…puts on a face mask while horny and bemoans her day.

It’s a Friday night. The sound of the train purrs in the distance. My moldy faucet drips occasionally. A picture of a heavily eyelashed giraffe is staring at me while I write. I’m shirtless. I’ve just eaten an entire five ounce package of baby kale for dinner. My skin puckers beneath the tingling goop poop that constitutes the “indian secret” of my face mask.

This is it. This is all. Oh boy.

Today was a day. I was going to buy slutty clothes at the mall because my roommate and I had planned to go clubbing for the first time ever tonight. But then she found herself plagued by such an inability to purge her turd that she eventually was forced to flee our apartment at four in the morning for the safety of her parents’ lavish abode and the comfort of their many available commodes.

So yeah. That’s shitty. Pun intended.

Even though she left, I still decided to venture out and purchase many whorish outfits in the event that my dear roomie’s bowels might be miraculously excavated and our plans for reckless female festivities restored. Except on my way out I grabbed the keys to my home-home and not my apartment and I ended up locking myself out. And I left my credit card in the pocket of my classy coat and not the basic bitch one I had been wearing. And my phone only had thirty percent remaining on its battery and I lacked the prudence to carry a portable charger with me on my way out.

Oh, and I got my period.

I spent the whole day aimlessly wandering the city. I tried fake shopping at one point but had to stop because I felt like too much of a poser. I rode the trains like a homeless person. I read a book about fortune telling that had its first eight-five pages ripped out and listened to a number of crazies in the library talk about how many receipts they’ve kept and how they also, believe it or not, have been sent by the angels.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always thought libraries were weird. It was just surprising to see so many looneys freely parade about the city’s best one. Oh, and that fortune telling book was majorly jerkish. Just because I have small hands, Madame Fabia, doesn’t mean I’m going to be an ornamental wife. My hands are damn fine and damn cute and any respectable gentlesir would be lucky to say they belonged to his spouse.

I called my roommate hour after hour to see if I could grab her keys. Alas, it was in vain. Only as my phone neared death did she finally call me back to say that all I had to do to get back in to our apartment was ask the handyman to let me in, so long as I did so before 5:00 PM.

What the heyhey, life. Today was supposed to be grand. Today was supposed to beckon so many new and eagerly anticipated experiences. I would have been a vivacious fake slut slathered in the frothy downpour of my perceived (though wholly inaccurate) flooziness.

All I did was bounce my bloated self all over the city, ignored many an ogling by strange men with sharp eyes, read a book that sought to insult some of my favorite appendages, and observed the insanity residing inside what was supposed to be the most mundane of places.

What was the purpose of today? Why was it such a misadventure? More importantly, why couldn’t the Universe let my roommate take a dump?

Life is a dumb mystery, I think. One that I somehow keep wanting to solve.

Oh yeah. I never really addressed the horny part. I’m horny. Being single is frustrating. I just want someone to snuggle me and allow me to menstruate on him gently with little to no regret.

Ew. That’s actually a really disgusting thought. I revoke that image.

Still. There must be a reason why it’s called menstruate. If I had a man, I’d gladly struate on him at the beginning of all my cycles.

This is weird. This face mask finally must have leaked through my pores and tainted my mind. I’m going to go wash the goop poop off of my face now and salvage what remains of my brain tissue.

And then watch a rom-com and cry because I will never have as predictable of a storyline.

Post Signature Tight


…does a thing and now requires all of the vibery that can possibly exist.

So I did a thing.

A big thing. A potentially not-so-good thing. A what-are-you-thinking thing.

A do-you-actually-use-your-brain-cells-to-acquire-the-goodness-you-deserve-in-life-or-do-you-simply-seek-to-self-sabotage-yourself-in-everything thing.

Officially, as of approximately eight hours ago, I am no longer a college student. I am now just a lump of still-somehow-sunburnt flesh who has a chance to change her exceedingly miserable life.

Maybe. We’ll see. In my mind, there are two conceivable outcomes to a decision of this sort:

I succeed and metamorphosize into a Me 5.0 that somehow has discovered her passions after tasting unexpectedly wild success during her brief hiatus (who also becomes the sole proprietor of the world’s most chiseled abs, the century’s thickest flowing hair, and the assiest of asses in the knowable universe because why not).

I fail and use what little money I have to stock up on canned beans and purchase a nice Serta mattress because I will be living and shitting in that thing until the day I graciously abandon this life for an even more intolerable one.

Or some third thing in the middle. But that’s no fun.

With all this being said, I shall continue to write content in this blog that contains nothing of value to a reader because I want to and that’s that. I can barely take care of myself: I am definitely not going to be able to take care of you and your Internet-scouring needs, too. If there even is a you. A yew. A ewe. Okay, for the rest of this blog post, I’m pretending to write for female sheep.

