Remember Good Spongebob Episodes and When Selfies Didn't Exist?

Can we just talk about love for a sec?

To all the sad and lonelies out there, I hear you. I snuck into your bookbag and read those letters you wrote. I understand the shy thoughts of not feeling good enough and always wanting a snack. I could tell you there is hope out there, someone is destined for you, you're probably single for a reason; but I know you're fed up with excuses and just want to get laid. There there. I'll be your valentine, the shoulder to cry on, the mother you always wished you had.

I was never great with kids or keeping a continuous workout routine but dammit I know the hurt of having a crush on someone who is only enamored with his reflection and by God I"ll give you a squishy boob hug if it's the last thing I do.

I used to be an art major and now I'm going into political science. I know practically everything you need to know about art history and don't know crap about politics. I'm lined up for a job at a fourth coffee shop I would work at and I still don't feel like a cool kid yet and it's probably because I don't have tattoos.
Sorry, I got caught up in me again, we were talking about love.

For those of you who are in it right now, it's pretty badass isn't it?
For those of you who were in it, he was an ass wasn't he?
For those of you who never have had it, life's a jackass isn't it?

-A short sonnet by Smaug

The most annoying thing to hear is to be patient, but that is honestly the only thing that got me here to this kind of serenity and bliss and mooshy-gooshy stuff yeah yeah yeah talk more about sex.
Understand you will still stress about your weight and your grades and your job and life hasn't gotten much easier since high school has it?

Even that being said, I'm still never going to a reunion.

I love you and I was never the first person to say that in the world and it kills me every time I think about that. That doesn't change the fact of how I feel or how stopping and looking at roses never seemed so beautiful until now.

See you,

-A&D.

A short post about Jerry Hirano.

What are we talking about today little fishy?

Guts.

Maybe some brains too.
The squishy and leaky stuff.

Gray matter.

I used to be too fat. Now too skinny. Just Right doesn't seem to exist anymore.

Compassion.
We learned that at Buddha Church. It took me a couple days to figure out what Reverend Hirano was talking about. I had this idiot come into my work who was complaining about our prices and quality of coffee. He even had the audacity to say Starbucks was better.

I was filled with impatient irritation. "The customer is always right. The customer is always right. The customer is always right."
I couldn't wait till my co-worker came in so we could have our routine gossip hour. The only level of communication we have is bitching about terrible customers. Once he eventually came in I was ready to launch into my angry tale. But then I remembered Hirano. I then thought to try to be compassionate.

 

I instantly deflated. I actually felt better. My brows unfurrowed and I felt the anger breathe out of me. Why should I let some opinionated stranger get me so worked up? Why should I undermine his preferences and smite him for expressing himself? He doesn't owe me anything...


I feel like about 40% of conversation is just judging and gossiping. It's become so regular it is thought of as normative and innocent. Why does it take effort to show compassion but instinct to express disdain?

I'm exploring my hands, my breaths. The skyline, the vanishing point and veins. Especially my veins.

Now I'm looking at that freckle under your eye. The pitch of your voice, the grind of your teeth. Why would I bother looking at your veins?

Remember when I spoke of perfection like some untouchable soul mate? The love I could never make mine. Well she's not good enough for me either. My words taste like titanium and I want to enjoy chewing my insults a little longer.

Just Right actually never existed. 

See you,

A&D

Songbirds and those Sacred Sonnets.

Sleeping was never really Denver's thing.

I feel bad for the little guy. Lots of nights he wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling in his fishy scales. He reaches out in the dark waters of his tank for some sort of grasp on reality, some sort of comfort. He is greeted with his faux plants and rough pebbles--the blankets and teddy bears of his aquatic abode.
But it doesn't stop the fear, not really. He looks to me for some sort of salvation from the terror, to tell him everything is fine. And I try, I really do, but we both know he can't speak human and I'm still brushing up on my betta tongue.

So I turn on the light, but it doesn't matter now.

He hears every noise the house composes into the sticky night air.
The breathing of the air vent, the clatter of a falling object, the creeks and aches of the house's bones.

He can't stand it.

