A Poem for People Who Walk Slowly in Hallways

It was a mild dissonance, a tiny irritation,
That prompted this impromptu and unwanted dissertation
On how a student’s walking speed can cause such aggravation;
Though murder is unjustified, I’m feeling the temptation.
They pause between their lockers just to voice their pure elation
At seeing all their schoolmates, like they don’t share a home nation.
You saw that bitch one class ago, it’s not such a sensation;
Their girly squeaks and grating shrieks could cause a conflagration.
They take an open bearing as an open invitation
To quickly say “how was your day?” then launch their explanation.
Although there’s tons of flapping jaws, there’s no communication.
I’d like to find out why, but I couldn’t stand the exploration.
And I could find the answer with a quick investigation-
But there’s a class to reach, and I don’t have the inclination.
I guess I’ll have to suffer through these slothlike altercations;
It seems the only cure will be my lowered expectations.


So I Was Reading This Thing…

My sister and I have a very close, borderline codependent, unarguably abusive relationship.

That probably didn’t go where you thought it was going to, did it?

We’ve been abusive to each other since we could talk. We battered and bruised each other, flung kitchen utensils at the other’s face, tied each other to poles in the yard during thunderstorms. (Okay, that last one was all me. Whatever.) However, as you get older, you can’t just beat up on your siblings- you could legitimately hurt them, and then you’d have a huge hospital bill to pay. So, very gradually, we switched over to a more subtle form of warfare, one that is almost definitely more harmful; verbal abuse.

We traded insults like yu-gi-oh cards, except more so, because nobody actually uses yu-gi-oh cards any more. (Did they ever?) Our mutual hatred was somewhat tempered by our habit of pausing to acknowledge when the other made a truly wicked burn (“ooh, good one,” et cetera), but we pressed on. Now that we are cautious allies, however, one cannot act against the other without signing up for a world of hurt.

To counteract this, we’ve become masters of subtlety. The famous “backhanded compliment” is a favorite of ours (“I love how you just wear anything”). But the most used phrase?

“So I was reading a fic…”

Fic, as in fanfiction. You might not be a fan of fanfiction (*forced laughter*) but my sister and I are. Consequently, we read it almost constantly. And the number one way of torturing my sister is by sending her a nice, angst-filled suicide fic, with a sprinkling of an inferiority complex and just a hint of homoerotic subtext (by which I mean a heaping bucketful). She can’t help but read it, and when she does- waterworks.

Oh, she tries to retaliate, but she can’t muster the same amount of courage; after all, making sure the fanfiction piece is angsty enough requires her to read it herself, and she doesn’t think it’s worth the risk. I, however, have trained myself to suppress all emotions (a habit that will no doubt lead to an alcohol addiction later in life), so I can easily deem a story heartbreaking enough for whatever she’s done.

This is a terrible war we’re waging, one that is barely visible. Wounds are healed with fluffy fics and domestic!au artwork, but never fully. Be careful what you read- you may never recover. (And careful around John Green.)


Every day. Every day when she wakes up; when she pulls herself from her warm bed and drags a hand through her sleep-mussed hair; when she stumbles to the bathroom and blinks at the harsh fluorescent lighting; when she holds herself up by the edge of the sink and glares at her exhausted reflection; every day, she tells herself, “you are beautiful.”

Every day when she pours too much cereal in her mother’s eyes; when she ignores the judgmental glances of her father over his ever-present newspaper; when she leaves the house twenty minutes early to escape the condescension; every day, she tells herself, “you are loved.”

Every day when she walks to school, alone but for the wind and her worries; when she trudges up the steps under the weight of the homework she wishes she’d had time to complete; when she sits in her desk carved with words she wishes she didn’t know the meaning of; every day, she tells herself, “you have potential.”

Every day when the spitballs fly and the pencils prod her as she passes; when she drops her books and watches her papers be scrunched beneath the feet of uncaring students; when she eats her lunch in the middle of the crowd, but outside of the conversation; every day, she tells herself, “you are wanted.”

