Revoking my own poetic license.

Plum lipstick, cable knits, men’s socks, brainy wits, sad songs, good moods, chicken noodle soup with extra noods.

I still love writing. I still love stringing words together like popcorn garland for a Christmas tree. But like popcorn garland, I think my words grow stale and lose the crunch and saltiness and it just makes me feel so inadequate sometimes.

<---Also, here's a picture of me at work the day after I gave in and got my bangs trimmed for the umpteenth time. I have no perseverance whatsoever. But damn, my eyebrows lookin' fresh2death.

"Good Morning, Mister Handsome! Can a bitch get to know ya?"*

Lately, I've just been devouring the writing of like-minded female writers and my God, these women are great. I just added Samantha Irby's Meaty to my Christmas wish list that my mother promptly requests every year and I've been going through Emily McCombs' various blog posts on xoJane and taking notes because she is amazing and great and those are two choice words that I refuse to find more creative synonyms for.
It's strange, though. As cool as I think these girls are, I would probably shrink up into a shriveled little turd if ever given the chance to hang out with them and discuss writing.

I need to work on my social anxieties this coming year. And maybe my confidence, as well. Maybe if my confidence was a little bit better, I wouldn't have been so accusatory of my boyfriend when I found out he hung out with his friend's girlfriend after everyone else went to sleep simply because he was trying to sober up and wasn't ready to drive home and whatever, I have my thoughts on that but have found that I can't quite express them without sounding like a self-conscious fifteen year-old and I guess guys don't really find that sexy for some reason.

*Note, the title of this post comes from Samantha Irby's blog that I have linked to above. Check it out, people from the Ukraine that evidently visit this blog from time to time like heavily-accented ghosts and don't offer me any Krokodil.**

**That's shitty of me. I'm just your run of the mill suburbanite that can't seem to differentiate from Ukrainians and Russians just like I cannot the Swiss and Swedes. Also, to any feds who may be tracking the word 'Krokodil', I haven't so much as smoked a cigarette in over a year, so do not come a-knockin' on my doe trying to raid my shit.

Shedding its red.

I am quite pleased with the amount of foliage encountered on my walk today.

I always clean it up after the fact.

Pablo After Dark.

The start of a new week is equals parts promising and anxiety-inducing. I'm laying in bed after having read Neruda all evening whilst drowning in chamomile and honey + zinc in hopes to stop this cold in its track and my neighbors across the street are ending their get-together with loud Vietnamese tongues. Anyway, here's an excerpt from "Every Day You Play" from Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. It just resonates so much that I felt I must include it here. 

The part I've marked with the tiny heart. It could not be said more accurately or beautifully.

Squids and quills: an assonance.

I'll make you chocolate chip pancakes every Sunday.

I presented you with my Pandora's Box and you have yet to run. 

I'm not sure why as

it is so horrifying. Being in love with you

has soaked into my blood and has given me heart palpitations.

All my old friends, they don't know me now.

There has been a shift in dynamic.
Retrospectively, I have no recollection when it happened.
It didn't leave a trail of crumbs to its origin.
I liken it to when you see someone everyday and don't see their hair growing
until one day you happen to notice it's gone
far past their shoulders or mid-back and you wonder
when the summer vanished and
where all that love went.