Content Warning

UPDATE; We're fine :)


Ahoy Hearties,

I've privatized this blog for the moment because I just received a warning email from blogger saying that they are going to delete all blogs that contain 'adult content'. I am currently in talks with them about what counts as 'adult', seeing as we do not showcase any pornographic or violent for the sake of violence material. To be blunt, though, it's seeming like they're going to delete any and all blogs with any sort of 'adult' content, including swearing. I've privatized this blog so only we can read it at the moment, and removed the adult content warning. Hopefully they'll get back to me and we can open it back up again. But this is just to say: Please save any and all important writings that you have on here in case we do indeed get deleted.


<3 tabia="">

On the Flipside

Dear Soul-mate,

I have not met you yet.

I do not know how many years this letter has travelled to reach your hands. I do not know how old I am, right now, as you read this, but I do know you are worth the wait.

I do not know how we met. If a mutual friend introduced us or if we just so happened to get off at the same terminus, or borrowed the same book by accident thanks to a computer error we would later chalk up to fate. But I do know I am thankful for it.

I do not know where we had our first kiss. I do not know if I asked for your permission. I do not know if you are taller than me. I do not know the smoothness of your lips, the brush of your tongue. I do not know if you held me first, if I smoothed out your jawline with my fingers, if you moaned at all. I do not know your kiss. But I do know you are my favourite treat.

I do not know your hands. I do not know how quickly they slip into mine, if they are burnt from childhood accidents, if they are always cold even in the summer, if they rest on my knee during loud and rowdy dinner parties. I do not know how it feels to have them exploring my body, or reaching for me at night, or holding onto me in moments of weakness. But I do know that when I think you are asleep, I kiss your knuckles. I must.

I do not know how we were married; if I went down on a knee, if you asked me with tears in your eyes. I do not know if it was a ‘Yes!’ or a smile and the answer wordlessly understood. I do not know our wedding budget, if it was in a church or city hall, the length of our wedding cake. I do not know Our Song. I do not know who witnessed our cheesy celebration. I do not know if it was cheesy at all. But I do know I must have sobbed like a baby.

babies

I do not know if we have children. I do not know if we have been blessed with a sustainable housing income, if we have moved to a suburb. I do not know if we have a son, or a daughter, or both, or neither. I do not know if they are in good health, if I have taught them how to bike-ride, or read, or write their name for the first time. But I do know I would go to the ends of the Earth for our family.

I do not know your essence. I do not know your scent on lukewarm bedsheets. I do not know your heart rate in the early morning, I do not know the shade your skin flushes under my touch. But I do know you fit perfectly in my hands, every time.

My dear soul-mate; alas I do not think I have met you yet.
But I want to.
And I cannot wait to fall in love with you.

Premature

I want to
speed up the post.
I want to send my letter, send my words, send my voice across oceans and reach the ears of the powerful and mighty. I want to strike hopes in the hopeless and send my ideas across timelines and change Ancient Greece. I want to transcend a notion of love into lyrics and have a song that lasts until the very last human heart beats on this earth.

I want to
speed up time.
I want to stop playing games and get straight to the good stuff. I want to stop sending mixed signals and rearranging double entendres so they stand right side up in the microwave. I want to skip moments of hesitation, mixing feelings of trepidation, get straight to the part where everything goes according to plan and everything has worked out.

I want to
taste happiness.
Every possible emotion relatable to it. I want to taste guilty pleasure, and blend it in a smoothie with ecstasy and contentment. I want euphoria in berry shapes and pride in grapes. I want the liquid of delight poured onto a bowl of satisfaction and gratification, topped with an orgasm in cherry form.

I want to
swallow you whole.
I want to know you inside and out. Open you up and jump right in. No looking back. I want to fall in love with you and realizes it's too late when it's too late.

Hesitant

Snagged from Facebook if you haven't read it.
It was originally written for HR anyway <3>

I managed.

I managed to find some time, between the bulk of the essays, between the shots of caffeine or vodka. Somewhere above the warm laptop and below the incessant flicker of the lights two shades too bright, I have managed to salvage some time and set it aside.
Sometime between the rising sun and the settling dust, I managed to find a sliver of time, a selection of precious minutes to place in an hourglass. Amidst the hustle and bustle and silver lemon summer sun, the disorganization of grass-stained shoes, the permanent haze of smog above sea level, I managed to find the time to fall in love with the idea of love and discover myself.

Hey Everybody:

When I was sixteen,
I was relatively convinced I was going to rule the world someday.

