END OF THE WORLD | Nearing the apocalypse with chicken wine...

[Thanks to NASA/media.techeblog.com]

I've been railing on about the end of the world all year, perhaps, but just lately it's been feeling inevitable. Ha! Not really, but it's December 18th, and with a mere four days until Earth's supposed finale, I've been questioning everyone.

"So what IF it were really, positively, the end of the world on the 21st—what would you do, starting now?"

The responses have been both sad and funny, all of which have made me think a lot. Of course, peeps are asking in response, almost sarcastically: "What about you?" To which, I have yet to respond. In lieu of my blogging endeavors, I thought I'd make a post about it. And then ask you lovely people.

If I'm scaring you, or you've been fearing this on your own accord, let NASA assuage your worries.

The first thing I'd do if I got the news rightthissecond? Leave work and never come back. I'd snatch up the few necessary items of importance that I have hangin' about in my office: a photo of Jake, my cardboard robot chicken,  my favorite Papermate Flair Razor Point pen, the Instagram-ed/printed/laminated photo of my friend D and I in Cape Cod [that always makes me smile], and my favorite rock [long story.]

From here, I'd get gas and a coffee drink at Sheetz—and probably a meatball MTO [an indulgence that I never indulge in!]  (: Then, I'd hit up the liquor store and buy seven bottles of chicken wine, Rex Goliath Cabernet Sauvignon, and scavenge the Youngwood area for cocaine or crack or speed or meth. C'mon. Who wants to sleep right before the end of the world? Not this girl. Lots to do.

First thing is first: I've got some people to smooch. I think there is a running list of like 10 (really, there are more, but don't judge me!); honestly though, I'd settle for hitting up the top 5. With only a few days at my disposal, I'd try to accomplish this in one day. I'd waste one bottle of wine on this, driving double-fisted: water and wine. How would I approach the smooching situation? I'd probably just do it. If I felt the need for words, it might be something like: "C'mon, all I've ever wanted to do is kiss you. Let me."

Romantic, huh? What can I say?

It sort of reminds me of that moment in Grease 2: "Let's do it for our country." Haha... yep.

HAHA priceless face on this chick... [thank stagevu.com]

Once all smooching happened (or didn't), depending on my locale, I'd probably head home and say my farewells to Matt and the cat, pack up some clothing items, my computer, my writings and showering things. I'll be on the road for the rest of the "end." While still in the Greensburg area, I'd try to find my other friends, you know? But I mean, this all wagers on what everyone ELSE is doing, obvi. Kelly, Amy, Adam, all thems. [:

Next stop: I'd visit my mother. On my way to her house, though, I'd buy a delicious chocolate-y cheesecake and some serious fast food. Also, I'd swing by downtown New Ken and score some tree. There is reason for this. My mom used to be a hippie, so I think I'd want to smoke with her. More for her than my reasons. She might need some to calm her down, as it will be a pretty stressful time for everyone, I bet. We'd smoke, eat and pop open my second bottle of chicken wine. I'd spend a day with her and the cat, and then leave her with the remainder of tree and a bottle of chicken wine.

Three bottles down, four more to go.

Rex Goliath—the 47 lb. rooster! LOVE!

Ok, off I go. I think, next, I'd visit my aunt, my step mom, Wendy, Shawna, Bobi... the historical peeps in my life. I'd have to. Whether I see them often or not, they are some of the most important people to me. Does that make sense? I'd at least give them a squeeze, a smooch on the forehead and just tell them I love them and thank you. I think Wendy and I could drink a bottle of my chicken wine together and have a blast: reminiscence and be goofy. We'd laugh a lot, I bet. Sometimes I'm sure that she and I have a similar humor. Perhaps it rubbed off in adolescence?

Next, I'd head across the river to see my sister, brother and nephew. I'd ask him to color with me. I'd hope we could color for a good while and just hang together. All of us. I'd ask him a lot of questions, like: "What do you want to be when you grow up? And: "What do you think you'll look like when you're 20?" This is kind of sad, and I'd probably cry. He may or may not understand that. Only kiddos like him are a reason to be sad for the apocalypse. I might ask him the meaning to life, too. I'm thinking, if there is a solid answer to this, only a kid would know. Not a grown up. We're jaded and analytical and overwhelmed by the mundanity of day-to-day existence. I think kids are smarter than we are for this reason. Honest and typically untainted.

THEN! With three more bottles to go [counting down and mapping by wine, apparently] I'd route my way to McMurray/Canonsburg to visit with the surrogate family. I'd squeeze L [a.k.a. "the Peanut"] so hard she'd poop her pants. Ha. But we'd color, for sure. Maybe cut up some paint swatches and get crafty. I'd get her a Starbucks Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate and some gummies. If I've learned nothing else, it's that gummies, crafts and kiddos are the cure for just about any kind of sadness you can experience. True life. ["Real talk," as Ernie would say.]

While there, I'd hug M, wrestle with Big D, then enjoy my third-to-last bottle of chicken wine with... Miss D. We could chain smoke cigs, laugh about goofy things and hopefully get to peep the stars/sky/moon for a bit. And the Koi! Even after our hang sesh, she could go be with her family and I'd probably tent-up on the front patio and hang with the fishes for an eve, getting to see the big clear sky. That place is like a vacation sometimes. No worries. All beauty. Nothing is mine to do or fix or clean or stress over. You know? Except when I break shit... ugh.

I assume at this point, with only two bottles of chicken wine left, that there isn't much time either. I would try to find Ernie. I'd like to spend my last moments with her, if I could. I think she gets it, and I know, she is fearless. But she'll probably have her own agenda. If she is too caught up, I'd probably just go to the ocean. Alone. If not with Ernie, I'd want to be alone. And wait for the end kissing to the beautiful sky and ocean with my last two bottles, coked-out, reading a book or something—also writing and doodling. Yep.

I must add, I'd be praying that this apocalypse would have NOTHING TO DO WITH zombies. Ugh, especially the fast ones like on 28 Days Later. I mean, it's called the "Rage Virus." Enough!

UH... HELL NAW. [Thanks to 28dayslater.wikia.com]

So there it is. Personal and semi-compact: my end of days. But here are some of the more comical and/or important responses I've heard thus far:

"I'd let out all the dogs in the shelter down my street."

"I'd make some calls, apologize to a few people for some shitty things I did."

"I'd unlock all of my guns."

"I'd lie in bed with my husband, the dog between us. That's it!"

"I'd curl up in a ball and cry."

"Drugs. A lot."

