Yellow Checkered Cars

OVER THE SHOULDER—OK so you’re laying down across my lap in the back of this car on the way to my apartment. Monica and Daniel are singing along to the new Maroon 5 song on the radio. We are all drunk. Earlier, someone dared us to make out. You looked so beautiful as you were shaking your head no, laughing and blushing. Neither of us made eye contact. Under the guise of poorly made cosmopolitans from her husband—made hastily in the kitchen as to ensure his spot in bed tonight—the lady told us that we act like a couple. We laughed it off but you accidentally slipped up and said “Not yet”. I’m sure I smiled, positive. This girl driving us has no clue where she is going, weaving in and out of cul-de-sacs and dead ends; nothing but the headlights pushing away the black. 

CUT TO—Across my lap again. You ask me to stop telling you what to do all the time. I smile plainly. It’s not that I’m telling you what to do but rather wanting you to do something different for me. And usually, you do what I tell you. It’s not even that I get off on it; it’s just that I know now that this is true. Fair enough my feelings for you began quietly, something forming in the back of my mind. An itch you could say, and the only scratching relief was thinking of you. So I did. A lot. And now here we are. I look into your eyes—in the pale darkness of the moving car it is indeed a difficult thing to do but I find yours and you find mine. You bite your bottom lip. I rub your leg. You tell the driver to scratch going to my house; that now we are going to yours. 

INTERIOR HALLWAY—Hopeless like the last time, we’re standing out front your door. With your heels hung round your index finger, spinning happily, you unlock it and lead me into the darkness of the apartment. 

FADE OUT—Your open door is now open-ended. 


and so we were never finding home,

i sat up wishing this was over but knowing i had one last thought to tell the others. laced with Stellar 63 it was hard focusing on nothing other than bright sparkles from the outer corners of my eyelids spiraling inward; this isn’t what i had expected, but, truthfully nothing is if it isn’t coming from your memories or experiences. jason was laying diagonally from me. hands resting behind his head gazing into the black starlight now. yes, it was beautiful. no doubting that, but not everybody was looking at it’s beauty; not everyone was enthralled by it. cj is drawing something in the sand, i can’t see it from where i’m sitting but lisa can read it i’m sure. i scoot closer, the sand scattering underneath my palms, the molly vibrating with every rumble; a shockwave unforgiving of what i’d rather feel. this is it. this is the truth. this is unmistakable. this was the crew. 


Stop Burning Bridges (& Drive Off of Them)

It’s late on a Saturday—these weekends all seem to blur together anyway when the first of the leaves begin to dangle and fall, listlessly swaying in the November breeze—and I have a test that I should really be studying for but in the back of my mind there  is someone whispering later, later and so I trust this prickly voice while thinking “Later tonight, later”.

We are watching Heathers, which I’ve already seen about a thousand times but for some reason this doesn’t get me to stop watching it or turn it off when it comes on TV for late night. Her head on my lap, hair spilling about in all directions. I imagine each lock of hair to be a winding interstate and they all lead back to the hub that is her delicate face. She is chewing bubble gum, loudly. Smacking her lips as the bubble pops, only to be reborn in her mouth for another helium intoxicated go-around.

And it’s the scene where JD is getting picked on by the two ridiculously ridiculous jocks. You know which one I’m talking about, right? Where he pulls out his gun—loaded with blanks—and proceeds to fire a round in the cafeteria. Yeah, the scene that is completely preposterous because no one would just suspend you for that. Anyway, this is looping through my mind when she speaks up and says—

"I think I like you," with a little smile on her face.

Now I get it. I’m JD. And she is a Heather.


In Which Yours Truly Interviews Yoga Artist, @ahannnaha (Hannah Rae Bechard), My Virtual Girlf

1.    Tell me about yoga. Why do you do it? What got you started on it?

 

So I’ve been waiting to respond to this question because I haven’t “physically” practiced until today, October 3rd (see “Mean Girls”). I rolled out my mat on my hardwood floor today and realized I was in the right place. Discovering the, quite literally, new space around me, I practiced for an hour flowing through my own personal vinyasa.

 

I do it because I praise Nike. I also practice yoga because it is a practice: not a sport, art, or hobby, but completely unique on its own.

