Archive | Uncategorized RSS feed for this section

bad first English assignment is bad

7 Sep

Basically, I was required to write an introductory journal for my teacher to read and get to know me. She asked us to include things we believed we need her to know and the things that will help us in English this year. So… here is the piece of crap. Enjoy.

*   *   *   *   *

I. My favorite one-letter word, because I shamelessly and self-indulgently love writing about myself. Other than my obnoxious vanity, I love love love to write. Over the past few years, I’ve become incredibly serious about writing, so much so I’ve begun to think it will be the career I choose to pursue. Recently, I’ve become more experimental in my writing. Such as trying poetry, essays, blogs, short stories and this absolutely insane project called NaNoWriMo, which stand for National Novel Writing Month (yes, you write a 50,000 word novel in one month. It’s the weirdest form of torture out there).

Naturally my love of writing stemmed from an early love of reading. I embraced reading in 4th grade, where I read young adult fantasy for way to long, among the few random books that I didn’t fully comprehend at the time. I evolved to reading more genres in the realm of books that is young adult fiction, and then so on. I’m always open to suggestions, and I’ve been getting into what some would call “proper” literature recently.
Along with my intense obsession with reading and writing, I love the internet. Something I get laughed at behind my back for, I’ve found refuge online in a community of like-minded people, i.e, people that also love reading and writing and other somewhat nerdy things. I’ve met friends that are closer to me then a great deal of my school friends. A “world” many people are hesitant to enter or embrace, I went in full-force and my parents have embraced it as well, so much so one of my friends I met online is flying to New York to stay with us for a few days late next summer.
These are all necessary things to know about me, because they are currently the things that make up a great deal of who I am and who I am becoming. I incorporate a great deal of what I’ve learned from writing and reading over the years into every English class I’m in. And more recently, I include a great deal of what I learn from the large community I’m involved in online in my ideas, opinions and thoughts.
For me to do well in English, I need to be met with a reasonable amount of patience and understanding. I also need my procrastination and occasional close-mindedness not to be tolerated, considering it tends to interfere with my ability to focus on the task at hand and the broader picture of things. My writing is incredibly weak and needs a large amount of work, not to mention I want to work on my editing skills because, let’s face it, a great deal of writing is re-writing. In a nutshell, that’s me, who I am right now and at least for the foreseeable future.


the weight of it all

5 Sep

You know how you know things but you don’t feel or realize their impact? Like when someone tells you they’re moving, but you don’t really feel the impact until they call you from their new house and tell you about their new life. Well, I’m kind of getting that “weight” aspect of things. About five minutes ago, it just hit me. Something I knew but never faced, never embraced and never took seriously. I knew that This Is The Way Things Are and I need to Grow Up and Accept It, but knowing things isn’t the same as feeling them. I remember in first grade when they told us we were holding up tons of air on our shoulders, but we didn’t realize it or we couldn’t feel it because we’ve been used to it all our lives. Or something like that. It’s as if all the air has come crashing down full force, heavy and weighted, it’s presence demanding to be noticed, just crushing my shoulders.
I knew that I wasn’t old enough. I knew that I wasn’t pretty enough, skinny enough, interesting enough, funny enough, smart enough, good enough, but I didn’t feel it. I didn’t embrace it and know it until right now. I always do this… I always hold out hope something is going to happen, but know that it never will and it never does. But the difference between this time and the others is that he knows how I feel, he knows where I stand. We’re friends, I know a little about him and he knows… nothing about me. And he doesn’t care, I know that too. It hurts more than it should and it makes me feel stupider than it should. I don’t know why I do this to myself, set myself up for a straight and easy way to get hurt, but I do. I’ve always done it, but this time it’s different, because there are two players, not one. Not my mind and I, weaving our own little story and creating a person out of an empty shell of someone I don’t even know, this is him and me, I know him. I know who he is, a lot of his bad qualities and few of his good. But yet… I don’t know. I don’t know.  I just don’t fucking know.

the arctic hotel

22 Aug

“static silhouette somehow.”

– “Rome”- Phoenix

I am currently sitting in a room with textured white walls, boring paintings of roses in vases and outdated 90’s light fixtures. You guessed it; I’m in a hotel room. My mother has blasted the air conditioning to the “Alaska” setting, because Ohio weather does this weird thing where it stays hot at night. As this rather scatterbrained and unclear intro may have indicated, I am not home in my bedroom with the slight slant, surrounded by a wall of mountains in cold Upstate New York. I have traveled down to the flat (yes, the rumors are true. It’s flat, but then again, I live in a mountainous state) and warm, if a little stuffy, state of Ohio.

