i know the shape of your hands because i watch them when you talk

because i need to be studying right now, and i can't get past the amygdala (the diagram's or my own). because all of my mnemonic devices seem to include you. because for the past few months i've gone intentionally without, and i feel purer and focused-er for it, only you keep appearing while i'm asleep. because those are the dreams that color my mornings. because i'm a creep and the truth is they kind of color the afternoons and evenings too. because it's true that i want to be free right now, as free as anyone can be and whatever that means. because i'm afraid to make space for you. because mine. because i'm afraid you won't want to fill it.

this is so not even a thing and you might be probably are symbolic.
probably i am pinning a lot of still-vague feelings to you,
and probably i might be projecting onto a you that really is just a thing to be projected onto and not a you at all.

only there is a you, and you are that,
and even though this definitely isn't a thing
and everything,

i sometimes feel a very real and not unpleasant
gentle sort of pressure. (not from you,
you don't know any of this and how would you)

(how would you?)

and i start to suspect that i already know something
and am keeping secrets from myself
which is aggravating as i can be pretty smug.

and i sometimes, like today is one of the times, sort of feel that about-to-cry feeling in a nice way. but also in a kind of standing-too-close-to-the-edge-of-a-canyon way. exhiliarating, but probably i could die. is the thing about standing close to the edges of canyons.

but mostly in the good way, and i feel like you'd probably be weirded out if you knew how happy you make me by hardly doing anything. but don't worry about it too much because i'm not saying anything.

so even though part of me wants you to stop

(you're not even doing anything)

no matter what, please don't.

sometimes i just want to shop for thrift store cocktail dresses and wear them in hotel bars that night. 
i made a run in my hose on purpose the other day.
that same morning when i poured my coffee, i went to get the sugar and brought out the coffee filters instead.
so i re-crossed the kitchen and got out the coffee grounds and almost spooned them into my cup, but i realized what i was doing in time and thought, "i am terrible at everything" but it didn't make me sad.
i forget how to make instant oatmeal sometimes too, and once i put the milk away in the cupboard where the cereal goes and no one noticed for a long time.
that field we found, where the grass reached our waist, i thought that was a miracle.

six-word autobiography:

in the morning, 

she was gone.

they say if you love something you better let it go away

I have an awkwardly timed break between classes on two days this semester. Not enough time to leave campus, not enough time to get any real sort of work done, but definitely more time than it takes to eat a snack (or two or ten). It's awkward because it's at a time when no one else I know is really around, and I'm too much of a lazy asshole to make new friends just to fill in this gap in my schedule.

So. Here. We. Are.
Two things:

1. Awkward Crush, version 978. I am in like with my math professor. When I am eighty-nine and realize I forgot to ever get married, please remind me that it's because I used up my childbearing years being attracted to potential partners that were about as appropriate as tree stumps.

I would really like to describe my newest infatuation to you, but. In the VERY LIKELY event that he has fallen in love with me back, I don't want him to find this page in his googling of me and read this. Although I guess if he does that he can probably figure out who I'm talking about. Unless he assumes I'm taking more than one math class? And gets jealous of my other, fake, hotter instructor of numbers? No. Math professors are probably excellent deducers of things.

Please stop interrupting. So last class he started by saying, "So I'm allergic to cats." And my heart smashed into the floor immediately, because HOW WILL WE LIVE TOGETHER. How.

But then he told a cat story and showed us a bunch of pictures of his friend's cat, plus a cat video. And my heart jumped back up into my chest and I may or may not have whispered "I love you" accidentallyonpurpose. (I definitely did.)

He's sending me mixed messages. I think I will write to Cosmo, they will probably know what to do.

