Self-disclosure

Hallmark movies are my thing. While I'm not ashamed to admit it, I am slightly embarrassed. I've taken great care to create a certain facade--one in which I appear to be practically stoic, pragmatic and unemotional--but I'm actually quite the opposite. I'm the overly sentimental, daydreamy type. You could even say I'm a borderline romantic, considering my love of sappy Hallmark movies (especially around the Holidays) and affinity for eighteenth and nineteenth literature. I identify with the protagonists in many, if not all, of Austen's work. The women are strong, emotionally and mentally, and confident about there abilities and skills, rather than their superficial aesthetics. Yet, interestingly, the protagonists seem to admire and fall in love with handsome men whom are more attractive aesthetically than the women themselves. Maybe it's the inevitability of the plot that attracts me; the fact that a union between protagonist and the handsome and accomplished, not to mention morally sound, man is destiny. Is it the fact that such a dashing man could overlook superficialiries and love and admire a woman for more than just her appearance? Nowadays, men and women put much emphasis on looks, less on personality and values, or so it seems. This is besides the point. I identify with these female character, and I deeply desire an outcome much like theirs, despite the fact (I'm capable of acknowledging) I'm not the same homely, plain type aesthetically. However, I am sentimental and somewhat of a mystic underneath my, occasionally, icy exterior. I guess I'm just that emotional, secretly sensitive, writerly type. Why though do I find it distasteful and difficult to admit my preoccupation with these holiday movies? Admitting it is like being mauled by a bear with your innards spilling out. Actually, I described a horrific scene, when I'm just expressing the idea of vulnerability. It's difficult to be vulnerable. Just yesterday I experienced vulnerability, needing to self disclose personal information on a coffee date. No matter how often and simple it is to talk about oneself, it's somewhat scary to divulge information. Fear of rejection? Or fear of disapproval? Fear of over sharing; tmi, colloquially speaking? Maybe, like many things, the answer is a convoluted mixture of nonsensical things that are really quite simple.

Conversations

So, I've been online dating for almost two years now and I'm learning new things about these specimens, the ones we call men, on a daily basis. Most, if not all, of my observations are somewhat banal, but nevertheless, useful. I read, as I am sure many women do too, on men's profiles that they seek a companion or person or woman with whom they would like to be able to have and sustain (intellectual and/or philosophical) conversations. That men wish to be able to have thoughtful and meaningful discussions may sound promising, but in reality, the men requesting such events are unable to begin or maintain such a conversation. Men aren't good conversationalists. True, we know this and we've known this to be fact for forever. Men don't want to share their feelings and they sure aren't going to be vulnerable and put themselves out there, which oddly enough, that is what the woman does and is expected to do in a sense. With that said, one would think online dating would be a perfect platform for all men, especially the ones that are fearful or anxious about starting up a conversation with women. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be the case. All too often I am messaged stupid lines of text that require zero thought. I've also come to recognize a copy-paste message among other effortless attempts to engage me in conversation, such as the ubiquitous one liner, "hey." Men who don't ask questions seem disinterested and uninterested, which leads me to believe my role as the woman seems to be ego-booster or immediate cure-for-boredom. Thoughts?

Discovery: Fascinating Phenomena of the Male Mind

November, also known as my favorite month, has flown by rather quickly. Naturally, interesting things have happened since my last post. Previously, I was committed to "winning" NaNoWriMo...that is until I didn't write one day, and then I didn't write the following day, and, of course, a pattern ensued. I have been writing a poem here and there, as well as adding small additions to my novellas I'm working on. I also took a part time job. I never expected to be working in the wonderful world of retail, but hey, it's temporary. Actually, everything is temporary. Dating is temporary, or so I make it so.

I dated a guy for two weeks this month, but I was never exactly interested. In fact, after the first time I met him, I was watching a Sex and The City episode where Carrie goes out with a guy that just isn't her type. She refers to dating him as if she's trying him on like a dress. As I was watching the episode, a light bulb, figuratively, of course, appeared above my head. Well, after a second date, I couldn't take any more so I promptly ended it. Phew. My special friend in Hungary, whom I'm not sure I've mentioned, has proven himself to be quite the animal. He has been exhibiting a complete lack of self-control, as well as possessing no morals whatsoever. As a stereotypical representation of the contemporary man, I have to say I'm kind of, if not completely, disgusted with his behavior. This guy isn't the first Capricorn (yes, I did just make an astrological reference) I've come across. From my observations, they prove to be shitty long-term partners and share similar characteristics that I find to be savage and downright annoying. They have a need for speeding things up, and from the two I've encountered, both contend with an incompatibility between woman and commitment. Honestly though, what's the point in a guy 'buying' when he can get so much for free?