I would rule all the sea otters and there would be free, healthy food distributed daily on a global scale, and no more starvation, and no more malnutrition.

No one would be kidnapped in the streets, pulled from their beds in the dead of the night. No one would be manhandled, or treated unjustly, or silenced with a palm or a pistol.

No one would be objectified, or disfigured, or strapped down, or ridiculed. No one would be judged, and everyone would have at least one best friend and loving parent.

and everyone would stop being so terrified of being themselves.

And friendly fire wouldn't be friendly at all, and be doused out immediately, with a hose of justice and a condescending pat on the head. Everyone, really, would receive a condescending pat on the head.

World leaders would all respond to me, and when I was too busy, they would be given a fortune cookie and whilst the crumbs would collect on their business suits, the slip of paper would read (and always would, every time) 'Love more: Hate less, stupid.'

And the UN would rid itself of the Security Council.

And education would be free and universal like health care, and efficient, and everyone would notice that student who sits alone during recess and offer them the soccer ball.

No one would gain anything but grief and regret from another's suffering, and the greedy few who continued on would lead miserably short lives by the bottle.

And people would know the difference between Respect and Respectable.

Music would be played in the streets, all over. Some Beatles, some Spektor, some Fall Out Boy, just to make sure everyone's awake.

The internet would stop stealing our attention spans and people would read more books, and learn more, and enjoy learning, and teaching, and laughing, and getting to know new people.

And everybody would stop disrespecting one another, and listen instead of hearing, and speak instead of talk, and give second chances. And third. And fourth.

Every child would be brought up with a swimming pool and a swingset, so when they're older, they remember how to get themselves out of trouble, and never forget what it's like to fly.

And everyone would fall in love at least once, but not know when, so the paranoia and uncertainty would drive some insane, cause them to turn to religion, and the internet, and pornography. Arguably the same thing. The last two. Not all three.

And everyone would know what heartbreak feels like. And never forget it.

And everyone would stop holding grudges. Singular feuds and entire countries' histories. Everything would be forgiven. and we would all start anew, everyday. Because everyday would be a blessing, and people would realize it.



When I was sixteen,
I was relatively convinced that I had the world figured out.
I managed to find the time to fall in love with the idea of love
and discover myself.

Shudder

I AM UNABLE TO
DISTINGUISH right and wrong
now.
And though I can see your flag, waving in the distance,
calling me home,
there is something that keeps me pegged
here
and
I am undone.

I am no longer able to tell my body what it wants
and I fear it is because it has already made up its mind.
This war, that rages between the logical and heartfelt, can only last so long
but it's difficult - difficult to tell - when wrong feels right
and right is everything you imagined it to be.

I am beginning to lose control
of everything that was - clearly once - sturdy
and permissible.

I am unable to distinguish friends from foes
and abhorrence from misplaced hunger.
It blends together between my sheets, covers me warm in the night
and I fear that when I wake
I will be nothing more than an oxymoron.

[boom]

All writers feel love and loss
ten times harder
than normal people.
Especially love.
Especially loss.

Arise

Clearly MDF has eaten my soul.
Please come to the show(s) to see what the fuss is all about.
This is reposted from my blog. I quite like it and would like to see what you all have to say.

It is entirely made up of 'I remember's and 'I know you do's.
The worst things are brought up, though we do (bravo) attempt to step around them. Uneasy topics, familiar talking points: Swings, cake, golf. Random words and phrases that manage to slip between the cracks of everything said. Eye contact lasting for split-seconds, (like a flash of light) a flash of acknowledgement.
We acknowledge we are broken.
Quiet recantations of a past long forgotten. We feel the pieces, (in our eyes, against our tear ducts, but mostly pushing hard against our chests) the pieces of a scattered story slowly sliding back and forth into place.
I am not who you think I am; and though the similarities of the mold you’ve preserved within you are striking, I am not. You are far from the one I had wanted, distant even moreso from the person you wanted to be all those years ago.
You are scared, I am hesitant, and we are broken.
It is a reunion made up entirely of ‘I remember’s and ‘I know you do’s and for a moment and a moment only we realize simultaneously that memories and memories only are what we’ve managed to keep. Not our feelings, not our love, not our trust. Most especially not our trust. Not in ourselves, not in one another. In fact we trust only these untouchable memories we have worked and fought so hard to store in a place so deep and secret that even we ourselves have forgotten how to rid the other out of our hearts.
And there was a moment in time when I had cherished this fact, relished in the truth that you were who I wanted, I was who you thought I was and we were not broken. I tell you this. Tell you, 'I remember'
You reply, 'I know you do.'

and Down the Mountainside

Mr. Sheray, the man closest to the entrance, is a testy little bugger. Can't sit still for one second. I remember once I had to hold the ladder with two hands, really force myself on it whilst he was up, painting his windowsills. "You'll get yourself killed one day," I laughed at the time, bowing my head in amusement. He's shifty. He moves a lot He's always been like that. So it's unfair to call him out on that, I say. It's not right to chalk that up to nerves, I protect him. It wasn't his fault.

