I think I'll wait another year

I’m not sure if I feel much like celebrating tonight,
I have nothing to sing about,
What is there to rejoice?
Looking back over the last year, 
I don’t know if there is anything even worth celebrating
Except that it’s finally ending. 

Between the weird and awkward fling that fizzled in January and February,
Almost dying in March,
Coping with almost dying for the months to follow,
& the ambiguity and heartache that has defined these past couple months on so many levels,
the only thing I really feel like doing is throwing up.
Everywhere. 

Summer was beautiful, 
October was magical, 
And then things started to die. 
Just as they always do 
And I always seem to forget 
That everything is fleeting
Nothing is permanent
No one knows what the hell is going on 
Or what they’re doing 
So it makes no sense to try to make sense of it all. 




The only thing we can do is try to be happy. 
(if only it was that easy)


still, we lift our glasses
and we share a toast
because the new year is coming, whether we like it or not
(whether we’re ready for it, or not):

here’s to the new year, 
here’s to fresh starts, 
here’s to trying to be happy, 
and aborting the bullshit, 
here’s to actually talking about our feelings for a change, 
and not simply jumping ship when it gets too hard, 
here’s to emotional maturity, 
here’s to decency,
here’s to not waiting around for other people to change, 
here’s to baking a cake for someone who actually wants it, 
here’s to falling in love with someone who can return the favor, 
here’s to finding someone who actually gives a shit about you,
and not settling for anything less, 

yes, 

here’s to not settling,

here’s to not looking back, 
here’s to resilience, 
here’s to stopping trying to change things that are out of my control—if they are going to happen, they will—only time will tell & and certainly not worth stressing over. 













(here’s to hoping you’ll prove me wrong, and here’s to second chances)


Here’s to my friends, 
Here’s to new beginnings,
And making it count. 



Fuck, here we go again. 

Who Killed Zachary Goetz?

Was it the barber?
The butcher?
The priest?
The baker?
The spinstress?
The tax collector?
The candlestick maker?
The pharmacist?
The gynecologist?
The cokeheads?
The cunts?



The home-wrecker?
The loony?
The editor?
Or the vixen? 

All likely suspects; 
Each wielding a weapon
That could have surely done him in.

The strange part is,
When the authorities found his body
There were no signs of physical injury: 
No stab or bullet wounds,
No bruises or marks indicating strangulation,
His flesh wasn’t discolored
He looked as he always did--
White as the moon
And skinny like a model

There was no blood shed,
No fingerprints, 
No breadcrumb-trails,
There were no traces of poison found in his system,
This wasn’t an acid trip gone wrong


The autopsy concluded that his heart had simply stopped beating.


The police found a diary next to his body,
The last entry before his death read:

“So what if you write beautiful letters?
Where does that get you if no one replies?”




Dead.








He didn’t kill himself.

But his affliction was self-inflicted,
Accidental, of course, 
But it tragically led to his own undoing:
He spent too much time chasing rainbows,
And baking cakes,
And trying to turn straw into gold,
Holding his breath, 
Making no sudden movements,
And waiting for a reply
That he forgot to live.

and suddenly,

it was as if none of this had ever happened.. 

































































































..except that it did

raspberry lemonade blistex

Well, 






We’re out west 
And I don’t think I like it here: 

Everyone is really trendy and in a hurry, and I’m not sure I’m hip enough to be here, or swift enough for that matter. Perhaps I should learn to rollerblade and get a few more ear piercings, then I might survive the night, maybe. 

I had to buy some chap stick today. I was just boasting to someone the other afternoon about how I never get chapped lips; the very next day, my lips felt like sandpaper. Lucky me. 

It’s raspberry lemonade flavored. 
And tastes like fruit loops, 
with mermaids.



Or maybe it’s just the red wine..




Speaking of blood
And hearts 
And other red things
And bridging seemingly impossible gaps:

My grandma said something tragically romantic tonight--

“if there’s one thing I know, it is this:
following my passions is one of my greatest downfalls
because it always gets me in trouble”





I’ll drink to that.

A lesson in echoes, talking to walls and knowing when to keep your mouth shut

I usually trust acoustics. 
It's sonic law: that if you say something, you'll receive a response.
Sometimes your sentiments are echoed. 
Sometimes they're reverberated, and even if the sonance is muddled, you can still make out the details. 

It's okay to talk to canyons, they'll always reply. 
It's also okay to talk to wells, because—even if they're deep and the answer is delayed—they'll still always talk back. 

It's never okay to talk to padded walls, 
While they absorb, they won't return the favor.

And talking to stuffed animals is useless too, for they don't have very good advice. 

You would think
If you talked to another human—
A living, breathing, feeling human being, 
With a beating heart,
And a sense of decency—
And asked him a question 
You'd get a response. 

Unfortunately, some humans are like padded walls, 
And absorb, but wont return the favor. 
And leave you hanging, 
And things are ambiguous,
And vague,
And you feel like an idiot. 

Perhaps I should just stick to wells.