Monday, November 30

Not a particularly entertaining post...

I have always waited for someone to validate my worth---as though my identity depended on what a second party had to say, as though I could only matter if I mattered to you. I don't know if it's the feminism or womanism or any other kind of ism that has brought me to this point in my life where I can stand in front of a mirror and see beautiful, and say beautiful. I have struggled with self-loathing wrestling in my thoughts and now I can say that it is not arrogant or conceited to think well of myself. In me, there is a lot to think well of. I don't know what it is exactly, but it shines through the pores of my skin and radiates from my fingertips. It's in the blush of my lips that wrap themselves around words like a first kiss.

I've finally grown some self-esteem. After years learning to love myself more, the lessons are finally sinking in. After thousands of empty affirmations, I've finally---honest to the divine, honest to the universe---come to believe it, to accept it.

I am beautiful.
I am human.
I love.
I am loved.
I matter.

I could stand before that mirror, shoulder to reflected shoulder, warm palm to unmoving glass. Never flinch, never shudder, never waver in my devotion to love all that is me---even the uneveness of my complextion or the crinkles under my eyes, the oversized and overwhelming. I can love it all.

Dear friend, I hope that you find this someday or that you're already here. I hope you find a love for yourself---no matter what the magazines and media tells you, no matter how many bad boyfriends or girlfriends or family members try to break you down. No one can tell you that you aren't good enough. You are an entire universe within yourself. You dictate your confinements and limitations. You need no validation but your own. I could sit here writing about how beautiful you are, about how important you are until these fingers of mine start to bleed. But none of my words would matter unless you believe it yourself.

Dear friend, I love you but that's not enough. Please love yourself.


Wednesday, November 18

When you tell me that I'm a bad person, the worse part isn't that you're my favorite person in the whole world.


The worse part is that I believe you.

Sunday, November 8

It's strange to think how death-centric we all are. We live to fear, spite, or even to cheat it. Lots of us live our lives for the after-death. It's pretty much the only thing we care about.

I'd like to say that I live my life for love---but that's not entirely true. I love in spite of death; which is an ironic way to birth love, if you ask me. People don't like to get attached because life is fleeting, people leave, people die. But doesn't that just make you want to get closer to someone? To connect with them in an entirely human way because you just don't know how long we have?
Don't you want to make the most out of every experience, every relationship?

This fear of death doesn't paralyze me, I don't think. It compels me to take chances, to risk stability and comfort; because really? Who the fuck cares about what you do? What place do they hold in the ivory tower of saintdom that they can judge someone else? We all have our reasons.

I'm not scared of taking chances. I'm scared of who I'll become and the sort life I'll lead if I don't.

I'm still processing my thoughts on my 'termination'. It's not the same as when I was a kid. We just laughed it off because it was just something for me to do, someway for me to feel like an important part of the family. But now? It's bitter. It's hurtful.

There are pressures none of us have control over---piling hospital bills and a bad economy can tear people apart. We don't laugh anymore. We don't talk anymore. My dad created a distance between us because he's suffering and doesn't want to burden us with his grief.

All that tension was too much for me. We exploded. I screamed at him---for the first time in my life, I yelled at my father.

I still hear his words ringing in my ears. I still see the loathing in his eyes.


I'm not the only one getting on the unemployment line. Andrew is next to go, I'm sure of it. I can see the agitation in my father's face. My heart sinks.

He knows, too. He's sad, yes, but he's also tired---just as I am. Maybe it's for the best?

I know I'm a little pissed off at him right now, but the nasty bugger weaseled his way into my life and family and things would just seem wrong without him there.

Sometimes I think that we get along so well. We just click. It's annoying. I smile too much when he's around.

Whatever. That's too much to think about.

Back to chemistry...


P.S. Life is stupid. Perhaps death will be fun.
P.P.S. This all seem so conundrumic. A little contradictory, even.
P.P.P.S. I'm going to be a lawyer.

Monday, November 2

And Here, For A (Very) Brief Moment, I Mention Pierce...

Because he's kind of a diva and needs to feel important. Shouldn't you be studying instead of reading my unhealthy ramblings, anyway? O_o

Get on it, murse-in-training!

(You'll be happy to know that I added 'murse' to my word's dictionary.)


I don't want to be a grown up anymore. It sucks. I want someone to care enough about me to take care of me.

I don't know if that goes against feminist principles. Maybe not. I know I'm strong enough to take care of myself. I know I'm loving enough to take care of others. It'd be kind of nice to have someone take care of me for a change.

That's hard to admit. Is this want such a horrible thing? I dunno. I really just don't know.


I want to be in a relationship with the right kind of guy this time. I can never find one who is smart or passionate enough---if that doesn't make me sound like a total bitch. By the off-set chance that I do come across a cute boy with actual critical thinking skills and pure talent, he's either gay, taken, or a complete jerk. The problem is, that when you do meet an intellectual equal who isn't off the market, he's socially awkward; exhibiting the behavior of a pretentious asshole or misanthrope. There is no win for me.

There's a lot to say about quiet intelligence; it's charming. But you don't find much of that anywhere. I don't want showy. I don't want arrogant. I don't want obnoxious. I'm tired of that now. I use to think that would be okay, so long as he had the juice to back it up. But now? It's just childish and extremely unattractive.

Eh. What if that's the only type of guy I can attract because I'm showy and obnoxious and a know-it-all?

It scares me to think of the very shallow pool of potential suitors.

Holy shit.

I'm going to end up married to a FOB. One that I order off of a bride-groom website.

Oh, God.

Kill me. Just kill me

Relationships are complicated and messy. If I've learned anything thus far, it's to stay away from them as often as possible---which, mind you, isn't very often. Sometimes, it's depressing to think of how all our souls are linked together.

Give me some fucking space, will ya? Geez.

Eh. I think it's the new meds. talking. :/


P.S. Pierce says I never mention him on my blog. He forgets that I wrote a poem at his request. Betch, don't you know how epic that is??
P.P.S. People actually read this thing? Damn. Now I feel like I have to censor myself. Well, off to create a secret blog!

Sunday, November 1

I either need to work less or quit school. Because this is taking a toll on my grades and my health. I don't have time to finish my homework. I don't have energy to study. I don't have time to sleep.

I'm anxious and exhausted and frustrated every waking moment and I'm just waiting to collapse.

Please, just let this body stop functioning. There are only two options: that I get the hell out of my situation or that I fucking kill everyone.

I imagine what it would be like if I got to keep any of my money. I'd just save it. Bidding time. Waiting. Waiting until I had enough. Waiting until I knew that I could fill my tank of gas and just drive away forever. I'd never have to see any of you assholes again.

Would I miss you?

Fuck no.

I'd be gone. I'd be gone and never have to worry about this stupid family ever again. I could take care of MYSELF for once. I could live for me. I could be selfish. I WANT TO BE SELFISH.

I don't care if that makes me a bad person. I don't care what you think of me. Because you don't understand. You haven't lived my life. You haven't experienced my bad. And I don't need to explain to you or even try to make you understand because what you think doesn't matter.

Oh, everyone thinks their life is the worse.

So? That doesn't negate how shitty mine is, so just fuck off, you insensitive prick!

All I know is that I'm fed up with being oppressed, okay? I'm tired of the double standards. I'm tired of being a work mule. I'm tired of getting told every single damn day that I am worthless, that I am ugly, that I am shameful. I don't deserve this. I'm tired of fighting.

I use to think that I fought for you. Because I love you. But it isn't fair. It isn't fair that I keep on fighting for the very same person who hurts me the most.

Dad, I'm done fighting for you.

Wednesday, October 28


Today has been bizarre, to say the least. I'm emotionally and physically drained and I'm not really sure if I can handle anything else being thrown at me.

Family and friends are a rotten mess right now, and I think I'd be happier if I either didn't exist anymore or if I went off into the woods and lived out my life as Big Foot's mistress. I sure hope he's romantic...

Last night, I dreamt that I was married, with kids, in white suburbia. If that wasn't strange in and of itself, my husband was ardent about breast feeding our children. Himself. As in: 'I'm going to inject myself with hormone enhancers in order to lactate.'

I'm sure you're sitting here, pretty creeped out. I know I was. But then I actually started thinking about it.

That's some intense shit. That's a man so comfortable with his identity, with his sexuality, that he's willing to do something deemed effeminate in order to have a deeper connection with his baby (everyone knows that breast feeding promotes a healthy attachment to one's mother---except for Freud; the bitch, who saw it as cause for our oral fixation).

This act would turn about all preconceived notions of motherhood and fatherhood---can you even imagine? It questions the very foundations of our nuclear family. It's anarchy.

Maybe I do want to marry a man who's willing to breast feed our children, if only to make a point. Maybe it'd be kind of sexy. Who knows?

Eh. Let it sit for a while. Think about it. Then react. I know the gag reflex is strong, but you'll have to control yourself, friend.

Anyway, I've got a paper to write.


