Archive for November, 2013

you have cellulite on the back of your legs 
that haven’t been shaved in 4 days
and at age 26, you have lost the allure 
of your barely legal years
but not the acne that accompanies it
and you probably won’t go on a date
for another 8 months at least
but it doesn’t matter 
because now you can
shavasana like a champ
and virabhadrasana with the best of them
and chaturanga until the end of time
while the lotus on your head continues to bloom

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This is not a movie. You are not lying on your bed listening to the same Rilo Kiley album that I am and thinking about me. You are not looking through our photos and wondering why you keep waking up in a fog and a with a heaviness in your chest. You are more likely texting some random girl pictures of your dick while I’m writing for my pathetic blog.

I’m having a brownie and a frozen meal tonight for dinner because the dishes stand on my counter in a precarious stack. My rage and tears and darkness stand in a precarious stack beside them, and none of the cleaning I can do will make them go away.

My OKCupid date didn’t write back this morning, so my planned distraction gave way to pajamas and a bun on the top of my head. Now I wonder if you’re at the party we were going to attend together. The dress I ordered for the occasion arrived just in time for me to bawl all over it as I hung it in my closet with the tags still attached.

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twisting my torso made me remember

that nicho is still dead
that i don’t really have enough money to buy a new car
that z is probably beyond my reach
and that i’m tired all the time

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sometimes you have drafts in your gmail that you’ll never send
and blog posts that you’re terrified to publish

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“So what should I say?
When I love someone?
You should say it.”


“Would you wait around to find out if it’s just a necklace, or if it’s sex and a necklace, or if, worst of all, it’s a necklace and love? Would you stay, knowing life would always be a little bit worse? Or would you cut and run?”


“you can be done witnessing
thumbholes in his sweatshirt
the grin as he makes up stories
about all the people in all the cars
the kiss he sneaks on your ear
you can lift his hand off your belly and send him away now
and never worry again when a spoon disappears
after he finishes kissing the tip of your nose three times
and conversing affectionately with your big toe
you can turn your eyes away from the heron dance
retrace no steps. pray for no pupils
blame no imaginary bird
it’s a choice. you choose.”

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I dreamed I was drinking Vietnamese iced coffee.
I dreamed I was listening to the radio.  My favorite morning show host was a vet. He was giving advice about how I should take care of my dog. He didn’t know that she died almost three years ago.
I dreamed about Moo. She and I were home alone, and she was somehow using what looked like measuring tape – paws holding down the tape as she held the end in her mouth and pulled it along the floor. I laughed, almost in disbelief, and petted her head. Then I noticed instead of inch markings on the tape, there were photos of our family. She kept going until all of the photos were unrolled, and I looked at them with her next to me.


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The love affair I’m having with blueberry muffins in the morning is getting out of hand.  Those little blueberries surrounded by muffin clouds are making my ass bigger every day.

The love affair I’m having with Dexter Morgan is getting out of hand.  Sure, he’s just a television serial killer, but then why do I keep having dreams about how the two of us will meet?  The easy access is what’s getting to me.  Thanks, Netflix.

The love affair I’m having with my bed is getting out of hand.  I only slept 5 hours last night, but then I stayed in bed for another 5 just lying there. It keeps me warm.  It holds me up.

The love affair I’m having with this cherry-cranberry juice is getting out of hand.  It’s 100% juice at least.  Cranberry prevents urinary tract infections, right?  Oh yeah. I’m not having sex anymore.

The love affair I’m having with yoga is getting out of hand.  It hurts me so much, and it makes me feel so good.  My teacher talks about letting go of ego, and my body is home again.  My teacher talks about opening up our muladhara, and I cry in front of children.

The love affair I’m having with online shopping is getting out of hand.  A car accident is draining my funds, and somehow I still think a new sweater from the Gap is going to make me feel better.  Surprise, surprise. It doesn’t.

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