The sailors say I'm a fine girl. Graphic designer, illustrator, writer, reader, gamer, dreamer, storyteller. I make things and care about them. My life exists somewhere between painfully logical and lost in an overly complicated daydream.
I sold out my i-n-t-e-g-r-i-t-y For a 500 ft² living space And my name next to yours on the door Tossing away my anonymity for animosity
The Shell (Lost at Sea)
A simple gesture You handed me a shell you found Far from any body of water It was out of place My judgment began to blur
Absolutely Perfect, and Nothing Less
There once was a town that time forgot On the outskirts of a lovely city It had people and houses, buildings, the whole lot
“Dying is Easy. Comedy is Very Hard.”
As the days pass and the nights and the mornings We place the comedy masks over our faces And the stage is set and the choir sings
There are ways to enhance your car through modifications and design, giving you a more aesthetically pleasing vehicle and maybe you’ll suddenly be able to pick up chicks. Alternatively, you can just slap a bumper sticker on the back with a quirky, ironic saying or support for some politician more crooked than your place job of said sticker or a proclamation that you honk for a specific deity.
When you look up at the night sky, how do you feel? Some find themselves feeling like giants, able to mask out a mass of energy with just the tip of their finger. Most don't even think about it much. When I looked up, I felt entirely insignificant. Was I just lucky to see the stars? Most of the time, it was hard to differentiate stars from planes and skyscrapers.
A Doctor's Office, an Old Lady with Oranges, and a Bicyclist
After only ten minutes of waiting, I began to shift uncomfortably in the chair. Ten minutes was not an awfully long time to wait in a doctor’s office, I knew that. Dad was slouched back in the chair, glancing through one of the magazines from the coffee table in the middle of the room. It was a magazine about geography. I knew my dad had no interest in geography. He was merely looking for company with anyone other than me, even if they were dull words and glossy images on a page. That’s why he kept looking up every now and then to look at me with a small smile, to illustrate how amused he was at landscapes and jungles. Dad must have imagined being in those places, where they don’t have boring sons.
Anterograde amnesia. That’s what they called it. After the accident, Wendy wasn’t able to make any new memories. She had been 6. That was 20 years ago. She was still 6. I was 7 at the time, and she was my best friend. It was difficult to tear myself away as I grew older yet she didn’t.