1. The Theory Of Small Town Mourning.

    Everything I know about mourning is inherited; I cry at funerals because that’s what everyone around me is doing, and I never take in vain the names of those who are no longer with us,

    But if you don’t understand grief or why closing your eyes at night hurts so much after losing a loved one,

    If you run red lights in a crowded intersection because the adrenaline reignites a spark of humanity you thought was lost when their body was lowered into the ground,

    Then we are the same.

    And if your heart expands and constricts with each new morning without them, if watching dust particles float in the setting sun feels like pinpricks in between your fingers where their hand used to fit,

    Then we are the same.

    If every time you laugh it feels like you’re so violently expelling sadness from your body it’s almost as if the sound is being ripped from your chest and handed bloody and beating like the drums of war to someone else,

    Then we are the same.

    They tell little children not to stand next to the fire because proximity leads to danger, but no one ever tells you that when your soul is soaked through with tears the only way to dry out is to stand next to someone who is burning, if only to spark the hope you can’t find on anyone else’s body though you search their valleys from the most well-drawn map,

    Then we are the same.

  2. Conversations With The Skeleton In Your Closet

    I watched as she searched through the cupboards for a coffee mug, but I moved them to a rack above the sink weeks ago.

    "Why did you leave?" I ask, as she begins to rifle through my fridge full of food.

    "The same reason you stay," she replies. And in the same breath, "this milk is bad."

    She walks down the hallway, looking for the bathroom I’m sure. But I’ve changed the guest towels since she was last here.

    "Who are you talking to?" You ask, walking into the empty room.

    "Myself." I reply, and blow on a long-since chilled cup of coffee. Sipping, I find myself wishing I had some milk for it.

  3. "

    I have my mother’s
    and none of
    her strength

    and I have my father’s
    and all
    of his selfishness

    Mandeq Ahmed, ‘tiny legacies’ (via versteur)
  4. I Ate So Much Bacon After You Left

    And I threw myself into trying to organize my closet and compartmentalize my thoughts and remember to brush my teeth, but I couldn’t keep my room clean past a week and seeing you with a new woman made me painfully grit my teeth,

    And I tried to lose you in a desperately long list of men who tore my conscience apart looking for their fathers between my legs, and I guess it had something to do with trying to heal old wounds with new stitches, but every Monday your name was the memo on an “I quit” email to a boss I could only ever hate for having someone to go home to and a corner office with a view that wasn’t a cubicle wall,

    And I began to feel breathless without ever actually moving and I think it had something to do with how fast my mind raced back to you when I was focused on not showing up at your door because I couldn’t admit I was incapable of letting you go,

    My favorite word became “fuck” but only because it was so closely followed by “you”

    And I stopped calling my mom every Sunday because she always wanted to know how I was holding up and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I had forgotten how to fold a bed sheet, wash my delicates or speak in something other than a giant run-on sentence

    All because someone had stopped wanting me.

  5. On letting it go.

    I’ll be the first to admit it: writing a memoir at twenty two after having achieved no great feats in my life makes me feel incredibly self-obsessed and irritating. It’s okay to be irritated by me, hell, I’M irritated by me. And yet, here I am trying to convince you to read this and understand me. At twenty two years of age I have held no less than two jobs at a time, I’ve worked seven jobs in the course of my life, dropped out of college on the cusp of receiving a degree that would never help me in the “real world” and started collecting bottles of wine and cats. So many cats.

    Whoops. I’m confusing the number of cats I have with the empty wine bottles. So many wine bottles, only three cats.

    Only! Ha, I make myself laugh. I guess if you haven’t laughed left, you should probably close this tab and go read something on Texts From Last Night (no but really, that site is pure gold) There’s nothing I can do to convince you I’m worth listening to, and to be frank, I’ve got no interest in that. If you want a love story, this isn’t for you. I’ve been in love with the same person for six years and we’ve never even hugged. Love? HA. If you want a happy-ending fairy tale, I’ll loan you my copy of The Princess Bride. Seriously. However, if you’re in that one percent that sees past the lure of happy endings, true love and the myth of perfect hair even when it’s raining, then this is for you. I’m not going to market myself as anything other than a fucked up girl; the product of two fucked up marriages, the victim of a school system that puts more value on appearance than education and the survivor of small town autonomy. Damn right I think I deserve to be heard.