HA! Some of these are stellar. But...
Now, it's your turn! How about you? Tell me things!
mt

Christmas Rant | Retail Woes, Ugly Blow-Ups & My Grinch-Sized Heart

I want to hurt people.

No…let me rephrase that. I’m not a violent person. Really. It’s probably hard to believe I could hurt anyone. Just look at me. I’m a four-eyed, sweater-clad twenty-something with a graduate degree in poetry. So let me put it this way: I want to hurl shopping carts at people—but not really hit them, just come close enough to send them running in the other direction, preferably out of the shopping mall all together and back to their cozy suburban dwellings.

It’s the time of year that gets me. I become loudly disgusted in humanity: prone to fits of Tourette’s-like cursing, erratic driving, and sometimes when no one is listening, I revise the words of popular Christmas tunes to sing about murder, prostitution and all-around mayhem. It’s cool. I would never do anything about it. It’s just a thought.

I know. I realize it’s a hell of a time to be ornery, especially for someone like me—noted to have an almost tragic “hippie optimism” and a deeply rooted humanitarian-style set of personal politics. But let me explain.

It isn’t the grinning array of elves and Santa knick-knacks, nor the multi-colored strands of lights outlining every house. In fact, I enjoy the décor. Well, all but those obnoxious ballooning blow-ups strangling the lawns of Greensburg. Talk about overdoing it. I thought lawn balls were lame. But now we’ve got puffy Snoopys and snowmen, carousels and over-fed Santas… Look, people, chances are if you’re a suburbanite like me, your green space is already limited to a patch of scraggly yellowing grass, maybe a shrub or two, but most certainly not enough room for a life-size team of googly-eyed reindeer. Just sayin’.

Thanks to the NYTimes.com for this pic.

I’m still trying to figure out the whys of this. What happened to me? What happened to my Christmas?

Retail is the most obvious scapegoat. I like to blame the years spent holed up in a 12 by 12 room, on-camera, counting money in a grocery store’s cash office. For years, it was nothing but me and seven endless hours of looped Christmas music (a day) counting someone else’s dirty money. I only ever emerged when called upon to handle extra-bitchy customers. More than likely, our system was declining their gift cards, or they wanted to return their holiday turkeys and hams before they had a chance to enjoy them. Hey, customers can be smart. They found them for two-cents-per-pound cheaper at Shop ‘N Save or Community Market. And I’m supposed to give a shit. Because now, I have to throw these things away. Yes, for public safety reasons, Giant Eagle automatically assumes all perishable returns—no matter how well they are sealed—were injected with cyanide or simply left to grow bacteria in your backseat for days.

“But wait,” a customer might point out, as I’m disposing of their 20-pound mistake. “Are you sure you have to pitch it? I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it. I just found it cheaper somewhere else.”

And yeah, this sounds heroic like maybe they even care that people are starving right next door, but even after I tell them “no-can-do,” they’d pocket their refund like the Scrooges they are and prance out of the door proudly, mentally patting themselves on the back for their two-dollar savings.

Replacements for "My kid made the Honor Roll!" bumper stickers (geekologie.com)

So I’m bitter, maybe. But anyone who has ever worked retail knows that people only grow nastier during
this joyous season. Good will toward men—my ass. It’s probably the stress of shopping, organizing, sending out horrifically worded Christmas letters bragging about their children making honor roll. Thank god my mom never sent out those letters. The most she’d have to brag about would be my growing pile of melodramatic poetry scribbled on notebook paper or how this school year, I wore something other than boy’s JNCO jeans and skater shoes.


But the closer it comes to Christmas, I do lighten up. I swear. It’s just the initial onslaught of a premature-Christmas that gets me: the over-eager shoppers barreling through aisles without regard to the human race, the limited parking spaces, the garbled holiday tunes playing over every store radio.

This year, it was November 7th when I got my first taste of it. NOVEMBER SEVENTH, people. C’mon. I hadn’t even finished my Trick-or-Treater-candy overage and already I’m bumping elbows with crowds of puffy-coated holiday shoppers fighting over gaudy, discounted tree ornaments, and all to Dolly Parton’s rendition of “Jingle Bells.”

I was just trying to buy some damn acrylic paint at Michael’s.

Christmas threw up... (Thanks alleewillis.com)

But it’s got to be more than my seven-plus years working at a grocery store. I think it’s the hypocrisy of it all. We’re supposed to be celebrating a holiday that imposes good values: kindness, generosity, and an appreciation of what we have, the simple things. Yet, there’s nowhere I can turn without catching a stark glimpse of Christmas—the twiggy wreaths hung on doors shiny with metallic paint and stuck Styrofoam birds; the phony LED icicle lights hung from eaves, glowing an aura so fake I can describe it no other way but “death”; and let’s not forget the screaming children everywhere, pointing and crying for the latest video game or Lego’s set.

Maybe more than all this, I’m pissy with myself. Because at some point, we all realize the sham. It’s not hard to sit there and point out the materialism, the chaos, the wide-eyed consumers scurrying for more coupons and sales flyers, but I do it too. Sure, I make many of my gifts, put more thought into them than I should, really. I refuse to buy gift cards and spend too much time trying to find the perfect gift. My idea of a Christmas horror story would be getting a gift from someone I didn’t anticipate and leaving them empty handed. How sad is that?

I don’t know what happened to Christmas for me or anybody
 else. It doesn’t really matter, I guess. Whether I want it to or not, it’ll come every year. And like the Grinch, I’ll stand at the edge of my mountaintop, or more aptly—my soapbox, swearing to myself, a little black heart beating inside my chest. I’ll watch the world frantically preparing for the season and think of hurling those shopping carts.


But truly, I’d like to believe that, like that same Dr. Seuss tale, if all the decorations and presents and roast beast were to disappear, the world would still be singing. But I’m not going to jail for grand larceny to find out.

*Christmas Rant from my reading at Awesome Books on December 8th, 2012.

This all said... Merry Christmas, everyone! [:
mt

Auto-Bio | Your Homework

One of the most difficult feats I have yet to really master as a writer is the bio. For most journals, both online and in-print, it's typical to be asked for a "brief bio." Shit, even if you aren't a writer, how many social media sites these days are speckled with an array of text boxes that require some condensed verbiage of yourself. Likes and dislikes. Authors. Movies. Books. Music. Television show. Ice cream flavor. C'mon. Technology has not only allowed us to connect with the world, but in a way, define ourselves for the world. In words. Scary!

