Bad Date Karma

I have believed strange things before.
I believe in strange things.
Asked out on a date.
Plan the date for Monday.
Monday comes and we are both ill.
It happens.

Can't plan the rest of the week.
Days fill up with obligations,
For the both of us.

Plan the date for the following Tuesday.
Tuesday is good.
I live with the idea of it being Tuesday.
Something came up,
And now Tuesday it's not.

Wednesday is too busy for me,
Thursday might be too busy for her,
Friday might be for family,
Then it's Christmas.

I know it's an odd belief, but I believe in date karma.
If we pick a day and something else is wrong with it,
I might just give up.

Maybe the universe is trying to tell me,
"Hey, this really isn't a good idea."

Things I have stopped include this

I was sick for awhile. I was sick in a way that isn't cancer, or something physical. In a way that people can say to you, "at least you still have your health".

I have stopped many things, and one of those things was this blog.

I realize, that a lot of the writings were symptomatic of my larger undiagnosed mental illnesses. I can say that, and acknowledge it.

Sometimes writing helped, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it made things worse, sometimes better. It's hard to articulate and differentiate the complexities of past writing.

I think I was worried I would revert to past habits and behaviors. But, the thing is, I never read anything again that I make. I never re-read much, or remake much. So, what's the point? What's the worry?

This is just a note for now.

"I'm worried about you"

We inhale and exhale, and nothing changes. Text messages and text messages. There are different kinds of text messages.

From JB: I am worried about you
From JB: Is everything ok?

And you are "ok" in the context that you can wake up every morning, and generally do that which is expected of you.

And you are "ok" because you have projects, and they generally get started, and they generally get done, but not always.

And you are "ok" because you have a hundred things to fill your time, and you are very productive in comparison to other people's productivity. You get something done, usually moderately well, and you don't watch too much television.

But you are not really ok.
You are not really the best example of yourself or who you could be.
And you are terrified if they give you drugs, they won't work, and they will dull you.
Tell the truth.
Write it down, so you can tell the truth.

1/16 (18w)

focussed, crude red lines

this body judged for all it isn't.

a truth even you cannot disagree with.

Circumference is equal to

You can have love and a lover, or you can have nothing like that. You can have friends and a mother, or you can have nothing like that. You can have a sister, and you can speak french. You can have love and a father, or you can have nothing like that.

You could be smart, and a lawyer, but it will feel nothing like that. You could climb up the ladder, but it will feel nothing like that. You could be grounded, and you could read books. You could become who they wanted, but it will feel nothing like that.

You will run away when you're older, trying to find something like that. You will meet people and wreck them, trying to find something like that. You will be reckless, and you will be poor. You will never get wiser, trying to find something like that.

You die for certain, and never find something like that. You barely scratch the surface, and never find something like that. You win some and lose some, but mostly you lose. You want it for certain, but you never find something like that.

Did Andy Warhol ever sleep?

Y'know, if I were to do it over again, I'd probably give this life to someone else, someone who deserves it more than I do. I know you can't do that, but that's what I would do. I'd give it to a girl who wanted the opportunity to be a nurse. She would have been so great at it, saved people's lives and shit. I'd give her me minus the fuck-ups, the bad body, bad clothes, and queerness. Blank slate, but same opportunities. She'd be a real winner. There'd be a wedding, a big white, catholic wedding in a church and an open bar at the reception.

Y'know what Judith Halberstam? I don't know about the giant gay world, but it is hard being queer me, it's hard being loser me. It's hard to fuck up everything that you do in everyone else's eyes. It's hard not to be the right girl girl, the right queer girl, or the lesbian everyone wants you to be. I know I probably missed the point of some theory I've yet to read. It's just a process, yet no one says it gets easier. Burnt out, I've read the stories, people burn out into apathy. Work til we don't give a shit anymore, then give it to the kids who work til they don't give a shit anymore.

Y'know I might go to bed at 9:30pm because I still don't feel well. Tomorrow's a fucking long day, and this not feeling well is a product of something. Tomorrow's the counsellor day. Oh, life's not really this dramatic, it just feels like this sometimes. Constantly feels like its ending and nothing good is starting, but that's the quirks of having a mind like mine. I hope I am not becoming the kind of person who goes to bed early because it doesn't suit my nocturnal creativity.

