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Cuteandpunky

the life of a f****ed up cute and punky person

Created on 2005-06-29 15:15:56 (#7584406), last updated 2009-04-19

2,162 comments received, 2,278 comments posted

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437 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 3 Userpics

Basic Info

Name:	cuteandpunky
Birthdate:	06-04
Location:	Columbia, Missouri, United States
Website:	Green Day DAily News

Contact:

cuteandpunky@yahoo.com

Bio

PARADISE IN A PARKING GARAGE
I never thought I could love a place so much as I did that old empty parking garage. The five of us, me, Ally, Zoe, Laura, and Sarina anticipated and talked about our covert ventures there weeks in advance. For once I opened the heavy, metal doors that lead to the musty staircase, all the discreetness and planning was well worth it. The smell of rotting garbage, drugs, and smoothie spills would smother my lungs and fill my nostrils with the nauseating aroma on the grueling climb up the eight flights of rough concrete stairs. By the fourth level of the garage I would hold my breath, and by the sixth level I would hope to God that the horrible stench would wash off your clothes. The climb would get increasingly harder as Id bound up the steps, jumping two or three at a time, so as to escape the fowl odor to the fresh air that waited at the top. When I finally reached the sixth level my knees would be sore and my legs, cramped, I'd be wheezing, and clutching your sides, but it was all worth it. Through the large glass door was the top of the parking garage. It was exposed to the cool, clean night air, which was so pure and refreshing from this height. I could look up into the black night sky or down at the street below, watching strangers wander the streets of Columbias down town at night. It was an eclectic gathering at ten p.m. Some were families stopping by the ice creamery below to enjoy a cold late night treat. Others were students who had stayed behind for the summer semester and were walking home after a lengthy day of studies. Yet none of them seemed to notice or care about the presence of onlookers from above, studying the intricate pattern of their citys life. That would be the best part about the parking garage, the fact that it was so overlooked. While atop I'd become a latent shadow of the world. I could close my eyes and lay down against the asphalt, without having to worry about what others expected of you or how off course my life was running. For a few precious moments I was simply there. I could have laid there for an eternity it seemed, feeling my belly as it swelled with air and then slowly let it escape. The rhythmic patterns of my breathing soothed my body and quickly numbed all other senses. It was a sound I hardly ever heard anymore. After billions of inhales and exhales, the fascination with the cherished resonance had since faded into the background. Now it seemed that there was hardly time to listen to my breath; barely time to remember how I'd taken my first gulp of air. One day I would take my last breath. The song would stop abruptly. I would never again get to experience the euphoria of filling my lungs. It would be too late then. A lifetime of breaths, and yet all that was remembered were my first and last; the miracles of years condensed into two dates. I wished this night would last an eternity; one of mere co-existence between me and the eternal blackness of the July sky above. No sky would ever seem so mystical and elusive as it would that night. The intricate details of the universe would unfold for me as I stared, with wide pensive eyes, searching for answers to unknown questions. Id let my head rest on the hard concrete below and just drink in the night. Like a moth drawn to light, I would be captivated by darkness. The flicker of lights from the city below would carry me back, if only momentarily, to the harsh realities of time and place, I had tried so hard to break from. The intimate relationship with now was replaced with the constant struggle of next. The possibility of next made a pit in my stomach. It was a never ending array of expectations, uncertainty and questions. When would this night end? When would I return to this beloved place where the responsibilities of the world were so distant? When would the parking garage disappear, becoming a mere patch of gravel paved over for new stores and streets? The sudden questions would startle. The venture into the indefinite had been a bitter wake-up from the lull of sameness that I had so dearly loved a few mere seconds ago. The new thoughts would glaze my eyes with tears; Id quickly try to blink away. It was a melancholy feeling that I had expected when Id first approached the parking garage, yet somehow this too had become part of the ritual of the event. Here no one could see my sorrow and try to comfort me with words of false assurance. No one would pretend to understand the uncertainties that only I could fully reflect on. Here, forgotten by the outside world, I was forced to depend on myself for healing, a feeling that satisfied and nourished the soul, as only the trust for oneself can. Another strong bond that would form atop the parking garage would be a love for the deep connections of friendship between the five of us. There, in the middle of Julys mildewed atmosphere, I felt like we were all holding on to a delicious secret that I knew was just as equally cherished by the people around me, and while not all of us were lifelong friends, it wouldnt seem to matter, here. It was an unspoken love for that location that somehow would give way to the most meaningful and thought provoking discussions of my life. I would divulge my innermost thoughts about what I wanted in life or how I wished my life thus far had turned out. It was almost a cleansing experience that couldnt happen anywhere else. Somehow the setting of the conversations made for an unspoken agreement of solemnity and dignity that was rare elsewhere, even among the best of friends. However, the parking garage was alive with havoc as well. The gentle slope of the top level made for an excellent roll across the coarse pavement, evoking memories of younger days when it was acceptable to do this without the harsh looks of nearby onlookers. It was invigorating to once again lavish in childhood antics and let down my guard. Nobody would notice, let alone care the antics of five teenage girls atop a six story parking garage at this time at night. They would just assume we were crazy, which wouldnt be entirely false, but then again, who is entirely sane all the time? All of us are basket cases in our own ways. All of us need to find ourselves and experience the beauty of discovering who we wish we could be or why we are who we are. We all sometimes need to take a break form the world, and its petty duties. Sometimes I become so distant from the person I look at in the mirror; I dont even recognize myself when Im alone. Those distinct summer nights on the parking garage were not simply loitering or hanging out they were times of self discovery when I could take a minute and ask myself those detailed questions who am I?, who was I? and who do I want to become? Its odd how sometimes the only place where I could ask these questions is one the top story of a parking garage or how Id never really thought to ask them elsewhere. Making the long descent back down the lengthy flight of stairs, the outside streets and sounds would slowly come into focus. The memories of the nights activities would slowly dwindle, only to be recalled in enticing tales of mischief and humor. The gagging reflex would return once more as it become evident that the parking garages were NOT cleaned on a weekly or even monthly basis. As my feet would touch the last step I would pause, almost regretting leaving such a treasured place. It was so simple and plain from the outside. Not many could see the rare splendor in its dull-gray appearance, but to those who it was loved by it was an old friend, waiting there until the next time it would be needed, a secret refuge that always led you back to yourself. It was more than a simple parking garage. It was a sanctuary, a constant, rising above the growing city below and the ever-changing course of life. This is the true story of the nights that changed our lives, the boys that broke our hearts and the promises we ourselves broke. Its a story of the moments we shared together and apart. This is the story of a summer, a fall, a winter, a spring; but in so many ways its more than the change of seasons or the change of time. Its the story of five friends, well most of the time. Its the story of five girls, who werent really girls anymore. Mostly, its a story of loves; love for friends, family, boys (or girls), and above all, love for self. I don't exactly recall ever truly discovering the parking garage...moreover it discovered us. Care Summer LEARNING TO LOVE, LEARNING TO