My experiences seem to repeat the same narrative; It can be reduced to a simple line, hope and disappointment. Sometimes it is clear, feelings and people – lines between realizing attraction and finding out that things wouldn’t work. Most of the time it’s murky, my parents promising something and never fully delivering on them.

I have dealt with disappointment for ages, at twelve my dad promised to build me a treehouse. They also promised to set aside money for college for me, and match however much money I made for a car. Well now I’m 18, have moved out, am self-sufficient, and haven’t received a penny from my dad. I can’t afford a car, don’t have my license, am a total loser in that regard. But hey, I have food in my fridge. I have a bed. I have tooth paste and blankets. I can afford to run a heater. Also, never got that treehouse.

It’s the same thing with romantic interests; I find someone I’m interested in, and then find out they’re not who I thought they were, they are in a relationship, don’t feel the same way, a number of different reasons. But it feels the same way. It’s painful, disappointing, and whether or not it really is, rejecting.

Sometimes I disappoint myself. Not as emotionally mature as I would like to be, didn’t take care of myself as well as I should have, wasn’t as competent as some of my other peers. Not being accepted to UCLA was a big one for me – why didn’t I do better? Why wasn’t I accepted, what set me apart negatively?

But being disappointed as many times as I have makes me resilient, it is less effective on me. So you don’t fulfill your promises? That’s okay, I just don’t deal with you. Simple as that. It doesn’t hurt me, I know that those who are flaky simply are lacking their own integrity. I can only build my own up.

What even is integrity? I mean there is the definition:

Integrity, the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness. The state of being whole and undivided. The condition of being unified, unimpaired, or sound in construction. An internal consistency or lack of corruption in electronic data.

But when it is a quality in a person, it’s not as two dimensional as morality – its the character people carry with them despite their moral standings. Integrity is action, the things that one does when no one else will know the difference. It is listening to your conscious, being someone you are not proud of, but someone who you can trust.

I guess that is it, integrity is being able to trust yourself. I want to be able to trust myself, in fact it is my new short-term goal. I have learned to be honest with myself, and knew it wouldn’t be everything, but it was such a small achievement once I realized I couldn’t trust myself even when I was honest.

Honesty is only a part of integrity, and I’m on a long road to having it.


Eighteen Hour Day


Slumped against the cold tiles of the public bathroom, feet grieving from the walking and standing demanded of them. Eight hours she had been on her feet, from 6:30am to 11:00 at night, she had no other break. Shuffling out of bed in the morning, and collapsing into it at night. She would drearily get up in the morning just to pass out with the same mentality.

The smile she had forced all day melted as the door closed. She locked it, ensuring she would finally be alone for two minutes. No voices calling for her over the radio or people asking where their theaters were. No one telling her to write three essays in two hours, or giving her laborious math tasks that no one else understood. She was alone, and it was cherished, not even when she lay down at night could she have this luxury anymore. Constant ringing and buzzing of her phone, the hungry stomach making her go out to get food, the bills racking up.

She released a healing sigh, taking comfort in the silence that was the background music as she sat on the floor of the public bathroom. So cold. It rejuvenated the tired soul within her. Closed her eyes for the first time in eight hours. The temptation to fall asleep teased her, however her break was almost over.

Rather than walking out the front door, knocking over tubs of popcorn, and screaming fuck you at the top of her lungs, she washed her hands and turned the radio back on. Deep breath. Dull eyes staring back at her from the mirror, void of recognition. Straight lips that said more than ones which smiled, she turned to clock back on so there would be rent at the end of the month.

The weight of her eyelids grew, tapping the old computer screen to take orders. I can help whoever’s next. Many personalities came and went, some pleasant, others mediocre, but most were insufferably selfish. What can I get for you? Unaware, uncaring, seeking only what would please their hungry, draining personalities. What size? Had they been asked, every one of them would have said they were kind and aware – those who claimed we had no customer service skills should have reconsidered what kind of customer they were. Would you like butter on that? However if you have never worked behind a counter for long periods of time, or if you have never had someone tell you that you need to smile more so you get their tip, or heard a variation of “is her break more important than my service” or “Excuse you, the customer is always right” directed at you, then you cannot understand the anger and the frustration that comes with serving you. Alrighty, are you a rewards member? because it just takes a little bit of experience to comprehend what makes someone rude, and that is not when someone takes a sip of water after helping people during an hour long rush – and it’s not when they don’t hear you the first time. Enjoy your show.

Before you tell me that I have to smile to get a tip out of you, think about how I may not want money from a selfish asshole, because even though I’m broke, money doesn’t have that much power over me. I won’t sacrifice my integrity or honesty to get it, which I would be if I smiled just to get a dollar.

Before you tell me I need to serve you, think about why I might have the job that I do – it isn’t because I have this burning passion to clean up children’s vomit in theaters and carry five dirty wine glasses in one hand. I don’t want to rip your tickets, tell you where you self-explanatory seating is, or get unwanted life lessons from strangers who think they’re wise. I am more than an instrument in the popcorn factory.