And so when people scoff at writing, in particular, English Composition, I have to wonder what in the hell world they live in. The Internet, smartphones included, has made life more interesting, certainly, and to the surprise of many: language both more important and somehow... it's gotten worse, skill-wise?

I'm sure it began with the short snippets of text messages. U no txts r quick n make room 4 errors & short sloppy spellings 2. But when did we become so lax as to allow for this? I mean, I'm not sure I could even consider dating someone with a horrible vocabulary, much less a lazy language of text-speak and misspellings. LMAO! (;

I'm off topic.

What I wanted to speak to is the laborious task of summing up oneself. When was the last time you had to do this? Have you ever? What did you say?

For writing submissions, it's easier. Really, any specialized venue in this way, at least, gives you some focus. But, for example, what does one do with the small info box at the top of his or her Pinterest page? Twitter? Facebook? I usually go about it randomly. Whatever pops into my head—which usually ends up being completely inane, you know?

My homework for you, those who dare attempt: write a general bio for yourself. Three to four sentences. Pretend your audience needs to really KNOW you. Not only is this a study in using language in a concise way, but really picking yourself apart to extract what you think it most important about you.

I want to know you! Go!

mt

POEM-A-DAY | letting go

Lunch break poem for today's prompt: a "gathering" AND a "letting go" poem. Here's a little guy...

LETTING GO
Liftoff; loose change drops
in copper [remains]; last squeeze to
splatter gritty brown mustard from
its plastic container; shrug of each
November elm on its hilltop steed
[dismount]; lollipop crunch
between raspberry-blue teeth [relief];
deliberate as the delete key without
rerun or epiphany; your dull ghosts in
a razor-rip of my bones in this
bed; [pillowcased] your quiet promises
asleep with iron eyelids; a sneeze;
not soft enough.

streaky-sky drive into work this AM. [Instagram]

Lions, Warriors & Poetry—OH MY!

I received this in my inbox today (via Poets.org) and promptly made me pee my pants.

Iscariot Rising Sutra
by Ben Kopel

Someone went away / but once they were here / so I don't die / instead I see a movie / the one about a boy / falling into / the green screen / sky lit up / phosphorescent / spiders and chandeliers / like that one time / near an island / out on the lash / I fell out of you / you laughed / your eyes closed / spread wide / standing open / I asked you / who are you / pretending I am / I did / you said / I'm pretending you / are you / drawing a jacked up heart / across my hand / in every airport / rocking this depression electric / I dry swallow / a video pill / we smoke glitter / until my suit sounds good / I long to be alive / when the world ends / so in love / with someone / I end up / ending everyone


Did you know that you can sign up to get a poem a day in your e-mail? Well. Let me tell you—somedays it hits me just right. Shiiiiittttt.

Still toiling with the Poem-A-Day November Challenge via Writer's Digest, headed up by Mr. Robert Lee Brewer and his blog. I'll finally share one with ye peeps. Makes me nervous—sharing in such an open forum—but mostly it makes me laugh. Can one get more dramatic than an Instagram-ed photo of a poem? I believe Shakespeare would find this hilarious, himself.

Thanks to Instagram for this one.

Look at him get that guy! (mbostrom2/wordpress)

I think it's great, also, that I can find a way to turn a "veteran poem" into something celestial. Always. And Orion seems to make many appearances in my work. In my pics I found online, he's killing a lion. Coincidence? It just so happens I'm a Leo. RAWR!

Are you into mythology? Personally, I never got into it as a young one; in fact, I believe it was my 12th-grade English teach who had to jam mythology down my throat. Well, then, I just coughed it back up. Ick. She was waaayyyy into it, too. Sorry, Ms. Schank. I didn't understand before. Now, as it relates to the sky, I love it. I love making a connection between myth/sky/underlying meaning. Hm. Big metaphor, yo. It's a beautiful thing.


On that note, time to go finish up a few things and lunch. In my car. Grading papers, I'm sure. Yay!

Happy Thursday, y'all!
mt

Drive-Home Text to D from 11.12.12

TEXT: Some days I wonder what would happen if I just powered down. Off. Good grief. I have so much to do. So much at stake. It scares the shit out of me. And every day I wake up feeling 900 lbs. and I'm just skating by. Like jussst making it. God, one misstep and this tightrope walker is going down. Everyone marvels at my accomplishments. But. With a price. Trust me. I have dreams. Big dreams. And I think it'll be the death of me.

Maybe that's what a quasar is. Maybe that's how they wake up in the morning too. Trying to live up to their own brightness. But I'm not a quasar, miss. I'm just a girl with too many things and not enough time. Just want to sleep for like 10 years. That's a lot of logs!

LIGHTS OUT ON GBG | "weirdo, FTW"

It's not every day, or any day actually, that this girl goes to the bar. Um... The "Errybody-Let's-Get-Fucked-Up" gene must've skipped this pool. Trust me. I've got enough bad habits. I enjoy being social and gabbing and laughing and getting rowdy; it's just... I prefer it over a latte. Besides a drunk chicken gets herself into a lot of unsavory situations: reckless flirting, a false sense of invincibility, vomiting and [often by the end of the night] end-of-the-world weeping. And for the love of Titan, keep me away from my phone.

All this said, I decided it was time to shelf my need for productivity and join some friends at a bar downtown. My new pad allows me the ability to walk and so I thought I'd stroll down. A lot farther than I figured, but I'm happy for that little feature on my iPhone's map app that allows one to route by foot.

So as I'm making the turn off of Main Street and toward Harry's, an ambulance whizzes by and I make my decent into... complete and utter darkness? No street lamps. No neon bar signs. Even the stoplight is blacked out, hanging from its rope like three dark eyes glaring an omen. I stopped in the sidewalk and waited. Listened. From the unlit guts of another local bar came an outpouring of stumbling 30- somethings.

I hesitated in midst of all this, of course, but ambled down the hill towards Harry's anyway. What the hell. It was definitely more exciting than what I'd been doing previously. When I got there, a few loud drunkards were rolling out the door, beer-in-hand, apparently just as excited. But guess what?! There was light inside the joint!

It was my first time at Harry's and I must say, probably one of the most memorable bar experiences. Maybe it was because I decided NOT to drink after all [sooooo lame, I know.] But I really believe it was the setting: the bar lined with tiny candles, the shadows of people laughing an harassing one another, the group of new and old friends that I hadn't seen for quite a while, and even my own thing I had going on—doodling by a wee flame, taking it all in.

