“Ribs” by Lorde made it onto my Spotify Wrapped (another year of Pure Heroine having me by the throat). The sneaky bastard made it onto Bridget Kamper’s wrapped too.
Bridget texted, “Not wanting to grow up is a theeeemmmeeee this year.”
Spotify told me that my Music Aura was “bold” and “energy.” I am obsessed with the use of the word “energy.” It doesn’t dictate whether or not my music taste is high or low energy just that it simply IS energy.
Rose Dyar always says she wants to date someone with presence. She can’t communicate exactly what presence is, but she can identify it when it’s in front of her.
I think energy is equally evasive in definition.
Yesterday was my twenty-fourth birthday. If you can remember back to January 2021 you might remember that I wrote about my mom getting married at twenty-four. A few weeks ago I came across a TikTok on my For You Page that said I should expect an engagement in 2022 so I’m not that worried about spinsterhood (disregard my nonexistent love life and absolutely abhorrent aversion to committing to anything other than a bit).
Birthdays are inevitably for being sad about being born.
Snow started to fall in the morning and my friends were too generous with their time and patience. We took shots with the server and I went to Starbucks after. We joked about going next door to try on wedding dresses and I kept saying the owner of the restaurant's name (Andrew Miller, if you're looking for witty copyeditors that are particularly skilled in continuity errors...DM me).
I debated fingerpainting a part of Heidi Priebe’s poem on a windshield, “To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of who they used to be.”
I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives and I still haven’t found the one that fits best. Will I always slither around the world like a snake shedding her skin? Maybe I'm a one-trick pony that peaked in pubescence. Mary would love that I’m writing about skin. It’s an excellent image of discomfort you can touch. I (and many others) poke fun at them about their addiction to poetry about skin. I think my muse is the pockets of fat that skin folds over and hides behind clothes.
I haven't met a version of myself that I want to be.
I keep doing the wrong thing and not noticing the right things. I’m back to being twelve years old and trying on junior-sized clothes in the Kohl’s dressing room. Sweaty, frustrated, and upset that I have to exist. Words are hard and coming up with what’s next for me is even harder. I think it’d be awesome if everyone could laugh and run around and write poetry after hanging our scarves up in the doorway.
My students played with the ice on the playground after I told them not to and I had to wipe their tears when they cried because their hands were cold. They're four years old and already learning the joys of putting your hands in your pockets. I want to tell them to listen to me but I don’t even listen to myself.
Last week I drank a glass of wine before stand-up and didn’t even sign up to perform. My cue card was damp with palm sweat. No one’s surprised or even that interested in my stage fright. I wanted to make friends so I sat in the darkest corner and laughed as loudly as I usually do.
This avoidance of what I want to do sent me into such a spin that I dyed my hair pink so I had something to hold onto.
Who am I if I'm not funny?
A pink-haired bitch apparently.
At least I became friends with a cat on my walk home.
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