Right-o. Enough about ewe, back to me.

I need vibes. Some major vibery. Some pristine vibage to reviberate my way. What I intend to do over the course of two-thirds of 2018 is unprecedented for a person like myself. Admittedly, I am lazy and entitled. I expect things to work my way; when they don’t, I write really depressing poetry and abuse the vast reserve of affirmation cards available to me on the Internet so it feels like my life still retains some semblance of meaning and direction.

I am not sure if what I’m referring to is a unique concept created by myself. To me, vibes aren’t just something you feel: their aura must be encapsulated by an image or symbol of some sort. My ex-boyfriend and I used to do this for each other all of the time. For example, during one of his biology exams, I sent him an obnoxious stream of white-backgrounded plant images in the hopes that he might absorb their silent, planty wisdom through literal photosynthesis.

I think he got a B. Anyway,



I vibe myself good health. Because I will be eating a lot of pizza to curb my sadness and I fully expect to construct a wall of fleshy insecurity that nobody can or dare penetrate.

richard simmons

I vibe myself a fervor for life. Even though I’m pretty sure Richard Simmons is still hiding in his Beverly Hills mansion, the man’s energy is unmatched. I want that. I want to wake up every morning revitalized by the possibilities of the now.

I vibe myself an absence of shittiness. The diarrhea life is not for me, thank you. To a certain degree, yes, encountering many a fecal situation is an inevitable part of life, but I would like to expose myself to as little shit as possible. And success. I vibe that, too. I want to feel like I have the capacity to purchase a gold-encrusted bidet one day.


 I vibe myself friends. One of the lowliest things I think a person can do is to listen to budgie chirps on loop for an extended period of time. In a previous post, their little noises juxtaposed the sounds of cool, normal people mingling outside of my apartment door. I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to converse with unintelligible bird garble anymore. I want to be connected and free.


I vibe myself Prince Charming. Yeah, yeah. I know. I shouldn’t focus on deriving fulfillment from the love and affection another human bean can bring me. I have to first learn to love myself before I can expect anybody to love me. Love only comes when you least expect to find it. Well, fuck that. I want to look at somebody the way Cinderella looks at her PC #macsarewhack. And I don’t think that makes me an illogical person for being open about that want.

Well. There we have it. I’m going to take a nap now. Wish me luck, all of ewe.

(And while my knowledge is sorely lacking when it comes to successfully maintaining a blog and the people who read my junk are far and few between, I just want to say that if you read this and find yourself in a particularly rough spot, I feel for you and I’m sending you my vibes).

Post Signature Tight


Last night was awful.

I couldn’t sleep. I woke up every two hours despairing the sensation of being awake. My head doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It just burns.

I am lost. I am alone. I think I’m broken. Or have been.

Why is this a thing? Life, I mean. Who decides or decided my life? My parents? Me? God?

Everything feels wrong. I feel like I’ve done absolutely everything wrong.

Is it called failure because you failyour-self?

What happened to me? Did something? Is this deserved? Is this something I’m doing to myself? Am I wrong? Am I right? Am I naïve? Am I wise?

What happened to me, indeed. Or perhaps the question is: What did I do?

I look at pictures of myself as a kid and I tell myself I was happy, I must have been, look at that smile I wore. I look at myself now and I feel old and squeezed out, even though I am young and barely understand anything about anything. How terribly ironic.

I am gone. That’s such a hollow-sounding word, the way it feels back there in my mouth. Where did I go? How can I come back?

I feel like I’m never going to come back.

I’ve given up on myself, I think. And I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I have or the knowing that I have.


I’m a good person. I’m a great person. I am special. I am valuable. I can do many things. I am healthy. I am safe. I am loved, more or less. So why do I feel this way?

Why do I treat myself this way?


Because I, despite any evidence to the contrary, am not and potentially will never be the person I want.

What an ugly thought. Golly.

If there’s some intangible all-powerful something out there that pleasurably frequents irrelevant people’s blogposts, hey. Can you please tell me what to do? Pretty please? Can you come to me? Can you be real for once? Is that too much to ask?

Maybe it is. Maybe all of this is too much.

Post Signature Tight

…gets intoxicated to try and write a paper but she’s not Ernest Hemingway so it doesn’t exactly work out.

“Write drunk,” he said, “[but] edit sober.”

I don’t know if I’m drunk because I’ve never been drunk before.

Nevertheless, I feel pretty intoxicated and it’s grand.

I drank two glasses of wine from a bottle I procured at a leftover New Year’s Eve party and that I’ve been hiding behind my bed under a pile of pillows for the last week or so.

I also drank said glasses of wine because I was feeling felt sorry for myself and also was contemplating a withdrawal from my University to learn how to farm fruits and vegetables organically on a farm in an indiscriminate location where nobody can find me and wherein I can poop freely among the wilderness.

