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Things I like to do when I’m home alone

In by Lara on August 27, 2013 at 11:31 am

Things I like to do when I’m home alone:

Watch my guilty pleasures television shows in bed (invariably with atrocious posture) preferably at the same time as playing some sort of game on my phone such as tetris.

Blast some of my less trendy music choices while I try to slice cucumber pieces as thinly as possible.

Get lost in the wormhole that is the internet. Frequently browsed topics include a capella performances, restauranteurs, recipes, and obviously Facebook stalking.

Light candles, draw myself a bath, pour myself a glass of wine, and prepare a chicken apple sausage on a fork.

The narrative in my head when I try and write a personal statement or update my resume

In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 3:13 pm

God I sound like a pretentious douchebag. No one cares about that shit? Oh great, you worked with a

bigwig at that place back when it mattered? Great! You still suck. Ugh. Okay, let’s be less critical about this.

Start over.


Fuck you.


You suck, you know that? You really do. This is seriously the most cliched piece of shit that will ever

land on the admissions’ person’s desk.

Stop writing about your grandmother.

Okay, you need adversity. Like you’ve faced adversity. Wah wah wah.  Stop whining, asshole.

Maybe switching to writing by hand will be less judgmental.


In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 3:06 pm

“What was that for!”
It’s weird how much soft skin can still sting when you come into contact with it like that. I didn’t say anything. I felt like I should apologize, but I felt like I might vomit if I did. She was still standing there with a shocked and hurt expression on her face. People turned their heads to watch us as they piled into the further morass of the club that is what we do at night.

There was so much that that was for, I wanted to say. Instead,

“Sorry, I was being passive aggressive.”

I learned about sufficient-necessary conditions in terms of real-world relationships

In by Lara on August 26, 2013 at 2:56 pm

The needy relationship: If B goes to the party, A will go to the party.
A is needy. B is independent. B can go to the party all by B’s self or with someone else.

That couple that goes everywhere together: If B goes to the party, A will go to the party. And vice versa. Aka if one of them goes, they both go. If one of them doesn’t go, neither of them will go.

The bad breakup one: If B goes to the party, A will not go and vice versa, cuz girllll, that was a bad breakup.

Stuck a Stake

In by Lara on August 23, 2013 at 11:45 am

I’ve stuck a stake in the sand,
which, if you’ve ever tried, is not easy to do.
I’ve stuck a stake in the sand,
and I thought my stake was true;
Or that at least it was good,
that it was the right thing to do.

My hope, my logic, my reasoning was:
That once the water came,
it would do what it does
The stake would stick,
the sand withdraws.

But perhaps it’s the water,
or maybe the stake,
but if I’m to be honest
that stake, I did make,
with careful consideration,
I doubt it would break.

The love of my life read my mind and gave me a box of spinach.

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2013 at 5:22 pm

I listen to my body. When it wants salty greasy dead animal, I quench its desire. When it yearns for chlorophillic greenery, I munch. When it requires unadulterated raw Peruvian cacao, I acquiesce, for it is my vessel.

I can’t always hear what it wants. Anyway, I rarely listen. If I had, today I’d know it wanted vegetation.

Lara arrived with a box and a smile, and gave me both.

The cardboard was light in my hands. My brow furrowed, my palms itched. I opened it, peered inside, and tumbled for the uncountableth time completely in love with this woman.



An artist I know

In Uncategorized on August 8, 2013 at 5:00 pm

Dear Emma,

When I lent you my pants, you wore them.

I asked you to wear them as you painted, and you slashed your turmoil across their Spartan white threads in bright splashes of ragged color. You don’t understand why I now wear these pants with a blazer and boots. I love it, though. Love feeling privileged and special and good because I’m wearing art.

You’re an artist, who I know. I don’t know if you’re a friend. Underneath a warm veneer, our relationship is merely cordial.

You distrust me because I love. I distrust you because you distrust love.