LOSE CONTROL Its a hot July day, a regular day, and dodger blue skies, muggy and humid. Brown speckled leaves of grass cushion our bare feet as we make our way to the tall structure ahead of us that our somewhat immature friend, Andrew, has informed us of. When I say immature...that isn't correct. By immature I mean extremely horny, disturbed, and obsessed with his dick...in other words, I mean your typical 8th grade boyjust like HIM God, I both want him and dont want him; think he hates me, and think he loves me. -----He did I want so much to discover my feelings for him, only to learn that it is his feelings for me I cared about more. I keep telling myself not to want him, not to want anybody. Nobody has ever wanted me. I should just hold on and wait, wait for someone who can tell me they loved me, or for the kind of guy you dream about when you are younger; the handsome kind, that are perfect for you; the kind that can tell you a world in a sentence, space in a kiss. But there is something about his quietness, and his eyes that speak to me. I find my glances always darting in his direction. And then there are the times that I think maybe, just maybe, he feels the same. I cant explain it but our eyes sometimes lock and I think he knows -------He did He walks in front of us...I watch him out of the corner of my eye, perhaps he is watching me too... The parking garage is by no means remarkable, but I'm not really looking carefully. My whole being is still magnetically tranzfixed to his movements....But he doesn't even notice me. And so it is with spite, vengeance, a sick demand for attention that I do it.... "He wouldn't even notice if I was topless", I say to my unsuspecting friend Zoe, never hinting at my true intentions for thinking such. "Yeah. Guys are so non-observant...Do it" She says with a mischevious smile. I silently grin back at her, and with confident, ready hands, I lift up the black fabric covering the soft pale skin beneath. My whole chest is now bare, exposed....It's exhilarating and yet I feel so nervous and so wicked...I can't believe I'm actually half-wanting him to see this. What does he think of this? Is he watching me now? Is he even glancing in this general direction at all? I steal a covert glance towards him to search for his eyes, yet I only meet the back of his head. *Sigh* Disgusted, I quickly let my shirt fall back into place. Later I will laugh at this with my friends and beltittle him for his stupidity, but not now, now I have to reprimand myself for my own. October LEARNING TO FALL, LEARNING TO RUN Down is a long way to fall. I pretend not to hit bottom, pretend to be this eternally happy person, who can forgive, and forget, pretend to be content to be alone, when I really hate the feeling of seclusion. Mostly I pretend to be satisfied with my life, when its far from what I want. I'm not very good at getting what I want. Thats what my mother always says. Shes right in a lot of ways. I'll take risks, be the daredevil, do anything it seems to get attention, that energy high, but when it comes to taking the risks that count, well, I'm a complete and total pussy Thats why I dont get what I want, because I play it safe. That's why I fall so hard, so fast, because I'm not used to the failure of losing it all; because for a short epiphany of time I'm ecstatic, almost in ecstasy perched high on a plateau of hopes and dreams I've built up over months and years, only to see it crumble in a moment. Down is sure as hell a long way to fall. And Im not going to let myself down again. I keep convincing myself that the world is, in essence, a good place, that bad people aren't really bad at all. They're just good people that have been let down by life, taken advantage of. If a person treats me like shit, I try not to hate them. Frankly, they wouldn't care if I did. People like that think I'm crap, no matter what I think I them. What's the use fighting over it, or even swinging the punch? I just give them the finger and walk away. That's my instinct. That's what I make myself believe is right. I've found that if I keep believing that the world loves me and if I keep loving the world, then I wont let myself down. I just trick myself into lowered expectations and tomorrow is a better day, call me stupid or unrealistic, but its better than crying over a life thats never going to give me what I want. This way I wont have as far to fall. If I dont want anything, then I wont have to struggle to keep it or crumple when its torn away. I just want to live a life where I can be content. Ive decided not to be that girl that everyone knows or even try to be that famous movie star or the writer my mother says I could be. I just sit by as I listen to stories of dreams of being a famous author, famous singer, the best actress, a great guitarist. I'm just me. I just want to live a life I can look back on with as little regrets as possible. I've just got to keep my head up, keep that positive outlook, and remember that Im nothing special. Im not destined for much, but a happy life. If I keep believing all this, Ill reach that goal. Nothing special. I say. I inhale slowly, trying to do my own interpretive meditation that doesnt seem to be working. YOU werent meant to be happy today. Today was your day to feel miserable. I should argue with myself. I should say the obvious, that I feel like this at one time or another nearly every day of my pathetic life, but I dont. Instead I nod and take pride in the fact that Im not going to let life upset me too much. Ill move on from this moment, this memory, let it fade away, erase it from my mind. Tonight, like so many other nights, no one knows what I'm thinking or even that I'm the slightest bit upset. I could just forget I ever felt this way. I don't even have to feel embarrassed about my emotions. I'll just pretend that I never thought of the "what ifs..." or "how comes...". Things happen and it's no use wondering how or why. At least that's what I'll tell myself. It's too cold for October. The air pierces my lungs. My ears and nose are so numb and I'm certain that they're bright red. I must look ridiculous, out here, alone, in an absurdly orange puffy coat, just walking aimlessly. Well, that's not completely true; it's not really walking, as I have been told many a time. I walk faster than most people jog. It's not aimless either. When I'm upset, or have something on my mind I just let it out by moving my feet, going somewhere, leaving behind a setting, a known cast of characters. I'm not Care or Caroline or Carol. I'm not even a recognizable face. I'm just "that lunatic in the pumpkin colored marshmallow jacket." The city is dormant. The speeding cars and galling sirens blend into the night. Soon, all I can hear is the dull echo of my frayed chucks as they graze the sidewalk. The world around me has become one vast array of lights and colors. My vision blurs and the colors run together, delicately forming vibrant hued Monet's in my imagination. The textures and places are glossing over. Then I feel the tears, silently caressing my cheek. I can't say if I'm crying because of my fingers are throbbing or because my eyes are shocked by the icy chill. In reality, it's neither, but later I'll say it was; just like I'll say I took a walk to get some exercise, just like I said that I didnt care when he crumpled my memories, moments, emotions, in a matter of minutes. I DO care. My mind keeps flashing back, returning and replaying snapshots that made me feel whole. All the times I blushed or giggled because of how he made me feel battle the newly formed recollections of last night. That was the night when I first felt the urge to walk. That was the night when my life became this deplorable merry-go-round of phone-calls, IMs, sleepless nights thinking of time I couldnt take back. I cant even concentrate on walking, I say to myself. Im nauseas from the tears Ive been holding back, and the tears Im sucking in now. I guess hes happy now. I guess at least from my hurt someone is happy. Thats what I wanted all along wasnt it? I just wanted to make someone happy and to be happy in return, if only for a while. That time is over now, just like last-night, just like my relationship. But I still have tonight. I still have the time to make tonight one I wont regret. Wiping my mascara blemished cheeks onto my jacket; I inhale, quickly this time. Then I begin to run, warming my aching muscles and revitalizing my fingers once again. I run until my toes are bleeding and my lungs will detonate at any moment. Slowing my jog to a gentle trot, and then a stop, I pause and then gently, tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. Unexpectedly I realize that Ive finally stopped thinking about him. Something special. I say through teeth clenched from exhaustion, my lips in a gentle smile. In the end I didnt need to take a walk to get exercise or to run away from myself or my memories. I took a walk so I could learn to run in-spite of them.

