Maurice Sendak died today. And it’s raining. And my feet hurt. And my heart aches for that little girl, bright blonde hair with a big red bow in it, cross-legged on a rug, mouth open in wonder.
good afternoon, world.
it’s been a while. since my last post, i’ve moved, two of my best friends moved away, i started grad school, and my work has entered a state of complete upheaval. as those of you who’ve known me for more than two years know, i don’t do well with change. or without my codependent life partners. i’m not dealing well. i’m taking it out on the people i love. ...
I feel like a fool
So I’m going to stop troubling you…
I wish you would think twice on me
It only gets better…
For Lillie Bird
Thinking of Jenny Owen Youngs, then thinking of you. “Skillet on the stove it’s such a temptation, maybe I’ll be the lucky one that doesn’t get burned…” Love you, Birdie.
sweet dreams & flying machines in pieces on the...
well. that was different.
two photographs: the first of me, two years old, my hand on my mother’s face, her eyes closed, mine locked with the camera. the second, a year later, a big bow and a bigger crown, pressing my father’s cheek to mine. this week: sister head on sister shoulder, sister palm in sister palm, stomachs down, looking at pictures twenty years, his voice is gone.
I TOLD YOU NOT TO STEAL MY E E CUMMINGS BOOK! →
lillielemonade: You are tired, (I think) Of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I. Come with me, then, And we’ll leave it far and far away— (Only you and I, understand!) You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break,…
scraps & starts
i said i would, i will let go of fear (that i cannot) of anger (that you did not) of hatred (that i am not) there is no almost there is no if only forward motion (you did not betray me because you were not thinking of me) (i did not leave you because you don’t exist)
After all, batshit is just a couple ingredients away from gunpowder, and if you...– CokeTalk
laying in bed, listening to old cds...
on my new-to-me cd player/clock radio. feels like time travel.
home is wherever i'm with you.
i miss my sisters really badly today.
listening to “bled white” by elliot smith, a song i was very into my freshman year of college, especially my first semester, when i was very lonely and went places by myself all the time. the t was magic to me then, having never owned a car and growing up somewhere where you really need one. i loved riding the train. a year or so later i discovered city buses. i loved those, too. ...
i cannot write when i am completely desolate.
it’s too hard, i feel too much. as it turns out, i also cannot write when i am excited. i wonder why that is.
overwhelmed by the desire
to go into hiding.
why am i obsessed with the early nineties?
i think it’s because even as a little kid, i was preemptively nostalgic; like, i somehow knew that shit was going to change and you had to hold onto the sights and the smells, because it might get better, it might get worse, but it was definitely going to get different, and that was scary as fuck. my freakishly good memory and introspective nature led me to catalog precisely the ways in...
a little less than six months ago, i took a fung wah bus from new york back home to boston. it was late september, cold and rainy, and my ipod was filled with music that wasn’t mine. i couldn’t sleep. me, the girl whose father used to put her in the car and drive around the block when she wasn’t tired at bedtime. it was the first september since i was four that i hadn’t...
work in progress
“Mother Mary, fuck, I’m sorry…” the words slide and spill, college girls on ice in heels, drunken sidewalk warriors girding for their Fall. Mother, at age seven, brought cheap flowers for the Virgin, the best they could afford. (She carried the shame through decades of falling petals.) Daddy wasn’t born yet; I lived in Mother’s ovaries, a fact I can’t...
on not being a poon
shawnee and i had a long talk last night about many things, among which being the fact that being a poon ruins people’s lives. in that spirit, poems to come.
i kind of miss
when i worked at carlo’s and none of the kitchen guys could pronounce my name, so they all just called me “baby.”
if you do not shut off your car’s alarm, i will end you. love, bridge
for the eighteen foster manifesto.
in non-vonnegut news,
i’ve been writing poems again, but i’m too chickenshit to post them on the internet.
this one is a failure
and it had to be, because it was written by a pillar of salt.
bedtime for bonzo
but i am plagued by a stone-cold sober craving for a tomato-mozzarella sandwich. bread, fresh mozz, basil, check. tomatoes??
dear green tea weight loss, do you know how to really lose your muffin top FAST?! buy bigger pants. love, bridget
i’m the game! and you just fucking lost!– maya mcnulty
negativity is so 2010
i am thankful: -that noelle is en route to brighton so that we can eat something and be freaks together. it’s not weird. touch crowns. -that i live in the era of cellphones so that i can talk to my sisters all day e’ryday. -that cecilia and bryant have a beautiful and healthy baby boy (hola ryan, tia b loves you). -for carolyn. -that my roommates woke me up this morning and i...
my presence is the present
lillielemonade: kiss my ass. i literally logged on to tumblr to post the exact same thing, checked my dashboard and saw this. #sistersoulmates
a statement of qualifications and objectives
i am currently taking a little break from writing one of my grad school application essays. it’s strange, writing this essay, because i’m basically writing a short explanation of how i got to this point, minus the hiccups and breakups and prison sentences; the experiential history of how i realized what i want to do with my life. combine writing this essay with listening to music i...
if there is something wrong
there must be something, something wrong with you.
my mantra for 2011
is LET GO.
dear student loans,
paying you back seems like a job for futurebridget. i cannot deal. love, currentbridget
sailor jerry & snowflakes
yesterday, i was walking to work in the morning, late, of course, smoking a cigarette, listening to weezy, and generally feeling like the world was ending. i glanced up as i crossed the street, and walking towards me…was santa claus. seriously. an old man in civilian clothes with a big, bushy, white beard and a santa hat. i couldn’t resist; i grinned at him. “hi,...
i literally just relived a puke from a year ago. some memories don’t need to be so damn insistent. i would have thought i’d have moved further at this point.
damn copyright laws
i really, really want to read the entirety of nikki giovanni’s “quilting the black-eyed pea (we’re going to mars).” but i can’t find it on the internet. shite!