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young and sad

25 Mar

Now, I guess, I almost sort of regret that I always said Zayn was tied for last as my favorite member of One Direction. Because I realize that without him, without Liam, even, the band does not exist. I mean, it does, technically, but not in the way it did, the way it should, or ever will again. And I’m closer to thirty than I am to sixteen so maybe they’re not as much mine as maybe NSYNC should have been, but no. They are. And I’m young and sad, and it’s heartbreaking to see them separate.


don’t take these boots off me

1 Mar


The show just ended, and it was so amazing and I am so happy and I wish it lasted forever and it was perfect, I could cry.

sing something for me

3 Feb


Tonight we’re going to sit here. We’re going to be still. We’re going to think about all the things we said today and really beat ourselves up about the things we could have said better or didn’t say at all. AT LEAST WE’RE GOOD AT SOMETHING.

I had a composition notebook with “when inspiration hits–and only when it does” written in small letters on the cover. There were little notes and thoughts scribbled sparsely through the first twelve-or-so pages. For, like, a second after writing something about¬†the orange glow of the setting sun, I’d think I was brilliant. And then it was shit like the rest of it. I write really slow. Unless I know I’ll write over it with something else the next day, I’ll spend hours on a single sentence.¬†Literally. But I learned somewhere you shouldn’t do that. You can’t sit around waiting to be inspired. You know that.

Maybe I need a new playlist. I want feel-something songs. Almost-sad songs. If you know any, let me know. Maybe a listen will rattle the words from my brain.


28 Jan

The air conditioner in the office is acting up. It’s loud and cold and my jacket’s very thin. The tap tap tapping of fingers on keyboards is firm and pronounced by the presence of auditors in the conference room next door. We don’t feel like talking. I tuned my music player from yesterday’s punk rock nostalgia to something a little sweeter and, at the same time, quietly seething. Over my second mug of tea, I pored over a schedule of accounts and balances to reconcile errors I’d made the previous year. Can’t picture myself doing the same in the years to come without wanting to die, because this was only supposed to be a summer job, and now I can ten-key and calculate tax like a boring person. I took my time at lunch with the last of the veggie lasagna I made on Monday, and followed that with four pieces of chocolate and girl band counsel to feel strong again. In the last hour at work, I transitioned to an older, somber remorse for having been so hard. Smooth, sad, indie folk until 4:30, and back to raucous American grit for the drive home.

like a pillow

13 Jan

I’m going to cut these strawberries, I thought. I’m going to prepare this bowl of strawberries and sit with it on the couch and write: “I’m sitting here with a bowl of strawberries” and hope by the time I get there, I’ll have something more to say.

I’m sitting here with a bowl of strawberries and a sweet little Bluetooth speaker through which I’m sharing with Daniel my favorite songs of the day. Dinner’s in the oven, and our show starts in ten minutes. I wondered about Wolf today waking at eleven on his day off and not wondering why he hasn’t heard from me in a while. But I’ve been feeling pretty good about myself. Feeling pretty cool. Feeling the way I imagine Lana Del Rey feels on the daily. Look at the way I just said that. Cooool.

too young to feel this old

10 Jan

Been listening to a bunch of rock star jerks on the radio to feel better about myself or to feel alright being terrible. found a surprisingly familiar comfort in dirty boots, bar fights, and bloody lips on ornery men. Thought I’d probably be okay driving into the sunset a wild-haired soulless asshole myself, only partly because it seems such a beautifully awful thing to do. But mainly because if I were to break apart, I’d want to make it fast and fiery, a wholly inescapable wreck. I almost regret knowing God’s plans for me are for greater purposes than an artful self-annihilation. Almost can’t stand that his love would prevent a perfect implosion.

you’re gonna sing the words wrong

1 Jun


It’s the first of June. It’s sunny. It’s hot. Tomorrow’s another work day. If this is another paragraph about being so ridiculously unfit for a job in the office, just stop reading now. I’m so bored of writing about that. I’m going to tell you about Daniel now. Right now. He is sitting next to me in a red shirt and surf shorts. He just washed his car. He gave me gardenia updates. From clippings in the front yard, our baby gardenias are growing roots in a jar. He planted one. We’re excited to watch it grow. Under my piercing gaze, Daniel is taking a sip of his water. I am watching and typing and trying to make him uncomfortable, but he is staring back, raising his brow, and gulping unapologetically. I’m asking him for writing advice. He said I can end this post by playing that song we were talking about this morning, the one that sounds happy with sadder undertones, the one we both imagine being played in a movie when good things are happening and then stopping suddenly with the protagonist alone, wondering where everyone had gone.