    The thing I’ve heard the most in 2014 is not “damn Katie you look good” (unfortunately) or “wow you’re late again but somehow still managed to get Dunkin Donuts??” (Fortunately) but “Let it go!”. And as we’re nearing the end of this whirlwind year, I’m starting to think I’ve been misinterpreting it. You see, I thought it was grounds for me to unload a shit ton of emotional baggage on other people, to open the “I’m a bitter virgin that no one asked to prom” flood gates and make everyone around me feel guilty about what I felt was wrong with my life. Using “let it go” as a crutch, I confessed my love to two different people in the span of three months, offered up my overly-coveted virginity to someone I couldn’t stand to be around for more than half an hour, quit two jobs and realized that I don’t know nearly as much about maintaining friendships as I’ve always thought. You see, I’ve been coming home and sleeping in a gilded cage for so long that I simply wasn’t seeing that a lot of the blame needed to be put on myself for failing at love, feeling miserable and unaccomplished and skipping the gym like nine months in a row.

    I’m happy to report that just yesterday I woke up and realized I’ve been doing this all wrong. Maybe what the suspiciously good looking cartoon lady was trying to say was, “stop obsessing over bad moods, bad hair days, boys who don’t call, jobs that don’t feel fulfilling and anyone that tells you pasta makes you fat and let it go”. My mom is a two-time cancer survivor, my brother was wrongly accused of a crime and still managed to find love, my father was laid off after thirteen years at the same job and my youngest sister just graduated high school. What do I have to be upset about? So, so, much. And yet, nothing. Do I really want to waste precious time walking around a ticking time bomb of emotional instability or do I want to forgive the people who I felt never loved me back adequately, spend my money on memories and work my fingers to the bone because I’ll never be as able as I am right at this very moment? Heads we choose option two, tails we flip again.

  6. bastardsvultures:


There are lessons to be learned, and consequences for all the stupid things I say.

and it is no big surprise you turned out this way



    There are lessons to be learned, and consequences for all the stupid things I say.

    and it is no big surprise you turned out this way

  7. Atlas Shrugged

    I’ve heard it said that “time heals all wounds”, but all this time I’ve been hiding in the shadows watching you obsessively pick at stitches just to watch the blood ooze because somehow you’ve convinced yourself that no one will know you’re hurting unless they can see your wounds,

    And I guess I’m just wondering what makes you feel like you have the right to demand so much of the world and give so little in return, to anchor yourself with hate and loathing but play the victim of someone else’s cruelty?

    You shrug off responsibility, blame it on indecision and youth, on the entirety of the world being against you, while you’re spitting venom we’re all taking two steps back because volatile is to violence as the path you’re on is to explosive, and no one wants to be in the blast radius.

    You’ve got a body count that could level this whole town, but the time bomb you’ve been winding up will eventually get sick of waiting and you’ll be clawing at the edge of a precipice, looking for someone to pull you back from the unknown, or maybe just another person to use as leverage,

    But we’ve been gone for so long that all you’ll find when you open up those tightly balled fists is empty space,

    Now tell me, whose fault is that?

  8. Can anybody

    Find me somebody to love?

  9. sunyoungwrites:

    I could lay

    both my hands

    across your chest

    and still

    not cover

    the span of

    your heart.

  10. Unfinished.

    I’m one more fake first date away from a fake first lay, but it’s been three since I actually felt anything,

    I’m four compliments deep and he’s telling me he likes my teeth, and I’m wondering if I can ask for directions to anywhere but here,

    Two minutes into a song he doesn’t know is about him,

    I’ve been lost for five years on the definition of love, it’s been five since he flew out of Manchester and said he’d call,

    Three since I actually hung up the phone.

