lullaby

sometimes i don't want to fall asleep because i think i will die. so i don't let my body drift off. my body is often in a constant battle with my mind. i want to fall asleep, well you can't, i want to fall asleep, YOU CAN'T. i think that if i am awake i can ward off death. i can stop it from walking towards me if i can see it. but in reality death will probably come when im completely conscious. i'll see it in all its glory and i won't be able to stop it. 

the time between awake and sleep is my scariest time. i hear things and i can't tell if they are real. sounds warp in my ears. i often hear rock music through the strong breath of my ac unit. i hear police sirens from the rain sounds i play to try to lull me to sleep. i hear a man's piss hitting the cold toilet water but i don't know who the man is. sometimes i hear a person in my ear with the loudest voice i've ever heard yell CAROLINE! and my heart skips a beat. and then i wait frozen to see when he'll call my name again and he won't, not for a few weeks. i hear the sound of my mother creaking up the stairs, she's slower than the rest of my family. my apartment does not have stairs. i try to drown out my phantom sounds with white noise but then i'm scared i will miss a sound that is not a phantom sound but an actual sound, the actual sound of those things that can hurt me. 

when i was four i had my first nightmare. i was in my home and i was looking out the window through our yard, towards the street. it was rainy and very bright green. i saw a witch dressed in black standing on the street looking at me. i felt unnerved but was holding up because she was far across the street. i continued walking around my house and looked out another window, this time the witch was in my yard. looking at me. i could see her more this time. i felt hot. and i did not want to see her anymore and i did not want her to see me. i went into my mother's closet and i shut the door and i sat there. i already knew my fate. there was nothing i could do, she was coming and i could not stop her. i sat with the bright light on in the closet because i was afraid of the dark. she made no noise but opened the door and drifted above me. 

i never dreamt of her again but i know she is watching and getting closer. 

drunk driving

I went to a catholic high school. When I got there at 8am on a Wednesday, the front desk secretary said “Are you the woman giving a presentation on drunk driving?” I was bored and didn’t know how I got there. I said yes.

They brought me in and gave me a muffin and coffee, which I appreciated because the only thing I had for breakfast that morning was the grand slam from iHop. Did you know Steve Jobs invented the iHop? I should visit Steve Job’s grave, it’s good to honor those who have helped you. My blue iPod touch was instrumental in my ability to listen to music privately which I believe is a right to every (U.S.) citizen.

I went to the front of the auditorium and students filtered in. Many students came late which I did not appreciate. You need to respect your elder drunk driver presentation givers.

My presentation began like this, 

“Hello students, my name is El Salvador.”

I didn’t want to give them my real name in case they looked me up and saw I was a professional Model and not a professional drunk driving presenter. So instead I gave them a name that would show a lovely country when they googled it. It’s called Search Engine Optimization. 

I continued,

“I am here to talk about drunk driving. First you must get a license, which is harder than you think! So focus on that first, and then focus on drinking later because that is the easy part. When you get your license, make sure they give you a real ID because you can’t go to Aruba without it nowadays.”

I have not been to Aruba. I do not have a real ID. 

“Once you’re all set with the license, I recommend two to three drinks MAX for everyone before they drive. If you aren’t driving, you can basically have as many drinks as you want, just stop drinking when your friends start ignoring you and whispering, ‘I’m not sure what to do, should we call an uber?’

My parents took me to Aruba when I was six. My sincerest Apologies.

“‘I’m not sure you’re legally allowed to put someone in an uber if they don't consent. Also I’m so low on money, Jessica can you do it since your uber is linked to your parent’s account?’” 

At this point, the administration started to realize I wasn’t the real drunk driving presenter, not because of my demeanor but because the actual presenter had arrived and she brought a massive machine that frightened me at first glance. It was a jail broken racing game from an arcade. She removed the Monaco race track and filled it with a quiet suburban street. 

Where is this street? I’ll live there. 

It was a drunk driving simulator where students get in and try to race down the road while drunk, and you have to avoid fun obstacles like sweet old women and young hot moms walking their dogs. Oh and trees, those are actually the bad ones. Because the other obstacles you can kill, and you go to jail, or you can let the tree kill you. And the tree doesn’t go to jail.

I was mad because if I had only remembered my massive jail broken racing arcade machine, I probably could have kept going with my presentation. 

A nun came up on stage, thanked me for my time, and escorted me off the stage. The students had no idea I was a fraud, they assumed I was simply a partner of the other women. Awesome, maybe I actually did a great job and I could ask that woman for a job as her assistant drunk driving presenter, but I was so dumb and forgot my resume. And I realized I had bitten my index finger's nail bed so much it was bleeding. Drunk driving presenters are really into reducing bleeding. 

The nun held me backstage. It looked familiar but then again I always felt very comfortable backstage. I was an ex theater kid, but not one of the weird ones. I was normal, meaning I wasn’t that good. But I was okay enough for the drama teacher at my school to tell me he considered me for the role of Maria Von Trapp. Not everyone is considered. 