His scales flare out in a million nerve crashing spasms. He tosses his head into the bristles of the plants, he strokes the smooth cold walls of the tank. Anything to escape his wandering mind.
The insanity storms above his head like a merciless cloud of distress and apprehension.
How can he expect to move on? To fall back asleep?
It never really was his thing anyway.

"4am knows all my secrets."

And finally, he does not long to dream anymore. Reality is more potent, more forgiving, more blissful.

So maybe yeah, this is sort of about me. Surprise. And I honestly feel bad this blog has turned into my own bitter diary of my droopy sad-face tendencies. I really am a giddy little gal, just you wait and see.

The way the attitude of these posts have been I bet it sometimes is hard to believe I'm the happiest I've ever been. All that's really changed is that I am aware of my fingernails, my shackles, my spontaneous sad-face mentalities. So I preach them. I release them. Savor them even.

Just know that I'm okay and all I want is a bowl of loaded mashed potatoes right now.

Thank God Thanksgiving is coming up. 

See you,

A&D.

Simplicity.

I'm told that I'm smart. That I have potential.
That I'm the one in the family that will have the success story.

"You're going to make it big."

"You're going places."


You could imagine what it was like,
when I told those excited voices that I was going to be an art major.

But all that didn't plan out because I'm too impatient.

You could imagine what it was like,
when I told them that I was changing my major to communications.

"Thank God."

So now what? This is the mystical gooey land of opportunity. I'm going to the most prominent and  shiveringly expensive school in the state. But I just don't know what the hell to do with all these gift baskets and lucky charms.

...I really only picked communications because the only other major more generic than that is a business degree. And I just can't handle macroeconomics.

I feel like I used to be so much more profound, deep, and knowledgeable of myself. Now I feel like these words are empty shells of their potential.

"Remind you of someone?"

Don't think I'm being hard on myself. This is just how I think through things.
I'm critical, I'm cynical and I may be even just a little bit crazy. 

"I don't believe in using insanity as an excuse."

I don't let it define me. Change me. Or even really effect me.
I either allow it to make me better or suffocate it till it can't even breathe annoying shallow breaths anymore.

"That'll show you."


My darling Muse is off exploring the world.  Probably in Poland or something trying to culture herself. She still writes and stays in touch, but it's not how it used to be. Not really.

Not like how she used to latch herself onto my back and constantly whisper pretty words for me to scribble down and show the world then take all the credit.
"Because I'm selfish like that."

My Muse obviously got restless though and needed to stretch her legs. Felt inclined to see a cobblestone path or maybe an Eiffel Tower or two.

Remember how this blog was supposed to be about Denver? And how I said I would write his story next time?

"I Lied."


See you,

-A&D. 

Let's Be Honest. Let's Get Personal.

Denver and I talked about ourselves today.
It is remarkable how often we change yet don't even realize that it happened until we already baptized ourselves into these new forms.
The fiancé and I have commented multiple times that we don't think we would have liked each other in high school.
Funny how things turn out.

I hope you don't mind if I tell my part of the discussion with Denver first, his will be next time. I want to perfectly translate his story to you since it really is quite beautiful.
Denver also said that it would be good for me to publicize this anyway; I have some things to get off my chest.


You know how when you're really angry at someone? You know, really angry?
Like you'd say you hate them now because they've made you so angry. But you can't confront them for what they did for certain reasons, like they're your boss, or the president or dead.
And then someone suggests that you write a letter expressing everything you feel to them. 
But then you can do whatever you want with that letter.
Shred it, burn it, leave it in your desk drawer next to old batteries and paperclips.
You could send it too you know, if you really felt up to it.
Felt brave enough to.
Maybe brave isn't the word to use; it can't be applicable to everyone.
Because you can be scared instead.
That can be your motive to send the letter to someone you hate. That's how I did it.

I wrote that letter out of fear, sheer terror. Because I hate that person,
but I'm even more scared of her.

This girl is me, or rather was me. The old me. We'll call her Angela because I've always hated being called that. I'm not saying I wrote a letter to myself because that's just too personal and I'm not comfortable with getting personal with this girl because she scares me.

