Monthly Archives: February 2014

Men I’d have fallen in love with if I’d ever known them, and if we were in the same age range.

  • Adam Rapp. I’d love any man who uses words the way he does.
  • Nic Sheff. I wouldn’t love him forever, probably, but I’d certainly love him for a fleeting, painful moment.
  • Dante Basco. He’s that sort of dude whose very presence would probably make me feel like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I used to want tattoos.

I was one of those kids who’d ink up their arms in grade school, scrawling all over with doodles and words and phrases. In high school I used to cover my hands in the titles of my favorite songs, the names of my favorite authors and poets, quotes from my favorite books. I guess it kept me grounded, in a way. My hands are the most important parts of me and to look down at them and see the words that meant most to me – words that convinced me to survive – I dunno, it was comforting. 

But things change. 

I know some people get tattoos to mark eras in their lives; remember important places, feelings, people, events, influences, whatever. 

But me? No, I think I’m much better off leaving shit behind. 

I don’t want these memories. 

In Writing About Confidence.

Don’t take yourself too seriously.
Be confident, be cool, be proud,
But remember to laugh and admit when you just flat out don’t know the answers.
Everyone knows when you make mistakes – there’s no need to make sure everyone knows you know you were wrong. They saw you slip up. They all heard that wrong note you played, and they know you heard it, too.
Take criticism in stride. 
Accept compliments, even if you’re pretty sure you’re being lied to.

Useless words, useless phrases…
The only rule I aim to never stray from is to be efficient in my word usage. 
Don’t say it if it doesn’t need to be said. 

In Writing About Me

I’ve been too selfless for too long. I’ve forgotten the sound of my own voice – I can hardly recognize my own syntax and diction,
Rather, I’ve learned to disguise myself in words dedicated to undeserving souls.
In writing about me, I seek to feel like a real person again instead of like an after-image of someone else’s influence.
Someday I will remember how great I am.

Other things.

I am going to write about other things.
I will write about the weather, or current events
I’ll try and find rhymes in Brahms counterpoint
And make prose out of people-watching,
Feminist essays, talentless fanfiction, a series of haikus,
I’ll write about anything not-you.

I’ll write about me.