P.S. This is a really interesting dream which I may turn into a short story fiction piece for my creative final. We'll see.
P.P.S. Though, I am working on a feminist game board/play with Adriana.
P.P.P.S. Maybe I'll do both?

Monday, October 26

“Either make up with him, or kidnap his dog and hold it for ransom until you get the apology you deserve.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little…psycho?”

“Nah. Slashing his tires would be psycho.”

“Okay. Ummm…I don’t think any of that is a good idea. So, I’m going to say pass on this one.”

“Suit yourself. You’re both being stubborn dicks right now.”

“But I kind of think things are pretty good. It’s only very little that I miss him.”



“Narcissistic, egocentric, emotional masochist who wants to eat her way to death because she’s too much of a pussy to kill herself.”


“Too mean?”

“Yeah…a little.”

“Sorry, love.”

“Anyway, like I said. Things are good. It doesn’t even seem to matter anymore.”

“Then why are you having an internalized monologue about the rotten bugger?”

“It’s just what I do. I needed something to write about. That was a funny starting line. So I went with it.”

“Are you sure that’s all?”

“Yupp. And now the well of inspiration has dried up. Cheers!”

“The fog is rising!”

“Jeremy, get a fucking life.”

“I can’t unless you do.”


P.S. I'm cute and clever. Hahaha. ;)

Friday, October 23

Clear Eyes of Optimism, All The Better To See You Dear...

I've begun to look at everything in retrospection---the sort of things that my friends have already told me about, that I didn't listen to, are finally starting to make sense.

You were a jerk to me because you wanted to make sure that I was aware of the fact that you did not like me like me. I guess that would make sense. Except, there was a fatal flaw in your little plan of action. You were so mean sometimes, I thought you hated me. So I was mean back. And pushy. And bitchy. And needy. And everything else to try and get you to not hate me somehow. I wanted to prove to you that I was a good friend, that I loved you deeply, that you were a brother to me. Your meaness only encouraged me to try harder.

The truth is that I feel very sorry for you now. You don't have the ability to open up to someone about how you feel. You have no one to talk to. I tried to help you. I tried to let you know that I could be trusted, that I would listen, that I would care. But you didn't want that. You didn't think you needed it. You probably still don't.

I, on the other hand, have the support and love of so many wonderful people. I am not alone. I will never be alone.

I'm sorry that you are, or that you think you are. Most of all, I'm sorry that you think you need to be.

You're annoyed, I know. You're angry too. You think I'm creating unnecessary drama, and you're just relieved to be rid of me. You think this'll all be over soon, that I'll come back and apologize and we'll start over again in this sick cycle of ours. That's not going to happen. For the sake of my sanity, that can't happen.

I don't think it has sunk in yet that I'm not there anymore. I'll never be there anymore. When I think about how we'll never be friends again, there's a sharp pain in my chest. You haven't felt that yet, but you will. Because I know that truly, you did/do care.

You're too proud to admit that you hurt me. You're too proud to apologize. You're too proud to admit that you need me in your life.

I'm too proud too. You won't win this time. Neither of us will, really.


This has been cathartic. I think that now, I'm truly ready to just get over this whole thing. I may miss him, but I'm not going to do anything about it. If he feels the need to try and work things out, he'll initiate it. Otherwise, it's not going to happen.

For some reason, that doesn't scare me anymore.


Thursday, October 22

I'm Underlined in Envy Green & Pencil Red...

I can't believe that they remixed Imogean Heap's song. BULL FUCKING SHIT! Ugh.

I played 'Somebody More Like You' with Eric just a few minutes ago. It felt good. Music makes me feel good, regardless of how bad I am. But my movement isn't as smooth as it use to be. My joints give way and my fingers begin to cramp---which just means I need to work on fingering exercises. Ah, if only I had time...

Apparently, we're buying a cello. I pretty much just want to go bitch crazy at this point. A CELLO! :) It's so exciting!

Granted, it's for Asima, but c'mon. A cello. I'd name him Robert. Or Martha.

Talking to Adriana on the phone and I've begun to wonder when I stopped being a phone person. I dunno. I can remember spending hours on the phone all through out my middle school and high school days. Now I can't seem to be bothered to return calls.

I hope my appetite picks up because I want everyone to stop teasing me. It's getting old. I can't help the fact that I don't feel like eating. Or that I can't sleep. I don't really know what's wrong. It's stressing me out more that I'd need, though.

Sometimes, I wonder if the past really was as great as I remember it being. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe I'm just terrified at the thought of imagining a different kind of future for myself, so I just cling onto these ideas of how amazing everything and everyone was before it all changed. To give me comfort? To give me a reason to wallow in misery? Perhaps what's to come will be ten thousand times better. I'm just going to allow myself to let go and let in. We can't go back in time. The fact that we've changed is a good thing. I might not be able to see it immediately, but it really is a good thing.

I was telling Anam today how I'm scared that things will never get better. But that's not true. How can I, the ultimate idealist, believe that things will never get better?

They will. Someday I'll get out of here. Someday I'll stand up for myself and not allow people to exploit me. Someday I'll find new friendships and appreciate old ones even more. Someday will have to come eventually.

All I can say to is this: if you don't like the answer, simply change the question.


Tuesday, October 20

I work the nine to five job at a twelve to twelve pace,
Waiting tables at a busy intersection in the prime of my life.
I was doing the juggling act the other day
And that‘s when I saw you, the little boy that would change the world.
Boy to be Superman, Batman and Spiderman
Rolled into one cape crusader hidden under your blues clues t-shirt.

There you were, just sitting with your feet crossed over the chair;
Curly black hair and copper eyes to see the world,
Cheeks kissed red by the vitality of sunshine.
You are a little son of God,
The savior of mankind.
No resurrection necessary, just add a pinch miracle grow and a dash of destiny.
I just knew that you, you would change the world from the moment I saw you.

I wanted so badly to see in your face where you would go,
What choices you would make, how many lips you would kiss, the hearts would break.
How many times would sneak out of your parents house?
How many days would you skip of your senior year of high school?

Who would you become, little one?

A demi-god among men, champion of the marginalized,
Hero of the damned, the forgotten?
Golden child of chosen sun, would you spin magic with your mind
And mark the moon with a sling shot, guiding back starlight from the milky way?

Would you become a man?
The man we read in story books,
The man of principle.
The man of honor
Whose mouth speak good intentions,
Whose arms open wide.

What would you choose?

It occurred to me that you could grow into just another man, no?
Silver tongued with slippery hands,
Trying to weasel your way into iron clad panties that aren’t as strong as they should be,
Even though your mother taught you to respect your women.
Close yourself off and bury your heart deep into the ground where no one can find it
Because emotional connections are irrelevant to being a man, right?
Maybe she just wants you to hold her and tell her she’s beautiful.

Who would you become?
Just another father who neglects his kids,
Just another husband who raises his fists
Just another authoritarian who manipulates the system and
Fucks Corruption while Justice pretends we're all going to be just fine?

Dear little one, stay little longer. Just stay little longer.
Because growing into that man, is apparently, irreversible.

Sunday, October 18

I Take It Back

No. I read it again. I take it back. I take it all back. I don't miss him at all. I don't love him at all.

"I don't even mind, or blame her. It gives us more peace of mind, so I don't care."

Awesome. I don't care either. And every time I have the misguided notion that I do, I'll just read those words over again so that everything goes cold inside.

Yeah, people sure do suck.


The Pieces Don't Fit Anymore...

I'm such a liar.

People don't just wake up one morning and stop caring about someone they love. I've been lying to myself, trying to convince everyone (including my subconscious) that I'm just fine. I'm not, okay? It hurts like hell and nobody really understands.

But I'd rather severe my limbs than let him know that I miss him. No. I will not let him win. I will not let him know that he still means something to me---and probably always will--- when I mean absolutely nothing to him. I can't lose any more of my pride to this boy. I'm still picking up the shattered pieces of my self-esteem; my ego can hardly accommodate another gory defeat.

All I can hope for is that things get a little easier. Please God, let it get easier.

Part of my likes to think that maybe he misses me too, that maybe he does care and that he's hurting just as much as I am. You know, despite what his actual words and actions say about the situation...

You know, despite the fact that he has blatantly said that he doesn't care.

What can I say? I'm just stupid like that. I still believe that he's a good person, a good friend for some reason; even though he wasn't neither of those things to me. At least, I can't remember the last time he was.

I'm still trying to process how this time last year, things were so good and at the present moment we've fallen apart. What changed? Did I? Did you? Why does everything suck so much now?

I dunno.

I'm just going to try. I deserve to be able to move on as easily as he has. I deserve to be happy, too.

It's now a battle of wills, I think. I have to prove that I don't need him, that I'm better off without him, that I'm happier even though my heart hurts so much sometimes, I just randomly burst into tears.

I have to convince him that he doesn't matter to me. That he never did, not really anyway.