Grimy hymnals rested in the backs of the pews, carpets had a fine and even layer of dust muting the already smokey blue shade.

Eyes of the school children blinded by the sermon, thoughts of impure things infiltrated their minds; Science, questions, and sexuality.

Pamphlets left scrawled upon, songs once mouthed now forgotten. Apathy for the church, a growing desire to learn what they had not yet been taught.

Chilled sky blue duvet dappled with pink roses. Matured cream furniture that had been brushed by time. Upright grand, hazelnut finish – the aroma of baking apple pie persuaded stomachs. Vigorous fire was alive in the furnace, welcomed and tendering; a family had made this place their own. A sweet Dachshund had cozily slept beside the glowing warmth.




So apparently they determined that I wasn’t in the top nine percent.

Wasn’t an outright rejection, but my chances are slim.

Part of me just wants to take my GED, get out of high school, and pursue travelling instead of college. Get a minimum wage job in a place I want to live, and stop giving fucks about my education.

I have cared my entire educational career, I have passionately dove into academia, all with the intent to go to a nice university. But I am not good enough for them.

Honestly, I am not good enough for anyone. So why care about them? Why give them the time of day and not invest my energy into making my life happier and those around me happier?

Simple things make me content – my plants, a cup of coffee in the morning, cats. I don’t need to get a degree from an expensive, fancy university to make me happy.

Sure, I would love to surround myself with intelligent people and new concepts, I would love to have the opportunity to further my own mind – but it won’t make or break my happiness.

Fuck it, I’m not going to take AP tests. I’m not going to stress myself over acceptance letters – as much as it might hurt to not be accepted.

Perhaps I didn’t put the effort in that I should have. Maybe I’m not as intelligent as my peers.

I need to recognize that this is not as definitive as I may have thought before.

Short Story


She sat under the tree; They had shared their first kiss here. Milky, porcelain magnolia blossoms in full bloom. Crisp ebony park bench positioned just barely under the soothing shade of the tree.

It was the same place she would bring her dog during the summer before they had met, read with her there in order to get out of the cynically apathetic house where she lived.

It was an exuberant park bench, under an exuberant tree, in a lackadaisical city.

She sat here alone this time, and had come here plenty of times before alone, however this time was something special because she finally felt content.

With her book, dark chocolate, and cup of black coffee – she needed nothing more in this moment.

Tangibly Insane


I have a few issues right now, feeling inadequate (which has been a recent motif in my life), like I am not quite right, and like everyone else can seem to see it. It mingles with feeling like I try too hard and who I am is wrong. Like I have something in common with the people who walk around looking like furries or that one kid who is just not right in the head, the divergent, awkward, and plain weird.

The kind of weird that makes you wonder what happened to them as a kid.

Maybe it’s because I know something happened to me as a kid and I can’t take it back or change it or even make it something I’m proud of. I have been hurt, and I don’t want anybody to see it. I have been scarred and raped and verbally abused to the point that I cannot have normal relationships. I have put myself out there to any and everybody that I have liked and I have been rejected all but a few times.

This last  week some guy told me I was a waste of time, another guy, who I actually like, stood me up for the third time. And the one guy who actually gives a fuck about me I gave up. And I’m not saying I regret that, which is so weird, because I’m lonely and I’m sad and I don’t want to be either of those things. I want someone to kiss me on the forehead and tell me they love. and I want someone to take me to dinner and tell me they think I look beautiful. I want some to see me reading and hug me and tell me how intelligent I am. I want to live with someone, share moments with someone, and yet I can’t even harbor normal relationships because of all my goddamn issues.

It’s exhausting having all this go through my head during the day. So many mornings when my alarm goes off I just think about staying in bed for the rest of my life. Not eating, Not drinking, not going out or seeing anybody, just laying like that in the same position I woke up in, and giving up.

Depression feels like futility. True futility. And nobody else seems to see it or care that it is there.

Love is futile, life is futile. School, work, and family are all futile. One of the only things that’s not is finding happiness in the world around you. Finding happiness in the bizarre and the natural and the things that are tangibly insane. Growing plants, the universe, watching a fish swim, the joy of a good nights sleep.

People are never going to see you the way you see yourself, life is never going to be as rewarding as they made it out to be, school will just get worse, work… is well, work. and family will let you down the hardest because you won’t expect your family to.

Stood up, Again.


“Goddamnit. and just watch Leo is going to stand me up tonight. I really shouldn’t expect him to come. he’s done this to me twice? three times already? why the hell would he actually ride his bike across town to see me? he’s not going to.” -My Journal approximately five hours ago

I guess I expected him to show up in the same way that I expected my father to show up for me. It was the same anticipation that I felt when I look into the crowd after I was done playing in a recital and the same crushing feeling when their face isn’t in the audience.

