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.





A Carol

Hodie the child rolls from its cocoon, slimy with its mother’s insides.  They dunk it in water and determine its gender.

Hodie it shrieks a morpheme.  Its teachers snap to attention with their pens gripped between their bony fingers.  They cannot miss the wealth of information that is pouring from its tongue.

Hodie it holds onto something and uses that as a crutch for the rest of the day.  They stick mattresses under it so it won’t be broken.

Hodie she sings for the first time.  She’s sharp; but she feels so wonderful in her new, pink dress.  It is better than shrieking.

Hodie she learns that lines are dangerous.  She makes her own maps.

Hodie she doesn’t understand why what supports her feet is of so much concern to them.  They send her away because educating to the tune of questions is too much work.

Hodie her skin falls away and she grows a new one.  It isn’t horribly comfortable, but she will have to deal with it if she wants to make friends.

Hodie reality is no longer acceptable to it.  It makes do with the poetry of the pencil and the secret language of Poe.

Hodie she bathes herself in icy blue to dull the sting of the outside.

Hodie she buries herself in layers of armor and they roll her over in her sleep.  A beetle, defeated.

Hodie numbers are what she must avoid, for the lock her in the present.  If days were gifts, they must have come from a dumpster.

Hodie she leaps onto the palate and chooses a color.  She paints herself from head to toe.  This is what she is.

Hodie lines are all there are.  She dares not cross those lines.

Hodie her mouth opens, but nothing useful comes out.  Questions shouldn’t be asked, she knows, and no proper comment can she make.

Hodie she sings and it is perfect.  Her dress shrieks around her, squeezing her arms with its itchy elastic and suffocating her legs with every step.

Hodie the television-tray stands permanently in the living room.  She folds with it when they aren’t looking.

Hodie she holds onto something and makes it her own.  They wrestle her to the ground: “That thing could snap your bones in half.”

Hodie its words are quiet and controlled.  Its teachers ignore it and know it will do well, regardless of whether or not it seems intelligent.

Hodie it rolls from its bed, slimy with sweat and nightmare and drool.  It dunks itself in water and determines its gender.

The Anxiety ABCs

A is for Anxiety, the subject of this list.

B is for the Blanket that gets wadded in my fist.  Crap, crap.  I’m regressing one-thirteenth of the way in.

C is for the Counselors, who could not tell what was wrong.  She said it was all in my head, and another one really thought I was faking it to “look cool.”

D is for Doctor, and her circled nurses’ throng.  Her hands are really cold and firm.  Ouch.

E is my Elementary school, where I dazed in reverie.  I never knew the content of the lessons.  I never did my homework.  What was I doing?  What was I thinking?  It’s also Escitalopram.

F is for the Father who never forgave me.

G is the Grace, who did the best she could.  Thank you for ignoring me, sometimes.  I mean it.  No sarcasm, here.

H is for the Hate I have for ruined childhoods.  I’m so sorry, Grace, for making a mess of what could have been some awesome years.

I is for the “I” of me, do I speak of that too much?

J is my Jolting heart, whenever I am touched.  What if I get raped?  What if I get raped?  What if I have a baby?  I don’t want it to hate itself.  What if he rapes me?

K is Kindergarten, where I learned I didn’t fit in.  What was playing?  Why did all the girls wear pants?  How is getting dirty okay?

L is Love, which may never pass my thickened skin.  It’s basically rape.

M is all my Memories, blown up and torn to shreds.  What happened at that party?  But you were – me?  No.  That can’t be right.  Who was watching?

N is Nothing – might I be, when I’m dead?

O is for Ophelia; I don’t know why it must be she.  I don’t know why she has become the symbol for the distressed female.  I respect her character, but I don’t identify with her.

P is for a French phrase: Vous me faîtes Peur, mon ami.

Q is for the Questions.  Do I ask too many?  Am I being weird?  How does my hair look?  Did I say too much again?

R is Regression into my mind, body, and soul.  I’ve never been older than twelve, in some aspects.

S is all my Stress, digging the six-foot hole. Also, Sertraline

T is all my Time constraints: Up at five, breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at six, and bed at ten.

U is Underdressed (slut?), Underslept (irresponsible?), and Underweight (anorexic?)

V is Vaniloquence, which is basically all this is.

W is for Woman, which I am, according to my birth certificate.  Can someone burn it?  Can I have surgery now?  What if they hate me?

X is for Xanthippe.  Do you think I am one?  I really try not to be.  I’m sorry.

Y is the Yelling, which to some people is like talking.  What if I’m talking too loud?  Could you be a little quieter?  I need to concentrate.

Z is for Zero, the amount of ideas I have left for this letter.

(Note — Anxiety is a serious mental illness that has the potential to negatively effect the lives of the sufferer and his or her loved ones.  If you or someone you know suffers from anxiety, there are several resources available here and here.  — Sami)

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.