Monday, December 28, 2009

I can has talent.

Seriously, I'm talented. I mean, how many people do you know who can get eyeliner on their eye without even meaning to? I know, right? That's fucking talent, there. I'm thinking that maybe next time, I'll do it on purpose.*

*except not, because it's actually kind of really uncomfortable.

Sunday, December 27, 2009


It's actually pretty nice to be home. I mean, I miss my Champlain people a wicked lot, but it's just really relaxing here. It's nice not to have to do anything. So, I've just been hanging out and writing. I actually got on a wicked roll last night and wrote about seven pages in two hours. (Okay, for most people that might be slow, but I'm special and for me, that's fast :p) I'm not saying what it's about yet, though... not yet.
Anyway, I feel like I should actually post something of substance. Sooo I'll post a poem I wrote a while (and by 'while,' I mean like months... it's actually kinda wicked old. From, like, last April or something) ago...

The Sun

The Sun sees a lot during the day,
when he’s on top and gleaming
white fire, when he’s the one with power

(except for when the clouds try to cover him with their smoke.
Oh my God, he often thought,
he doesn’t consider himself particularly violent, but he’d kill them if he could.)

When everything is bright, he
sees people moving
It’s interesting, but so
And, really, he’s busy, too,
trying to keep the warm places warm and the cold places cold.

When he starts to fall,
he can lean back and
his little world as
vibrant pink and sherbet ribbons chase away the blue of the sky.
He can watch people be people,
running in the forests of the grass
making footprints in the sand like glaciers
watching him right back.

Friday, December 18, 2009

It's Christmas! :D (and I should become a crack dealer)

Except not really!!! But at Feeley, we're doing all of our presents tonight, so it's like Christmas. Toes.

It's really pretty- my mom gave me a little fake christmas tree for the dorm, so we (well, I) have it all decorated for Christmas, and we have a ton of presents under them. I mean, half of them are for our families, but it looks wicked pretty. I'm so stoked for tonight. The things I bought are pretty small, but over break I'm going to knit them all scarves and such, so it'll be more then. AAANND I'm excited :)

Saturday, December 12, 2009


(This is probably not that good, since I don't tend to be that good at poems, but yeah.)

The first time she
flew she didn’t know it. She thought she was
asleep and she wasn’t but she thought she was and
that’s all you need. So, she
flew out the window without
bothering to open it. The world was foggy
dark but she could still make out the tiny
yellow flower dots on the ground and she
fell she
landed in the daytime.
There was a boy and he started walking to her through the dew and sun
but then everything
stopped and she was alone and
couldn’t tell that she wasn’t lost.

The second time she flew she didn’t fly and
wasn’t asleep.
She was in the kitchen, putting apples and cheddar together when the
wooden door knocked and it was the
boy and he stood there, and she didn’t
wake up. His mouth opened but there wasn’t anything to say.
She held her apple and
watched as he watched her, and as he
walked away.

The third time she flew, it was a
wish. She sat at the white table in the
white room, filling out taxes or paying bills or
applying to a job so that she could do those things, and she
thought, no, I want a
castle and
the fountain of youth and to
fly. So she shut her eyes and in her mind
she did. Behind her eyes she saw
herself, dancing like a ripple above the blue
grey ocean, salt spray rushing through her, not
touching her, and she wanted to go there. She got
up and pushed the white chair under the
white table and stepped outside. She
stretched her arms out in the sun and she
felt the gold all around her and she thought she
saw the boy but then
he was nowhere, and she wondered if people could
think themselves invisible.

When she went to bed that night, she said,
tomorrow I’ll fly, and find the boy or a
castle, and I’ll stay there
forever. It will be
Beautiful. But when she woke into her dream,
she didn’t know. She didn’t know
why there was smoke everywhere or
why unrecognizable expressions didn’t
recognize, or maybe even see
her sitting in the middle of the crowded grey road and holding
clutching to herself and then there was the
boy and he said, do you want to be a
cloud? And she said,

Thursday, December 3, 2009

"fml lol"

So, apparently, there are only 50 or so fiction writers in the US who are able to make a living off their writing. It's probably bad, but I find this (the fact that I'm never going to have any money, ever) extremely funny.