The owner, in his attempt to razz just about every warm body at the bar, came over a few times to shine his flashlight on my doodle, snatch it from me and then proceed to show it off to everyone at the bar. But, at some point, this sweet, somewhat gruff gesture was followed by a "Damn, weirdo drawing pictures at the bar," at which I cringed and got a little blue for a moment. But then smiled because I knew he was just being a jackass, but also because I was having fun and I didn't give a shit, you know?

I'll be the first to admit that I'm strange, and sometimes it makes me feel 900x more alone. But most times it's ok. And I realize the best strange is being strange with strangers. Ha. Make sense? Maybe it doesn't. But I had a good night, even if the power never came back on. Probably because of it.

mt

To the moon. One shot.

The poem-a-day gig is leaving its indent on my days. In fact, I spend much of my time determining a suitable time slot for versing it up. Sunday: between grabbing dinner and visiting with a friend [Walking Dead time]—I pulled into a Baptist church lot to pull a poem from me. Felt odd. Sadly it didn't end there. I spent another hour later trying to hone it in, just touching noses with the midnight "deadline."

Alas, a poem is born. I'll share one soon. The prompts have been pretty accessible. I'm sure something, at least, will come of it. (:

I thought, in spirit of my doodle madness, I'd share some squiggles with you all. And namely, there is this master toy-maker (aka A-Fred) to whom I've been promising a post!

Not much on this gadget, but...

<3
mt

A little melodramatic of a muse...

So I guess the bottom line is this. Being single has it's perks, right? Freedoms and sense of individuality, which honestly I kept through most of my relationships. [Best of both worlds, I guess.]

But I've tired very quickly of the generalizations/imposed beliefs of others on the matter:

1. "Yay! No, this is awesome. You're free to explore and be free and meet people and you need to look at this as a great thing! Go have fun and party it up!"

2. "So... you are the type of girl who constantly needs to be in a relationship?"

Neither of these are very true for me. It is complex, but simple. And maybe it's because the cold is closing in on us, the holidays and all... but it's on nights like this that I'm driving home from a long day—both working at the office and teaching—to absolutely nothing and no one, that I think: "Why?" What am I necessarily doing all of it for? I mean, I was never the type to buy the notion that we "exist because we exist": a means as well as an end.

I struggle, both with the logistics of life (as we all do, at times) and my own brain (which is a much more personal kind of conflict) on a daily basis. And at times, it's exhausting and I almost need a reason to push.

Now don't get your panties in a bunch. I realize this seems a little melodramatic, and maybe for some, it is; however, this is very real to me, as this was an issue long before now (family and such.) I guess it's just that at 27, while young, I still feel as if I should have found my reason by now.

And this was quite the spillage of guts, but the point? For you people. Please don't ever feel unnecessary. And also, do not take for granted all the things that you have and that hold you up. Maybe you don't think you "need it"—maybe you don't. Either way, I know that alone can be exhilarating for many reasons, but someday you might need a person, maybe even one you never thought you would. So appreciate now.

It's so easy to realize that we all occupy our own sort of hell, at times. But it's just as easy to skip over, too. Human compassion, empathy, even opening oneself to embrace that type of vulnerability—this is living, man. And there is no simple lesson in this. But a complex one: Love. Love hard. Love with all of your guts.

I'm not trying to be pessimistic here, but unconditional love isn't something you find often. Trust me on this one. Some peeps may be hard to love, give you more problems than might seem worth it—but don't just give up.

Don't give up on people, I guess. Bottom line. There. (:

Night musings. Don't mind me.
Feeling a bit bummed. Damn season!
A snap may help it...

mt

Poem-A-Day Contest and Sandy

Thanks to The Washington Post [online 10.25.12]

 Well, if you haven't been touched by Miss Hurricane Sandy, a.k.a "Frankenstorm," perhaps you have already begun a deep hibernation. That or you're not an easterner. Either way, you've heard of it, right? Right. Because the news made it out to be apocalyptic, fetching a few items from the grocery store became its own sort of apocalypse. I'm still pouting because they were out of both my milk and creamer. And god forbid if we needed toilet paper at the time.

While I understand the cause for concern near the Atlantic, the rest of us, in-landers, experienced what was another not-so-uncommon rainy windy cold front. I suppose it could've been worse; however, the need for over-the-top adjectives seemed to insight more panic than necessary. OMGSANDYYY GO BUY ALL THE THINGS!!!11

At least we're survivors. Yes. So. My heart goes out to those coastal folk, because those are the peeps who need the worry and toilet paper and water. If you have extra, send something or donate! Better yet, hit up your local Blood Bank. They could use the pints!

So, beginning tomorrow, I'm taking on a poem-a-day challenge for the whole month of November. Interested? Check out the deets!

If nothing else, I hope to get something from the experience. Chapbook irrelevant. I've always wanted to do the whole novel in a month thing, but this seems more my style!

Happy haunting boogers!!!
mt

Saving the bright.

Overwhelmed with school (grading, lessons, research), I feel like fall is slipping through my fingers so quickly. October is soon pushing into November and before you know it—winter and then... (dun, dun, dun) 2013. This is, of course, if the world doesn't end. Funny, I heard more about that at the beginning of the year than now; though, I'm sure December will bring a new wave of media induced fright. In recognition of this supposed apocalypse, I have a long document o poems titled, "End of the World Poem." To a poet, I think, it's always te end of the world, some world, anyhow.

Already I've been reflecting on the year and mapping out some 2013 goals no don't feel I accomplished as much as last year, 2011. I mean, maybe I have. It just doesn't feel as positive. I'm in a whole different place, and upon an unfortunate stumble with my previous journal, I realize there is a girl I don't remember.

Maybe it's too early to begin reflecting, but do you ever feel that way? That you've changed so much that it is almost scary? Bad? Good?

See, if you haven't noticed, I tend to let things overtake me. Fixate on projects or people or places or, hell, sometimes even cereal. I just keep doin' it until I overdo it. I can't be the only one. But somehow I get to a place where it's too much, and maybe I'm slow, but I get it. Then, I have to figure out how to move on. Maybe today, I'll buy Cheerios instead, you know?

And on that note, I think it's time to share a poem, since it's been a while. Something fall-worthy. This guy got published, so I'll link him:

http://arseniclobster.magere.com/archive/issuetwentysix/260401.html

Be well, all. Share with me.
mt

Falling, fire trees & the Stank Bug Wars

Thanks to groweat.blogspot.com for the laugh.

