(^ not an actual category but I couldn’t name this post because I’ve only had one venti coffee so far this morning)
This past weekend I was walking my boyfriend’s dog in the woods and I found a hawk feather so brown and majestic and thrilling I took a picture of it. Then I found another and another and soon I was holding like six hawk feathers, just waiting to find a hawk carcass and thinking my good omen was going to turn into a very bad omen. When that didn’t happen, I thought maybe I’d make a trinket out of the feathers as a symbol of bad ass birding to put in my room and remind me to kill things like mice with my good vision and sharp talons. Then I passed someone on the trail and he was all “I see you found some turkey feathers!” They lost their splendor so fast it was like I picked them out of a crafts bin at Michaels.
Life lesson: existence is arbitrary. What we assign weight and meaning to, probably has very little intrinsic weight and meaning, which is a little depressing but mostly fucking awesome. We are free agent creatives with ears and language and opposable thumbs. We get to experience shit then make shit up. How incredible is that?
(I don’t mean that I think it’ll be a 14 hour long death, I mean that I’m boarding a flight in 14 hours and I’m scared as fook b/c flying is more unnatural than spray tans, e-mail, and walking on the moon all put together)
It’s kind of a posh way to go.
I won’t have to handle the spider situation that’s taking over my box of journals
Like, isn’t the world going up in flames anyway? Climate change, Trump, the most recent season of the Kardashians…
If hell is real, I will run into the arms of my one eyed pug and learn how to bite like I mean it
More people will probably read and/or like my book because if I am dead they will feel sorry for me. Thank you, pity, for escalating my posthumous career!
Losing eight pounds likely won’t be so important anymore, but if they cremate me, I’ll def weigh less than I do now (score)
My biggest fear in life is my mom dying (which I only realized when I typed this). I won’t need to fret about her funeral ’cause it’ll be my funeral, unless she kills herself at my funeral, but she wouldn’t steal my thunder like that
Which reminds me, at my funeral: there will be flourless chocolate cake from Market Table, DMX playing Party Up In Here, and all guests will receive a party favor, which will be one of three of my favorite books: Crush by Richard Siken, Commonwealth by Ann Patchett, and um, um, Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
Will someone be in charge of telling each of my exboyfriends I love them?
I’ve never been a procrastinator, and since we’re all gonna bite it eventually, it’d suit my Type A personality to just do it now
I have yet to take a nudie
i.e., there’s no real dirt on me, so I can’t die a second death of embarrassment if ppl. go through my stuff
(if you read my journals, my ghost will fuck you up)
I’ll never eat those amazing croissants from Hungarian Pastry
Or see my mom’s dog pick up a scent
Or wade into the ocean by my parents’ house after a long run with my best friend
And how will I poop my metaphorical pants when I encounter a line of sheer poetic genius?
Like Yeats’ (and I’m paraphrasing): we are a soul fastened to a dying animal
I would like to go to grad school
And have a tiny bit more sex
And maybe get my nipple pierced (the right one, which is slightly misshapen)
This is embarrassing and entitled, but if I’m dead you should know, I always wanted to write an advice column and since I don’t see pulling that off in the next fourteen hours, good bye to that
I’m not done farting in movie theaters or leaving wet clothes in the sink. I have more eggs to scramble, 2-8 other books to write, and that doesn’t even include poetry
I want to take my clothes off in a waterfall and see at least ten thousand more sunrises.
I’m a greedy fuck. I need my kidneys and my heart.
decide your ex boyfriend is dead b/c his phone is off which you know b/c you’ve been texting him all day (not delivered) and calling him all night (straight to voicemail) and he hasn’t answered your facebook message or your email or been active on gchat since….yesterday?……FUUUUUUUUUCK CALLING 9-1…
but wait! what about skype?!
so you try to login to skype but you can’t remember your info cause you haven’t skyped since the days of oovo, so you create a brand spanking new skype to finally track that little weasel down only to find out
he is not dead. he called you by mistake 22 hours ago and he’s deliberately not reachable b/c
HE IS MAD AT YOU. THIS IS WHAT SPACE LOOKS LIKE
well shit, I should buy a telescope
no, telescopes are for viewing space, not surviving space
question mark, question mark
that’d be a funny pun if only his name was mark.
actually none of this is funny.
you know how to survive a break up? with a martini and a sundae.