The Sweetest Thing.

Watched The Sweetest Thing with my mom. Awkwarddddd.

Racist.

What does the spell checker on word have against passive voice?

Hibernation.

I am not made for the 40 hour work week. Store me below room temperature and let me sleep. Thank you.

Chocolate & Fruit-Flavored Brazilian Wax

So I was birthday shopping at Ulta yesterday when I passed by an advertisement that said "Chocolate & Fruit-Flavored Brazilian Wax". I don't know about the rest of the female population, but I'm pretty sure my vagina lacks taste buds.

Alchemist.

ne wish: to alchemically convert all of my stationary habits (reading, writing, planning, listing) into active ones. If writing & reading were somehow physical & not just mental exercises, the chemicals that produce happiness would run more abundantly through my veins; I’d have pink cheeks all day & I would sleep better.

Tag-a-lish.

So I just tried to speak Tagalog to my cousin in the PI & she laughed at me. Guess I should stick to English.

Shooting stars make me realize how much I hate blinking.

The world keeps testing me, testing me, testing me...

Gilded butterflies.

& we will laugh at gilded butterflies.

Winter blur.

Early winter weather, it turns out, is the antidote to blurriness. Blurriness in the sense of a body that won’t contain itself—runny nose, radiating headache, etc. Find relief from these disintegrations by bandaging yourself in sweaters & walking around the block; this sunny-cold weather is sharp enough to redraw the lines.

Pedestrian.

It was just so pedestrian; common & dirty & cruel. Mostly just cruel.

Butterfly.

Sometimes I feel like an earth bound caterpillar. Crawling along the road of life while in the forest canopy the beautiful butterflies dance in the wind. It’s hard to imagine that they were once like me.

I stare at my reflection and all I see is a caterpillar. No sign of a butterfly at all.

But I was promised wings.

I’ve never seen them. And the grasshoppers tell me they don’t exist.

Am I fool to have such faith?

Maybe the grasshoppers are right and I should be content with the forest floor and stop dreaming of a day when I will fly.

But I'm not a grasshopper!

I’m a butterfly just waiting for wings.

Be yourself.

When I try to write a poem, I end up writing a rap song. I'm a pimp. You're a ho. You're a bitch. I'm a bro. When I write a rap song, I end up with an invisible sex change. The moral of the story is: don't try to be what you're not. & I am obviously not a poet. Or a rapper.

Purple roses.

I hate roses. But I like purple roses.

Why? Because the color was a failure.

In the 1700s, European aristocrats competed in roses. They competed & created a multitude of varieties in almost every color imaginable, except for blue. You see, roses lack a blue pigment. So in the end, the final creation was a purple that just could not become blue; a failure.

I hate roses. But I like purple roses.

Freudism.

When I see a mother reading a book while her toddler quietly draws pictures across the table, I think that maybe one day I will have a child after all. But then it is never clear which person I am identifying with; perhaps what I really want is to draw pictures across the table from my mother.

Welcome me with distrust. Swallow me whole. & spit me up.

Alone in blogging.

Does anyone even blog anymore? I am in need of some blogger friends on, well, blogger. :) Ah, I miss those xanga days.

It’s a long time coming & I can’t yet say we’re there.