I’ll carve a new life
in the dust of your ashes;
just see if I won’t.

Feeling salty and mad at the world tonight, aching muscles and bones from packing, again, the seventh move in eleven years.

The seventh move in eleven years.


i can still…

I was going to write about the reservations I have for the current path I’ve been going down when it comes to making money.

I don’t have a career, I don’t have a job, I don’t even feel like I have a legitimate side hustle at this point, but I have this thing I’ve been doing to make money lately, and it’s been web and graphic design.

And holy shit, I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to do it for other people anymore, where the projects are big and the stakes are high.

Turns out for me (and I’ve known this a while now but never talk about it) I know that money isn’t worth this stress.

Holy shit, I’ve had some bad luck bullshit happen to me today.

And yet, why, when I come here and see “reservation” is the WordPress daily prompt, which I have been loving lately, because it actually gets me writing, when for some reason other things don’t… all I can think about is this song.

This song, and him. That man I loved and haven’t seen in a decade, and I still can’t stop thinking about him, and I still can’t get through a day without something dragging up a random memory of him, and in this case, it’s a song we both loved.

I see the word ‘reservation’ and think of the song Central Reservation, specifically the Ben Watts ‘Then Again’ remix of Beth Orton’s song. You can watch it on the YouTube here:

… i can still taste you on my fingers and smell you on my breath… and today is whatever i want it to mean

Time, and life, is rough.

Don’t break the chain

“My imagination functions much better when I don’t have to speak to people.”
― Patricia Highsmith

Whelp, it’s January 1 again.

In many years past I have come to a blog and laid out a ton of resolutions I have, and most years they’re the same – things like ‘lose X amount of weight’ and ‘go on a date’ and each year we take another trip around the sun without those things coming to pass.

So I’m just not going to resolve to do anything in particular this year except for one thing: write more.

I have a handy spreadsheet where I can track my progress for the day, whether I am writing fiction or blog posts or whatever, I can track all the words I write and see right in front of me when I’m slacking, and of course, the goal is to not break the chain.

Of course, I have horrible sleep habits and I stay up too late and night and that tends to be when I’m most productive with my writing. Go figure. I should be working on my sleep because I hear that getting a good night’s sleep is the basis of good health (which I should also work on) but no.

Screw all that, screw all those health goals, I just want to write more, every day, and make that the ONE priority that I need to check off each night before I go to sleep.

1,000 words a day is, in my opinion, a low bar to set for myself. I can do it. I’ll aim low this year so maybe by the end of it I won’t be as disappointed.

Guys, 2017 was a:


and I just don’t give a shit about as much as I used to.

Particularly, like, pretending to not be crazy at people.

I tend to spend a lot of my energy making sure people don’t realize that I’m constantly anxious and probably depressed, and if I am out in public anywhere, there’s a solid 85% chance I’d rather be at home all by myself.

And see? I hardly even talk about the thing that takes up about 80% of my brain space, which is Elise. I should do more writing about her, specifically, as part of these wordy goals.

This is the place to have the write the words and have the conversations about the things that matter, once I start making myself do it. It’ll be fun. I’ll either make friends or alienate people, but probably both, because that’s how I’ll know I’m doing it right, anyway.


Too Late Today

I don’t know what to write today, but I came here anyway with fourteen minutes to spare in the day, because it’s NaBloPoMo, and it’s a thing I do.

But the thing is, I already wrote almost four thousand words on my novel today even though I didn’t want to do that either.

I encouraged my struggling, grumbling homeschooler to do the easy things she felt like she couldn’t do, because among the many things I need to accomplish, I haven’t figured out how to help her instill confidence in herself yet, and really, how could I when I don’t have much of my own?

I have a huge deadline in a day and a half that I don’t know whether I’ll meet, especially if I keep up with all these other obligations I’ve thrown in here and there throughout them, like a dumbass, because I just can’t say no to people, apparently.

And when I’m stressed and crunched for time, I stress eat, ice cream and chocolate and then I think how ridiculous this is, as I committed myself to tracking things with MyFitnessPal again.

Again, again, because it’s always again.

I don’t know what to write because when I left church yesterday, a place that I’ve just recently begun going to and finding comfort, I find out that dozens of people were shot and killed while sitting in their own church, looking for the same kind of peace that I’m starting to think none of us will ever find.

So I’m not very okay, and I don’t know what to write today, but I’m here.

I’m here.