I wanted him to be here, I wanted my father to show up for me, and yet I’ve learned that people will never show up – at least not when you actually want them to.

Sincerity, Toxicity


It was a Monday night, the smell of popcorn, beer, and overpriced candy lingered in the air like a stale air freshener. The blue carpet, speckled with yellow dots and stars and odd colored crescents numbed the eyes after staring at it too long – perhaps that was the intent of the designer, that people would only stare long enough to see the stars and look away before they saw the crumbs of popcorn long forgotten. The crumbs were invisible among the busy floor.

In the distance the sound of the popper made an incessant beeping noise that stabbed and jabbed at the core of ones psyche. Fresh, unnaturally orange popcorn could be heard pouring, “i can help whoever’s next” yelled to get the attention of the brain dead guests who poured through those double doors to sit in front of screens in order to forget how sheep-like they had become. Like the popcorn, they came in numbers. Numbers so great that their value decreased with each kernel. Each morsel. Each atom.


Two ushers stood in the cleaners room, they tidied it and tried to ignore that they were alone together in a room. It was hard to ignore how loud it was. That thought. Alone together. So they cleaned, tidied, kept themselves busy – when she handed something to him and their hands brushed together. She heard herself take a deeper breath than usual and wondered if he had heard it too. So she rushed to the other side of the room to grab a broom. The ushers natural state – to sweep. The default.

Two months before she had surprised him with coffee when he clocked off. Waiting by his bike, she held his favorite drink as well as hers. She had been outside in the dark, in the cold, for thirty minutes. There was anxiety, what if he did not want this? But nevertheless she stayed. When he finally came outside, he sounded happy when he greeted her. She was nervous. Handed him the wrong drink, which it seemed he did not like her peppermint tea. That was fine because she didn’t like his pumpkin spice latte with a double shot. So they switched and were both happy and laughed that they had made a mistake.

He had to do some grocery shopping and it was already late, so he invited her to join. She felt so natural in his presence. At peace. Not a concern in the world, which was new for a girl with anxiety. Even when they jay walked and a police officer stopped them, she didn’t have a care in the world except the one for him. It blotted out all negativity.

As they went to the store, they casually talked about personal topics – he told her about his dads alcoholism and porn addiction – and she talked about her dads issues as well. They bonded over similar favorite tv shows, and he told her about all the foods he hated – which surprised her. He hated caramel, but loved red cabbage, he hated mayonnaise and mustard, but loved pasta. In fact he talked a lot about his love for pasta, and she smiled. And she smiled. and smiled. and smiled. even when her cheeks were sore she smiled, because the pure happiness and bliss he brought with him collided with her anxiety and won. He was amazing. But he did not text her back and he did not talk to her outside of work. She was troubled because everything had felt so good to her.

She had heard he had a drinking problem, but only wanted to sympathize, even in the pain. He had talked of his ex girlfriend, who had hurt him and broke his trust in her and other women. Perhaps that is why he had not talked to her. Perhaps it was not the most obvious answer. Perhaps he did care, and more than just for her body. It did not seem likely. She wanted it so.

He had been over to her house once, with another coworker, he was older, a fly on the wall during their time together. He was not as important as them. They had laughed together over the silliest of things and she had to playfully shush him because he had laughed so loudly she worried they’d wake the neighbors (see, it was late at night and they had wine and cannabis). But she wanted more than ever to bring him to bed and lay with him between her sheets. To passionately kiss him and run her fingers through his hair while he laid his head on her pillow. She wanted to lay with her head on his bare chest and fall asleep. But instead they left. The old coworker and the guy.

But in the cleaners closet they stood. The same attraction that drew them together through sexual magnetism. She wanted him. She wanted him so bad. She knew he wanted her too, but was unsure if he wanted her the same way she wanted him. Did he want to have her head resting on his bare chest? Did he care to know her scent like a fond close memory? Did he care to kiss passionately as much as she did? Or would he leave right away, leave her feeling used and tired and sad?

She had been used and tired and sad because of many guys who did not love her.

But yet they stood there. Unlike the brain dead guests, their minds were racing to the ends of the earth and back again with the speed of light. One would think that with a brain racing that fast it would have more than one thing on it’s mind. But that was simply untrue. He would be the only thing she thought about for a very long time.

One day she would tell him that she had sincere feelings, on a whim, as she always did. She would mention liking him, and he would mention liking her. He would also mention toxicity. Not working. She would think it was unfair, but not protest because there was a chance he just didn’t want her. Betting on that chance, she tied her tongue and agreed; friends with benefits. She agreed to settle because the idea of having nothing was worse than being used. Would she be used? She might enjoy it – she wanted to think in the desperate plight she had adopted as her own.

At the end of the day she just wanted to hold his hand



Hard to focus on responsibility
When emotions are pressing
like a knife into my spine

Staring me in the face
sanity penetrated like the night she was raped

Shes unwilling to accept it
It was not her fate.