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Guess it’s a 500 calorie day. Oops.

I ate a handful of cheese popcorn, a half-bag of apple and banana chips, and… uh… a  single individual grape? Yesterday. Oh, and a raisin. Oh! And a mocha. That’s good. It was super sugary, so that’ll bump me up a couple hundred calories.

I don’t think I’ve had more than a thousand calories in two or three days.

Dammit. I can’t live on <1000cal/day. 

And it’s making me anxious.

And anxiety is making it impossible to choose what to eat.

And I don’t want to use up my food anyway, because what if I need it later?

What if I actually run out of food? If I don’t eat it, it’ll still be there, right? (Yeah, that’s not how food works.)

Except… I’m not that poor. I’m fairly broke, but in the I-have-20-bucks-left-after-expenses kind of way, not the do-I-pay-for-food-or-rent kind of way. So WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH MY HEAD?!








Some People, Honestly

(Please read this post and the comment thread starting with D’s post first, for to facilitate understanding.)

So this is in response to the Sylvia Plath suicide comment thread on Captain Awkward, which The Captain seems to be Finished Discussing Thank You, so I’ll be putting it here instead of there.

Basically: Sylvia Plath’s suicide has nothing to do with her work.

All of her works were written before her suicide. She did not know at the time that she was going to commit suicide. The Bell Jar quote in question is clearly by a person who knows what it feels like to suffer from paralysis of choice. When she wrote that, she DID NOT KNOW that her paralysis would kill her. The meaning of that quote: This is what it feels like. Other people have been through this. Having too many wonderful choices is a real struggle, and even though some people #firstworldproblems you for being in pain over this, it really does hurt and I understand.

Her eventual suicide has nothing to do with it.

If it did, the meaning would be: Sylvia Plath was destroyed by this struggle, but you don’t have to be. Here are some options that you have that she didn’t.

Sylvia Plath DIDN’T KNOW SHE WAS GOING TO KILL HERSELF. She probably knew she might, but she didn’t know she would. Therefore, her suicide has nothing to do with her work. Thank you.

It’s Hard to Find YA Fantasy Books About Girls That Are Not Romance Novels in Disguise

I’m nervous about writing things again.

Without school, with writing my main priority instead of a distraction, it’s become important that what I write be good, and thus, everything is terrible.

It’s not, really. I’ve felt like this before, and what I see when I read it again is never as bad as I thought it was. Sometimes (often) it’s better than the stuff I do when I’m trying (too hard) to be brilliant.

But right now all I can think is, does this read like modern YA? I’m writing for that age group,  but I don’t want to write Chelsea Farthing is part of a secret society and falls in love with a dick who is missing and she has to use her superpowers to find him and during the process she meets this other boy who’s nice but he’s  boring and not mean to her and that’s bad somehow, and the quest is all about boys and not at all about saving the world, even if it says it is. 

I read the jackets of books that look cool, and I end up putting them all down because, at the end of the day, they’re all dark, piercing eyes and how can I choose between my best friend and this enigmatic dickface dude who hangs around all the time? and oh yeah, superpowers and stuff, but whatever BOYS gimme. 

It’s boring.

And I’m sometimes afraid, am I writing this too? I don’t want to add to that tripe. But sometimes, I write really, really bad stuff by accident. 

Might as well get it out of my system.

Historical Microfiction, Yay!

Teeny wee short story set at 3:00 in the morning on March 6th, 1788, in Kyoto, Japan. What happened that day? The biggest unattributed case of arson the world had ever seen. One person (presumably) burned down a huge percentage of the city, due to massive winds that jumped fire breaks and surrounded firefighters. It burned for three days and took down the royal palace. I can’t find a reference on the internet, but it’s the Tenmei fire if you’re interested.

Inspired by this fabulous picture by the princely RivkaZ and Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine. However, there is only one devil in the story. Perhaps each great fire has its own devil…? I do not know.

550 words.

Summary: Aiko doesn’t want to look, but the orange light won’t stop flickering, and she is too afraid not to.

Seventh Devil Read the rest of this entry »

Poetry (I’m Too Prosaic for This)

So I wrote a poem. It was weird. I don’t do poetry. But it wasn’t working as a story, so I went and experimented. I also tried it with “cunt” for “fingers”, but “cunt” doesn’t have enough syllables and “pussy” is iambic and I needed a trochaic word (also, logic: how does one reach over a riverbank with one’s cunt? I do not know), so I’m unfortunately stuck with the less vulgar version.


Tantalus in the River

I am Tantalus in the river,

and by your hand I cheat the gods.

With my mouth I bite the air below the peach,

crack my teeth,

bite my tongue,

starve in the shy water.

But from your fingers I lick sweet nectar,

and my belly,

so full of warmth,

no longer cries.

School is About to End, One Way or the Other

I have eaten so many M&Ms today that the roof of my mouth is covered with tiny cuts.

It’s very uncomfortable. 

Well, that’s what I get for being me. I can’t concentrate unless I’m eating something. I think it’s the sound of chewing, and the repetitive movement–together they drown out distractions. Half a pound later, though, the candy coating makes itself known.

Tomorrow, the Peer Review draft of my final paper is due. I will remember enough statistics to get something passable in, and then I’ll remember I’m not done and want to kill myself for a few hours, and then I’ll get the fuck over myself and fix the thing up to better than passable. Like I do every semester.

