I found this in an old email I sent to myself. It can't be that old...but old enough.

Belligerence can be my friend too.

I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I can only hope that I will be repaid with something beyond fallacies and sobriety.

I'll explain what i mean by that as soon as I figure that out.

Maybe that means another drink?

Maybe that means too many things.

All I know is I have triggers too, and all I can do is ride them out. I've never been one for self denial. Self discipline, maybe. At times. But there is a difference between discipline and denial, even though they may be related.

That is why I will not be ending my love affair with nicotine anytime soon.

Actually that explains more things than I'm comfortable with explaining to myself.

Andrew Jackson, all I'm asking...I forget the words, but that's where I'm headed.

And then I feel harder, better, and stronger....but not faster.

God bless hip hop. I just want to sit and look tough and scare people.

It's the little things, right?

I'm working this into a comedy routine...sorry Kenny.

That's the life that I lead. Sucka MCs are who I please.

I think my tension stems from no caffeine and no nicotine. I have smokes, but nowhere to smoke them. Coffee would be a poor chocie at 9:06 on a sunday night.

Royale with cheese.

I should just ignore the voices.

And of course, Gaga is just plain soothing. Lord knows I love a good remix. Maybe that's what I'll call my first book. Lord Knows I Love A Good Remix. It'll be a poetry book.

I'm getting magic unsecured interwebs somehow. I am intrigued, but also scared that I'll end up a black female Shia LeBoeuf in Eagle Eye.

That's a shitshow all by itself.

I need a fantastic otherworldy persona. Like Gaga, but useable in day to day life. As much as I love unitards, and feathers and bondage gear, that shit doesn't fly at the office. Believe me, I've tried.

Straight trippin.

Straight hyperbole.

The interwebs have disappeared into whatever interweb hole they came from.

Added to the list of things I love: a good horn section/sample.

I'm bringing get the fuck out the kitchen back.

I could work on a train.

This girl is sneezing, and part of me hopes its the plague. But another hour is a long time to breathe the plague in. Plague desire retracted.

On deck: "Ain't No Sunshine" - MJ. Not Casper the overly friendly ghost MJ. Wide nose, nappy hair MJ. Shit. Yes.

Dear notepad: You are saving my liiiiiife.

xoxo, Gossip Girl

Every time I hear this song, I just remember nearly dying at the hands, er wheels of a semi because I was jamming to this song so hard.

I keep hoping bad things happen to people who are probably nice. These reasons are madly irrational.

Ted Leo, take these thoughts away.

Do you believe in something beautiful? Then get up and be it!

Fuck. I can't be friends with Mia. Stupid reproductive peace of mind...

Sick to death of my depencence, fighting food to find transcendence.

If this is a must, then dying is a must. Right now.

I wish I could remember my formal logic shorthand.

You can call me Al. But only because Paul Simon said it was cool.

I want a shot at redemption.

Amy... please please please come back to us. Your vice soaked voice gives me hope.

(Re)Cue B-Boy stance.

I love "Summer Never Ends". I've been all over this song for at least five summers in a row and man, it’s like a perfect mad hella bbq jam. It's fantastic because it’s so chill and I just picture all my favorite parts of summer: sunsets, swimming pools, yards, dancing, boozes, sweaty attractive party people doing what they do best...

And dammit on a cracker, I miss the fuck out of Junior Senior. Watch out! We are! Rhythm! Bandits!

And I need to relocate my Secret Garden OBC ASAP. Le sigh.

Also new expression of anger: punch someone in the rectum. If someone's being an asshole, may as well remind them where it is.

Really, I should start using the monthly Moth topics as writing prompts. This month's prompt:

Prepare a five-minute story about the grim reaper doing a U-Turn. Dark alleys, shipwrecks, monsters, cancer, talking back to your mama and other highly dangerous situations. DO NOT GO TOWARDS THE LIGHT.

I'm replacing the five minute part with 500-1,500 words.

train ramblings after a couple asked me to move so they could sit next to each other. The date is yesterday.

Belligerence can be my friend too.

I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I can only hope that I will be repaid with something beyond fallacies and sobriety.

I'll explain what i mean by that as soon as I figure that out.

Maybe that means another drink?

maybe that means too many things.

All I know is I have triggers too, and all I can do it ride them out. I've never been one for self denial. Self discipline, maybe. At times. But there is a difference between discipline and denial, even though they may be related.
That is why I will not be ending my love affair with nicotine anytime soon.

Actually that explains more things than I'm comfortable with explaining to myself.

Andrew Jackson, all I'm asking...I forget the words, but that's where I'm headed.

And then I feel harder, better, and stronger....but not faster.

God bless hip hop. I just want to sit and look tough and scare people.

It's the little things, right?

I'm working this into a comedy routine...sorry Kenny.

That's the life that I lead. Sucka MCs are who I please.

I think my tension stems from no caffeine and no nicotine. I have smokes, but nowhere to smoke them. Coffee would be a poor chocie at 9:06 on a sunday night.

Royale with cheese.

