Sympathy For The Martyr

[and never getting help doesn't make you brave]

in a glass tank, a poor imitation of where you should be.
trapped, for my amusement.
so i guess the question is, whose jellyfish are you?

***

It’s been proven: there are a certain number of things that are guaranteed to make the most rational, sane person lose all control of their self. The amount is low but the evidence couldn’t be more tangible. Being trapped in a small space with other people for a significant amount of time is sure to make the most calm and collected resort to cannibalism. No one wants to be hungry. Having someone you care deeply for, someone whose existence defines half of yours, die? Proof of gravity: the tallest will fall to their knees. No one wants to be alone. And relationships: anyone who thinks they have a grip on reality just needs to fall in love, just needs to trip over infatuation. Things stop making sense, idle hands and irreversible brain damage. There is someone out there for you: someone to drive you absolutely fucking mental. Find them, and you’re set for life. No one wants to be happy.

***

i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
from my window i can see sights i dare not describe,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
in the past few months i've added masks to my masks,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.
we're all waiting for the punchline of a joke that isn't funny,
but i don't mind this, i don't mind this much at all.

Shin Splints

nothing deep today,
just complaints.
bragging: i always have awesome shoes.
admitting: that's the only reason i chose this picture.

baby, i'm not negative.
you've just caught me at a bad, bad, bad time.

there's something about the body,
there's always something, you know?
if it's not your back, it's your teeth,
and if it's not your teeth,
your sciatic nerve doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up,
always something.

trying to clock in, trying to tally up, my schedule says today is just two miles, just pack in two miles. dad and i ended up at the most beautiful trail today in mogadore. fucking, wow. the water, the trees, the weather, you can't make this shit up.
but it's not about the perfect state of everything around me, it's about me. my calves hurrrrrrrrt, and it's great.
current city: emoville. i've unpacked my suitcase, i think i'll stay awhile, the one thing i've been loving lately is now taken from me, woe is kendall.

cement walls slope gently and stop the water, because we're human and we can do that (sometimes). the trail wraps around the edge of the reservoir, and i stared at the lake and i became upset. i realized i didn't have a way to describe, with words, the way parts of the land jut out into the water. i'm making the motion with my hand right now, but i can't dictate it how it needs to be dictated, and i'm upset.

i collapsed. plopped right down in the middle of the trail, in the middle of nowhere, and i cried.

well,
i tried.
nothing came out but the few whimpers i could muster.
they were pathetic. dramatic. (drathetic. pathatic.)
the way a toddler whines when they don't get their way, but no one is around to listen? that was kendall today; kendall didn't get her way. on my back, i covered my face with my hands, i whimpered again to hear the sound of my voice. and you know what?

it felt great.
i sat up, looked at the water, appreciated the perfect temperature, sucked in the fresh air, soaked in the beauty. it felt great.

then i stood up, resumed my shittastic mood, heard the medial tibial stress syndrome shout my name, told it to fuck off, and felt sorry for myself all over again. it's back to emotown, and though it hurts like hell, i think i'll run for mayor.

K

calling card, calling all heartbreaks, calling card,
ten pounds down the drain,
i told you about this magnificent graffiti that asal and i found,
and you said:
K.

and how fitting. i'm your problem.
K?
K.

i walk up behind you, squeeze your shoulder.
and not just your shoulder: that part of your body between the base of your neck and the end of your collarbone. does this spot have an actual name? yes. do i care to google it? no.

i'm empty today. i was empty yesterday.
the forecast cries that i'll be empty tomorrow, too.

K?
K.

we've all got our own explanations.
baby, it's not you, it's me.
baby, you'll find someone, someday.
baby, you're just a good time.
baby, baby, baby,
baby, you're great, really,
baby, shit's gonna fall into place,
baby, everything's going to be okay,
K?
K.

(it's the song in the background that's doing this to me, not you.)

we turned the corner,
trip somewhat of a bust so far.
she's like, lemme take a picture of this,
and i rolled my eyes.
she takes pictures of everything.
i'm like girl, you can't live like this,
you gotta live in the moment,
but when i saw what she was talking about,
i threw my kodak at the world.

when i die, who will paint something for me?

and when you've got nothing else,
OR,
when you've got ALL the answers,
just say: K.

pop yer collar, walk away, leave 'em shakin'.

K? K.

Pretty Baby

my pretty baby makes me so happy.
there's something about having a shitty day...you know, when the going's good it's great, but when the bad's going bad, you can't fucking breathe...there's something about having a shitty day, the world's not spinning at the rate you want it to and nothing feels right...you know, there's something about having a shitty day, but when you feel those tiny little arms wrap around your neck, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except that tiny little heartbeat melting in sync with your own.

deep sigh.
extended pause.
pretty, pretty baby.

moving on,
to less important things.
birthday: tomorrow.
best birthday ever: 21st.
why: anticlimactic on all accounts.
in a good way.
why: few souls in europe understand the importance of being twenty and some change; the alcohol on my lips was bittersweet. i should have turned 18 over there.
why: on the shores of loch ness, and she didn't even come out. i said, hey nessy, it's my birthday, show yer fucking face, but she didn't.
and i'm not mad.
i was, sort of.
i mean, i came really, really far to see that lake,
and she didn't show,
but i know she was there.

m's like,
you gotta try this.
i was hesitant. it was blue.
no no k, she said, you gotta try this.
lo chimed in, kendall, this shit is good.
(loved the way she said my name.)
so i slid over two pounds and a shaky voice,
and i got it.
minutes later, i'm swimming.
you feel funny?
yeahhhhhhhh.
that's what i like, m said,
i like that.

