doesn’t sleep well with others.

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I applaud writers who can write almost exclusively academic and professional writing for years, then still write beautiful prose and poetry. Currently struggling. Thanks university for developing within me a marketable skill, but along the way I became very out of practice with my passion.

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title for chapter something of eventual memoir: drunk and pissed off and waiting until I run into my ex boyfriend one day so I can fight him because some feelings can only be released physically and he is a sad out of shape loser so I’m not worried about the result I just want it to happen and does violent anger skip generations or no?

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I cheated on you because…

I called you, crying and hysterical, one night after work. I finally said “Fuck it” to the charade of happiness I had put on.

I shared with you, “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up, knowing that wherever you go and whatever you do today, for your entire life, you will be stared at only as a product to be used as a means for someone else’s satisfaction. To know that your words will never be viewed as substantive and meaningful, but as distractions. I fear for my life every time I leave my apartment. Fuck, even IN my apartment, alone, I live in constant worry.”

You interrupted and told me that one time in Chicago, you were beaten up every day, and hospitalized almost weekly. The next week, you told me you were never hospitalized while in Chicago. You fucking liar. You try to be hood, you think you’re hard, you think that living in Chicago for three years makes you Kanye West. Fuck you for thinking that experience is gained merely through story-telling, and telling yourself lies. 

Fiction is fiction, understand this. 

My experience is not yours to invalidate and try to relate to. My pain is not an opportunity for you to practice your fictional narrative.

Less important reasons:

I tried to be honest with you and end our relationship, but you threatened my feelings with suicide.

You couldn’t keep your dick up.

You are annoying.

You don’t excite me.

You have a false sense of self.

I am not part of your fictional narrative, despite how much you wish that I was and tried to make me.

Your nasally voice (not an endearing Ira Glass voice, but more like Urkel.)

Your constant trying way too hard when speaking.

Shut the fuck up.

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I cheated on you exactly seven times

Seven is your favorite number, and it might be mine now, too

I told everybody I cheated on you with that I loved you;

I told them how I just want you to get better and not hurt anybody, including yourself

That was me trying to be a nice person

I called you after work one night, crying in my car because somebody followed me outside again and called me a bitch when I wouldn’t entertain his catcalls

You replied with a selfish vague story about Chicago that I still don’t think is true

You told me that you were in the hospital every week last year from being mugged at your old apartment

The next week you told me that you have only seen a hospital once, when you were eight years old.


My heart beats for those who are broken

See? Self-interest and altruism are not mutually exclusive.

That was how I stayed with you for so long

“He’s broken; if I don’t love him, he’ll fall apart”

You took advantage of that and I hate you for it.

I told you about how I have been thinking about killing myself everyday for the past ten years.

One month later when I tried to break up with you, you threatened suicide and I still don’t know if you were bluffing.

My second break-up attempt, the successful one, you said you would go into a dark place and never come out.

I told you that maybe coming out would help with some things.


I made a notebook of our love for Valentine’s Day and some other arbitrary date

I believed our love was real

“Yes, we must document our love,” the song said

but my love document was more for a creative purge than real catharsis

I hope you burned those books.

I don’t want you to have any evidence that I once loved you.

I lied to you enough, so don’t hold on to any more

Retrace all the routes we drove when we were bored

Paint those parts of the city with my lies.


You lived in Chicago for three years for school

You think this makes you Kanye West

You’ll probably borrow a line from the chorus in Heartless for your next poem about me

When stripped of all the illusions you’ve created about yourself, there is nothing there

I loved you until I just felt sorry for you, and I stayed so you wouldn’t fall apart

You knew what you were doing.

"How could you be so heartless?"


When I said I loved you, I meant I like the way you make me feel less bored

It began to seem like our struggles were in constant competition

I was watching the traffic so I missed the light

I was both an audience and character in your fictional narrative

I was watching the traffic so I missed the light

You shatter when confronted with truth

I ran the light.

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flint, mi

I last met with you in a dream
You were fitting into a dress before you disappeared
Sacred woman, you are who I pray to
I hold my cigarette like you did when you told me it’s okay to be beautiful

You are who I pray to.

High cheekbones and low self esteem 
A cigarette in one hand, a tainted glass in the other
Call my mother in the middle of the night when you’re feeling unsure
The phone rings, and no one answers. 