To

To the girl who said write soon, so I can write back sooner,

To the girl who whispered every word of my songs as she wrote in a pink notebook.

All the pictures I have taken look the same.

From one horder to the next,

We give each other the things we cannot throw away.

It is no wonder I am bored, I am used to being busy and handsome.

Here I am an unoccupied, ugly girl, dressed in fake pearls and sweat,

Wasting my youth staring out the window at the handle of a kite that is caught on the power lines.

It looks like a little scorpion.

You are no longer my biggest fan.

I am no longer my biggest fan.

Words have found their way up.

Irritable for no reason other than I am incapable of doing too many things.

At times like this, it is best just to go to bed,

At times like this it is best to be around other people, find crowded places.

There is no obligation to talk to strangers, but thoughts dissipate

I am aware that the words I use are too small.

Welcome home?

Fall into bed, sobbing, silent stains.

Green girls

Green, awkward girls,

Send little yellow envelopes,

With purple lined pages,

Covered in scratchy blue printing,

That ask for little white dates,

Sent in red mail boxes,

Delivered by black shoed postworkers,

To navy front doors,

Slid through golden mail slots,

And land on beige front carpets,

Picked up by pink manicured fingers,

Of mothers in teal tanktops,

Which are placed on grey granite counters.

Curious striped socks wander,

On dark hardwood floors,

Brown eyes scan,

The little yellow envelope,

And the scratchy blue printing,

From one green, awkward girl

To another.

Growing pains.

At the end of a party,

A girl told a younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," she said.

"Too bad," the older one replied back.

And walked away.

The younger girl grew up

In the middle of the street,

She told an even younger girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new,

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the even younger girl said. "I really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She too walked away.

The even younger girl grew up.

At the end of the night,

She told a younger than her girl

"You can't like me because you are too young,

You are too naive, too new

Too awkward."

"But I like you," the younger than her girl said. "I really really like you."

"Too bad," she said.

She walked away just like the others did.

The even younger than her girl grew up.

I don't even have to tell you what she said to the girl who was younger than her

In the middle of a field at night.

Everything happened just like it happened before.

Boring

When I hang out with you,

Sometimes I feel so boring.

Like I am boring you.

I try to talk about things, and I just spew words.

You don't just tell me things, or relate anecdotes.

When you are with them, the words seem to come so much more easily for you.

You tell them stories, they laugh.

You have a good time.

I am boring.

Fight boring

With drinks and goodtimes.

Cheers.

Asterisk

You say you want a girl who's a, b, c.

That it doesn't matter what else,

You just want someone who's a, b, c.

Everyone believes you when you say

"Y'know, in life I just want an a, b, c kinda person. That's it."

It would serve you well to add an asterisk after c,

And when you are done, to footnote the conversation.

It would look something like this

____________________________

*I really want the whole alphabet.

I am not happy with three letters.

I say that's the only criteria for

happiness in my life,

but I really want so much more,

that it's impossible to fully describe.

There's nothing wrong with that.

It's just that she thinks you only want a, b, c.

That you are happy with her because she's a, b, c.

She doesn't know.

Granted, she could just look at your past.

Collect the fragments and figure it out,

But she really likes you.

So this blinds her to your complexities.

She thinks you really like her.

She's a, b, c, and even d, f, g to me.

I shouldn't have to tell her.

Shouldn't have to allude to anything.

She's just your a, b, c.

And when you find an a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j, k,

You're going to break her.

Breaking a beautiful girl

Ought to bring more bad luck

Than breaking a mirror.

They do not shatter like glass,

They rip like flower petals,

Slowly, and softly.

There is no echoing noise as shards scatter across the ground,

Just a soft tearing sound,

Then a whispering brush,

As all the things she felt falls to the ground.

They shrivel and dry.

God, boys are dumb.

XXX1-9

XXX 1

"I don't like her."

My sister says this as we walk down the street.

"Why?" I ask. "She seems nice."

"I just don't like her," she states again, firm in her belief.

I realize why she doesn't like her. She's "that kind of girl."

Intimidatingly beautiful, she seems to give off an innate confidence that can translate to "bitch" or for lack of a better word, "intimidating" just because of how she looks.

This is something that I think Girl Love really stands for.

Not getting intimidated or stereotyping girls negatively because you don't know them well, and because you think they are a specific "type" of person. Really, we should just like or dislike people on an individual basis when we've had a chance to meet them.