My parents and I hopped in the car and drove the seven hours to visit family and look at colleges for me. We just got back from having dinner at my father’s cousin’s house, and it was one of the most relaxing and laid back evenings I’ve ever had at a distant relative’s house. They spoiled us with yummy appetizers and sandwiches, and there were kids running around and everyone was just interesting and lively and down-to-earth. Once sufficiently full, we caught up about our respective crazy family members, i.e, my favorite uncle and favorite uncle’s crazy ex-wife. I was thrilled to see these people, and even more thrilled to hear that when they last saw me, at age 10 (blonde and blue-eyed), I was writing. I thought my writing phase began much later, and when I was told that I had been writing since then, even if it was just rhymes and stories about haunted houses… I don’t know. I feel like it renewed my faith in myself and my writing. I’m not going to keep exhausting myself with the “I’m a WRITER, I need to WRITE all the time” mantra.

Whoops, little rambly again, but you must be used to that by now. I lied on twitter, saying there was no blog today, I am working DILIGENTLY on a blog that will be well-written (in my opinion, and hopefully others’) and read through by several other people, considering the piece is rather… delicate. I am expressing an opinion I don’t think many will agree with, nor support, and I really hope that the negativity in the entry doesn’t cost me any friends. And if you would like to read it and give constructive criticism, or even your straight up opinion, say so in the comments or reply to me on twitter. I’m off to read The Hunger Games because it’s positively brilliant.



Here’s a short cheesy story.

“Something is wrong with me,” she said softly, her voice calculating and her eyes dull. Blonde hair swinging in her face as the fire crackled and cast a warm glow over her tanned skin.

“What?” I asked, trying for the life of me to figure out what could possibly be wrong with her.

“I’m hurting. It feels like my entire body hurts like it’s burning, as if fire is pulsing through my veins. I feel like I’m being electrocuted over and over, like sparks are flying everywhere. It’s as if I’m alive and the only reason I feel it is because I’m in pain.” Her shoulders were lit a hazy brown-orange, the yellow lace strap of her tank top tangled in the mess of her long locks, turned golden and shimmery in the light of the fire.

“It’s the drugs, Sara,” I said, taking a long drag from my cigarette. “You’ll feel normal once you sleep it off.”

“But I don’t want to sleep it off,” she said, standing up. Her legs were dirty from sitting on the grass and there were goosebumps scattered across her skin. “I want to feel this pain forever… because it makes me think that if I hurt this much, nothing can ever hurt me like it again.”

“Things will always hurt you, Sara. No matter how much pain you’ve felt, things will always end up hurting you.” She came over to me and sat down close, and we were almost touching.

“You see, it’s not painful, really. It’s just a nagging ache that feels good. Like… like I’m stretching in the morning after the perfect sleep. You know?” She said, her eyelids were dropping down, the high was obviously setting in. I laughed.

“You’re so baked.”

“Mhm. But… this is the best feeling ever! Michael, I… I want to feel this way forever.”

“You’re going to go broke buying that much weed, babe.”

“Michael!” she said, but she whined my name in that way of hers.

“What?! I’m just saying, this is nothing but a high. No good feeling is free my dear. A fact of life, a fact I want you to learn.”
She looked at me, I knew because I saw her hair fall off her shoulder and I could smell her perfume and shampoo hit me with the faint smell of smoke from the fire and cigarettes. I looked at her, her brown eyes were glossy and had spider-web like crimson lines, the faint freckles across her nose were a little more obvious and her small, young face looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. She was serious, in her own Sara-way, but she looked older, and I realized now she’d caught up to me. We were on the same page, and staring down the same road. The fire popped and smoke came at us. I put my cigarette out, any excuse to look away, and I felt her hand rest on my leg. 
Her hand crept up to my own, and she slowly and gently laced her fingers through mine. Her hand was lightly there, not pressing into me, not squeezing my hand. I squeezed her hand tighter, letting my warmth flow through her and then she leaned her head on my shoulder. She shifted over closer to me, pressing into me, our body heat flowing through each other and I felt the pain, the ache, the burning fire that she felt. It seemed as if hours, days, weeks had passed since I spoke, but it was only seconds. Sara sighed and looked at me, then she smiled slightly. Her dark pink lips parted slightly, as flames dancing around, their silhouettes shimmying across her cheeks.

“Michael,” she whispered, and my name had never sounded so good. “you’ve taught me a lot, but this feeling is freer than anything.”

“How so?”

“This ache… I love it. My heart seems like it beats a hundred times faster, my mind won’t stop turning… you know what that feeling is? I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“It’s love.” I said, without even thinking, and I knew I couldn’t take it back. I squeezed her hand tighter, hoping she wouldn’t let go. She smiled again, and turned to look at me.

“Why are you always right?”

“Because I am.” And then she kissed me.