Every day she tells herself she is worth something, because no one else ever even tries.

One day, she doesn’t.

She leaves her bed and does her best to ignore the ugly face in the mirror; she eats her breakfast and can’t help but notice the glares, the unspoken criticism; she walks to school and realizes that the wind was never talking, that it had always been her own voice in her head; she sits in her desk and in the cafeteria and is washed away, faded by the temptingly meaningless words around her.

She doesn’t tell herself a thing, and neither does anyone else.

And when the news reaches them- her parents, then her teachers, then her friends who never really were; when they hear that awful word and picture the scenario and wonder how anyone could be so weak when, in reality, she had been too strong for too long; when the whisper of “suicide” echoes around the empty hallways and sounds low and loud in her abandoned bedroom; that is when others begin to speak.

Now they regurgitate phrases like parrots, repeating the useless words to themselves to assuage their pretended guilt: she was so beautiful; she was so loved; she had so much potential; she was so wanted. Now they comfort each other in the classrooms, as if they’re the victims, as if she betrayed them by escaping. Now they ignore the empty desk and walk past the empty locker and wish they could forget her empty eyes.

And she can see them, and she knows they’ll forget her soon; but in the meantime, she asks them, screams and shouts at them as they belatedly murmur these meaningless compliments that help nobody; why didn’t you tell me?

If I am so beautiful,
If I am so loved,
If I am so wanted

Then why wasn’t I before?

Thanks, Grandma

Despite having just posted something that was basically me complaining, I’m doing it again. (Because I can, that’s why. Hush.)

Today I visited my grandma. I don’t think I’ve seen her since we stole her waffle iron, so it was nice to see her in person again. We were greeted at the door with hugs and compliments- well, my mother and sister were.

“Come on in, you’ve all gotten so tall,” she stressed, squinting up at us. She hugged my mom. “You’ve lost weight,” she proclaimed, ignoring her daughter’s polite self-derogatory protests (“Actually, I’ve gained five pounds since Christmas”). She hugged my older sister. “And you just keep getting thinner!” My sister didn’t comment, instead opting for the ambiguous shrug. Then she hugged me. Nothing was said.

I could be reading too far into this, but isn’t that a bit… negative?

I’m not thin. I know that. But I’m not fat, either. At least, that’s what my older sister (the one who “just keeps getting thinner”) says. She claims it’s all muscle. I’m fairly certain that if I were all muscle, I wouldn’t be alive,  but it’s a nice comment. She means well.

Anyway, I’m glad that my grandmother isn’t a blatant liar. Not like my aunt, who practically squeals every time she sees me. “You’ve gotten so SKINNY! What have you been EATING?” This has become such a habit of hers that, prior to her last visit, I made a bet with my sister that she would comment on my weight within five minutes of arrival. And I was right- as soon as she caught sight of me; “Well, hell-OOO, skinny minnie!” (Ka-ching.)

And if I’m being honest, I’d rather be strong than thin. In my opinion, it’s better to be able to beat someone into the ground than to be within society’s standards for a normal body weight (which are hideously warped anyway). And if you can do both, great! Do it! Only if the jerk deserves it, though. Randomly beating people into the ground is frowned upon in most communities.

To Whom it May Concern

To everyone who has felt it necessary to tell me to “get a life” in the past few weeks:

I pity you.

I’m sorry that your own life is so dull that you have nothing better to do than criticize other people’s lives. (And if your own lives are so drab, why are you giving advice?)

I’m sorry that you can’t see how many lives I already have. I have lived a thousand times, in universes you can never fathom, with people you couldn’t imagine in your wildest dreams, with creatures you couldn’t picture in your most disturbing nightmares. I have fought beside fierce warriors and died beside my most trusted friends, in the name of what is right. I have been on more journeys than the most well-traveled explorer, in worlds unknown to the average human. I have stood before shadows and bowed before kings, and I will not kneel before you and your negativity simply because you cannot understand my adventures. I have not wasted any time worrying about your opinion of me, nor will I ever. 

