Remember the dream you had, you told me about it, it was when you were reading all of those books about tragic, beautiful young virgin saint-girls who would get diagnosed with a terminal illness, charm some boy into falling in love with them, and then die? You told me you had a dream. I got leukemia. I wasn’t beautiful or a saint, but I was a virgin because we were maybe thirteen. You told me it made you cry, that it was a horrible dream, you woke up and for a moment you thought it was real and you hated it. You made me promise not to die on you, and I laughed and I hugged you, and I promised, because it was so sweet and so endearing and so completely you. I promised.

This was after you’d changed your whole bedroom, got new bedding and painted the walls. I loved that room, did I ever tell you? Maybe not the colors. We never agreed on that, really. But I loved the big bed in the middle and the little make-up counter where you told me that I had “such a nice, even skin tone.” Almost every time I put on make-up I remember you saying that. I don’t know if it’s true, or if you knew a damn thing about skin tones at the time, but you sounded very serious and you had samples from Mary Kay and you were so excited to do my make-up for me.

I wrote you a letter once that I never sent, as a kind of therapy. All of my writing is a kind of therapy. I like to talk to you in my head sometimes, to remember. You are part of my foundations. I learned things from you and us. You are important. I can’t remember what the letter said. I can remember throwing it away. I was sad then; whenever I’m writing letters or poems, over and over, I tend to be sad. Today my mom hugged me, gasping into my hair, I know you get sad sometimes but please don’t ever leave, don’t do that to me. I thought of the letters. Did you ever talk to me?

I was going to send you a message last night, but it was late, oh, I’ll wait until tomorrow. I wanted to know what you were planning to use your degree for. I thought you seemed excited. I was excited for you, and it’d been a long time, and I didn’t make it to your birthday party. Now it’s tomorrow, and you will never have another birthday party.

Your dad came into Walgreens looking for batteries. He seemed tired, or distracted. I wanted to think of something more exciting to say to him but I couldn’t. I kept smiling at his turned back. He looks a bit older, your dad, but he’s still unmistakably your dad. I’ve always liked him a lot. I like his quietness, his gangly limbs, his instruments. I like the way he looks when he is listening. Your mom looks just the same. Maybe older, too, but there’s a sturdiness to her every expression that does not change. You know. She’s a small woman, but she fills her space. It’s admirable, really. And they’ve always been so good to me. Generous and kind. They laugh at my jokes.

I can’t watch Monty Python, or even hear the name mentioned without thinking of you. Did I ever tell you how much I love your house? I said earlier that I loved your room, and that was true, but your room is an extension, isn’t it? Of your whole house? And your whole house is beautiful, and warm, and makes me feel like I am on a happy vacation. I think it might be the walls, or the way you have a tiny closed-in closet for coats, or all of the picture frames. I think I’ve still spent more nights sleeping over in your bed than I have in anyone else’s. I lay down today and realized, bolt-of-lighting style, that my bed is the same as it was all those times we stayed on the phone until one in the morning, knowing we had school the next day. I don’t want this letter to sound cliche, but isn’t it already cliche, the way I want to say I’m sorry, over and over, replace everything with just that phrase, addressed to you, to your family, to everyone who feels a guilt or a sadness or an anger here, now?

You’re with me always in tiny ways. There are even times I hear your mom in my head when I walk differently, talking about you. She always walks on her tippy toes. Did you still do that? The unhappiest thing is that I don’t know. I thought I’d have time. I thought I’d be able to see you again before you went somewhere too far for me to get to. A question, if you can answer it: do you remember me kissing your wrists? I’d hoped to heal something. I’d hoped to love you enough.

I never thought to make you promise me back.

I’m sorry. I said I wanted to say it. I’m sorry anything could hurt you so much. I’m sorry for anyone who didn’t get the chance they wanted, if not to love you, at least to know you. It was a joy to know you. It was a joy to know that you were alive in the world, touching and feeling and thinking. It’s impossible to believe that you aren’t, and that you won’t. I never stop loving a person I loved as deeply as you. I won’t stop now. I hope you can feel it, wherever you are.


my co-worker asked me who i had a crush on at work and i said “myself” and he said Nah C’mon Really Though. who is jokin in this place, tho? who is gettin jocular on company time???? not i. im serious as the grave. i’m stannin for myself in every universe, every timeline, every second. 


raoul dufy

a chat some pals and I are having on fb that sums it up:

