Correction

I am not a John Cusack kind of girl. I am a Hugh Grant one. With that said, Hugh Grant does not exist. That's right, he is the elusive rabbit you waited around for every Easter. And let me tell you, I am sick and tired of waiting.

Love songs for me

So check it, I was out for my night time stroll and I was feeling pretty blue, when all of a sudden it starts raining. And I'm soaking wet, and all of a sudden, I start to cry. And I'm wet and crying and all of a sudden, John Cusack shows up with an umbrella. And he comes over and kisses me, and all of a sudden Matt White is playing and the credits start to roll up.

A week ago my friends and I went out for a smoke, and ended up under the window of some John Jimi Clapton fellow. Wannabe John Jimi Clapton fellow. He was practicing guitar, which could easily be heard from two stories below. He played a few classics, AC/DC, police, some mayer too. The music was so chill we just sat underneath this guys window for about half an hour and listened. We considered throwing rocks, but thought that was too creepy.

There's something about a blues guitar that makes my heart melt, not only in remembrance, but in new desire too. I've been going back almost every night to Clapton fellow's home, and sitting underneath his window to listen to him play. Sometimes he isn't home, and I pick a hibiscus off of his bush, tuck it into my hair, and walk back home. Other times, he's trying to decide what song to play, and he'll play the intro to a few before settling on which he wants me to hear. I sit there and speak to him with my thoughts, and he speaks back with a string of broken chords. And I tell the hibiscuses how wonderful I think he is.

I'm in love with him.

I've never met him. I don't even know if it's a him, it may be a her. A very very old her. All I know is that they love classic rock, and so do I. And I have all of this love, all of this romantic emotion cooped up and no John Cusack to give it too. So I give it to Clapton fellow for safe keeping, and he doesn't even know.

Wrong turn

I'm on my knees and I am writhing in frustration. "I just don't feel it."
"Of course you feel it. If you didn't you would be dead."
He's right, but right now apathy is my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I don't feel it, but I do feel frustrated. And stupid. We run it two more times. I'm close, but I'm just forcing it too hard.
"You can do this. I would have never given you this part if I didn't believe in you."
We stop. He dismisses me with a simple that's enough for today. Great, he's frustrated now too. I grab my bag and as I am walking out the tears finally gather their courage and I have become Selma moments to late.
That was a year ago. Today its much the same.

I'm on my feet and they're carrying me through the blacked out street. I'm buzzed and thankful because its the only way I can feel it. It. It. What is it? Fuck if I know. It is everything I want to avoid, neglect to mention, fail to confront. The omnipresent factor in everything. And so I walk. I walk and walk at 11:46 at night because I'm trying to escape it.
I make my way to the park, which I hate because it's a dog park and I love because there are never any dogs. I'm sitting there in the dark trying to convince myself that the current color schemes are not overly contrasted or too blue hued but it's pointless because I'm reasoning with the blind. Blind because it is dark, in fear, and not wearing glasses. Frustration, familiar frustration, because I know how this should look. The wind is speaking through the trees that are telling me to just go home and I would love to if someone could kindly point the way. They spit water and leaves in my face and I get up because I am not wanted.
It was dark and I was running and I ran too far and suddenly I'm under the only working street lamp in the world and standing there I realize for the first time how strange it really feels to not be moving. And even though home was three blocks ago, I just can't move.
What is it about? Feeling, going, and not being dead.

I am the person cigarette companies hire to make smoking look good.

Writers are sadists. Good writers are masochists. Great writers kill people.

Its 3:19 am and I have two stories to write, totaling a word count of 750 combined. Items number one and two of the twelve million things i have to do before tomorrow, Saturday , my life ends and I am sitting here in my bed writing a blog instead. <--That sentence was awkwardly phrased but I'll keep it because it rhymed a little. Needless to say, tomorrow and the subsequent days will be delightfully painful, with barely any sleep and back to back engagements leaving no time for afternoon naps. Oh, how i love my cat naps. And I am so desperately longing for one right now. Or some coffee. Or a cigarette.

But I must suffer for my art...

Writers are sadists. We love the soft cries of animals in distress, children abused by drunk parents, car crashes and ambulance sirens. We like to pull of band aids and pick at scabs, ask people personal questions and watch them squirm. Its interesting.

I am guilty of making one too many wrong decisions consciously for the sheer sake of inspiration. Why yes, I would love to drink that cup of jet-fuel! Won't that make me interesting! It isn't enough to hear or even witness death by poison. By Jove, I want to experience it myself.

Great writers kill themselves.

I subject myself to all kinds of torture. I don't complain, I just describe it in stark accuracy. I do things I really don't want to do because it seems glamorous and i love glamor. Glamor and gore, I live for it. My life at the moment = no glamor and gore.

So I find myself now stumbling into some really bad predicaments and I'm agreeing to things against my better judgment. I'm the kid who lights the curtains on fire just to see what happens. And I'm shooting myself in the foot constantly, repeatedly, over and over again and to what avail? To your avail.

I live not for my will, but for the art that I can create.

Bubble Toes

The carpet smells like ass. I am lying face down, and the carpet smells like ass. But I'm too tired to mind it. I close my eyes and pray that the charcoal gray and black stripes will blend with me and swallow me whole. Voices rehearse their lines, footsteps reverberate against my skull.
I close my eyes and the floor becomes grass, the air becomes heavy with sweet acoustic hymns. It courses through my ears and down my throat, and I am a year younger and 10 pounds thinner. In the tiny space of a cramped theatre, I have lost myself.
I roll to my side. The sky is charcoal gray. The teacups are lined with black, and I am covered in daisy petals. Familiar voices are flowing in and out of range, and Jack Johnson is reverberating against my chest.
To my left is an ocean of green, to my right is an ocean of blue. And everything I could ever want has been gathered on a blanket in between. Time passes, and I laugh too hard and I cry too hard and I am right here, right now, hidden in time where no one can find me.
I stand up and shake the petals out of my hair. Everyone hugs and sings and spins in circles and we eat too much and drink too much. It is my birthday.
It's dark. It's cold. It's raining. I'm wet. Everyone is soaking wet. We've all gathered under a gazebo and are huddling for warmth. My arms and legs are tangled in embrace, but my heart is somewhere else.
My phone reverberates against my chest. Missed call, October 15th, 2:48 pm. I stand up, take my place, and wait for my cue.
I lean down and sniff my shirt. I smell like ass now, too.

I miss

I miss everything.

I miss those endless 4-person sleepovers that cemented our souls together.
I miss drowning in a cup of tea.
I miss staying up for the wrong person, and never getting out of bed for the right one.
I miss talking trash about school and parentals and the bitch in 5th period.
I miss the world ending, and coming back to life.
I miss taquitos and their healing power.
I miss reading novels by moonlight while Paige was asleep.
I miss waking up with a purpose and drive.
I miss bailing out on parties and dates, because there would always be next week.
I miss ritualistic cafe con leches.
I miss the old starbucks, where I fell in love and had my first New Years kiss three days late.
I miss Tacomania.
I miss knowing without a doubt what i wanted most today, next week, and the rest of my life.
I miss complaining about how bad it was, and never knowing it would get worse.
I miss being sure of who I was.
I miss that car ride, that too loud music, my dad pretending he wasn't there.

I don't miss anyone.