Sunday, December 26, 2010

15 days

I leave for Ireland in 15 days, counting today,

Really. It's wicked crazy. I don't even know how to express the craziness of it. But, I'm wicked excited. And I haven't posted in ages because I'm lazy and sleep too much. But not really, because there's no such thing as sleeping too much.

I'm still not too stoked about the plane ride. I'm worried that I'll magically get on the wrong flight and then end up in Portugal or Oregon or Antarctica. Well, not really. Or sort of. But, no. Really, I'm worried that just something will go wrong and everything will suck, even if only for a while. Rationally, people fly on planes all the time without anything going wrong. But there's always the thought that, what if I get on the wrong flight? And there's no way I can get on another one for ages. And then my luggage gets stolen. And then the plane blows up. Okay. I'm exaggerating, a little. A lot. But, what if? Honestly, it would just be so much more amazing if I could just avoid the whole plane process, and just, somehow... get there.

Someone should work on that. Inventing magic. Or something.

Anyway, I got a camera for Christmas! So, I can actually take pictures. I'm not going to have my phone in Ireland, so it'll be pretty nifty.

Honestly, I can't wait.

Thursday, December 16, 2010


Tomorrow's my last full day on Campus until next fall.

In three weeks, I'll be finishing up all the last minute things for Ireland

A couple days later, I'll be in Ireland. A foreign country in a different continent where everyone has an awesome accent. Everyone who's been there keeps telling me how wicked incredible it is, how they're definitely going back as soon as they can, and they can't wait for that day. It's fantastic and as close to perfect as possible.

But, what if it isn't, for me? Not that I think it won't be amazing, but life is weird. Like, this semester I'm finishing up. I can't even explain it. It's been confusing and dazed and almost lost. It's been hard to put words together, or anything. And for no reason at all, really. Honestly, I don't even know how to explain it.

I'm kind of counting on Ireland to change that, and make everything as amazing as life should be. But what if it doesn't?

I think that's my biggest fear.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

The Human Centipede. Or, my eyes are never gonna be the same.

I'm not really sure why The Human Centipede is called The Human Centipede. If I had made it, which I wouldn't evereverever anyway, I would have called it, "OH MY GOD HOLY CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK OH SHIT MY EYES." Or something like that. I mean, I think it has a pretty nice ring.

True story, don't watch this movie.

There are no words to describe its horrors. But, know that even a compostable bag of sun chips crackling over and over again in your ears wouldn't be enough to silence what takes place in it. Which means that nothing is. Nothing. Don't watch it.

Watching this movie is being like being some sort of Alaskan fish, slammed out of life by Sarah Palin just as you're about to make it to the safe shores of Russia. It's like never finding Nemo. Like being one of Sid's toys in Toy Story. Like living in a world where everyone is Nigel Thornberry, and Nigel Thornberry is a cannibal. Like dying a hundred million trillion and five times in the worst way possible times a gazillion.

It's like being tortured and having your knee caps and teeth removed, your mouth sewn to some dude's ass, and-- OH WAIT.


Tuesday, December 7, 2010


I have some questions about this one. Mostly, is it good? Also, is it too dramatic? Do you think the first half of the third stanza is okay? I'm thinking of changing it, but I haven't decided what I would change it to even if I do. Anyway, the more advice, the better!


She gasps in gusts of damp pine needle air
for breakfast.
She says, reciting on a static loop,
It’s better this way.
This way, she can only taste the Earth,
the soft, sopping, cradling, zero calorie zero fat sky and trees and dirt.
She says that that's enough but her eyes
don't agree.

And she falls,
she crumbles, flutters whenever
an attack of cooking wind blows near her.
Gingerbread houses, she thinks,
and fights to keep her breath from leaving her throat.

She can’t stop her hands from shaking
or her mind.
At night she quivers delicious nightmares.
Her heart wanders dreams to cushiony bread soaked in olive oil
and zesty garlic. Bowls of pink
and chocolate ice cream. Cheese sliced so
thin it melts over her tongue in seconds.

Artichoke Hearts
PeanutButter WhippedCream

She says indulge is the most terrifying word
the one that makes her fists pound,
beat at her mirror.

Sunday, December 5, 2010

Nigel Thornberry. Nnnghjshsnort.

Lately has been ridiculous. In someways awful, in someways not awful, and in someways just weird. In lots of ways really confusing. I'm not going to go to in depth, because this is the interwebs and stuff, but it was the kind of week (well, the end half of it) where everything felt blurred and impossible. Like, true story, wednesday felt like tuesday and thursday combined, while thursday felt like wednesday.

Oh, and I saw some guy sleeping on a roof, in windy, 20 degree weather.

And we still haven't had actual snow. The fuck, right?

Well, I'll leave with the parting words of the immortal and smashing (poppet) Nigel Thornberry, "Ngnnggisdffff."

*Not my picture. The interweb's picture. Though it is my facebook profile picture. I think there's a striking resemblance.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010


New Poem!

Really, though, I'm probably way to sleep deprived to post this. I was probably too sleep deprived to even write it. And I'm definitely too sleep deprived to write this-- I just made about 11 hundred typos. Like slepp. And splep. And a bunch of others that you're probably just not interested in. You probably weren't interested in slepp or splep, either, and you're probably not finding this funny. But I have had basically no sleep in the last two days, and tonight isn't looking that good either, and this is entertaining me, dammit.

For serious, though (for serious..) what do you guys think? Do you like it? What do you get from it, if anything? How could I make it better? And stuff like that.


there’s a place
that exists only in the deepest corners of your sighs,
and in the flexings of your breath.

the people there,
or whatever they are,
sail through the rippling currents of your exhales
over and over again
and they never leave you.

they whisper memories when you need them
your favorites
hiding in the tiny pockets of air they find in your chest
as you wait to be shipwrecked.

you’ll never know them
so you'll never be able to see
them breathing, just sometimes, air into their own stories
hidden in blurry blue flecks of beach glass.

Monday, November 29, 2010

It's not break anymore! D:

I like relaxing. I like not stressing about things. Thanksgiving break was full of all the loveliness, but now that it's over, I'm totally distraught. (I love that word.) Especially since having only three weeks of school left means no relaxing and lots of stressing. I don't even have enough time in my schedule for pretty walks. Sadness.

I went on a really nice walk during break. It was much too short, because I woke up at about two, which is practically when the sun goes down on Cape. But I could smell wood smoke the whole time.

Wood smoke equals the best smell ever. It's even better than just-baked chocolate chip cookies.

Then, the bus ride up to Vermont was fantastically relaxing, too. I got the window seat in both buses (I have to take one from the Cape to Boston, and then from Boston to Burlington. Okay, that part's pretty lame) because I have mad window seat obtaining powers. Seriously, there can be one window seat left, and I'll get it. Or, there won't be any, but the person I sit next to will give it to me without any prompting. It's kinda awesome.

Oh, and you know, Vermont is really pretty. Really gorgeous. And the thing about driving in it is you get to see it all. Mountains speckled with snow. Leafless trees swaying in the breeze like feathers. Sheep. Whenever the bus passed an especially amazing bit of scenery, literally everyone turned to stare at it, even the people who didn't look like they'd be into it. That was kind of fun.

Another thing, I love how Vermont doesn't get rid of its dilapidated barns. They are just so wicked awesome looking, and they're basically screaming to be explored. (So, anyone with a car? Wanna?)

Friday, November 26, 2010

Granite World! Yeah!

There's this little store in Hyannis called Granite World. I think it sells granite. And, it makes me laugh. I mean, "Granite World." That's basically the most exciting world ever, right? It's like Candy Land. But with Granite. Granite lollipops, chocolate flavored granite, granite flavored chocolate. The possibilities are endless.

You know, I think all stores should be named like that. Like, Shaws could be Grocery World. Best Buy could be Electronic Shit World. Or Stuff I Can't Do World. Everything would just be so much more exciting. Or something.

(I'm bored. And tired. But mostly, I really really don't want to do my homework. Sadface.)

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Two Homes

Living in college is a weird thing, especially when that college is so far away from your other home, the place where you grew up. You live in one place for a couple months, and then another, and then you go back to the first. It's strange, and it feels strange each time you come and go. You never even entirely know whether you actually want to leave.

And then, when you get to wherever you were going to, it feels as if you've never left it, until you remember that really you've been living hundreds of miles away for months.

Pretty much all of you already know this, of course, but I'm from Cape Cod and go to school in Vermont. Burlington. I adore both. They're both crazy amazing and crazy beautiful. They both have the things that can seem hard to live without.