I've figured out my friend's pattern of behavior, so kudos to me, right? Generally, we talk or text or video chat on a daily basis, but every so often, he disappears for a few days. Well, I've done some investigative reporting (I've won an award for this for real) and the results are fascinating. Alright, so there are a little more than four thousand miles, and a decade in age difference, between us, and he's single. Putting that to the side, I've discovered that when he ceases to exist in my reality, he's sleeping around. I asked bluntly to which he confirmed my suspicions. What's so interesting is that we're friends, maybe a little more than your average friend definition, but he disappears every time he has sex with some woman (the last one being old, according to his own words). It seems he experiences some sort of guilt or else he'd be talking to me, after he's finished with whatever woman he's used as a receptacle. We entered into an argument, well, I started it when I told him he uses women. He sees his behavior as a positive where I see it as the objectification and commodification of women. He doesn't care for or about these women--he just uses them. He complains the women he dates are not bright enough, not well-travelled enough, not sophisticated enough, blah blah blah... for him. Of course, I am all of those things (grin to self). He has no desire to know the women, be friends with them, just nothing outside of the sheets, yet he disagrees with my stance. He thinks he's living an authentic life as part of counter culture: not letting rules limit his options and or choices, freedom of sexual expression, etc. Naturally I told him he is the culture of our time, he is the contemporary man promulgating this era of sex with no strings attached. It's casual, he says. There is no such thing as casual, but we're talking about a man, and men, that don't enjoy feeling feelings. I think his argument is bullshit. Absent from his behavior and mindset are morals. He says he has values, but who knows. Seriously, luring a married woman into a potentially compromising situation, just because sex is natural, doesn't speak sainthood to me. Parasitic amoebae are natural too. I think comparing him to a potentially deadly single cell organism is actually a well fitting paradigm for his character. Still, I'm drawn to his charismatic, charming, extroverted personality. Is he a caring, kind, sweet guy? Yes, yes he is. Can he be faithful, committed or loyal? He says so, but he has yet to prove his abilities.

Do you think I'm right (I doubt I'm wrong) about his behavior being stereotypical for a majority of men in our society/culture today? I'm not going to generalize and say all men are like my friend, but I've come in contact with many who share similar traits. I do think many men view women as things to be used, as if a woman is commodity, and I think my friend is trying to spin his behavior in a positive light when in reality, he's as far from being a gentleman.

NaNoWriMo: Challenge Accepted

So I've made an executive decision. I will be participating in NaNoWriMo. I've already completed day one successfully with the addition of 2042 words to one story. I wrote for two hours and completely lost track of time. I'd like to prove to myself I can write fifty thousand words. I want to be a novelist so one must do novelist things.

I'm in a creative mood, as you can tell, so, I've also started a new self-portrait series. I don't know what to call it, but I'm playing with the idea of something being hallow and hollow at the same time. Blasphemy isn't the right word to describe it, but it's closer than anything else I can think of. 

It's Fall and things seem to be falling apart, so that's a good thing...

It's my favorite time of year, Fall, and things seem to be falling apart (but they're bound to come back together sometime!). Career, friends, relationships--everything is temporary even if they seem long term. I seem to be choosing the wrong men, but each new specimen is a drastic improvement over the previous, so I'm learning something. I try to have an open mind, I'm flexible about differences, and I'm trying to move past superficial bullshit as soon as possible. The latest guy, who lasted a whole three weeks, was rigid, ontologically focused on some nonsensical thing(s), and had a restrictive mindset. Although cute and intelligent, he's emotionally immature and confused. But…whatever. I'm just still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to learn from this experience.

Dating update, check. Career update, let's forgo that topic until a later date. Friends, yes lets discuss this. I loathe when 'friends' don't want me to know something, especially when it's about me. I can only take my friend(s) being arrogant, gossiping asses on a rare basis. Maybe it's a Southern thing, to talk about you to a mutual friend behind your back about some ludicrous thing, and when confronted, take offense. It's alright though, I have a Hungarian guy that I've become close friends with. We just clicked; we can talk about anything; and we can be honest with one another. So on the friend front, I've hit the jackpot.