CHUCKS
I remember when I first bought them How they smelled of fresh cardboard, and fit slightly better The coarse black fabric hugging my feet tightly The nylon laces were a spotless white, stiff and perfectly shaped The plastic edges and front polished with that new shoe look Looking into that same cardboard box I see the graying fabric of the chucks The soles worn in and decaying from days spent splashing in the rain The laces flecked with gray, no longer white, but a dull cream Frayed and broken in strands, all that remains from that momentous run-in With the notorious step-on your shoelaces guy The luster of the plastic has since worn off, leaving scratches and scruff marks Memories of long walks in the neighborhood and playing footsies on the bus Putting the shoes on our hands and playing shoe puppets How I never felt so beautiful as I did when I was wearing those shoes I arrange them neatly in their tomb Lovingly stroking them before I close them into the abyss Closing along with it, the story of all the places those shoes went How they changed so much over the course of the summer But now I have to let them rest And tomorrow I will buy another pair of shoes Newer, sturdier shoes Shoes that are spotless white, stiff, clean Shoes that will take me to different places A pair of shoes for me to make my own

AMERICA
*note I'm NOT patriotic!
America is a country, a culture, a refuge created by and for individuals. It is a nation still being created and reinvented, but the true testament of time to America has always been the influence of the individual. This is why, if America is to truly become a representative nation, we must overlook no longer the hardships, struggles, and victories of every one of its sculptors, past and present and we must chisel away the boundaries that divide our futures; because if Americans are to be united, the process must begin within the individual and end in the individuals of tomorrow. An individual in todays society must learn to be just that; an individual. Our citizens need to find their own opinions and interpret society through their own experiences, not simply those of the majority. Americans of today must find a voice, not a whisper. For without individuality, where are individuals?