The nun said many things at me but I struggled to pay attention because she had a white skin patch under her right eye. I couldn’t figure out what had gone wrong there. Had she rubbed her under eye so much the skin burned off and had to regrow? Was it a fungus? Some fungi is edible. Was this makeup to cover up an even more grotesque thing? I started to envision it as a little bit of mozzarella she sewed on and I wanted to barf. 

“How have you been, do you still live with your mom?” 

Sister Rebecca. Maria Von Traap. I was considered for Maria Von Traap, a sister. Sister Rebecca.

How does she know I have a mom? Sister Rebecca taught me math.

I’m not sure if Maria Von Traap is qualified to be teaching equations. 

In thirty seconds, five hours, I was with three other Sister Rebeccas. They gave me my favorite drink, water in a glass cup that smells like wet dog. I prayed for the first time in twelve years. 

Sister Rebecca remembered me, me.

so small

 so small you could pick me up, honey

i shrunk the kids

my dad did it to me last week when he was trying to catch the bad guy in our backyard

but it hit me

its hard

ants are my friends, there's one bitchy ant that sucks

my cat licked me and scalped my head

i almost drowned when my dad cried

worst part is i don't think i can go to homecoming

not because i'm ugly or anything but because the decibels of the music will rip me apart the second i step foot in the gymnasium. 

the crumbs on the floor from tuesday night's dinner do not taste good

laughter

at some point, i realized i laughed with the snow and not with the moon. the moon held me captive in solitude, shining a light i could not avoid. memories never fade, in fact they can hide away like a scared church mouse, then run across your foot while you stand in the kitchen in the middle of the night. what were you reaching for in your fridge? is the church mouse still there? i could take it and move it two miles away, they say that's enough so it won't come back. but i think that church mouse is smart. it has spent years memorizing every inch of my walls. i bet it has sat in my rocking chair more times than i.

i will eat the bell peppers that have been in my fridge for months. they are soft now, but their red color has outlasted the nasty faded carrots and i'd like to reward them. i'm a people pleaser who can't please people. what does it take to be the person who laughs at it all? 

i'm hoping for a snowstorm this winter so i have an excuse to be cold and light a fire without a fireplace. i will gather wood just in case. if i must, i will burn my chess board. i never did win against him anyway.

he loved the sweet sap of summer. the stickiness of us could not keep us apart. 

a clown will come to my house and do his best. 

first date at the fair

 my mom dropped me off in our red car that i never knew the make and model of when i was a kid, but i now know it was a toyota 4runner. i was immediately hit with the lights of the ferris wheel, shining bright than the stars, the chatter of kids i didn't know but could probably get along well with if someone introduced us, and the smell of kettle corn that teased me as i missed my family's dinner to go on my first date ever. 

my mother waited for me as i walked away from the car. i pretended i was not with her and i went up to the ticket booth. i slid open my flip phone and texted jacob: "here, by the ticket booth." "you coming in or what?" said the lady from inside the booth. "just a moment," i said. i wanted to give jacob the opportunity to pay for me, only if he wanted to of course. i would be fine either way. my parents equipped me with a 20 dollar bill, which i didn't realize as a kid was way more than they could afford to give me. i just didn't want to start my date off on the wrong foot. i wanted the proper chance to have the perfect first date, with maybe a romantic kiss under the stars. then, i saw jacob leave his black car and give his mother a kiss on the cheek, and i regretted not doing that to mine. we had been dating for two weeks already, and i realized i didn't even know his mother's name. i would ask him when there was a lull in the conversation. i waved to jacob, he walked over. we hugged for .06 seconds. i gave my mother eyes and she drove away in her 2009 red toyota 4runner. the mothers were both now gone. which meant we were alone at the big fair. we knew no one else here. 

he paid for our tickets and we went in. i was starving, but i couldn't say that yet. our bodies auto-piloted to the first ride we saw: teacups. we hadn't said anything yet besides hello. "this is my boyfriend," i thought to myself as we waited in line. "compliment him." i mustered up the courage and said, "i like your shirt," and then actually looked at the shirt that i had the honor of giving such a high compliment to. it was a relay for life t-shirt from last year. "thanks," jacob said. i looked around awkwardly. "i've never been to this fair, i always go to the one in collinsville," i said. "i haven't been either," jacob said. we moved up two places in line. "what's your mom's name?" "susan" "cool." we then waited in silence until we got into the teacups. 

we were paired with an older couple that looked to be in their 30s. we all crammed into the cup and the ride began. i turned the cup slowly, along with jacob and the man. "babe, please, just turn the cup," the man said. "no, this is so stupid. oh my god," she said. "babe do not make a scene, please," he said. "oh so you can just make fun of me to the kettle corn lady and i'm not gonna be upset? and for what - just so you can be this awesome hilarious funny guy and i'm just some bimbo?" "you're not a bimbo." at that point, jacob let out the smallest laugh. i looked up straight at him with big eyes. "you think that's funny, kid?" the man said. "stay out of it." she said. "i am sorry," jacob said. when the ride finished, jacob and i walked out of the teacup silently, and then burst out laughing. "BIMBO, BIMBO!" jacob yelled. "JIMBO, BIMBO, LIMBOOO." i mimed limboing. jacob laughed. "god they were CRAZY! they totally freaked out at you," i said. "if we see them again, let's yell BIMBO at them," jacob said. 