I haven't written much lately, which could possibly be why I've felt anxious and moody. Or it's just me (probably). I've thought about writing, but my internship is time consuming. The drive, which is an ineffable experience, is mentally draining, and not sustainable or green, at all. It'll be ok though. At least I keep telling myself that...

Happy (Inter)National Coffee Day and other stuff

So in honor of (inter)national coffee day, I added money to my ever-decreasing Starbucks card balance.  I'm so close to gold status--I need that personalized gold card, because that will mean I'm a super important person--I won't give up now.

On a more intellectual note, I've been busy thinking about writing. As far as poetry goes, I'm lacking inspiration (I need some, to the universe: hint hint) I've been considering changing the narrative of one piece (which falls into the category of erotic fiction--no I won't post an excerpt) and proceeding with the other (which is regular fiction).

Lastly, I've been having crazy dreams: drowning, crazy people in a hotel, going back to school, stuck in school, etc. Alright, enough nonsensical rambling for now…if you wanna talk/write me, you know where to find me (either on Google+ or snuggled up with a blanket wearing fluffy socks reading Wilkie Collins' The Moonstone…I wish)

Life Stuff

Good afternoon, reader,

I returned from a fantastic European trip last week. The post-vacation depression is now running its course, naturally, and I'm evaluating and reevaluating what exactly I'd like to get out of this weird thing called life. I've been going on interviews here and there--take today for example. I drove an hour this morning to discuss a sales role, when in fact the guy tried to sell me a marketing position. It would have been a big time saver if he had just stated what role I would fit in, in his organization, by email. Let's just say I'm not buying what he tried to sell me.

It's just that kind of day...

I started this poem (see below) days ago but only wrote the draft down today. The first four lines feel right--I cannot say that for the rest of the work in progress (I guess that's why I say it's a work in progress). I'm not thrilled with this work. Some of it feels right, but overall it doesn't express what I really want. So illogical. Anyway, this day feels like the end of The Dark Night Rises except Batman doesn't come back and all hope is lost. I just want things to get better…I'm gonna go cry now…while, probably, he, in his own world, doesn't even remember me...

The truth is

I said never
but didn't really mean it.
I said ever
but I didn't really mean it either.
The truth, I wished it would be
like the movies--
I'd get out of the car
you'd see me
walk towards me
and with your arms
wrapping around me,
you'd hold me.
The reality, much simpler.
Emptiness, a fullness,
enveloped me
when I saw you
standing there
saying nothing,
except it was nice to see me.
It was still nice to see me.
Do you remember,
do you remember saying that?
I'm mad at you.
I'm mad at you
for what you did and didn't do,
for what you said and didn't say.
I told you
not to say it was nice,
not to say it was nice to see me,
not to think of me anymore.
Okay. It's clear.
I've been punished.
When he kissed me
I wished it was your kiss.
When he held my hand
I wished it was your hand.
When he brushed his fingertips
over my face-I closed my eyes
and you were there
like you never were.
He's gone now,
but you never,
never left my mind,
just like the last
sweet moment
before the end.

AAC ©2014

Draft: Broken Hearts

Broken Hearts 

Your mother called me last night 

to tell me you killed yourself 

the day before. 

It was a dream and I woke up crying,

believing now, it's over, for real. 

Once I explained to you 

the difference, in a LinkedIn Letter because you ignored me while you said you thought about me, 

between mourning 

and melancholia--

the difference between breaking down 

a memory or swallowing all of them whole, 

with one method making it nearly

impossible to deal with the pain you caused. 

I'd never met a more colder, crueler

man than you when I remember--

that time in July on the bench at midnight, 

that time in August at the gym at six, 

that time in May at the park at seven

that time in Summer at half past five

when I could feel the sun burning 

my skin and droplets of sweat 

started to bead up, 

when you said you had no feelings. 

You said I broke your heart,

after I asked you if you loved me 

and you said no, 

standing there with your arms folded,

checking the time on your watch; 

the one with Batman 

glued to the middle of the dial,

only because I ruined everything

for you.  

