This is what writing is like for me.
Sometimes, words tumble, clown-car style, from behind my eyes, forcing my tapping fingers to race- to corral them into some semblance of meaning and order.
Othertimes, more often, lately, I find myself trapped and glassy-eyed, staring at the blank edit page before me. As if my native tongue has suddenly lost itself in translation, I find myself speechless…or worse! Bored.

The last time I wrote a story that was straight fiction? It would have be nine? Maybe ten years ago. Ten years might not sound like much to the more gristled and wizened souls out there, but here’s some perspective: for me, ten years is approximately three life spans ago. There was pre-post-college hilarity me, pre-college adorable me, and pre-teen-omfgwhywon’thecall@#%%$ me. That me wrote all the time and- oh, why pad the truth? No one to impress around here- I wrote about trolls. And fairies. Okay, mostly fairies.
So, what I’m saying is, the culmination of my fiction writing career, my magnum opus, was an epoch on fairies penned by a 12 year old I don’t even recognize. And…I’m not really sure what I should do with this information.

I would like to think that, in the last decade, my brain cells have been about 98% replaced (the remaining 2% forever lost to accidental inhalation perhaps). This is a convenient philosophy, as it not only frees me from the embarrasing preoccupations of my former psyche, it allows me- as in, my current brain implementation- to maintain that I have never tried this “fiction thing” before…at least, it sure as heck feels that way.

I mean, here is the problem I ultimately have with just making shit up: where. are. you. supposed. to. begin?

But I hope it’s not important, because instead of doing what you were going to do, you’re actually going to read an exclusive exerpt from Michael Bay’s rejected script for The Dark Knight.

This is the way things are now.
I am twenty one. I live in a beautiful city. I have a job I’m good at. I’m pursuing my dreams. I’m poor, but it’s not as hard as I thought it would be, and I haven’t had to ask anyone for help. When I get scared, I remind myself that I am brave and I keep going.
I cook. I try to keep my room clean. I work out, even when I don’t feel like it.
I’m seeing a man who makes me laugh, who is good looking, driven, self-sufficient, and literally kind of a rock star.
We take vacations- long weekend on the beach, amusement parks, and broadway.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Truman Capote (from an interview with himself):

Q: If you could be granted one wish, what would it be?

A: To wake up one morning and feel that I was at last a grown-up person, emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts, and other wasteful, childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult.

My mother sent me a promotional postcard featuring a half-naked boy. It was a bit of a shock, as I used to be deliciously in love with him and lately he’s been mostly out of my mind.

“Hey kitten: We saw a lot of ‘J’ in Little Dog last weekend. He did a good job with the role of a gay prostitute!!! Nice body
-Love M”

There’s nothing like knowing that your parents have seen a former lover naked. Let alone that they’ve seen him perform a gay sex scene.

Nothing in the world.

Seriously

Now that the weather has warmed up, the amount of strollers I see on a daily basis is out of control.

For those of you who haven’t been to Boston, you’ll probably think I’m exaggerating, but I’m really not. On any given block, I’ll see somewhere between 4 and 5 strollers. Always, it’s the same–If there’s a mother behind the stroller, she’s power walking. If there’s a father behind the stroller, he’s talking on his cell phone. Today, I saw a father rolling two entirely different strollers down the block and, yes, he was on his blue tooth.*

Seriously, where are all these babies coming from?
Really! I thought I wanted the answer to this question!

However, to my utter horror, I now know more than I could ever, conceivably have wanted to know about babies and their point of origin.

A couple of weeks ago, I took my computer down to the Starbucks I live by. It was around 9:30pm. I forced to take the only remaining seat, which was, unfortunately, adjacent to a table of four mothers, their fussy** babies, and the accompanying stroller flotilla.

Anyway, one of them had just come from one of those lady parties where they…you know.
Like…one of those parties where all the women get together and then one of them tries to sell stuff to the others? Like tupperware. Or, in this particular case, hot-pink, fuzzy, handcuffs and neon-green dildos with inappropriately cutesy names, like Wiggly Wabbit.

Anyway, these women are all sex-in-the-city-maternity stylin’ in this Starbucks, and I couldn’t help but get sucked into their horrifically graphic descriptions as they kvetched about their post-baby sex lives. It was… unbelievably awful.

Mom # 2: “Before I had a kid, I actually thought being milky would be kind of… sexy. Then I accidentally sprayed him in the face and changed my mind.”

Mom #4: “Oh, God, tell me about it. I told him, sure, we can have sex, but the shirt stays on. I mean, there’s NO WAY the shirt ever comes off. Or the bra. I mean, just…no way.”

Mom #1: “You know, I had sex last night for the first time in four months. It felt weird, but it was great because by the time we were done. I’d finished my grocery list in my head- and I normally fall asleep too fast to do that! Really, it was great.”

Mom #3: “You know, I sort of miss maternity pants (insert sounds of general agreement). Why don’t they make all pants that way? I mean, really??”

Mom #2: “Yeah, well what I’d like to know is why you can’t buy lube in bulk, like at Costco, with a palette and a forklift!”

It was at this point that I decided that I’ve never actually wanted to know anything about where babies come from. Consider it a dead issue. Bring on the strollers, just don’t park ‘em at my place.

*At a guess , I’d say he was talking to his other baby.

**At 9:30 at night! Ladies, your babies are tired! Take them home!

Blog Posts I have written and not posted:

1. Celeb Reality; Or How I Learned to Love My Neighborhood

2. Telephonic Despair; A Choose Your Own Adventure Blog

4. The Yeller; Or Why I Sometimes Hide on My Porch

9. Too Much Information; How Starbucks(tm) Convinced Me to NEVER Have Children

So, yeah. Lots to look forward to, huh? Huh??

