About Me

I find it hard to describe myself using more than a few words, a few drops of ink spilled on the page that waste little and leave enough blank space for more important endeavors.  I guess this tells you I’m poetic, because we’re only one paragraph in and I’ve already personified myself.

I call myself ink, yet I’m more like paper: faceless, malleable, and ruined by mistakes.  My creases will never smooth, and tape will only close the millions of tiny rips scattered along my edges.  The fibers of my skin will never reconnect entirely.

Thank goodness you have the power to paint me, to bury those flaws under any color you please.  I prefer blue and purple, myself, but I cannot let you know that.  What if your favorite color is green?  I guess this means I’m insecure, as well.  I’m so sorry.

I also enjoy painting and drawing.  I look for excuses to stick my brushes in ink.  I sometimes paint upon myself, but only when you can’t see.  I wouldn’t want you to think I’m improper or indecent.  I know how indecent I can be, which I why I only paint myself behind closed doors.  I don’t want to show myself as anything less than your favorite color.

I stick to my word.  I never break a promise, and I hardly ever lie.  I stick to my word because you write it, along with my promises.  It would be a lie to say I don’t have trouble remaining smooth and white after you have taken your pen to me.  Sometimes, you press down too hard and it hurts.

I should stop personifying, now.  I can tell you find this senseless creativity obnoxious, and would rather I get to the point:

I live to please others.  I used to do things to please myself, and I became a monster.  Now, I am honest, punctual, and as perfect as I can be.  I believe that the best way to correct oneself is through punishment, meted by a set of strict guidelines.

I follow my guidelines to a T.

I think I like bizarre things.  I am somehow drawn to the macabre and the surreal, the things that keep most children awake at night.  The creatures in my head come out in my drawings, and in the way I dance.  Feel free to question these interests, for they could be my narcissism begging for attention.

I think I’m politically liberal, because my thoughts run more closely to that platform when I am left to think alone.  Maybe propaganda has taken over my brain.

I think I have a sense of wit that some would find humorous, but when I try to tell a joke, blank stares and quizzical expressions meet me.  I cannot laugh at the jokes of others – insulting others and mimicking bodily functions is not funny, at least not to me.

Excess Calories disturb me, in both diet and in word.  I don’t think I enjoy sugar-coated tales.  If anything, I don’t like stories that make people feel better about themselves for no reason.  I apply the same philosophy to myself, for I, too, am human:

  • Those people are not teasing me out of jealousy. They truly hate me.
  • My own incapacity caused me not to get the job.  The employer saw right through my façade.
  • Yes, others do care if my thighs touch, if I have stretch marks, and if my breasts are too large. It’s evolution.  It’s science.  I am disgusting.
  • It’s no secret people watch me when I eat. I know they think I shouldn’t eat so much: it will ruin me.

I wish I could say more, but I don’t know what else to write.  I am too preoccupied with all I have wasted: Your time, your space, your ink.





The Many Joys of “Dorm Cooking”

I’m usually skeptical when it comes to other people saying my generation is the “rudest yet,” until I step into the kitchen of my residence hall on a weekend morning.  The weather is getting colder here in Minnesota and, although I am a winter lover, I am not so keen on walking all the way to the dining hall for something I could make with a few bowls and a microwave.

It seems like nobody else is, either; but that does not excuse the yellow-and-orange pattern of Ramen residue and Velveeta crust that greet me on those quiet two days that separate last week from the next.  Noodles are cemented to the bottoms of pans, and bottles of perishables are strewn about the counter.  This is only a minor exaggeration.

You could tell me it isn’t my problem, and you would be right.  However, I grew up in a household where, if you did anything, you at least rinsed your dishes with soap and water before doing anything else.  I concede I never perfected the pattern, yet there is a point when the neglect of a public, shared space becomes impossible to ignore.  I love to cook, whether it happens in the microwave or elsewhere, and there is something about abundant filth that gives me the heebie-jeebies.

As a result, I clean the kitchen.  A chore of fifteen minutes or less in length, I wonder why the midnight snackers of the weekend’s eve could not take care of their own property.  Heavy sanitation is not needed – just a little tête-a-tête (or main-a-bol) between your hands, your bowl, and the dish soap that is mysteriously renewed by an unknown force every two-or-so weeks.


            Speaking of unknown forces, which of them is taking all the forks?

Sometimes I wonder if we are aware that someone probably purchased these utensils (or bowls, or plates) and that, while they may not care whether or not you borrow them, they would like to have them back.  The same goes with food – I don’t mind if you put some of my ketchup on your fries, but I would like to consume at least some of what I buy.  Although the latter doesn’t happen often, there is nothing more disheartening than finding the eggs for your omelet were probably used for someone else’s pancakes.