I listened and swallowed your words, 

like rusted nails, razors and blades 

you'd fine at an abandoned junk yard

of unwanted odds and ends,

ripping and cutting the inside 

of what was left

of my late afternoon soul. 

You said it was all my fault.

AAC ©2014

Another poem in progress

Why

I have nightmares when I wake up. 

My heart beats too fast my cheeks pink up I can’t breathe.

It feels just like you just left me again. 

Stupid and foolish, that's how I feel, thinking you'd want me this time. 

Sometimes I think you don't care, did you, about me.

You came back to me cobbled together, but weren’t really there.

Over and over I put myself into your life just to be pushed away and pulled back.

Unimportant I felt, though you said you changed, you made an effort, you tried.

Just be the man and honest with me with us.

I can’t not think of you in the morning first and last at night and all the time in-between.

No point in fighting to forget you; I’m strong, but I’m still just a girl stuck in love.

New Poem, work in progress: Calm Before the Storm

Calm Before the Storm

You parked your car and walked towards me for the last time

when I shivered from the air, icy, and your glare.

You, dressed in khakis and a pleather jacket,

adjusted your aviators, chrome colored, and looked down at me.

My reflection in your lenses looked small and my expression,

turned from pale and placid to blank stare.

Your eyes you repeatedly refused to reveal

cut through me when you yelled

you betrayed me, you broke my trust.

I stood there with each word stabbing me,

and I spoke nothing of value, I offered nothing but exhaustion

while, in silence, the trees dressed in green stood

and people walked by watching.

Only when you puffed up all six feet two inches of yourself—

your teeth showing, your neck erect, your shoulders broad,

your arms out, your legs stiff and feet firmly placed in the gravel,

did you feel comfortable in your skin for the first time.

For the first time you asked me if I was afraid of you.

Each word you spewed at me softened when I said no.

Your body deflated and I heard air expel from your lips,

the ones I wanted to kiss so badly before,

and with fists stuffed in your pockets,

you said see you later.

©AAC 2014

Online Dating: Worst Experience Ever

I want to preface this piece by stating I'll be taking my profiles off sites in the near future. And to my parents, for all the anger/annoyance I've caused, I'm sorry.

I've tried Okcupid. I've tried Jdate. I've tried PlentyOfFish. And I've had a horrible, and occasionally terrifying,  experience with online dating. I signed up with Okcupid (Okc) in February of 2013 one night when I was bored and couldn't fall asleep. It was fun and flattering at the beginning to receive messages from guys within thirty seconds of creating a profile. With just my photo alone I had guys proposing...haha. The first guy I met was in his mid twenties and his tag line was that he was a 'British Jew.' He was born and raised in Georgia, and had a pretty thick southern accent (ick). I hadn't realized I just met the first category of man I'd be meeting over and over: the (not too bright) liar. A few weeks later I met a guy I'd end up falling for. Again, I met the second category of common man: this is difficult for me to say...the (intelligent) mentally unstable. I should have known I was getting myself into trouble when I thought my deceased grandfather, a psychiatrist, would have found him to be fascinating and intelligent. 

Along the way, I met an engineer that wrote code and had a hair cut resembling a phallic object (you know what I'm saying), an insecure UGA grad, a pilot (that I set up with my best friend and she liked him, I knew she would), a Feeder with a fat fetish, a lawyer with a really annoying laugh, a Falafel restaurant and food truck owner, a Vanderbilt civil engineer that looked like a skinny ass chicken, an accountant that said guys don't get raped in Panama (I told him to watch Deliverance before his bro-trip), an incredibly shy in person/assertive online film guy, a dog food salesman that wouldn't call me to ask me out, and I'm forgetting the countless others. The one with the penis hair was most definitely the creepiest. He was polite enough to ask me if I'd like a ride home, but I felt it would be safer to walk myself home, in midtown, in the dark, than to get in the car with him. The award for rudest guy is split between the Falafel guy and the civil engineer. Falafel guy looked me up and down, sighed, and when the cashier asked if our Starbucks order was together, he responded with, "sort of, but not really." Civil engineer got to Starbucks early and offered to stand in line with me while I bought my drink. Civil engineer asked me out, for the record, and he was really quite skinny. I ended up going out with a talented musician for six weeks after we met a second first time. He fell asleep on the 'first date' (I don't call vodka and coke zero a date), had a habit of snorting a certain substance because, as his mother said, working over 120 hours a week isn't enough, and he was always exhausted. I ended it after continually being asked "when will you love me??" (I never intended to...) and being told he had already chosen a replacement even before he met me. Nice guys, nice guys...

