How To Throw The Ultimate Graveyard Slumber Party
Parties give me anxiety. That doesn't mean I don't know how to par-tay, you feel me? My type of parting involves lounging on the sofa, eating, drinking, and onesies. Oh, and music. Lots of music. No DJ required—just a wall for a projector or tv and a love of movies. If you haven't already guessed it, I'm talking about throwing the ultimate Graveyard Slumber Party. Not any old slumber party, honey, one that'll make you feel nostalgic, especially if you're an 80s baby and 90s kid.
The Adventures of Aladdin
Gotta keep one jump ahead of the sitter, one hop out the apartment into the flower bed. The sitter doesn't appreciate I'm trying to follow mommy. I whined, and mommy must not have heard me. I was still left in my crate. I escaped. Gotta duck past the sitter to get to the front door. One jump ahead of grandma, my paw unlocked the car window. Just a little hop grams will help me follow mommy. These guys keep trying to catch me. They're quick, but I'm much faster.
The Day I Choose To Live
I'm alive I didn't write that to be philosophical or dark. Today I'm choosing not to cut. Today I'm choosing not to dwell on things until I'm spinning out of control and need to feel anything other than numb.
Being Homeless Was Never Meant To Be Fun
Food is scarce, only canned fruit and bottled water. Between the two of us, there’s $50 on each EBT card. Walmart is miles away, a ten-minute drive by car. Enough gas isn’t in the car. It’s dangerously close to E. In fact, calls about paying the car note have been nonstop. One agent was so cruel. They actually cursed. Not professional. But what can be said when money owed is well past overdue?
There's No Such Place Called Home
Everyone assumes everyone has a home, someplace to call their own, whether an actual place or lover embrace. There’s no such place called home for me.
Do They Know This?
Chasing shadows in the dark, laced fingers, a puppet show, the rabbit sits on the moon. Late night sessions with your guitar, feet dancing on hardwood floors cheek to chest, your voice a sweet tone that carries promises on the wind of a kiss.
When nothing makes sense, and everything is a shit show, you start to hold on to things. Hold on to sanity when rushing in the early mornings, waiting in a long queue for a Starbucks autopilot order to be filled in a usable cup. Traffic crawls on the highway comes to a halt because you no longer do those things.
Trapped like mice in a labyrinth, hunting the elusive portion of cheese solely to get their heads hacked off in a snap. We were the mice, and Exit was the trap.