Thank you, Pat Benetar for teaching us to survive on the streets.

(I wrote this last winter (Tuesday, January 22) while I was stashed away in some secret closet on my friend's lap top, wayyyy to late at night. Just prefacing the overall mood f the setting.)


I've been experiencing deja vu for about three days now. I can't seem to shake it. It's like you've saturated into my bones and dyed my muscles blue.


Red vs. Blue. The battle of the century.

I'm not talking about college sports.


It's the battle of inner/outer. The ballet? The labbet? The talleb?


I'm at the first sleepover I've had in months and hate every moment that I've been here.


"I couldn't stand the way he said his words."

Crawl around in my skin for a while. See if we need to tailor the fit.


I know a boy who likes girls. In the plural form. I'd shake his hand and pat him on the back if I wasn't so busy looking into publishing him on the internet.

"Sometimes I want to throw up all of my organs in order to fit myself back inside. Do you ever get that way or is this just me."
-Claire to Andy, Friday Night


Someone went hog-wild with the feather duster. And the rock salt.


Your sheet will never stay down if you continue to roll that way. Settle down.

Checkers has become the national game of choice at my house. Next door . . . they really like scrabble.


"Pay attention to me." -Me to the wall Monday night.

". . . sometimes I wish it was that easy. We just have to keep living each day one after the other . . ." - Squire Hadley