  • me: SO I watched the 50 Shades trailer because MY MOM MADE ME (???) and like, look, I’m not even one to jump in when everyone starts talking shit about something that is v obviously flawed if I haven’t read it or anything, and I’m not even gonna do that right now, like I can’t really critique the book because I’ve read like a page of it, etc etc, BUT LET’S JUST WORK W/ THIS TRAILER ALONE…. PLEASE WATCH… AND UNDERSTAND…

    Everything he says is terrifying? If someone came and sat next to me asked me to tell him about myself in that tone of voice when I am obviously nervous and vulnerable and he is obviously in a position of power I would shit myself??? I am immediately defensive of her even knowing she’s gonna be all about this (because her mother never loved her or taught her anything I guess)… EVERYTHING HE SAYS IS SO SCARY??? “I don’t do love… I was terrifying when I was younger… I EXERCISE CONTROL IN ALL THINGS… I’M INCAPABLE OF LEAVING YOU ALONE” OH MY /FUCKING GOD/????? HE’S GOING TO KILL HER?? LIKE THESE ARE THE WORDS OF A MURDERER? IS THIS MOVIE ABOUT MURDER???? IS THIS ABOUT TO BE THE BIGGEST PLOT TWIST OF ALL TIME???????? “YOU THOUGHT WE WERE MAKING THESE BOOKS INTO A MOVIE BUT WE ARE ACTUALLY MAKING AN EDUCATIONAL FILM ABOUT WHY THESE BOOKS ARE COMPLETE AND TOTAL GARBAGE AND WHY YOU NEED TO UPGRADE YOUR FANTASY STAT”


  • Michaela: this movie would be so good as a horror flick

  • melike she’s drinking wine with a friend one night and can’t figure out why the fuzz at the edge of her vision is making her so nervous, so she keeps putting the glass down and picking it back up, not wanting to seem discourteous or—why does her mind keep leaping to the word ‘obedient?’ and she’s taking tiny sips but she doesn’t want to, she knows the fuzziness would go away then and she’d be less vulnerable, and that would make her less nervous. why would that make her less nervous? in a sudden rush of feeling she sets the glass down hard enough to upset it, the wine spilling over the pine of the table, gushing red, hot and greedy for the wood, soaking into it—i’m sorry! she whispers, terrified, and her friend (let’s call her B), looks at her, already having swung around to the extra roll of paper towels on the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “it’s just a glass of wine,” she says, blotting some of the mess, “and this table’s just from ikea, you know. it’s not like, my grandma’s antique desk—Ana, seriously, stop looking at me like that. you’re scaring me.” and Ana has her arms on her elbows and is holding herself very still on the couch cushion. i’m sorry she says again and she’s not sure what she’s sorry for that time—being scared? spilling the wine? she’s confused. she stares at B. is she scared? she hasn’t talked much about fear, recently. she doesn’t remember saying the word aloud, not once, not for weeks. “i’m afraid,” she says. it’s loud. B stares at her, hard. “of what?” “I think I’m afraid of him.” AND SHE STARTS SLOWLY TO AWAKEN FROM HER STUPOR, AND BECOMES MORE ALERT TO HER OWN FEELINGS OF TERROR, BECOMES AWARE OF HOW TRAPPED SHE IS, OF HOW SHE IS BEING MANIPULATED. and is amazed and then horrified that he doesn’t sense a difference, not a true one, maybe thinks it’s all part of the plan or his game, this game he is so happy to be in control of, with no rules outlined—not that she can understand, anyway… and he goes so far one day that he hurts her, truly hurts her, and rather than seeming apologetic he gives her that same open, wide-eyed look, “I told you you should stay away from me” and when she can’t understand his lack of passion, he repeats, “I maintain control in all things. I must maintain control in all things”

  • Imaani: hope have you ever considered a career in doing screenplays or like….being a fucking professional boggart, that was legitimately terrifying

  • Devin: i am literally on the verge of tears over this whole thing, i’m so fucking scared of this movie. like everything about this book is horrifying, like the fact that it got published, that it sold bILLIONS of copies, that women are reading this shit and thinking this is romantic/sexy and then the rest of the world casting it over their shoulder saying “this is just girly smut, go read a real book”

    it seems so fucking obvious to me that this is dangerous shit? and still people are jumping in defending it saying “haha you just dont understand bdsm” because they are so blind, so normalized to the idea of a woman being a submissive sex object, that this becomes an argument about sexual freedom when that is entirely not the point at all. the way…. the trailer…. it’s horrifying. watching this timid, insecure girl literally TREMBLING just because she is TALKING to this wildly successful man who has all these giant red flags waving around about being like a sociopath or hwatever