"I 'eard him, I did," he's saying, his hands and legs shaking uncontrollably, his eyes twitching. He's sweating bullets. They're coming from behind his short bangs, along his sideburns, just pouring down his face, soaking his shirt. "I 'eard him swaggerin' up them stairs from the lobby the way he does." He pauses, and blinks some more sweatdrops out of his eyes. "Did," he corrects himself, "I seen 'im move on up them stairs like he always did, from gettin' his mail, to walkin' that dog of his. I 'eard him movin' on up them stairs tonight, pantin' like a fish, groanin' like a dog. Sounded like he was in pain."

"And yet you did not open your door," the inspector says gravely.

"I was mindin' my own business," Mr. Sheray says. And that's that.

Mrs. Poslner, the woman in 130, is questioned next, because really, she was next to be bothered by him. But she's also strangely calm, still knitting away at that scarf she's making for her granddaughter. She knows the inspector is questioning her, without even lifting her head.

"Oh yes," she says, rocking in her chair, her nimble fingers picking up, "He came to my door tonight, yes, he did. Splayed out his bloody hands all over, pressed my doorbell twice. Called for help, asked me to call for an ambulance. I heard him, I heard him loud and clear."

"And yet-"

"Minding my own business," she replies, still rocking, "'sides, what's an old lady like me supposed to do if he were a vandal? Can't have me opening the door at all hours of the night."

"He wasn't asking for you to open the door, he was asking for help," the inspector replies quickly, and I can sense he's growing aggravated. Still, Mrs. Polsner keeps on knitting, shaking her head, and so he sighs. He turns to me this time, nods his head. "And you?"

"I saw him," I say, "I got out of my room, walked out into the hallway."

"Why?"

"He was yelling in pain. Sounded like he was having a heart attack. He was collapsed on the floor, writhing against the marble, blood fizzing out of his mouth, his eyes just..going all wonky. I brought him into my lap, held his head."

The inspector writes it all down. "Did you try to help him?"

"No."

He lowers his notepad slowly. "Why not?" he grits out.

I shrug.

He throws his notepad at me with an impressive amount of force. I manage to move my head out of the way, just in time. It smashes against the wall behind me, the papers flying out, diligent note-taking now disorganized. I wait until the flurry of papers calm. He is fuming in anger in front of me, a look of disdain and frustration clearly etched on the crease of his brow.

"Are you going to arrest me, Inspector?"

We Fall Together Seperately

They have less and less to say to one another. They bring out the apparent ‘It’s raining’ or remark on destruction ‘Isn’t it terrible what’s happened to Haiti’ or exchange civilities ‘Please pass the sugar’. But nothing important. No, never important, impertinent, long-lasting or relevant. They are slipping. Slipping off the same iceberg from different ends, both unwilling to rush to the center if it would mean they collide. and collapse in a heap of shared frustration.

One morning he boils her some tea, brings her the newspaper in bed, fixes some toast, spreads some strawberry jam on one side, butter on the other. When he taps her lightly, she wakes abruptly, flails her arms, knocks over the tray. He is burnt from the tea, his new shirt ruined and stained pink by the jam. She apologizes profusely and watches helplessly as he insists he’s alright, rubbing his eyes with cold water. He is crying. He asks her to leave. She slips out of the room, thinking about how she doesn’t remember how to take care of him.

One morning she sets up his clothes for him, very neatly on his chair in chronological order. Navy tie, blue-grey vest, white collared shirt, white undershirt, dress pants. Under the chair: black socks, dress shoes. When he wakes he takes his shower, exactly six minutes and forty seconds, and dresses himself in front of his dresser. She watches him from bed, pretending to be asleep, and doesn’t have the heart to tell him to turn around, notice the now clothed but usually empty chair.

She notices his briefcase is broken. The right hand corner cracked wide open, his pens are falling out all over the house. She purchases a new, jet-black streamline new one. It has four more pockets, foldeable flaps, leather straps and cell phone pouch. When he tries it out he tells her he loves it and she doesn't recognize the word. Four days later he realizes he cannot fit his laptop in it. He returns to his old briefcase. Even though it's broken, he says, it's better than nothing. She tries to return the new one. Fails.

