I wanted to win.
It’s stupid and childish
I know, I get it.
And who fuckin’ cares, right?
But Got Damn It.
It was in the bag!
All bets were off.
On the tip of everyone’s tongue,
“And the winner is…”
Like synchronized swimmers, ME!
What. The. fuck.
Who fucked up?
Who’s to blame?
Where did I go wrong?
Continue reading “shoulda been me”
He’s just too much. It’s like I’m living with a teenager. And it’s really ethereal; he gets on your nerves in this really subtle, papercut way. Tiny actions that add up.
He doesn’t pick up after himself, he leaves the water filter empty, he puts his dirty runners on the couch, he never washes the dishes, he comes home past 2am drunk every night – you can hear him staggering into bed, reeking of cigarettes.
That part? I can tolerate that.
Hard to believe, but it’s true.
I can tolerate all of it.
It’s the subtle shit that makes me want to blow my brains out.
He never asks me how I’m doing, he never asks how my day went. He walks into a room, interrupts a conversation and starts talking about the failed connection he just had with this woman and that.
But get this.
He doesn’t see it as a failure; there’s a kind of delusions of grandeur happening. Time and time again, women have shown in their very mercurial, catlike, non-confrontational ways: they’re not interested.
So, why don’t you get it?
They don’t write back. They don’t call back. They ignore you. Broken promises. They say thanks but no thanks by not saying it.
That part would make me wanna blow my brains out too.
Women suck at communicating with the opposite sex. Period. Continue reading “you’re not alone”
You got an hour!
Like a prison alarm – BAAAAAAANG!
Sit and write.
Close that door and swallow the stillness whole.
Throw it back like you mean it.
Take it, it’s yours.
Cuz you know that Quiet creaks opens the magic door…
Where the Still Voice lives.
The Still Voice, you know the one
Like an echo of an echo that whispers, “What about me?”
What about that book?
What about that play?
What about that movie?
What about that job?
I am a clock set on self-destruct
I am hidden, stuck behind walls to keep safe,
I am my greatest enemy,
I am the only person standing,
Yet, I am standing in my own way,
I am the finger looking to point and blame others for all my pain,
I am mad and upset,
I am lost and hidden and scared,
I am misunderstood and judged,
I am such a disappointment,
I am my worst judge.
But I am here,
And I am ready.
Mireya Sanchez Annibali, Pops The Club (Pain of the Prison System)
“This is the letter that Mitch McConnell doesn’t want you to hear. It was written by Coretta Scott King and it is about #JeffSession. I don’t believe anyone should be forced to keep quiet in our government. That goes for anyone, on any side of the aisle. And I think it’s crazy I even have to type that sentence.” – Bernardo Cubria
Chancelor Bennett was born on April 16, 1993 in Chicago. Early on in his childhood, he became obsessed with soul, jazz, and rap music. But his teachers ridiculed his aspirations. So naturally, he rebelled, and began running with the wrong crowd.
During his senior year of high school, Chancelor was busted for possession of marijuana and got a 10-day suspension.
Grounded at home, the young rapper hit a new low, but used the time to record a mixtape entitled “10 Day.” The underground project, which was full of sex and drug references, got him noticed by many music industry heavyweights.
To cope with his new-found acclaim, Chancelor’s life spiraled into a dependency on drugs and alcohol. By 18, he was a addicted to Xanax. His grandmother intervened, but to no avail, and eventually his father kicked him out of the house.
Continue reading “higher power”
FADE IN: inside a Lyft car.
She: I’ve never heard of Downey.
He: It’s South-West from there.
She: Uh-huh. How long have you been there?
He: We moved 17 years ago.
She: Oh, you bought a house.
He: No we rent.
Continue reading “stick to the weather”