me. You don’t know how much I can’t let it go. You don’t know how you’ll never take it away from me.

Maybe there was nothing there for us. Maybe it was just the time and not the place. Maybe it was just an interval and it disintegrated right after that. Maybe it was the illusion of having something we’d never had before and the pain of not knowing when we’ll have it again. But I know we will have it again.

And maybe I just need things to converge. But I believe they will converge. I believe it with all my heart. It might be the only thing I believe.

I think I have met Daisy. I know I have met Daisy. But I’m gonna get her, Eireann. I’m smarter than Gatsby was. I’ve already read his biography. I’m gonna get her and not let her go. I’m gonna drug her. I’m gonna brainwash her. I’m gonna chain her to my bed and I’m not gonna let her drive the fucking car. I drive the fucking car. It’s my fucking car. It’s my fucking car. Besides, you think I’m on crack. Would Jay Gatsby on crack let Daisy get away from him? NO. I know you don’t think it’s about that, but my point is, he would swallow the green light and become it.

You’re wrong. I’ve ended up in the dark and I’ve started in the dark. I’ve lived my life in the dark. Sometimes there was light in the shape of a door frame. I always had my back to it. I always sat against it so it wouldn’t get in any more.

Do something drastic.

I want to do something drastic.

You know I can’t say no.

But you can do better than that.

You can do so much better than that.

You want to bet? I want to trade. Trade me something. I’ll tell you anything.



Under the sea

“Nowadays people often feel that their private lives are a series of traps. They sense that within their everyday worlds, they cannot overcome their troubles, and in this feeling, they are often quite correct. What ordinary people are directly aware of and what they try to do are bounded by the private orbits in which they live; their visions and their powers are limited to the close-up scenes of job, family, neighborhood; in other milieux, they move vicariously and remain spectators. And the more aware they become, however vaguely, of ambitions and of threats which transcend their immediate locales, the more trapped they feel.” (C. Wright Mills)

I feel wherever I go and whatever I do will be its own trap. The thing I run from traps me into some other thing. I can’t walk on my own, only move from prison to prison. I’ve moved from my cell into another cell.

“Human activity naturally aspires beyond assignable limits..Hearts cannot be touched by physio-chemical forces…Unlimited desires are insatiable by definition…Inextinguishable thirst is constantly renewed torture…” (Anomic Suicide)


But if it’s alright with you//if it’s alright//yes I will

I know I haven’t said a single concrete thing in an eternity. I like to think that whatever is the constant thread is the right thing, but there never is one. It’s one thing and the other thing. I can’t tell which one is the thread.

I think I know….I think I’m afraid….I think the longer I wait….


memory is ephemeral but cross-examination is forever


october 15– flipped the page in the calendar.

reawakened some things, put others to sleep.

reawakened some things, put others to sleep.

reawakened some things, put others to sleep.

reawakened some things, put others to sleep.


Dear Girl who just walked down the hallway in her underwear, Thank you.

Dear Clay, I’m very jealous of how you’re on a radio station so I haven’t listened to you on the radio yet so I don’t cry.

Dear Sun, sometimes I miss you, mostly I resent you.

Dear Mom, I’m so sorry the only reference point I really have when I think about my future is whenever you die.

Dear Kris, I’m sorry my mind won’t give you the benefit of the doubt (Please speak directly to my mind and not to me).

Dear Eireann, Why weren’t we friends before we became friends?

Dear Alyssa, I think about you a lot.

Dear Dad, I wish I could forgive you.

Dear Tomasz, I wish I could

Dear Girl who walked by in her underwear again, I love you.

Dear Tomasz, I literally don’t even know what to say. I’m sorry I never got you a birthday gift.

Dear Everyone in the world, Are we just gonna resort to seeing each other a couple of times a year now? Is that how it’s gonna be? Is that how it’s eventually gonna be? That literally makes me want to die.

Dear Colin, I’m sorry that I SUCK.

Dear Jill, Why haven’t we gone out to dinner?

Dear Patricia Birch, Why do I have a feeling like my last memory ever is gonna be your movie?

Dear Mia, I’m sorry I’m never in the mood.

Dear Colin, I’m sorry I either tell you too much or not enough and either way I never really end up saying anything.