Burlington is living with your friends and going out every weekend. Cape Cod is family and seeing friends only when cars and schedules can make peace with each other. Burlington is city and walking everywhere. The Cape is nature, but nearly always needing to use a car. Burlington has its brick, Victorian houses. The Cape has its white, centuries old farm and captain's houses. Burlington has the waterfront, with layers of pristine mountains shadowing behind it. The Cape has the ocean and never ending clouds. Burlington has trees with leaves that turn so gold, you can see their color glowing even against the navy night sky. Cape Cod has pine needles the color of rust. They're impossible to rake, so they stay strewn across most everyone's lawns, poking through the light snows, until spring. They make good additions to magic potions when you're little.

Sometimes, it seems like if these two different homes were able to blend into one, they would make something almost perfect.

I wonder how it'll be when I go to Ireland. I'll have three homes, then. Three different kinds of fantastic not-quite-perfection.

(Except, I'm sure, Ireland really will be perfect.)

(This is coming out to be a really muddled post, but it's kind of a muddled thought, too, I think.)

Friday, November 19, 2010

I Woke Up Flapping My Arms

True story, actually.

I had the weirdest dream last night, though I really just remember the end of it.

I was walking along the beach with Michael Cera and some really, really British actor with brown hair who may or may not be a real person. (Also, the British actor earlier told me that the Christmas Tree Shops that do the best are the ones with the most books. Pretty sure that's not true, but that's actually the only part of the dream I remember that wasn't at the very end.)

We kept walking farther and farther along the beach, talking about something I can't remember. I started to walk through a tide pool, when the little shrimp swimming in it rose out of the water and started to fly. Oh, holy shit. They began flying all around me, buzzing and buzzing. I freaked out, of course, and waved my arms around like a crazy person terrified of being bitten. Which I was still doing when I woke up. It was pretty awkward. And really terrifying, actually. I don't do bugs. Nor little fish turned into bugs. Especially not them.

It was wicked sketch.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Our House Bistro

This is from about a month ago. It's a restaurant review of Our House Bistro, in Winooski, near Spinner Place. Yay. (Maybe. You guys get to decide that.)


Our House Bistro was tiny, wooden, and cozy. It was warm in the way a small house, its fireplace blazing softly, might be. It had the welcoming atmosphere of a place that had been there for decades, comfortable in its own existence. It didn’t feel like it was just opened last May. It may have helped that the owners, Matthew Pearsall and Maggie Barch, have been cooking for years. Their catering company, The Spice of Life, is not only number one in Vermont, but also specializes in the same sort of, “twisted comfort food,” that Our House is steadily becoming known for.

Still, the little restaurant was almost empty. It was early. Out of the eight or so tables, only one was occupied. Four people sat around their tall round table in their tall wood chairs. In front of them sat glistening glasses of maroon wine and plates of colorful food— red and green salads, crusty golden sandwiches, and creamy, creamy yellow ravioli. My mouth watered.

Amber and I were led to our table quickly by a friendly waitress who smiled. The table was big enough for more than just the two of us; we each had an entire booth to lounge on. The waitress left, and when she came back she was holding two sparkling glasses of ice water, and one big jar of it for refilling. After handing us menus, she left once again.

We were spellbound, staring at the menus. Visually, there wasn’t anything particularly special about them—there were no bright, impeccably arranged photographs of food, but the descriptions sounded voluptuous. We were silent, running our eyes down the choices. I imagined the grilled cheese— inches of gooey white Vermont cheddar enveloped by crunchy golden brown bread, dipped into startlingly red homemade tomato soup. I pictured the Caesar salad— crisp, juicy green lettuce coated in everything cheesy and garlicky and wonderful. I wondered what the butternut squash ravioli could possibly taste like.

In the end, I decided on the Twisted Macaroni and Cheese. A friend had personally recommended it and, as far as comfort food goes, nothing can ever beat a steaming bowl of mac n’ cheese. Amber chose a plain hamburger, medium rare, with fries. And with that, our food was ordered and we were waiting. We took the time to really look at our surroundings.

Another couple had made their way into the restaurant, but it was still largely empty. On the walls, shelves, and tables were black and white photographs of babies, weddings, family reunions, and first days of school. Their faces smiled and laughed from Fifty-Years-Ago. Across from us was a small but, we were told, quite popular bar, its wall filled with assortments of wines, gins, vodkas, and rums. If only we were 21.

Our food came about fifteen minutes later. Mine was in a little black skillet, probably the same one it was made in. Amber’s burger was on a plate, but her French fries were wrapped in newspaper, just like in Angela’s Ashes, the grease already starting to soak through. We started eating, ravenously.

The noodles were cavatappi. They were longish, squiggly, fun, and coated in the pale, pale off-yellow cheese sauce. Most of the yellow was from the butter, which pooled in shiny gold puddles wherever they would fit. I’m not a butter person, but it looked delicious, if terrifyingly artery clogging. I quickly speared a noodle with my fork, and as I brought it up to me, gloopy, shiny strings of cheese followed. I spun the cheese—it had to have been mostly mozzarella—around and around. I must have spun it fifty thousand times before the final thread of cheese broke and my noodle was covered. There was no doubt; this cheese was real.

As Sean Michael Gallagher, a kitchen manager, said, Our House Bistro doesn’t use tons of crazy ingredients; they use high quality, simple ones, and then they use them right. “We put a lot of love in everything,” he added. All of this together, he said, separates Our House from other local restaurants. It is also what scored them a glowing review in Seven Days. Gallagher said that that review was the best compliment the restaurant could have hoped for.

I tried not to think of the calories as I ate. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help shoving in the warm comfort food. I grabbed noodle after noodle with my silver fork, spun the cheese around like never ending spaghetti, and gobbled it up. At the same time, it wasn’t the best macaroni and cheese I’ve ever had. Not according to my taste buds, at least. I’m one of those people who buy the sharpest cheddar in the store, and then eat half the brick in one sitting. (I can’t let myself buy cheese too often). So, perhaps it was just that the cheese was very mild, but I thought that, somehow, it actually didn’t taste cheesy enough. It looked cheesier than I would have thought possible, but the warm butter almost overtook it. But, I can’t complain. All in all, it was delicious, addictive, and I adored the long stringiness of the cheese.

It has to be said, though, that the price was up there. The macaroni and cheese was twelve dollars, which is far more than I, as a fairly broke college student, want to spend on any sort of meal. I had a lot of fun eating out with Amber, and I enjoyed the food, but I don’t see myself coming back any time soon— at least not while I’m paying.

As we got up to leave the tiny restaurant, I noticed for the first time that it was completely full. All around me, people sat at their tables, eating, waiting, and laughing. As we walked out, a couple was waiting, ready to take our spot.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Can I go to Ireland... Today?

I. Am. Excited.

We had our first official meeting about Dublin last night, and I want to go now. Just run to the nearest airport and hop on the nearest plane. Go to Ireland and stay there forever. Except, I'd also go to other places in Europe basically all the time. And I'd come back to the US every, you know, once in a while. Just to visit people and stuff. And then I'd come back to the land of the pretty accents, and everything would be fucking fantastic.

I can't believe I have to wait basically two months. On the other hand, though, I can't believe I will be in Ireland in just under two months. It barely seems possible.

I feel like I did back in fifth grade, when the big, exciting field trip was to go to the National Seashore for a week. We would stay there in a big, centuries old house and do nature stuff away from our parents. We were all, "Yay, we're gonna get to eat ice cream all day and never go to bed and sleep in bunk beds and do stuff that we think is awesome but probably isn't because we're ten!!!" I remember the day we got there, we were kind of all in awe. The Seashore (never mind the fact that we were all little Cape Codders, and so pretty used to the beaches. We were away from our parents, dammit, and that made it special) was just this thing was so talked about, so mythologized, that it didn't feel real.

I think it will be kind of like that when I get to Ireland. I'll be in shock, practically, and at first it won't seem possible that I'm actually in this fairy tale place where everyone speaks in the most fantastic accent ever. But then it will. And I can't wait, for either of those stages.

Oh, but unlike the Seashore, which ended up being kind of lame, Ireland is going to live up to every one of my expectations, and more. I totally expect the day I come back to be the most depressing day of my life.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

A poem with no name. Yet.

she was born beside graves of crisp white sheets
bleached too many times to count,
and beds that could never stay warm long.

she learned to talk listening to footsteps that couldn’t remember
how to hold onto the floor,
under lights that blinked in urgent red whispers.

there were never any songs sung, not
to her, but as she got older
she learned to make her own,
molded from the smiles that echoed out of her scratchy TV.

she swirled words under her tongue
and hid them there,
waited for the day They would come one last time,
wearing cartoon scrub shirts and sudden, sudden smiles--
take out her tubes and wires
take off her bandages
and say, Be Free.

she saved her songs for running in the bright yellow
leaves she could see falling from her window.

but, whenever They came, Their palms
clutched no key, no quick happy chance
of a drifting cloud dancing dream, just rain,
coloring books stained with fingerprints, and I’m Sorry.