we ate kettle corn, fried dough, and cotton candy while the fireworks popped in the sky. "i wonder if i'll be anything like her when i'm 30," i said. "no friggin' way. you are going to be amazing, nice to everyone, and normal. even if a middle schooler laughs in your face," jacob said. "what if i'm a bimbo?" i said. jacob cracked up. i laughed. i thought to myself, "this would be a nice time to kiss, but how do you even kiss? i don't care enough to figure it out. i don't want to ruin the night. we are having so much fun. i am fine with waiting until high school to kiss, yeah, that makes more sense." suddenly i heard, "MARIE!" i turned and looked. it was cassie, she was in my home room class. she ran up to me and hugged me, which we'd never done before. "have you seen brett?" cassie said. "brett h?" "yes." "no, i didn't know he was here." "ugh, he's pissed at me for making out with brian behind the dunk tank." "im sorry, uh, jacob got harassed by an old man." "oh, i'm sorry. i gotta go find brett." 

jacob and i climbed to the top of the big slide. i looked out over the fair, trying to find the couple. i took a step to my right, and as i put my foot down, i heard the sound of a potato chip crunching. i gripped my knee and picked up my leg so i could see the bottom of my shoe, and saw a squashed cockroach. "you two love birds are up!" said the attendant. i had no time. i stuck my two feet into the potato sack with jacob. and we flew down the slide. we went a little too fast. i wasn't prepared. and all i could think about was the cockroach riding the slide with us. was it still alive, having a little fun? 

i rode home silently with my mother. i wondered if i'd ever step on a cockroach again. i wondered if i'd ever want to kiss someone. i wondered if the fighting couple is in love. i wondered if it's ok to not have a lot to talk about with someone.

sweet disposition music video

 

tinned fish

tinned fish in the evening, tinned fish in the morning. no brushing my teeth in between. starving all day, dreaming about my nightly smoked trout. i'll put it on two crackers, make a little sandwich. make my whole house smell of fish. there's nothing else for me but my tinned fish. people run, people drive, people cry all night but i smile, knowing i got my tins.

morning comes, but i see no sun. time to wake up and have my salmon on ritz.

i sit on my basement floor, downing my concoction, looking at the 4,374 tins i have left. will it last me?

i haven't seen a soul since the final trip to the grocery store back in '81. i wonder if sheila's still there bagging groceries. she was 77 in '81. what's the year now? she may be gone.

starving all day, dreaming about my nightly smoked trout. wondering if the world's okay, i know i am.

the day i died

i was waiting in line for ice cream. it was quite a long line, maybe the longest i'd ever seen it. it was one of the muggiest days of summer, so we all wanted to reward our tongues for making it through.

i had probably waited for a good fifty minutes, and i was just about to be at the front of the line, but then i died.

i died about to retrieve my maple walnut ice cream cone.

the people in line screamed and huddled around my body. they yelled, "but she was so close to the front!" and "maybe it's just low blood sugar!" and tried to force feed me their gross cotton candy flavored ice cream, but i was already dead. it was no use.

it was a big shock to me when i died right there. that night, when i got dressed in my favorite summer outfit, my floral dress with tevas, and put on a light dusting of makeup, i did not think i'd die. i was about to cap off another beautiful night with a huge cone. i was promoted to a new position at work that morning, so why would i die?

did i go to the ice cream store too much and eat too many maple walnut ice cream cones? nobody told me i shouldn't, not even the ice cream man.

i wish i had at least gotten to eat my ice cream before i died. 

i died not knowing or believing in an after life. i died not believing i'd die. dying happens to people, not me, not us.

i died on cold hard ground with traces of sprinkles, dog hair, melted ice cream, and dirt around my body.

i died with strangers around me trying to help me up.

i refused their help and allowed myself to sink more into the tiled floor. i did not want to be lifted up. i wanted to shout, "this is it. it's really happening. i'm dying. look at me and prepare." but i had only one ounce of energy left. i licked my finger, dabbed it onto a sprinkle on the ground, and put it right onto my tongue. the tiny sweet purple sugar coated my teeth. 

this made my dying a little easier. 

never been to disney

 one of the distinct character traits i liked to hold close to myself when i was little was the fact that i'd "never been to disney world" i put it in quotes because i used to say it so often that it now solely exists as a line of dialogue to me. i said it so much that i even recall being at a 6th grade sleepover playing never have i ever, and yes you guessed it, the phrase "never have i ever been to disney world" came out of my mouth while holding up my five fingers. this fact was so important to me. i needed others to know they were special. i needed others to know i was not like them. they were people who had families who went to disney, and my family would never be like that.

i didnt learn about the other version of disney world: disney land until middle school, which then made my line of dialogue a little bit trickier. i would try to get out ahead of someone asking about the land, by shifting my phrase to "i've never been to disney world. or land." this was a little clunkier, and it didn't hit as cleanly. but it still got the job done. "wow! interesting." i would often get as the response. and i'd provoke them even further.