XXX 2

I used to think that I was the most agreeable person when it came to photography. That there was little that annoyed me. Even typical macro flower shots, or nature I didn't mind because some people just like to photograph flowers, and some people just like to paint flowers even though I think they are boring as subject matter. I mean I take shots of flowers and sometimes I'll paint flowers too, but in general, I don't like to.

Then I came across HDR photos.

I realized that I hate these kinds of photos, and the intense praise they seem to attract.

Comments include:

"Stunning shot!"

"Exquisite!"

It looks like something out of a fantasy novel. It's too gaudy, and I don't see the big deal.

I like this photo so much more. Maybe its because I've followed this girl's photos for awhile, and I know that this photo means something. Maybe I'm boring, but I can relate to this a hundred times more than HDR.

XXX 3

Ah, I'm trying to make this a comprehensive post. Aka long, and about everything so I don't have to do three hundred posts in the little time that's left of today.

Today I tried to teach a girl about feminism. I really think that feminism is something that you get, or you don't get. She was studying for her women's studies exam that got deferred. The girl went to my high school, and I had been friends with her sister. Her sister was awkward and nerdy like me, and this girl always struck me as kind of a bitch (but I am trying this girl love thing, so I thought maybe she's not as dense or as mean as I thought!).

Besides, I like teaching people things. She was impressed by the fact that I was making zines.

"Who's paying you to do that?" She asked me kind of shocked.

"No one," I replied.

She was all excited that I was making zines because she read an article on zines! And I thought, "Who the fuck writes academic articles on zines anyways?" Full of my new feminist identity, I tried to explain some major points on articles she didn't understand. I never read the articles, I kind of just skimmed them and gathered the major points. I've done this a lot helping my sister write papers, and if its not for my class, I can gather the main argument rather quickly.

"I've never felt oppressed in my life before as a woman. I've never felt like I didn't get something because I was a woman, so it's hard for me to understand these issues," she admits to me.

I didn't know what to say to help her "get it"(now I'm assuming that she needs to understand women's studies to live a better life, but I think I'm just going to stop over-over-analyzing the things I say). I think a lot of people write off women's studies as a legitimate discipline. You either get it, or you don't, and if you're not going to take the time to understand it, and step out of your way of thinking, then its not going to work for you. You're going to dismiss it, and listen to youtube videos about cats and accept the world as being as perfect as you think it is.

I probably should have tried harder, but I'm not Judith Butler, and I wanted to make sure she understood something in the one hour she had before her exam.

"Ha ha, just so long as you don't capitalize bell hook's name, you'll be fine!" I joked. She'd read one or two articles by her in the term.

"What? You don't capitalize her name?"

"No, you don't... But don't worry, you'll do fine anyways!"

Before she left, I asked her if she wouldn't mind if I cut out the article from her course reader on zines. She let me have it, and I read it after she left. I was glad it was written in 2009, not 1999.

For the history of zines, it says its mainly believed to be a white, middle class, educated thing. You know, grrls and punk rock and 3rd wave feminism. And I understand that a lot of people who make zines are white, middle class, educated women who have access to the internet. The article thought that I didn't know how white zine making is.

Thing is, I know I'm privileged. I know I'm white. I know I'm middle class. I know there are poor girls, coloured girls, native girls, girls on welfare with babies who can't make zines. Who can't say what they want to say, who don't even know they can make something like zines. And it makes me feel guilty that they can't make zines in Africa and distribute them like I can, and that I can't read zines from Israel and Pakistan about women's issues. But what am I supposed to do?

I'm just one girl, who makes zines. I mean I can say, "This issue of Gender Fuck What is going to be all about race and gender, this issue is going to be all about gender in Iran." But that wouldn't be good enough for bell hooks, that wouldn't be good enough for Judith Bulter. I'm still fucking white. I'm still educated. I'm still privileged.

For the sake of my story, let's say I found an indigenous girl who couldn't afford to make zines, didn't know what they were, but wanted to express herself in a way that would work well for a zine. Ok, so we get together, and I show her my zines and bring some supplies that I have that she doesn't. She makes it, I pay for the copying because she doesn't really have the money to make zines. I mean, I spend enough money on coffee, I could probably actually do this.

I'm still some white patron figure. Judith Butler would say something extraordinary about me using my privileged whiteness as a sort of phallic symbol that is probably colonial in nature.

