Yes, he's still pretty square. x)

Rest in peace, Laertes.

December 25, 2006 - August 17, 2010

You served me well. Kept me company on car rides so I didn't have to listen to my parents rant about crap I don't care about. Made me look about fifty points cooler in my facebook pictures. Entertained me while I did homework, cleaned, walked around aimlessly. Kept me sane the nights I think too much.

I'll miss you.

Of course I know better than to ask or expect that the Powers that Be would be kind to me, but while we're dealing in the impossible, why not:



1. That once in a while the worst case scenario would not be what invariably ends up happening.

2. That in the hour between when I log out of my school's internet shit and when I try to go back in that it won't lock me out saying omg you forgot your password so we've disabled your account temporarily when I typed it exactly the same way I always have so. When I need to make a god damned appointment with counsely folk as soon as possible. Thanks, life! No wonder I fucking hate school.

3. That people who walk up to Starbucks when all the lights are out and the computer is off will realise that STARBUCKS IS CLOSED STARBUCKS IS CLOSED STARBUCKS IS CLOSED. Not too difficult to deduce, if I say so myself.

4. That I wouldn't be sore all over from making damn frappuccinos. Damn. I feel like an old lady.

5. That my mother doesn't have cancer. Enough said.

6. That I could sleep. Once in a while some sleep would be nice.

7. Having some poetry to read that doesn't suck.

8. That my car's brakes would stop being retarded. But I guess that's a project for one of my days off.

9. That I, who never gets pimples, never has, would stop breaking out!

10. That everyone around me would grow up and meet the real world. If I can go about my day as I do and get through it, what's more, so can you. You'll be justtt fine.



Psh, fuck that noise. End rant!

I am lazy, the laziest
girl in the world. I sleep during
the day when I want to, 'til
my face is creased and swollen,
'til my lips are dry and hot. I
eat as I please: cookies and milk
after lunch, butter and sour cream
on my baked potato, foods that
slothful people eat, that turn
yellow and opaque beneath the skin.
Sometimes come dinnertime Sunday
I am still in my nightgown, the one
with the lace trim listing because
I have not mended it. Many days
I do not exercise, only
consider it, then rub my curdy
belly and lie down. Even
my poems are lazy. I use
syllabics instead of iambs,
prefer slant to the gong of full rhyme,
write briefly while others go
for pages. And yesterday,
for example, I did not work at all!
I got in my car and I drove
to factory outlet stores, purchased
stockings and panties and socks
with my father's money.

To think, in childhood I missed only
one day of school per year. I went
to ballet class four days a week
at four-forty-five and on
Saturdays, beginning always
with plie, ending with curtsy.
To think, I knew only industry,
the industry of my race
and of immigrants, the radio
tuned always to the station
that said, Line up your summer
job months in advance. Work hard
and do not shame your family,
who worked hard to give you what you have.
There is no sin but sloth. Burn
to a wick and keep moving.

I avoided sleep for years,
up at night replaying
evening news stories about
nearby jailbreaks, fat people
who ate fried chicken and woke up
dead. In sleep I am looking
for poems in the shape of open
V's of birds flying in formation,
or open arms saying, I forgive you, all.

Spider in my basement that was under a glass for four or five days until my father knocked it over like a dumbass and freed you,

I don't know how you lived for that long under the glass without food or air. That you did I think is pretty creepy as shit. You're like Rasputin!spider or something.

When I find you (or can get at you, as I suspect you're hiding under the vertical part of the computer), I will kill you. I will kill you like you have never been killed before. And you will be so killed you won't even know what that means anymore.

No love,

Emily,
destroyer of invertebrate worlds

ETA: There's a dead spider body under there, so either the bitch is dead or we have a cannibal bamf spider. D:

I'm dying of the grins over here. ♥_♥!!!

Tonight there must be people who are getting what they want.
I let my oars fall into the water.
Good for them. Good for them, getting what they want.

The night is so still that I forget to breathe.
The dark air is getting colder. Birds are leaving.

Tonight there are people getting just what they need.

The air is so still that it seems to stop my heart.
I remember you in a black and white photograph
taken this time of some year. You were leaning against
a half-shed tree, standing in the leaves the tree had lost.

When I finally exhale it takes forever to be over.

Tonight, there are people who are so happy,
that they have forgotten to worry about tomorrow.

Somewhere, people have entirely forgotten about tomorrow.
My hand trails in the water.
I should not have dropped those oars. Such a soft wind.

A week after my father died
suddenly I understood
his fondness for me was safe—nothing
could touch it. In those last months,
his face would sometimes brighten when I would
enter the room, and his wife said
that once, when he was half asleep,
he smiled when she said my name. He respected
my spunk—when they tied me to the chair, that time,
they were tying up someone he respected, and when
he did not speak, for weeks, I was one of the
beings to whom he was not speaking,
someone with a place in his life. The last
week he even said it, once,
by mistake. I walked into his room, and said “How
are you,” and he said, “I love you
too.” From then on, I had
that word to lose. Right up to the last
moment, I could make some mistake, offend him, and with
one of his old mouths of disgust he could re-
skew my life. I did not think of it,
I was helping to take care of him,
wiping his face and watching him.
But then, a while after he died,
I suddenly thought, with amazement, he will always
love me now, and I laughed—he was dead, dead!