Every so often my mouth twitches and it feels like a caterpillar.

My head feels heavy. Normally I would have attributed such a weighted feeling to a lingering culmination of my own depressive tendencies, but now it makes me feel pressed and happy like pickled things in a jar.

Do you ever feel like nobody gives a shit about you? Do you ever feel like the entirety of your life has been one giant fuck-up that you’ve resigned yourself to unwillingly at some arbitrary point in time?

I feel like that.

I should be writing a paper that I took an Incomplete for. But it’s on one of the dumbest and most unfulfilling subjects I’ve ever been forced to write about and I have a difficult time imagining how, exactly, it’s supposed to make me a better writer or a more qualified human being.

I’ve been talking to my ex-boyfriend and I know that I shouldn’t be talking to him because all of the self-professed Internet relationship gurus tell me to ignore him and focus on my own life when in all truth and honesty I wouldn’t mind having a semi-flaccid dick in my mouth right about now.

I spend the majority of my days watching television shows and wishing that time would stop.

I want a cat. And more plants. The cat would be called Zuzu and we’d snuggle all day and get fat together. The plants would be named as follows: Kraus and Kraut, the two twin succulents, and Luna Mae, the jaded jade plant.

Why do people want to be important? I find it to be one of the most trivial pursuits of the present and our youth. I think the real answer to finding importance is via non-importance; id est, to seek simplicity over what is typically termed as “success”. Low expectations never hurt anybody, so far as I’m aware.

But I’m not aware. I think I’m drunk and my lips are dry and my brain is lead and this is what my life has become in this moment.

I’ll say it: I don’t like the world. I don’t like what it’s become, or what it’s always been without my knowing it. I don’t like it one bit.

I want Italy. I want to eat pasta for breakfast and to get drunk like this everyday and to meander around some romantically cobbled street screaming “BUONGIORNO!” at the top of my lungs until I can’t breathe and stumble into the cabin of a passing gondola only to die listening to the sweet serenade of a severely mustachioed gondolier.

I’ve just eaten a can of soup for the first time in several years and I can feel each milligram of sodium thickening my bloodstream like a poison.

Why do heterosexual women cut all of their hair off when they’ve been rejected by a man? Is it to show that they no longer wish to be perceived as attractive? I think the solution ought to be this: grow that hag shag out with the intention of using it as either a curtain to one’s harsh reality or as oddly positioned hair-wings to transport oneself toward contentment.

When I somehow manage to be financially stable and I’ve (again SOMEHOW) acquired an apartment with a sufficient amount of exposed brick, the first thing I am going to do is purchase as many Persian rugs as I can afford with what’s left of my savings.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I went to church last night and sang like an angel. It was the first time I went to church in a month.

I had a Tinder date last Saturday. I had to lie to my parents to get to his douchebag loft and his eyes were too close together but we ate tacos and he was a good kisser so I found myself pleased anyway.

People who can do everything right irritate me, as do people who refuse to believe in their capacity to achieve their own dreams.

That is all.

And I’m not editing this***. I’m going to nap.

***I did edit this. Because it’s my life and I’ll do what I want.

Post Signature Tight

…eats an entire packet of pasta that expired yesterday and contends with the last month of ick.

Eighty days. It’s been eighty days since I’ve last sat down, alone, glowering at a screen, growing that much more dissatisfied with the life I’ve led. Or, rather, followed.

Eighty days. That’s a long time. It bothers me how clean and resolute of a number eighty is: as if I were meant to wait this long to write again.

But I can’t write. I sit here and feel a hollow sort of scooping in the temples of my brain, the onset of tired flowing through my joints and pulsating in my wrists while the palms of my hands rest lazily on the edge of my keyboard. My parent’s house is still, and it shivers sometimes. Everything is waiting for me to talk, talk, talk. Even though I’m not sure of what to say.

Now it has been eighty-one days, and I still haven’t written anything meaningful. Time is fickle and dumb like that.

Well. Isn’t this exciting?

Last night I ate an entire packet of pasta that was supposed to be used by yesterday’s yesterday. I’d always believed pasta to be one of the many venerable non-perishable food items; in other words, pasta was, in my mind, everlasting…forever waiting to be enjoyed, no matter how long it must.

I connected on a highly emotional level with my pasta last night. I even went to the store and bought it some nice organic tomato sauce to symbolically inundate each and every noodle in my respect and admiration for its continued perseverance. It was the least I could do, honestly. It was my fault for not eating that expired packet of angel-haired goodness when it was the most ready to be consumed: for not realizing its potential sooner.

That and I guess I just wanted it to know that numbers are fucking numbers. You give them meaning and they’ll take it.

Numbers. Numb-ers. Fancy that.

After I finished eating, I cried.