So. It's here. Fall. And finally we're getting a taste of this glorious season—and I'm not just talking pumpkin lattes and pastries; though, I think I've hit up just about pumpkin-flavored treat this side of the Mississippi. The hillsides are lit up with every fiery shade imaginable, and for once, I'm glad to be a Pennsylvanian suburbanite. There aren't many times you'll hear me say that... Let's face it: unless you're glued to your careers or your families, most of us are forever planning our escape routes. It's like one of those emergency exit maps on the wall, you know? I'm sure we all have them taped up in our heads.

We bitch about the cold. We bitch about the heat. And if there is any middle ground, it's probably raining. So when fall rolls around and the colors pop, I think—just maybe—it's not so bad.

But then again, the Stank Bug Wars of 2012 make this cooler weather a plight all its own: a battle of wits, perhaps, to keep these resilient, alien-faced troops out of our homes, our cars and, as of the other day (for this girl), our beds. Listen, folks, it's no joke. These nasty warriors sport camouflage and a visible armor reminiscent of Zelda's shield. It's not bad enough they can fly, but these nasty bastards are running amok on stick legs with some ungodly self-adhesive properties, making them more than a bitch to remove from your clothes or your hair.


And if you think I'm being dramatic, I probably am. Bugs are an irrational fear of mine. Besides, according to Stink Bug Smackdown, they don't DIE. Stinkbugs just HIBERNATE. In your house, people! If you don't think this is a problem, then why don't you come take mine with you, huh?!

Oh, and something delicious to remind you about, as my friend just so sweetly reminded me (you know who you are!), there is a recipe for a stink-bug-seasoned bean dip. Yeah, apparently these lemon-headed creeps taste like cilantro! In Bruce Leshan's article on 9News Now, "If You Can't Beat 'Em, Eat 'Em," you can find a recipe for Stink Bug Tacos even.

Shit, people... get on this train. You eat the bugs. They leave me alone. Simple.

I drew a little cartoon here. Can I tell you? I actually gagged whilst drawing the "unders." Gross.

And I think that is about all for today. Up all night grading papers last night, spending my day working...still thinking about all the things I want to do. Such is life.

Hopefully you're enjoying what is left of the season... sans the stink bugs.

What's in a name?

Whether you jot it haphazardly in your day planner or use it to sign-off on important life-or-death-style documents, your name has a way of following you. Many of us dislike it. And why not? What a large part of our world, I feel, to be handed over some descriptor without choice. Imagine if it were a practical adjective or title that followed us our whole lives:

Oh, you know Rambunctious, she is always causing a riot!

or

Hey, Awkwardly Poetic, can you start speaking in a language I can understand?

I'm just saying.

If you are happy with your name, carry on. Read this in some sort of forced sympathy. I'll take it. Still, I wonder—if you do enjoy your name, are content at the very least, do you feel as though it may have shaped your persona at all? Stereotypes are heavy; as much as we all try to refute them, equate them to ignorance or some sort of class issue, they exist. Everywhere. And who doesn't hear the name of his or her ex and cringe. If you don't believe that names carry their own social stereotype, type your tag into Urban Dictionary and see what happens. For instance:

1.	Meghan	238 up, 96 down
	Meghan is a talented and outgoing individual and is very charismatic. But be careful; she's smarter than she seems! She's great at listening and even better at giving advise. Plus, a Meghan's always good for when you just need her to call someone a bitch. She's a beautiful person inside and out & is NOT afraid to call someone out if they're on her bad side. Meghans are generally brunet with cute freckles (Thanks to www.urbandictionary.com.)

Without editing this for spelling errors, I'd have to say this is pretty damn accurate. Down to the freckles. HA!

While the second definition reads:

2.	Meghan	2235 up, 1696 down
	Meghan is the name for a skanky slutty ho born to backwoods retard parents who cannot spell correctly. You know that girl Meghan that lives in the trailer park? She's a total skank. OMG, did you hear?! Meghan once got eiffel towered at a party! hahaha. i wish i were as great a whore as Meghan. it'd help if i had her tits. (Thanks to www.urbandictionary.com.)

Well, I rest my case. And let me also take this moment to assure you that I do not condone any of the hateful, politically incorrect vomit above, but am using it to make my point. Perhaps the author of Definition #2 should channel her explosive passive-aggressive Internet Rage into more thoughtful facets of life—like her own damned writing issues.

Anyhow, back to my bigger point. Some of us refuse our names socially, keeping it tucked in-secret between the tight folds of our wallets, while some go a step further and have it changed altogether. But then there is that middle ground—the one I'm toeing, for instance. I do not consider it awful enough to change; in fact, I don't even know to what I would change it! But I do know that it's hard for me to identify with it. And the older I get, the less it means something to me. (Unless, of course, you pair it with my middle name and loudly yell it at an unbearable octave. You'll certainly get my attention.)

Meghan is too girly, as it has always been for what I feel to be a pretty androgynous being. But now, it is young. Too young. More like that snap I have (somewhere) of a little girl in an Easter dress with white tights and a ribbon on her hat. Or the only snap I could find in a jiff (below.)

I was such an ugly shit. And probably cooking up some horrific plan for world domination. [;

So I'm asking—how many of you feel defined by your name? How many of you don't associate with it completely? Tell me your name stories! Now! Comment!

3:30 A.M. Happens

I feel like musing. Humor me?

In one vein, I feel like everything has changed—from where I live to how I live. While it may sound dramatic, a part of my world has shifted, and in turn, shifted everything that rested on top. Hilariously enough, "Little Earthquakes" (Tori Amos) popped up on "shuffle" the other day and it made me smile. Since when did anything every stand still for me? It's my life.

The ladies at work deserve a trophy or something. It seems nearly every week is another experience—for all of us! Picture it: me coming in each day wearing one of my many emotions like a glossy-eyed, ever-changing mood ring. A Horse of A Different Color! Ha! And the ladies... well, they know me: predictable in my spontaneity. Typical conundrum. Still, I hope in some way, I bring, at the very least, some excitement, something different. 

C'mon! I'm trying to be positive here. [:

I've been telling my friend Ernie that there are 10,000 me's. Real talk. But for as long as my brain can go backwards, I've wished to be... other. I've woken up on some tragically grey Sundays with iron-clad epiphanies, determined to be more: positive, thin, patient, untouchable, quiet, girly (god help me), realistic, talented—simply, more.

