Friday, October 21, 2011


a couple times a year i have this dream, although it seems like my subconscious should have outgrown it by now.

you were in my dream and we were all “THIS ISN’T DONE YET.” then i realized it was a dream. you said: "why did you do that (thing that I don’t remember now) (in the dream) (it was a thing that hurt you)?”

and i said: “i wasn’t there in that part of the dream. it was a dream lady masquerading as me, but i hadn't arrived yet. i've just arrived now. we’re both dreaming right now, but the thing that you think i did was in your dream before we synched up. i would never do that thing. but we’re synching right now. and you’re right, this isn’t over. you should call me when you wake up, if you remember to.”

“i’ll call you when i wake up.”

i am woken up at this point by the vibration of my phone on my night stand.

i think: “oh wow, he’s fast!” and for five seconds i contemplate how magical this is, and then as the chemicals that constitute my logic slowly fall back into place (i picture a lazy movement similar to the little rings in one of those handheld water games from the 90s*), i feel all that old sadness crowding around me.

then i see that it is a text, an invitation to see Human Centipede 2 at midnight. it is not from you. that is not one of the ways in which we are not done (although it is true that we will never see this movie together). i wonder if the subconscious brain can ever know "done," and i'm glad that consciousness evolved to split itself in two, and i'm glad that i spend most of my time wearing the version that knows "done," or at least knows "done" to the extent that it's functional and not steeped in the old sadness, which can, in dreams, feel acute.

thankfully only a third of my life (ideally) is spent wearing the version that doesn't know "done." although sometimes i wish it were more, strangely enough. sometimes it is nice to feel that something isn't done, though i am not necessarily referring to our thing in particular. always feeling like everything is done sometimes makes me feel a freedom from my own history that can make everything feel "unfamiliar" and not steeped in anything, and after a while that leaves me feeling desperate to be steeped in anything (even gargantuan familiar sadness will do).

the task of life is to feel appropriately steeped in a familiar system that doesn't reek of an old sadness.

sometimes it is more simple than that; sometimes it is just nice to sleep.

i eat a banana for breakfast and i don’t think about you for the next six months.


Wednesday, October 19, 2011


come closer!
i have intermittently wanted to tell you for a long time:
come back to my window.
it’s a different window now, though.
come find my new window and stand below it,
and i promise i will come to the window to look at you,
among other things.

Monday, October 3, 2011


-I’m No Nihilist-

Didn’t feel the earthquake but saw a bunch of birds that felt the earthquake,
fleeing from our permanent planet and from the smells of cars that need repair

I am eager for a different weather, for a storm to keep me company

I am disturbed by the photoshopped cats on the bags of cat food
I like my cats how I like my humans: real looking, with a disconcerting amount of facial hair

I am eager to forget how absurd a set of traffic lights looks beneath such a big sky,
and that there is no such deliberate cooperation in space

Things smash into each other with an embarrassing amount of disregard,
And this is the same spirit in which aphorisms are formed:

We have coached ourselves to say “live in the moment” when a moment is obedient,
and we say “this too shall pass” when a moment misbehaves.

Really these both hint at the same thing: life is happening while it moves closer to not happening

So really these phrases are interchangeable.

I’m no nihilist, but I’m certainly spearheading the movement to make people aware of this.

Can you imagine if we reversed the occasions for these phrases?
How much more interesting and creepy they would become?

Imagine someone telling you, “this too shall pass,” while you’re throwing back drinks and having a great time with friends,
And that same person rubbing your back while you vomit into the toilet later that night, advising you to “live in the moment.”


-Why I’m Single-

Absent-mindedly fondling my breasts while driving in a torrential downpour and wondering why Boston Market never took off.

Picking my nose at a red light, I look over to see an attractive man staring at me, amused.

My ex-boyfriend might have a Wikipedia page and three thousand more followers on Twitter,

but my rants against sexist columns in the Daily Collegian have been published in the Daily Collegian, and ignored by hundreds of UMass males who go to every day to rate, on a scale of one to ten, a picture of some girl’s breasts.