i never get sick, but i got sick once.
the sickest i ever got was in scotland.
veggie pakora, maybe, or maybe something else.
it started with a burp.
the air got trapped between the computer screen and my face,
straight up stomach acid stench.
i ignored it.
evening, a thursday, i go to stand up,
and shit,
i'm weak as well.
then it hits you,
hits you like a fucking microburst, man.
to the bathroom,
your body is a fucking warrior
and every cell is trying to get that shit out of you.
i remember moaning, crying, yelling,
public bathroom, the best.
at 21, i recall actually yelling for my mom.
mommy, make this go away.
good god, the pain,
the fucking pain,
kept thinking,
boy, won't this feel good when it stops hurting.
i woke up later with a blanket on me.
someone had the decency to push my feet in the rest of the way and shut the door, covering me, but i ruined their blanket.
there are some good people out there,
and i ruined their blanket.
why kendall, why on earth would you feel the need to revisit and dissect the night you puked and shat all over yourself, why would anyone ever want to hear about it?
because.
because,
when you're in that kind of pain, nothing else in the entire universe matters at all except your explicit desire for that pain to go away.

my best friend had her baby boy on november 11th.
42 days later, i got to see his beautiful face.
his perfect little toes.
his perfect little fingers.
pretty, pretty baby.
you know, she got a shitty hand of cards.
she got the cards from the deck we had taken
great pains in throwing away when we were little.
we planned our lives out with our chosen spades, our clubs...
we had the kings and queens and jacks right where we wanted them.
but the game sped up,
the cards fell out of place,
a frantic phone call in the middle of the night
and me realizing that nothing was turning out like i had planned,
but she's making it work,
and when i get to hold that pretty, pretty baby,
nothing else in the entire universe matters at all.

Rubber Secrets

only myself and a small percentage of the population understands the significance of this title, this picture, this post, this evening, this girl, this divisive moment, this everything.

[everyone has a secret, aw can they keep it? oh no, they can't.]

friday night: conversation number three. (2 outta 3 ain't bad.)

i should stop such talk, it's getting too close. at damn near three feet away, it's too damn close. boy oh boy, what am i to do with you?
what's an antonym for magical?
you owe me.

end scene.

pan left.

so she's running, running for a cause. girl's got hammies and six-pack like you wouldn't believe. she's running with her father-in-law, for her father-in-law, her father-in-law's got MS and her father-in-law's got nothing but deterioration and decadence in his future. so she's running, running for a cause. she runs all the time, girl's got a body like you wouldn't believe. bitch is running, running, running, her kids and husband waiting at the finish line, and she's running, running the shit outta the MS 10K. she's running, running, and her leg, right? her leg starts to go numb. she's like, hey hey hey, hold up, everyone, hold up a second...hold up just a goddamn second, and she slows to a jog and this leg of hers, this leg rippled with definition, it's numb, it's fucking numb. she's gotta walk, thinking it must be some cramp or something, or something, or something...just a cramp or something in the middle of this 10K race for MS, the run for the cure, the run, and she was just running, running...just running, running, running, and her leg goes numb...

i think this is what them folks in the city call 'irony'...

a better phrase to employ is certainly 'situational irony,' but it's not as dramatic.

and i'm all about dramatic.
[i'm an addict for dramatics; i confuse the two for love.]

rubber city, a crippling economy.
rubber legs, crippled for life.
rubbers, our broken secret.

Train Wreck

my middle name.

and he looks at me from across the party and refutes my statement, like he would know.
like you people know anything about me.
like anyone knows anything about anyone else.

i saw the hammurabi code once, with my own eyes.
one of the earliest known written records of laws that gave order to human society. i took a picture and moved on. TALK ABOUT EXEMPLARY, BYTCH.

joe says they are making buildings. buildings for the future. magnets, cables. to hang between and above our current manhattan giants. they'll be high enough. high enough above...
magnets. cables. they will have water tanks. the energy will come from the tides. the tides...

you could read that as a miracle, yeah. exemplifying our progress as humans.
from the hammurabi code to buildings that will survive the rising sea levels,
we're unstoppable. humans? fucking unstoppable.

one and one-half acres of rainforest are destroyed every single second.

fucking unstoppable.
magnets, cables.
train wrecks.

Short And Sweet

kendall: those are bubbles, not bugs.
kendall: no one asked.
kendall: kendall, can i tell you something?
kendall: shoot.
kendall: nothing feels right.
kendall: did it ever?

the people that i need to read these words never will.
they don't exist; i haven't made them up yet.

our memories are always played out faster than they occurred. it's a blessing.
when you remember that 8-hour plane ride, you remember the sun hitting the wing and destroying any view you might have of the atlantic, you remember getting the wrong meal, you remember the sudden case of restlessness leg syndrome you came down with, you can remember each and every single detail of that journey, but it doesn't take you 8 hours to remember it. it's a blessing.

and the best night you ever had -- whatever that may be: on your back or on your knees or in some arms or in some heart -- you won't ever watch that movie in its entirety ever again. it's a curse.

i'm trying too hard.
is this who you wanted to be?
are these the things you thought you'd be lying about?

you can't ever completely recall the most sound argument you've ever had in your head. you can extricate remnants, pieces, points, but never the entire dialogue, word for word, and if you do, the words come back quicker than they were spoken. the movie's always shorter the second time around.

it'll never feel the same way again. it's a...