And once, in the wake of some dreamy self-disillusionment, I decided I would sew all of my own clothing. (Hey! I accomplished some pretty fierce handiwork in Dream Land, if I dare boast.) To extend the ridiculousness of this dream and my humorous blog-confession, I actually spent $300 to buy some dope-ass sewing machine that could stitch circles (or squares?) around the cheaper, less luxurious models. Listen: I never claimed to be anything but a stubborn, and sometimes impulsive, fool.

I guess what I'm getting at is this... (and I know you're all waiting for the point, if you've even read this far):

For so much of my life and from nearly everyone, I've been dubbed lots of things—mostly labels that imply I'm too hard on myself or all over the place or that I expect too much from others... extreme, dramatic, obsessive, self-loathing, overly worried, silly, sensitive, sad, immature... la deeeee da. You get it.

My personal favorite—"Meghan, you're too much"—I hear once a week but for forever. I remember being little and wondering what that even meant. I turned the words over so many times in my head (and yes, I did loads of over-analyzing even as a kid) but it felt... unfinished. More what? I never got an answer. My mom would just shake her head, smile or grimace, depending on what I had done to provoke it. Maybe that was why I was so confused! It could be both good and bad.

So okay, in summation, I think it's odd. I long to be more and more and more, and people say I'm too much already. What is this? Some cruel joke? Nothing is ever enough. I had my cards read last night, and if nothing else, it made me realize that I need to be happier with myself. And maybe this simple concept is something I should've ingested years ago, but I've said it before—I'm in some ironic and eternal coming-of-age tale that never resolves. But that's ok, right? That is me. Finally. Can I deal?

And for you all... and this is probably the most important part: love yourself. So easy. I can say it. You can read the words, think: "Yeah! I'll do that then." But I know it's not realistic to think anyone is going to listen to me and change his or her reflection or something, but just try? Think about it? Just plant the seed, at least. I know someone of you are happy, maybe now and always. Kudos, yo.

For me, I know that my voids push me. It's like food, man. But it isn't healthy. Balance. We need balance. We need to love ourselves enough to be happy, but be a little restless, wonder about possibilities, scare ourself into new situations (and HAUNTED HOUSES... soon!), look at ourselves with both admiration and disgust. There can still be room for humble and kind and loving.

Make room for all of you: all 10,000 of you. But allow for no mutinies. Can you just try it?

Ah, Tori Amos. Thanks for inciting even more eruptions. (: 

G'nite/morn,

mt

A little inspiration from the Starbucks

Once in a while a little spark catches and the world feels brighter.

I haven't been posting. I know, I know... I think I always say that in my posts, but mostly because I'm going through a bit of a rough patch at the moment. More like a briar patch, and it's raining salt, and it's 3 a.m. and I'm completely naked! O: If that wasn't enough to frighten you out of your bones...

After nine years, I think it's time to move on. It feels like a divorce. This time, I'm peacing grease and moving myself. I've been living here in this sweet old house in South Greensburg since senior year of undergrad, with a one-year exception. After a year, Tash and I moved to East Pittsburgh Street. We rented the third floor of a mammoth house. It wasn't too bad, since we are the shorter type of girls. Ha. The shower's ceiling was slanted, so that we had to bend over to get our heads under the water.

It was kind of like a nightmare, but that is another tale for another time.

Now for the goods...


Today at work, I got a tweet from a lovely fan of our company. She has her own blog and was inquiring about doing a giveaway with our product. This isn't something super new or anything, but I had her shoot me an email with the deets—what she was looking to do, the web address of her blog, all that fun stuff. When she responded back with the info, it took me a while to get to her email.

It was near the end of the day when I did. I clicked the link to her blog and as I began to scroll, I came across a photo that intrigued me. It was my handwriting. On a piece of paper. But where? And was I just going nutty? I started to read and as I did—it clicked!

See, a while back, I got the sudden urge to be sweet. I was at my favorite hotspot—Starbucks—and taking a pee. (Don't the strangest moments of enlightenment happen on or around the toilet? Ha!) As I was washing my hands, I gazed up at myself in the mirror. It's no secret that I don't look in the mirror often. My coworkers have commented, frequently, on the state of my hair, the uncoordinated colors and patterns of my clothing, the blotches of paint on my skin... I loathe it, in fact! There are, on the other end of the spectrum, times I've come home with a huge smudge of pen ink on my cheek or a bit of lunch between my front teeth. I don't like looking!

Typically I'm a hot mess. See photo.

So in a maniac mode of sorts, I flew out of the bathroom (after I washed those hands, of course!) and ripped off a scrap of paper from my Moleskin, jotting down thehttp://bit.ly/NGBnUD words:

You're beautiful. I promise. Look again.


And this wonderful local (Frugal Foodie Mama) snapped a picture of it. Read the story here!

Inspired by this, she started a little note-leaving herself. She found a great project going on calling Operation Beautiful, in the process.

Success! I want to digress with a note about how important the small things can be, but we know this. Even a smile can change a life. I beleeeedat. Now it's time to move some boxes.

Leave some notes, people! (:

Sobe Lifewater Blues

First, a rant.

Someone, like me, has discovered the greatness that is Pacific Coconut Sobe Lifewater.

I snagged one on the fly on Saturday, looking for coconut water in a random Sunoco. First of all, this is not pure coconut water. It's only 10%, but still, I was trying to hydrate and I found this bugger. Good grief is it delicious! There are two other flavors in the blue bottle, but neither live up to the coconutty goodness of this draaank. So you should get some. Or don't.

Which leads me to my little whine.

I scoured the greater Greensburg area and it seems someone is onto this goodness, too. And well, it sucks. I went EVERYWHERE, finally catching a few in Giant Eagle. The other flavors are there, then lo and behold, the empty slot for the blue-topped, coconut heaven. Even Amazon is out of stock. WTF? But I must thank Amy and Matt (my bestos) for totally going on this water-seeking adventure with me.

So I've been a wee bit stressed out lately. Trying to keep up at work, write and paint... and now, manage the heat. Too cool for school means not opting for an umbrella or buying an air conditioner. These are my principles, folks. I'm sticking to my guns on this one. Besides, the thought of some noisy box hovering 3 stories up over my back deck just seems like an accident waiting to happen. I'd rather hire a few studs to fan me off with banana leaves or something. I'm going wild!

In other news, I've been spending an insane amount of time doodling. This is therapeutic. It's also distracting and seems to accompany everything I do these days. Including talk on the phone. It took everything in me not to doodle during my meeting today with the web developer. Instead I nervously twirled my hair. Kudos.

