Wednesday, April 6, 2016
from a text
This cute 17 year old just offered me a toke of his spliff and then told me if I wanted he would buy me chicken wings and show me the place that will change my life. I took a hit and I said “yeah alright” to the wings because I’m no idiot. I think he knew I was older but assumed just by a year or two and not a decade + two but I’m not in the business of walking people through life. If you have a question, ask it, if you think I’m a radiant and sexy 19 year old who will still be taken in by a high schooler’s charms then that’s what you think. Who am I to tell him I’m a little too old for him or that I’m in a relationship? He didn’t ask maybe he doesn’t want to know. Maybe he doesn’t care. I’m not going to be presumptuous. Maybe I’m going to kiss his soft baby lips after he buys me chicken wings. Maybe I’m going to give him my phone number so he can text me how much he needs me.
Tuesday, April 5, 2016 at Platform 7
from a text
You can find me in the poorly lit coffee shop scratching at my scalp, tiny flakes of dandruff floating into my keyboard as I type a letter to your mother that I will likely never send. I have escaped the confines of our bachelor apartment, spent the $2.75 on a coffee that reminds me that people are dying in places all around me, and have been here since the place opened. Miller is working a double and doesn’t ask me to leave or buy a sandwich. When he sees my crumpled forehead and my dandruff start to pile up in between the space bar and the track pad he knows to keep his distance. I am writing a letter to your mother and in it I am breaking up with you and I am breaking up with her. I am telling her why first so you can’t spin the story. I don’t want her to think less of you but I think she should know the truth. It’s taken a lot of my energy to think of the right words. I already have the right reasons. They’ve been living inside of me as long as your Taco Bell leftovers have been sitting in the fridge, collecting mold, being avoided like the plague.
Thursday November 14, 2013 at Sambuca Grill
creative writing MFA handbook
And it was on purpose and it would have been amazing if that bitch Gloria didn’t back out of her garage right at the moment I was going to send him to limbo to give my mother in law a message for me. Probably something like, Not so tough without your lungs are ya? I don’t know, I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I should have just done it in his sleep like I’d planned in the first place, but SOMEBODY had INSOMNIA that night because of the heart burn because of the hot peppers. And it almost kills ME because they were my peppers and had I known he was such a little wuss, I wouldn’t have given him any, or slipped so many into his pasta. Whatever. This isn’t all on me. I could have gotten away with it too. It would have gone down in the books as an unsolved mystery because I spent four godforsaken years studying theatre in university, and as a result I know how to cry with an “emotional trigger” and would have been able to pull that “trigger” EVERY GODDAMN DAY until I could honestly say I was dry. And no one would have questioned me even a little bit. Because I’m fucking good at what I do!
Monday, July 22, 2013 at Sambuca grill
99 Ways to Tell a Story
I think you and my mother would be best friends, so call her, and when you try to hang up, she’ll tell you her life story or just reiterate the entire conversation as if you didn’t just listen to her say it for an hour, and then when she says she’s got to go, you’ll literally do the exact same thing. So then at the end of it, you’ll know everything about her, and she’ll know everything about you, and the next thing that happens will be a date for just the two of you to go on a wine tasting in Niagara On The Lake where the both of you will not drink even a little bit of wine because neither of you really enjoy drinking or being drunk, and instead you’ll just walk around in circles talking about how nice the vineyards are. She’ll laugh at all your jokes and then try to get you to tell all the same ones she just heard again because that was fun enough so why bother with anything new? And you’ll listen to her tell you all the jokes she knows from the Reader’s Digest, only she’ll leave out all the punchlines or tell all the punchlines first because she’s never been that great with telling jokes that require the listener to follow along. And when I finally get put back into the equation, I’ll ask if the two of you had a nice time together, and you’ll both just nod and smile and say, “yeah, it was nice.” And I’ll be mad for no reason because I was hoping you two would have bonded better, but instead you just talked about accents and blueberries.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
From here you look like you’re in a lot of pain. I can see it in my sleep, it’s sort of making its way into my dreams. I hear you cringe and suck your teeth. Every time you move you sound like you’re going to die. In my dream of you, your mother’s there and she’s watching us interact with a judging eye. She thinks I haven’t been taking care of you, and she can see your pain too. I tell her, no, it’s not how it seems, you don’t want my help and I’ve kept my hand there on where I think it’s hurting you the whole night. She just scoffs and then drives her smart car through the mud flicking speckles of wet dirt onto my favourite blue dress. That’s how I know it’s a dream, because nothing makes sense, and your mother would never get mad at me for you hurting yourself. I’m eased by how little she knows about us. About what I see from my side of the bed. From what I see when my eyes are closed and you’re babbling about something regarding open heart surgeries, and those ginger cookies your grandfather stole for us.
Monday, April 15, 2013
From a quote by Mark Twain
Apparently if you throw in a half damp sock into the dryer with a bunch of your already wrinkled clothes, and leave everythin’ in there for at least 20 minutes or somethin’, it makes everythin’ when you take it out come all nice and smooth. No wrinkles. So I’m plannin’ to try this today but I don’t know if I’ll have time, what with Jerry’s mother comin’ to visit us. She needs the casserole dish to be perfectly situated on the table, I need to get us a table cloth or the woman will not sit down, and there has to be enough house plants all over in case she wants to ash somewhere while she’s standin’. So. I won’t have much time to do all the other domestics I said to myself I was goin’ to do. Jerry’s mother is a real house Lady. She knows how everythin’ is supposed to go, and why. But she ain’t have no patience when it comes to dust so I’ve been scrubbin’ every surface around here since last Tuesday, just in case the woman gets out some plastic gloves and tries to run some tests or investigation in my livin’ room. I suppose she has a point, cleanliness, health, all that. But she still comin’ into my house so I have to make sure I have enough chocolate covered digestives just to calm me down!