You call again.

You threw a cup of tea at your husband before you left
My mother in her bedroom across the hall
Hidden by the window for an easy escape
I still see the mark on the wall

I think I understand you.

My mother likes to help people heal
I think this is a direct reflection of never quite healing herself
A light shines in the darkness
The darkness does not understand it

But you were never religious.

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red october

We called ourselves the bolsheviks
I don’t remember why
Something about an uprising and the revolution

Our revolution wasn’t 1917’s, but still sad and triumphant
With prayers in the form of type and ink
You became something I prayed to

We were firmly atheist
But I believed in your presence and significance in my life
I think you believed in me, too.

I told you to call me if you ever find a phone and some coins
You said to find you if I ever catch myself holding a knife to my jugular again
You disappeared and now I’m homesick for you, Wesley.

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Transcript of RARE conversation between me and my bed.

Me: ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

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Today I saw an article about an alarm clock and lamp hybrid that simulates the light of a sunrise. The biggest complaint by the author was with the radio cables.

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“It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn’t care.”

Blair to Clay in Bret Easton Ellis’ Less Than Zero.

In this scene, Blair asks Clay if he ever loved her,

he dodges by saying that he doesn’t care about anything, 

because to care is to give a part of yourself,

and to give part of yourself means you risk losing that.

You can disappear.

Blair doesn’t reveal if she loved Clay.

He didn’t ask.

I used to be afraid of that method of disappearing.

But now I think it is the most beautiful form. 

To give yourself wholeheartedly to something, to live in symbiosis with something, so that you not only disappear, but become something greater as a result of it, is a magnificent concept.

When I met you, I thought I had met an extension of myself that I wasn’t aware existed.

I drove you around, you bought me wine, we wore each others’ clothes, and explored the city once the stars were out.

I only spoke your name in its Hebrew pronunciation

My version of creating a pet-name.

The original form of your name poses the question “Who is like God?”

We seemed to have found the answer to that in one another.

You went to Catholic school, and I was raised kind of Jewish, but neither of us believed in a deity 

because we were too busy believing in each other.

You made me realize that love is to be treated like a religion, 

it must be something you believe in for it to work. 

Most people speak exclusively of its harms, but I will speak only of its joys in this piece of text.

You turned an atheist into a fucking believer,

and now it’s primarily what I write about.

I didn’t have an example of successful love to reference when trying to believe, 

until you gave me one.

Like a religious devout, I keep believing that the love I found will one day prosper.

Maybe with you when the time is right,

because maybe time does bring resolution.

I’ll stop apologizing and trying to make things right

I’ll stop worrying so goddamn much about how you feel about what dissolved.

I’ll let you come to me, 

because trying to talk to you is making me disappear in the wrong ways.

It’s hard to feel sorry for someone who doesn’t care.

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consuming and creating are absolutely not mutually exclusive.

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I am human because I am never satisfied with my output,
and because the world inside me is impossible to articulate in strings of zeros and ones.

I am human because my skin still turns red when I am in passion
I am human because I get mild symptoms of hypothermia 
when the temperature is less than 75 degrees Fahrenheit, 
and I have low blood pressure.
Computers don’t even have blood pressure.

I am constantly struggling to maintain my internal homeostasis— physically and emotionally. 
When computers are unstable, they just need to be reset 
by holding down a button.

I am human because I drink a lot of alcohol and take a lot of pain killers 
precisely so I can forget about things that make me unbearably sad, 
or so that when I do think about those things, I can lose the otherwise existing inhibitions
just so I can write about it. 

The computer is a lightweight, 
because when it has even a bit of alcohol, it passes out. 
Something about not being compatible with liquid.

Computers forget by dragging something to an icon that resembles a trash can. 
Don’t even get me started on hard drives. 

I am human because I err and make mistakes all the fucking time, 
but my print error message comes in the form of a slap in the face or extreme guilt. 
I can’t resolve my mistakes by simply rewriting a code.

Imperfection is not rewritable.

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we hold hands and run

like flowers in a cemetery on a windy night

or children in their dreams,

we disappear.

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going outside of yourself is necessary to gaining external and holistic perspective.

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"if she knows you’re paper, she’ll have to burn you."

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