.114 day 99

.113 day 98

.112 day 97

“when I'm good, i'm very good, but when I'm bad, I'm better” 
Mae West

my body has done things i thought it couldn't, survived things i thought it wouldn't.

and because of this...i have never felt sexier in my flaws...

.111 day 96

.110 day 95

"music is what feelings sound like"

(thank you, té, for such a soul-filled birthday gift)

.109 day 94

.108 day 93

you are gone, yet, you remain

and tomorrow this won't hurt the same

but i'm grateful, still,

 (despite the pain)

for the time we had

and 

will have again

most of my father's poetry had the traditional "sing-songy" type of flow, but they were good. and i'm not being bias, here, they were really good. 

anyway, i wrote the above "piece" (that sounds so cliché) in his style because...well...most things on my heart these days begin and end with him. 

grief, for me, is uncomfortable. when i didn't understand it, when it hit another's heart, perhaps i thought them  dramatic. their out-pour of emotion, the constant longing for a reality that wouldn't show itself, the way every other thought they shared trailed back to their loved one. it all felt a bit...awkward. but now...now...i get it. this emotion is impulsive. and overwhelming. and all-consuming when you aren't careful, and you just cannot help or contain the 'how and when' your emotions decides to show itself (my own keeps slipping out, at random times, to my displeasure).

and while i'm not fully at peace with my lost, i realize, that moment to moment, i get a little bit closer to it. and while this "missing" will never truly go away, i realize, that moment to moment, i'm finding comfort in it. 

daddy used to say "oh, so, you're hurt? well, then, be thankful. it just means you have the capacity to love so hard, you're able to feel the pain of it's lost. some people go through life never feeling, and never giving, that very thing".

and with that thought in mind, i sit in tearful gratitude to be hurting at all. his love was strong, and i loved him even stronger, and my grief...is like our own emo resume. 

if only 'peace of mind' was hiring...

.107 day 92

blah. i'm drained. and today, i physically felt it. 

106 day 91

her: please don't post these on the internet.

me: pffft. reparations.

her: 0_0

me: O_O

105 day 90

you're not a writer until you've at least envisioned yourself, stationed at a typewriter, coffee, tea, or wine by your side, holed up in the room farthest from the front door, with one window to bring in light and life and songs of birds or trees or random drunkards spewing poetic belligerence at hurried passer-byers pretending they aren't even there. 

until you've dramatically blown dust off keys, taking tedious care not to hit the "S" key, as it tends to jam by the slightest of touch.

until you're wearing a cosby sweater and your hair is a mess and you haven't showered in days because you just have to get this out, whatever "this" is that produces words on paper with or without your willingness. 

until all of technology abandons you, and you don't even bat an eye at the prospect of having to write your entire book, all 50,000 words of it, on a paper napkin, in, either, crayon or blood. this story must be told. and you must be the one to tell it.

but in truth, you're not writer until you eliminate every cliche thought of what a "writer" really is...and just...write. anyway that you can. 

104 day 89

my adorable little stereotype.

at least she isn't wearing my panties on her head anymore.