Why wasn’t I born with an adult incisor?
What makes this the year of the stinkbugs?
Where were you when I asked you to stay the night?
When is the next blue moon?
How’ve you been?


My head’s been reeling lately, but I don’t know how to put it down. Seems like this life I’m living is just writing material. That small flicker-the only way I know to describe it-of creativity wants to spark into flame. I seek oxygen, head clearing particles, enablers. This dull shadow winds from the back of my brain into my¬†consciousness until it can no longer be ignored. Perhaps this spark contains the only part of my life I cannot ignore. This part pulls me toward it; I become a mere flutter toward the flame of my creativity, my obnoxious self-absorbed, self-aggrandizement. And, how I hate adjectives usurped¬†by nouns with the use of “ment”. I meant to sound educated, and I only end up tooting my own horn, sounding as pompous as an airbag filled with flour. Lord help me burn out as bright as I’d hoped.

In the mornings I feel the cold creep in; it lingers in my bones, brittle as the hulls of stinkbugs I crunch on my way to the toilet. I can smell the cold go right to my brain. Chill undulates in waves of numbness which lets me know I’ve finally taken a turn toward something beyond misery. Why do you find autumn so sleepy? A crispness in the air cleans me past the cold creek which is my religion, and again I trek on. At this point, I can be sure I might never be sure of a thing in this life; however, as my godmother says, I must take action. What better to replace the longing, nagging feeling of being a husk than sailing headstrong into something…anything?