Things will never go back to how they were. It just can't. But it's okay.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

I have my wonderful friends---the ones who don't make me cry. I have my family (ish). I have my dreams and words and goals and love for life. I can do this. It's okay.

I am a strong woman. You can not hurt me. I will not allow you to continue hurting me.

I'm going to be okay.


Thursday, October 15


It's starting to get quiet in the house now, and I hear those sleeping bodies and want to do something drastic. Like escape.

But that's looking like a pipe dream from the get-go. I'm not strong enough to escape this place. My sense of duty ties me here. The fact that my happiness is linked to your acceptance, will always keep me here. Even if---by some miracle---I get the hell out of here, I'd still be here.

So instead of thinking about all of this, instead of worrying about how there really is no hope for me ever finding true, unadulterated happiness, I choose to just listen to some music and relax. And talk to a nice boy who makes me laugh.

I do miss Fayard sometimes and that's hard for me to admit because I hate missing people. I think that we've changed so much that it's almost impossible to understand the other, yet when I need him, he's there. No questions asked. No time frame needed. He's just there for me. And he loves me as though I was still that awkward twelve year old girl. Maybe we haven't changed at all.

I think I'm happier right now. Granted, my home life is in the shitter, but I try not to think of that at all. I kind of wish that all my problems could be solved with a simple: 'I love you.' If I could just say that, maybe things wouldn't be so bad.

Mom, I love you.
Dad, I love you.
Asima, I love you.
Bobby, I wish you'd die.

Ooops. Well, I tried.

I'm going to pick up more hours next week (Universe, save me...) 'cos I need to buy my new sister-in-law a wedding gold set. Which I'm very excited about. I adore that pretty lady and she's great for my pampered, arrogant brother. However, Bhaiya just makes me feel terrible every time he calls and says, 'Mutti! You're suppose to be here! YOU SWORE ON THE SHAMELESS GAME!'

Well, Niaz Bhai, you can't hold me accountable for promises I made...say, TEN years ago?? I was nine. Geez. Cut me some freakin' slack! Time, space, and rationality never once crossed my mind at that age. It hardly does now.

Sometimes practicality sucks and I wish I could be part of White Supremacist Capitalism Patriarchy rather than the yellow girl on the outside. HA! NOT.

I'm getting sleepy. I wish I could blame my idiotic behavior on mental illness. But that's not really possible. Or it could be. My mother is insane, after all...


If you're reading this, it means that I love you. I promise I do. I don't have the energy to hold onto hate (believe me, I've tried. It only works with Bobby. That shit is deep seeded, man).

G'night, world. I sleep so I can rise to fight again.

bell hooks is right, then. Constant struggle, dissension, conflict---that's what life is about. It's not suppose to be pretty. Things don't get fixed when you walk away.

Dear life, I am not scared of you. I will not walk away.


P.S. I think my life is glorious. I think that I have unlimited potential. So, I might not be able to get the sort of happiness or satisfaction that I think I need, but there's bound to be something else---if that makes any sense...?

Look, all I'm saying is that even though nothing is working out in my favor at the moment, universal equilibrium is going to kick in soon and everything will be okay.

P.P.S. Yes, I've meant all those words I've ever said or written about/to you. Even the good ones. It's funny how you never remember the good ones. Oh, well.

Tuesday, October 13

I Found God In Your Fingertips

I’ve met the creator and she’s beautiful. She has daughter tattooed on her right bicep, and son on her left. I think that she loves you.

Tuesday, October 6

Blue Ridge Mountain

You need to find time to write.
You need to find time to write.
You need to find time to write.

I found these words in my inbox today. I feel obligated to act upon them. They were written in love and to deny love is to deny existence (and we are not strolling back down existentialist lane ever again---erm, metaphorically and transcendentally speaking, of course).

The monotony of the working world kind of puts a dapper on my happy little ways as it’s the weight of responsibilities I haven’t quite grown into curled beneath the tips of my fingers.

Okay, maybe it’s nothing that dramatic.

It’s a little more than the average part-time work, but I’m so emotionally drained after nightly productions of Waitress that I can’t participate in human activity anymore. So, I shun my family and neglect my friends and vegetate until morning, when I have to do it all over again. What is then left of me is given to either school work or to the boy who doesn’t love me. So there goes writing…

When I write, all pretense is gone. I’ve exposed myself as being vulnerable, and that takes energy. It also takes courage to throw fragments of this metaphysical Athia into the cosmic happenings in hopes that you, dear friend, will receive pieces of me with open hearts. This is a fearlessness that I haven’t been able to find, so I leave my words to their own devices, one kiss poems that never leave the shelter of my highly protected word processor.

I just can’t figure out what I’m so damn afraid of, really. Aside from public bathroom serial killers and bugs crawling into my ears at night, laying eggs in my brain. But that’s legitimate. It happens. It really does. It also happens to be unrelated, but we’ll just overlook that.

Anyway, what this whole rant is about is getting my ass to work. Not the pizza tray carrying kind, mind you. I will make genuine attempts to write. I promise. And this isn’t the sort of empty promise you say to shut someone up (whoever can quiet their subconscious is either a mage or sociopath…). Promises should never be empty, especially those to yourself. C’mon. You’re better than that, kid.

I’ve been letting irrelevant things distract me from learning to love better and that has just got to stop.


P.S. People, please stop having babies. Seriously. I don’t want to see another baby birthed until I’m 95. Let the Earth catch up to us, dammit!
P.P.S. Fleet Foxes make me happy.
P.P.P.S. I slurped my linner smoothie too quickly and now my throat hurts. :/

Thursday, October 1

You're The Paint In My Picture of a Most Unusual World...

I was thinking that the Shins are really a staple in any music diet---no empty calories there. They're kind of like an Asian kid's rice, except, you know, not only are they comforting and tasty and necessary, but they're good for you too. Maybe they're considered brown rice, then...?

I dunno.

If you couldn't tell, I'm pretty hungry at the moment. I had enough food to tie me down for a few hours which was physically filling but mentally unsatisfying. And how can this be, you ask, when I work in a pizzeria? Well, friend, I don't like Italian food. Or sushi. I realize the two don't correlate, but I just wanted to make sure everyone was aware of my dislike of sushi. Ew.

My spirits are up, mostly because I read J. Mraz's blog and I could weep with joy. His words fill my head and heart with a sense of self, somehow. No, this isn't the fangirl in me talking. This has nothing to do with his boyish good looks or seductive voice that is so buttery smooth you could melt it on morning toast after a good night's fuck (erm, actually, it'd never be a 'fuck' with him. He'd call it 'love making', just because he's that kind of guy).

I digress. It has nothing to do with that, honest. It's the power in which he commands language that is so attractive to me, that it in turn inspires me to write. He stirs in me a desire to be better because the world is greater than myself, and I am integral in ensuring its beauty lasts. My little insignificant self can do good.

If I could ever say anything to that man, it's that he has forever altered me through the mystics of telepathy, 'cos I know we'll never be near in body. That's doesn't even matter. I hope to do the same someday, when I stop fighting with the voices in my head and embrace the crazy awesome that is me. I'll give a little sunshine to those hopelessly lost and show them that there's no such thing as hopeless---that it's just an arbitrary word stuck in binary opposition. Let it go, and it'll never have to exist again.

P.S. I'm trying out the whole 'provocative writing' thing. How does it sit with you?
P.P.S. Not really sure how I personally feel about it, aside from thinking it's kinda funny...
P.P.P.S. I'm ruined!
P.P.P.P.S. I've been waiting all week to use the word 'arbitrary'. :)

Tuesday, September 29

And A Sadness Runs Through Him...

At the moment, I'm trying to figure out what it is exactly that I live for. Something tells me that pleasures of the flesh aren't sufficient enough reasons to keep on keeping on---I could never pull off the Epicureanist with any sense of dignity, if I was to be completely honest. I use to think it was so easy: live righteously, live for yourself. But when you don't have a sense of purpose, everything just falls through. You lose joy.

And friend, I'm scared. I'm scared that because my future plans are so questionable they're practically non-existent, that I won't be able to take care of my family. I won't be able to help the starved, deprived, abused, enslaved. I'm scared that my failure to amount to anything will cause pain and suffering to those whom I wish only to give love. I'm scared that I might matter too much to a few people, and that their dependence on me will only lead to broken hearts and empty stomachs.

Love is not enough.

I'm torn between embracing this as truth or discarding it as heresy of the most brutal kind. But what I'm finding to be truth is shattering the very image of Athia that I had worked so hard to believe in---the mirage of martyrdom, of piety, of idiocy. The truth is, I'm not worth much of anything. I'm just another girl whose words are bigger than her actions. Just another kid playing dress up in big girl's shoes.

I'm going to fall into the cracks of mediocrity, and it's not anyone's fault, really. It's statistics. Emperical proof that there's nothing distinguishing about me.

And yet, I want to fight this feeling that threatens to overtake me, that threatens to paralyze my limbs. I want to say I am worth something emperical proof can't compete with. That my body pumps enough blood to fill an ocean. That my voice is so clear, God stands to listen. That my dreams create the very reality we live in.