KIDS

I like kids, when theyre nice, when they behave. I like the way they have those cute little grins that tell you that they like you; or the way they say Wow. Youre pretty! I like that. Its nice to get reminded of the little things. People dont say things like that when they get older. They just shrug, and walk off, pass you off, another face in the crowd not worth their time; but when theyre younger, they stare at you with big round eyes, wondering what new excitement youll be. I dont feel so shy when Im around them either. When Im around people my own age, I tend to slump or hide away, praying they dont notice my imperfections. I always feel out of place, gawky, never knowing what to say next, or how to respond. Im always wondering about whats socially acceptable or what is out of character. The key to playing with kids is that everything is acceptable. They dont care if youre horrible at carrying on polite conversation, so long as you listen to what they have to say. And boy do they have lots to say. Everything is important. Everything is an adventure, a life changing moment. Theyre certain theyll die if they have to go to bed now. It will forever scar their life. How tragic, at a whole four years of age that they must endure such torture. I stifle snickers when they do this sometimes, but in the end I always play along, telling them that I would be crushed if their life were to end so dreadfully and that next time I saw them I would be sure to finish our game. Promise? they say, looking at me with those adorable puppy eyes and sweetly dimpled cheeks. Promise, I say, kneeling down at their level to show that I understand the seriousness of this compromise. And the next time they wont forget. Its odd how your own parents can forget your birthday, but a child youve met only once, can remember a play dates promise. Much of the time we arent even aware theyre listening, much less comprehending whats going on around them. Its amazing how we often mistake a childs lack of years and words, for stupidity. Theyre cunning as ever, they just dont know how to express it. Have you ever noticed how they get lost in a ladybugs wings or how they can watch the same movie over and over for hours? Were easily bored by the repetition of the same lines, the same characters, and the same plot. But its not the same to them. Each time they watch, they become immersed in the awe of it all, the magic of the moving colors across the screen, what does it matter that theyre identical each time, their thrilling just the same. Have you ever noticed how they always seem to sense when something isnt right, or how they can bring purpose to your day, when nothing else can? They laugh and a moment in time is filled with joy, instead of emptiness. They cry and suddenly you are needed, wanted, loved by someone. They arent even aware of the hearts they melt or the way their presence in a room can stir precious memories, or soften lifes burdens. Sometimes, watching them frolic in the fall leaves, or chasing after a butterfly, I get tears in my eyes for I know that this will end soon. One day theyll grow up and grow tired of playing puppy or pirates and hate the idea of having a baby-sitter at the house. Theyll be too old to play with toys or some dumb pretend game; but sometimes its good to pretend, to look at things with that wide-eyed curiosity, to tell someone what youre thinking; and what am I thinking right now? Im thinking that I cant wait to play dress-up. Its good to feel like a queen, if only for pretend, if only for a moment. Every once in a while its good to be four; four, and hoping that one day youll be fourteen. Funny isnt it that once you get there, it ends up the other way around.

EYES OF A CHILD
Memories of when I was young I held on tight to mother, gripping fingers with my tiny delicate hands. Now I just bite my lip when the world gets to wide. I used to commit to family. I remember closing my innocent bold eyes to watch a flux of wistful dreams, painting themselves on the canvas of my mind. Now my imagination is dead. The brush is still. The artist has forgotten how to paint from years of neglect. I fear the world will spin too fast now that I am older. I fear I will never again be lost in a blade of sunburned grass, the course carpet fibers, nimble spiders crawling the wall Now every time I gaze at the past I wonder if I will ever see the splendor in a migrant cloud Or the elegance of a clinging drop of rain Sometimes, when Im alone I study once more the intricate details of my surroundings. I cannot see past the colors and shapes, the obvious, the commonplace. The fabrics, the insects, the summer sky, have become mere reflections of societys most convenient definitions. There is too little time to awe at the marvel of a loose screw or become transfixed in the delicacy of a dust mite, too little time to adjust the lens, to focus on more than the evident. I gaze intensely at the corner on the wall I used to love, remembering what now I can not see. I blink once more and return to the present. A wall is just a wall; a memory, a mere fragment of the past But in spite of this I sometimes wish I could see myself through a childs eyes, my own eyes, eyes that have since been blinded.