Do something good for yourself this week. The heat eats people up—go grab yourself a water. Any flavor but Pacific Coconut that is.

mpt

advices

I'm in a bit of writing rut.

If you have known me in the last month or so, you'd say I'm crazy. I've been spending incredible amounts of time lost in my poems with a new manuscript in the works (perhaps!) and even the times when I'm not writing, I am thinking of it... but I guess that's just it—lost.

During my time at both Pitt Greensburg and Chatham, I was faced with a lot of ideas about writing. Each professor had her (mostly her) own MO when it came to writing—everything from muses and inspiration to navigation within the poem via line breaks and internal rhyming... well, you get the idea. Strange, but sometimes their words stick in me even when I'm not reaching for guidance. I've got a little committee happening. The worst part is that much is conflicting and, at some level, I need to find my own methodology, you know?

Professor V said: "There is no such thing as Writer's Block."
J still makes good at setting aside a time, like a schedule, for writing.
Dr. M. told me it was okay to keep writing about the same thing, that sometimes you had to just write it out of you. Also: when you're feeling it, like you need to write and you're on a roll, the rest of the world comes second.
B always told me to "write the fucking poem."

Just a brief snippet of what's on my mind. These are all in encouraging in their own way, but never before have I felt so stifled by my subject.

No matter. I'm sure it will pass. Going to re-focus my energies in acrylic.

Getting a porch show tonight, like last. This night, though, it isn't lightening, but UFO's, which we have (for solace?) dubbed as paper lanterns. They seems to be on fire—something like a dying firework, but they float strangely then disappear. It's a somber lullaby out here tonight, sung by the incessant, high-pitched snarls of neighborhood cats hunting each other.

I want another three-day weekend. Rightthissecond. I'm turning liquid again...
mpt

Saturday AM Review

I spend my weekend mornings, typically, downing coffee and writing things. More often than not, I'm wishing I were still asleep—unless it's super sunny. Then I want to eat the world.

Today isn't very remarkable in the weather sort of way. It's warm enough to be in boxers and a hoodie. Quite the dynamic. But I do feel like eating the world. Does anyone else ever feel that way? Maybe it was the stressful week—the onslaught of meticulous label-editing (for print!), the half-celebratory/half-disappointing end to the semester, the weight of unproductive socializing...

I'm the type of person that needs to do things to feel accomplished. I have too many hobbies and projects. This last year has been huge for me, though, and I'm thinking I need this carelessness right now. Is that ok? SOMEONE TELL ME IT IS OK. Haha. Still, I've been having fun with my friends... just gabbing and being animated and probably smoking too many damn cigarettes.

But summer is almost here. I have big plans for it in terms of my writing and art. My latest project, well two, are sort of absorbing my brain at the moment. My boss has commissioned me to paint abstracts in frames for her house. I have about 8-10 of her empty frames in my livingroom waiting to be filled. I love my boss. She's way cool. Only a few years older than me, but classy with an admirable sense of style. So yeah... I'm terribly nervous. I need to start painting, though, instead of worrying. She believes in me... that should be enough fuel, right?

My other project is poetry, of course (and avoiding the horrendous, but 11-chapter novel I have written). I haven't heard back from Finishing Line Press on my last manuscript endeavor, so I'll chalk it up as a loss. What's with that? You pay 15 bucks and they can't even mail/e-mail a rejection? Pfft. Then again, who knows with these crazy spam filters. (;

So what do you do on Saturday/weekend mornings? Do you jump from your bed and run out of the door? Do you clean? Do you go to church? What!?

And has anyone read anything good lately? I need some words.
mpt

Something Like Bieber Fever

While I have been toiling away at life matters—mostly teaching at this point, I have been immersing myself in Atwood. Her poetry is like magic to me. One night, being so inspired and honestly consoled by her words, I tweeted her, even. This is what crazy Bieber fans probably do, too, so I'm not shedding any positive light on myself here. I'm thisclose to screaming and waving my underwear around. But probably not.

Me: @MargaretAtwood Revisiting your poem today. Think your my word soulmate. (Picture of poem from book).


Atwood: Thank you...



C'mon, everyone. Clearly, I have an "infamous" reputation for mishaps—for those of you who do not know about my mistakenly using the word "infamous" on all things work-related/published, that was a treat. Yeah... I did that. But don't be judgmental; many people I questioned didn't know that "infamous" wasn't, in fact, another way to describe something as "famous." Unfortunately, the definition states: "Well known for some bad quality or deed." Shit. I doubt my company minds too much that I described our products as such.


Imaginary Person #1: How about that infamous Italian pasta? 
Imaginary Person #2: Oh yeah! I heard about that a few years back—kidnapped a stick of pepperoni and was never seen again.

But even with my super obvious spelling issue, Atwood responded! Don't you dare for one second think that I didn't tweet her again to right my wrong, because I did. I had to. Margaret Atwood, don't think I'm an idiot! (This is not exactly what I said.) It was late and I was gushing and obviously too concerned with how many times it took me to snap that photo without it being blurry or cut off. Truth.

For those of you who have no idea who Miss Atwood is, well shame on you! Haha. But even if you are avidly against poetry, do yourself a favor and read "Variation on the Word Sleep." If that last stanza doesn't gut you, you're probably not awake.

I realize this entry is about to become all about poetry, but I've been on a roll here—grabbing inspiration where I find it. Recently, I read an interview from 1978. The interviewer being the infamous (kidding), the famous Joyce Carol Oates. So in this Q & A article found in The New York Times, "On Being a Poet: A Conversation With Margaret Atwood," Atwood totally digs at the guts of being a poet. I wanted to highlight this one part, because it doesn't just answer the "who" but the "why." And I totally agree, though, I have never been able to say it so articulately.

Q. Who influenced you as a poet?


A. Poe was my earliest "influence" back in high school, when I was beginning to write poetry and before I'd heard of anyone after, say, 1910. I don't think of poetry as a "rational" activity but as an aural one. My poems usually begin with words or phrases which appeal more because of their sound than their meaning, and the movement and phrasing of a poem are very important to me. But like many modern poets I tend to conceal rhymes by placing them in the middle of lines, and to avoid immediate alliteration and assonance in favor of echoes placed later in the poems. For me, every poem has a texture of sound which is at least as important to me as the "argument." This is not to minimize "statement." But it does annoy me when students, prompted by the approach of their teacher, ask, "What is the poet trying to say?" It implies that the poet is some sort of verbal cripple who can't quite "say" what he "means" and has to resort to a lot of round-the-mulberry-bush, thereby putting the student to a great deal of trouble extracting his "meaning," like a prize out of a box of Cracker Jacks.