So, I was just looking at my blog stats, pretending, as I like to do, that I have readers. I was going down the list of visitors... me, me, me, probably me-- oh, hey, dude from Romania. So, I officially have an international blog. Except, not really. Honestly, I don't even think that's a real term. And, anyway, the dude only stayed for, "zero seconds." (Which makes sense. I basically have the least awesome blog in the world.) What's funny is that he found me by searching, "I've been wicked busy lately." How random is that? I mean, I'm pretty sure that people in Romania don't use the word, "wicked." I'm pretty sure they don't use English very often, either, but even the ones that do, I doubt they know all the region specific slang words, even crazy awesome ones like wicked.

Also, I'm really sorry I haven't been able to write a goodish blog post lately. Somuchworksomuchworksomuchworkholyshit. I have to write the rough draft of an entire play by Sunday night. I'm six pages in and it's going to end up at at least twenty. Probably thirty. Probably more. But, it's actually coming okay, so far. I'm really shit at dialogue, of course, but it isn't totally awful, I don't think. If it comes out okay, I might post it? I'm thinking of maybe later, turning it into a short story, since I like to think I'm better at those.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

It Needs to be Christmastime

Really, why do we have to wait until after Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving's a lame holiday. I mean, even ignoring the whole, "Hey, so, actually, we kinda killed the Indians off and stuff, but, hey, let's pretend we didn't!" thing, all Thanksgiving is is eating turkey and pumpkin pie. Which is fine, but nothing you can't do any other day, and not so special that we shouldn't be able to get ready for Christmas until it's over. (Maybe Thanksgiving needs a Santa.)

Personally, I totally think we should start celebrating Christmas now. We should start celebrating Christmas the moment Halloween's over. (This makes sense because Halloween's the second best holiday ever, obviously.)

I mean, Christmastime is the best part of winter. It's a mug of hot chocolate with spoonfuls of cool whip, a candy cane, and a sprinkling of Cinnamon. It's warm chocolate shops with big, frosted windows. It's giant, wet snow flakes that melt on your nose and fill the world with cold, cozy flutterings. It's heavy, heaving, pristine inches of snow coating and draping tree branches on every side of you. It's colorful hats. It's a Christmas tree decorated with the same ornaments you've had your whole life. It's music you only listen to a month or two a year. It's being a kid again. It's Santa. It's fun.

Let's do it, now.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Oh, Hey

I'm even more officially going to Ireland! Plane tickets equal bought. Now, I just hope that the plane doesn't crash. And that we don't get any turbulence, because if that happened, I know I'd freak out really pathetically. People would point and laugh. It would be terrible.

I kind of wish I could skip the plane ride all together, though. Or, take a boat. That would be pretty badass, actually. I could be all, "I'm on a boat," and then everybody'd be all, "aw shit!" and get wicked jealous. And since I was a pirate for Halloween, I could totally wear my costume on the boat or something. Like, the whole time. Which would definitely be the best thing ever. Basically.

I'm really tired. I promise I'll have a real blog post soon, though!

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Better Ways to Procrastinate

When most people procrastinate, they do it on the internet, with their essays minimized and just a click away. This, however, is wicked lame. Almost as lame as their essay. I mean, say for whatever reason, one of your friends just desperately wants to know how you spent your Sunday night. You don't really want to end up saying, "Yeah, Facebook. And Stumble Upon. And Facebook. And then I wanted some Antoine Dodson. Then more Facebook. And then I finished my essay at 8:00. Sucked." Nah. What you want to say is, "yeah, dude, I went out and learned how to juggle three swashbuckling bears with throwing stars, and then I went to Hogwarts and Dumbledore, after I brought him back from the dead, bought me exactly eighty hundred things of butter beer, all of which I finished. And then, Dumbledore wrote my essay for me. It was chill. I'm wicked stoked, right now."

Admittedly, I don't actually know how to do any of that stuff. So, if any of you figure it out, you need to tell me. I really wanna go to Hogwarts. Anyway, here are some much more awesome ways to procrastinate that you can do:

Change your Apples to Apples Cards. Seriously, who cares about Anthony Hopkins and Corn on the Cob? Um, yeah, no one. But what if every card was as good as a Hellen Keller card? Yeah, you can do that.

Paint your Laptop with Nail Polish. Fuck it. Paint everything with nail polish. Your dresser, desk, bed, the walls. The carpet. Yeah, I mean, it'll probably will come off later, with nail polish remover. Probs.

Run to the Store and Grab Ice Cream. You can't do work when you're eating, right? Especially ice cream. And chocolate. I'm pretty sure there's some rule against it.

Go on a Walk. Nature's fucking awesome. And pretty. And sometimes you see really great things, like incredibly fantastic sunsets, and old men skateboarding while their dogs run along, barking at the skate boards. So, just do it.

Go to a Playground and Play on the Swings. Doitdoitdoitdoitdoit. 'Kay?

(PS. I'm procrastinating right now.)

Friday, October 15, 2010

Dreams and Sleep and Stuff and also I really hope I'm not pyschic

I mostly don't sleep like a normal person. Most people go to sleep, stay asleep, and finally wake up with their alarm clock. I wake up about 80 times, usually. Which I don't mind. It makes my nights of spacing out under warm covers last longer.

The other night, though, I didn't wake up at all until 11:00, with the screaming of my alarm clock. And I was really confused. For a good minute, I just sat on my bed, light pouring in through the window shades and my alarm clock still blaring (luckily, the roommates weren't there), trying to figure out where I was (I didn't recognize my own bedroom? Yeah, I don't know, either) and what was going on. It was sketch, dood.

Then, last night, I dreamt that I was in an airport, about to go to Ireland, and I was totally positive that the plane was going to crash and we were all going to die*. I was kind of freaking out. I even thought about tossing away my plane ticket and hopping a boat to Europe. After a little while of just worrying and worrying and panicking and panicking, I finally just asked this dude who worked at the airport how common plane crashes were, hoping that he'd say something about them never ever happening ever. Well, that wasn't what happened. Nope, he was all like, "yeah, actually, we had one yesterday. Their bodies are still on the runway! lol!" And I was like, "what the fuck, dream?!"

*Actually, it was my second, "oh holy shit the plane to Ireland is totally gonna blow up or something and I'm gonna die," dream in a month. It's awkward.

Friday, October 8, 2010

Italian Sandwiches

This is actually something I did for homework. It's for my class on food writing. But I just finished it and think it came out kind of okay. Tell me what you think!


It was a tradition when I was a kid-- my dad standing in the kitchen, hovering over the cutting board. He would slide his bread knife with the black wooden handle sideways through a loaf of golden Italian bread, halving it lengthwise. He would turn the top half around, so that the bread-y sides of both faced up. He would sprinkle the bread with his simplest homemade salad dressing-- just olive oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper. “Put on more!” I would say. I loved salad dressing, and I ate it on everything, but especially on bread (and spaghetti.) In Ashley Land, the world I made up when I was six, perhaps hoping to influence parental meal choices, you drank salad dressing with supper instead of milk.

My dad would slap on slices of Genoa salami, ham, hot capicola, provolone cheese, and leaves and leaves of lettuce. On one half of the loaf, he would add tomatoes, onions, and peppers, because my mom and dad liked that kind of stuff. The pickles were always popped on last, so that the juice seeped into the bread. Then, my dad would put the loaf back together and cut it into five, one cut for each of us, and stuff those sandwiches into ziplock bags.

Then, we’d go somewhere.

In the summer, we would go to the beach. My brothers and I would play in the water. Adam and I would go in as deep as we could manage. We’d go in over our heads, and when mom would make us prove that we could still stand and thus were in no danger of drowning, we’d fake it, treading water with only our feet so that our shoulders stood still above the ocean’s rim. Matthew, five years younger, would watch from the shallows, making drippy castles and catching hermit crabs with his tiny, chubby hands. We’d get hungry pretty quickly; swallowed salt water only goes so far. So, we would race to the shore, showing off how fast we could swim underwater. We’d dash to the beach blanket that was really just a towel and soak it with dripping sea water and sand. We’d beg to please please have our sandwiches now, please.

The sea salt of the air would intermingle perfectly with the vinegar salt of the sandwiches. I would take little bites and run my tongue against the soft, salad dressing soaked insides of the bread. I would chomp on the cheese. I would crunch on the lettuce. I would lick my lips. After a few bites, each breath of air tasted like Italian bread and salami.

Matthew would start to tear off bits of his sandwich, throwing them to the seagulls that were slowly surrounding us. They would lunge for the bits of food as if, instead of just coming back from stealing potato chips from some now crying toddler, they hadn’t eaten for weeks. And Matthew would lunge for them, joyfully yelling, “Duck!”

