Category: personal life

Charm City

so Baltimore is serving me quite well. This is a beautiful city and unlike my small town hometown, there’s actually stuff to do! A week or so ago I started walking up Charles Street until I found a large building with FREE on the door. It was the Walter’s Museum.

In short, a rich guy loved beautiful things so he travelled, collected, and opened a free museum! My favorite exhibit was a simply a room full of random beautiful things. It’s supposed to mimic a room rich gentry would have, portraits of intellectuals around the roof and then filled with shadow boxes of gorgeous, interesting things.

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This was my favorite still life. It had no name, no artist… nothing. It’s beautiful though. It’s globes, books, maps, an ink well… it’s just extraordinary.

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This is a bat skeleton! I had just written a poem for my workshop class that I had to start with “my life as a bat.” Then, I found this little guy at the museum. What delicate bones! It almost looks like a mouse with extremely long fingers…

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This is the view from the Walters Museum. It was such an amazing day. The sky was really that blue. That’s the Washington Monument (apparently the original one, or so I’ve been told—predates the Washington DC Washington Monument). Also, one of the most beautiful churches I’ve ever seen.

Soon to come… more poetry, a tour of the apartment, a dedication to my beloved pet best friend… etcetera


Day Four
The corner is crooked. I dress bare breasted in front of its window. It faces a sceneless alley but light filters across my bed as if through cheese cloth. I saw a man pissing against the facing fence today. I wonder who was on the other end of his phone call.

The keys of my Grandmother’s typewriter stick like the knuckles of my spine crunching at the base of my neck where the ink starts. Tomorrow I’ll scrape the decades of grime from the letter springs. With the resilience of mint we will bite back together.

day five
I fell in love with Baltimore today as I tiptoed on the edge of her skirt, leaving her in the breath of morning–caught her in a yawn. Each blinking eye spread across an expanse of asphalt skin–that perfect grey complexion at dawn.

Every minute away raked my neck. Borrowed doctors agreed. But my muscles yawned relief as I climbed city walls, scaled row homes and whispered hello to the one-legged man in the wheelchair. I think we’ll be friends–feed him communion. Bread and wine. Eat the blood, drink the body of Baltimore.

mmm Journals

As a child, it’s a diary… as an adult, it’s a journal. By whatever name, I’ve always had one. Often throughout adolescence it was online (I still have a LiveJournal account hah) but nothing has the tangible effect as a physical journal.

The cover, the pages, the ink, the artifacts taped within… nothing compares. I’ve always been a fan of Moleskines. In the past, I’ve regularly carried the small lined notebooks in my purse and the full-sized at home. Throughout the packing process (preparing for the move), I am filling boxes with old journals. I buy them faster than I can fill them… much similar to the fact that I buy books faster than I can read them.

Recently I bought a pack of journals from Barnes&Noble and I’m going to share some pages that I’ve filled in the past week.

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from Jonathan Adler. It says “Notes” on the back.

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two blacked out poems made from a piece of prose from an issue of Whurk (a local monthly magazine which is rather fantastic).

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A self-portrait… physical proof of my inability to draw. I do love to doodle though! Imagine the hair is red, the eyes blue, the teeth not creepy, and plenty of skin imperfections. My glasses are super cool but they aren’t quiet as enormous as characterized. I am pretty adorable though. 😉

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another Currently. I’ll have the tell the story of Stalker Boy at another time. It was a very random incident that lingers like a haunting. I also plan on documenting the antiquing adventures of my momma and myself—where the 1950s dinner table and chairs were discovered. More importantly, I bought an antique pink velvet sofa which is the bee’s fuckin’ knees. GORJUSS.

…until next time.

Fabulous Happenin’s

1. Tuesday I attended a poetry workshop and reading hosted by the fabulous individuals of Line Assembly. The ladies and gents of this travelling troupe of poets are incredibly talented and filled to the brim with sweetness. They held a workshop at an independent bookstore, Riverby Books. They focused on the idea of “home” and “where we’re from.” They ran late. I ran late. It was cut short, but the time spent with them and the other poets that participated was lovely and inspiring.
The reading was held at Horseshoes &Hand Grenades, which is a local vintage shop—vintage shops are rampant in this city but this one is cool. It’s geared towards my generation and those slightly older than me (think 25-35). They’re all super sweet as well. The poetry was wonderful. I’d only been to maybe two readings in the past. I loved it so much! Most of the poets have books available online, buy them!

2. I am in a mad packing dash. My move is mere weeks away and for once in my life, I am ahead of schedule! I have 2/3 of my room processed (read: I have thrown 2/3 of my room away). Goodwill could devote a store to my nonsense. Aside from the ridiculous amount of books I’ve boxed and hilarious pictures I’ve found—I’m also in the market for apartment goods!

