curb your dog.

Officially Losing It.

2011-06-09T17:08:00.000-04:00

today is hot. not as hot as yesterday, but hot. yesterday night my fat, pregnant ass got into bed wearing nothing but some undies and a large sports bra (which, i would like to point out no longer looks its size, but instead an extra small). i wanted to cry. instead i screamed. the fans in our 3rd floor apartment did nothing but push the hot air from one side of the room to the other. i placed on fan at the foot of our bed, tossed and turned all night, only to wake up sweaty and even more pissed off.

don't get me wrong, i love summer. normally, i even love the heat and the sweat and all of it. i eat it up. i wear little clothing and fucking worship every last day. but this summer is a little different. i can't wear little clothing because i am no longer a little person. i'm a chick with a flesh watermelon shoved up her skirt. my thighs stick together when i walk and my arms look chubby. it's all for this little girl who's growing inside me and it makes me feel better when she's flipping and kicking around, but still... i'm fucking uncomfortable. and this is only the beginning.

i want to make a mojito and sit outside. maybe get a little tipsy and walk around the square, go play on hereford's swing set. instead i will just stick to the swing set. it's all sort of nuts watching your body become not your body. looking at your ass in the mirror and barely recognizing that it's your own wide frame that you're staring at. but it is all okay. it has to be. or i will melt down again, like i did today, and throw my smoothie on the floor only to have to clean it up and sweat some more.

i should probably read or write something. maybe sign up to take the GRE. but right now all i want to do is skip french class, apologize to my boyfriend for being a hot (literally) pregnant mess, and maybe take a nap in my air conditioned car.

Seriously.

2011-03-12T12:16:00.002-05:00

This is all mine. I believe I will still jump up and down with a bucket o' beer at age 60.

I Don't Care Who You Are...

2011-03-12T12:08:00.003-05:00

So it's Saturday. It is now officially spring break. Spring break, or the idea of it, has definitely changed over the past few years. I mean, now it's more of a thank god I get a break and less of where da party at?! but that could have something to do with the fact that booze is out of the question when you're 15 weeks pregnant. Either way, I really want to dance. And if this isn't a dance theme I don't know what is. So now I'm off to search old Thursdays dance anthems. This will be super fun. Now if I could just get out of bed...

Bury This In My Hamper Next To The Punctured Lung. This Letter Will Self Destruct.

2011-02-11T09:47:00.002-05:00

Her foot was in my mouth or not her foot but her hand, or rather her tongue but not sexually. Even though sex had been discussed in exchange for what sat quietly on the plate. Her tongue became a fist and then not her fist, but a hangnail dangling from her big toe, ticking like her mother’s grandfather clock, smelling like pickled beets and Dove soap. We rolled down the parking deck ramp as if it were a hill, not sledding, but arms wrapped tight around our bruised banana bodies. Building layers of grass stains while gaining speed, a different speed than what the plate held, a different speed than her Huffy, the same-ish speed as a thrust or a right hook or a tuck and roll out of her moving car. We went from bleachers and No-Doz to Crosby Street and rolled dollar bills. I don’t remember what house it was but I’m sure the dumpster still smells like diapers and Cool Water Cologne. The street became a mattress that we slept on, we ate Nacho Cheesier Doritos and tried to cover The Rolling Stones. But my voice cracked like the seatbelt she didn’t wear and the gargled words that came up like bacon grease before it all congealed and clogged the throat. My throat is fine. But fine isn’t a word and that mix tape is still buried in my ribcage with her turquoise ring.

Today The Sun Came Out

2011-02-03T17:39:00.004-05:00

You know winter has gone on too long when the tiniest hint of sunshine makes you want to spend the day driving around: window shopping, running your fingers over books you don't buy, a Target stop that ends up with eighty dollars spent on spearmint body wash and chewable vitamins.

You find yourself stir crazy at the prospect of spending forty minutes in your apartment. You are actually anxious to get to David's Bridal so some Midwestern woman can wrap a measuring tape around your most self-conscious body parts for the two wedding you're in this summer.

You tell yourself, Just make it through February. Then the birds will chirp outside your window and these large barren trunks will sprout into lush greens, reds, violets...

You make yourself write, but nothing you're supposed to because it's so damn hard to feel like writing when everything outside is dressed in various shades of gray.

You eat a gummy vitamin and have to force yourself to stick to the serving size because they're so damn tasty. You take a nap and dream of diving into a pool.

Hello and Other Junk.

2011-01-30T19:55:00.000-05:00

I keep changing the title of this thing. I can't seem to figure out what I want to do with this blog. Maybe it has something to do with the word blog. I hate it. It makes me feel like a phony.

Regardless, I have decided to start blogging. To become a blogger. To transcribe my thoughts onto this damn blog for a bunch of (or maybe two or three) strange folks to read.

Here's my deal with blogging: I don't understand why anyone would want to read the mindless thoughts of a 27 year old chick from Akron, Ohio. I mean who gives a shit, right? I barely do. But recently I've been "surfing" and have found a few blogs (again, barf) that caught this ADD mind of mine for a hot sec. And I found myself thinking, Hey, I could do this. If anything, it will get me writing on a daily (err, weekly?) basis.

So here I go. And maybe, just maybe, I might have something to say.

You Are A Contemporary Caveman (as seen in Staccato Fiction)

2011-01-30T19:48:00.001-05:00

You are a completely contemporary caveman. Fleshy body covered with matted hair. Eyes covered with ancient sleep and an American Spirit hangs from between your chapped lips. Slingshot tucked in your back pocket and you can’t figure out how to use that iPhone I bought you for Christmas. I tell people you love Halloween so much you wear that costume year round. I don’t know. They might just think you’re homeless.

The way you stabbed the Thanksgiving turkey at my mom’s house last year. I had to remind you it was already dead. Sometimes you let me throw a flannel around your shoulders and as I button it up your chest I realize just how animalistically sexy you look. Your hair is actually quite lovely. Thick, shiny, shoulder length. It must be that raw meat diet you’re on. I admit, at first it was a little difficult watching you eat my pet cat, Sugar-tits. But after a while I got used to you hunting strays in the alley outside our apartment.

You are an extraordinarily contemporary caveman. The way your eyebrows pensively touch above the arch of your nose. Shaggy in a way that could be considered unkempt. But it’s not. You’re pre-contemporary homeless chic. The original. The best. Your birthday is on Boxing Day. You’re Canadian. I love Canada.

You are an animal on the drum set. Head thrashing with each beat. The crowd thought it was intense when you bit into your drumstick. I knew better so I went outside and caught a rat under my hat. After your set you ate it in the bathroom, washed down with toilet water. What do you care about germs? You’re my pre-soap post-anti-antibacterial gel using caveman, Caveman. My carnivorous contemporary caveman. My hot and hairy and handsome homosapien.