You say over and over again that it isn’t real, that it’s all in my head, your voice scratching at the sky until it breaks through to the sense that I surely have. ‘Of course it’s all happening in my head,’ I reply, speaking from the stars. (This is my world, after all; all of these worlds are mine, and I can exist in them how I wish.) ‘But why on earth should that mean it isn’t real?’

You stand on the ground, seeing only the world around you, feeling trapped- or worse, complacent, content to exist only in the world you were born into. Why? Why would you choose to stay here, when there are so many other places you could also be? I’m not saying this is a bad place- this is where all the other wonderful worlds began, after all- but why be in one world when you can be in two, or three, or eight? Why stand still when you can move? And not just move- you can run and jump and spin in a dance choreographed by some of the most talented people in the world: writers. Why be a bystander when you can be part of the ballet?

I am not tethered to the ground by anything. I choose to remain here, of my own free will- but I also choose to be elsewhere, when I can. I am not in denial of there being a “real world.” Of course there’s a real world. There are many. I can have more than one.

So can you, if you want to. 

So do it. Leave the ground- you never really liked it anyway, did you?- and join the dance. This world, while marvelous, can sometimes be just muted shades of grey, washed out and faded and sad. Make your own world. Hell, make a few. And when you’ve done that? Invite me over. I’ll bring a housewarming gift.

Them Christmas Blues

So… Christmas Eve. The lights are up, the cookies are baked, the stockings are hung, the kids are fighting. Perfect.

So why does this Christmas feel so… off?

I love Christmas. It’s my favorite time of the year, actually. But this year everything seems to metaphorically be just a few inches to the left of where I left it last year. I know a lot of people get depressed around December- if for no other reason, because everyone (commercials, family members, friends) is telling us we have to be cheerful. And I, with my rebellion-striped personality, can’t help but feel grinchlike.

One of the most stressful parts of Christmas is the gift-buying. I am a child. I do not have a job. Where do I get money for all the presents society says I must purchase to ensure my family’s love for another year? “I’ll just make them something,”  I mutter to myself frantically, glancing at the ever-ticking  Christmas countdown clock. “With what ability?” Snarks one of the overly critical voices that’s taken up residence in my skull. “I’ll bake them something,” I plead, “or draw them Supernatural fan art, or…or…” My voice trails off as I am overwhelmed with a festive sense of responsibility.

My family actually decided not to exchange presents this year. Not only because we are a strong independent family who don’t need no cheap plastic trinkets to achieve a sense of belonging and Christmas spirit, but because we’re all penniless. (Well, I am, anyway).

In any case… how do you guys feel about the commercialization of holidays? Do you celebrate Christmas, and if so, how cheesy do you get? What’s the average amount of time you spend frosting cookies/decorating the tree/shopping for cousins? As always, I am creepily interested in your personal lives, despite most of us having never met.



Cannibal Mascots

Right off the bat: I’ve been thinking about cannibalism a LOT lately. Not for any reason in particular, I swear. I haven’t been planning to actually eat anyone, of course- I’ve just been contemplating which parts would be tastiest, how I would go about carving a roast, what temperature human flesh cooks at. Normal, non-psychotic things like that.

However, since I have neither the means nor the inclination to acquire and eat another humanoid, I just eat cereal like a regular person. While eating cereal a few weeks ago (Cinnamon Toast Crunch) I realized that my cereal was cannibalistic. You’ve seen the commercials- they’re constantly trying to devour each other.

After this slightly disturbing revelation, I began to notice cannibalistic hints everywhere- the pig mascot for Famous Dave’s, the Krave cereal.

Maybe I’m just seeing things, I don’t know.

Anyway, on a completely different note, I’m considering beginning a new television series. It looks interesting- something about a serial killer and his psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter. I’ll give it a try.