I just have to believe it.


Tuesday, September 15

Inclinations of the Die-Hard Know-Nothing-er.

I've never known what I wanted. You'll always hear people say, "ever since I was a kid, I knew that I wanted to ..." or "I've wanted to be a ... since I was eight" or "No, you idiot. I never stuck crayons up my nose."

That was never the case for me (all three counts, really). I guess I was too busy playing dress up or lava lava lava land or whatever other imaginary games that kept me occupied from day to day. What a huge mistake that was... Apparently I'm so behind the rest of them, it'll take my lifetime to catch up. Catching up to what exactly? I'm not really sure. We're all just running in circles 'till the earth swallows us, anyway, no?

"What do you want to be, Athia?"

I'd look up to you with the wide eyes of a seven year old, "A pony. Neeeeigh!"

"She gonna be doctor. We decided that long time go." says my mom, as she pats my shoulder in reassurance, maybe even pride. That small gesture of affection, that gentle touch of love was enough. That was enough to change the course of my entire life. Fuck being a pony! My mom could love me if I was a doctor, no?

"Oh, really. A doctor? What kind of doctor?"

"A pony doctor!" You smiled. I smiled. Mom frowned.

"She gonna be surgeon." This would have been more troubling if my premature brain could wrap around the dangers of what was happening (or if I wasn't so preoccupied with ponies...).

Here I am, almost two decades later and I still don't know what I want to do with my life.

All I know is that I need more---more than the American dream (whatever the fuck that means anymore), more than plasma screens and Sunday afternoon BBQ's, more than the feminine mystique and boys with pretty faces and clever words.

This love I have needs the opportunity to transcend the confines of my body and reach the cold, the destitute, the lonely, the broken. This love I have is meant to be shared and I have to find a way to do it.

Dear universe, please allow me to love righteously, to live courageously, to help infinitely.

I'll find myself as you find yourself. We'll find life together.


Monday, September 7

I was following the pack

I have to force myself to write, again. I don't know why I've avoided this for so long. The absence of time is not an excuse, simply because it's relative. I've traded sleep for creation on more than one occasion. But there was always a need. A need to be more than this tangible Athia, a need to be intellectual primordial ooze, a need to split the body and mind---meticulous and calculated, quarter off my soul.

Perhaps this is a good thing. Rather than narrating my life, I've begun to live it. I'm actually enjoying the offerings of the universe (as best I can). Instead of trapping myself in pretty phrases of melancholy, getting so caught up in how clever I am while achieving absolutely nothing, I've just be trying---trying to be happy in a way I've never attempted before.

Is it possible to find satisfaction in what you already have?

Part of me thinks that Andrew is responsible for this. He's good for me. I gravitate towards his energy and I find myself smiling more.


See? There I go again.


Closing the space between us, has distanced me
From the I, I worked so hard to understand.
Like the empty spaces between my fingers
I use to believe yours could wedge perfectly into,
They are left the same, still the way they were
The way I was, the way I had tried not to be.

I wasted energy on finding your love,
A love which never belonged to me,
Nor will it ever.

Because if there's one truth ultimate over all,
It's that love can not choose
It can not be forced or bound.
I can't hold you or I captive or responsible,
Pause and play at my leisure.

This is me letting go.
This is me letting up.
This is me letting the love which is meant for me in.

We're magnetic forces of opposite attractions that can't find each other because we're not suppose to.


I need some freakin' inspiration. Can't you tell? I've got nothing!


The parental unit is treating me like I'm handicap. They won't let me fast, work, sleep in my own room, etc. Every time I try to use the bathroom, my mom follows me in there. Seriously? How's a girl to masturbate without any privacy? (KIDDING. Geez, calm down. I don't even know how girls are suppose to masturbate. It's got to be awfully hard though, since it's reported that over 54% of American women never climax during sex.)


Ugh. I've run out of steam and my head still really hurts. Going to take a nap.



Monday, August 3

You should be another motherfucker singing proud.

Days like these--- when I hide away in the library as though these cubicles had the power to perpetually force time and space into nonexistence, as though these walls and windows and words could forget the obligations and responsibilities I tallied my life away for--- I fear that in this silence, I will forget my voice.

I plug into the smurf and become nothing more than she who seeks sound for pleasure. For sound to resurrect the lover in me, the learner in me. A hedonist at core who disregards repercussions of the coming distractions.

I coup myself in this frame of graffitied benevolence and I can hardly control my urge to scream. To speak. To think. To sing glory.

I wish I could make music. I wish I had heart enough to pursue some sort of...anything. Sigh.


What I learn makes me unlearn years of practiced behavior and I'm torn between new birth and old misery. This is what I wanted, no? An education with application?

Then why does it hurt so damn much?

Because growing is painful, I keep telling myself. The inches I grow break the surface of skin; having embedded themselves so deeply in my bones and joints, they pull in every which way. The transformation of man to lycanthrope could not have been less painful.

I'm trying to understand, my friend. I'm trying to understand relationships and people and the big why. I'm trying to understand how love is simply not enough.


Thursday, July 16

I need more time. I need more time. I need more time.

I'm running out of time. Dear Universe, please don't let me run out of time.

I don't want to die. There are so many things I have to fix before I do, so many things I have to put back into place.

Please, give me more time.

It's funny. I feel myself dying and it worries me. I'm worried. I'm worried that I'm foreshadowing my own death with all of this anxiety. I'm worried that there will be things I've never said or done or felt. I'm worried that this will be my end and I'll have amounted to nothing.

Tell me I'm being silly. Tell me I'm being irrational.

Tell me that the moon and the stars and the planetary orbits promise me enough time.

Wednesday, July 15

I should actually be sleeping...

I kind of want to cry.

I'm just another mortal chasing eternal life, hoping the things I do will matter---to someone, for something, regardless of the circumstance of achieving it.

At last I am willing to admit why I write, why writing is just so damn important. I couldn't understand it before, rather, I didn't want to. I didn't want to admit to being so selfish.

I can't bare to be forgotten. Witness my existence and tell me I am real. Tell me this sac of flesh bone and water was something.

I want my life to matter, and I say it so often so that I force you to believe me; so that I force this thought so thoroughly into the Universe's stream of consciousness that it can't be overlooked. Please, do not overlook me. I am a beating body, a string of intangible thought, a shallow girl with open heart and broken hands. In my clumsy haste, I hope to win you over.

I choose love for immortality. I choose you because you're lovely, because you're lonely and broken and beautiful.

Do I love you because you're valuable, or are you valuable because I love you? Philosophers have attempted to dissect this question in every which way conceivable to man. I give you my feeble thoughts here:

You are valuable because I love you. Those intrinsic qualities and characteristics which I adore and hold to esteem would be nothing without you. Because they belong to you, you who are different from all others, these virtues are relevant. You are valuable because I've tamed you. The time and experiences we've had together, the struggle to find love over loneliness, has made you the only you there will ever be. You are valuable because you are to me, what no one else in the world could ever hope to be. You are something. You have always been something. You will always be something. Because I, too, am tamed.


Wednesday, July 8

Is This a New Athia?

I'm torn between deciding to be selfish or selfless.

Typically, I'd pick being selfless, but my little gestures of martyrdom often go unnoticed by you. And fuck yeah, I want my sacrifices to be appreciated---especially when I work so hard all the freakin' time.

You are ... evil.

I'm trying not to be sad. I think I've done a pretty good job of it thus far, but things are catching up with me. I can't pretend for much longer.

But I know that you're sad, too. I know things are tough and sometimes you want to give up. Don't. We'll get through it.

Is this who I am now? Some positive, flighty creature? Where's all the angst and anger and hatred?

I spent so long being angry at everyone and everything and myself. Maybe now it's finally time to be loving and forgiving. Maybe I'm just growing up.

I'm still frustrated. I'm still stuck. I'm still in love without hope. I'm still the same frumpy, clumsy thing.

But I dunno if I've changed some...


Monday, July 6

Laughing, crying, what the fuck are you doing?

I should stop taking antibodies, because when I do, I slip in and out of a hallucinatory state of misery.

I should also stop taking days off, because when I do, I feel wholly unproductive and spend lots and lots of time fantasizing about impossible things.

God damn my fantasy prone personality...

It has lead my mind to wander to a beige house with blue doors and painted window shutters, a tiny vegetable garden, and a little girl with curly black hair and her father's eyelashes.


I would give anything, anything, to stop. To stop these feelings, to stop having these hopes. Honestly, we have no future together---only the kind where we have group dinners with our respective others. I can imagine the tiny Asian babies picking on the little Mexican ones, while the tall giraffe like kids flail their arms about for attention. It makes me smile to think that our future together involves not only the three of us, but three of our families. Call me crazy for hoping we don't drift apart. Call me a sentimental fool for loving you like my bloodline.

Sigh. I swear to you, it's the meds. talking.