Despite the bad coffee dates, many of the messages I received were quite entertaining. I took the opportunity to respond to these guys truthfully, which means I called them out on their shit. Most recently, I was named a Facebook stalker. (1) The guy messaged me his Facebook link. (2) His Okc profile stated he was single and looking for friends, dating, and sex. (3) His Facebook says he's in a relationship. (4) He's a poor bullshitter aka liar when confronted, and blocked me when I called him out! I was also accused of looking pretentious by one guy because I use "big words," to which I replied "one cannot 'look' pretentious. You either are or you're not." Let's just say he regressed and his next two messages were infantile. Clearly he doesn't handle blatant rejection well. Another guy messaged me and I found out he was expelled from high school for grand larceny at 15. When I responded with "that's a felony," he followed up with "yes but I was 15 so I'm not a felon. Do you smoke [pot]?" 

From these websites I've met guys that use substances for reasons they shouldn't, have a history of criminal activity, lie conspicuously, aren't intelligent, and most often, they tell me my expectations are too high. I've given it a lot of thought and you're probably thinking, well you're the common denominator. You're correct, but it took quite a bit of time to uncover the truth in certain instances. I guess I was too nice in a way (which if you know me sounds like the punch line of a joke). I did give certain guys second, even third, chances. I learned I'm pretty damn good at expressing myself (who knew?), I can love, I am accepting and nonjudgmental, I'm interesting, I'm intelligent, and of course my high expectations are causes of great disappointment (a different civil engineer said I was disappointing after refusing to send selfies). 

Things I say to guys:

-Don't tell me something I like (TV show, movie, music, etc.) is stupid in your initial message. It's rude and putting someone down isn't a way to get someone to like you. 

-If you preface your statement with "my my," I take it my expectations are too high for you. 

-If you don't know what a word I use means, LOOK IT UP.

-Never ask me if you can ask me a question (I delete your avatar and message from my inbox). 

-Never discuss anything sexual, it's creepy, crude, and immature. 

-Be a man and plan a date. This is where feminism has destroyed the definition of masculinity. I've come to the conclusion I'm more masculine (confrontational/courageous) than some of these men. 

At first glance, it seems I've wasted time dealing with, messaging, meeting, and talking with all these guys. It's not. It is exhausting, but like I know what type of job I don't want, I know exactly what type of guy I don't want in my life. 

Melancholy Monday

Ugh. That's right. You guessed it. Heartbreak. Cliché. I know.

It happened again, for the second time. There's one thing in this world I cannot stand: lies. Why I even write about this here, I do not know. All I can say is I'm so disappointed. The odd thing is I'm not mad at him, at all. In fact, I just feel angry, hurt, and sad. I may just have a complete book of poetry from this experience.

All I've been doing is writing; poetry on paper, on my laptop, or in my head. At least I have loved someone; I didn't get much in return, just a hint that he really cared: "You have to have loved someone in order to hate them." I guess that's as close I was ever going to get from him about how he felt towards me.

I accept people where they are, the problem was he didn't want someone to accept him, or he was just playing me the whole time. That's the sad part. Maybe one day he'll feel that I loved him, accept it or appreciate it. Everyone is worthy of someone caring about and loving them, no matter what. You can argue with me about that, but let's just agree to disagree.

I don't know how long it will take for me to get over this. It feels like it will take a lifetime.

Work in progress

Pain

I’m in the beginning of the end of being in love and pain.

Nothing else except cliché causes pain like this—

clear enough that the thinnest paper soaks it up

like invisible ink, staining nothing but scratching marks

upon my scarred soul, hiding between breathable air that’s left

and the miniature molecular structures of cellulose that house

what’s left of my faulty memory.

I think of you first when the sunshine crawls across my face

in the morning; the warmth on my skin reminds me

of what I wanted from you but will never receive.

With you, I wanted something shared,

but now with a sadness and shyness set in,

something is too sad to explain. I have heard

before I am instantly replaceable

with the smart girl with dark hair down the street

and the uncertainty of that statement as truth

is replaced with the certainty that I am

in fact replaceable. I am reminded of the first end,

the sense of loss nearly destroying me, but like the first,

a feeling of finality is missing from my experience.

