There is no such thing as a Free Spirit.
Girls with owl tattoos at the Red Room are living proof of this.
A studded leather stool is the hot seat,
you’re the interviewer,
I’m the applicant,
but I don’t want the job.
This is practice.
How many times has that line worked,
and really, am I free?
Questions make cheap answers, so
I care so much about what other people think that sometimes I wonder if my life is really even mine.
Here, let me introduce you to someone.
She has a calligraphy tattoo of her dead cat’s name and writes for a music and fashion blog.
She’s totally real.
You know, one of those free spirits you like so much.
Now have fun, you two.
I’ll be over here in the corner feeling jealous of how free you are.
There’s really nothing like scrolling through the social media profiles
of people who have done horrible things.
You skim the article recounting all the awful deeds and impending punishment
then scroll through the comments, filtering,
searching for the X that marks the treasure, until finally,
some commenter writes,
Here’s a link to the bastard’s Facebook,
let’s all jam up his inbox
and tell him what he needs to hear
So you look.
How could anyone expect otherwise?
Look, but beware, that magnitude of sorrow sticks with you for life.
If you see too many fabricated moral, law-abiding lives shattered
false memorials forever embedded in the www’s elephant mind,
you could begin questioning the very existence of good,
or the very existence of existence.
perhaps you shouldn’t look.
It’s really unsettling to be aware that you’re on the verge of your own destruction every minute of every day. No matter where you are, it’s impossible to be completely safe. There are dangerous things everywhere. There are germs everywhere. I’m writing this from my apartment which is in a building that would pancake in any earthquake bigger than just the tiniest little shake. Every time you drive on the freeway you could pop a tire or lose a wheel and go flying off an overpass or into another car. Anything you eat could be poisoned or full of killer E. Coli (sorry vegetarians, you’re not safe either. E. Coli comes from cow shit which is all over your greens, all the time.) Anyone standing next to you could be about to snap and go on a killing spree, with your proximity making you the perfect first victim.
Even if you choose to be “safe” and just stand in the middle of a barren field all the time, away from everything, a meteor could fall on your head, or you could get skin cancer from being out there all the time with no trees to protect you from the sun.
You could shut yourself inside your house all day and barricade yourself in your room and line the walls with mattresses to keep out any projectiles and wrap yourself in blankets and be eaten alive by flesh-eating bacteria. You could slather yourself in Neosporin to keep the flesh-eating bacteria away and suffocate your skin.
Every minute of every day we are almost dead.
We are no less almost dead than the minute we really are almost dead.
I eat my feelings. For breakfast.
I take everything that reminds me of you and throw it all in a pan with some oil. I add salt, pepper and smoked paprika.
I crack two eggs into the pan and scramble them. I can see our faces in a photo we took at Disneyland, peeking out from underneath the egg white, slowly fading as the egg cooks.
I eat my feelings. For lunch.
I take everything that reminds me of you and spread it all out on the cutting board. I slice a baguette and stuff it with some bus tickets, love letters and a seagull feather you gave me to put it my hatband because you thought I liked stuff like that.
I add some lettuce, tomato, mustard and mayonnaise. No onion.
I eat my feelings. For dinner.
I take everything that reminds me of you and throw it all into the meat grinder. I roll it into balls and bake them in the oven with marinara sauce. The meatballs are full of little blue sparkles from the nail polish you left at my fourth-grade slumber party. The meat cooks but the sparkles stay sparkly.
I eat my feelings. For dessert.
I take everything that reminds me of you and squash it between the layers of a cake, with the oldest memories at the bottom and the newest ones at the top. Your eye is the last thing I see before the entire thing gets covered in cream cheese icing. In the photo you were smiling but the eye on its own looks terrified, and this makes me feel better.
So a while ago I went through all the stuff in my closet at my parents house and had to decide what to keep and what to throw away. A lot of it had to be thrown away or donated. Although I try not to hoard, it’s often hard for me to throw things away, even useless knick-knacks, if they have good memories attached to them.
So I came up with the idea for this collage series!
Each image is of a pile of “junk” from the different chapters of my life.
I think everyone should do this!
I don’t understand people who can go to the gym and not feel like a complete shit head.
It’s really cool to hate people who aren’t skinny and also really cool to hate people who work out. I’ve internalized both of these and am therefore probably the last person who should join a gym.
I feel like a shit head for going and when I get there I think, look at all these horrible shallow gym people who are all concerned with their appearances and then I feel like a shit head for going there and feeling so hateful toward people who are probably nice.
Some people say oh, I met this really awesome girl or guy at the gym and we’re going camping together. We’re going to another class at another gym together. We’re going kayaking. We’re getting married.
Some people see the gym as a place to meet people. I can’t think of a worse place to meet people. I can’t think of a worse place to meet me.
I feel naked there. I feel like we’re all at our worst, walking around naked and looking at and judging each other’s nakedness. We’re all caught half-dressed and in an embarrassing pose. If you want to know how someone sounds when they’re naked, say Hi to them at the gym.
This should be a reason to love the gym, to see a kind of magic in it; look, we’re all at our worst right now. We’re all at our most human and most animal. We’re all a bunch of muscles and sinews and joints moving together. I bet if you turned an x-ray machine on a row of four people on Stairmasters it would look cool as fuck.
Why don’t I love it?