I'm a Big Fat Hypocrite but Hang On a Sec

I never ever thought I'd be that kind of desperate.

I've had this...thing, I guess. Long story, short novel. I spent two years bleeding over it until I was completely dried out and loved every second. I recently read it over and-

Well, I'm still in love with it, but I know it's gonna stay hidden in my computer until the end of time. It's not something that would ever get published. Maybe looked at a bit (it already has), and maybe even some good feedback (which, again, I've already got), but nothing further. My poor pages would stay locked up within myself unless I made some serious compromise.

And you know damn well I'm not rational enough to do that.

I've read about other edgy-type girls striking out. Getting famous by going out on their own way with Tumblr poetry and pretty-faced words. I hope I'm not Tumblr poetry. I hope I'm not the "crazy bitch", as I've been called by actual Tumblr poetry (Hi E! you cunt). I hope I'm something better, something that could one day make enough money off of my typing that I would never bother with public opinion ever again.

But that's not today.

So, I thought I might as well at least let that story be out there. Amazon, hand drawn cover, cryptic-like nom de plume (still wanna keep an air of mystery, I guess. Only thing worth interest outta me anymore.).

I don't know who likes reading all this, and I don't really even know if anybody is reading this, but here it goes anyway: I have a pinch of my self-published heart out for sale, both digital and in print.

Here are the links. Make something of me, please.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07D5K8F98

And in paperback.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1982935456

From a humble, semi-psychotic high school graduate, thank you.

"Anyways, how's your week going?" (Prose)

I am now just shamelessly promoting my YouTube channel.

https://youtu.be/lNxeZlvIbPE

Anyways, how's your week going?

Like I’ve said, I’m really not that interesting.

Days are the same. Days blend. I can measure the mundanity out by what Big Trouble I had or what book I was reading. But here, for posterity, I’ll try listing it through:

School. Dark-sky drives to the institution and back. There’s not much to say about that.

Work. I can do a lot of that, most weeks. Feet like rocks for the build-up, tumble-down savings I’ve managed to muster. Work after school and on the weekends. I don’t work every day.

Books. My great sustenance. This whole existence is so easily pacified by Vonnegut and an iced coffee. I have a paperback in my backpack, purse, and car. It’s my stubborn will to create something material that I keep and display every book I’ve ever consumed. Of course I point out my titles.

I guess, if you’re wondering, I write things, too.

But I get my breakouts, sometimes. I’ll be walking to my car after an aching shift or eating outside when I catch a breeze under a pink air and simply be in love. God, that is what I love-atmosphere. No Romeo could ever sweep me up from it. 

To some greater extent, that is why I live. I smile at the drivel and continue on because I know, know well, the great common pleasures of the Earth. Of her fragile blossoms, of her cool tears. These fragments of truth have lived a thousand times over, and will just as starkly be reborn again.

And, I think, so will we.

"'Member Me, Sweetie?" (Poem)

I think they time out breakups-

Call it the night before, the morning after.

We were always flipped, ended so-

We had our morning before, our night after.

Because I hit him in the afternoon,

Bit the muscles in my cheeks and whispered into the phone.

The old boy hung up so quick.

I went home and scrubbed my mouth, my skin, my eyes.

I was only fourteen but did an excellent job of washing myself free of him.

Spent the weekend playing music and I was over it by Monday.

And he was the adult (20)

And he should’ve dropped the whole damn thing.

So why is he texting four years later?

All Right v. Alright

Let's go with this- I'm alright (all right?). Google says alright is not really a word, but acceptable. All right means the same thing. I guess alright invokes a touch of casualness in the written form that you wouldn't hear. I can just see this James Dean boy holding a match against the wind, brushing off concerns for his mind like that: "Yeah, I'm alright." Whichever, yeah. I'm alright/all right.

I've got plans, baby. More plans than I'll confess to the Internet. Maybe a priest, but not to you. And I want more coffee than I've already had.

Does any of this make sense? No? Good. Like I've said, that's not what I wanted outta this. It feels nice to have a little corner tucked away to bitch and spew whatever I so desire. And oh, my, my, do I have things to say.

I'm available wherever I am sold. Work, school, family events where I have to smile wide and try to remember who this person is that thinks my hair is permed.  But here, here I am not. Here is the public diary of a secret bitch. Open my heart and behold its black ooze. Sometimes I can even exhale evil spirits.

But really, I'm alright.

Envy is Truly a Horrid Bitch

Hi.

I've had a bit of a block. I think. I don't know. I watch that fucking vertical line blink in and out on the screen. Seriously, fuck that thing. I always feel like it's waiting for something that I can't do.

High school is almost over. I'm never going to see just about anybody from there ever again. It's this frantic, last-chance phase. People are hooking up, getting in fights, finally going to see that one movie or talk to that one kid. I'm not a part of any of it.

I feel like the ghost of someone who died a year or two ago, in that social sense. Maybe in that full sense, I don't know. I see people I used to drink with and giggle about the weekends and they won't even give me a glance to show that I'm still a person to them. What is it about me that has turned everyone away?

I must sound like I need some help. Well let me tell you- I'm fine. I'm just sick of seeing all these people beaming in FaceBook posts to a hundred heart-studded comments wishing them luck at their universities, fully funded a la pocket de Daddy.

Maybe it's because I didn't go to prom. I didn't go because it was too expensive, mostly. The other part is that I thought prom would just make it worse- puffy-faced girl in an overly modest dress and not enough makeup, hoping someone will talk to her and make her night. Yeah, no fucking thanks.

Okay, maybe I do need help. Maybe I can't run on only food, water, words, the occasional good sleep. Maybe I need that human interaction after all.

It's not like I don't talk to anybody. I think I have friends. It's just the fucking teenage angst social anxiety insecure self loathing shit. I can't even really articulate what's going on with me. Funny, I'm supposed to be the writer and I don't have any words. Ha.

I'm sure I'm fine.