You tell 'em, Atwood.

The Sestina

Who chooses it? What it is that they want, that is. I tap my brain for hours wanting and desiring, and then hours more wondering why it is that I want what I want. Pretty unproductive, no? It can be as simple as choosing the type of syrup you want in your Dunkin Donuts Latte Lite or as overwhelming as that horrible what-do-I-want-to-do-with-the-rest-of-my-life decision. As autonomous beings, we have the right to choose (most times) but why—that's my question. And it's "loaded." And it "depends." And some are just riskier in their choices than others, am I right? Musing here.

I think that's the problem with thinkers—and by thinkers I'm not speaking about the cerebral type necessarily. I don't mean SMART people. You don't have to be smart to be a thinker, necessarily. Over-analytical. But yes, back to the problem. I've met so many people that spend more time in limbo (to be or not to be?) than actually doing anything. Now, I'm not going to come down on myself and say I don't get shit done. Because trust me, I'm busy. I get lots done; however, I think I'd get more accomplished if I could be more definitive in my thought process.

Where is this going? Sestinas, of course. What is it in me that feels this great need to keep writing these stupid things? Do you know what a sestina is? Do you care? Probs not. I know most people don't even perk up at the mention of poetry, let alone a lost form like the sestina. I mean, look at this chart, man. It's scary enough to picture a 39-line poem in your head (with repeating end rhymes!) but to witness it as this monochrome maelstrom of lyrics... shit.

Here is the point in this nonsensical entry where you tell me about what you want... things that don't make sense. Is it part of human nature to want what is seemingly unattainable? Better yet, are you decisive? How do you think you've come to be.

And if you're a good person, you'll respond to this guilt trip by filling me in. I need filled in.

Who is wearing all black?

To all those mourning this sacred, paper-heart holiday, don't. I see more people bitching and crying about Valentine's Day than not, so in the spirit of this, I thought I'd share with you a poem. Why, you might ask. I know you're biting your nails in anticipation, but this holiday--as is its biggest gripe--is about something that doesn't necessarily exist. Not in the lacy-red romance sort of way.

Eff that, I say! Romance does exist. Just not when it is overly planned and raised to such high expectations. My hippie friend say that Valentine's Day was conceived by greeting card companies. Shit. Every holiday I know of is commercialized to the max. No matter where it comes from, I wish for you--single or not--the passion of something this day. This and every day, really. I don't care if it's your fantasy hockey team that gives you that tingly feeling in your chest or the porn under your mattress. In a world where technology is slowly replacing thought and feeling, get it where you can.

And this poem. It stole my heart from the moment I read it. So raw and real and honest. Please read!

Morning

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
i beg you do not go

Frank O'Hara



With love,
mpt

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

"Nuggets," I like to call them. Those simple, unabashed moments of clarity when someone says something to you and it finally pokes through at the right moment. We're not all always ready to accept things, you know? We have to be at a certain "point," people say. Pencil-ended as I was on Friday, my dear friend said something that felt monumental to me. And even that sounds dramatic.

Let me also relay to you that "nuggets" don't necessarily denote anything spectacular. We're not talking just epiphanies here. For instance, there was a moment I realized that the scary test of the Emergency Broadcast System wouldn't, in fact, be beeping if there were an emergency. I used to sit in anticipation— face to the TV screen, wringing my little pink hands and listening to the long drone of that too-loud alarm. Clearly, I was waiting for them to instruct us on the emergency I'd need to hide under my bed from. Then there are the many billboards and signs that I see daily but never stop to comprehend fully. For the record, Steak 'n Shake has nothing to do with any type of new-rock dance crazy from the 50's... they're talking MILKshakes, not BOOTYshakes. Perhaps it's just the strange phenomenon of hearing something so often that you never even stop to consider what it actually means. Or my IQ is just slightly high enough to enable me shoe-tying and teeth-brushing capabilities. Ha.

Anyhow, this friend of mine—so wise in the world with such brightness, like the contagious kind—she says to me... "Life is too short to spend it with people that make you feel bad." And something finally sounded to the right parts of me.

Short, sweet and something to digest this snowy Sunday. I hope, at least, a few of you out there are at the "point" where you can gobble this up. Do yourself a favor in 2012... be near the people that make you feel great about you. Chances are, you're an awesome person and you spend way too much time comparing/envying/letting other people dictate your self-worth. And this is no damn revolution. We KNOW we shouldn't. But we do it anyway. So just don't.

Easy, huh? (:

In with the... ew.

I've been trying to figure out a good way to introduce the year. I feel a plague of pressure from this post, the first post of 2012. Everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by those raw, new year's hopes: Special K displayed on every endcap; hard-to-pass-up sales on silky, sweat-proof gym clothes; and a newborn "healthy options" section on the menu of every local restaurant. Honestly, it's as if weight loss is at the heart of every new year's mission, and while that is how I began my "healthy" lifestyle, it's overwhelming. I keep catching myself sideways-glancing in mirrors and shiny windows, wondering if I need to lose more weight or what I should be wearing to hide my love handles.

Where once December 31st meant getting sloshed and recovering with free Sheetz coffee the next day, the further from 21 I get, the more I feel like I'm slipping into this thing called "adulthood." I don't like it. These days, the new year is kind of depressing—the saying goodbye to what (already) feels like an old friend, or enemy (depending on your relationship with the past). Am I already becoming this crotchety? Listen to me! For instance, yesterday as I drove through suburbia, I spotted a few kids playing in the yard, and turned to Tash:

"Wow. That's something you don't see... ever. Kids playing in the yard. Do you? When I was younger, they kicked our asses outside for the day. We got to eat and piss."

Then I stopped.

Twenty-six can't be old yet, can it? I mean, I bought anti-wrinkle cream last night—thinking preventatively, of course. I spent literally 45 minutes in the aisle at Target. I kept walking away with something, coming back to pick up something different, going away... back again. At one point, I left the aisle with nothing. I'm sure if the employees were eagle-eyeing the cameras at that moment, they'd have thought I was insane or trying to steal shit. (I have this strange guilt/paranoid fear of clerks suspecting me of theft. What is that?) 

And to really push this new year into overdrive, I've got Facebook friends posting the "countdown to the apocalypse" daily. Not with an "end of the word" intro... just the number, ominous, and luckily at this point, three digits.

I'm not saying I'm not ready for a fresh start. I'm just saying this year feels funky already.

333