I should just ignore the voices.

And of course, Gaga is just plain soothing. Lord knows I love a good remix. Maybe that's what I'll call my first book. Lord Knows I Love A Good Remix. It'll be a poetry book.

I'm getting magic unsecured interwebs somehow. I am intrigued, but also scared that
I'll end up a black female Shia LeBoeuf in Eagle Eye.

That's a shitshow all by itself.

I need a fantastic otherworldy persona. Like Gaga, but useable in day to day life.
As much as I love unitards, and and feathers and bondage gear, that shit doesn't fly at the office. Believe me, I've tried.

Straight trippin.

Straight hyperbole.

The interwebs have disappeared into whatever interweb hole they came from.
Added to the list of things I love: a good horn section/sample.

I'm bringing get the fuck out the kitchen back.

I could work on a train.

This girl is sneezing, and part of me hopes its the plague. But another hour is a long time to breathe the plague in. Plague desire retracted.

On deck: "Ain't NoSunshine" - MJ. Not Casper the overly friendly ghost MJ. Wide nose, nappy hair MJ. Shit. Yes.

Dear notepad: You are saving my liiiiiife.
xoxo, Gossip Girl

Every time I hear this song, I just remember nearly dying at the hands, er wheels of a semi because I was jamming to this song so hard.

I keep hoping bad things happen to people who are probably nice. These reasons are madly irrational.

Ted Leo, take these thoughts away.

Do you believe in something beautiful? Then get up and be it!

Fuck. I can't be friends with Mia. Stupid reproductive peace of mind...

Sick to death of my dependence, fighting food to find transcendence.

If this is a must, then dying is a must. Right now.

I wish I could remember my formal logic shorthand.

You can call me Al. But only because Paul Simon said it was cool.

I want a shot at redemption.

Amy... please please please come back to us. Your vice soaked voice gives me hope.

(Re)Cue B-Boy stance.

I love "Summer Never Ends". I've been all over this song for at least five summers in a row and man, its like a perfect mad hella bbq jam. It's fantastic because its so chill and I just picture all my favorite parts of summer: sunsets, swimming pools, yards, dancing, boozes, sweaty attractive party people doing what they do best...

And dammit on a cracker, I miss the fuck out of Junior Senior. Watch out! We are! Rhythm! Bandits!

And i need to relocate my Secret Garden OBC ASAP. Le sigh.

Also new expression of anger: punch someone in the rectum. If someone's being an asshole, may as well remind them where it is.

Another writing entry draft.

The night is fuzzy and muggy, partially from fireworks, partially from cigarette smoke, and partially from the drunken haze of those inhabiting it. Its summer in Kalamazoo, and something other than determination and fog is hanging on the air. It might be desperation. The night has been electric since sunset. Through the car window glass, the yellow house with yellow lights looks even hazier. People spill out of the house’s orifices and congregate around them. It’s a youngish crowd, all twenty something, mostly kids from the big public university. The latest additions to the crowd are definitely young, all barely twenty or newly twenty-one. A car door opens and black and grey three-inch curvy platform sandal with Velcro straps touches the weather-cracked asphalt. The second sandal, two pairs of sandals and one pair of sneakers do the same, and four silver doors slam in unison.

Approaching the house, the idle chatter increases a mild roar. And inside, it gets even louder, people packed shoulder to shoulder chattering away. Beer is everywhere. Beer by the keg, beer by the bottle, beer by the cupful, beer by the puddleful. The crowd pushes through the larger crowd, platform sandals in the lead, scanning for people she knows. They finally locate the host, the mutual friend of everyone at the party. Liam was just one of those guys, his round face, framed with long blond hair and a large fuzzy beard is flushed from the night’s festivities.

“Layla! Heyyy, you made it! Great to see you guys,” Liam greets everyone with hugs and handshakes, his voice deeper and more gravelly than she remembered. “There’s a keg in the basement, if you guys want beer. I think the band is starting soon. Donny’s selling cups, but tell him I said you guys were good.”

Layla smiles in response, still giddy from the hug and the demi-rockstar recognition that comes from being at a house party primarily populated by English majors. She was finally among her people.

This is what she had missed for the last four months dating George. She thought they were a beautiful affair, he an artist from the suburbs of Cleveland complementing her big city Chicago journalistic sensibilities. Which was why his phone call two months ago declaring that he just couldn’t do this anymore was at the very least a little devastating. That was his only explanation. Nothing further. That was why tonight became so important. She wanted to prove to herself that it wasn’t her, it was them. It was always them. Liam was the main target and she was locked in.
She kisses Liam on the cheek and takes her friends toward the basement. Beer is procured, and gossip is traded. The night wears on. The point in the night comes where Layla needs to take herself out of the house for a cigarette. She leaves her beer with her friends. The front porch is jammed with bodies, as well as the areas surrounding the side and back doors. She finds an open and unobstructed spot halfway down the driveway close enough to the revelry but far enough away to not feel so claustrophobic. One of the neighbors is setting off fireworks, letting everything shimmer and sparkle then explode and fade. “Wind, water, heart,” Layla murmurs to nobody in particular, as she lights her clove cigarette.