Well, aly, who gives a fuck what JB thinks of you if you're helping a girl make zines, and adding her voice to a mainly North American/white/middle class dominated art form?

Sometimes it just makes me want to scream. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I know I'm white. Everything I make is white, everyone I try to help will be influenced by my white culture, and white ideals even if I try to be more diverse, even if I try to be objective. I wish I wasn't white and queer. I wish I wasn't white and queer and middle class and caucasian.

I know I feel entitled. I know I'm lucky I'm writing a blog right now in a house that protects me from the elements and keeps my freshly copied and stitched zines dry. I'm lucky I can read academic articles for fun, read books when I want to, buy and make zines, go for coffee. I can walk with my sister at sunset without fear that I'm going to get shot in the back of my head, raped, or murdered because of my body, race, or sexuality. My body will not be fucked, then dismembered and thrown into an alley.

I'm so fucking lucky. I'm even lucky I'm so depressed. Life is so fucking great! I can even be depressed! I mean I don't have to worry about feeding children, having AIDS, and I never have to worry that someone is going to find out I like girls and hang me as my father nods in approval. I can cut myself if I want to, I can find some street drugs, smoke, drink until I vomit. Some people just get cut by other people and get drugged. I'm lucky, because I can do it all to myself if and when I want to.

I'm ranting, but I just really don't get what I'm supposed to do.

XXX 4

Today when I was walking to the bus, I cut across a parking lot. A group of guys in a car drove slowly past me and started waving at me and smirking, one of them was laughing. And I thought "Is it because I look more masculine today?" "Is it because I'm fat?" "Is it because I don't look like someone they'd fuck, so they think I'm funny?" They could have just been nice, but I've gotten enough things shouted at me and thrown at me from behind car windows to know that it probably wasn't.

XXX 5

Plans for late late August/early September:

1. Go to Montreal for a few days/a weekend and take no prisoners. Whether this is alone or with my sister or with anyone else, I am going to Montreal. I will have to remind myself of this often. I am going to Montreal.

2. Start a queer/feminist/grrl band. I've wanted to start a band for so long, so why not? I'm going to ask everyone I know, and possible venture to craigslist and the sketchy underbelly of the internet. I feel like a band would bring some sort of regular socialization to my life.

XXX 6

I ran into Leah today, and I realized that I was kind of unwilling to learn alternative methods of things that I do i.e. stitching zines. I dunno why I care so much that zines have to be stitched in a particular way even though sometimes I'm annoyed I can't get the knots right. It's not the first time its happened where someone's made a suggestion to do something slightly different. It's not like she said, "Fuck, aly. Weak zines." It was the same when my dad tried to teach me how to change things that I'm doing which are slightly wrong on the guitar, and in Quebec when people would correct every second word I said. Well, both are different from stitching zines, but maybe I feel like when I learn how to do something, especially on my own, that there is something that will make it less personal if someone else shows me how to do it. I should be more willing to try old things in new ways, I just get defensive sometimes.

XXX 7

I am sick of being asked questions. I think I love this art project for it the way it deals with this. Basically the idea is that trans or genderqueer people are photographed with signs of things friends, family members, peers or colleagues have asked them. Link is here. It's probably old, but I wish I could paint some signs and ask people shit they ask me and see how they feel. I know people just want to know, and they are naturally curious. I know I've asked some bad questions in my day, but unless you're on the receiving end, you don't know how badly questions can hurt.

I don't have super short hair, I don't identify as trans. It's not even "are you gay?" questions that bother me. It's the subtle ones, the ones where you think the questioner should know better, but they don't.

XXX 8

I told him my plan, and he's not going to stop me. This is liberating. This is frightening. This is life. I say this squeezed at the end of what feels like a thousand thoughts. It's not a bad plan, or that kind of plan. It's just a plan.

When I sit on the floor half-dressed some mornings, I know I am having a bad start to a day. I can't even finish putting on clothes. I sit on the floor and think, "what if life stopped now?" Who does that other than me? Maybe everyone does, and we are too afraid to tell each other we sit and think about our own mortality in our underwear.

Around the age of 14 I used to play a game where I would go in my room after dinner, and instead of watching tv I would lie on my bed completely still and pretend I was dead. I would close my eyes and listen to my breathing and count the time that passed. I was dead, and I was waiting for my mother, my sister, or my brother or anyone to come and find me. Most of the time no one did after a long time, and I got bored and went to watch tv.