Just got a call from Adriana. She definitely caught me at a bad time, 'cos I lashed out at her when she said that my not getting the books for Philosophy of Love was stupid. Yes. I know it's stupid. But I've been over-worked and over stressed for the past two months and I'm about to fucking break. I didn't get a chance to get the damn books and I don't need her to ride me for it. Geez. Isn't she suppose to be the understanding one?

I would expect that she, of all people, wouldn't judge me.

I should probably apologize for being short with her. I'm just cranky and stressed and I could name a shitload of excuse, but it wouldn't make me feel any better about it.

I just need to rant to someone, I suppose.


Okay. I'm going to shower. Then I've seriously got to finish my homework and studying.


Tuesday, June 30

Some Words...

Writing. It's all I know how to do, which is simply heartbreaking because you'd expect to do well in your only 'honed' skill.

I don't know if it's funny or sad that my best friend needs a break from me. I woke up feeling pretty repulsed with myself---'Wow, Athia. You're such a horrible human being that the kid can't stand you'.


'... I was just saying....'

I don't know what I did wrong. I haven't treated him differently. I haven't loved him more or less. I don't feel like I ask for too much? He's the one who's just ... ?

I don't know. But what I do know is that he has been responsible for more tears than all of my friends combined and multiplied by a factor of infinity. I could cry the fucking stars, but it wouldn't matter. Nothing will melt that heart of stone he has and I don't know if I envy him, or pity him. Most of the time I feel sad for him because he's so guarded and he misses out on the unconditional love and acceptance people can have for him. I wonder why he hurts so much.

I can't understand him. He can't understand me. It's so frustrating. We're such different people, with different needs that it's impossible to keep the both of us happy.

Maybe it's time for me to count my loses and just give up on you. I told you I wouldn't, but I think you want me to now. You just won't say it. Send me one of your passive aggressive signs...?
(How rich of me. This is certainly passive aggressive, if anything. But you're uncomfortable with confrontation & I'm antsy with unresolved issues. Consider this my compromise?)

'Hey, at least you tried, dear.'

Yupp. I sure did.

That's all that I wrote to you. You can stop reading now. I mean, if you were reading?

The question of the day is: who can you practice being more loving towards today?

That just made me smile, because I know exactly who that's going to be---someone really special who I hardly ever appreciate enough, who I spend too much time wishing was someone different.

I'm going to practice being more loving towards Athia today, because man, does that girl need it. I mean, I'm a total bitch to her most of the time, and maybe she thinks that I don't love her, when really, she's the only one who ever understands me.

So, today I say: Athia, I love you. You are beautiful. You are divine. You are the pine scented air, the blind woman's teacup, and whatever other nonsensical metaphors our dearest Billy can come up with. Yes, you're also a psychotic bitch, but on your good days, you could be the savior of mankind.

You, you, wonderful you, spin magic with your words. You are a creater. You are an idealist. You are a romantic. You are a strong woman.

Never forget that. Never forget all the things you have done, and the all the things you will do.

You are the beginning, anything, everything, can & will happen.


Sunday, June 28

I want to be loved.

Friday, June 26

If you cry just a little, but laugh in the middle, you've made it.

Dear God, if you could lend me another hour in the daily cycle so that I can get some sleep, I would worship you like a soul-scrubbed pilgrim on the path of enlightenment. Until then, it's only blasphemy and self-deprecation from me.

I remember once, asking my Dad why, if God loved us so damn much, did He let us hurt each other and suffer from ourselves. I could tell that he was startled---his little girl, ten at most, sitting in front of him, eyes wide and full of curiosity. I guess he did what any good father would do. He took me in his lap and said, 'It's because he believes in us.'

I remember a time when that was enough.


This whole 'being an adult' thing...really sucks. I don't like it.S ure, I'm making a crap load of money (Alhumdullinlah) but I don't have time to do anything else. This place has consumed my life.

I don't like being a restaurant kid anymore. It was exciting when I was seven. It was fun when I was eleven. It made me feel important when I was thirteen. But now? It's just different.

I feel like I grew up differently from most kids, the office kids. Like Asima. I don't think I can explain it properly. It's just because I was raised in that environment, that strange environment where you interact with people all the time, and you learn how to adapt your personality to make them like you. Maybe that's why I'm so fucking eager to make other people happy. God, I'm so good at convincing people that our family is happy and functional. I'm so good at convincing people that I'm a good human being.

Now that I think about, even the way I prep groceries after shopping has been ruined by my being a resturant kid---we buy in bulk, package everything separately, and call them orders. GEEZ.

Well, at least I know that I can get a job at any resturant because I'm so 'personable' (says my customers, not me) and I'm a quick learner (says Diane, not my dad).

AND I think it's totally fucked up that I can remember the drink/meal order of every single last person who I've ever served. I'm not lying. It's true. Ask anyone. The moment they walk in again, I can tell you exactly what they drank and what they ate and what we talked about. I wish I could remember more important things...

Monday, June 22

Please, don't be sad anymore. Your smile lights up the lamp posts of a million dusty streets. Your smile makes me believe that there is a Divine, and I've found Him in you, my friend, my sister, my brother, my life line and blood. Shake the dust.

I leave these little pieces of me, for the bigger pieces of you.

These aren't just words, I promise you. These aren't just words to me. They're never been JUST words. If you could ever take a peek at the beats my heart makes, you'd see it's never just a thing for me to say. If you could ever feel the life that runs through me, you'd never question my intentions. If you could ever understand how much I love you, you'd never feel lonely again.


Only in an Indian movie will the mobster be a sweetheart and the doctor be a dick. Perhaps, that's life?


But movies are thriving with wussy boys. If only real life was too (If you don't know what I'm talking about, watch this video:

Going to class now.


Sunday, June 21

Insanity Is Where It's At, Babbbby....

Oh God...

What if I'm a bad kisser? What if my husband is too? What if we're a bad kissing couple and we never even realize it? What if we have boring sex?

And then he decides to leave me for a stripper named Candie?

Ew. Ew. EW.

I'm not very good with the whole physical contact thing. I can only comfortably hug maybe a handful of people, and only one of them is a boy. Is there something wrong with me, I wonder...?

Human contact is suppose to be good for you. It's suppose to make you feel good, no? Then why do I cringe at the mere thought of it?

Yeah, something must be wrong with me.

Why am I even thinking about these things? Geez. I have gone crazy.


Saturday, June 20

I'm realizing how we're all scared and broken and clingy to each other for life and love.

I love you and you love me, even though you might not be able to say it.

If I don't wake up tomorrow, know that you changed my world. You, beautiful you, change an entire world.


Thursday, June 18

Baa baaa baaa

Listening to James Morisson's 'Once When I Was Little'.

Oh, baby, sing me them blues. I feel ya'.

Really, this song is amazing. Or it could just be the moment it's bringing to life, the love each crescendo in his voice is creating within my tender little heart---all 'cos I'm a sentimental fool. I can't really tell.

Damn. The Shins are beautiful. Their music just does something to me. It's the feel. The feel. The feel.

Also, 'Recycled Air' in acoustic, is freakin' amazing.

Okay, enough music commentary, I suppose.

What's happening in my life?




Oh, look at the time! I've got, you know, stuff to do. Yeah. Yeah, totally.


Sunday, June 14

You and I are the beginning...

I'm rather excited that I've been able to steal a few moments to myself. The past couple of weeks have been pretty rough, but I must be getting your positive energy, 'cos I'm surviving just fine. I think that after a few more months, I'll be able to afford an apartment. I've just got to keep saving, shut my mouth, and start job searching.

I feel inspired to write Adriana a counter-story to her birthday present. Or to write a one shot something or another. Or a poem. I dunno. I've got all day! :)

I do want to be that shy couple in the back booth holding hands, but I can't find a guy who's clever enough. Perhaps when I start taking more right brain oriented classes, I'll find someone who is my intellectual equal---someone who I don't have to explain 'big words' to. That would be lovely...

Meh. I have to remember that I go to UCF, though. haha.

Dear Universe, if you could be so kind, please inform the divine that I'm prepared for whatever punishment He sees fit.

Doubt of faith is cause enough for eternal damnation---then let every man, woman, and child burn in flames, I suppose.

Oh, bite my bitter tongue. Blasphemy will be my very end...


MUGA. I'm going to make some green tea.

Will be posting periodically.


Friday, June 12

Must make a mental note to secretly send Anam flowers one random day.

Thursday, June 11

I genuinely can't spell restaurant properly, and congratulations, too. Thank God for spell check.
I ate too much frosting. I will vomit.

No, I don't like it.
Still checking...

Does this work? O_o

Thursday, June 4

Can It Be July Now?

It's getting closer to my birthday, which only adds to the melancholy. Birthdays are usually just awful, and I can't see this one being any better.

If this new trainee doesn't work out, then I will, in fact, be working. Not that I mind. I don't have anything better to do, and I would probably have stayed at the store with my dad, anyway. At least I can keep busy and maybe steal a slice of cheesecake from the kitchen when no one is looking. That would be awesome---like the stealth highlight of my life.