 

Coming from classical ballet training, it was beautiful to find a path that let my body move organically sin competition and strong self-criticism. It’s been just me, and my mat. And no, I did not roll my mat out the first day I practiced and say, “HEY. I HAVE NO EGO AND DO NOT GIVE A FUCC!!! WEE! DOWNWARD DOG!” My mentality was right around 100% the opposite of that remark. Yoga has helped me realize that I am okay: JUST right, here, and now.


2. Your outlook on life is pretty clear and sweet. What philosophy do you live your life by? Does yoga help with this?

 

Well, you are sweet (ugh, you know this). I THINK DEEPLY. Clarity is something I strive for in my thoughts, but alas, I am human and wade in muddy thoughts…So, the philosophy I live by? I hone into what I have only begun to accept as a gift, which is my sensitivity. I love on a large scale, as well as believe on a large scale. At times this vulnerability gets me in a yucky place. But I guess I’d rather live with a colorful idea of life than go on living like Kristen Stewart.

 

Yoga helps with the doubt. I can be witty all day. If you haven’t met me at a bar, or if you haven’t heard me say that I’ve won the “Witty Quips” award in 7th grade, than we don’t know each other that well. I can front well, but I also doubt myself just as well.

 

To doubt your personality in comparison to others I’ve found is toxic. I practice self-worth, and acceptance connecting me to the divine spirit that, many of times, just needs a strike of a match to get the pilot light to kick in.


3. How were able to do the Wanderlust event?

 

Simple! I volunteered online on the Wanderlust website. Such an amazing group of people. I mean, I can’t imagine a yoga festival being compiled of a buncha jerks. But! I seriously thought volunteer spots would be all taken care of. But, low and behold! It’s been amazing to have positive feedback regarding my writing. Self-expression is so personal: it means that much more when someone else is moved by what you have to say.


4. Are you looking to find a occupation wherein yoga is your primary field?

 

Funny you should ask. My major is accounting…**laughs**. I’m good at it though. I can’t wait to be financially stable. SO. I would love to teach the practice when the time is right. Teacher trainings are always available. I know I want to share my thoughts, and my choreographic vision coinciding with the yoga practice in the future. It is just a matter of time. I am eager as a young person to spread the idea of alignment throughout our spine and into our hearts.


5. Tell me about the best day of your life.

 

GEEZE. Best day? The day I spent at Fenway park with my father. I was 18, It was poignant. I had the whole day, just with my father in a hotter than hell day in July.  Boston killed the Twins, like 18-3, and Manny was in the green monster eating skittles or something. I don’t know how to explain it. There is just something about $8 beers being sneaked to you and the energy of Yawkey Way with my Dad that I loved so much. It was amazing to look at my Dad, witness his eyes on the field, and feel the joy in my heart. I hope I have a lot of “best days” in my life though.


6. You’re a writer, what’s the best advice you can give to aspiring writers and overcoming writer’s block?

 

The advice I can give to aspiring writers is to believe you are one. Who the hell is telling you/making you believe you are not? I remember one of the best tools in high school was to free write. That just happens to be the style of writing I use formally. Obviously, I go through and edit to the best of my ability, but I feel that whatever comes through our minds organically is worth being unfiltered. But hey, if Bart Simpson is reading this, he may like to write about farts and nerds, but that’s fine, I know Bart well.

 

So, just like Bart, go with your heart. Fart if you want to! Have a brain fart. Don’t get too frustrated, or judgmental with yourself. Know that some will troll on your work. Trolls are ugly so don’t worry about trolls. Just imagine me, giving you a high five and a lollipop, and THAT, should be inspiration enough.


baseheads and hot women

nd the first thing you’ll notice is that the pills have this sort of bitter black licorice taste to them. it’s so bad that you grab your drink off the dash quickly and take a long gulp and run your tongue into the grooves of your molars as to swallow all of it. the lights

the lights

the lights

that’s what comes first when you start to come up. the blur of the lights, surrounding the source of energy with an endearing hug, then the prisming

the shattered fracturing of the street lights themselves; the car headlights, anything and both nothing because you’re not really seeing, not really watching but more of a staring through. because when you’re on nothing seems to mean anything here.

first the wave. the whole body shiver. the temperature is a cool 65 degrees but to you it’s as cold as the first snow. your hands are like shovels burrowing into your entire being and it’s then that you are truly rolling.

the night has just started and andrea is calling out your name but you can’t really hear her, can you? because all you can hear is your heartbeat.

she says your name louder this time and you


Please—and I mean this with all sincerity: take care.


breaking bad’s penis off