Friday, November 7, 2014


The illustrious Samuel/Samule/Samool has written many a satire (of my writing...), but I think this one is moste excellente (and more than just a little accurate). Please, review the following:

13 reasons you shouldn’t date an English major

  1. He’ll collect your grammer
  2. Even if he’s not your what grammer means
  3. But a lease he reads a lot of books
  4. That means he knows Socrates
  5. He say yo Soc wassup
  6. And Soc like what is what
  7. daaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwg
  8. He’ll be metally untabled because he spends all his time reading books
  9. And will ask you for hermione and say shouldn’t it be pronounced
  10. her-miyone? he’s broke
  11. because he is always thikning maybe ill be a writer
  12. which is a bad idea because if hes a writer he’ll be an English major
  13. and then nobody will date him
  14. toldya he knows Soc; he unravels in circles.

(But if you break up with him be prepared to be destroyed by words you didn’t even know could be used that way. )


*original post can be found here

Monday, November 3, 2014


I dreamt that you stood by my bookshelf and flipped through the pages of my favorite book. The rustles and scents rolled off of you like a release of dandelion seeds tumbling through the air, drawing eyes toward–

I dreamt that you took my hand and led me and we danced seamlessly, circulating like the steady chime of a grandfather clock, familiar and safe and warm, your nose just above mine, lips so close but not quite just there, though we breathed the same air.



I dreamt of the strength, firm beneath my fingers, that I could reach out and grasp without fear. Apprehension did not hold me back, it was absent and the barrier between mind and movement too evaporated in favor of boldness. The swelling in my chest, the roiling, the blossoming, that pains but pleasures like the tearing of muscles that rebuild–

I dreamt:

that I allowed myself to give you permission to set the butterflies afire in my stomach so I can jump in the deep end

that I unclenched my fists and the butterflies, they will burst in a flurry of wings and cloud the air we breathe when they scramble out from my throat to be swallowed by you.

And maybe the crescent moon lashes that sweep across your cheeks will flutter in tandem like the way we move when we dance.

The dream:

You were in it but it was about me. What holds me back. What prevents me. What strikes lancing barbs in my chest.

Outside of the dream, I just might smooth away the choking tingles and reach out, so maybe we'll dance again. You are sturdy and stable and solid, and I, a bendy tumble of waves and sensation. We, a unit. If we dance, you and I, as one, a smile will break through, that was held back by fear and stiffness and norms and–

there it is


*lovely source of de-stressing at around four in the morning (the college struggle is so real)