And the ghosts we carry are heavy on my mind, today, heavy, heavy, sweet thing. Quick kiss and on with your life.

I’ve only just gotten used to the people you hold down deep and the secrets I wouldn’t ask you to tell me - no, not in a million years. Most secrets I imagine are about me, anyway. Free fall secrets about me.
I’ve had lovers too, you know. And some have crushed me and made me sad. But I’ve stolen my share of kisses and I’ve waltzed in the rain. Even with the wisdom to do better, I’d choose them all again in a flash.
You’d do the same? I don’t want to know about it.

But what do we do now? Now when we look at each other and can already see the glimmer of those other people, better versions of ourselves, who will steal our kisses later on? These future ghosts I really can’t wrap my little heart around. I don’t care about them.

Just let me be here. Now. And let that be good. Choose me. Pick me. Just for now.
I’ll carry myself today. You? You can carry me later if you want.

Oh, my heart is James Dean.

Some days are okay, most more so- magical, that’s a better word.
I forget about seeing days as rigid one way streets and dead ends. Each one a magical slough-off of my life. I like how we can move on completely new- like we’re good people again.
Sure, maybe last night you were a dirty dark heart, but in the morning you can chin up and sunshine can pour hot from your chest, steam rising off your smile. It’s raining here today, just tears from heaven that will be all dry up and be forgotten by tomorrow.

Good morning.

I’ve got a good thing going here, and it’s crazy good like my body fell asleep and now it’s tingling to remind me I’m still alive goodness seeping through my pores like icing on your face, just lick it off. I’ve been so lonely lately.

This is what I think, now, all the time. Of how I want to bunny on your lap, or that I’m so awfully sad and I need you to lay down on me and remind me to breath. Instead I hold out, sweet-morselling the feeling of wanting you. Just a few words more and then I’ll relent, here I come…

Oh! I talk too much. There was something I was going to tell you- I can’t remember what. This is happening to me a lot lately, where I think of something I’d love to say to you–like today, I woke up and the air in my room was honeycomb soft and heavy with the thick wetness of my heart, like I’d fallen asleep and spring was born from my own darkness, right there in my room–but then I forget. Or it isn’t so important anymore, not as pressing as I used to think it should be.
Maybe instead, yes, I’m wishing you were right here, walking beside me. Don’t worry, I could just curl up my mouth and talk out of my cheek, quiet and for myself. Just something about the air or that dog’s pink pads, or lookit that ass, or did you hear my knee crack. Or I’m so scared, I’m so scared, I’m so scared, ’cause I’m always falling and now I’m just hanging, mood-jowled and lost on this stranger’s balcony and everything I thought I knew about myself has changed. Whatever, even if I said it too quiet for you to hear, my words just puffs of breath, at least you’d be right there bumping against my shoulder. There to say something a bit brighter and louder. You take the pressure off my brow and buckle.

I wish things were easier. I wish all the time, without knowing my own answers or ever knowing what I want. Dirty pennies, eyelashes, first stars, other people’s birthday cakes. Deep breath in and if I hold it long enough then… Deep breath in and let it out, just breath…These days, I breath in wishes all the time.

Yes you, the one person who reads this shit, like, ever.

Sorry I just blindly let you walk out of your house and watch this movie. I knew when you randomly texted me about it you were actually, desperately, crying out for help.
I’m a terrible friend. I should have just sent you this link.

I think it is a distinctly American trait to believe, always, that surely the worst has already occurred.
I am so young. My country is so young. This century is youngest of all, but surely! the worst things have already happened in it. Because, how could anything be worse than that heartache? And how could any loss be greater or take more from me than this greatest of all losses?
We are, my generation- no, none of us- quite that naive.
But we have a great and incredible hope for the future. So, if we’re lost and ecstatic…it’s because we have lost so much…and have everything, now, to gain. And because we know that we will gain it. Those who aren’t dead are young.
And no, I haven’t a clue what will happen, but I’m simply sure that it will be right. And because of that, I’m okay with waiting for a while.

I have my own apartment now. I have lovers. I have a balcony, with a garden in a box.
No more late night Taco Bell runs, now we have tea. In my kitchen. There’s even jam. We talk about little adult things- the weather, and the pregnant man on Oprah.
I own a stapler now. And a staple remover. I use them both frequently.

Sometimes, I go to bars and schmooze around with people I’ve just met.

“So…what do you do?”

But I’m pretty sure PETA would have a significant problem with this.

Because, as a rule, I prefer to hate this type of movie.

BUT, I think I might actually pay for an outrageously priced ticket and see this baby on the big one.

Question: has anyone ever read a blog that wasn’t filled with posts about how busy the author is or apologies about a lack of updates?

More to come at a later date. Have been massively busy and that…

“Be a Super Star!
Online Viagra Now!”

Yeah, like it’s that easy.

If you’re a Sigur Ros fan, and you haven’t had a chance to see their film yet, you can watch on YouTube, but just for today. I’d recommend netflixing it anyway. But still, it’s sort of incredible.

I for one was so excited last year when I thought that SNL was entering into a rennaisance period of renewed social relevancy. It turned out not be the fact. I remember Kyle and I played a drinking game to the show once, the idea being that every time one of us laughed we both had to take a drink. It was one of my quieter Saturday nights.
I’m still posting this video, however. Although it didn’t make me laugh out loud, I think it was because I was sort of mesmerized by Bill Hader’s Daniel Day Lewis impression.