He's been collecting pictures. Bought a disposeable camera and spent an entire Saturday going around the town, taking pictures of pigeons being scared by children, elderly playing chess, rainbows in water fountains, streelights, cars turning left, bicycle tires. He prints them out on the same day and returns that night, scrapbooks it. He gives it to her for her birthday three days later. She hasn't the heart to tell him her birthday was Saturday, and she'd spent it thinking he'd forgotten.

They take a stroll through the park, pointing at kites, children, water fountains. She sees a flag flying at half mast and starts sobbing for some reason. They sit, on a ridiculously large bench, and he drapes his arm over her shoulder out of habit. She rests her head on his shoulder and talks about how fragile life is, how inconsistent, how out-of-the-blue things can twist and turn out of shape. How things don’t have shapes. He doesn't know what to say. She wishes he would.

They have dinner at their favourite restaurant, where he proposed. He orders her the spaghetti, she wants the salad. He is embarrassed.

“You love Italian,” he protests, when the waiter leaves.

“I used to,” she replies.

The pianist is playing Mancini. “Do you still love Mancini?” he asks.

“I used to,” she replies. They listen for a while, to the chatter of the other patrons, to each pause and strike of the piano keys, to the frenzied strides of the waiters. She is taken in by the piano player. Such finesse, such patience and serenity etched on his face, his concentration is beautiful and heartbreaking.

He watches her as she watches him. Drinks some champagne and sets the glass down loudly.

She looks back at him. “French,” she says, rearranging her seating position. She flips some hair out of her eyes. “French,” she repeats, then gazes at the chandelier above their heads, “And Berlioz.”

One morning he brings her some fresh croissants, orange juice, and sets it down on her night-table before waking her. “It’s not enough,” she says sadly when she finishes it.

“No, it isn't," he finally agrees. Holds her hand.

Because I Felt Like It

Title is both the title of the piece and the excuse as to why I'm posting not on my day. Also, Charles said he might not be able. Also, I missed my week two weeks ago.


She loves Valentine's Day. She can't explain it, but something in the air just smells sweeter, something in everyone's eyes just sparkles brighter, and there's a distinctive pink shade just under the blue when the sun sets.

He hates Valentine's Day.

So when he shows up on her doorstep with a single-stemmed rose in hand, he's in a foul mood, and not even trying to hide his frown. She opens it with a bounce in her step, after having just read the uplifting story of the couple celebrating their 80 year anniversary in the newspaper. She spots the rose, lets her gaze wander onto each petal, then raises her head to look at him. Really look at him. "Good morning to you, too," she says quietely.

He shuffles.

"That's a really nice rose," she says in the same quiet voice, unwilling to ask if it's for her. It wouldn't be the first time she was approached with a romantic notion that was in fact a practice run for someone else, equally special, but in a different way. She plays with her fingers nervously, not itching to reach forward and grasp the rose, but just unaware of simply where to put them. She pats her hips. "Do you want to come in?" she motions behind her.

He is very, very still, still staring at her, blankly. He shakes his head.

She nods. "Um," she licks her lips, her gaze still lingering on the rose. She tears away and looks down the street. What a beautiful morning. "It's early," she remarks, seeing her neighbors getting out to walk their dogs, waving at their friends, a bounce in their steps as well. She looks back at him. "What are you doing here?"

He shifts slightly in his step, and raises his arm to offer her the rose.

She takes a deep breath, for fear something will knock the wind out of her. Raises her own hand gingerly and clasps her fingers around the stem, ignoring the prick on her forefinger. "For me?" she asks the obvious.

He lets go, knowing it is safe in her hands. Turns around and shuffles down the steps, mumbling about the stupidity of Valentine's Day, its Hallmark value, the ridiculous expectations it places on people.

She smiles. Smells the rose. Good morning to you, too.

Area Clear

Wanted:

One Heart.
Significantly less damaged than current.
Apply within

Silent Sigh

Very very very late attempt at Davina's style.
Apologies all around.



Basking in the orange glow,
she walks, no, glides, across
the asphalt floor
no longer tingling,
no longer anything at all.

Young one, your eyes have glazed over.
Young one, you see straight through me.

Denied the cool taste of summer,
she walks, no, glides in the frost.
Timid and hesitant,
she takes what is not hers in order to survive.
No longer moral,
no longer anything at all.