EPITAPH
11:05, December, I stand, a stranger, above you deciphering the lettering on your tombstone. I let my fingers grace your name, feel the ridges and cracks, worn down, indecipherable, but present, the rough limestone tickling my numb pale hands like sandpaper. Though blurry the inscription, I can tell it was chiseled with care. The shape of the rock neatly designed and cut to precision. You were meant to be remembered. Now, forgotten, you lie silent, unprotesting, beneath me, as I solemnly gaze at the few weathered symbols and mottos that summarize your life. I stand in pensive thought, wondering over the intimate details of your life, wondering if you can feel my presence as I try to get some sense of yours. I try to strip bare your soul, with my eyes closed; imagining the day your hand was grasped for the last time, limp, lifeless. Did they hold it tight, with tepid eyelids, quivering lips? Did they barely touch it, afraid of the sins they had committed against you, or afraid of not being able to let go. Were they afraid of the feel of your hands, once so busy and alive, lovingly running through their hair, comforting them in times of hardships, now still and lifeless? Did their brief words escape their mouths like a loved ones kisses, gentle, and soft, yet lingering on the tip of the tongues? Did they make believe you heard them, that you were with them somehow, caressing their words and wrapping your arms around them as they slowly passed by your body, for the last time? Now, I stand over your body, decayed and eroded into the soil. Fragments of clothing and bones, remnants of the full bodied you figure you once were. Now frail, time receives you into the earth. You lay unaware of the changing world above you. The sky shifts hues, swallowing passing clouds into its abyss of blue. The morning larks song fades into the afternoons calm. The city is razed and reborn, the bricks and beams in constant mle with the elements and inhabitants. Ignorant you lie, undisturbed, in constant slumber. The childs face, once clean and youthful, is leathered and scarred with age. The old tree that once shaded you from the suns rays has long since been neglected. The wilted leaves, me remnants of the crisp fall leaves you must have loved to play in as a toddler. Ill never know for certain. A lifes subtleties and memoirs cannot be read in an epitaph. Nonetheless, I tightly shut my eyelids and press my sweaty palm against your stone once more in anticipation of some kind of existentialism or revelation. None come. The only answers heard are the whispers of the wind, the only visions, mere fragments of fabricated snapshots. The enigma of your life is buried not with you, but beyond you, beyond me. And so I let you rest, beneath the earth, beneath the silent sagging tree. Covered in a blanket of elusiveness, you shall stay. The autumns pass. The memories fade. Your name is washed away through the tears of time. Perhaps this is as it should be. You lying there, blissfully, peacefully, a mystery to all who loom near your place of rest. Here, in the eternal stillness, quiet, parted from the burdens of life, you remain, eternally molding the lives of those around you Slowly, I lift my fingers from the cool rock, the touch of your name, still lingering on my fingers. Yet tonight, you have unconsciously touched far more than my fingers. Echoes of your presence will haunt me throughout the night, beckoning me to wonder.

APATHY IN CAFFEINE
I keep contradicting myself, caught up in the colliding concepts of self, the duet between realism and idealism, which has become unbalanced. My image rests on the brink of this moment and all the moments after this. Suspended in time from one cup of coffee to another, pathetically coping with caffeine to dull the feeling, pursuing the purposeless, none of this seems right. What is thisthis horrible sensation that tells me that Ill never be more to anyone than a pretty face or a pretty I keep praying for someone to see beyond the outside image, but their eyes can only see me in one dimension. In many ways, it has now become the way Ive learned to see myself. The cobalt porcelain mug rests on the wooden table in front of me. Its empty. It has reminded thus for unerringly three minutes and thirty-two seconds. Nonetheless, I continue to stare at it. Perhaps the mug will magically refill itself if I gaze at it intently enough. Im too lethargic, or moreover, too apathetic to purchase another. At least focusing on it gives me something to occupy my time with, or more precisely, something to occupy my mind with. My father used to tell me how destructive coffee is to your nervous system, your eyesight, your mental ability. If this is true, coffee might just be the only thing to alleviate me. I dont want to feel, see, or think. At the moment, I yearn to be as vacant as that coffee cup, with all the complexities of the human heart alleviated from me. Drowning myself in frothy lattes and espresso shots has done little to resolve the current complexities of my life. Heres to apathy I quietly whisper to myself, swigging down another mocha frap, contributing another three dollars and ten cents to my coffee addiction. I watch the various hues of creamy tans and hazels form themselves into fascinating geometric designs, the yin and yang formed in the icy mocha mixture. This abstract side of anger is something rarely witnessed, but somehow its beautiful in a way, sad like a tableau of cynicism, loss, a classic portrait of despondency. Ironic isnt it how despair seems to transfix us, fascinating us with false assumptions that we are more fulfilled by witnessing the dissilience of the human spirit. My morality, the once valued assurance of self, the confidence in my choices, is becoming latent distorted images of the person I wish I could become again. I can no longer justify my actions with reason or emotion. I cant excuse them with circumstances. I just have to live with them and face the nauseating memories of the things Ive done. My murky reflection stares up at me from the bottom of the already emptied mug. I cringe at my likeness to the girl I never wanted to become but have always secretly aspired to be. Carefully blackened lashes draw away attention from the hurt in my eyes, that stealthy look of longing for something; someone, to make me feel, beautiful, more than a pair of legs or another pretty face, worth something in this faccade of faces and hollow rejoinders. I did this to myself. Im the sole person to blame for my unhappiness. It was I who let others degrade me. It was I who set myself up for the process. In the end it was I who told myself I deserved no better, even thought it was a lie, a horrible, sickening lie, which led to this progression of fading. And now I dont deserve anything more. I feel nauseous. I dont care to achieve anything more. My tongue is aching to tell my story, poised and ready to form the words to express my hopelessness. But my lips remain pursed. The only person who can help is the one at blame, the one whose reflection I fear most. Swallowing coffee tainted saliva; I shut my tepid eyelids and lock my jaw. My hands knead together, in a soothing rhythmic pattern, pulsing and pausing to relieve the stress. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the dimly scribbled lines of poetry on a fraying paper napkin pieces escape, you caught some....Perhaps this is true. Perhaps maybe someone, somewhere, will catch my pieces and put them together, see the whole of my heart, not just a clothing size, feel my longing to become someone, escape from the shadows of today. Perhaps who I've become is merely a fragment of who Im meant to be, caught in this moment of time, between apathy and caffeine.