I asked you if that moment at the park

in front of the trees when I saw myself

reflected in your sunglasses was goodbye.

You shrug—

unresponsive, you cannot, nor do you want,

to break us completely
I am left to assume. 

I have heard I am quick to move on, 

just not this time.

©AC 2014

I'm sorry in advance, but it's because I love you

It's been four years (well almost) since I got my leather notebook. It's been through, to say the least, a lot. Writing has gotten me through four years of college, many middle of the night nights where I can't sleep because I was either distraught over something, perhaps something frivolous, or nightmares or when I felt compelled to write, probably with a broken heart. My notebook, and the collection of writings stuck between the pages, holds my hopes, dreams, and desires, and when I couldn't speak, it was my only outlet. 

As I reflect on the last four years, I look to my notebook. When I purchased it, it was brand new with 'perfect' unfrayed edges, embossed leather, no rips, no tears (and no tears), no scribbles from trying to use dried out pens, no inky blots. The paper was fresh and new, not too white but not too yellow. The lines had incredible potential and each page was like rebirth. Over time, lines and pages swelled with my thoughts, automatic writings, poems, quotes, pictures from dreams and dreams, and tears did fall, only to be soaked up like invisible ink. When I was alone, my notebook collected my thoughts and feelings, and relieved me, momentarily, of pain that didn't physically exist. I struggled with losing things, and people, and when ears had heard enough, my notebook never tired of repetitive thoughts. Towards the end of my notebooks journey, I was overly expressive. 

I guess I'm just highly sensitive and emotional, despite how I choose to put myself on display. I know exactly who I am and what I want in this life. I understand how my surety could be rather unsettling, but I've known myself since I was four, and I have a clear vision. I know I am exactly where I should be and I take initiative. I may make others feel uncomfortable, but I'm not afraid to do what I think is right or needs to be done. I worry about the outcome, whether or not my actions will drive someone away, but I put my selfish fear aside because we're all here to learn and I can't let my fear of losing someone get in the way of helping a soul. I have to live authentically, but I don't ever want to hurt someone, even though my choice to be helpful can be quite painful for both of us. 

Weirdness

This has been the worst Spring Break in a long time. The weather sucks; it's cold, dreary, and just makes me want to sleep. To top it all off, guys are weird. I am working on a poem, but so far, it's shit. Everything is just…meh.

C4ward March Blogathon Day 2

The Ontology of It

Before he told me I'd be a world famous novelist,
a New York Times best selling author of poetry 
and things, and I wonder. 
Does success come at the end, does it
only come at the end or like learning to let go 
of these repetitive thoughts, is it a process. 
I tell him, you're already successful
just becoming more successful, and I wonder. 
Is that what it is. That what it is is.

Then in the middle it was hard. 
The middle is when I feel the least of it.
The anticipation, which they say is highest before,
turns to doubt and despair and my hair 
ends up in knots because I'm in the middle 
and it's hard and in a loss for words, 
I think I've got nothing.

Now, when I'm done,
looking at the past future in the present
judgement sets in, snuggling up 
against self-criticism and this is not what I envisioned
this is not, and it stays stuck
there for a while and I think at the beginning
I wanted happiness, no stress, 
to work to write to make it. 
Will I know when I make it when I've made it
or will I know I've made it when I'm making it 
or will I know I'm making it when I've made it.
Or will someone just tell me when I've made it
and then I'll just know for sure. 

©AAC 2014

C4ward March Blogathon Day 1

You Asked Me Why So I Write To You

When I was thirteen

they called me Ice Queen

and I didn't say a word. 

Sometimes I can't say how I feel.

It's not that I don't want to

it's not that I don't. 

Sometimes I can't

bring myself to speak,

to spill my soul over you,

so I write. I write

when you want me, 

with honesty and emotion, 

to tell you what I want, need, know, think.
It's like a dream

where I can't scream--

one hand around my throat

the other over my mouth, 

and I struggle to whisper a sound. 

I write for you to try 

to understand me

I write for you to try 

to know me. 

I write when I can't express to you
what I want when you stare at me 

for the longest time and the words 

get stuck at the back of my throat. 

I feel best through written words,

words I string together, 

a candy necklace.

I'm partly broken, a little sour,
sometimes sweet and I know myself 

enough to know I can, I will speak 

to you through poetry.