Young one, the world is ending.
Let us fall together.

Understood, For a Change

"Can we start again?" she asks, "Go back to the beginning. Before all this shit. Before we realized we hated each other. Start again. Start with 'hello'."



No.
No, we can't.

I Can't Charge For A Kiss

We rest our new love on an old bed, bodies pressed close, hands on hearts, toes tickling. We are hopelessly cheesy, but no one ever said cheesy wasn't heartfelt.
"What is this?" you ask me softly, tracing my collarbone with one, two, three, two fingers. "This thing between us?"
"Love?" I ask, and the word seems to change everything, freshen the calm in the room, tint it yellow for some reason. Yellow. Yellow like the walls in your kitchen when you brew hot coffee, waiting ever so impatiently against the counter. Or red, crimson being the first shade the darkness behind my closed eyes turned when we first kissed, as though your lips were somehow slowly both killing and rebuilding me. Yes, perhaps what we have, how I feel, is red.
But there is also blue. Blue like the sky outside the circle window in your room, so bright and young, full of hope and sometimes, insane and inane as it sounds, so very blue it makes me turn away. There is purple, dark purple, the colour of your sheets, and they way they slid off, curled around and framed you the night we first made love and you were gift wrapped and perfect and put together in all the best ways.
Perhaps what we have, how I feel, is al these colours.
Swirls of melted ice cream, an exploded kaleidoscope, the finale of the fireworks brigade. Yes, you have exploded my life against the night sky and I see every colour in creation in this indigo space between us.

Day Fail (Post fail, as well, but not if you don't read my blog)

What the title means to say is:
This is not posted on the right day, nor is it 'original' original.
But you wouldn't know the latter if you don't follow my blog.
In any case, it's edited.


Oh please. I'm very busy, don't waste my time.
Who're you trying to fool here anyway?
You say we learn from from your mistakes, as though an untoucheable calm rushes over us after the storm and gusts the clouds away. You say we better ourselves by learning from love.
Pish. Pish, I say. And ridiculous.
Love is ridiculous. It's overrated and underrated and all in all, far too present in our lives, in our words and thoughts and dreams. All of it is rated when in fact it shouldn't be at all. Happiness and all those warm feelings that come along with love. All they manage to do is mess with your head and all you can feel is warmth. And all you can think about are butterflies and how great the sun feels on your cheeks, how discreetly that water trickles past, how soft the breeze has always blown but only been appreciated until now.
Love makes you nothing but weak. and dependant. and blind.
You can't write when you're in love. You think you can because you think you can do anything. That's your first mistake. And when you're a writer, it is the only one that counts: You can't do anything. You're high, my friend. High on this happiness, high on the attention and giddiness.

But you can't skip on clouds any more than I can.

And you definitely cannot write better than I can. You think you can but you can't. In fact, you're a horrible, horrible writer. Your now cliche words, once poetic and meaningful, bursting with wit and dripping with charm, fall just as flat as you've convinced yourself you'll never be again. And your writing is, just like that, horrible. And disappointing. And unoriginal. And bland. And you're weak. You're just weak.

There's a reason the tragedies are Shakespeare's bests.
We don't actually want Ophelia to live.
Not really.
Everytime we read it, watch it, perform it,
we all, collectively, kill her.

New Year

(To be sung to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer)


Ring in the brand new New Year,
have a champagne glass or two.
Make a few resolutions,
make it a point to start anew.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
have another glass of wine.
Party it up with old friends,
they will help you pass the time.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
split some jello shots with friends.
This new year's gonna be awesome,
let's hang out again weekends.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
chug a beer as fast as you can.
That dude did it in ten, flat.
done before I even began.

Ring in the brand new New Year,
kay, that's enough, stop drinking.
Seriously I think you're good now,
no, stop the song. Let's get some air.

To Sweep You Off of Your Feet

She registers a twig snapping, maybe from the way she’s stomping around, maybe from the branches she slowly edges away from her face. But it’s the possibility that maybe the sound is distant, a source aside from her own rather, that makes her pause, then speed her actions. She treads through the forest at a faster rate, hears something tear, this time she knows it’s her dress.

Another twig snaps. Louder this time. Closer. She realizes it’s someone, it must be. She’s grown up in these woods, knows every creature, flying and grounded, knows their hesitant and soft steps. Strangers to the forest, however, are a different story.

People, she finds, are different stories. Not at all like the way they are in fairy tales, not at all like the princes of legend, soldiers of history, heroes and heroines with courageous hearts of gold. No, she thinks, people are far from golden.