Dear Kasia, I’m sorry I’m terrible at writing your life.

Dear People who keep trying, Why do you keep trying?

Dear Kasia, How about you stop.

Dear Colin, Fancy seeing you here.

Dear Jonathan, Fancy seeing you here.

Dear Alyssa, Fancy seeing you here.

Dear Mrs. Gounis, I question why you even read my blog anymore.

Dear Professor Klepper, I honestly don’t know how much of this Marco Polo book you want me to read so I haven’t read anything since I left my bedroom an hour and a half ago. Fuck.

Dear Professor Klepper, You know, I feel like I should have had some ounce of BACKGROUND KNOWLEDGE BEFORE I WALTZED INTO YOUR CLASS PRETENDING I CAN FUCKING DO THIS.


Dear Everyone, Don’t try to talk to me. I’m mean.

Dear Tomasz, I know we’re different but we might as well be the same person.

Dear Professor Klepper, I cannot read a single one of these family trees.

Dear Kasia, The only thing I like is layering songs over each other until it resembles what’s in my head. Hope you can be sat-is-fied. Thanks doll. Don’t remind me.



don’t feel like anybody sees me here. hate feeling like i’m part of a system. hate feeling like i’m a person you might pass on the street and not like i’m a person who walks into a room and sits down and you stare at her for the rest of your life till she gets up.

it’s crazy how outside forces determine what is eclipsed this time and what lights up. i guess shadow will always fall over something unless i am literally speaking to infinity.

i don’t think anything i do that i fully believe to be conducive to helping myself actually works. i haven’t let go. i’m so stupid for never seeing that. i’m stupid. i know because i get caught off guard and i’m always surprised. just makes me hate myself more. i love myself. i love myself.

i can only keep it together if i choose to forget. i don’t want to seem fucking ridiculous but this was easier to deal with when it was happening and there was no aftermath or anything that made me fucking reel and i miss when i didn’t pretend.

____________________________________________________________________________________________october 25

had a dream that seemed like my faith was being tested when i woke up. i had no faith left in the dream and breaking it was just too irresistible. i know it was just a dream. but. are dreams not fantasies? no. fears.




On the decline!

I’ve got some things I want to say to you now. Can’t keep harboring all this resentment. You’re ridiculous. Interpret every situation as hostile. Kindness might as well be indifference. Indifference might as well be pure evil. Keep dreaming about how much you miss people. Put them into situations that never existed. I resent you. You do nothing. You claim writing is your whole life but you don’t even fucking do it. Claim to identify with things you don’t even fucking touch. Think it’s destiny because one person flicked their eyes at you one time and now they don’t even care. Think whatever is inside is automatically outside. Think you can even dream of penetrating the ocean in your head. The one that makes every sound distorted, every real thing muted. Only good for dressing up to go places and then being miserable in those places. Only good for arguing with people for some bare minimum kind of thrill. Only place you can get your thrills. Only place you can fucking get your thrills. Reject everything before it happens. Reject yourself before it happens. Live like you’re dead. Live like you’re already fucking dead. Live like you’re already fucking dead. Harbor everything, do nothing. Live like it’s all you’re fucking built for. Make up only to forget. Make up only to forget. Act like one trap could possibly be better than the next trap. Act like there could possibly be anything in this world that isn’t a dead end. Can’t even get close to anything. Can’t even have sex. Can’t even look yourself in the face without being the same person who looks every other person in the face. Can’t even let yourself down in front of yourself anymore. Can’t even remember. Can’t even fucking remember. Can’t even live with the fact that you experienced all of these things just to not be able to fucking remember. Can’t even argue with you. Can’t even muster that much.


This is Tosca’s Kiss

I wish I had black eyes and long, dark hair that curled foreseeably and constantly around my waist, and bangs that curled too, and a devoutness to something so intrinsic, not even open rebellion can overcome it, I wish I had something that would make me, Murderess, look like an angel to the eyes of God, I wish Judgment Day could be something I look forward to, because I know the court I am going to doesn’t judge blindly, I wish I had so little, I’d throw myself into the Tiber River, I wish I couldn’t tell the sound of a blank from a gunshot. I wish I could stab my attack dog in the heart and forgive him immediately, and light candles all around his body, and I wish I could not be afraid of saying “Scarpia— before God.”