The thought

makes me wet.


If this comes to pass

you’re not going to remember.

The poems I wrote you in my head and the songs I’d sing to your memory at night.

The time I snort laughed and when I kept my black socks on at the beach.

Keep those words to myself and my eyes somewhere else.

Something shiny on their fingers.

A young woman I had known since I was twelve made a post on facebook questioning the point of marriage. She recieved quite a few responses and some of them addressed the practicality of such an arrangement. However, the majority of the comments were counter-marriage. Some declared there was no point but there was one comment in particular that furrowed my brow:

“women want shiny things on their fingers”

1. A generalization.

2. A generalization that marks a desire that can be measured by monetary means.

3. A generalization that is mocking and unfair.

One meek voice in the sea of “nay-sayers” (as in “no, we don’t”) spoke about finding the one you love and loving them forever. She rambled on about how she believes that marriage is the highest form of dedication. At least, I think this is what she was trying to say. There was a little trouble in the parallelism and spelling department. I admit I was a little flustered by her response. It validated the young woman’s argument because it made the believers in marriage sound uninformed and naive. The spokeswoman for marriage then went on to inform the young woman that she can’t help herself because she’s a romantic who “love[s] Nicholas Sparks.” That’s it, ladies and gents, marriage is a disease that can’t be helped! We’re ill, ’tis all.

I’m a believer in marriage. I believe in dating to find the One and I believe I found him. Don’t we all? We, the romantics. Don’t we create these ideals in our minds and then project them upon a warm, human body? Don’t we then just hope for the best? See? I have some traces of toxic optimism in me. I remain in a relationship with a man who chose to play Red Dawn Redemption rather than comfort me in my crumbling state of faux idealism. To be honest, I just wanted sex. In my room, on the floor, I can’t be too particular. Frankly, I want it now as well. Wait, I can’t be too hasty. I wanted him to hold me first and then fuck me. Ideally, a green lolipop would be in the picture. In this castle in the sky, he should be holding it as I suck. The lolipop, I mean. ‘Tis difficult to rely on a gent’s flimsy emotional attraction for my bread and water but I make do with my colorful imagination. Before I start gnawing on the forthcoming analytical pie, allow me to add this piece:

“You will never understand men. Just try to understand yourself.”

Alright then. Why do I discuss marriage and then green lolipops board ship? I only suck with my beloved and I’d only want to suck him. Sucking=marriage in this warped head of mine. I’d only suck that person that I can imagine sucking forever and then we’d unite in holy, sucking matrimony. Except there’s nothing holy about it. We’d be bonded by the state of California or a common law minister dressed as Darth Vader. Whatever seems most ridiculous. I’m leaning towards California.

Ha. I’m a realist, sure but I have all these pesky ideas floating about my head that question the very truth of what I see.

“As much as I love you, I rarely get alone time to do what I want.”


Suck on that.

Orange County, I tried to leave you.

Nathan: you just seem to be taking all this okay
Nathan: and deciding what you can do from what you have

I dreamed of going to Santa Monica College. Actually, that’s not true. My ideal institute of higher education shifted accordingly as I grew older. In my elementary years, I envisioned myself in Yale. In junior high, I saw Northwestern and Indiana University at Bloomington as more realistic (journalist/opera singer). Once I reached high school I saw myself going to New York University or somewhere just as potentially enriching. As the months waned on, schools in the Western part of the US seemed better-suited.  In 11th grade, I thought a UC such as UC Berkeley or UCLA would be great. Months passed and I decided I’d just go to a UC with lower prerequisites.  By 12th grade, I thought an arts institute or private arts college would be nice. Months passed and I was doubting even LA School of Film would accept me. When it dawned on me that I wasn’t going to a four-year college, I chose Santa Monica. I did my research, fell in love with the campus, and envisioned myself having a neat transfer into UCLA after two years. Now, I just want to graduate high-school.

That doesn’t even seem likely with my missing credits.

As for SMC.

It’s not impossible but it’s unreasonable.

I live way south of Santa Monica. The family business is flailing/failing (business phones were disconnected) and I’m stuck here. Chin down, eyes watery but this is where I’ll be. I can’t blame anyone.

When I was five I took a field trip to Fullerton College and told the professor I’d be back.

Just keeping my word.

Desire beyond reason.

I was just innocently reading some third-tier, young-girl-raped-by-pillow story and there it was. No, not the inevitable second coming but this all-too-familiar sensation. It crawls through my skin, makes my breathing shallow.   I immediately clicked on another tab but the exposure to such shameless pleasure gave me such a rush. All I wanted to do was give rise, suck, and devour.  At first I was just mildly amused by the amateur stylistic errors and mediocre dialogue but  the words, “moaning softly”  met my eyeballs. I couldn’t turn away. Sounds, images came to my mind. Oft stored away and only reach the surface when all the lights are out. The floor lamps beam like spotlights. My mouth is so soft right now, so expectant.

To know, know, know him.

I wish I had the nerve to just barge into AP Gov and serenade the kid.  I’d sing Winehouse’s cover of “To Know Him is to Love Him” with my ill-suited voice. After the last note (because in this dream I play guitar and it was conveniently a hidden talent I only just discovered the night before) I would run off, blushing.


May. 14, 2010.

1 year and 3 months.

1 year and a quarter. :]

Living for that lopsided grin, smaller left eye,  and for the honor of tracing that curved back with an eager finger.

For licking each eyelash as he sleeps and caressing his cheekbones with a mouth open in disbelief as if such perfectly molded features couldn’t be real.

For the after-fuck “hehehe” and the furrowed brow.

Living for those words concerning ‘ologies and ‘isms and the glances my way.

I love this man-child.

I want him more than I can tell.

A pocket sans posy.

Kismet by numbers.

I had three dollars.

Three dollars with fifty cents. Mark ’em, fifty cents.

I’m no Napoleon and this secondhand Oxford shirt doesn’t exactly count as a rag but I sure felt like a rich man grateful gal.

A few hours ago, that is.

I am now in the process of taking off my shirt because I don’t think I can afford an Oxford shirt, even if it is from the thrifty. Might have just been lying to myself there.

Ha, it’s Merona! From Walmart. Saucypants.

(The faint hum of an ice-cream jingle could be heard.)

Out went those legs! Faster than my upper half could carry them. Some minutes later, my purchases were made from a man with a ‘stache.

Four gummy hamburger minis, BBQ Lays, bubblegum cigs, and a Squirt.

3.50 went from palm to palm.

My face went from :/ to :{

The only thought in my mind: “Don’t tell the kid.”

Oh, patient reader. You’ll find out soon enough.