Just finished reviewing for chem. and the sky is beginning to breath new life. I'll try and catch a half hour of sleep, then I'm going to get up to review some more. Maybe in a bit I'll finish my IDS work.


Monday, June 1

I'm feeling like a fool. I'm worrying about how I'm getting older faster than I'm getting my dreams accomplished.

Little You & I...

I can't get back to sleep. Decided to type some things in the word processor, but that only jolted me a little more.

I'm looking forward to my Tuesday off. I'm going to hole up in the library all day and study for my chem. test---well, I'm mostly going to be goofing off, but I'll at least be in my favorite spot.

Somethings just amaze me, like the fact that I was once a little girl. Where did that little girl go?

This shouldn't surprise me so much. I've been acting rather childish lately, so I guess she's still here, to an extent.

But that little was just so amazing. She was so happy. She was alone, mostly, but she was still so happy.

Today, I'd like to be happy. I've made the decision, lying sleepless for hours. Today, I'd like to be happy.

It'll be a funny day. It'll be amusing trying to function without any sleep.

You ask me who the you I am always mentioning could be, and I can't answer you. This you is bigger than the us that has made up this conversation or the facts and speculations that lead you to this question, even. This you is certainly bigger than me.

My second person love affair isn't anything personal----because I write to you, my muse, my lover, my friend, my bloodline. For you.

This is the you that sits on white benches with me on rainy days, this is the you with warm palms and an outstretched heart, this is a vindictive you, a playful you, a you of old and young and innocence and recklessness, a you who seeks glory and love and passion. This you is matched with every other part of me.

Now my darling, my friend, be well.

Sunday, May 31

Random Walks ...

Yeah, really? Why do I bother getting out of bed in the mornings? It's the same shit life, day in and day out. What changes? Nothing. I am not fluid enough to move through the motions with ease. You are the light and life that breaths into me the promise of tomorrows' shadow.

I have no idea if anyone will understand what I meant. I'm just that deep (if you haven't seen Beau Sia's 'I'm So Deep' reading, you won't get the irony).

You are not the pine scented air. There's just no way that you're pine scented air.

But I'll settle for a bottle of pine sol and the boy with a beaming smile and an open hand that holds a pen, whose heart leaks ink---palms wide enough to hold the destiny of a million men of greatness.

Guess who just wrote an entire new chapter? Guess who didn't save the damn file?



I can tell from the turn of your lips that you're disappointed in me. Over the years, you've come to expect less. You forget that I genuinely try for you. I would gladly give my heart and soul, hung cut and quartered to your liking---live out life on a crucifixion, if it would mean redemption.


I would like to create beautiful things. I am lovely. I was lovely before you, but I forget that. Because you made me realize my potential, I forget that I was something before you. And now that the beginning is no longer the order of things, I am lost.

G'night universe. Play nice.

Thursday, May 28

I'd rather like you to take out my heart and replace it with something that doesn't hurt so damn much.

Monday, May 25

Poem Twelve...

You’re a pack rat, you say?
No shit.
It was fine at first when I started noticing these things.
In my imagination, you’d creep around, collecting trinkets and bobbles and useless nothings and tuck them away
Deep into the secret pockets of your school bag.
I even thought it was kind of cute.
So I indulged you and stole your yellow power ranger pencil top
And tried the whole hoarding deal myself, if only to belong.

But then one day, you told me you wouldn’t give me Chino,
Not because you had a bond with him, a bond only realized between a boy and his hamster,
(We both know that you don’t even like him)
But because you couldn’t stand to see anyone else with him.

That’s when it stopped being cute.
Not because I wanted your hamster---well, partly.
But mostly because I realized how dangerous you are.

I run our scenes in my mind through constant replay.
We play in black and white, sitting under trees, you covered in grass, me laughing
We play in color, on rainy days, you drenched, me skipping.
I hear the sound of your voice, and every ion and atom in this string of limbs is called back to life.
I start to think that maybe, just maybe, I’ve made the final home stretch to planet crazy,
Because all I can think of is leaning in just a little closer
Let the blushing virgins bend as the cosmic happenings have done
To offer us this moment.

But it’s not all my fault.
It takes two to win a heart, and one to break it.
The math doesn’t add up, and I must have screwed up the calculations
Somewhere in between endless conversations
And the moment I first realized I was in love and you weren’t.

You take my heart in your hand and hold me at an arms length.
Envelope me in your scent to give me false hope of a broken prophecy.
You build me up with promises you never meant to make
And I look into your sad eyes and I can’t tell you how many times
I had to keep the floods from pouring from my lids,
Because the world knows I am a strong woman and you can not hurt me,
Even though you do.

You are a pack rat,
Hoarder of shit.
Keeper of secrets and holder of my heart.
I just wish you’d take better care of these things.

Thursday, May 21

You Look Like a Mermaid & Walk Like a Waltz...

Sitting in chem. thinking about how much this sucks. LOTS.

Sigh. I woke up rather chipper this morning. I had the strangest dream, but I can't remember what it was about. No, I did remember. It's just, I can't remember anymore.

Ugly Betty season finale tonight. Yay and sad face.


Monday, May 18

I'm trying to be calm, when in fact, I just want to be a psycho bitch and throw a tantrum. Truly.

It's just...the thought of you and her together---you, pining over her. You, showing anything but drives me mad. I don't even want to think about it.

Yet, that's all I can think of, really. And I don't even know why because it doesn't matter. It's irrelevant. You are irrelevant to how I should feel about me. But here I am, stewing in my own pot of crazy over whether or not you liked her and why and for how long and what you thought and what you felt and what's wrong with me.


God, so damn needy, Athia

I don't even know. I don't even know why I'm reacting so much to something so silly.

Okay. So you might have liked her at some point. Big deal. That's none of my business. You can like or not like whomever you please. It has nothing to do with me.

I mean, but knowing that it was someone like her that caught your attention, makes me realize that I didn't stand a chance. I wish I had known sooner so I would have been more protective of my silly little heart.

I'm so stupid. I hate being so stupid. I'm acting like a child. You don't like me. I know. I understand. You can barely tolerate me. How can I blame you? There are days when I can barely tolerate myself...

Oh dear, I really have gone mad. What sane person acts like this? How absurd.

You are nothing to me. These 'ties' we have created aren't real---they're a part of my imagination. You and I are nothing to each other. Please, Athia, for your own sake, realize this.

I am nothing special to you. Just let it go, Athia. Let it go. Let it go.

Stop allowing yourself to get hurt, please.

Sunday, May 17

Poem Eleven

I changed the tone of this poem. It was originally intended to be humorous, but it took on a new life...I guess...? What do you think? It's kinda rambly, no?

I work the nine to five job at a twelve to twelve pace,
Waiting tables at a busy intersection in the prime of my life.
I was doing the juggling act the other day
And that‘s when I saw you, the little boy that would change the world.
Boy to be superman, batman and Spiderman
Rolled into one cape crusader hidden under your blues clues t-shirt.

There you were, just sitting with your feet crossed over the chair
Curly black hair and copper eyes to see the world,
Cheeks kissed red by the vitality of sunshine,
You are a little son of God,
The savior of mankind,
No resurrection necessary, just add a pinch miracle grow and a dash of destiny.
I just knew that you, you would change the world from the moment I saw you.

I wanted so badly to see in your face where you would go,
What choices you would make, how many lips you would kiss, the hearts would break.
How many times would sneak out of your parents house?
How many days would you skip of your senior year of high school?

Oh, the things you would learn to appreciate---
Good music and eating too much on Sundays,
Summers with your best friends, and text-messaging.

Who would you become, little one?

A demi-god among men, champion of the marginalized,
Hero of the damned, the forgotten?
Golden child of chosen sun, would you spin magic with your mind
And mark the moon with a sling shot, guiding back starlight from the milky way?

Would you become a man?
The man we read in story books,
The man of principle.
The man we know and don't who works fourteen hours a day, seven days a week,
Silently struggling for his family,
Never complaining once of his burden,
All for you.

What would you choose?

It occurred to me that you could grow into just another man, no?
Silver tongued with slippery hands,
Trying to weasel your way into iron clad panties that aren’t as strong as they should be
Even though your mother taught you to respect your women.
Close yourself off and bury your heart deep into the ground where no one can find it
Because emotional connections are irrelevant to being a man, no?
Maybe she just wants you to hold her and tell her she’s beautiful.

Who would you become?
Just another father who neglects his kids,
Just another husband who raises his fists
Just another authoritarian who manipulates the system and
Fucks Corruption while Justice pretends we're all going to be just fine?

Dear little one, stay little longer. Just stay little longer.
Because growing into that man, is apparently, irreversible.