Other, colder days, we’d go on hikes, bringing our sandwiches along. My dad would shove them into his backpack, and I’d stuff the pockets of my overalls with chocolate kisses. We would walk past scenic salt marshes and trees with soft pine needles. My mom would remind us to be careful not to trip over the roots that scattered throughout the paths like funhouse stairs. My dad would warn us to beware the Clamaconda and the Giant Tick, monsters of his invention that always made us roll our eyes. Adam and I would pick up kindling for later, and fight to find the best walking stick. We would snack on chocolate.

After a while, we’d stop. On all of our walks, we had a favorite stopping point-- the wooden tipi forts of the South Trail, “the pit,” of Indian Lands, and Doane Rock by the Salt Pond Visitor Center. Doane Rock was our favorite. Adam and I had finally learned to climb it when we were six, and thought that by then, we were pretty much experts. Even though Matthew was little, he could still climb some of it. We thought it was the tallest thing in the world, and we always wanted to eat our sandwiches at the top. Our parents never let us, though. They always made us eat at the picnic bench five feet away.

The sandwiches always seemed to taste different away from the beach. The air wasn’t salty; it was crisp and tasted like leaves, earth, and pocket-melted chocolate. The sandwiches were of more of an unexpected taste, foreign to the woods, though definitely welcome. The pickles were more noticeable. They turned the insides of the bread into lime green mushy salty goodness. Adam thought it made the bread look like alien’s skin, but I didn’t because I never really liked aliens, and that matters when you’re eight or so. I adored nature, even then, but I was still a girly-girl. I would ignore all mentions of aliens and, as I sat at the picnic table eating, I would pretend to be an Indian princess, the Pocahontas of Cape Cod, instead. I knew that Indians probably didn’t eat Italian sandwiches back then, but that was one of the sorts of things that don’t matter when you’re about eight. And, anyway, I loved those sandwiches. I loved the salty taste of the Italian spices, and the chewiness of the bread. I loved sitting outside with my parents and brothers, laughing and eating the same beautiful thing.

I can’t remember the last time my dad made an Italian sandwich on a family loaf. Adam and I are away at college, and when we are home, we’re working. Matthew’s a teenager in high school. Quite naturally, he’d rather play video games or go to the movies. When I go to the beach, it’s with my friends. When I go on walks, it’s almost always just with just one of my parents. When I go with my dad, we don’t bring food. Sometimes we’ll stop at a store afterwards. With my mom, we bring chocolate from Trader Joe’s. We talk about when we were little, when everything was as simple as cutting a loaf of Italian bread into five.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

I'm not dead

Sorry I've been such a fail blogger. I've been wicked busy, lately...

I promise I'll post something that's actually something sometime soon.


Sunday, September 12, 2010

I need ideas

I'm kinda of going through a slump at the moment. Basically, everything I write is terrible and totally unpostable, which is why I've kinda been a fail blogger lately.

So, if anyone has any ideas for a post, that would be wicked amazing!


Monday, September 6, 2010

Nature is Perfection

Somethings are just beautiful. Like nature, and my friends. (Well, all people are beautiful in one way or another, but I'm convinced that I have the most gorgeous friends ever. And the most fantastically fun!)

We (well, me and the two main roomies, Meg and Ryan) went hiking today/technically yesterday, and it was amazing is basically every way. It was just too short. You know, nature is one of my all time favorite things. There's nothing that makes me feel more alive than being outside in the wilderness. I think I'd even prefer a day hiking to a day playing around in amusement parks, which is really saying something. Nature is just so magnificent, and so inspiring. It makes you think of everything and everyone in the world, and of everything your life might be. It makes you take your guard down, and just run around and dance. It makes you live.

I took this picture of Meg, and I just think it perfectly illustrates everything I feel. I mean, look how immense the clouds are. It's the world, and it's huge and beautiful and unknowable.

I love it.

Sometimes, I want to just start walking and never stop. I want to walk through cities, to tiny towns, over mountains, in the boonies, everywhere. I want to walk leisurely, and take in everything. I want to run and dance in the wind. I want to be carefree in the best way. I want to be alive.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Typos are Fun

I just made the best typo ever.

I was writing this sentance (well, it's actually just part of the sentance, but you know): "The wind was gentle," only I'm totally an amazing speller and spelled gentle, "gental." Well, Word, in its infinite wisdom, figured that I obviously must have meant genital.

Yup. My sentence now reads, "The wind was genital."

I think it's amazing.

I almost want to keep it that way, just for the laughs.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

It looks like fall but feels like misery

The leaves are changing, but it's been in the 90s since Sunday. And won't stop until basically next sunday. And I don't have air conditioning. And I'm dying.

I am totally happy to be back in B-Town, but legit. This is ridiculous.

Why isn't it fall??

Friday, August 27, 2010

Being Afraid

I have this bad habit of, on those nights when I'm alone, putting on a horror movie and promptly getting terrified.

I really really really really love horror movies. I love being scared. When I'm with another person, at least. At least one other person. Then, I can just assume, no matter how unrealistic it is, that they'll protect me.* When I'm alone, though, any noise is obviously something malicious and crazy.

The movie doesn't even have to be particularly good or realistic. I could even be watching something like this or this, and I'll just be giggling over how ridiculously ridiculous everything is, when there'll be some gust of wind and I'll be all, "oh, shit! A ghost!"

It's the worst when I have to get up and pass a mirror. At night, especially in that state of mind, I can barely even look at them. I pointedly don't, really. I think I might have watched an episode about them in Are You Afraid Of The Dark? back in the day that scarred me. Or it could be the fact that every horror movie ever, at least since the last million years, includes a creepy ghost or ax murderer popping up in a mirror, looking all evil and creepy. So, that's kind of what I expect. It's awkward.

But it's still a delicious feeling. As much as I prefer getting afraid with other people by me, there is something special about doing it alone. I'll be back in college, where alone time doesn't exist, on Sunday. I think I might actually miss that private terror. Of course, I'm totally excited, too. As much as I'll miss my Cape friends, I'm wicked stoked to see all the Camp Champ kids. Wow, this is a conflicted entry.

*Awkward true story time: when I was little I used to sleep with about 80 million dolls and stuffed animals on either side of me, so that if a monster came, he could eat them first, and hopefully be full by the time he got to me. And when I was five and we'd just moved from Rhode Island to the Cape, I insisted on sharing a bedroom with my little brother-- I probably figured that my twin brother'd be too annoying-- so that I wouldn't be alone. Like my infant brother could save me if anything happened. I was a weird child, I think.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Little Things

  • I was at CVS earlier today, looking at nail polish and stuff, when this guy walked in, with this little brown bird following. It fluttered around a bit, and then landed on the ground, looking around. No one else noticed. I even said something like, "oh, hey, a bird," and no one even looked over. A few seconds later, the bird disappeared over shelves of cosmetics and candy bars. Still, no one saw it but me. It was the weirdest, most surreal thing ever. Especially since I had my earbuds in, so all I could hear was music.
  • The other day, I was walking somewhere when I heard someone rev their engine behind me. I looked over, expecting it to be some kids my age or older, but instead, they were just two old ladies. Like, they were eighty or ninety, and they were revving their engine. It made me laugh. It was kind of like this one time at work, when I had two old ladies buy a bunch of shot glasses. You know, when I get old, I want to still live life like that. I don't want to stop having fun.

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

I feel smart

Unfortunately, I'm not sure that there's really a correlation between feeling smart and being smart. Shit. I guess.

Anyway, do you wanna know why I feel smart?

It's because I totally debunked an urban legend. Yes. Debunked.

You know the one with the girl and the creeper in the back seat of the car? I'm guessing that most of you do, but I like telling stories.


So, this girl is driving home after a basketball game at her school. It's nighttime and there probably aren't many street lights, so everything's wicked dark. She starts to get uneasy for some reason she doesn't understand, but she keeps driving, knowing that she'll home in only a half hour or so.

After a few more minutes, she starts to notice that there's this car following her. Not only that, but every so often he puts on his high beams, like he's staring at her. She finds this just wicked sketchy. Naturally, she wants to get rid of him, so she decides to drive home the really rural way that no one ever takes. Of course, he does take that way, and he keeps following her. By now, the girl is really afraid, especially since the dude is still turning on his high beams. After what seems like hours later, the girl finally gets home. The guy in the other car stops right before the driveway and starts to get out as she does. The girl is overwhelmingly terrified, and runs as fast as she can to the doorway, screaming to anyone who can hear her to call the police.

The police come pretty quickly, luckily. But as they're arresting the man, he cries, "wait! I'm not the one you should be arresting!" and the police stop arresting him and say, "I am intrigued by your outburst. What is it, good sir, that you need to tell us so urgently?" because that's obvs how they are. Anyway, the guy points to the girl's car and explains that there was some other guy in the back seat of the car, with a knife. He was following the girl to make sure the the sketchy dude didn't kill her; whenever the creeper was about to actually do it and slit her throat, he would turn on his high beams and the killer (because you know he's killed before. He's probably an escaped convict from the ye olde towne mental hospital) would shrink away. So, he saved her.


