She never told me, but I knew the way she slept in mango trees
As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.
I've been working hard on the same story for months. Years, really. I know I've mentioned that before, but sometimes it's hard for me to get my head wrapped around. My thesis has consumed every bit of me and there doesn't seem like an end in sight. The goal has been to write out fifty pages every week, which is an ambitious goal. Sure, I write quickly, but that much output is exhausting.
I felt a pinch in my palm: a rosebud sprouted from my life line.
For months and months and months I've tried to get my shitty short stories published. They haven't been (because they're shitty, obviously). So, in an attempt to move some of them out into the world, I give you this. Surrealist fiction (which is what I want to call this) is not my wheelhouse, but it was sweet, sweet torture to write. Thank you for reading, as always!
On my last day in Boston, it rained like the whole state of Massachusetts was sad to see me go. There were great bolts of lightening, overflowing drains, and mini flash floods. It didn't stop until I left. Now, I know weather patterns are in no way influenced by a a human being coming or going from a specific geographical location, but just let me have this one.
Life has been pretty rough for me as of late. I’ve been through the wringer, and I’m just trying to keep my shit together long enough to grow as a person. Thank God for poetry, even if this poetry isn’t any good.
It's been a few days since I have written about anything, really. It's not my fault. I'm depressed, even more so since I left Boston. Everything about the trip was perfect, but few days will hold a candle to my trip into the city. Seriously, Boston, keep it up.
Like most great adventures, days start to blur together. Wednesday was one of those sleepy days that all vacations have. It's the middle of the trip and you're trying to decide if you can take one more step or if you're going to dime for the personal driver you've always wanted and deserved. The pesky business of money is all that stops you.
Boston is on fire. I mean, not in the literal sense, but in that "holy-shit-is-this-an-oven" sort of way. Before I got here, Harriet warned me that it might be a little cool. Foolishly, I packed a sweater. I did not need a sweater.