Tuesday, May 12

Betch Fest

I'm so very sad and feeling utterly alone. I haven't seen/physically spoken to my friends in ages. I just really wish they would enjoy their summer. My dad needs me right now and I can't let him down. I've been letting him down all my life, so I don't care what I have to give up to make sure that I don't fuck up. I've got to hold it all together, especially since he's under so much pressure right now. He's sad, too, I know.

To make matters worse, May will be over in an instant and then it'll be June and I'm getting closer to dying.

Is there any way to make birthdays less painful? No? Fan-bloody-tastic.

I gave up on them when I turned eleven and didn't get my Hogwarts letter.

I'm super late for work. BYE.

Sunday, May 10

I'm Doing Just Fine...

There's so much going on right now, but I don't really have the emotional capacity to deal with it all.

My mother left again, and I just hope she doesn't come back this time. It's not like she was ever there for us anyway.

I have no respect for someone who can abandon their family. You are weak. You are a disease. You do nothing but hurt your husband and your children. We don't need you.

I can take care of everything. I've been doing it just fine for years. I have dad. I don't need you.

I'd write more, but I can barely keep my eyes open. I've got to finish the laundry, anyway.


Tuesday, May 5

Love is irrelevant, but I love you anyway.

I'm updating, yes.

We're going to start renovation at the store in a few weeks. That's kind of exciting so long as I get to plan without actually doing any physical labor.

Sometimes I feel like my parents procreated to have free laborers. And why the fuck not, ey?


Crack Whore has foiled my plans. UGH! I despise her. She's the reason I can't go bowling on Thursday. She scheduled some impromptu trip to Miami and I have to cover her shift.

I'd like to erase you from memory. But it's the good and bad that makes me love you.


Thursday, April 30

I'm Not Just A Song Anymore.

Monday's exams will officially end my first year of college.

Those words taste strange as they pass my lips. I'll be done with my first year of college.

It was never a question of whether or not I'd get here. There was actually no questions about it. It was simply assumed that I'd pursue my higher education and excel.

I excel at what this system needs me to do. None of this has made me a better person. None of this has made me happier. I am here and you are there. We are separated by walls of ideology.
Believe me when I say, liberation is painful. You hurt for your freedom.

bell hooks wrote that students are unwilling to accept progressive pedagogy because it asks them to question and reexamine the very foundations of everything they've ever learned and trusted.

But it is what is necessary.

You and I changing is what is necessary.

Post-secondary education is a business---a heart breaking truth, but a truth all the same. We are the consumers. We ought to control the education we, as the consumers, are purchasing. Rise up, my fellow comrades! Rise!

Take back your learning. Take back control. You are not mindless. You are not menial.

Universities, give us what we want. Give us what we need. Give us what we deserve.

No more of this dismal sham where we are trained to be clogs in a fucking machine. No. We deserve so much more.


I feel really old and severely unaccomplished. I'm pushing nineteen, dammit! I'm going to die soon. Well, at least my spirit is going to die soon, leaving me with this useless sac of flesh that ain't got no soul, ain't got no stank.

I've done less of what I love this year and that bothers me so much. This summer, I'm going to get my ass to those open mic nights and I'm going to beast it with my edgerous poems. I'm going to share my love and hate and in betweens with anyone who'll listen.

I want to meet new people. I want to fall in love them all. I also want to hate them, a lot.

Secretly, I'm stressing out about finals. I don't really think I have to, but I'm a creature of habit. So, I will.


P.S. Stop drinking the pool water.

Tuesday, April 28

This Is For You...

Dr. Park has asked me an interesting question after reviewing my journal entries for this semester.

Why are you so against online education, but so enamored by social networking sites?

I dunno, really.

I'd answer you, but I don't know.

My head hurts.

I need sleep.

Night, loves.


Monday, April 27

Has It Really Been So Long?

I checked my facebook inbox this morning. Guess what I found?

A letter from SLC. Yeah. What betches.

It wasn't anything important. I never had the heart to un-join the SLC 2012 group, so they were sending out announcements of all the wonderful shit they've done this past school year. Freakin' fantastic.

Whatever. I'm trying to be happy where I am. I'm trying to love the times before they get bad again. So I will.

I should be attracted to good Muslim boys---says bestie, Anam. But every time a decent one comes along, I always think of someone else they'd match up nicely with. Apparently, Mohammad was a 'good catch' but instead of fancying the boy myself, Jeremy and I paired him up with Anam---in my own little world, mind you. And now this 'nerdy-hot' guy who teaches Sunday school kids and goes to UCF and who Anam & Amber approve of comes out of nowhere, and I think to pair him up with Rafiya. Sigh.

Maybe it's because once you meet that good Muslim boy, you know that this it it. This is the end of your life. You can just forget about living on your own in a sexy little loft with french doors and white china. You can just forget about doing your own thang.

It's easier to like someone you can't imagine a future with, because---as selfish as this sounds---your future will still be yours. (Yes, I know that we would have no future in bizzaro universe where you actually adored me. Not only would we kill eachother, but I'm pretty sure our families would be very upset, maybe even a little disappointed. That's the best you could do, daughter/son?)

And quite honestly, I don't want to get married any time in the near future. Or all. It's scary and awkward and I don't want to and you can't make me! NO. NO. NO.

But I do want kids. I want to give a home and a future and as much of my heart as to as many kids as I possible can. They deserve nothing less. Children are not bad. They just need patience and love and opportunity.

Maybe I'll start up an orphanage with Lord Byron...

Okay, no. I won't. At least, not with Lord Byron.


School will be over soon. I will have completed my first year of college. What have I done? What has become of me?

I dunno. But today, I like me. I can't really say how I'll feel tomorrow, but right now, I like Athia. She's an alright kinda gal.


P.S. I'll write a poem later today. I'd like to write one in the library.

Saturday, April 25

Tip Better, Assholes!

Be nice to your servers. They're unappreciated intellectuals whose genius isn't mainstream...yet.

Well, for the most part. Others are just coke whores.

Wow. I'm really mean. That was nasty of me. Sorry, coke whores.


P.S. Yeah, I'm a bad person. I'll admit to it.

Friday, April 24

I somehow managed to get marinara sauce all over my face and in my piggy tails. Please don't ask how. Just know that I got yelled at for half an hour for being very very clumsy.

I can't help myself. Gravity is a crazy bitch and he hates me.

I'm sleepy.

No more writing, for now.


Wednesday, April 22

Poem Ten...

I’ll never be your dream girl.
I won’t fit in the palm of your hand,
Or be cute enough to make the guys jealous.
I won’t ever be sweet enough, or sensitive enough, or understanding enough.
Or sexy enough,
But I’m fierce
Because when Maya Angelou wrote ‘I am wo-man’
She was talking about me.

I’ll always be the girl who’s just a little clumsy,
Sort of awkward and very round.
But I’ll also be the girl who makes you smile with my ridiculous antics,
My random messages, asking you to moon walk when you just want to Earth walk.

I’ll be the girl to push you out of your moods
And say the right and wrong things
And encourage you to pursue your dreams
The ones you never had the courage to risk it all for,
Who’ll make you feel like a boy trying to grow into a man.

I’ll be the girl who drags you out yourself to play in the sunshine,
Even though it’s the last thing you seem to want,
It’s the first thing you really need.
I’ll be the girl who needs you just as much as you need me.
Who tells you when you’re a stubborn asshole
And when you need to give more and take less, you selfish dick.

Tuesday, April 21

Poem Nine

I never delete my journal entries
No matter how embarrassing the after taste of tomorrow’s clarity may be.
They’re the unwanted children
That I never have the courage enough to love,
Even though I nursed them to life with the tip of my pen.
You are a shame.

Perhaps I was dramatic, and emotionally needy, and maybe a little bitch crazy
But I just let the words sit there and stew, changed feelings fostering old memories;
My fingers poised next to the delete key,
I have my mother’s detached affection,
Repulsed but loving all the same,
The heat of anger pours from my lips, how stupid you are

But these words are mine.
You are mine.
I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.
This was a me once,
And I take you in my heart and hand for whatever you offer me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.

I never delete my journal entries,
Even though I don’t mean half the shit I’ve written in the past
Because this present is my home.
This present is where you and I sit on white benches on rainy days
And have long talks of nonsensical things
Things that jump into puddles with their yellow rain boots
And offer us mud pies teeming with worms.

Monday, April 13

Poem Eight...

I leave little pieces of myself lying around the place,
Worn through weekday weather
Like my favorite sandals,
Brown leather creased with the places I’ve seen.
Sure, I’m broken and bashed in
By change and time and struggle,
But I’m hopeful all the same,
With clear eyes of optimism.

Sometimes I think that the world is my bedroom floor,
Which I’ll litter with my useless nothings.
Three weeks laundry piled high in a corner,
Obligations and responsibilities tucked into the back
Pockets of my blue jeans
To eventually be forgotten and thrown into the wash.

There’s sticky notes filled with ambition
Collecting dust on the cork board
While discarded plots and story-lines cry helplessly for revision
As I write a new note, crumple it, and add it
To the pile of retired thought.