Of course, as I epiphanized* one night coming home from work, it isn't really possible to see inside the cars at night. You can't even see shapes. Just blackness and sort of shadows. Um, yeah.

Honestly, I don't remember how that popped into my head. But I felt unreasonably proud about it. I still do, actually. Yay for an inflated ego.

In other news, I'm tired.

*new word. Copyright, me.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

The Warlock

So, there’s this movie that you guys all need to see. It’s called, “Warlock,” made in 1989, and it’s even more amazing and terrible than its name suggests.

It deals with three characters: Kassandra-with-a-K, Giles Redferne, and a warlock.

According to IMDB, the warlock doesn’t have a name. He isn’t special enough. You see, Kassandra-with-a-K is wicked special. You can tell because of her name. The writers used the same technique when they named her that Stephenie Meyers used with Bella Swan. You know how Bella’s always like, “Oh my gosh, you guys! Everyone here calls me Isabella! ANGST!” and then when Edward calls her Bella for the first time, she’s all, “Oh my gosh, you guys! HOW DID HE KNOW MY TRUE IDENTITY?” Well, it’s the same deal here, except even more so. Kassandra-with-a-K derives all meaning in life from the fact that her name starts with a K. At least Bella has a couple other aspects to her personality. Like the fact that she’s so super mature that she likes Jane Austen, because obviously no other teenage girl ever likes her. And the fact that she doesn't like rain, and she really really doesn't like snow. Well, with Kassandra-with-a-K, though, the K is all she's got. She is that K-- lives, breathes that K. Someone could walk up to her and be all, like, “HA! I’m gonna call you Cassandra! WITH A C!” And she’d be all, “Noooooooooo.” She'd be devastated. She'd be nothing. It'd be legit.

Except no one in the movie would say legit, because "Warlock" takes place in the 1980s. I don't know what the '80s equivalent would be, but it'd probably be pretty lame.

Anyhoo, here's a synopsis of the first thirty minutes, give or take. You'll probably have to actually watch the movie to find out the rest. My words can't give it adequate justice, anyway.


The movie starts out in 17th century Plymouth Plantation. It's supposed to be Boston, but it's totes not. The warlock is locked away in a tower, shackled by his toes. Seriously. My guess is that he has really oddly shaped toes, where the tips are giant and the beginning bits are teeny. Which leads me to wonder why he didn't just use his magic to make his toes normal. Probably, that's just part of the movie's mystery.

Anyway, the warlock's just chillin' in his toe shackles when a bunch of these pilgrim dudes climb up and are all like,"You trafficked with the Divvil! Also, we have, like, scottish-ish accents. Yeah, we don't know why, either."

Then, this dude, Redferne, comes up, and he's wearing a shit ton of furs for some reason, and has this long mullet that probably hadn't been washed in a couple years.

He's totally Scottish and stuff. And he hates the warlock. They're totally enemies. Not even frenemy enemies. Legit enemies. So, they yell at each other for a while, and Redferne tells the pilgrim dudes to keep the toe shackles on the warlock for, like, infinity. But as he says this, the warlock does his magic and in a flurry of graphics probably done on Microsoft Paint, the warlock escapes and it's suddenly 1989 California. Which brings us to Kassandra-with-a-K. Hells yes.

Kassandra-with-a-K has really bad fashion taste and lives with her gay roommate, Chas, who also has a really bad sense in fashion. Kassandra-with-a-K has diabeetus, too. And she doesn't like old people because they walk too slowly and totally take away from the gravitas of her pleather windbreaker, giant globe earrings, and awful driving.

Anyway, Kassandra-with-a-K and Chas are sleeping when, what do you know, the warlock crashes through the window into their house. Even though the warlock's wicked creepy and cult-y looking and, I don't know, just flew through their window, they don't seem to find terribly much odd about this. They even let him sleep in Kassandra-with-a-K's bed. How sweet.

The warlock's awake by next morning, and the roomies are all, "OMG! He's British! That automatically makes him safe and totes awesome! Here, have some tea and crumpets!" But he's really not safe because when he wants Chas' heirloom ring, he totally cuts his finger off to get it. Then, he uses his magic to totally kill Chas. It's gross.

The police come to tell Kassandra-with-a-K all about her poor roomies' death while she's at work, about a half hour later. I'm not really sure how they found out, since Chas and the warlock were the only ones home, and the doors were locked, but I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. Maybe the warlock was so wracked with guilt that he had to call them. For his conscience. I mean, it's not possible for a British person, witch or not, to be completely evil, right?

Anyway, the po-po start talking to Kassandra-with-a-K, and there is this little gem of a conversation:

Coppehs: Did [Chas] frequent public parks?
K-with-a-K: He didn't dick little boys from bathroom walls, ok?
Coppehs: You said your roommate was gay.
K-with-a-K: Not queer! Big difference!

There's really not much you can say about that (other than, maybe, holy shit! Homophobia, much????) so I'm just gonna leave that blank.

The next scene takes place in this hippie psychic store, run by this hippie psychic with a man-face and feathered hair. The warlock's there because he wants her to, "channel me a spirit!" And she wants to say no, because it's after hours, but she totally has the hots for this pony-tailed creeper, and agrees. So he tricks her into channeling the Divvil, saying that the Divvil's his daddy.

When the Divvil talks through her, he's all like, "YOU DON'T HAVE WHAT IT TAKES, JACK! YOU HAVE TO GO BACK TO THE ISLAND!" and the warlock starts crying and saying, "HOW MUCH DID YOU DRINK, DAD?" but then he remembers that his name isn't Jack! It's The Warlock! So, he tells the Divvil that, and the Divvil's all, "My bad, son," and tells him to, "bring together my Bible." Apparently the Bible in question, the Grand Grimoire, is separated into a bunch of pieces, and once they're all brought together it will, "thwart creation itself." Which would really suck, apparently.

Oh, and then the hippie psychic with a man-face and feathered hair dies. It's not particularly sad, really.

Anyway, meanwhile Kassandra-with-a-K is understandably pretty freaked out by everything, so she goes home to pack. And while she's stuffing ugly '80s clothes into her ugly '80s suitcase, she hears glass breaking. (I'm pretty sure that all of the windows in the house are broken by now). This time, at least, though, it is not the warlock. It is Redferne!

Redferne totally thinks that Kassandra-with-a-K is a whore, but that's okay because I think everyone does, what with her silver pleather ensemble and everything. But then he hits her and gets her in a chokehold, which is really just douchey. As he has her in the stranglehold, he's all, "WHERE IS THE WARLOCK, HARLOT!" and she's totally freaking out. But then Redferne explains that the warlock's a warlock, and she's pretty much totally cool with it. Until the warlock comes over to her and utters what is pretty much the worst spell ever written: "Tout, tout. Through and about. Your callow life in dismay. [plus a bunch of latin]"which makes it so that she gets 20 years older each day.

Oh, and Redferne totally gets tazed, bro, by the police and realizes that it's the 1980's.

And the warlock finds a bit of the Grand Grimoire inside the dining room table.

Once Kassandra-with-a-K wakes up at forty-- and she did not age well, believe me-- she busts Redferne out of jail. The two then decide to team together and become a merry duo and stop the evil warlock.

Friday, August 20, 2010

2:22 AM

Okay, so I need help on this one! Do the stanzas work? I mean they all take place in different places, with different people, but does that work? And is it obvious that the stanzas are still all about the same subject? And, any advice for anything?


2:22 rushed in through the window shades
with sirens and lights flashing hollow, urgent ribbons.
A girl sat quiet on the bed.
She’d been trying too long for dreams
and she couldn’t shut her ears
even after the jumbled life cries flew away.

Cars drove by the twisted, sprained metal,
headlights stared at it, a gallery,
engines wondered.
Blinking night owls murmured curious sympathies,
knowing the rain will fall soon enough.

The kids laughed together in their hoodied huddle,
clinging to their Dunkin’ Donuts cups against
frosty sunrise air. They whispered flickers
of this time and that time
and hanging on rollercoasters one last time,
before winter suspended all life in the air.
They didn’t know, yet.

Thursday, August 19, 2010


beating down heavy
light. Tropical sugar sunscreen seeped
into the poetry of air.

We could be at the beach,
our feet buried in sand.
Warm, soft.
A thousand beads of sunshine,
freezing waves lapping close,
and we can feel the ocean
currents swaying inside our skin.

We aren’t. But the passing cars
roaring beside us
and the people
tossing and turning together
remember the sea
rolling back and forth

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

A Fake

Sometimes, I think I'm not a real writer. I'm not like the other writers I know, who can scribble down magic in a second.

I'm slow. I can't just start writing anything. I spend minutes and minutes just staring, trying to figure out some idea. And once I start, I cross out more things than I keep. Sometimes, even with all that, my writing still turns out to be complete shit, and I can never show it to anyone.

