Some people write a book and can’t find an ending.

I have an ending, but I can’t write the book.

30 Day Poetry Challenge, Day 12.

Day 12: A poem by your least favorite writer.

“Daddy.”
Sylvia Plath

Kamikaze

Jerry was a funny man.

Jerry liked drinking, hugs, and vintage vinyl.
He was a man who just wanted to seem non-threatening,
but he had a face that would instantly start a fight.

Jerry was a misogynist, but in a charming sort of way.
Maybe because he was an existentialist.
He believed in music and human failure.

Jerry liked face - especially new ones.
He admired Johnny Cash
because he’d been everywhere and everything.

Jerry was an interesting character,
and if other people weren’t at the bar
and saw him too, I would have sworn

he only existed in my own personal fiction.

On Sale

So my roommate has had these two air conditioners from our freshman year. They’ve been in storage since then, but this year, they’re being stored in the trunk of her car. She apparently asked her boyfriend to write a craigslist ad to sell them.

Here’s what he came up with.

I was looking on craigslist for interesting ads, when I re-loaded the page, that ad was at the top of the list. I clicked on it, read it, then immediately thought, “wow, Lydia should write an ad to sell her two air conditioners.”

Oh, wait.

It was a Good Day.

I just spent the last hour drinking beer and spinning that “modernized first line” of The Metamorphosis into a full-blown “Tik Tok” parody. This morning I found out I won a poetry competition and I ate the best tasting apple I’ve had in a long time.

If this is a prelude to how things are going to be after I graduate, the future is gonna be bitchin’.

Cursive Practice

This is an excerpt from a “life journey” paper that was due early last week. Yes, I’m doing it right now. Shut up.

Childhood is the only time no one should expect anything from you. Except they do. I remember in elementary school only wanting to write silly little stories – the kind of imaginative, pencil-written, quick-to-climax-and-resolution tales that kids like to write. I remember getting yelled at for writing a story about fairies kidnapping children during a lesson I remember as “cursive practice.” Upon review of the story (found years later in a dusty box of field day treasures and favorite books with tattered covers), if the teacher had taken a look at what I was writing it would have punched me a ticket down to the school psychologist who would have asked if I was deranged. The teacher wagged her finger and told me I was expected to pay attention to the lesson on cursive, even though I was writing in cursive. I remember the teacher in her teacher-dress and teacher-shoes telling me with her stern teacher-voice I was going to need to write in cursive all the time when I was older. She was a liar. Just like every other teacher who told me I was going to need all the skills I learned in their class. If I ever have to figure out how to multiply matrices using some equation named after a dead guy, I will sincerely apologize. I haven’t so far, and I don’t expect to anytime in the near future.

Petty Differences.

toohiptohipster:

Awhile back, Fred, Scott, and I were laughing about a ridiculous sitcom we had imagined up. I had forgotten about it, but apparently they had continued talking. Fred was recounting some of it to me — and it’s legitimately hilarious. Like, rolling on the floor funny.

I want to try and put it together as an animated thing. Ideally 3 to 5 minute monthly episodes.

It’s too fucking funny to let it just be an inside joke.

Animated shmanimated. Tom Petty and Gary Busey aren’t doing anything. This has the potential to be as legendary as Always Sunny.

“Tom Petty and the black knight are chainsawing a horse in the hallway!”

(Source: )