“By your powers combined,” a male voice chortles in the smoky fog, and Layla tries to see where it’s coming from. A tall shadow emerges.

“I am Captain Planet!” Layla shouts, half giddy from her beer and cigarettes and half giddy from the opportunity to impress a stranger.

“Oh my gosh, do you remember that dumb little cheer at the end?”

“You mean the one where they go ‘we’re the planeteers! You can be one too! Cause saving our planet is the thing to do!’?” Her chants punctuated with exaggerated cheerleading movies from high school.

“That’s the one,” the stranger laughs, then extends a hand. “I’m Cory.”
Layla introduces herself, smiling even though he probably can’t see her face either.

“I have a really weird question for you, Layla,”
She replies with several m’s from her throat and an invisibly raised eyebrow.

“Can I take a hit of that clove you’re smoking?”
Layla hands it to him. “Finish it, I was just finishing it to get my money’s worth. There’s like a couple drags left. Just don’t smoke the filter, that shit can be brutal.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine, Cory.”

Cory finishes the cigarette and escorts Layla back inside to the party. They find their way through the throbbing masses to the only quiet corner of the house, which is also where her friends happen to be hanging out. Introductions are made, beers refilled. Inside, with better lighting, they get a better look at each other. He’s still tall like he was outside, but it’s now apparent that he has café au lait skin, glasses and caramel colored dreadlocks. Layla and Cory dominate the conversation.

While I didn't write this, I feel this is the only appropriate place to write about the writing of others.

Taken from the 20 greatest singles of 2009 list from the editors of Spin magazine.

"Zero"
Yeah Yeah Yeahs

With her gift for sod-off squawking and tear-streaked realness, Karen O was born to lead the frisky rock revolt that the aughts never earned. So here, with a regal hip check, she strides off by her lonesome, resplendent synth riff all aquiver, cooing, "Get your leather on," as we gambol on the grave of 2009’s tragic, orgiastic flimflam.

I just gagged with absolute and utter hipster disgust. "frisky rock revolt"? "resplendent synth riff all aquiver"? Or what the fuck about the coup de fucking grace "as we gambol on the grave of 2009’s tragic, orgiastic flimflam"? Jesus Christ get me some drugs. I feel like someone took quotes from every poem from his self-indulgent undergraduate career and tried to incorporate it into a song review.

Who even uses the word "resplendent" in somewhat casual conversation? Fuck all of you.

I want your job.

The Fantastic Voyage or, Conversely, What the Bleep Do We Know?

One of the defining characteristics of Modernist writing is a sort of abstinence from expressing the personal. There is an attempt to walk the line between the interior landscape and the exterior; they try to find a balance between the interior and the exterior. There is a representation of the external universe. Visually, it is the narrowest point on the hourglass: the upper reservoir is the outside world, and the lower reservoir is the inside world. Three of the authors examined this semester walk that line in profoundly different places: Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Ezra Pound and Robert Frost all explore the ranges of this paradigm.

Intro from a take home final from the same lit class last summer. I like The hourglass visualization, and find it hard to think that I came up with that all by myself. But I think I actually did.

Backwards and in High Heels: In Defense of the Gender

“Don't forget Ginger Rogers did everything he did backwards . . . and in high heels!"
-- Bob Thaves

The experience of one given group of people cannot be accurately recorded unless one of their own does so. A person can be as close as they want to any group they want but until they are one of them, fully immersed in the scene, there is no way to truly know. Until a day is spent as an alcoholic, who can say what it is like? Until a day is spent as a Bohemian or “starving artist” who is to say that shoplifting paintbrushes is a crime? Until a day is spent as a woman, who is to say that they are irrational, absent-minded or “prone to fits of hysteria”? Literature by women about women is a relatively recent development, and it is one that has spent centuries attempting to dispel biases and prejudices. In the last two centuries women have gone from accessories to assistants to passive heroine to active heroine to anti heroine to everything else in between. Sometimes the phasing from one type of power to the other is called evolution. Sometimes the campaigning for this evolution is called feminism. Critics say that the most well-known (or at least widely taught) short story by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “The Yellow Wallpaper”, is a work of extremely feminist literature and speaks out against the sexual biases of the medical profession at the time. The women in Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” represent a variety of socio-economic classes, and in turn a variety of views about their own roles.

Taken from the opening paragraph of a paper I wrote last summer on a porch. Arbor Mist could have been involved.

It's 80s night at the supermarket
there are breakdancers in the deodorant aisle
pop-lockers boogie down rows and rows and rows of carbonated beverages
and I forgot my legwarmers

it's 80s night at the supermarket
and I'm trying not to choose life in the deli
there are air guitars in the bread aisle
and we all jump when Diamond Dave tells us to.

its 80s night in the supermarket
behind various mirrors, big brother watches
considering more bleach for my acid wash jeans
and I'm thinking of checking out.