Do Not

Platitudes are not a cure. They cannot right a wrong or win an argument. A pep talk contains no rhythmic steady to unsure palpitations. A phrase to dissolve discomfort is no oasis in a desert of conversational cliches.

They are the drive-up window to replace homemade concern. 

In haste, the thoughtless sage is just an accomplice in the arson of the doubt inferno.

Do not offer stale bread to a starving baker. 




These are the things I do when I should be learning Intro to Advertising, aka Usless Info 101.


Not in comparison. Not on a scale. Not in relation to him or her, president or CEO, world renowned or best in show. Take away the comparisons. Abhor the guidelines; extradite the standards. What is your measurement? Ah, but this is where you err. There is no definitive ruler, yardstick, teaspoon, or stopwatch that can determine what you’ve done or are about to do. It is not for the devices to decide, but those you’ve affected. What do they have to say? Not the ones you cut off in traffic, nor those you held open the door for. They’re the ones on whom you’ve extended a lasting presence, a continuous montage of character. Your best or worst is revealed by the impact on the friends, the family, the lovers, the enemies. And honey, the accolades far outweigh the critiques. So get up. Though pessimism is impossible to abandon, allow yourself some pride in your potential. They love you. I love you. Let that be your measurement for success.


I’m a liar. I’m completely insincere. Here’s the thing: when asked what I want to do, what my passion is, my go-to answer is writing. I love writing blah, blah, blah. But I don’t take the time to thoughtfully create anything anymore. It’s such a pain. I don’t love it. Well, I love it as much as it’s convenient for me and if I’ve learned anything about loving it’s that love based on convenience is a mockery. So I don’t love writing. I admire it. I’m infatuated with the idea of it. I don’t think I’m a poet but I know that I can string a word or two together if given enough time and effort. But love it, no. I’m unwilling to completely trust it…as a life calling. Writing and I, we’re gonna have a hard time maintaining a relationship. And while I’m busy lying to myself and others about how happy writing makes me, other people are out there, writing like they should be. Making those compiled words happy in return. They’re coddling writing, they’re giving the creation of words a means of expression. Meanwhile, I’m all talk. Content with the concept and ignorant of the dedication. Maybe what I need is for writing to show me that it can’t be my excuse for a passion. That there’s plenty of other authors out there if I’m incapable. I could be happily writing but I’m stuck in the notion of an ideal and obsessive about the flaws. I have this delusion that writing should follow some preset guide and aligning myself is too difficult. And I’ll take out my concerns on writing by ignoring it. And writing won’t fight back for me because that’s not how writing works. So we’ll both ignore each other indefinitely. Writing and I. And I know I love writing. I just don’t really love him right now.

Bitchfest 2012

I’ve spent the past 8 months reading never ending amounts of job descriptions. Well, here’s what I have to say to you online job market: [insert abundance of expletives here]. With that, here is my own job description from seeker to employer:



Date available: several weeks and/or months ago.


-Must be less that 20 miles from my current residence.

-Must not crush my soul or alter what little positivity I have left regarding my success.

-If I must be subjected to yelling/degrading/patronizing/ridiculing/mocking/etc I expect additional compensation.

-Will not work past 10pm. EVER.


This is just a little bitchfest. And a means of emotional release. But honestly, when a customer asks you whether or not you like your job and you have to choke back tears, it’s probably time to move on.

On an entirely different and significantly less depressing topic, I’ve recently forced myself to answer the question: would I rather do nothing with someone or something with no one? And though I will vow until the day that I die that I am 85-90% introverted and enjoy my personal space, I would always choose to do nothing with someone–especially if that someone is a person that I love.

There’s an Adele Song for that

“You are like the fire on the wall of a burning building; all you do is point at your problems!”

I woke up a few days ago from a dream in which an unidentifiable person was accosting me with this phrase. Let me preface this entry with a disclaimer that I am not, in fact, an insane person–I think. I recognize that it sounds like 100 percent nonsense but some crazy part of me is still trying to extract a minuscule morsel of meaning. A bad fire, one that’s engulfing a building, can’t extinguish itself–okay, noted. Maybe someone who is exponentially more spiritually charismatic than myself would think it reasonable to assume divine inspiration, I, however, err on the side of the fact that I probably ate too close to bedtime. So I chalk it up to either I am supposed to take some massive psychological inventory of my life and well-being, or I am meant to write the sequel to Backdraft. My people are contacting Kurt Russell’s people as we speak.

I’ve written before about my bad habit of writing lines or story ideas down and never elaborating on them. I’ll look in old journals and on sticky notes and through Word documents and none of it makes any sense to me. It’s all unusable. So I have no explicable reason to keep doing it. And yet I do. Here are a few found one-liners to add to my burning pile of my mental digression:

-You swallowed all your truths and compartmentalized all your lies.

-If all intentions be revealed through word, a simpler means of love will be heard.


Oh, and now a haiku for your reading displeasure:

Identity feast—

Gobble trait of this or that,

Never savor role.


My god, I’m such a sap. Here’s what I have to say about some of the crap that I jot down: there’s an Adele song for that.





Oh hey, February. I sometimes get this longing to write something profound but it’s actually total crap that no one should ever read. Yeah, this is that crap.

Now that I’m 23 I feel like I’m mature enough to admit that there are certain humiliating practices that can and probably shouldn’t be shared on the internet. So here goes.

I don’t cry for no reason nearly as much as I should. And I say should because I honestly think that the expulsion of tears and the working up of irrational emotions is a necessary part of preserving sanity and, thereby, saving face. Preferably in traffic. There’s something about losing it while you’re trapped in a metal box on wheels in the midst of a thousand irritable strangers that does the body good. But how to make this moment more like that breakthrough scene in some sub par drama? Why the appropriate soundtrack, of course. All this to say, I highly recommend painstakingly questioning your purpose, your ambitions (or lack thereof), and perhaps your choice of lunch while Imogen yells OOOH, WHACHA SAYYY in the background. You might take a momentary break from your introspective meltdown to curse out that motherfucker that cut you off and while that is all well and good, keep your eye on the prize. What is the prize, you ask? The prize is not making everyone else crazy because you have some pent-up emotional issue that you’re inevitably gonna take out on him or her or whoever. So, rule of thumb: sob in traffic every once in a while. I suppose you could also get a therapist. Noted.

Sometimes, I feel guilty for not feeling guilty.

I think you find your life fundamentally shifts based on how you measure your days. Let me elaborate. For me, and a lot of others in my post-graduate predicament, everything used to be measured based on when I would end a semester or start a vacation or graduate–they were things with definitive deadlines. Now all my deadlines are open-ended. So I  count the days based on when my days off are or when I get to see somebody. It sucks. It sucks because deadlines don’t exist for me anymore. There are no absolutes to when something must be accomplished. The lack of a regimented schedule with goals is that I don’t know how to create my own. I forgot what it means to have to do something.

Things I currently love: stupid-ass toothy grins, puppy stampedes, and checking my bank account (for comic relief)

Things I currently hate: Lana Del Ray, whiny children, and self-discipline