I'll write for you and it'll be enough. 

It has to be enough. 

©AC 2014

There have been ups, but mostly downs

I'm not going to lie, I'm going to be perfectly honest when I say that this past week has been shit. It's a culmination of things. An amalgamation of stress, tiredness, and disappointment among other things. I've been writing more frequently--it's my way of meditation. I've written a few poems the last few days, not sure if I actually feel better because I just feel the need to write more. 

On another note, I have about eight weeks till graduation and I'm looking forward to it, immensely. I've lost most, if not all, motivation in regards to school. The days of being an overachiever may have passed and I'm okay with that. I feel burnt out. Rebellious. I don't want to read nor do anything I don't want to nor do I feel like being personable. 

I keep thinking about the meaning of things, the meaning of situations, events, meeting people, etc. People are disappointing me a lot lately. It's annoying and frustrating, but mainly disappointing. I'm tired of dishonesty and incongruency and I don't feel I have the time to waste. I guess I'm a believer in maximizing efficiency of time, in particular my time. Time feels fast to me. This feels difficult. 

Snowpocalypse

So I've been stuck inside for the last 72 hours during snowpocalypse. Did I ever mention I hate winter? I think I did so I'll just continue. I went outside for twenty minutes, almost slipped ten times, and while I was outside, pretending to be 'free,' all I wanted to do was go back inside. To alleviate the boredom, I read. I finished Octavia Butler's Dawn. Towards the end of the book, there was a ton of interspecies, between human and alien, sex. But I was so bored, it was boring and just plain awkward (crickets...). 

Here's a conversation I had with myself about the book:

Q. Was the book entertaining?  

A. It was a bit. 

Q. What type of not so hidden hidden messages were in the book?

A. Clearly the author is antiwar. She based the premise of the story on a completely disastrous war--so devastating aliens had to rescue the remaining humans from earth because they completely destroyed their environment and wouldn't stop killing each other. Butler is a feminist, says so in the back of the book, and her protagonist is a strong, black female who eventually becomes stronger, physically due to genetic engineering. I'm thinking she has a thing for Asian men since the protagonist ends up 'mating' with one. 

Q. What genre is the book?

A. Science fiction. 

Q. Would you recommend the book?

A. If you like sci-fi where the main character has a lot of interspecies sex. It's like a cross between Hunger Games and a book with aliens. 

Q. Why'd you read this book?

A. Because I had to. 

Q. Would you read the rest of the books in the series?

A. No. 

Attempt Numero Uno @ love/erotic poetry :/

Bloom

Standing in front of the mirror
I take my shiny chandelier earrings off 
when I see you leaning
against the door frame in tight white 
boxer briefs. I feel your eyes moving over my body--
my hair, my lips, my neck, my breasts, my waist, my legs, 
tracing my silhouette, licking and then biting your bottom lip, 
leaving it redder and swollen, 
as if the temptation was as strong 
and warm as the glow of your skin, 
smooth like melted caramel. 
I feel you behind me, your bare chest and arms 
against my shoulders. Holding me, 
under the glow of one dim fluorescent bulb, 
your hands feel my body's response to your touch. 
Each pressure point, like droplets of rain running
down the fleshy petals of a Hibiscus, 
opens my soul to you 
for you are the sun and soil and rain 
and I am your flower. 

Draft of Paradox of Binding (Poem)

Paradox of Binding

Weather dreary and grey

while thoughts thud through my head

heavy and useless bracket my existence.

Days like this—

waiting rooms where the magazines are three months old

with crinkled corners, creased and ripped

across his hot body and the sexiest sex moves

section torn out by ravenous fingers,

until you, interrupted by the calling of your name,

look and stand up to go home.

Life performs as a pattern, so predictable, made monotonous,

the mold only broken when presented with new experience—

breathing, climax, inevitable resolution.

Dramatic passion as pattern

played again, played over again.

Repetition binds

but does anything repeat, repeat exactly as before

as I dreamed it, as I thought it, as I said it

that day at that moment in that place?

Nothing new isn’t novel,

a novel isn’t novel

but it’s different every time

or I wouldn’t be told

that isn’t yours, that doesn’t belong to you.

Maybe it does if you believe

in rebirth and then it’s all mine
and I steal it from myself.