I don't like the idea of being forgotten. I like to think that I mean something, that my life and my thoughts mean something. Yet, I always feel forgotten, forgettable. Disposed, disposable. Like I am continuously fading to white. Just before my grandmother went into the hospital for the second time, for the last time, we were sitting on her couch in the living room. She was really weak, and she turned to me and said, "Alyson, I just want you to know that even though it feels like it sometimes, no one will ever forget you."

Remembered by dead people. Do dead people remember? Does my grandmother remember me? Will my aunt remember me? My words never evoke the exact emotions I feel.

(I am a lazy writer because I use too many words to say such few things. I need to make my writing flow better, cut out the filler. This takes time and energy. I just write and don't look back at the messes I make. I'm not trying to be, "Oh look at me, I'm so sad." I'm just trying to collect my thoughts into something that I can look at later. Something to make sense of later.)

xxx 9

"You'll find someone if you stop looking."

I know this is true because that's what happened last time.

But I can't stop looking, I can't stop that looking feeling.

Feeling guilty, feeling infinite

(I made this and sent it to post secret france about a year ago. It made it on the website, and I got really excited. Translates to: It's hard to be free like you.
I know I write too much. Regardless of how many amazing people have told me I don't write too much, I am still going to think it. So I'll say it again. I write too much. )

tonight all these out of order thoughts came to me.

I felt infinite.

the last time I felt infinite,

it was two years ago,

maybe three.

I texted the girl I had.

I said

"I feel infinite"

I didn't have to explain

what infinite felt like.

tonight,

I walked in a field,

at night,

wearing a blue skirt,

without tights and socks or shoes.

I felt infinite.

mosquito bites and long grasses,

setting sun.

it felt like a movie,

one where the main character is an awkward girl

who makes zines and lives in her head.

like Amelie and the Science Of Sleep,

but gayer and lonelier.

but still beautiful.

well, the cinematography would be beautiful.

the girl, just so so.

I want to go swimming.

I want to go to the beach.

I want to wear a bathing suit,

one without shorts and say,

"I am scarred, I am scared, but I am here."

I am here.

I am here, and being here

is really fucking hard a lot of the time.

sitting on the bench,

the field surrounded me,

and I felt like my life was a lot like this field.

a field with little white flowers, with no one there.

two years ago,

I think of what happened on that night.

I realized that right now I am two thirds the same person,

one third different.

two thirds the same problems:

parents, body, self-perception, fear, cutting,

the one third difference is the fact that I'm working on it.

that I've changed,

gotten better in some regards,

worse in others.

when I die,

wherever I go when I stop breathing,

it will be like the field.

I love the field, so it won't be a bad thing.

past, present, everything comes together in the field,

and I think and watch the seagulls.

no one yells at me.

there is no pressure to be anything

but myself.

there's always a cool breeze.

I feel guilty

for sifting through the past.

I sift non-linearly, when I have time at night,

your past, his past, her past.

reading all the words that you wrote,

reading them,

even though they are there to be read.

gosh,

you've changed.

I am happy.

I am alone.

I am not lonely anymore.

(From yesterday)

"You look like a guy," my mother tells me. "You can't wear that to your cousin's graduation. It's too casual."

What she means is "Wear that dress your sister bought you."

Usually I don't care, but today I don't feel like wearing one.

The only images I can remember from my dream last night are giant sized housecats, wet Q-tips, and a girl who didn't like me. She really didn't like me and I don't even remember what she looked like. I just remember the feeling.

Future moments.

On the bus they came to me today.

For the second time in my life,

For the second time in two days,

I felt the future.

I said to her, "I'd make a great dad."

She laughed.

It came out of air like her arms.

Exhale

We were too tired to make art.

To live today was art.

Too exhausted, so we made do.

Collapsed in different rooms of your apartment.

Lying on your couch

I thought I felt the delicate arms of a phantom lover holding me from behind.

Was just air.

I could not bring myself to get up and go look for her.

Wandering into the night to find her felt taxing,

Like it would steal the energy it takes to lie down and sleep.

And I would be up all night.

Again.

Maybe it was just a future moment

A future frame that got shuffled into the current.

Coming to remind me

There's more than this.

Goodnight.