Find of the damn century! A vintage KitchenAid mixer in full operating condition, with three different attachments, and the manual… for 85$!!! I actually spotted it across the room during the poetry reading (from Horseshoes & Hand Grenades). I couldn’t take my eyes off of it and couldn’t stop thinking about it. I went back today and bought it. She is tentatively named Belinda. She is a lovely bizarre shade of greenish yellow. She’s beautiful. Watch out Baltimore, we’re gonna bake up a storm!

I also bought a 1950s full plate, bowl, teacup set for 40$. I thought it was an adorable print, reminded me of the Jetsons. Also purchased: a 1940s table linen, a 1950s linen cocktail dress, and vintage button-up full skirted plaid dress.

The design of the trip was to find a desk. I realized I don’t have a desk and… I need one! I went back out with my mom and found a nice solid wood desk for 295$, painted navy with adorable knobs, which I think would work perfect in my bedroom. We have a tall desk with tons of storage space in a spare room that I’m going to dig out. I think the larger one would go well in my and my roommate’s writing den. I would love a smaller desk in my bedroom.

While shopping the antique stores, I fell in love with several gorgeous rollback desks… ahh if only! There was also a 50s era kitchen table that was adorable. &A 1920s freezer that was just incredible. I also need a bedframe, but I’m not sure what size mattress I’m going to end up with so… that’s on hold.


I have a lot more work to go, but I can’t wait to share my new room and new belongings as everything finally comes together!


How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.


Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.




I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.


It Goes On

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Life has been just nutty these past few months. The last time I shared a bit about my personal life I was still fractured from the break up, very confused and still timid.

Since then, an old friend and I have sparked a highly charged romance. We’re crazy about each other and he’s home for good in just two weeks. It was completely unexpected because this guy exited my life for nearly half a decade. Then he shows up at my door a few days before Christmas. We have drinks. We have dinner. Bam! We’re inseparable.

He’s in the Army though (that is, for two more weeks!), so he had to leave two weeks after we hit it off. I visited him in Nashville for his birthday in mid February. He visited me last weekend. I was prepared to wait until mid May, when he was supposed to be discharged… but he’s coming home early! I received this news today and I am a happy kid.

Other news I am incredibly and speechlessly happy about?

I got accepted into the University of Balitmore’s MFA program for Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. &I am finally going to go do what I have always dreamed of doing. I got the acceptance email exactly one week ago. I spent two months on the portfolio, right around the time I started seeing Matt.

I’ve always been incredibly insecure about my writing, as well the actual act of writing. I’m not sure why. It’s such a competitive field. That’s what I kept telling Matt when he told me not to be nervous and not to even worry. He didn’t even have a clear concept at first of what the program was or what type of writing I was working on. For someone that has been a very close friend of mine for ten years, he had absolutely no clue that I “write creatively.”

I sent him one of the poems I posted on here—one of the angry break up ones. Ah, it was the one I wrote in the chair of the bookstore before I actually broke up with my ex. I edited it for the portfolio and ended up texting it to him (FYI, that was a bitch). I was tempted to send him the one I’d written about him but decided nah.. that can wait.

He was so confident that I’d get accepted and kept telling me to have some faith in myself. I assured him I had some, otherwise I wouldn’t apply at all. I didn’t want to build up an expectation just to be let down though. They notified me only two weeks after I applied. Crazy. Matt was even in town when I found out. He was so proud of me. &I’m proud of me too!

Go me.

It’s terrifying though, absolutely terrifying. I am terrified.

but I’ve read, if the risks you take aren’t terrifying, you’re doing it wrong. so I really and truly believe that I’m finally doing it right. I’m going to have to quit my job, move out, find my own place, get another job. I get to live in the city, something I’ve always wanted… but I always resigned to living in this small shit town and pretending like I was okay with it… it wasn’t meant to be… I’m meant for small city life and teaching high school English.

VOMIT. No. That’s not for me. I want to study creative writing and get into the publishing industry and live on my own in a city. SWEET JESUS I AM HAPPY.

Sometimes I can’t even believe I had enough courage to break it off with my ex. Sometimes I’m driving in my car, windows cracked, seat warmer on, bad 90s music blasting and I can’t even believe that I’m single… much less setting up a future of my own. I never would have applied for an MFA program with my ex. I never would have moved out of my parent’s house. I didn’t even write, not unless the conditions of being with him made me so desperate and depressed I wrote to keep from my slitting my skin open.

Yeah, harsh. I wish he died from his brain aneurysm.

