Traffic: An Earth-shattering Delay

I hate traffic.

Just like I hate the blaring white screen of the Word document blinding my corneas at the moment. But, oh well.

Maybe it’s just the rush. The need to get somewhere and the uncontrollable urge to bypass the red blinking lights of fellow cars and make head for your destination.

Maybe it’s the dizzying emptiness in your stomach that makes you see red and feel like a hammer has permanently pounded on your skull.

Maybe it’s how you imagine getting out of the car, passing the unending line of motionless vehicles, and flying away to freedom.

You can’t control traffic. You are bound by the abruptness with which it appears in your life and the effect it has on you.

It is the irritation of being so close to a certain place or moment, and you have to be constrained by a stupid obstacle called bumper-to-bumper traffic.

You can’t help but feel the irritated, helpless, restlessness that crawls up your skin at the sudden barrier keeping you from reaching your goal.

That’s when the emotions kick in: Fury, disappointment, renouncement. The need you had to reaching something being interrupted.

Maybe this isn’t the best example, but life is a game of Shoots & Ladders, where obstacles and fall-downs are the embodiment of it all.

But, just like traffic, you always get to your designated point. No matter how long it takes, whether the delay was earth-shattering or the minimalist of sorts, whether your car breaks down in the process, you get there.

So this started out as me ranting about traffic after I ate a soup at Crepes&Waffles that created massive destruction in my stomach and a nauseating emptiness in me, and how endless traffic did not help the situation and made me feel all the more miserable.

But I ended up taking a profound detour into the bottomless depths of how traffic relates to perseverance in everyday life.

See? So I’m not just a ball of sarcasm and fluff all wrapped up into one dense un-surfaced ball. It turns out, there’s actually more to me than that.

Or at least I like to think so.

My mom would be so proud.

I Came Out of The Cougar Closet

You can’t help but feel special when a random eight-year old boy tells you you’re pretty.

No, I do not have a disgusting pedophile-induced fetish for eight-year old boys. And when I do decide to embrace my cougar ways, I’ll be on my way to thirty dating a hot twenty –year old surfer model-type with the IQ of fish, but with drool-worthy washboard abs.

Haha. Joke.

Anyway, no matter the circumstances, you can’t deny that if someone compliments you out of nowhere, a certain drift of specialness won’t race up your spine and say, “YES! Finally my out-of-this-world beauty is acknowledged.”

Or, “YES! I got someone of the male specimen to give me a second look!”

If the normal reaction in your case is most likely the latter, remember that everyone is beautiful and only you can be the judge of what beauty really means to you.

But you can also be happy because someone thinks you’re pretty!

Shallow, superficial, obnoxious?

I prefer happy, positive, and appreciative.

And yet shallowness does come up in this situation, but there are times in life when you have to be free and let your arrogant, greedy sides emerge.

And appreciating a comment is anything if not being gracious to an affable compliment.

It’s common courtesy to accept the fact that you are physically gifted.

That last one sounded so funny, I’m going to keep it for time-sakes of my originality. (Spare the cynical laughs).

So here I am, walking towards the bus, heading to the haven I call my home, and away from the paper-wasting world conundrum called school, when out of nowhere this cute little boy with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, randomly pops up in front of me, and says, “Hi, you’re really pretty.”

And that’s when I fainted of pure bliss and went to heaven.

Kidding. Geez, what do you think of me?

“You’re really cute too, cutie,” I said, and that was that.

This is a story that will go down in history, down from generation to generation about how a cute little eight year old that will probably grow up to be a world-renown player, came up to me that Wednesday afternoon and made my day.

History text books through-out the world, be ready to have my name stamped across your tree-wasting existence, narrating that eventful evening when my life changed for the better and I learned to appreciate the human race.

Plus, I learned a very interesting new rule for life.

Life Lesson #2:

When the time comes and we cease to await the day that guys will stop being narcissistic ass-wipes whose only goal in life is to try and get into our pants, get a cute single-digit aged cutie to wipe that frown off your face and tell you you are a hot piece of respected and admired woman.

Life will never be the same again.

Michelangelo and Floating Gay Men

I try so hard to make it go away
But my attraction to men I know will never fade
I know I am weird, my mom makes that clear
And so do the guys on the streets, who keep calling me queer

I reach out to you
But you’re slipping from my grasp
I know you make me drool
But do I make you gasp?

I am attracted to you
You gorgeous piece of man meat
I swear I will not attack you
Unless you keep running away from me

I would not be scared
If anything, I would be ecstatic
If a man like me showed me he cared
Instead of getting weird and acting so damn spastic

I’ll make you love me
Even if it means me floating on a cloud in my birthday suit to display
And you’ll reach out to hold me
Because I really don’t care that you’re not gay.



: I couldn't help myself.

Hardbacks on Life

down by the sea,
where you drown your scars
you'll see and old man
drenched in the salt of the ages.

He'll sing you a song
of long suffering.
Names of sinners and saints
entangled within pretty lies.

He'll try to whisper
Ugly truths at you
while his face takes on
a malevolent glaze
bloods thicker than water,
people don't change their ways.

But his book is senile.
His heart hardened by the years.
Make sure you apprise
at the top of your lungs
the truths that you believe

fuck family,
family is who you chose
heritage is relative
and mothers kill their babies.

people don't change
and maybe
maybe he's right.


- unknown

(My friend has all this deep stuff and god knows where she get's it all from. But, oh well. I Love it)