"have you?" i asked.

"yeah, when i was like five, i think. i don't really remember it."

"cool." 

to them, disney world/land at five years old meant nothing, probably because they couldn't even recall what rides they'd been on, what food they'd eaten, or even what month they'd gone. but to me, that said everything. you've been. you've checked it off your list. you can say you've been. boom. 

i don't know how my obsession with attendance to disney world/land began. i wasn't even a disney fan. i wasn't dreaming about meeting mickey mouse, or riding space mountain, or watching fireworks go off behind the stunning castle. 

i think after all those first days of school after summer break where I would hear my classmates talk about their trip to disney world, i started to think, ok what the hell is going on? 75% of my classmates have been to disney world, am i not allowed there? has my family been banned? do my parents even know about disney world?! visiting disney became the mark of a realized concrete person. 

once, an amorphous blob roaming about town, but now, after dancing with Goofy under the stars, takes the shape of human person, with legs, ears, eyes, and can move onto 4th grade, and continue on to the rest of their life. 

i was an amorphous blob. in grade 4 i tried to remedy this. the online game i played every night for years and years was called VMK (virtual magic kingdom) which was an online version exact replica of Disney World, made by Disney. i learned all the ins and outs of disney world. i rode all the rides, developed my character and collected tons of rare items, made hundreds of friends at the virtual theme park. i am still close with one of those friends today. i am her bridesmaid. how weird. 

i finally had the knowledge of disney world, which i even whipped out at school when my friends spoke about their previous vacations. oh yeah rebecca you loved space mountain? i've actually ridden it probably 340 times. my virtual kingdom meant the world to me. i slowly took shape as i played this game. i didn't need to visit disney world anymore. i already had, every night. 

i have accomplished a few versions of "visiting disney world" today. i have a job. i can cook. i have tried skateboarding. i have a boyfriend. i play tennis. i have an apartment. these are all equally important in my eyes to having a normal healthy lifestyle, as having visited disney world/land is. 

i'm heading to paris with my boyfriend this month. they have disney land paris, maybe i can finally go. 

sick

 today i woke up coughing up mucus. did i start coughing in my sleep or did i wake up and immediately cough? i haven't yet figured that out, although i've woken up the same way every day this week.

this week, i was home sick. it was very quiet, besides my nose blowing. crumples of tissue paper are hidden like easter eggs around the house. in the corner of my bed, near the kitchen counter, and somehow one sitting on my record player, begging to be spun. 

to allow your body to completely give into lethargy is a wonderful feeling. i often push that desire away, but with sickness as an excuse you're free to be as slow as you want. my cat larry and i were on the same wave length. wake up, stretch, eat, sit on the couch for six hours, eat, poop, cuddle, sit on couch for six hours. but larry wasn't working from home like i was. larry wasn't creating zoom meetings and chiming in on what wordage we should use in our tweet. but i know larry would be good at that, maybe even better than me!

i got home late from work last night and immediately made a roux that turned into a deliciously creamy mac and cheese. with shells. 

a question i think about once a week: if i was on the bachelor, would i tell the producers i truthfully cannot be put on a date where they make me sky dive? life is uncertain. you do not know what your future holds. but luckily i know one hard truth about my life: i will never skydive. and that's fine. i actually don't think people who have skydived are so grateful they did it, and their life has totally changed because of it. so, when would i ever have to skydive? well, if i was a contestant on the bachelor. because let's be honest, if you are a contestant, and your date says "i've planned a special day. we are going up in that plane and jumping out." you cannot back out. if you back out, america hates you. they think its symbolic of you backing out of this relationship. they think you aren't willing to take risks, like moving to texas for the bachelor. they think you're weak. too weak to express your love for the bachelor. so you HAVE to get in the plane. you HAVE to jump out. and then tell the bachelor how you wouldn't have done that with anybody but him. he is the reason you jumped you. he gave you the confidence to know you'll be safe. i mean, it's ultimately the perfect date. anyway, i often think about, if i was on the bachelor, the likelihood of me getting the skydive date is pretty low. BUT, if i tell the producers, are they actually even more likely to put me on the skydive date to challenge me? for a perfect tv moment, the girl who cries and freaks out but then eventually gets on the plane because of the guy's motivating words? or better yet, the girl cries and freaks out and the bachelor really hates that she's not brave and sends her home. i think if i was on the bachelor i would ultimately not tell the producers and just try not to be super awesome and not get a one on one, and then once the skydive date happens i kick into high gear and be a great contestant.

good things are happening in my career. that is satisfying. my college roommate is now my literary manager. god isn't life crazy? listen up, it pays to be a good roomie. and by good roomie, i mean, i would nap from 8pm-12am, and then do homework from 12am-3am. because "that system actually worked better for me" lol. 

i have a flight in 3 weeks and im thinking about it a lot because i have an intense fear of flying. no offense to all aviation engineers but seriously i think we should be able to expel turbulence, i mean come on. its 2023... and a sweet girl is on a plane crying because it's shaking? that is not right. in my opinion.