When I write short stories, I don't know everything I should know about the characters, or even the plots. I almost never even know how I'm going to end them until I do. Or, usually, they just never get endings. They just languish wherever.

Whenever I read a book, I think about how I could never write anything so fantastic, or so big. I wouldn't even know how. The biggest thing I've ever written was about thirty pages, and that was totally an anomaly. Usually, I don't make it past eight.

Even when I think my writing might be good, I never know for sure. People might complement it, but even then I never know whether they're being serious or not. Because what else are they going to say? You could be the worst writer on the planet, and your friends aren't going to say anything.

I know that all writers have these thoughts, or ones like them, and that a lot of the times, they're unfounded. But, what if I'm that one writer who really just can't do it?

Saturday, August 14, 2010

Work is destroying my brainnnnnn

Really. Each day my IQ drops a point or two, I'm pretty sure.

When I'm at my register, my life revolves around the phrases, "Hi, how are you doing? Could I have your zipcode, please?", "Your total is klshgkhdrgrld!", "Could you sign here, please?" and, "Have a great day!" After a while, though, I start to mix everything up. I'll ask for their zipcode for a second time while I'm handing them their receipt. And then I'll be all like, "Oh wait! Haha, I meant, could you sign here, please?" And they'll smile and nod, and then later, as they're packing up their cars, they'll tell their children that that's why you stay off drugs.

Also, every time now that I talk to someone I don't know or haven't seen in a while, I have the strange urge to cheerfully and plasticly wish them to have a great day. I guess it could be worse, though. I could be asking them for their zipcode.

Friday, August 13, 2010

(Totally) Rational Fears

It can sometimes be hard to say what is more evil: bees or jellyfish. They're both dastardly little sonsofbitches, definitely, but which is worse?

I didn't know, either, until I came across this series of photographs. Just so you know, they are deeply disturbing. Younger viewers may wish to look away.


Babies are unfortunately the favorite prey of the jellyfish.

Not only does this jellyfish have the Dark Mark, but, contrary to the books, he killed Fred Weasley. As tears fall from poor Fred's frozen face, the jellyfish can be spotted wickedly gloating.

Despite the fact that the pipe clearly reads, "OIL LINE DO NOT CUT," (well, the word 'line,' could have been clearer. Whoever built it definitely did a shoddy job of it) this jellyfish is about to cut it open, wreaking unknowable amounts of harm upon the ocean, and the world.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

telephone lines

she followed the lines,
the sunset sepia ghost roads
for hours
counting the telephone poles:
one one hundred two hundred.

names and tones thunder leapt from the wires
into her throat.
they cried out conversations
secreted away like lies
years ago.

they marked her like a bruise,
the truths,
the panics and the cries.

she walked that long road
to the sea.
the last pole was just
an indented slice of drift wood
shifting inwardly between the surf
and the blinking highway.

the sky stretched
aimlessly, rusted
with cracked mascara and dew.

she turned around before her heels could sink
into the shore.

the sun rose and set
and she walked back.
the historic static heaved
away from her with each step,
each gust.

only a few buzzing fragments stayed, still
piercing her eyes
with barbed wire and muttered

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Bear Grylls and the Badass Christmas Cards

I'm giving my two weeks notice tomorrow! Wicked stoked.

I actually don't mind my job that much. It's tedious, uninspiring, and the seconds drag on like hours, but it's better than it was last year, when I worked in the back. And I'm in air conditioning the whole time, which has pretty much been the only thing keeping me sane this summer.

Also, I have this gamething that I play. To keep myself from having a boredom seizure, you know. (And while I think I just made that up, watch it be totally legit). It started out innocently enough. It started out with me imagining how I might possibly survive, were I to suddenly appear on some abandoned island with only the things that the most recent customer bought.

Say someone buys 3 jars of cranberry jelly, 1 box of salt water taffy, 2 beach towels, 1 thing of Hawaiian Tropic Sunscreen SPF 50, and 1 thing of Christmas cards (because we've totally had those since the beginning of July.) I figure, I can probably ration out the food for about a week. Maybe two if the cranberry jelly turns out really nasty. I can use the towels as blankets, and the sunscreen will last me about a month before it runs out and I get skin cancer. The Christmas cards, though? Well, maybe if the jelly is really really really nasty, I can use it as ink and write my memoirs on them. But, you know, that got me to thinking, Bear Grylls would have found a really badass way to use those Christmas cards. Because he's badass. And he named his kid Huckleberry.

So now, whenever I ring up a customer, I think, What would Bear do? It's probably better that way, because before I would always secretly get a bit annoyed when people didn't buy food, or at least something that might help my chances of survival.

Bear would probably fold up those cards into a water bottle,* and it would somehow be one of those environmentally friendly metal ones, because Bear is (probably) all about the environment. And magic. But he wouldn't use the water bottle for water. That's not how he rolls. Basically, he would pee in it. And then drink it. Because that is how he rolls. Also, I think that his pee must have magical properties or something. Maybe it's how he turns his Christmas card water bottle into metal.

*See, I could never do that. One time in fourth grade, we were supposed to make boxes out of paper, and I folded mine wrong. My teacher called me an idiot. And then she asked me if I liked her. Seriously. She was like, "Ashley, you are an idiot. Do you like me?" I was confused.

Not a Squirrel

I swear, everyday at work, at least someone comments on my voice. They're always like, "I love it! It's so cute!" and I never know what to say, because really my voice is awful. Actually, that's usually what I do say. I'm always like, "Aw, thanks! It's awful, though!" because what else is there?

I've had people tell me I should be a voice actor, for little animated woodland creatures. Little squirrels and chipmunks that squeak.

I did have one person tell me I should be an actress. That was pretty cool, actually, though I have no idea how she decided that after only about a minute of knowing me. (And of course, I couldn't ever. Acting's totally fun, but I'm really awful at it. Seriously, I've tried. I was in theatre in high school, and it was ridiculously fun and amazing. But I couldn't, and can't, do it. I just end up giggling. I swear, the play could be about the most depressing thing ever-- volcanos could be engulfing villages, killing all of the towns' babies, and then someone will look at me and I'll just start cracking up. It's terrible, really.)

I've had other people say that I look just like my voice, which I'm still not sure how to take. (Hopefully it doesn't mean that I look like a little animated woodland creature).

I wonder what my voice will end up as when I'm old. Probably really awkward. I look younger than I am, and even though everyone always says that I will appreciate it when I'm older, I totally expect to just look weird. Like, a baby face with lines and wrinkles. Wicked attractive.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Sentimental Post of Sentimentalness

It's my little brother's 15th birthday. I'm almost more weirded out by him being fifteen than I am with me being twenty. And the fact that he's going to be a sophomore in high school? Definitely impossible. He's still in elementary school, I'm sure.

Friday, July 30, 2010

Fog and Pirates. Arrr.

When it’s foggy and windy, it feels like you’re in the ocean. You can smell the sea water, and you can feel the churning of the waves. You know that even after the fog goes away, there will probably be a storm, and it's exciting. You long to hear the wind howl, and those very howls bring you back to a time when you didn’t exist, when there were wooden ships and storms constantly meeting as they fought to cross the sea. You’re a sailor, or a pirate, or even just another passenger, trying to sooth your crying baby as everything, including you, is tossed around by the wind and waves. Or you’re a lighthouse keeper, squinting out at the viciousness of the saltwater with the help of the lighthouse’s slight glow. You wonder who it will grab this time.

Sometimes when I think of fog, I think of pirate ships, lost forever in the middle of the blurry whiteness of the churning.

I thought I saw a pirate ship when I was six. I was at the beach-- Cold Storage, I think, in Dennis-- and it was nighttime. It was clear and the sky was starry and dark. And far out, where the night sky met the water, there was a ship. It was big, but didn’t look like a ferry or anything like that. It didn’t look modern. I was sure that it must be the old and wooden kind pirates always captained. Squinting, I was sure that I could make out the knobby, freshly swabbed rails and steering wheel. I didn’t see a flag with a skull and cross bones, but I could explain that. I figured that pirates were probably simply less likely to fly it at night, when everything’s so much harder to see. No; they would fly it when everyone could see it, and wonder at it and be afraid. Either that, or it’s just the sort of thing the pirates don’t want you to see until it’s all too late.

I wondered if it was a ghost ship or the kind where everyone’s still alive. Both seemed pretty likely.

I squinted out to the sea, trying to see if I could make out any moving shapes or shadows. It seemed like a good way to see if the ships’ crew was living or not. Basically, my theory went that if the figures were sort of see-through and had long, floaty tails, then they were probably ghosts. If they were solid, without long, floaty tails, and really looked like people, then chances were that they were probably still alive. Both ideas were equally exciting.