And then, when I get it in, whether I get that diploma I (read: my mom) paid for or not, I’m going to have a party. I’m probably going to be the only one there, but I’m going to eat cake and drink coffee like a champ, and possibly blow out a few candles. Because I’m never doing this again. And even if I fall on my stupid face again, and nobody in my family can look at me for a few years, that’s reason enough to celebrate. 

My Mom’s Mom Is a Cool Lady, Even if I Have to Remind Myself of That Sometimes

I’m nervous all the time.

I come by it honestly–you should see my grandma. “Would you like a sandwich?” “No thanks, I’m good.” “You sure? It’s no trouble.” “I’m sure. I’m not hungry.” “I’ll just make you a sandwich. You can eat it if you get hungry.” “No, grandma, really, I- well, okay then. Thanks, I guess, but I’m really not hungry.”

She’s afraid we don’t like her. It’s worst with me, because, until recently, I didn’t have the emotional capacity to understand how hard it is to be scared, all the time, that people don’t like you. To want to interact with them, but not be able to handle it if they don’t want to interact with you. Even if it’s just because they’re busy, or tired, or there’s a strange itch on their back and they’re trying to figure out if it’s a bee. They don’t respond with full, total enthusiasm=they don’t like you. They won’t want to interact with you ever. (The weird thing is, I do know what that feels like; I just couldn’t empathize well enough to use that knowledge to stop being such a jerk.) It’s worst with me, because I did get annoyed with her, and want her to leave me alone for a while. Not forever. Just… stop offering sandwiches, okay?

The sandwich means “I love you”, and I was saying, “I don’t want you to love me” every time I didn’t want it. I didn’t mean to, but that’s what she heard. She speaks a slightly different language than me, the language of a very anxious 80-something who grew up in Ohio and had three kids and volunteers at the hospital a lot, who has probably done a lot of cool things in her life but I don’t know what they are because I never asked. I only recently learned: if I don’t want to say I don’t love you all the time by accident, I have to learn to speak her language. I don’t have to accept the sandwich, but I do have to (want to) accept the love. “No thanks, I’m not hungry, but we could go for a walk if you want? I wanted to ask you what it was like to raise three girls anyway. If you could give me any advice you wanted, what would you say?” What is it like to be you?

My grandma is a cool lady, and I’m finally old enough to understand that the worst thing I can do is get annoyed with her for not knowing how to ask for love. I don’t see her that often. She’s old. It takes years to get to know somebody. I will not let my grandma die without knowing her.

Happy mother’s day, Grandma.

A Couple of Sad Things

I wrote these in high school, when I was really into abusive relationships. (Unlike some people, I actually did understand that these relationships were abusive; I just thought it was hot, and was proud of being messed up. Forgive me. We were all teenagers once.) I still really like them, so here you go: enjoy, or don’t. 

Also, the first one was published in my college literary magazine, so that’s cool.

TW emotional abuse.

POEM: Sharpener (this started out as a joke piece about pencil sharpeners and penises (some guy was being a jerk to me, so I threatened him in a ridiculous way to get him to leave me alone, but it was high school, so it didn’t work), and ended up somewhere completely different.)

STORY: This is the Alphabet (Inspired by this haiku from a haiku generator: around his ass cheeks / and over his low back this / is the alphabet. NSFW)


Read the rest of this entry »

Did I Mention I’m a Writer?

I mentioned I’m a writer, right? ’cause I am, and I think it’s about time to prove it to you. So: it’s story time!

Title: Someone? Anyone?

Length: ~800 words

Genre: Minecraft fanfic

Summary: How does it feel to be Steve?

Read the rest of this entry »

Annual Writing Exercise

Every year for my birthday, I write myself stories.

It’s sort of a birthday present, and sort of a way to push myself. I did NaNoWriMo for seven years, and it was amazing, but I’m just not a novelist and every year it burned me out for longer and longer. So I’m not doing that anymore. I do this instead:

Starting on the 1st, each story is a countdown. I write one every day, and some years I do themes, which are fun but very hard if I pick the wrong theme. See, the theme has to have enough breadth to last me 25 days. The first year, I used numbers. It seemed appropriate, but it was not a good choice. 25 days of stories about numbers start to get a little repetitive. Plus, numbers that size start to get unmanageable  I started with one, solitude; two, slices of bread; three, a table set for four with one missing space. I ended up with 23, people who’ve been laid off this month; 24, dead cats floating down the river; 25, thousand dollars in debt. The more numbers I did, the harder it was to make the next day’s story different from the day before.  

(I guess it was a count-up. )

The next year, I flipped through the dictionary, pointed at a random word, and went from there. The next year, I used a haiku generator, which was fun but too unserious to maintain. I didn’t make the full countdown that year.

I try to finish each story every day. Maybe it’s a bigger story than I originally thought–then I try to finish it early, and expand it later. Once, I wrote 6,000 words. Totally absorbed for six hours, I came out of it exhausted and couldn’t finish a story for three days. That’s okay; the 6k was a fabulous experience, and that’s what this is all about. Aside from the stories I get in the end, most of which are for Me Only because they’re more doodles than art pieces, this is a writing exercise. Some writers work every day. Just a hundred words, just ten words, but something. I can’t do that. I get burned out fast, I get bored. I don’t stop working on the stories, but I do stop writing them for a few days every fortnight or so. I draw for them instead, or sculpt, but I just can’t do brain-work forever. I need to do hand-work or I get agitated. I can’t write every day.

Except once a year, for my birthday.