jam and bread

i woke up late, so four slices of thin white bread went into my mouth, while i scooped out 20 spoonfuls of fig jam with my right hand fingers. i sprinkled sugar on the top with my clean left hand finger. the jam already had a ton of sugar, but i like the crunch of the flakes and the way it makes my snack dazzle in the sunlight

my fourth slice of white bread, i held in my hand, this soft pillow, i noticed all the air pockets inside. i took the bread to my mouth and took a breath through it,  a few crumbs going into my lungs. i flattened the bread with my hand until it became dense and thin. i spread the jam over it, sprinkled my sugar, and rolled it up like a cigar, put it right between my peace sign fingers. my mouth opened and closed in slow motion, so i decided to wash it down with some ice cold coffee. i grabbed my green jadeite glass that I sipped from everyday in elementary school and filled it to the top with ice cubes.

i took one ice cube out that was about to fall over the edge and took it between my teeth. i struggled to crunch on it, so i sucked on it for a few seconds, letting a layer melt. i crunched it. teachers always said not to crunch on ice, but i’m sure they would make an exception for this moment. 

apple pie

after supper, we baked an apple pie with what we had. one red apple, one green apple, and a three week old tiny lemon, almost sucked completely dry of its juice. one sliced the red, the other sliced the green. the red slicer got jealous at the sound of how the green apple sliced. it was way crispier and juicier than the red. the green juice sprayed up, as if excited to be sliced open. the red apple sliced like softened butter. 

we laughed at the merging of the red and green apples for the pie, something we assumed nobody had ever done before. we felt like geniuses together, maybe we were. we rolled the tiny lemon for five whole minutes, hoping to ease the juice out of it easily when we cut. when the palms of our hand were raw and numb, we sliced the lemon. we each took a half, holding it like a baby bird in our hand, but then no longer like a baby bird when we squeezed it right onto the apples. the lemons squeaked together in harmony, the sounds overpowering our laughter. the apples glistened with their new acidic sweat. 

the one who sliced the green apple opened the cabinet to grab the sugar. both the salt and the sugar are in the same type of ball jar. the green slicer took a minute to figure out which is which, debated sticking his finger in to test, but then noticed the white flour stain on the bottom of the sugar jar from a previous banana bread and grabbed it. 

he poured sugar from the jar into the bowl of red and green apples. he put the jar down, looked at me, and poured a bit more in. we stuck our hands in the bowl and mixed them all around, our fingers scraping against each others, the sugar with lemon turning our hands into sandpaper. i realized i had a cut on my middle finger, as i felt the sudden sting. 

it was 10:15pm. we had to wake up early for work the next day. but we would not sleep until the pie was done and we were finished eating. 

i, who sliced the red, took out my blue ceramic pie dish. it had been purchased from an antique store four years ago, in hopes that some day i would use it and be a baker. i would be the girl who bakes, even if for nobody. turns out baking for nobody requires a lot of strength, which i did not have. the blue ceramic pie dish has since been used many times, starting first with a peach pie, made with the green slicer. something about the green slicer makes me eager to bake, maybe for those few moments where we can laugh at a lemon and touch our rough hands drowning in apples together.

i opened the oven door, and the green slicer slid the pie onto the rack, sans oven mitts. we set a timer on the oven for 59 minutes, because setting it for one hour makes the time go by much slower. we sat and played chess, knowing we will eat our delicious creation at 11:30pm, and sleep with warm bellies.  

dad's mirror

on christmas day at my childhood home, i had to bend down to see myself as i brushed my teeth in my dad's mirror. the unfinished wood bottom border of the mirror landed at my stomach. on the mirror were years old specks and flecks from the water splashing up, bouncing out of the ceramic white sink. 

i never came into my dad's bathroom as a kid. although it was seven steps from my bedroom, i only stepped foot in there a couple times. the bathroom was reserved for my father, and occasionally my brother. i never would have gotten in trouble if i'd have gone in, but it wasn't about that really. was part of it about not wanting to step foot in a bathroom that was owned by a teenage boy and an older man who wasn't very clean? possibly. but it wasn't my territory. and i have respect for people's territories. my territory was the downstairs bathroom, that i shared with every guest that came in here. 

the one time i remember entering my father's bathroom was when i was three years old. i wanted to learn what the heck my dad got up to every morning in there. i went over to the sink, saw his razor. and i turned my head up to look at the unfinished wood mirror. i could only see the top of my head. i thought, "hmm i've seen my dad shave his lips before, i'll do that. if he does it every day why aren't i doing it?"