RECALLING THE STARS TO YOU
Cool night air pressed against my pale breasts, luminous in the endless opaque sky which consumes all. Feeling the Rought cement on my back, the warm, smooth flesh angainst mine, tiny fibers of hair tickeling, connecting us back to the reality of the moment. My tightened cotton bra suffocating and corseting my bosoms, who yearn to greet the humid breeze. Yet my mind still remains on that sky that continues beyond me, somehow linking me to you. Nimble, Miniscule gray gnats rudely interrupt my sky window to dance among embers from the stars. And in all this I see beauty. I see passion. I see life and death, now and forevor. In all this I see you. I resurrect and recall the stars, the moon, my soul to you.

BLOOD LIKE WATER
I bleed these tears for you Like the water from these tears my soul yearns to fill the void you left conform as waters do or merely to to ripple over your skin gently, like the kiss of dew But I am not water nor ripple nor kiss My soul is violent like the river my mind murky my passion, like the stream, impossible to contain You are my dam condemning me to this state I have become stagnant, polluted, shallowed a mere reminder of the vast ocean my heart once held So as waters trickle over the face of the earth carving their stories in unknown hills, so must I

THAT GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
I used to be that girl. Did you know that? I guess you wouldnt think that to look at me. I hope you wouldnt. She would have wanted it that way. Ive struggled so hard to elude that girl in that picture there, that dejected, wreck of a girl, eleven years of age, caught between childhood and the brink of teen-hood, gangly, acne plagued, depressed, reclusive, yet ambitious as ever, yearning for change, yearning to outgrow her youth, outgrow herself. Life for her was one fault after another, barely surviving from one embarrassment to the next, clinging to surreal imaginings and folds of poetry, silently and solely existing on solitude. You used to laugh at that girl. Do you still recall those words? Would you take them back now, those words that echoed in her head years after spoken? Did you know of the nights she lay awake reviewing the fragments of truths you saw in her, truths she herself tried to burn away? I still try to forget them every day, every time you look at me; try to hide her desire to lash out words of hurt, try to avenge now what she could not then attempt. She remembers that time you made her cry on the slide, all alone, the yellow plastic serving as a shield, a sanctuary, from the daily torments that awaited outside, all this because of the fatal flaw of being true to ones nature; all this for lack of splendor or reputation. She never said the right thing at just the right time; never wore the right clothes or saw the right movies, not because she couldnt, but because she simply didnt care to. And then there was the pain of trying to conform that stung worse than the act itself. She used to wear vintage cotton poodle skirts to school and have dreams, real dreams; dreams of becoming the next president, changing the way society worked, being a singer, a writer, an actress. Instead, through years and maturity she has lost her dreams, thrown away her costumes, erased her scribbled thoughts, blocked out her desires. Ive learned to hide the pictures of that girl, the writings and stories she wrote. But as hard as I try I can never escape that girl, or the fiery passions she has instilled in me. I always measure my actions to what she would have wanted, what she would have thought. Would I be a disappointment a pride, would she even recognize me? Would she cry if she heard the words Ive spoken, the things Ive done in spite of her. I can never escape her beautiful brown eyes of years past that can see things in myself I refuse to acknowledge, show me again the innocence of youth, and a deeper part within me. Sometimes I myself have to gaze carefully to see the resemblances. Now, 15 my hair is no longer a tangled mess of frizz and knots. My face is no longer marked by bleeding splots or unflattering blotches, but I still wince whenever I see my own reflection in the mirror. I still never let you see my skin clear of makeup because Im afraid that through the mask you might recognize that girl. I always tremble when I fear you disapprove of me. And sometimes when I look into your eyes, even though you cant tell, I remember what you used to say to that girl and all the raw tears that washed out her feelings.