I failed my final exam for a pretty important class last week, making it the very first thing I’ve ever failed at in life. Prior to that, I’d been further mishandling my education by avoiding my homework to go to yoga classes and watch television shows from my childhood. Prior to that, my (ex)-boyfriend told me over the phone the day after we celebrated our anniversary that he fell in love with this girl he sits next to in one of his pharmacy classes. Prior to that, I’d been stressing uncontrollably to the point of having my first anxiety attack in four years. Prior to that, I realized that I don’t really like my life, that I don’t have many friends left, and that I am never not going to have a yeast infection because I love FAGE yogurt so absolutely fucking much and wearing underwear is irritable to me now.

Whoopi Goldberg.

I fully recognize that my problems are insignificant in comparison to the many insufferable plights that exist in our world today. Pardon my insensitivity, but this all still sucks ass. I’m not trying to say that I’d rather lose a limb or go hungry for a year or have my hometown blown up than reside in the depressive state I find myself in currently; what I am saying is that I don’t wish these feelings of inadequacy onto anybody, even if such instances of self-loathing are temporary in the long term.

I feel like a squash. Like a piece of burnt acorn squash that everybody pushes with their spoons to the margins of their mother’s baking dish because it’s too crispy and cancer-inducing to be deemed a worthwhile morsel to savor.

Wow. Two food similes. Perhaps the moral of the story this afternoon is this: EAT me, people. My academic numbers may say I’m expired and I generally may not be the most desirable starch of the patch right now, but eat me anyway. Take a chance. I promise it’ll be worth it eventually (and I’m not cancerous).

Or wait. Maybe I shouldn’t be asking anyone to eat me out of this situation. Wouldn’t want somebody’s lasting impression of me to be the unsettling aftertaste of my hoohah fungus.

Get it?


Post Signature Tight

…broods on a Friday night / Saturday morning.

There’s a humming that murmurs from outside and in through the open windows of my apartment, and I think that I just might be the only person available to hear it.

My eyes are the kind of heavy that fry my brain. You know. The kind that makes you feel like your head is suspended from a string that keeps getting tugged.

Oh shit. Wait…it’s Saturday? When did that happen?

Well, hallelujah. Praise the gourd.

I made this blog because I realized that I need to get a hobby or something to occupy my time because if I don’t I’ll keep watching Youtube videos of budgie sounds looped for threes hours straight to avoid confronting the gnawing void in my chest cavity that reminds me I’m wasting my life away.

Sometimes I imagine that if I had a soul, it would sound exactly like a budgie.

This apartment is too big for one person. The only remotely human-esque object in here is the fat gold floor lamp, but I don’t want to start talking to lamps yet. That’s a lot further down the long path of indisputable crazy, I think. I’m not there yet.

But I’m close.

I didn’t know it was possible to break a toilet. Guess what?

It’s possible.

The maintenance guy walked in and out within a span of two and a half minutes. Every time I use the toilet now, I have to decapitate it and pull this little flappy flap to get the water to flush properly. Not to mention that I have to make my poor old lady hands drown in poo water prior to reaching said flappy flap.

The laundry money-sucker machine stopped working here, too. I mean, it’s pathetic enough to wash your bed sheets on a Friday night; it’s even more pathetic to see somebody in the laundry room talk coquettishly to a box on the wall in the hopes that it might give in to her charm and accept her wrinkly five-dollar bill.

My boyfriend went to a party instead of snuggling with me. I get it. Parties are parties. Boys will be boys. Let’s be real, though: what kind of imbecile doesn’t want to snuggle with his pessimistic girlfriend wrapped in some 400 thread-count damp-ass sheets on a Friday night after she ate all of the food in her fridge with the exception of two yams and who presently has no intention of doing anything remotely interesting for the rest of her life? My-boyfriend-kind-of-imbecile, that’s who.

This would have been a mother-fucking night to remember. Or maybe not. My mother doesn’t really live that close.

Ugh. You can hear the people with lives outside of my door. I wonder if they can hear the budgie sounds.

Does whitening toothpaste work? I bought some for seven dollars last night and I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I bought some for seven dollars last night. Toothpaste should be a flat-rate of two dollars, in my opinion. Then we could make two-th puns and the world would be guaranteed to be a much happier place.


I’m going to go to bed. Because I haven’t become aware of the fact that writing about all of this is pathetic, too, and I would much rather prefer to let that epiphany burst all over my eggs later this morning to give them an extra savory oomph.

Goodnight, dear screen that is most likely damaging my already genetically disadvantaged corneas.

Have a beautiful slumber, my nocturnal cucumber*

*this is my toodle-oo to a readership I know does not exist; I would like, in their stead, to depict them as ambiguous fruits for the sole pleasure of entertaining myself.


Post Signature Tight