And somewhere in this fucked-up clump of lobes and sensors clumped under my scalp, I’d like to selfishly hypothesize that when you told my roommate about the girl you liked, it was that you cared for this dismal hollow thing clicking away at a keyboard, but I’d hate to let you meet these oozing thoughts and beating sentiments, sickly contained little things that make me want to vomit with the ideas of romance whenever you ask me those words, damn rhetorical questions, did you finish that paper, and I just internally fume, you don’t understand the sickening process of elimination I’ve gone through to try and scientifically conclude who she is, but every time my roommate shakes her head no I can’t tell you, whatever ounce of soul is left in this glamorous frame slides up my throat, like maybe one of these days, it’ll just spew down the bathroom stall on a bad Friday night and I’ll be entirely hollow at last– a scientifically operating heap of sensors and veins and guts and transmitters.


I’ve forgotten how to write.

I’m just throwing together sentences using big words to express psuedo-emotions; feelings that were once there but now fabricate by the clicking keys of a run down shitty laptop in a run down shitty university. You don’t know what it feels  like to have that sentiment escape from you, to have every bit of talent you once took pride in, disintegrate into pretension, until all that’s left is some half-assed attempts that maybe, just possibly, may result in something to make another state writing competition judge crack a grin.

It’s not even about that anymore. I don’t want to write in exchange for 1/500th of a ream of Staples paper, it cost me more to write it anyways. More time and effort, and even paper bills than your meager photocopy of a congratulations. A few cents, really, and perhaps a couple more in ink fees. Libraries charge ten cents a print, is that the value of my presumptuous bubble of hot air to you? Some useless bubble of hot air that swallowed everything I once knew about writing, in exchange for a library photocopy, I hope you’re happy now, not that you know it’s your fault; you were simply rewarding me. A fair barter, really, but through cynically tinted goggles, everything is a commodity and all I seek in life are the merits.

So then we have a fair exchange. Passion for paper for a fifth of the paper in exchange. Occupy writing competitions.

My period turns me into a velociraptor.

I left the dining commons an hour ago and here I am, downing a bag of Smartfood popcorn like a month-long famine just drew to an end. Books are strewn everywhere, almost like I’m studying; almost like you think I’m studying for that exam we have together, but I’m a velociraptor, a fucking deceptive monster, blogging the words I’d never have the confidence to say to you like those five minutes ago when you passed me in the halls and every phrase the universe could have ever created just flew into my head but all that could escape my lips (i’d glossed them for you, did you notice? no? didn’t think so…) was a squeaky, meager, “sup”?
tiny words for a tiny-armed monster, I do nothing about my problems but it’s justifiable because I’m female, and gushing out more blood than a war victim but if I wasn’t, my mom would be far beyond concerned. And thus, Smartfood is my answer to everything. Smartfood and weepy folk music and diet Coke after diet Coke; sandwiching the occasional philosophical exam review question in between, but how can that make sense when I’ve got all this?
I hate romance. I despise the one-way route of “romance” I live where I can’t display any form of emotion or affection and he’ll never, ever know my secret. I’m emotionless though. A fucking emotionless velocioraptor.

also, dear roommate:

a) stop stealing my headphones and blasting your obnoxious showtunes through them at 3 am. yes i can still hear glee. no it’s not helping me sleep.

b) stop eating the hummus mom sent me. i get that shit approximately once a month, and for the love of god, don’t double dip. you have every sickness the universe could have ever created.

c) don’t make easy mac then leave the remnants there for weeks at a time. you’re absolutely revolting.

d) god made hygene products, cleaning products, and laundry detergent for a reason. now use all three of those, please.

an ineloquent rant lacking in capitalization based solely on the fact that yes it is actually 3:05 AM.

the very concept of romance itself makes socially inept beings like myself want to hurl themselves off the seventh-floor balcony, not that i’ve even ventured to the seventh floor for anything other than a failed search for a weekend party in aspirations of finding someone else’s vodka to drown his off-kilter grin in, but i blame the fact that we share the same obscure book. the blame goes to a crooked bearing of teeth in exchange for a splash of cheek color; saving $24.95 on smashbox skin-tone matching blush, and the lip tint as well– doubtful that it fell into the realms of observance. crooked teeth likes politics mildly, music enthusiastically, perhaps favorite bands are like overpriced makeup, simply shrugged off, but it doesn’t matter because short legs arent conventionally attractive, and thus, neither are crooked teeth, by transitive property that i learned in the bio class i detested so much, that he detested equally, that places us in intro to something or other in order to conquer the infinite abyss of gen ed requirements, that this doesn’t make any sense anymore; it’s 3 am, why haven’t i made friends on the 7th floor with a balcony so that even if i cant seize enough patron to make the next business major drop my panties, i can at the very least drop myself off those metal bars and perhaps forget this entire mess at last.

not that you’d ever know. i’m intj, some dead guy named meyers briggs says i’m doomed to be socially inept unless it’s for situations that will ever help me. you won’t help me. your teeth are crooked and your legs are too short, but we like the same bands and books, and have nearly identical personalities, and sometimes you take exact phrases right out of my mind and spit them out before they can even be sent from my frontal lobe to my tongue, but it’s okay, my tongue’s good for nothing. not that you’d ever know.