    (gruesome part incoming)

i took the razor, and with a swift action more confident than anything i had ever done before and anything i will ever do in the future, i sliced my lips right open, in an effort to shave my mustache. i realized quickly maybe i didn't have the skill to shave, as i saw the blood dripping down onto the white tiled floor.  i couldn't see what had happened, i tried to stand on my tip-toes to get a better look into the mirror but it was no luck. my dad ran in with the biggest shock on his face at this horror movie esque vignette, scooped me up and took me downstairs. at that point my memory fades because i was at peace again, and memories tend to lean towards the startling. 

on christmas day i spat into the sink after brushing my teeth, a few droplets escaping the sink and hitting the mirror. i took my sleeve and wiped at the mirror, removing a few years of stains. 

piczo

before my time on facebook, twitter, and even myspace, i was devoted to the social network/website builder called piczo.

piczo was a structure-free myspace. it had a completely blank layout at first, and was used by me and a few other girls from my elementary school. if you weren't on piczo, you couldn't keep up to date with what me, maddie, jessica, and katherine were up to. we spent our days editing the HTML of our website, adding widgets, walls, chat boxes, and more. it was up to you, the third grader, to decide what your website would look like. it usually consisted of text, photos, and images that screamed what genre of a girl you were. girly = pink, shiny, glittery. sporty = soccer ball imagery. emo = black, dark. most people fit into one category. i chose girly.

after a few months of having fun on our piczos, my friends and i turned our sites into profitable businesses somehow. we displayed what we called "edits" on our piczo sites. "edits" were just filtered images of ourselves, blended with other images of ourselves, with cute text/icons on it. these images eventually made their way around our school, and girls became obsessed. they wanted edits done for themselves, and had no idea how to use photoshop, let alone put a filter onto a photo, which we all can do seamlessly today. the first couple ones, we did for free. then we would charge our friends $20 for three photos. i have no idea why we wanted money or what we did with the money, but it worked. and yes, copycats aroused from our school. other girls who wanted to get in on the action of making these "edits" but there was no real competition.

the chat boxes we added to our websites became a problem. anonymity was allowed, and while most people remained true and displayed their real name, often times an anonymous username entered the chat and wreaked havoc. it was clearly not a random person, as they would name specific people in our school and talk about them. these were the moments where i wished i could moderate my website, but i had absolutely no ability to block a chat box user. 

we even had what we know today as a facebook wall. and although i wasn't a chatbox anonymous bullier, i did often repost chain mail onto my friend's walls. and these were SCARY, threatening chain mails. not just a "you will get kissed on the nearest possible friday" chain mail. 

i remember one chain mail in particular that used to scare me to death. and wow i looked up one word that i remembered from it and found the original chain mail and holy hell it is so funny and clearly written by a 9 year old. 

"My name is Alexa Black. I have blue eyes and red hair. Don't ask why. Didn't I tell you? I am dead. My best friend Summer was dating a boy named Jake, who hated my guts because I broke up with him. I was sitting inside while Summer was in the bathroom and Jake came in and told me that Summer's brother had lost his ball on the roof and he wanted me tog et it. I got out a ladder and climbed up. I didn't see the ball. I heard Jake say "Goodbye Alexa." Then I fell to my death. Jake had pushed the ladder over. Jake lied to Summer and said that I jumped. That night I appeared by him and said "Goodbye, Jake." I pushed him off the bed and he got a concussion. When he told the doctors his story they thought he had hallucinated so they sent him to the ICU and tested him. When they found he was healed they sent him to an insane asylum. 
If you do not repost this to at least one other person, I will appear to you and kill you next week. Don't believe me? 
Case 1: Mikey was going down the street when all of a sudden he remembered he forgot too send this death chain to one person. He crossed the street and got shot by four bullets and got hit by a flying chainsaw.
Case 2: George was in his bedroom, looking up death chains on his laptop. All of a sudden, he saw me standing in the doorway. I started calling his name and then I took an axe and chopped his head off.
You have 4 minutes to send this chain mail to one other person or I will haunt you forever!"

there are so many incredible moments in this chain mail. i love the attempt at striking fear by the blue eyes and red hair descriptor. i am obsessed with alexa not being able to kill jake and just giving him a concussion, so iconic. i love how she has the receipts of her other deaths, although she doesn't say she killed mikey, he just gets "hit by four bullets and a flying chainsaw" and kudos to the author, because a flying chainsaw was definitely in my top 5 worst fears as a kid. 

i remember posting this exact chain mail to this friend's piczo site. i wasn't really close with her, which is why i chose her as the one person i shared it with. yes it's dark but think about it, i had to choose one of my friends i was ok with dying. well, it came back to bite me in the butt. she got so scared she told her mother and her mother called me and told me to never share chain mail on her daughter's piczo again. i had to find a new friend to post my chain mail to, one of my closer friends. this was hard for me to go through but luckily, none of my friends died. 

piczo taught me coding, sacrifice, and artistry. thank god for piczo. rip piczo 2006-2012, just a baby.

shopkeeper's wife

mary is the shopkeeper's wife. she opens the front shop door at 6:50am every morning, wipes her feet on the mat, then picks it up and shakes the mat off onto the street. she will not leave dirt, only remove.

she heads to the shelves and arranges the handmade candles in an orderly, militaristic line. looking at it straight on, there seems to be just one candle. 