“Welcome to share” has its limits too, you know, and there is a point when you should ask permission.


            Aside from their difficulties in wiping countertops and utter disregard for other peoples’ property, I still have some hope for my generation.  I still don’t think we’re as demanding as the one that will follow us, having seen ten-year-olds begging for the latest iPhone (and getting it, too, no questions asked).  I also know that I tend to verge on picky when it comes to my circumstances, and that I am prone to critiquing small, easily-fixable things.  I guess that’s what comes from having been raised with high standards, and expecting them of yourself.

Still, though, would it bother anyone if we wiped away the brothy microwave explosion?  I think not.



Why I Don’t Want Children, I

Last Saturday evening, I had some bonding time with my roommate and our neighbors as we settled in for a viewing of Her.  Nominated for dozens of awards, the film, which follows the unlikely relationship between a man and his operating system, takes place in the year 2025.  To my disbelief, this is only eleven tiny years in the future.  A decade for some, but a minute for mankind.

I’m sure you believe you know the end of this little anecdote: people are too reliant on technology, and are too fast to form bonds that are too strong with these mechanic abstractions that have permitted us, as a society, to shirk face-to-face conversation in favor of a screen that masks the windows of the soul.  You’re waiting for me to launch into another of my diatribes, where I glue you to the cushion of your seat and tell you how you should take better care of your head and your health and your relationships because science tells us this and my doctor said that and that magazines everywhere are in approval of this new, revolutionary thought pattern.

Of course, assumption once again makes an ass of you and me.

I actually found the relationship between Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) and Samantha, his operating system (Scarlett Johansson), beyond what is my current romantic ideal.  Their hearts and minds were connected as much as they could be, through the portal of a white-washed earpiece, and there was little barrier through which the physical form could stretch into dimension.  Theodore and Samantha could chat, flirt, wake one another up in the morning, and even make love without two of nature’s most crucial functions: touch, and reproduction.

You may begin wondering if I have truly lost my bonkers, but I would give anything to be that Samantha.  Our names are already the same, for a start; all anyone would have to do is wire me into my own, personal, recording box.  How comfortable.

I can hear fluid moving in your ears, dear reader.  Let me make it clear that I am here, I am alive and, yes, I am real.  You could reach out and poke me for verification, but that would not be the wisest move.  Unlike most females my age (17-21), I have no desire for touch, sex, or their product: children.  More specifically, I don’t wish for the bizarre genetic mélange of a psychopath and a decaying human form to come to fruition.


I grew up in a small town, comprised primarily of elderly farmers and thin, pale meth addicts.  Somewhere between the two, I was supposed to find someone with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life or, in the very least, copulate.  I’m not exactly sure how I was to choose between the two extremes, in rural Indiana, where the corn was more plentiful than the people.  My only clear memory is, as soon as a turned seventeen, there seemed to be a shift in how my family understood my apparent asexuality.  They really thought there was some switch that must have been activated, a gene that halted all perpetuation of the idea boys were “icky.”

Part of this is true: I had stopped questioning the hygiene of my male counterparts when I was thirteen, when the perfume of Axe singed my nostrils and coated my esophagus as I walked the carpeted (yes, carpeted) halls of my junior high.  They were clean, for sure, almost too clean.


Although I consider writing and illustration my main niches, I am also rather fascinated by neuroscience, and genetics’ role in the development of the brain.  I was also diagnosed with anxiety when I was twelve, a trait no doubt inherited from my parents.  I don’t blame them, though: they had no idea what they were doing.  They did not have the internet, the window to literature; and therapy was its own brand of taboo.  It is likely neither of them were aware of their neurons, and how their misfire could pierce the conscience of a being not-yet-living.

My parents, years after the fact, later demonstrated their lack of knowledge when it came to raising the flaw of their bodies’ design.  I will stop here, though, as I am well in-tune with the passage’s ability to morph into some poor me story.  In brief, I’ve spent the larger part of my life wanting to die, and doing anything I can to reach that supine state of eternal rest.

This the main reason, though, why I cannot have children of my own.  From an evolutionary standpoint, it is impossible.  If I, in my semi-suicidal state, were to have a child, there would be a definite chance of my offspring having the same, if not worse, issues of his or her own.  While in the midst of my own hollowed Hell of a brain, I would have to welcome into the world a being as internally-corrupt as I.  I find it a form of abuse.

Thus ends part one.