Why It Doesn't Matter How Much Is in The Glass.

“He doesn’t love you.”


“Then why do you bother?”

She spun around on the stool and shrugged her shoulders. Her dispassionate eyes suited her apathetic tone. “Maybe I just do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked down the bar at an old man hunkered over a whiskey sour, staring hopelessly into it like he was search for something. “It’s better than nothing, that’s what it’s supposed to mean.”

“But it isn’t significant.”

“But it isn’t nothing.”

She grabbed her messenger bag and dropped a couple bills next to an empty glass, looking back down at it. “You know why that glass is empty?”

“Because it’s not half full.”

“Exactly. Something isn’t empty or half-full because it’s missing something. It’s that way because you drank it, which is better than watching it sit there staring back at you. It doesn’t matter what it’s half of if you never drink it.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t.” She said, grabbing a tattered brown jacket. “But maybe someday you will.”

Then she sauntered freely out of the bar. But that lack of weight on her shoulders was also because she had nothing to weigh her down. I didn’t know whether to pity her or applaud her.

Finding Atlantis.

This is a short piece just to get me started in writing for the summer.


The wind had already picked up the afternoon's stragglers and dusk was threatening. I crouched in the sand and drew terrible pictures with a stick. They looked like chickenscratch to the discerning eye but they were works of imagination. I smirked at my work and looked at the gently stirring water, debating, searching.

Behind me Mother rolled up a wrinkled, shabby blanket and picked up her ladie's magazine, the one that would tell her how to be beautiful, how to get the ideal man, which skirt to wear to that interview, all of the staples of life. She slipped on some sandals, the ones that gave her blisters I think, and slid her petite body into a jean jacket. She wanted to go back home to her telephone, her tv, and her date. I wanted to stay.

The tips of my pigtail braids were damp and my hair was beginning to curl at the ends, the few pieces that she had left unmanipulated when she pulled and twisted, combed and yanked. I sighed, feeling the edges of my feet melting into the sad, watching the sand gradually sift into the ocean, becoming a part of something bigger than myself. I didn't like beaches in general- all the glamour of swimsuits and tanning, girls trying to look gorgeous under their umbrellas, guys trying to look buff spiking their volleyballs. Then again I was young but something told me that many of the things I didn't understand at eight I wouldn't understand even after decades of exposure to them. But this, this I understood. Solidarity. Peace. True beauty in between the rocks, thriving off the quietness, the pending storm.

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Saying Goodbye to Prince Charming.

I've never understood why but it always rains at funerals. Apparently God saw a movie cliche and decided maybe the filmmakers had a point. I don't really know but if I was going to make an ass of myself, that'd be a great assumption to go with. Not that I mind being the ass. It generally works.

I felt like the ass that day. Everybody was crying, tearing up, bawling, breaking down, saying their goodbyes and I was fine. I'd given a rotten eulogy and thrown up a time or two but that was nerves about standing up in front of people. I'd always had trouble with that. I meant nothing in his eulogy. Not a word. The phrases and sentences maybe my mom and aunt meant but they never understood him anyway. Their minds, like those of so many humans, were crowded with love. His death wasn't about him no longer living or watching his child grow up. It was the whole "For whom the bell tolls" complex. They were lamenting at their own immortality as well as the loss of the future experiences THEY would have had with him and the love THEY would have felt. Love can be a very selfless thing but at the bottom of it, self is the root word, which is why I didn't feel anything but the rain poking at my exposed patches of pale skin in contrast to the black. I didn't feel anything.

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Travelling Dirty Roads.

We were sitting in the car, my mom, my brother and I, and we were taking him to work. He had lost his license years prior through some bad decisions and was working at the local factory for the time being. What he did I don't pretend to know. It was a job he would keep for a month or two and that was all there was to it. I was majoring in Biochemisty at a college four or five hours away and rarely came home, which was good because it kept us and our animosityu towards one another from being in the same room or car too often. But of course it had to happen sometimes.

He was sitting in the car bugging mom to buy him cigarettes and I was staring out the window looking over the town that used to be my home. Mom caved as she always did, adamantly refusing in the beginning but it was always a given that she would give him what we wanted. I was the baby by birth. He was her baby by selection.

We got his cigarettes at some rundown gas station off the main drag and turned down a road full of pothouses, empty fields, and abandoned houses. Sitting on its broken throne under a pile of grey, polluted clouds was the factory. It didn't take me long to figure out my brother worked in the land of promise.

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When the King of the Hill was a Pagan.

The hill above was a steep one, covered in dead, brown brush. The gnarled, bare trees with trunks the color of a harsh gray crawled up the hill, growing denser in their efforts. We stood there, at the bottom, throwing sticks into a creek, hoping they would drown. Naturally they should float down with the weak current but these got stuck in bits of muck and debris, forming their own graves.

"Nah I wouldn't go up there." My brother said, throwing another to its demise. He brought to his lip a piece of paper rolled like a cigarette filled with the bits of tan and golden bush and grass we had collected. We were smokers now. I was too since yesterday when they broke my jumprope using it as climbing rope.

My cigarette hung limply along my gumline, the make-shift tobacco having fallen out since I hadn't rolled it tight enough. As the spit wet the paper a nasty taste formed in my mouth, like the taste of play money as mom said, whatever that meant. Didn't have the same effect I suppose but it looked alright and that's what I needed to be to be in the club, one of the boys. My jeans were rolled up to my knees so they wouldn't get wet and there was mud on them from where I had fallen earlier. I scratched one leg with a dirty foot and tried to wince as thoughtfully as possible up the hill, like a cowboy at the horizon.
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If only.

I agree. It is a HUGE if and that's why when I wrote that I knew people were going to say well... you know. I think it is a huge if and I think people are wrong in the way they depict God and portray his manner so I think that if is invalid but, if  it isn't, then my opinion still stands.

If that makes sense.

I do too. I used to, when I was younger, get frustrated when other people didn't see my pov but I think as I have gotten older I have matured a bit and now at the ripe old age of 19 lol, I can talk about it as intelligently as I am capable and not get upset.

But any time you ever want to talk about one of those things, I love it too so stop by =].

Ha thanks that is quite the compliment. I won't spoil it for you then but if you ever want to know I'd be willing to tell you.

A few people said that actually. I was surprised. And thank you =].



You're so gorgeous I'll do anything
I'll kiss you from your feet
To where your head begins
You're so perfect you're so right as rain
You make me
Make me hungry again

Everything you do is irresistable
Everything you do is simply kissable
Why can't I be you?

I'll run around in circles
Til I run out of breath
I'll eat you all up
Or I'll just hug you to death
You're so wonderful
Too good to be true
You make me
Make me hungry for you

Everything you do is simply delicate
Everything you do is quite angelicate
Why can't I be you?

You turn my head when you turn around
You turn the whole world upside down
I'm smitten I'm bitten I'm hooked I'm cooked
I'm stuck like glue
You make me
Make me hungry for you

Everything you do is simply dreamy
Everything you do is quite delicious
Why can't I be you?
Why can't I be you?
Why can't I be you?