©AC 2014

I hate winter

I hope the title of my post made my feelings clear. I despise the cold, loathe the snow, abhor everything about winter…except, the clothes. I like the clothes (boots included). I'm feeling like I should have something really great to write, a poem of course, but nothing has come to fruition. Maybe it's because I'm writing it in my head first or maybe it's a lack of motivation. Hmm…I'm thinking it's because of the weather. I'll take the opportunity now, in this moment, on this line, to thank all my G+ follows. I appreciate it. Without you…I'd still be myself, but with less followers--no followers to be exact. I have no novel ideas, very very sad...

Just a poem

I'd like to preface this piece by stating that I normally don't post my poetry, here, or anywhere. Like most of me, I tend to keep it to myself. 

###

Dealer

It's difficult for me to let go, but when I do, I lay all my cards on the table.  I feel it all over, over, over again, flush in the face. I write it out in letters, revealing myself to you, to you I spell it out in a million maroon liquid spades. I walk away and won't, while my heart folds, look back to see—the pieces collapse into a bloodied pool of chips—and I wait for you by making myself up, back up, not waiting at all. No tricks again. The card is yours to deal and you’ll place it in the palm of my hand open.

© AC 2013

Everything is not alright

I could tell you about myself, but you still wouldn't know me

14 weeks till parole, I mean graduation

This has been a tough few months. Those of you who read my posts and/or follow me, or maybe the collective 'you' in you're are really just a bunch of bots (yay for alliteration!), who knows, ahhh I digress, you know I'm rather sensitive for an INTJ. Actually, I'm just better at expressing my feelings through written word. I figured that out when someone was talking to me about an opportunity and I said "I'm really excited, I would love to do that," and I could feel my face and it didn't exactly feel as if it was giving off the "I'm really excited, I would love to do that"face. At least I acknowledge my shortcomings. I keep dreaming about a certain someone, maybe once a week, and I'm not the type of person to talk myself into hating someone I couldn't exactly stay mad at, let alone get mad at, so it's making it very difficult to 'move on,' more specifically, I haven't met anyone recently where there's a spark…I need the damn spark! What's not helping either is the sample pool of potential dating specimens. I've met some quirky guys, nothing wrong with quirky, I'm quirky, but I've also encountered some not so nice ones too. It comes with the territory, but it's kind of hard for me to wrap my mind around the fact that I 'met' (only messaged online) a guy that told me I don't eat enough (who the hell do you think you are?!), I shouldn't and don't need to work out (again, really who the hell do you think you are?!), and in order for us to have a relationship (again, I never met him!), I'd need to compromise with him (isn't this like a we've been dating for six months talk??) and allow him to cook for me (maybe this could work…), but his cooking would have to be his way because he refuses to cook "healthy hipster Whole Foods crap" (ehhh, I don't think it's gonna work...) and I would need to gain a few pounds (nope. Definitely not gonna work…). I've very picky, I've come to terms with this too. I'm not asking guys out for coffee either anymore. Sometimes I think I'm the one with balls, but I just can't find them…Besides looking for someone I'd actually be willing and wanting to spend time with, I'm working on my last semester. Hopefully I'll graduate with my remaining hair and the migraines and anxiety will magically go poof. Until then, I'll cry just a little each time I find a strand of hair not on my head. One day, my hair will be as magnificent as it was in Kindergarten.

I'm backkkk…with my usual attitude

     I'm back. Spring semester has sprung, I mean begun, and this is my last undergraduate semester, ever. Am I excited, overjoyed, ecstatic? You bet I am. The first week is the toughest (I know the rhythm and sound of that sentence reminds you of some Sheryl Crow song, but I assure you, it's a novel idea, maybe). I've been pissed this week.
     My roommate is annoying. She's always cold or something isn't working correctly in the apartment (and they don't submit a maintenance request; no common sense?) or, again, they're cold, e.g. "the cold makes me like, physically ill, like, I'm not from here," or people, in general, feel the need to tell me what I "should" or "shouldn't" do.
     The moral of the story is that I don't want to live with roommates again--that is unless we're really good friends and have the same desired cleanliness level and they have common sense, or I love them. I don't even have time to mention the used-to-be-white-bathtub-which-is-now-grey and getting grayer every few days…seriously, what do you need Tide HE laundry detergent for if you're washing your clothes in a bathtub…sigh...