I didn't hate Angela a year ago; I didn't even know she existed yet. She paraded down the linoleum hallways smacking her red lips at the Clouds, Knitted Sweaters and everything else she thought was beautiful. She spent far too much time daydreaming about people who would never love her back which is why she longed for them in the first place.
She wore itchy socks and tight jeans because that's what the pretty girls wore and they had so many friends and always seemed to be smiling with those white teeth. Angela only smiled when she knew people were watching and when she came home she would lie on her bed for hours staring at the ceiling, daydreaming those same dreams.

Angela never knew what a real dream was.

Or what she could do with one if she caught hold of it. Angela never knew comfortable shoes existed and that it was healthier to eat protein and vegetables than just air.
I remember Angela had shifty eyes that were always looking around, making sure she was aware of everything around her so she wouldn't be taken by surprise. She said she only felt free in her writing but she still just wrote only what the Clouds and Knitted Sweaters wanted to hear.

Angela hated herself.

But she had too much pride to admit it so she blamed everyone around her. The Sweaters, the White Smiles and the Clouds. Angela ran away and slowly died a painless death. It's because she was so weak you know?

Months later, I found out who Angela was. I learned she had lots of friends and wore too much eyeliner. She had never really wanted to kiss anyone but really just wanted to feel like someone wanted to kiss her. Angela had fake hair, fake glasses and fake smiles. She hated it all.

Denver was the one who told me to write the letter. I cannot send it though because she's dead remember? Slow and painless remember?
Like the first time you get a head-rush. You just don't know what is happening, but you feel certain that it's wrong but necessary.
Angela knew she was dying but didn't mind much. She hated herself all the same.
I never went to the funeral or saw the obituary.
No one packed up her clothes until I found them lying dusty in her drawers.
I would leave flowers by her tombstone if she had one but no one knows where it is.
She just died and no one really cared much after that.

I haven't burned the letter I wrote or shredded it. I can't send it either, not yet. I'll keep it in one of her sweater's pockets because if she comes back she'll find it and she'll know how I feel.
That's why I'm scared. Because she might come back home you know?
I'm happy right now...and Angela never really was.
She threatens that cherished emotion and that's why I hate her. That's why I wrote the letter that I cannot send. Because how can happiness and self-hatred exist when the Clouds don't care which side you take? Only if you compliment the shape they are today.


See you,

A&D.

Envy and Noses

Certain emotions are absolutely unbelievable don't you think?
As a constant evolving and adapting species you think we'd grow out of them.
But no,
I believe they are there for a reason.

It's somewhat selfish of me not to recognize that Denver had a life before me. It's unfair that I get jealous or uninterested when he brings it up. I can't control those emotions though, I was given the ability to have them for a reason and I need to accept that. I also need to accept that other people pressed their noses up to Denver's tank and appreciated his sapphire fins.
I'm sure he's accepted that I had other fish before him too,
so who am I to act spiteful?
I need to accept that I'm not Denver's actual birth-mother and that he has every right to say "you can't tell me what to do."

I still give him his bloodworm treats though since I'm a pushover.

And now I'm thinking about how my innocent yet exotic companion might have had heartbreak and fights with those other Petco customers with their smashed noses crushed against his home. That might be why he wasn't purchased until he met me. Perhaps it was fate, and along with my inexplicable emotions it all occurred for a reason. Maybe the person who would have walked past after me would have pressed his nose a little to hard on his tank and knocked poor Denver's home off the shelf.
Thank God that did not happen.

And now I'm wondering if it's possible to talk to your fish too much.
Thanks for sticking around buddy.

See you,

-A&D

Wombs and Mems.

So I was checking Denver's Facebook the other day and I came across his baby pictures.
He was like any other baby is when they are first born.
Slimy, wet, bug eyed, and starving.
Denver had 59 brothers and sisters.
Some were twins, some were stillborn some were absolute assholes.
But overall Denver has good memories of them, I'm glad he can remember his childhood like that.

They all sat together in their little fish pods, laying about and talking about how weird their parents actually looked.
Because you see, when you have 59 other versions of yourself slammed into the same place, two full grown betta fish look like fat sparkly magicians.


When I think back to my childhood, the first thing I think about is that it sucks that I don't remember much of it like Denver does. But I don't get too down on it, because there was obviously a reason why I discarded those memories. Reasons like pain, terror, unimportance, or mental disfunctionality.
We all can't have incredible infantile memory power like fish.