I went on a sandwich date and we had nothing to talk about.

My date said “I hate it when the sandwich contents falls out the back of the sandwich when you bite into it.”

“We’ve all been there,” I said.

Sometimes I think I look like a little boy and I wonder if the men who are interested in me are pedophiles, and then I don’t want to date anyone at all.

I hate it when people point out that I’m shorter than the average woman.

The next time someone tries to get cute with me by teasing me about my height, I’m going to call them a motherfucker, which is a word I’ve always wanted to use but it never seems appropriate. I hope I can deliver it well. I’ll say:
“Motherfucker, I’m not short. You’re just tall, and it’s really fucking bothering me.”

Sometimes I stutter because I think about what I’m saying as I say it.
Sometimes I don’t stutter but I end up saying something that makes no sense.
I once worked with someone who had noticeably impressive calf muscles.
I meant to ask him: “Do you do a lot of bike riding?”
But I said: “Do you ride a lot of bikes?”
That was a weird moment.

But I am making an effort.
An effort to dress less like a lesbian and more like a closeted lesbian.
This will please my mother.

I am waiting for the melatonin to kick in, at which point I will dream about entering the dragon’s lair, or something equally shitty.

I dream that I’m about to receive a ham and cheese sandwich from a woman on a motorcycle, and I wake up with my arms extended over the side of the bed where a partner could fit, where a sandwich vision fades into half an empty bed


-Some notes on having nothing prepared five hours before this reading-

Depression on the seventh floor of the library.
I came here to practice creativity under fluorescent lights.
I came here to summon inspiration in a tiny room, but on the wall in front of me someone has written “13 foot cock.”

What a terrible thought, what a nightmare that would be.
The reading is in five hours and I’ve written nothing, and “13 foot cock” towers over me, oppressively.

I hate the huffington post. Today on the huffington post I had the option to click the following headline: “photos of celebrities picking up after their dogs.”

Just what I need to start my day: a slideshow of movie stars picking up dog shit.

Everyone is crazy about dogs. I like dogs just as much as the next guy, but let’s be real. A dog will eat his own shit- or, worse, another dog’s shit- and lick your face five minutes later.

I have never heard a worse betrayal.

Sometimes I’ll begin to have a sexy dream and then the dream will be foiled by a neutered pet, meowing me out of my first dose of psychic romance in two months, as if he can sense my pleasure and needs to intervene out of vengeance.

"If I can’t reproduce, you can’t hump your bed while unconscious," says my cat.

Cat, I will be pissed at you for the rest of the day. I will see your face in the wallpaper of my cell phone and I will feel a twinge of bitterness.

Speaking of cell phones, texting has really invented a whole new necessity for the exclamation point. I find myself exclaiming things in text messages that I would never exclaim in real life. I do this because text communication can be very ambiguous, since it isn’t punctuated by a tone of voice or body language. I know other people do this too, based on the texts I receive. You want to convey that you’re saying what you’re saying in a warm, friendly way, so you rely on the exclamation point, because a smiley face can feel contrived. So I end up exclaiming things like:
I’ll see you at the barbecue tonight at Brendan’s house! LOL

My dad didn’t start texting until about six months ago, and it took him a while to warm up to gratuitous usage of the exclamation point, but he’s come around.

But at first all of his texts sounded so serious.
Hi Hill. (Period). Would you like to grab dinner tonight? (Question mark.) Let me know by 5 o’clock. (Period).

WHY IS MY DAD MAD AT ME?! I wondered. We’re not even talking about politics (!)

Speaking of politics, and religion, sometimes it is tempting to advance my pacifist/agnostic agenda by hijacking a hot air balloon and landing it softly on the roof of the UMass library.

(Too soon?)

Writing a self summary for okcupid is like writing an essay on a book you’ve never read. Which I’ve actually done successfully several times. I recently stumbled across one of my close friends on okcupid, only to find out that we’re 13% enemies. This has been a devastating development, but we’re slowly starting to recover, changing our answers to the okcupid questionnaires accordingly.