Day 17- Someone from your childhood

17 Jul

Dear Jacob,

Due to the power of the beautiful Facebook, I do know little snippets of what you are up to. First, since I moved, you have become the biggest man-whore EVER. I thought you should know, and I feel the need to address this because me, you know, Ms. Goody Two Shoes, is incredibly uncomfortable with it. Just kidding. But seriously, EVERY new profile picture of yours is with another beautiful girl, which, of course, does not surprise me by any means, but it’s funny how quickly things change. We went from breaking into the church playground (and the church itself, might I add) to you being a slutface and me being a, uh, not-so goody goody. I do remember, when we were much younger, swimming in the pool with Jesse, prior to his attempt at kissing me (yeah, uh, about that… you know now… after about 7 years. lolz). Also, our constant little schemes or attempts at being little badasses, like the aforementioned church breaking-in. Or when we would sit up on the red steel staircase, hidden from my house and yours, right above the road below, where you, Jesse and I would talk, or eat ice cream during the summer, or, after Jesse ran away (tail between his legs, might I add), you and I shouting “DON’T MOAN, CALL JOAN!” at cars.
Or one day, walking home from the bus stop, when you threw a CD at a passing car, and it hit a van, where we immediately broke into a run, like bandits, even though nothing was going to happen. Christ, you were around for EVERYTHING. You were more present in my life than my own brother. Hell, you are my brother, or at least you used to be. It sucks that after growing up together our entire lives, we lose contact because of three measly hours between us. I’m not saying this bother me like hell, but it does. I do indeed miss you, and maybe when I come to Connecticut this summer, we’ll go to Lake Compounce and cause some trouble… because isn’t that what we do now? 😉


Day 16- someone that’s not in your state/country

16 Jul

Dear Thom,

I would like to take this time to address the fact that you are my favorite ex-husband and number one sassy gay friend. I would also like to address that you are my go-to person for advice, a shoulder to cry on, or someone to bitch with/at. You tolerate my incessant whining and my inability to stay on topic or tell an abridged version of a story, and you always seem to have the right thing to say at the right time. To be completely honest, I have never had anyone like that in my life before; my best friend has always been to invested in her own life and her own problems, my other friends were never close enough to help me out, nor did I want them to be, and… well, you know how my relationships with guys work out.
Another thing, without you, my direct messages inbox/outbox on Twitter would be mostly empty/ no where NEAR as exciting as it is now. Our little conversations about some crazy girls and some asshole guys or some weirdly short coworkers or… you know. We talk about lots. People are so jealous we are so freakin AWESOME, not to mention they wish they could have conversations as awesome and intellectually stimulating as ours (that sounded intelligent, right?). I REALLY hope that when I go to Ohio in a few weeks (date pending) that we will be able to hang out, because that will, of course, be almost too awesome (not to mention HOT) to handle.

I love you dearly,


time: an observation on an obsession

15 Jul

Time is such a fickle thing we dwell so much on. I mean, we count centuries, decades, years, months, day, hours, minutes, seconds, but we never count moments as much as we should. We note things like when the date is a palindrome or when it is 05:06:07 on the day of 08/09/10, and that this won’t happen again until 3010. The amount of time it will take for that to happen again is ridiculous. None of us will be around to witness it, so why do we track it? Why don’t we count the things in between this small event that repeats only so often? Like that yearly birthday, where we all turn a year older and count a little more time. Or that monthly surprise someone seems to give you. Or that daily glass of water or pill you swallow. Or that hourly checking of the clock while you’re at work. Or the minutes that tick by much too fast when your hands are intertwined with someone else’s. Or the seconds it seems to take for someone to be in your life, and then out.

This obsession with counting time is just another obsessive compulsive need us humans need to dedicate so much of ourselves to. We plan days around appointments that are at five, or dates around when work starts at 7 or ends at 3. We consider whether or not we should have that second glass of wine even though it’s eleven o’clock and we should go to sleep. We ponder if our death will be slow and painful; will it tick by little by little, while hours roll on? Or will it be instantaneous, and how much time will that instant be?

Maybe some day, someone will turn off the phone that counts their days, the iPod that counts their hours. Maybe some day, someone will throw away the calender that counts their months and years, putting every second of every minute of every hour into tiny little white boxes. Maybe someday, we will count our time with the steps per minute that take us to the days at the beaches, to the hours splashing in the ocean, to the minutes watching a summer sunset, to the seconds of kissing,  and to the moments it takes for love to begin.

Day 14- someone you’ve drifted away from

1 Jul

Dear Jack,

Back in eighth grade, we used to be pretty close. Then in ninth grade even, when I was depressed and it was…. bad. You were the only one there for me. You were the only one that tried to help me. Kerri was just mad at me, but you were genuinely concerned. You texted me almost daily, just to make sure I was alright. You were always there for advice and were always one of my best friends. Then you dated Kerri, and you and I sort of started to hated each other because of how I freaked out because of how you hurt her. Then we sort of became friends again, but we weren’t as close. You started dating Jordan and you just… drifted. These past few months, what with you being arrested and the prescription pills and Rick bullshit, I felt like you could use a friend. I wanted to call you, or stop by, but I knew I couldn’t because we has just drifted so far apart that we can’t really be moved back together. I’m sorry this happened, but it did, and I guess that we have both accepted this.


***names have been changed for privacy/ protection/ legal issues