So how come I have some memories of these other things though?
I don't remember where I got the scar on my wrist from.
(Some nasty people make judgements.)
Yet I remember when I was in the 4th grade during P.E. class. We were playing kickball and I distinctly remember breaking my nail.
I remember the color of the dirt beneath my feet, how hot it was outside, what the peel of pain felt like on my finger. But where did this tiny scar on my wrist come from? When?

How come I barely remember the high school Christmas dance but I remember when I was young, sitting in the bathtub and discovering that I had a birthmark next to my navel?

Why do I remember the sad breakup I had almost three years ago--something that actually made me feel hurt, but I don't remember the breakup that happened in 9th grade which was meaningless, mutual, and nondramatic?

I push away some pains, circumstances, memories, good or bad, yet I lock on to others.
How dare my brain decide what is worth keeping and what gets thrown into the wood chipper.

I wish I remembered why I wanted to write this.

See you,

A&D

From Colorado to Crusty Pods

Did you know Denver is a Siamese Fighting Fish?
I read that on his fish food.

It's something like this I'm sure.

Did you know how I got the name Denver? I'm not sure myself, it might be because I eventually want to live in Denver. (The city not the fish. But who knows).
Denver is hope and a goal. And now I get to feed it small nutrition flakes with blood worms as the main ingredient.

I picked a name for Denver before I bought him,
I got a home for Denver before I bought him,
I had conversations with Denver before I bought him.

I had already created a bouquet of expectations for him to be greeted with before I even set eyes on those scales. I realize that I do this a lot with many things.

Hunger levels.
Meeting people.
Tolerance of teachers.
Shoe discomfort.
The eventual insight I may gain by speaking to a fish.

This makes me think of occasions where the fiance asks why I never really dated anyone in high school.

 I realized it was because I fell for guys that didn't actually exist.

I projected fake characteristics that I expected they fulfill.
I got disappointed by the actual result, of course.
That's what I get.

But the fiance worked out because he pounced on me before I could make any impossible delusions about him. Like willing to watch Gossip Girl with me. (I got him to do it once.)

I doubt Denver will disappoint me. Even though I made a bunch of expectations of him, I feel like him being just him will be enough.



I like to think my life is like the constant unstableness of a caterpillar lifestyle. There's that mushy fuzzy time where you just eat and grow and be cute but disgusting. Then you grow this moldy icky shell which I think of as the awkward stage in adolescence.
Middle school. Definitely middle school.

While sitting in that crusty pod of my own goop and what I once was I was thinking the whole time, "It's going to be worth it. It's going to be worth it."
Pretty sure that part was high school for me.
I had zits, braces, and a nasty attitude about myself that matched.

I graduated. Am I a Rhopalocera now?

That's the scientific name for a butterfly.
I'm brilliant. And so is google.



See you,

A&D

Discovering Denver

This is about Denver. My new fish companion.
Let me tell you, we hit it right off the bat.
I had spent nearly a half hour at Petco looking for my new adam's ale cohort. Originally I had picked this glossy white betta with creepy black eyes. But then I walked past this sapphire beauty and my heart just stopped. This was the one. I spent $14.99 on the creature.

 I think it's because he's some sort of bigwig paladin or something.

I assume Denver is somewhat happy now, seeing as how when I got him he was originally living in a container no bigger than an empty can of beef ravioli. But who knows, maybe the close proximity was a comfort for him and now he is overwhelmed by all the excess fish bowl not being used. Maybe I'll find Denver a lady friend. I'm actually not sure of bettas or their sexual orientation. I hear they kill eachother a lot.
I like to think that if some sub-aquatic gladiator fish tournament happened my little guy would be vicious.

Perhaps I'll get him a pirate toy or something.
Someone he can talk to like I talk to him. Maybe he is talking to me and I just don't understand him and he doesn't understand me and we're both just sort of comforted by the idea of someone listening.
It's only a glass bowl  between us. A tangible material that can shatter at any moment.
But I just tossed my last can of ravioli so I'd prefer Denver to live here.


I'll keep this first post short. But Denver and I have some great conversations to share if you're willing to listen to the watery stories of an orphaned fish and his fleshy human friend.

See you.

A & D.