that dreamers often lie.

second time around : yo yo ma, edgar meyer, and mark o'connor

listen to that. over and over and over again. it'll break your heart, i swear. then eat some ben & jerry's dublin mudslide [hell, eat the whole pint in ten minutes. what the fuck else are you living for, if not to eat as much ice cream as your caffeine-racing heart desires? oh wait, that's only me. still...eat it.] watch reediculous amounts of sex & the city, special victims unit, and the kratt bros' be the creature. wear sweatpants around your house, use the f-word as much as possible [fuck!] and hit the snooze button at least three times too many.

lazy days. or maybe just the recipe to make me morbidly obese. semantics. i'll be done with it by week's end, as that is the arrival of my return to the mad city. back to the tiny rooms, microwavable food, laundry sundays, and overpriced convenience stores [walgreens]. back to trekking up bascom, reading pages of bullshit, melodramatic boy troubles, and missing my favorite people. back to pretentious professors, adorable but married TA's [patrick murphy!] communal bathrooms, and sweltering september evenings without air conditioning. but i am oh so excited to return! beyond all of that, there are so many things that i'd never give up, and sometimes even those obnoxious shortcomings that come with being a poor college student can actually be sort of ... endearing.

tempio sommerso
look for me beyond the sea,
right below the surface.
can you see all those
copper threads and the fired
bronze waves
in my hair? please say
that you'll love me
for the rest of my days.
i'm begging you. why not
take as much as you
can carry...
there's no reason not to
fill yourself up to the brim.
keep a hold while the
strings twist and
buckle, snapping and
singing. in agony.
they break, they break.
the singing will be all
the more sweet when it
comes to rest in your ears ;
can you still hear it beneath
those curtains made of
ocean? like some cavernous
pressure had come
from behind... the ribcage
of the memories had been lost,
again.
faint trails of truth make
ripples like oil spills,
shimmering with glassy
reflection, grasping for
any remaining light.
open your eyes...


I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.