Thing is,

Thing is,

You are not as cool as I thought you were.

You never were.

Your dick is not gold plated.

If it were, we'd cut it off,

And leave it as an offering in Lourdes

Under a statue of Madonna

I'd make you my wayward girl.

Throw pieces of bread at the pigeons.

Coolness is just an illusion of how people perceive you.

The reality is that you don't know what you are talking about.

You fumble through the world.

Through words, through time.

Trying to make the most of it.

Gesture with your hands an idea.

Trying to mask the fact that you've never had a good one in your life.

No wonder you left home.

When you go back you think you are glad that you left.

But really it takes more muscles for a tree to stand in the side of a hill

Stand, stand for something.

Endure something,

Grow.

Seeds get caught in the wind,

Get caught up in the world.

Go again.

She doesn't need you here.

Seeing differently

When we left last night, my ears were still ringing from the music, and my thoughts were still collecting moments into anecdotes. Processing the details of sequins and almost fights, tiaras, and lady gaga, we headed back to your apartment.

"Do you see that guy?" you said pointing to a man walking in a parking lot outside of the tall white apartment buildings. We were a few blocks from your street. "He's the one who took off his shirt."

"I know a guy took off his shirt," I said squinting into the darkness, "But I didn't think that's him."

"It's him, it definitely is," you gave him a quick look and added "Gross."

I thought back to the guy who was on the dancefloor, and tried to compare this man with him. I remembered the shape of his body as if it were a white paper cutout, yet I was unable to fill in the details.

I thought of something to tell you. "Did you see that girl with the short hair wearing the green?" I asked. I thought this would have been enough information to tell you and have you know exactly who I was talking about.

"No, I don't think so," you replied.

"She was a really good dancer with the green shirt and a skirt," I replied filling in the details.

You said nothing, and I continued. "She danced with the drag king when she gave him money. She was a really good dancer."

"No, I didn't notice," you said.

We left these differences of perception in the street, and drank water from your kitchen. Everything was interesting and beautiful. I felt changed even though I didn't want to acknowledge this feeling for fear that I would destroy something that had started so delicately. Change starts slowly and accumulates gradually until you realize that you cannot find the veins of your former existence in your present body.

Your bones have elongated, your thoughts matured, and your desires, depending on your age, have changed subjects and become either more or less intense. Some girls I know stopped wanting pokemon cards, and longed to see sex and the city movies. When they are old, I hope they want to see sunsets more than go shopping.

I don't know how I am changing. I can't pinpoint all the little growths, like little sprouting seeds that seem to be taking root on the recent past self.

I was reading Q.E.D. today, and Helen asks Adele, "Haven't you ever stopped thinking long enough to feel?"

Helen was really asking me this, and I thought about it for a few seconds and smiled. 107 years later and I knew that I was meant to be asked this because in many ways we are the same kind of girl. Although my life is without the drama of a love triangle, we are plagued by too much thinking which gets in the way of useful things.

Again, I've started off with one thought, and ended with a completely different one.

Wear your fuck yeah jeans

Fuck yea jeans are the pair of jeans I own that I love too much. I wear them almost every chance I get, regardless if they are clean or dirty. They are comfortable, maybe a little worn, but they look alright. They're not too low or highwaisted, nor are they an awkward cut. They are still clean enough if they have dirt on the knees or on the side, or if they have a peculiar raspberry-coloured stain near the pocket that I can't decide whether its food or some sort of ink.

I call them fuck yea jeans because when they are clean, like actually clean, that's what I say. I say it aloud to myself when I realize that I actually took them off long enough to throw them in with the ordinary clothes. "Fuck yea, jeans."

They are still fuck yea jeans if they aren't freshly out of the washing machine. They are still fuck yea jeans if they get things spilt on them throughout the night, when the colour starts to fade, when you buy new jeans that you really like. It's never the same. The places I've been in these jeans, the art, thoughts, and people I've met and experienced. I've slept in them, and worn them the next day more times than I can count.

If I didn't have to look nice today, I would have worn them. They are not fuck yea clean, but they will have to be for the weekend that's to come.

Letter D Blog Post Titles

Dear body

Dear ghosts

Dear New Year

Disclaimer

Distract me not

Done it all

Letter C Blog Post Titles

Ca va?

Characters

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Collecting memories of recent past.

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Counting on being forgotten

Cues from nature