The waves were tiny, but they still crashed against the shore with little white bubbles of surf. I imagined that they were much bigger the farther you get out to sea, and they jostled and threw the pirate ship around. The entire crew would have to be on deck, swabbing it and steering and climbing the tall yellowing ropes that blew in the wind. They would shout things about the, “starboard side!” and, “Iceberg at four o’clock!” even though this was Cape Cod in the summertime, so ice was an impossibility. And, of course, throughout it all there would be plenty of, “arrrs,” and, “ahoy maties,” mixed in, and they all would sing, “yo ho, yo ho; it’s a pirate’s life for me,” in the perfect pirate fashion. I decided that all pirates must love being pirates, because otherwise they wouldn’t sing that song.

I also decided that the fact that it was a clear night must have been an anomaly for the pirates. Pirates are supposed to love cloudy, foggy nights, because it makes it easier for them to sneak up on other ships and take their treasure.

Fog's different for everyone else. It mystifies the world. It makes everything new and makes you helpless. It’s beautifully thrilling, but to anyone who isn’t a pirate or playing hide-and-go-seek, the fog is not so much an ally. When the fog is so thick that you have only the slightest guess as to what’s in front of you, you have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you home*. You have to rely on your deepest instincts to get you anywhere at all.

It’s easy to imagine the fog as a giant body of spirits or ghosts. Fog is aimless and almost seems sad. It almost seems alive, too, as it flows on and blocks everything, but still not quite. It just goes through the motions, not really caring about the outcome. When fog comes, it doesn’t mean to hide everything. It doesn’t mean to create fun and laughter, either. Just as a ghost ship is forced to wonder forever, no matter what, the fog doesn’t stop. It just goes.

*Of course, when you have my sense of direction, it really doesn't make that much of a difference.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

I'm, like, a mad good artist.

So, you guys all know that I write. And whether or not you think I can write well is totally up to you. My amazingness* as an artist, however, is undeniable. I'm like Picasso, Monet, Manet, and all of the Ninja Turtles combined.

Le Proof:

"WTF Harry Potter," by Ashley DeFelice, rendered in Sharpie on notebook paper. 2010.

I mean, just look at that! Look his eyes! Doesn't his deep, wild despair just jump out at you? You can totally tell that he's upset for at least two reasons. One's that his parents are dead, and another's because he only has four fingers on each hand. Voldie's fault, I'm sure.

The only flaw is that Harry should have been saying, "mum," instead of, "mom." My bad.

*I almost wrote that as amazthingness, and then I almost wrote almost as alsomost. There are no explanations, really. Except that I can't spell.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Oh, Twilight

Me, freshman year of college. I don't remember why I took that picture. I think I was just really bored. Really, ridiculously, exceptionally bored.

Pretty much everything about Twilight amuses me. The fangirls (and, oh my God, Twilight Moms) can be hysterical. And then the people who absolutely despise Twilight and everything it stands for. You know, they're almost as bad.

Back in high school, I adored Twilight. Really. I might have read the series (remember, this was back when there were only three books) twice in one week, I loved it so much. I would read them during school, when I knew I wouldn't get caught. I mostly did that in Latin, because compared to the other kids in that class (oh, we really had some good times), I was totally an angel and I could get away with anything. I mean, there was a reason I got the Latin award twice in a row, and seeing as my translation technique was, "look up the word in the latin dictionary and guess where it might possibly fit into the sentence," that reason had nothing to do with either talent or any particular effort.

But, yeah, I really really really really really liked Twilight. And I liked Edward even more.

Honestly, I think it must be wired in teenage girls' brains to totally obsess over things. Because there were a lot of us who wanted Edward Cullen.

Around the time that the fourth book came out, I started treating Twilight more like a ridiculous joke. I mean, if any of you have read Breaking Dawn, you'll know how beautifully terrible it is. And sketchy. And pedophile-y. And skeevy. But, you know, you can't stop reading it, because you just have to know what completely insane thing will happen next. Like that, it's perfect in its awfulness. But, really, Breaking Dawn is the only book out the four that I would definitely (unconditionally and irrevocably) call bad literature. Not that I actually see anything wrong with reading bad literature. Bad writing can be incredibly fun, and I think that's what people forget. Reading is supposed to be enjoyable, and if anyone finds Twilight enjoyable for any reason in the world, then there is nothing wrong with that.


Middle aged moms crushing on Taylor Lautner and Robert Pattinson? That's really almost unforgivably sketchy. (I'm thinking that maybe they're thinking that if it's okay for a seventeen year old werewolf to fall in love with a rapidly aging creepy demon baby thing, it's okay for them to fall in love with the actor playing said werewolf. It's the only explanation, and even it only works if the moms in question have absolutely no grip on anything nearing reality. Or if they're Stephenie Meyer.)

And I don't know how many of you have heard about "Cullenism," the religion of Twilight, but it's wicked weird. And cult-like. I mean, "Cullenites," don't live in a commune or anything, but I'm pretty sure that's mostly because eleven year olds are the only ones who literally worship Twilight, and they still have to live with their parents. I hope they're the only ones who do, at least. If you want to read more about it, its website is: And it's fantastic.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

It's my last day of being a teenager and I get to clean toilets. Fun.

At my work, a different employee everyday gets the amazingly amazing task of cleaning the bathrooms. So, naturally, I get to do it today, the day before I turn old. I'm totally stoked, in case you couldn't tell.

I mean, cleaning everything sucks on any day. It's awful, disgusting, and just torture, really. But the day before your 20th birthday is just mean. You're supposed to get to have fun, because it's pretty much your last day of being young.

My only hope is that Crazy Lady* will remember my birthday, but also realize that I'm (at least) not working on my birthday and bring me an awesome present. That would make today a little better, yeah?

*See that linky thing I just did? I figured it out in, like, a second. Maybe even less. Yeah, I can do technology. Once in a while. (Just 'once' would work, too, probably.)

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The Haunted House Mystery (or, I still couldn't write)

I have another terrible story from my childhood. This one's from third grade, when I was eight. I'm sure you guys are all wicked stoked.

Oh, and for some reason, I'm reading Emily as having a really masculine voice. Like, one of a forty year old man. Or Patrick from Sponge Bob. I really don't know.


"Once there was a little girl named Polly who was 5, and a little girl named Emily who was 8. One morning they went to an old haunted house. But they didn't know it was haunted. Then, they saw a ghost. They ran to their older sister, Lily, who was 15. She said it used to be a school house, but it had fallen down on the kids so it was haunted. Polly got really scared and cried. But Emily said "I will go to the haunted house."

Soon Emily came back and said "I think I found something. Will you come with me?" Polly said no, but Lily made her go. So Polly went with Lily and Emily. They looked and looked and while they were looking they saw some ghosts. Some were boys and some were girls. But all of the ghosts were bad. Emily and Polly screamed. It was a very scary sight.

Just then Polly yelled, "I found something." Emily and Polly found a secret passageway. All of a sudden there was a bump. Emily asked, "Did you feel that bump?" "Yes" replied Polly. "What made that bump?" asked Emily. All day they looked for clues. But then, suddenly, they knew. The ghosts had made that bump."

Friday, July 16, 2010

I was like a prodigy, but not.

I found something amazing. The first story I ever wrote. I'd have had to have been about six or so. It's fantastic. And terribly, terribly awful. It makes my life. It's called, "When the Shark Attacked," and as a special (in more ways than one) treat, I'm going to post it here.

Oh, and just so you know, I was a really really really really really bad speller. And I'm so not correcting any of it. Also, I thought that 12:00 PM was midnight. (I wasn't that smart, either.) Anyhoo, the story:

"It was a drak naith on The Ship. It was 12:00 PM. I saw a grav in The watter. I saw a whale. It was big. It was eating some fish. I was so homgre but I do not like fish. I did eat cookys. I love cookys. Then I saw a shak. The shark aet the ship. The End."

Personally, I'm a big fan of the plot twists. It starts out all moody; it's wicked dark and probably stormy, and we'd just sailed over an underwater graveyard complete with headstones, which you'd be able to see had you the illustrations I do. Then, suddenly, the mood shifts with the idea of cookies. But just when you think I'm going to enjoy my chocolatey treat, the entire boat gets eaten by a shark. I mean, that's some intense shit. Even Jaws could only eat one person at a time, and she didn't eat actual boats.

I haven't been able to beat that plot since.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Twelve Days

I'm going to be twenty in twelve days.

No. I'm gonna be old in twelve days

(Not cool, World. I really don't appreciate how you're trying to snatch my childhood away like that. It's mean. And I thought we were friends.)

I'm going to be halfway to forty. A quarter to eighty. And I'm guessing I won't be ready to turn those ages, either, when the time comes.