GET YOUR PHILOSOPHY FROM A BUMPER STICKER
I get this delicious feeling inside, this refreshingly wonderful feeling, as I hear that delightful grumble of my friend Zoë’s bottle green Toyota Station Wagon, the musty, humid stench of summer swaddling my nostrils, as we begin the lengthy meandering web of black paved highway, isolated gray gravel back roads, continuous arrays of fading leafy crops, inconsequential population signs, and alice blue skies splattered with cosmic latte and ivory wisps of cirrus clouds. Each angle branched oak invites me to explore my surroundings, the tufted lavender thistles, the orange-red trumpet creepers, the heliotrope stalks of yellow rocket. All are unknown, each baking leaf of grass a new acquaintance for me to greet. This is the nature, the essence, the concentrated flavor of the journey. This is the feeling of travel. A cloud of chalklike cherty limestone engulfs the car as we trek the last few miles down the rock-strewn, snaky path. We have reached our destination at last…or is it the beginning?…the beginning of a new pattern of daily routines, odors, beliefs. It is the beginning of overcoming uncertainties, risking embarrassments, exposing my pale skin to the mercy of the scorching sun. It is the beginning of sunburns, crimson handprints of the devil, slapping my raw skin for my impudence and indolence, for not taking the thirty second effort to slather on sunscreen. Yes, it’s the beginning of lessons, even after the final tone of the school’s schedule has sounded. It is the beginning of divulging the past, unfolded, hiding at the bottom of my navy travel bag. A two week’s supply of skimpy cotton shirts and dull scuffed jeans are strewn about the aged wooden chocolate pine floor. A pair of unsullied foam flip-flops rest on the splintered rotting dock overlooking the elusiveness of the glassy lake surface. There is magnificence in all this, the escape from the bedlam, the disarray of our everyday lives we have become so accustomed to, eluding us to the fact that with each new locale comes its own set of mayhems, its own disorders. Beneath these seemingly peaceful waters are jagged rocks. Amongst the lush pastel wildflowers lurk nettles and ivies. Yet still, the change of tempo and scenery rejuvenate my passion in life, my assurance in possibilities. Watching the same moon, the same milky-way, the same sunrise, but from a fresh perspective…I become conscious of my coexistence with the universe, the moment, the now. With every flutter of an eyelid, a new world is being created around me; with each breath I mold my surroundings. Existence is so much more than impressions, appearances, and lifestyles. Existing is being able to feel the force of chill lake water press against you, as you dive in, not knowing the depth of it, unprepared for the unexpected. Existing is getting that exhilarating feeling of running barefoot over searing gravel just because. Existing just is. It’s no more, no less…and somehow hundreds of miles from home, merely existing becomes enough. Expectations become latent memories of the past as I exceed my own, exposing my face, unmasked by make-up to the outside world---well not quite. I doubt the june bugs and bullfrogs are greatly astounded by this emotional accomplishment, but it matters to me. I, who am ashamed of my own appearance, ashamed of my imperfections, am able to view my reflection in the lake without shutting my eyes. I, who am constantly guarded about my true sentiments, share with complete strangers the core of my naked spirit and become more whole because of it, for home isn’t always where the heart is; sometimes our home is within our hearts, the doors and windows barred because of our insecurities. But the magic and beauty of travel is in unbolting these doors to allow visitors in, opening the windows to let drift in new breezes of kindness, experience, love. Vigorously repacking my effects in preparation for the long car-ride home, I take with me more than these tangible possessions. Awaiting me, buried beneath the soiled sandals, tattered grass-stained jeans, laze the aroma of crisp lemongrass, the downy seeds of a dandelion delicately gripping a holed nylon sock ,a stray leonine hair shed by Zoë’s asinine border collie, and the reminiscences of a summer spent among the mango tinted sun—the reminisces of a journey to a cabin, a culture, a calm—the reminisces of a voyage I retake again and again, a voyage calling me home.

LIFE REFLECTIONS IN BROKEN GLASS ON CONCRETE
So fucked up so incomplete reverberating silence seeps beneath my skin intangent sins deadends caressing tangled whims grace by god I'm contemplating death debating life another strife and I can't sleep at night just had to write the motives for this song I don't belong just carry on you're all alone the whiskey's gone brown bottles glass so delicate the concrete's crushed it all to bits airplane paths trace cyan skies fading to beige the neon signs vibrant visible by night are dormant dead by soft sunlight crowds clap in unison despite my absense abstinence I sigh I'm overwhelmed the clouds they swell in dreams I delve if I'm alone no one can tell

BLUSH
Blush: 1.intr. v.To become red in the face, especially from modesty, embarrassment, or shame; flush. 2.n. A glance, look, or view: thought the painting genuine at first blush. God, those eyes. How I recollected them. They had served as a guilty entertainment, secretly, projecting on my mind. *I felt dirty when I thought about it, kind of like a prepubescent teen boy, that has just discovered the joys of masturbation.*. I had forgotten his touch, the faint cigarette scent on his faded black cotton sweatshirt, and how it had felt when pressed against my skin, those grey chill days of April, the coarse onyx fabric of his jeans--I swear it was the same pair every time. In truth, I had forgotten very little, but it was his eyes that haunted me. I saw them everywhere and on every part of me; greeting me, playfully teasing me, questioning me, and then there was the one look that disturbed, pleased, and enticed me the most--the look he gave me when he... It was a look I doubt I will ever espy again, curiously feverish chocolate eyes, examining, absorbing, and then occasionally connecting with mine, as if reassuring the stability of the contigence. He didn't need to reassure, I would have let him done anything to me, with only a blush from him as my reward. The awkwardness of the entire situation at present and the pathetically amusing irony of the encounter made for a twist of fate knotted with cruel humor and the joke was on me. Unprepared and praying for a sole extemporaneous, unequivocal statement to remedy reality, unsettled by the sudden collision, I was forced to accept the uncongenial truth, his truth. He was right. I couldn't escape him.

FILAMENTS OF FRIENDSHIP
painful passages of time spent in suspense like tangled thread limp,dead but so close to breaking tying knots in my heart decisively unkinking strands pulling apart these delicate fibers tugging once more but its too late it's already unraveled time undone