    I’m at thirty nine minutes since I last checked the folds in my dress and wondered where I put my rapid diet pills,

    I’m one gram away from making a late night call to someone who won’t pick up,

    It’s been eight months since I last saw Dr. Schuster, six since she stopped calling to tell me I missed an appointment,

    I’m one more panic attack on a busy street away from being bored with my polarity,

    I’m one more shitty high-five away from saving myself in the bathroom mirror,

    One more bad driver, shit-faced fraternity fucker who can’t tip for shit, broken bone, heart, psyche or iPhone from losing it,

    I’m questioning what day it is for the third time this week,

    Twelve seconds away from telling him I made the mix cd for him,

    Eleven from the moment I realize trying to be pretty will never be enough for him,

    9.3 from when I begin to stare at him,

    And 7.8 away from spewing all 135 words in my stupid “screw me please” speech,

    And five from the moment you will walk in and change everything.

  11. Here’s What It Means To Be A Woman.

    The only good piece of advice my dad ever gave me was to pick up the phone, because you’ll never know if the person calling really needs my help, and I’ll never know until my tentative, “hello?” is answered with a desperate, “help”.
    He never told me how to decide whch kinds of people were worth helping. I’d like to think it’s because he was always great at doing things halfway- halfway father, halfway to another scheme to make money, halfway to realizing he never should have attempted to raise two children he never really wanted.
    And I wonder who neglected to pick up the phone for the 8th grade girls I work with, as I watch each of them trace someone else’s scars, like they’re reading a form of braille that only they can understand, and for a moment I wish I was blind; for a moment I wish I knew who forgot to tell these girls that they are smart, beautiful, wanted and autonomous, that each slice on their wrist does not stand for flaws but each time I failed to protect them.
    This is what it means to be a woman, to spend the majority of your life trying to find worth in your words, believing it when someone else tells you there is none, and realizing too late that our worth is not measured by anyone other than ourselves. We will never create peace unless we find it within ourselves, we will never create love unless we find it in ourselves. Men are not born with this problem, they never doubt that they can rule the world. This is what it means to be a woman. The second we find peace, love or solitude, someone is there to take it away or try to convince us that we simply cannot handle it.
    To the 8th grade girls with scarifications on their arms and wrists that dare the world to withhold love just one more time, you will find a love that wipes your flesh smooth, that creates a warmth that will extinguish the cold that’s settled within your bones. Close your eyes and you will find it inside of you when you realize that taking the “im” away makes your scars perfections.

  12. Here’s The Problem With “On Wednesday’s We Wear Pink”.

    On Wednesday’s you will wear pink, but every other day you’ve got to be well-dressed and attractive, because your end-game will always be a date to your junior prom and a selfie with more than ten double-taps.
    This is the curse of the teenage girl, encouraged at every opportunity to sit still, be still, be quiet and be pretty. It’s all about the beauty, never about the brain. We raise young women to aspire to positions like “mother” or “wife” or secretary, force them to don “slut”, “bitch” and “prude” like feathered plummage, and wonder why they end up wearing “dispassioned” like scarlet letter, their heads hung low and their eyes searching the ground for the crack they so desperately wish to sink into when they should be searching the skies for the next limit they want to breach.
    It will never be alright till our daughters, wives, nieces, friends and anyone who has ever been threatened with a social stigma knows that their worth is not determined by the length of their skirt, how many times they have opened their heart or their legs, till the fourteen year-old girls are more concerned with whether the answers to their math problems are correct than whether their hair is in place, till the fourteen year old boys know that they can achieve respect through hardwork and kindness and that pantsing a peer inside of the locker room is not actually a rite of passage that prepares you for manhood.
    On Wednesdays, you will not wear pink. You will wear whatever the fuck you want.

About me

I'm usually on a longboard, eating a burrito or not wearing shoes. All the good writers were alcoholics, and I aim to be great (sorry mom).