He called me last week. I was actually at a bar with Matt, drinking and getting annoyed at him. I left my phone at the hotel and saw I had a voicemail while Matt was in the bathroom. I just started crying after listening to it and immediately deleting it. He walked out and I just fell into him and he naturally held me. I guess he thought he’d really upset me that badly because I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t know how to tell him why I was upset. I’m not used to being able to tell a guy why I’m upset without some sort of accusation or embarrassment or being made to feel guilty for being upset. I didn’t want to seem melodramatic or ridiculous. I didn’t want him to get mad or upset because that’s the reaction I’m used to (that seems so ridiculous now that I see it in words. Goddamn my ex is a fucking jackass.)

I told him the only way I knew how… all whimpery and pathetic and blunt and to-the-point. &He did what boyfriends are supposed to do—hold you, kiss your head, wipe your out of your face, tell you that’s all in the past, try not to let it upset you, but it’s okay to be upset. &I still just can’t believe this guy’s timing. Every time I have absolutely needed him, he’s been there… even though he lives eleven hours away. Every Time.

He says he’s just lucky. I’m lucky.

&I quote Robert Frost,

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.

That quote is just everything to me. It goes on and shit just fixes itself if you have the strength the endure the hardships. I sacrificed everything I knew four months ago and let my life fall apart completely… but life went on. It gets better. It goes on.


His ghost keeps my bones from dancing in the streets
His face like a shadow hides in the creases of my dreams
and keeps my lips mute
and keeps my skin cold
and keeps my hips ashamed
and burdened by his sin.
Something about the sanctity of loneliness
puts at ease a retching heart that marauds alley
streets coughing from the ashes of lost loves.
One day I will shed the weight of his hate,
carbon copy on my skin, a rash of cinders
around my raw eyes.
One day I will shed this weight. I will be light.
I will dance the torment out of my bones. I will
wring them dry.

12/13 February 2013


It would behoove me to remove these lips
to make me mute, to rip from my throat
the chords of my voice that form
the horrifying words that no one wants
to hear, that frame the macabre
visions haggard in my eyes. My craven
mouth will meekly consecrate
our decrepit love, make homage to the rot
we bred. and What of dying love?
The frayed muscles of our hearts–drowning
on the flood of blood in the throat–the choking
of slipped tongues. I said I meant every word
and I do. Something is dying in this room.
This is the smell of a ten year wake. A sermon
churning in my gut, finally purged through
every numb limb–every harbored hate
exposed. One should never
crave a funeral.

Women are Fantastic


Being a female assistant manager of a tool store is a task and a half. I deal with disrespect, borderline (&blatant) sexual harassment, and ignorance every day. So, why would I stay?

Excellent question.

1. The economy is in the toilet. No one will hire me for anything else. Retail is my only job experience, except for lifeguarding! I was so a lifeguard in high school.

2. My boss is an incredible man that fought to get me promoted to my position. He’s understanding and supportive, hilarious, and most importantly a diehard Redskins fan as well.

3. I am compensated well. My benefits are fantastic.

That being said, I despise retail. Some customers have serious problems accepting answers from a woman, much less one that is at times half or a quarter of their age. They cannot fathom that I have legitimate knowledge about tools. My boyfriend and friends are metal workers and backyard mechanics. I applied for the job because of my experience with them.

Customer never cease to amaze me with what they deem appropriate to say to me. Whether they “want the real manager” or they’re “going to stand here and stare at that red head all day” to telling me, “You’re smarter than I thought!” and telling me “Oh don’t lift that, that’s too heavy for you!” (whether it’s ten pounds or eighty) I can lift 150 and move 200.

Its demeaning and infuriating. I come from a very long line of very strong, intelligent women… and I am far too stubborn to stand by quietly and complacently while I am blatantly insulted. however, I am under the obligation of my job to provide excellent customer service!

so How do I manage? Sometimes all I can do is prove them wrong by answering their question and surpassing the expectations that they hold for my male counterparts. WOMEN ARE FANTASTIC. and People should know that!

I am also eternally on a job search.

I want men to respect women regardless of age and occupation. There’s no reason why I can’t sell a welder with more product knowledge than anyone I work with—even the 50+ year old men I work with. but I get dismissed by customers that do not know anything.

&Must I go into how many times I get hit on in a day? It’s gross and unbecoming of their character. That gets an eye roll or a death glare. I try to walk away and ignore them. There is some serious creepy going on in that store though. Some coworkers have had to deal with legit stalker-type behavior. There are a couple customers that I have to completely avoid because of how uncomfortable they make me. It’s ridiculous and unfair.

So long as I or my other female coworkers have to deal with this behavior—I don’t want to hear that men and women are equal and everything is copasetic. It’s not.


(picture care of Pinterest)