SILENCE SMUDGED IN LEAD
Do you ever feel like you're an out of place accessory--like a plaid sweater in an overly posh trendy store, shoved between the fuisha sequined tube tops and last month's "hot" brand name flare jeans? If you have then you will know precisely how I feel. If I attempted it, I suppose I could say something of intelligence, however it would be an obvious lie to my character and all efforts to relate would inevitably end disastrously. I'm the shy one, the quiet one. I hang out in groups silently, witnessing the events around me fold and unfold, clandestinely amusing myself with sarcastic, cynical commentary as the maw of the crowd vibrates around me. I am alone. I am iridescent in my torpor state. Absentmindedly nibbling at my lead encrusted Indian red eraser, I observe, but don't participate. I can't. The complexity of my reclusiveness is indescribable, unavoidable, and intolerable. If I shut my eyes and clench my teeth over the metallic tasted under my glossed lips I can become non-existent. I've had this social paranoia all my life. It kicks in at random times, making me a nervous wreck. I stare at the decaying fading tan brick wall in front of me, graffitied with countless names, slanders, and curses. I smile as I notice the red heart spray-painted heart, scribbling a few choice words and phrases to describe the euphoria of love. It's pathetic, me, relating to the world around me, but not being relative to it. I want to feel love, not just describe it. I want to speak and change more than the blackness on a scrap of paper. I want to.desireslost in a sea oftoo late. It's too late to open my mouth, to voice an opinion, too late to make the perfect impression. The moments, broken shards of my life, washed away by my insecurities, are irreplaceable. I'm drenching my existence in suppressions and metaphors. I'm slowly submersing myself in silence. I am. Am I still here? No one else seems to think so, my presence overlooked. They didnt even say hello. I'm being selfish. I dont want or deserve their attention. It's too late to play in the game of conversation. I've already overstayed my welcome. I re-shut my eyelids and I'm lost in memory. I'm alone on top of the parking garage, back against the sunbathed asphalt, limbs spread, lying there, in solitude, at one with the clouds, no one to impress but God, no one to speak to but the heavens, no one to hide from but myself. Swallowing mucus and tears and compunctions, I exit the scene, as unobtrusively as I entered it, the only trace of my presence, a leaf of paper I had to leave. Kneading my hands together and biting the right corner of my bottom lip, staining the tips of my teeth with ruby lipstick, I glance back at the page. Will anyone ever read it? Maybe someone as alone as I am will find the page, contemplating my existence. Maybe I will remain a thought etched in someones memory, or merely a scrap of paper lost in the abyss of time, words of life eradicated by surroundings, my struggle forever embodied through latent smudges of lead.

THE BREAKFAST CLUB

Written and directed by
John Hughes

ALLISON I'll do anything sexual, I don't need a million dollars to do it either... CLAIRE You're lying... ALLISON I already have...I've done just about everything there is except a few things that are illegal...I'm a nymphomaniac! Claire rolls her eyes. CLAIRE Lie... BRIAN Are your parents aware of this? ALLISON The only person I told was my shrink... ANDREW And what'd he do when you told him? ALLISON He nailed me... CLAIRE Very nice... ALLISON I don't think that from a legal standpoint what he did can be construed as rape since I paid him. CLAIRE He's an adult! Allison is relishing this attention. ALLISON Yeah...he&..39;s married too! Claire notes her disgust. CLAIRE Do you have any idea how completely gross that is? ALLISON Well, the first few times... CLAIRE First few times? You mean he did it more than once? ALLISON Sure... CLAIRE Are you crazy? BRIAN Obviously she's crazy if she's screwing her shrink... ALLISON (to Claire) Have you ever done it? CLAIRE I don't even have a psychiatrist... ALLISON Have you ever done it with a normal person? CLAIRE Now, didn&..39;t we already cover this? BENDER You never answered the question... CLAIRE Look, I'm not gonna discuss my private life with total strangers. ALLISON It's kind of a double-edged sword, isn't it? CLAIRE A what? ALLISON Well, if you say you haven't... you're a prude. If you say you have...you're a slut! It's a trap. You want to but you can't but when you do you wish you didn't, right? CLAIRE Wrong... ALLISON Or, are you a tease? ANDREW She's a tease... CLAIRE Oh why don't you just forget it... ANDREW You're a tease and you know it, all girls are teases! BENDER (to Andrew) She's only a tease if what she does gets you hot... CLAIRE I don't do anything! ALLISON That's why you're a tease... CLAIRE Okay, lemme ask you a few questions. Allison is suddenly defensive. ALLISON I've already told you everything! CLAIRE No! Doesn't it bother you to sleep around without being in love. I mean don't you want any respect? ALLISON I don't screw to get respect...That's the difference between you and me... CLAIRE Not the only difference, I hope. BENDER Face it, you're a tease. CLAIRE I'm not a tease! BENDER Sure you are! You said it yourself sex is a weapon, you use it to get respect! CLAIRE No, I never said that, she twisted my words around. BENDER Oh then what do you use it for? CLAIRE I don't use it period! Claire is on the verge of tears. BENDER Oh, are you medically frigid or is it psychological? CLAIRE I didn't mean it that way! You guys are putting words into my mouth! BENDER Well if you'd just answer the question... BRIAN Why don't you just answer the question? ANDREW Be honest... BENDER No big deal... BRIAN Yeah, answer it! ANDREW Answer the question, Claire! BENDER Talk to us! ANDREW & BRIAN Come on, answer the question! BENDER It's easy, it's only one question! Claire silences all of them by screaming. CLAIRE (screaming) No! I never did it! Silence for two beats. ALLISON I never did it either, I'm not a nymphomaniac...I'm a compulsive liar... CLAIRE You are such a bitch! You did that on purpose just to fuck me over! ALLISON I would do it though...If you love someone it's okay... CLAIRE I can't believe you, you're so weird. You don't say anything all day and then when you open your mouth...you unload all these tremendous lies all over me! ANDREW You're just pissed off because she got you to admit something you didn't want to admit to... CLAIRE Okay, fine, but that doesn't make it any less bizarre... ANDREW What's bizarre? I mean we're all pretty bizarre! Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all.