I wish there were a way to go back and forth in your life. One day, you could choose to be eight years old and totally carefree. The next day, you could skip to being twenty-something with a baby. Then, you could go back to being nineteen and laughing. You could even visit the best days again and again. When you finally got tired of it all, you could choose to die, but not before you were ready. Not before you got hundreds of years of happiness in. And because you would know the future, you wouldn't have to worry about everything working out in the end. I mean, even if it happened that nothing worked out, that nothing was fine and you just end up miserable and wrinkled, you could choose to never become that. You could choose to never visit the awful ages. You could just hang out in the times when you were happy, over and over again.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

The Wall

Okay, guys, I actually need some help with this. I can't figure out what to do with the first stanza of this poem. Part of me just wants to get rid of it, but I'm worried that then the poem won't make any sense. Or maybe it would since its title is The Wall? So, basically, I want you to tell me what you think. But don't limit yourself to just talking about that. I want all the advice I can get.*


The bubblegum paint’s on top, pealed
away telephone wire lines-- remember, the same color as the ball--
(look how high it can go
up up up over the house
almost to the sun)

On the bottom, the scribbles
are almost gone.
Scraps of names and voices collect
ripped and faded waiting
to be puzzled back together before
they’re blown away. Hoping.
Floorboards are sad company.

The hydrangea wallpaper behind it all
is the one the most awake.
You can see it in the corner, by the bits of wrinkled
scratch marks. That tiny speck of yellow dimness splatter.
Soon, soon, it knows
it will be back to before.
Cerulean petals and glimmering in the flashes of
once again.


*Update: I got rid of the first stanza. I'll post it in the comment section, though, incase anyone else wants to see it or something.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

If Edward were a bug instead of a vampire, every twelve year old girl would want to be me.

And they'd start falling in love with flies. It would be strange.

Anyway, what I mean to say in this post is that I've been a really bad writer lately, but I do have an excuse. I always do. I'm never at fault, got that? Okay, good:

I do most of my thinking when I go on walks, but I haven't been able to go on many lately. It has just been so, so, so, so hot. Like, record breaking hot. Plus a gazillion percent humidity. And there are bugs.

Oh my God, there are bugs.

Ok, actually, I lied. Sort of. There aren't that many. They just all fucking want me. I can go on a walk, and there will be one, then two, then three, then four bugs following me, hanging out with my face and shoulders. And I'll be smacking at them, only I keep missing. Actually, I'm not trying to kill them at all because then I'll have bug guts all over me, and that's gross. And I'd feel bad. I'm just wanting them to leave me alone. So, I'm flailing my arms at them, and the cars passing are probably all staring at me, wondering why no one is helping that poor girl having that awful seizure.

One time, I tried running from them. I was walking in Indian Lands, and I was pretty much the only one there. Except for the bugs. They were positively stalking me. (Just like Edward). Honestly, it felt like there were bugs landing on my head from above. That could have just been me going crazy, but I can picture it-- these four or five bugs taking turns to have their way with me. Two or so hovering around my head to keep me busy, while another one jumps from a tree on to my hair and another flies up to the tree for his turn. Evil little bitches.

So, I decided that maybe I could outrun them. And that they'd forget all about me and go play in the water or (please) fly into a spider's web. Yeah. So, I was running along in my sun dress with no bugs around, and I was starting to feel pretty good about life. Actually, I was feeling so good that I decided it'd be safe to stop running. Well, you know, as soon as I started walking at a reasonable pace, the bugs flew at me again. Fucking shit. So, cursing them, I started running again. Any guesses as to what happened next?

Hint: I'm an exceptionally graceful person.

Okay. I tripped over a root and fell. And got an enormous bruise that's still there even though this was two weeks ago. And while I was helpless on the ground, the bugs were triumphantly buzzing around my face.

It was awful.


Do you like the title? Yeah, me too. (I'm ignoring you if you don't. So there.) (Yeah, I showed them.)

I was getting tired of my old layout, so I changed mine to something a teeny bit more original. I like it, but I'm not too sure about the color scheme. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but it doesn't really feel like me. Too... khaki. I'm so not a khaki person. The trouble is that other than the colors, the background in the background is definitely me. I love the pattern. I just can't figure out how to change its color scheme. You might have noticed in my other posts, but I tend to be just a tiny bit helpless with technology.

(My laptop is working, though. I didn't mention it earlier because I didn't want to jinx it. Actually, I probably just jinxed myself right now. Shiittttt.)

So, um, any help?

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

If I never post again, you'll know that Marilyn Monroe got me. Oh, shit.

It was about 3:30 in the morning and I was in my bedroom, listening to music and stuff. Not too loudly, though, because when the front door creaked open above me I could hear it clearly. It stopped, fully open, and I froze for about a second, wondering who's in the house now. The white trash coke addict neighbors with a vendetta against my dad*? A burglar who would have no issue with killing me? That serial killer with a hook for a hand? Samara from The Ring? Katie from Paranormal Activities? Marilyn Monroe?

Ignoring all that, I started to wander upstairs to the door. I wondered briefly about grabbing a baseball bat, but decided against it. Yeah, my five foot tall frame could totally take down any man/horror movie character. Like, totally. Not that I had a bat, or any weapons at all, actually, nearby. I guess I could have thrown my little plastic fan at someone, or flung perfume and hoped some of it got in their eyes, but that's pretty much it. Well, other than my, you know, fists. Yeah, I could take on anyone.

Actually, I was more worried about looking ridiculous than getting killed. Priorities, you know? I've got them.

When I got to the foyer, the door was undeniably open. There were about a million june bugs on the screen. They made me jump. I kinda might have taken their movements for the killer, though I'm not entirely sure why he would go back outside after putting through all the effort of opening the door. Kind of defeats the purpose. Anyway, everything was wicked dark, with tons of shadows. Especially when I looked up the other set of stairs. It was fucking freaky. But I didn't hear anyone. After about a minute or so of standing breathless I got up and closed and locked the door. When no one jumped out at me with a gun, I decided that there's either no knife wielding assassin, or they don't want to be found and I should really just let them be. And that's pretty much where I am now.

This is actually not the first time that I risked my life (totally, dude) like that. When I was about thirteen, my mom's mom (my grammy) was over. It was probably about nine or ten at night, and for some reason, we were the only ones home. I was in my room (back then, it was upstairs) doing whatevs when grammy comes over to tell me that the she could hear the tv going on downstairs. It hadn't been on earlier. Slowly, I tiptoe downstairs with her behind me, and turn the tv off. There wasn't a burglar that time, either. And, honestly, if there had been one, it would have been a really dense one. Seriously, kids, if you want to rob a house, turning on the tv and thus giving up your location is retarded.

I don't really remember too much of the first time I (clearly) saved everyone's life because it was actually sort of a dream. But it totally felt like real life. And so it counts. And, actually, it probably should count quadruple, because if I remember correctly, the people we were hiding from were gonna eat us or something. Yeah. But I was the one who opened the garage door and saved us. Or, I might not have saved us, but I definitely put forth a valiant effort. And I was, like, ten, and you really can't expect perfection from a ten year old. I probably died a hero. In my dream.

*funny story about that, actually. That'll have to be a different post.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Dear Blog,

I promise that someday I will be a good blogger. The kind that doesn't go nearly 20 days without a post. Someday.

Anyhoo, remember that post about technology hating me? Well, tomorrow I get to find out just how much loathing it really does hold for me. Last Thursday, my poor macbook suffered an awful water spilling accident at the hands of my little brother. (Incidentally, I typoed awful as awfuk, which was pretty much my reaction when I found out what happened). My laptop's been drying off since then, but tomorrow I get to find out whether it's totally dead or not.

Actually, funny story about that. My iPod was still kinda half dead, and it couldn't hold all of my music, so a few days before my laptop became the Titanic, I ordered a new one. Naturally, said new one didn't come in until a few days ago, too late for me to transfer all my iTunes. Sighhhhh.

That's not my only tragic story, though. If anything, this one beats my laptop sadness. It deals with freezie pops. Or, more specifically, "Fla-Vor-Ice," whatever that means. Seriously, namers of delicious frozen treats, bad job.

It's been really (really, really, really, really) hot on Cape lately. And ridiculously (ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously, ridiculously) muggy. Freezie pops were clearly in order. So I nabbed the box pretty much as soon as they were colder than lukewarm. It takes way too long for them to freeze, and the melty bits are always the best parts anyway. Anyway, I'm ripping the popsicles apart, trying to get to a red or pink one, and a blue one totally tears open. Oh, shit. It spills all over the kitchen counter as I'm wondering whether to try to eat/drink/whatevs that one or toss it. I decide to grab another. This time I get a red one.. Annnddd it totally spills, too. Everywhere. Except this time, it kind of looks like blood. Really bright, koolaidish blood, but still. All over the counters.

I give up and have a fudgesicle instead. But it was bitter. (Except not really. Fudesicles are even better than freezie pops).


Cross your fingers for my laptop! Or at least my hard drive.