when somebody asks me what im thankful for…
1. Contrary to popular belief, waking up early isn’t going to drastically alter your life or effect how you’re feeling. So sleep till noon and relish in the way laying in bed all day makes you feel a little more human.
2. Drinking your coffee ‘black’ doesn’t make you cooler or more sophisticated than the rest of us who load in milk and sugar.
3. Being unimpressed by everything makes you look like a twat. Get excited, be overly passionate about something. Enthusiasm is fun.
4. Hating yourself isn’t romantic.
5. Eat whatever you want. your friend’s a vegan? Awesome. Listen to her talk about how great she feels because of it while you tuck in to some chocolate cake. Tell her you feel just as great.”
—More Reminders- Charlotte Geier (via thewastedgeneration)
my friends would best describe my personality as ‘why’
the most stupidest thing invented are those little dangly things on dresses that help you hang dresses or shirts…. when the thing has straps. i dont need your dangles, the dangles just dangle everywhere, get the hell away from me. dangly pieces of sh*t…. im so alone
I was 16.
I was 16 when it happened, and I remember being never more lost and confused and betrayed and angry and guilty for feeling all of these things, and I remember being only partially happy that we were revisiting old photographs.
And the thing I remember the most was staring at the dusty ceiling of the funeral home, the wood varnish of the beams peeling off slowly, wondering exactly how my human heart can contain so many emotions at the same time.
It was roughly around 4 AM in the morning and none of us have had any sleep that night; the ground we slept upon was only minimally cushioned with rattan mats, and really, how could anyone ever sleep for the first year of losing someone?
The silence was starting to break; Andrew finally decided upon giving up and rummaged through bags to find whatever it was that was bothering him, and the snores from my siblings gradually grew less frequent.
At 5 the sun trickled its rays into the sky.
It was the second day, which meant that we were anticipating my aunt’s arrival, as well as my mother’s. Coming back into their mother’s arms, cold and limp and void of rhythmic arterial waves.
At 7 we heard screaming, and we witnessed my aunt, tough as nails and unbreakable, assistant director of a 6-star hotel, hit the floor as her hands gripped the dark, mahogany (or whatever it was, really) that framed my grandmother’s body, and she sunk with it.
We recited prayers for 10 hours like clockwork.
Hail Mary, full of grace—pass me another prayer book, will you—the Lord is with you—anyone has an extra rosary I could use—blessed are you amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus—take a seat, please—Holy Mary, mother of god
At 7pm that night my mother arrived, her eyes red and puffy, her callused fingers running through the fine hair that I just dyed 2 months before. Unspoken essays of apologies lay upon her lips, but all she could muster was mom.
Mom, she called out every 3 minutes, and that day was the day I witnessed my mother lose her smile.
How selfish it is that we were gathered, all 21 of us with another 70 people mourning—60 of whom I have never ever seen in my life, but have heard stories of—to pray for a departed soul, and all we could think about was how we would never survive without my grandmother.
I was angry. I was angry because she left and never granted time for me to change the things I swore to change, and I was angrier that I felt that way, and I was even angrier that this just showed how much of an utterly disgusting human being I was.
And I tried writing. The minute after her burial ended I wrote paragraphs upon paragraphs, pencils depleting and pens running, and all I could do was to create ugly, fucked up shades of what it was supposed to be, so I stopped.
I swore to never write about my grandmother in poems or proses. Blog entries were fine, and letters were fine. But to put her into words and craft was something I knew I’d have to take time to get ready.
Three weeks ago I tried, and I realized I still needed time.
prepping for thanksgiving
Deandra ma queen