B. Speaking of Googling me, don't. I got tricked into writing a blog for a company I worked for that will remain nameless, and I always forget it's there and it always is and I get SO MAD even though a healthier person would probably be over this by now. If you disregard my advice and do try to google me, which I don't think most of you even can because you don't know my whole name so HA, you will find this. It was good when I wrote it, because and mostly only because it was written before I threw up some kool-aid and remembered I didn't hate myself. But then it was edited in true company-that-is-remaining-nameless fashion and then published without my okay. I sort of expected them to water down my hilariousness because of reasons, but what I did not expect was for them to EDIT IN ERRORS and then publish it in my name. And probably the worst part is that they kept in just enough of every thing that was meant to be funny to make me sound like the biggest [curse word] that ever [bleeped]. This is worse than the time I broke up with a boy in high school who shall also remain nameless (in this case because HE KNOWS WHO HE IS and will probably deny this) in a note (not my best moment, get off my back) and then he put the note in his AIM profile with errors that I DID NOT MAKE.

And now my break is over, and I feel productive, because at least now the internet knows that I mostly know where to put my apostrophes and where words go and how to spell them.

But I am not going to post this until tomorrow because I already posted something today and too many blogs in one day = no. Go ahead and add that to the list of things I care about that don't matter. Also I want you to think I am too immersed in my classwork to pay attention to you, Spouting Violets. I need to practice playing hard to get in case I need to do it with my professor. (Ah ha. "Do it" with my professor.)

at the water's edge that's where i make my bed

Roots thread the earth under my body, I picture cupped hands. I think they may be what's keeping the ground from crashing up into the moon. When I told you where I was Going and why There and Not You, Not Now, Not Anyone, I meant what I said even though some of it, I can be truthful now, was part fairy story and part sleep.

I want to wear lipstick for a while, was the reason I handed you [all].
You can wear lipstick here, now, a chorus.

Once in a while or every other day, I consider my choices.
Sometimes when one passes near or smells a certain way, well, you know.

Just in case you didn't believe me about ruining people's pictures.
Also I wish I wish my hair was long again. BALLS.
Also look, cats and cat sweaters!:

your sky all hung with jewels

At the Dressing Table, self portrait, Zinaida Serebriakova

The source is the internet, stupid.

I will ruin your shots, so hard, every time. So why, then, these images of myself? 
(Probably I am just a douche, but if so I'm not the only one. And I want to know why we are being douches. If that is what we are being.) 
Do you know why, though? If you do, could you tell me?

(Is taking pictures of yourself different from carving your name into something? How is or isn't it? What's the fascination? What's the motivation? What's the velocity of a swallow?)

That was, of course, a preamble to this:

What I wore to life this week! Except it is a lie because of blizzards, so it's kind of last week too, because fuck putting on clothes to be snowed in.In the house = pajamas, always.
Personally I like when blog ladies post clothes pictures. Not fashion blogs, I don't read those, because in my opinion they are boring and I like blogs that um, talk about stuff.
Number one, I just like pictures of pretty girls, and that is what you all are.
Number two is that I steal clothes from the friends I see all the time, so why should you all be exempt from my sticky fingers? I'll be at your house in an hour.
Number three is just that I'm a creepy voyeur, but you knew that. (This seems like a good time to tell you that in real life, I have a mustache.)
Also I've found that you can learn a lot about somebody from their outfit photos. For example, you all now know that I sometimes wear fur. And that I shop in the little boys' section of BJs more than sometimes. And that I wear the same shirts a bunch of times in one week, which you probably already knew, just like you already knew I don't brush my hair a lot. And don't you like me more now?

i'd give her my heart but she wanted my soul, don't think twice it's all right

My valentine. ♥

Last night I went to sleep composing letters in my head to some of the lov-ahs I've abandoned.

In this past year, especially.

Maybe cruelty is magnified in hindsight, but I know I could've behaved better.

Everything feels so good right now. I also have a pile of letters I asked people to write about me, and they are full of flattering things, so that helps. (Asking for references always feels funny to me. Hi, can you confirm to this third party that I am awesome? THANKS!)

Dear work, I don't feel like doing you right now. Sincerely, Me

I am still in a letter-writing mood.