Other times I speak to the empty space,
The silent voices of a million people
Just to prove that I exist,
Just to add a moments chaos to the timeline of humanity.
Hello, I am here.
I am real.
I am infinite and fragile.

But mostly, these little pieces of myself,
These love letters to no one,
They’re really for the bigger pieces of you,
You who I love without knowing.

Friday, April 10

Pictures Remind Me Of How We Were...

Thank god I've got work all weekend. That ought to distract me from stuff.

Enjoy some pictures.

Someone wrote this in one of the cubicles. I added the 'Happy national poetry month' bit.

This was an interesting view.

She was staring me down. :)

Dad. :(


Thursday, April 9

I have no one. I'm just going to stop pretending like anyone gives a shit about me, because I just end up hurting myself when you prove me wrong.

I'm done with 'creating ties'. I'm done being a good friend. When I need someone to listen, ACTUALLY listen, where the fuck do you all go?

Whatever. I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need any of you.

Things are getting shitty and I'm trying not to kill myself. Things are getting bad and I'm trying to be okay. I'm trying, dammit. I'm trying to hold on a little longer until it gets better. I wanted your help.

But I don't need it. I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need you.

I never complained. I do everything you ask because you're my parents. I love and respect you. I never ask for anything, even if I do want it. I try not to burden you. I've always taken on responsibilities you're too busy to handle, even when I was just a kid.

For three years, I slept on the floor of your bedroom, and I never complained, not once. For three years I didn't have a place to put my clothes or books or study or be alone. I never complained. For three years I had to clean up after four extra people. I never complained. For three years I listened to you gripe and bitch and moan about how they were exploiting your hospitality. I never complained.

Now you want to do this to me again, even though you know how I feel about her. You tell me to leave. You love your sister more than your daughter. You are a bad mother. You are a bad mother. You are not my mother. I've never needed you.

I never complained when you weren't there for me. I never complained that I was raised in front of the television set. I never complained that I'm your fucking slave. I never complained when you forced me to study something I don't like.I never complained when you made me feel guilty for thinking I deserved happiness. I never complained when you shot me down over and over again. I never complained. I just took all your negativity. I just listened to you. I just gave and gave and gave and you kept taking and taking and taking.

There isn't much left of me. But I'll give the rest to you anyway.

Take it. I have nothing anyway.

I use to think that it was okay. You could hate me. I still have my friends, right? Those people you find who become family? Those people you find who make life amazing, who make it worth living, who make it worth loving?

I don't even have them.

I have nothing.

I don't need you. I don't need you. I don't need you.

Wednesday, April 8

No Bananananas In My Smoothie, Please.

Nostalgia, nostalgia, you're such a little bitch.

I've been swearing a lot recently. I'm not bothering to censor myself, and I don't really know why. It's not as though my vocabulary is lacking. I've just adopted crude speech into my ever day vernacular. It makes me feel dangerous and edgy, when in fact, I'm about as cut throat as a basket of paraplegic kittens. Yeah. Let that imagery sink in.

I'm in a pretty bad place right now, but it's going to get better. At least, that's what I keep repeating to myself.

Calm the fuck down. Just calm the fuck down.

So instead of concentrating on my Dadu or my obnoxious family or my ambitionless goals, I've chosen the lesser of my problems to agonize over. Though, this agonizing is leading me to botch the whole situation even more, but whatever. We're resilient. I'm sure that one will fix itself (Yes, denial is a pleasant thing...).

Now about being ambitionless...
I dunno, genuinely. I want to create beautiful things just to share with the people I love. Part of me wants everything to fall into obscurity---there's beauty in stumbling upon magic. Another, less prominent, dormant part wants acclaim and success and instant gratification. I'm torn between starving for my art and living the diva life.

Yet, neither of those are really viable options. I should just study biology. It's a subject that amazes and inspires me. Honestly, whenever I read up on biology, I feel a little bit of my faith coming back to me. I Begin to think that a God must have created these perfect systems.

I dunno.

What are you good at, Athia? I'm good at school and passing tests and regurgitating information. It's how I've survived in this system for so long.

What makes you happy, Athia?
That's harder to answer. Maybe being self-involved makes me happy. Evey time I resurface from my very active imagination, I find myself hating reality even more. I observe the people around me, and what I see is frightening. I want to retreat within myself all over again.

What is most important to you, Athia?
I want to say my family or friends or God or something dripping with generic ease and self-sacrifice. But what's most important to me right now, right at this very moment, is finding Athia and falling in love with her.


I'm apparently 'socially underdeveloped'. I was shouting back at Gabi: "What do you mean I'm underdeveloped...socially?!?!" and this mellow looking guy sitting nearby just looked at me and smiled. Oh... yeah.

I want to try and be less loud and obnoxious. HA. The sad part is that I have been trying. >_<

I'm so sleepy, I can barely keep my eyes open...

Going to chem.



Poem Seven...

It might be too late to write a poem, but know that I actually have one. At least, it's planned out in my head.

Going to try and sleep now.


Tuesday, April 7

Oh, To Drown In a Bowl of Soup...

I've been trying to come up with clever ways to kill myself that aren't utterly ridiculous.

Wow...I didn't realize how suicidal I sounded until just recently. I'm only joking, though. Death is something to joke about, not to mourn, not to let defeat you.

I joke about death a lot, at least in my head. To me, it's not morbid. It's essential when you think about life.

It isn't fear of death that enables me to try at life. It is an understanding that it has to happen and a realization that it's okay. I don't fear dying. If anything, I fear not living and not loving enough. But I suppose I have to qualify, because not living is essential being dead, in regards to the natural order of things. Hopefully, you can understand the difference between living (moving through mechanical motions, operating like wheels in a clog) and living (finding fulfillment, actualization, happiness, etc.). There is a distinct difference between the two.

You may think I follow the epicurean doctrine, but I don't. At my core, I'm not even a hedonist. I don't always seek pleasure, I seek feeling---regardless of whether or not it's good or bad. You have to feel something. Living in neutral lacks substance.

But to each his own, right? How can I judge your happiness? I won't.

Monday, April 6

Really? (poem six)

It's a shit life.

My grandmother is dying. My father is a coward. My best friend hates me.

I am sad. I am angry. I am hurt. I am confused. I am unable to deal with this anymore.

Dear God, if you exist, just take me down in one fell swoop, rather than this prolonged agony, thanks.

I know I am being purposefully melodramatic. I know it seems malicious and callous. But the only way that I can deal with my problems is by writing and I only know how to write satire.

When I die
(which, if there is a divine being perched in the clouds waiting to answer my prayers, may well be very soon)
I'd like you to harvest my internal organs
and give it to those more deserving.
It's right here in writing, so don't you dare do otherwise.
Also, you bitches better not embalm me.
I'll have none of that mummification bullshit.
Take the heart and the brains and whatever else you can use
and bury me in the ground straight away.
I don't want a coffin.
I don't want to be dressed in some frilly outfit.
Let me rest in my froggy pajamas.
Put me under some needy tree,
that'll suck life from my fleshy bits.
Let me be of some use to the Earth.

Sunday, April 5

You're Lovely, But You're Empty/ Poem Five...

"You risk tears when you let yourself be tamed."

All the greatest pearls of wisdom can come from this simply little story. I suggest you read it, if I haven't given it to you already---as though it were gospel. It ought to be. Blasphemy. Oh, well.

Fly your outer orbits around a little planet,
No larger than a house made of bright red brick,
Maybe you can't you imagine such a place,
If you look from the eyes of a grown-up.

See, on this planet is something rare, indeed,
Hard to divine with the eyes, it only exists in your heart beat.
There's a boy and a flower, a very silly flower
So vain and so proud, with fierce claws to fight off the tigers.

He didn't know how to love her, she didn't know what he needed.
But you're responsible for everything you tame,
And you can't escape, even to universes beyond.
That little flower, that vapid little flower,
Was important because she was tamed,
Because she tamed that silly little boy;
She was the only flower in all the world,
To her only Little Prince in all the world.

P.S. Sleeeeeeeeep.

Poem Four...

We want such impossible things, sometimes. It's heartbreaking. Adriana calls it the 'shit fantasy' and I agree.

But we're dreamers, and we keep at it, even though every bit of our suppressed realism or nihilism calls out against it.

I want you to know it's okay, though. It's okay to hold onto that shit fantasy, because it's all we have; it's all we have that can make us better, that can make any of this better, really.

I'm not a very rich girl.
All I can offer you is my heart.
It isn't much and it won't last very long,
But it's yours, so no take backs.
You broke and ran out the store
Before I could tag you with the price,
An eternity of emotional neediness
And instant gratification.

This poem needs time and work and love, it's just an idea right now. I'll come back to it and actually create something out of this---I'll coax a story from the empty words.

Good night, for now.


P.S. The picture was taken at a thrift shop---we were looking for funky jewelry. I totally had glasses like these growing up. Yes, I was (and still am) a loser.