booze, blues, birthdays and tattoos.

It’s cold tonight,
It feels like October.
The chill out of context is unsettling.
Earlier I was outside smoking a cigarette, wrapped in a warm sweater.
The fireflies were out, riding the breeze,
Choreographed constellations,
Waltzing and twinkling and lighting up the night.
The cicadas and grasshoppers and crickets singing in three-part harmony,
The moon high and in full bloom,
It was strange,
The symphonic summer lull against the frigid air.
An unlikely juxtaposition.
It’s like when you’re driving at night,
And suddenly, your lights reflect off
Of hundreds of glistening shards
Of broken glass from a fatal automobile accident
From earlier that day.
And the shimmering, sugarcoated glaze
Of fractured window shield
And crushed side-view mirror
Icing the road
Is just so beautiful
That you forget, for a moment,
That the scene really supposed to be tragic.





I’m twenty.
I’m still trying to get used to it.
It’s an uncomfortable age to be caught at.
My friends go to the bars and I feel young,
When I went to the pediatrician today, I felt old.
Two shots of penicillin later, I still felt old, and sore.
The hipster highschoolers make me feel old,
And the charming couples in their thirties
With their sharp style and classy taste and expensive wine,
And perfect relationships,
They make me feel young.

I’m almost old enough,
(But I’ll never really, truly, be old enough)

Oh well,
Here’s to a new decade:
The roaring twenties.



I celebrated my birthday for about two weeks,
The days jammed full of cigarettes by candlelight, stargazing, porch-sitting, celebratory drinking sessions, cheap booze, acoustic guitars, cherry wine, liquid gel ibuprofen, good friends and good times.






I have a tattoo,
(I’m officially a hard ass)
It’s of a needle and a spool of thread
(I’m officially a pansy)

It’s a metaphor for women’s suffrage, and because I have vagina envy, it just seemed fitting.

Joking.
(Not really)


It’s a symbol of creation and art:
The ability to produce something out of nothing
Using only your intellect, hands, and raw materials,
The same way a seamstress creates a garment following her vision,
Using only fabric,
Thread
And nimble fingers pulling a needle.
It represents my domestic side,
Rooted foundations,
Keeping the fire lit,
And the importance of the home and hearth.
It also represents self-sufficiency,
Self-sustainability,
Self-healing
And self-reliance.
Being able to do things on your own,
The same way a seamstress can make her own clothes.
It represents consistency,
Like repetitive stitches;
Following a plan of action.
Keeping yourself together,
And the ability to fix yourself when things fall apart.


The part of me that thinks I’m a spider finds this really poetic.





My tom’s shoes came in,
They look exactly like my old hospital slippers,
Only they won’t fall apart after a week,
And even though when I wear them I look like I just escaped from the psych ward,
I now own shoes with arch support.







It’s July,
Mission for (summer) love = still unattained.

But that’s okay
I’ve been busy,
Tree-climbing,
(Productive)
And song-writing,
And cutting off my jeans into shorts,
And not wearing t-shirts,
And drinking excessively,
And howling at the full moon,
And enjoying every ounce of summer.




I’ve also taken to playing the piano naked.






I’m
having
a
ball.