Another distinct movement. She breaks into a run. There’s something about running that she’s always liked. Chasing my freedom, she thinks dramatically.

‘Slow down!’ she hears the voice behind her, stops immediately and turns around, struggling to catch her breath. Breathing, she believes, or being that much out of shape, is a sign of weakness, and so she breathes through her nose to silence her pants. She sees a figure behind her, also breathing heavily, dimly lit by the light of the moon. Lean yet strong.

‘Identify yourself,’ she says, straightening her back, surprised by the strength in her voice.

The figure only laughs, a dry and amused one. ‘You identify yourself,’ is the response, ‘You do not own the forest, princess.’

Her eyes widen slightly so she forces them down into a frown. ‘It is more mine than yours,’ she replies.

A pause. The figure moves slowly towards her, familiar sounds of twigs snapping echoing in the forest, and she is certain this is her follower. A peasant, perhaps. A guard? The figure stops abruptly as some leaves on the tree above them move just enough to allow a moon beam to shine on her face.

‘You...actually are The Princess,’ the figure says in disbelief.

She rearranges her hair and avoids any eye contact.

‘So far from the castle?’ the voice is softer now.

‘You are to tell no one,’ she says firmly. Hesitates slightly. She straightens her dress with her hands, suddenly unaware of just where to put her hands. ‘Now,’ she continues, bringing a lock of hair behind her ear with a shaking hand, ‘Return to your simple pleasantries.’

‘I must follow you.’

‘No,’ she says quickly, and it comes out much louder than she intended it to. ‘No, you musn’t,’ she says, ‘This is not your quest and I am not your child to care for.’

They stand there in silence, and she briefly considers using a verbal threat, or her father’s cavalry. Perhaps even a bribe. She begins counting the pieces of gold she has in her inside pockets. Thinks maybe a dress wasn’t the best costume to escape in.

‘You are fairer than your print suggests,’ the figure says, tossing her a gold coin. The very coin her face is printed on, etched with vanity and political self-interest.

She catches it with one hand. Throws it to the ground. ‘I needn’t your money.’

‘What riches can I provide you with, then?’

‘Nothing but your silence,’ she says. Turns and leaves, growing weary of the conversation, she hitches her dress and continues on into the forest. Sighs when she hears the twigs snapping again behind her. ‘Return to your home,’ she says with aggravation running thick this time.

‘Perhaps you are not the only one who feels alone in this town, Princess.’

Later, when they reach the edge of the forest, and purchase a boat to paddle across the lake in, she will insist, with a smile, on being called by her first name.

Frostproof, Waterproof, Fire Resistant

But



you're supposed to be with me..

OH YES PLEASE MORE MORE

6: Not if it kills me first.

8: It's better if you mix it with vodka.

14: Don’t know. Maybe it was the way the sky was falling: So slowly, like a deflating balloon. You, the child, pulling it down faster.

25: I realize I have never heard actually heard Yes, only No, and assumed in a drunken stupor that Stop and No meant Yes and Faster.

30: I know I’m red. Turning my head away, I mumble unintelligible things; wishing and praying and hoping. And hating, most of all, hating that I get weird around pretty people.

40: She realizes her life isn’t what she wanted. This house not the one she loved. These children not the ones she loved. This job not one she loved. This husband, actually, not quite the one she wanted to dance with.

50: ...that when she finally does get around to batting, she is only a rookie, pulled out of the batting cages two weeks too early to be playing with the big boys that until that moment, she had only watched from afar, staring with starry eyes as they hurled heartbreak forward.

60: If you ever fortuitously exhale the tiniest gust of carbon dioxide in the general direction of my body, I will make you eat your thumbs. Rip them off and shove them down your throat. One by one. So that you can hear your bones cracking. Can tell me, in a five hundred word essay, exactly what your blood tastes like.

Yes yes. But...WHY?

You said You’re giving up Oxford. And I thought, ‘What a waste.’

What a waste of a love for education.
What a waste of a love for academia.
What a waste of a love for philosophy.
What a waste of a love for historical fiction.
What an isolation of such a passion for teaching into one
specific.
field.

And then I took a step back
(something you managed to teach me)
and thought
If you’re going to teach people how to have faith
and how to place trust in others
and how to believe in something bigger
and how to be that much less alone
and how to love
Well that isn’t a waste at all.
And good. Good for you.
You’re good.

So if and when people come up to me
and ask me what kind of fanatical hedonistic preacher you are
I will say The Good Kind.