she recalls making these candles a few months ago. the night she skipped dinner at her cousin's house because the wax didn't properly fold into the glass the way she liked. so she stayed up all night scraping at it. it's not how her mother taught her to make candles, but she liked doing it this way: meticulously slicing, carving, melting the wax again and again until the shape was to her liking. it also gave her an excuse to not have to go to bed and spend those few moments together when they were both awake. she liked entering into bed when her husband was sound asleep, turned over. she liked the challenge of not waking him up. she tiptoed, and felt like a masterful orchestrator as she did. she loved feeling the creek of the wood about to scream under her foot, and slowly putting more weight on the other to balance, a see-saw ballet that no one would ever get to watch. she folded her body, crawling into the bed as if she was 80 pounds lighter. she slipped underneath the covers without ever touching them. she lay on her back, sinking, replaying her stealthy entrance over and over again until she slept and didn't dream.

mary wonders why it's 6:59am and her husband hasn't come through the back door yet. he usually stumbles through at 6:58am, happy to see the lights on, the candles arranged, and a whole two minutes left to make his way to the register, sit down on his chair and get ready to greet his customers. 

she bites at her nails, smiling. she does one last dust of the dull metal spoons that have never collected any dirt, and slowly heads toward the wooden register chair, which has a gray tint on the seat from her husband's levis. she hovers over it. the back door creeks open. 

dinner party

over in the butler's kitchen, victoria was opening and closing the sugar jar, debating if she should add more to the sticky yellow dough in her favorite cracked green porcelain bowl.

the kettle squealed.

she swept her feet across the floor, kicking the onion skins under her humming refrigerator. it was five past five. she hoped the guests would be late, if not, they may eat undercooked biscuits. victoria plucked plump green grapes off the vine, holding them in her hands for a moment to feel the cold chill they stole from the fridge, then plopped them into a see-through glass dish with intricate flowers lining the edge. 

the kettle squealed.

victoria's hand gripped the oven handle, pulling it towards her. she stuck her face inside to peak. her face melted in the intense heat, her ears dripping hot wax onto the door. two minutes more, and the brisket will be done.

the kettle squealed.

she opened her freezer and took the ice box out, pouring square cubes into her golden carafe, dazzling and dinging as they hit the bottom. she took the squealing kettle and poured it over the ice, and threw nine earl gray tea bags in. she usually throws five. the strings of the bags disintegrated in the hot water.

she walked to her front door, stood on her tiptoes and peered through the tiny window. she slowly unlocked the door. 

lapvona, by ottessa moshfegh (spoilers ahead)

**warning, i do use the term "moshfeghian" often in this review**

ottessa moshfegh quickly became one of my favorite writers this year, after reading death in her hands, my year of rest (and even relaxation), and many of her captivating short, and i mean short and CONCISE!! in an impressive way, stories. 

so i was very excited when she announced her new novel, lapvona, which was released june this year. i spent months leading up to june trying to get a pre-released copy that only reviewers/book stores had access to, failed to get it, and then forgot about the book until last month, lol. 

after borrowing copies from two different friends, i finished lapvona and i'm here to give it a 7/10. it was very moshfeghian, in the sense that she dives deep into the disgusting parts of human nature we often tend to ignore. i respect moshfegh for entering this new world of medieval times, proving she is a well-rounded writer. the world she created was lovely, the poor medieval town with a massive castle on a hill with a lord overlooking them, purposefully starving his kingdom. and we focus on a motherless boy and his journey dealing with his family, insecurities, and desire to be loved.

i think moshfegh's structure/timing of the plot points were pretty messy. i felt like we reached a climax and i was properly satisfied, only to realize we had 100 pages left. the final 100 pages added nothing, besides a shock ending where it's insinuated that the boy throws his baby brother off a cliff, that i thought worked well and was not totally out of character, but could have been put earlier. 

i think she bit off more than she can chew... she had a great moshfeghian storyline with the inbred boy, searching for his mother and dealing with his own guilt (and often lack thereof) of accidentally murdering his friend. (yeahhhh different from his baby brudda) and i was ready to ride that wave... but the book went all over the place when we went super deep into the lord's storyline. in the end, learning so much about the lord did not pay off. i really did not care about him. he was super gross and moshfegh was so descriptive about him that i hated envisioning him. also, the lord had a crazy 180 spin in his personality that she addresses plainly, but i don't think it was deserved.

anyway i love moshfegh but maybe i need a break... 

i want to read more from elena ferrante, was super impressed with "lying life of adults" and apparently thats not even her best work! woohoo!

recommend books in the comments below. :)

moving and aubrey plaza and sports

i moved to carroll gardens today. with jack.

when i first moved to new york, i went straight to bushwick. bushwick was a good place for a newcomer like me. fun, young, and a million different comedy open mics to go to. 

have i grown out of it? not sure. im 25 now, which is very young. i have never felt like i am old, even when i tell someone younger than me that i am 25 and they go, "oh wow!" every year i get older, the younger i feel. because when i was 7, being 25 meant i was married, i carried a briefcase, and i had solved all of the life's mysteries, and boy was i wrong! i'm not married, i do not own a briefcase, (but i will admit i have solved all of life's mysteries)

i have never felt fully secure, calm, and at home in a place i have lived. with my amazing decorating skills and jack's kindness, i think this place could be the first time i feel that. 

