Archive for March, 2011

Ginger biscuit!

Have I ever mentioned how much I love Adele? I think I first heard her on Pandora and it was all over after that. Now she’s blow’in up with her latest album (21). I recommend just listen from “19” straight through “21”. It’s great. This is one of my most favorites:


Been there, done that. Right?

I’ve been cheating…

No, not on my taxes. On Jean-Paul. The imaginary boyfriend I mention in my bio. It’s true. It’s been going on for almost three months now.  I feel terrible about it and therefore feel compelled to fess up.  Someone not so imaginary has replaced him. While Jean-Paul and I will forever remain close, it’s just not going to work out. He’s imaginary.

Meet Hoops:

He drinks beer.

He has big muscley arms.

Here are his stats:




He does artsy things: guitar, photography, etc.

Gotta love a smart, attractive, well-rounded man who can make you laugh, no?

I’ve already lost track of the days!

Actually, I just got confused. I never really get to sleep in anymore so I (half) woke up thinking to myself,

“Wait, it’s a sleep in day, which means it’s a…Saturday? No, that’s not right, I don’t have work! Spring break, no school, duh!” And just smiled at the luxury of it all.

Anyway, here’s another piece I had been working on. I’m being told that I’m pretty good at these “flash fiction” pieces! This is the second revision of this particular one, so far.


“Lost Earring”

The last time I saw him, I lost half of my favorite pair of earrings; a pair I had worn almost daily. Simple, reliable; they went with everything.  I got compliments on them all of the time and they were only five bucks.

We were sitting on the couch, miles apart, when I realized it was missing. He insisted we look for it and began to tear pillows off of the couch. No big deal, I thought, I’ll find it later, but he was adamant. No luck. We settled back in, stealing side glances while facing the television, now even farther apart.

Half joking, but mostly serious I comment, “You’re the worst investment when it comes to romantic relationships.”

“Yeah, I know.”

I kept thinking about all of the places my earring could have fallen off—the car? The restaurant? Why hadn’t I heard it hit the floor? Maybe I had and didn’t think anything of it? Now my memory was falsifying details.

Later on he kissed me goodbye and I kissed him back for good measure.

I never found that earring.

Don’t underestimate the things that I will do.

I’m officially on Spring break. Here’s what I’ve got planned for the week: nothing! Ahahah. No really, I have a few little things planned, but I’m actually really excited about having nothing planned! The only thing I want to do, (especially with all of this rain) is cuddle up with a couple books from my own reading list.

As you may or may not know, I’m once again taking a creative writing class this semester, as well as the literary journal production class (Bravura) and in doing so I’ve been doing quite a bit of writing and work-shopping and  revising. It’s intimidating and fun and exciting all at the same time; especially when you get a positive response to your writing (or in my case my flash non/fiction).  So I thought I’d share some of the stuff I’ve been working on. Here is one such piece:

“I didn’t do it.”

My Barbies loved to have dance parties and I loved to get them together, dress them up and coordinate these parties. As their master party planner, I sat on the floor in my room one sunny afternoon perusing through Barbie’s closet trying to put together a stylish ensemble for her upcoming event. As I was rummaging through pleather, sequins, neon and everything pink I noticed my sister in the corner of my eye. She was standing in my doorway and appeared to be slightly perturbed. Perhaps she hadn’t gotten the invitation to my latest Barbie dance party extravaganza? Then again, maybe I purposely had forgotten to send it?

She was rarely invited because she always ended up chewing–on Barbie’s high heels, hands or even worse, her feet. Barbie would end up leaving parties having to carry her shoes in her newly deformed hands because they no longer fit her newly widened or shortened feet. It was traumatizing for everyone involved. And somehow I always ended up being blamed for this.

“Keep those little plastic accessories away from your sister! She’s going to end up choking to death!”

So I take the accessories away and end up with a crippled Barbie. There was just no winning; my sister had to be taken off of the guest list.

As she was standing there, I started to notice small, slightly alarming details: her little hands were clutched, one of them holding a newly sharpened pencil and she was gritting her tiny teeth. I felt the little hairs on my neck stand up. Clearly she was out for blood. Before I had the chance to utter a word she started running at me with every intention of stabbing me with her tiny spear. Eyes wide and frozen, I just sat there anticipating the blow. Luckily for me she hadn’t quite mastered the art of the loop, swoop and pull, which resulted in her tripping herself and stabbing herself in the eyelid.

I sat there are watched, half horrified and partially justified, as she laid on the floor screaming her head off, and thought to myself, “I do not touch her!”

More to come later, kids!



This is for you. And you. And especially you.

Many thanks to my amazing friend Carissa for bringing this to my attention and to Thought Catalog! Read it and weep. And more importantly, enjoy and appreciate.

“You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

By Charles Warnke

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

Happy International Women’s Day!

Aw crap! I never posted in February! Oh well, another one bites the dust…