    like okay good for you if you like getting whipped you can ponder over that on your own time but it is NOT CUTE AND ROMANTIC to be with someone who has that much control and dominance and ljaksmdfk ji’m so fucking scared that so many women are even OKAY with this and want this so bad like so many women that i love want to fuck christian grey and it would be so easy, you know, to find someone who likes to control other people and is morally gray and throw themselves into a literally abusive relationship under the guise of a kinky sexual relationship like nO

    rape culture is real

you used to have a link in your sidebar or tags or something to your writing blog, but it's not there anymore and i was wondering if you'd mind terribly linking to it again? :) i love your writing and i draw a lot of inspiration from it. if you don't want to link it, i understand! thanks and/or sorry in advance!

it was in my about me, and the link used to be in my sidebar but now it’s gone, which is purposeful, because I forget how much I like my blog to be about me in a more obscure way? I like to use my blog to represent myself online while not… worrying TOO much about how I come across… because I’m not in an important enough position in the world to have to fashion an image like that, and that feels like something I need to remember right now. you did not ask for the thought processes behind my blogging and revamping my blog layout, I’m sorry.

I’m also sorry that my writing blog is a gray wasteland full of nothing but unedited, overemotional vomit garbage that I for some reason feel compelled to dump on the people on the internet, rather like this personal blog of mine, as a kind of catharsis. AND especially sorry that I’ve not posted anything new for ages and ages.

I’m planning on rectifying that very soon. I took a little detour from finishing On Writing, the end of which marks my return to writing on a schedule, because goddamn it, I will write, every day, again. I will not grow rusty with disuse. I will not squander my mother’s faith in my abilities, and I will not forget that there are people like you out in the world, drawing inspiration from me.

do you know how much this message touched me when I first got it? I was overwhelmed. I think it might’ve been the last thing I read before I fell asleep, because I wanted it to be right there in my head. or maybe it was the latter; I wanted it to be the last thing I read, because it was so kind, and generous, and wonderful, and seemingly impossible. every time someone comes forward, claiming I’ve done something like this for them—inspired them, helped them win an emotional battle, comforted them in a way that’s allowed them to love themselves better—I am overcome by the sense that there is a purpose to what I love to do, and a purpose to my trying very hard to be what I am. it’s life-affirming and gorgeous and I am deeply grateful to every soul that offers such feeling.

it’s 2 AM and I meant to go to sleep a bit ago but I’ve been reading Kristin Cashore’s blog since I’ve just finished re-reading all of her books (it took me less than a week, which proves I’ve not lost the ability to read quickly, obviously, and a stupid thing to worry about, but nonetheless) and I’ve got so many things to say about them and her but it’s rather late and I’m tired and full of!!! promise? hope, maybe. I’d forgotten how well a book could do that for me. I’ve been very afraid of never reading in the same way ever again, but reading these (for about the fifth time) I’ve realized that of course I still love books just as well as I did and they still love me back, and it’s very heartening, and a huge comfort. I’m very afraid, still, to love them so much, and want so much to write my own, because while I’ll agree that probably everyone talks as much in their head as I do, I don’t know that it’s everyone who narrates everything, or invents so many conversations and situations in different rooms with people they’ve never met or heard of, and uses them as a way to relax and pull back from the stresses of their life, and maybe to muddle through problems or emotions they’ve not gotten a proper look at. and even if it is, even if I’m not at all unique in any aspect of myself, even if there are a thousand people who are cleverer or quicker or more generous or better at managing their time, even if every person I ever meet from this day forward is better at whatever thing it is, in my moment of meeting them, I’m wishing to be better at—it doesn’t matter, because I’ve decided, and I’ve told myself, and my heart, that I want to write, that I love to write, and I do, and I will. and if it takes forever for the fear to leave me, of if it never does, and only retreats far enough to allow me the room to do again what I used to in order to keep it at bay, then that’s fine. I can live with that. I can live with anything, so long as I remember to love and trust myself. so long as I remember to allow myself the things I’ve chosen, and want, and adore, and need. I am big enough to carry my fear and my faith. I am big enough to hold within me everything I need to hold and still be seen, by those who love and know me, as strong and smart and good, and capable. above everything capable, and a writer.


have u all thanked space + time + ancestors past for leading us to a life that exists at the same time as hope? if you have, do it again. be grateful every day that things have worked out in such a way that we get to know hope and have her know us.

this is probably a hundred million years old but I just saw it and oh my God????

me in actual real life