also by the way it is ok to be vulnerable on blogs that's why we have them

i was in someone's tiktok and many people commented "that girl gives aubrey plaza vibes" and then i did a roast battle recently and she compared me to aubrey plaza... how do we feel about this? i know exactly why they are saying this (i think i speak in monotone/no facial expressions often) and i literally remember the moment in my life when this changed it's so weird. this is so embarrassing whatever. i used to smile a lot with everything i said so the person knew i was being nice and then one day my face literally hurt like my face was sore and i was like oh my god this is annoying and not worth going through all this im just gonna relax and then i just started speaking normally (in my opinion) and plainly. anyway i only think i do this when im around new people or im nervous or on stage which is good. 

i say this every year but i want to get into football. how cool would that be to get happiness just from a team winning? i'll update you guys on what team i pick/if they are doing well. right now i'm thinking the jets/bills/49ers... i like all of those. teams i will never like: patriots/rams/saints/cardinals 

where do the giants fall? i have no idea about them. 

it would be cool to follow through with an idea. (this blog is making me very happy)

your profile by ai, a new project

 dall-e has intrigued me since its launch. the AI program allows you to type in a description of anything, and it will spit out its visual rendering of what you typed. i've been using it for my own personal use for months before coming up with an idea today where everyone could get a taste of dall-e.

it's called your profile by ai, and the gist is, i look at someone's instagram profile, and i type into dall-e a description of the vibe i get from the profile, using specific references to photos, and overall aesthetic. dall-e takes that description and makes four pictures from it!

this idea excites me because i love the collaboration of humans and AI. it's like a piece of art going through multiple rounds of edits. the art, let's say, is the photos this user posts on their instagram. the first round is the user editing and curating their photos, locking into an aesthetic they potentially see in their head. the second round is me observing their profile for a couple minutes, and picking up on little patterns i see, and things that stand out to me that i specifically like. and third, maybe the most important round, is the AI interpreting what i've described, often times leaving out many things i write, and opting to hone in on one thing. for example, i'll type into dall-e "woman brown hair on film travels a lot rome red dress reflection soccer play" and then dall-e will spit back a stunning portrait of a woman in a red dress looking at herself longingly in the mirror. dall-e knows what it wants to focus on. just like me. just like the user.

the artist is dead. the user tries to curate a look, i observe what they try and give my interpretation, and then the AI decides their viewpoint on it. there's even a fourth round. the viewer, looking at the AI rendering I posted and interpreting whatever the hell the AI created. ALL FOUR ARTISTS ARE DEAD!

it's also interesting to look at a visual representation of our online personas... because who are we online versus offline? on paper, instagram should be a proper rendering of our real life. on most of our profiles, we are ripping pictures straight from the events we go to, the friends we hang out with, vacations we take. yet, often with these dall-e renderings of my descriptions, it is so vastly different from who this person is in real life. granted, i know this because, i'm currently only doing dall-e renderings of my good friends. so i know, my friend miso is not just gibberish text with a microphone. yet, my friend matthew, may be a red page with poetry on it.. sometimes dall-e gets it right. or maybe i described them the way i know them to be in person... i'm excited to experiment on strangers (ok scary scientiest)

for now, you can check out what dall-e and i have made so far here. 

a memory unleashes itself

when i was young i heard my parents talk about how little they remember their childhood. they would tell the same 2-3 stories and struggled to conjure up anything else about what they did every day during those young ages. i told myself i would remember everything. i would remember the bullies, my friends, what i did on april 17th, 2003, i mean, how could i forget? 

well, i did, like we all do. but we don't really... the memories are just stored elsewhere, in the "back" of our brains. and it is such a delight for one of those memories to crawl its way to the front and say hello. this happened to me today.

my friend was talking about ikea, and how when he used to visit when he was little, his parents never let him go into the little kids playpen, where a supervisor would watch the kids while the parents shopped.

this sparked something inside me... wait, i have been a kid, and i have been in a children's playpen... but not at ikea. from the ages of around 4-9, whenever my parents shopped at this one supermarket, big y, they placed me into the section called "little y", a place for all the little kids to hang out. it's crazy that such a core part of my childhood, seemingly once a week for five years, could slip out of my memory, and then suddenly come flooding back.

i recalled the exact pattern of the play mats inside the space (multi-colored puzzle), the window overlooking the beautiful parking lot, the crayons resting in a plastic box on the table, and most importantly to me: the computers. 

i remember for the first couple minutes after my parents dropped me off, i would charm them by playing with the crayons and drawing, just in case they were watching still. and then when i thought the coast was clear, i would run to the computer and spend the next 40 minutes there. 

after reminiscing to my friend who probably didn't care too much about all these details, although he kindly smiled, i googled the little y club. oddly enough, a woman in 2004 made a blog post about how much she loved the little y in our town, and posted pictures of it. 

my memory didn't lie to me, because there i saw the multi colored puzzle play mats, the window overlooking the not as beautiful as i remembered parking lot, the crayons in the box, and a photo of me, playing on the computer.

just kidding it was another kid but you never know.