My New Workout Regimen, Through Adventure Time Gifs

I’ve recently started working out.

I was tired of being lazy.

Even though being lazy can be so gratifying.

I’ve got some extra assets that i’d rather not have.

I’m a lady, but you get the idea.


So I started running.

But running is hard.

I also started to do squats, weights, and ab work at the gym.


I want to be able to do this some day.


But I really like food.




But working out can be cool.

You can do fun moves:


Jump rope:


Blow off some steam:



And you can shame those that eat those delicious fatty foods you’ve given up:


Most of all, you can work towards becoming the person you’ve always dreamed of being:


But for now, my dreams are put on hold:


A Short Enumeration of All My Flaws

I think very carefully before I speak and sometimes it still comes out wrong.

There’s a dripping faucet and I can’t get my mind to turn off the sound, drip, drip…

I don’t know why I just wrote out the onomatopoeia for a dripping faucet. Everyone knows what a dripping faucet sounds like. Dripping faucets sound the same all over the world. All dripping faucets sound alike. Beisdes, ‘drip’ isn’t really an onomatopoeia at all; it’s a verb. The faucet is dripping. A more accurate description of the sound the dripping faucet makes would be ‘plink, plink.’ “The dripping faucet sounds as though it is dripping,” is essentially what I just said. 

When I was in middle school I didn’t wash my hair; I took plenty of showers and I didn’t smell, I just always put my hair in a shower cap before washing

Like, what’s even the point? it takes more time to shove 15 centimeters of hair into a shower cap than it does to work in some shampoo-


I don’t know the metric system; I have no idea how long 15 centimeters is. I am American and it is my fate to never know how long 15 centimeters is, or how many miles is a kilometre. I say it’s because I am American but really I am just lazy. 


I can never fall asleep. It’s 2:44 a.m. when I’m writing this. I bet you could tell. But you’re too polite to say anything.

I’m too nice. I befriend the misfits and other lumps of breathing flesh that no one else wants to be friends with. Then I find out why no one else wants to be friends with them (usually, they have horrible personalities and also they smell) and then I regret being so nice. Like a saint or something. That’s what I am.

I’m horrible; I say things I don’t mean. I have a lot of enemies, but I’m too nice and don’t say anything to them and they don’t know that we are my enemies. Mortal enemies. They probably think we’re friends. They are so wrong.


I’m too short. I wish I could count it as a disability. I can’t reach anything and my legs are stubby. I just want the parking decal. I hate to park so far away. 


Once I was pushing a shopping cart back to the place where all of the shopping carts hang out and snigger amongst themselves after dark—the shopping cart paddock. The shopping cart stable.  And I was being lazy and thought that it would be okay to not put the cart out to pasture and instead lean it against a large statue of a giant sphere. This was at a supermarket. I do not know why they had such a large statue of a giant sphere, but there it was. I leaned the cart up against it and started to walk away. The sphere was on an incline, as spheres are wont to be, but I did not know this about spheres at the time. The cart’s wheels gave way to gravity and the whole thing was yanked down the slope and started to roll into the traffic circle where people pull up their cars and make minimum-wage shopboys put all their bags away for them.  There was a woman in a bright red car that looked new, and the cart chugged towards it. She screamed at me to snatch the cart but I didn’t do anything about it and just stood there like I was dumb. The cart hit her red car that looked new and probably scratched up the paintjob and left a dent. I ran back into the store and pretended to look at comics while my mind raced. Is shopping cart negligence a crime? Could I be arrested for letting my cart roam free? I worried about it this for months. I also slept with the lights on because I was afraid of Bruce Willis’ ghost coming to haunt me. I was ten years old and The Sixth Sense had just come out. My emotions were very fragile.


Most of all, even now, while I sit in bed, at 2:57 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, I am still thinking about the day when I was ten and let my shopping cart ding up a lady’s red car that looked new and then after went home and slept with all the lights on. 


Down the boulevard

There is a little chapel

And inside of it, past its thickened iron-wrought doors,

Meet two strangers who will never meet again.

They talk over the sacrificial wine; they say grace together over two loaves.

They eat in silence.

One asks the other for his name.

It’s Eduardo

And he lives by the river. He makes his living

Giving guided boat tours of the local valley, crosscut

By two mountains, framed by them from both sides.

He has lived her his whole life, but he has never set foot inside this chapel until today.

It is Wednesday evening and no one is there save the two strangers.

I am very troubled,

Says Eduardo,

Troubled by what I have done,

Stolen kisses along the riverwalk with

One of the college boys from the city.

The other man cups his hands and tells Eduardo that he is forgiven.


Without knowing why,

Believes what the man says to be truth.

He kisses him on the mouth and the other man kisses him back.

Down the boulevard

Eduardo walks on Sunday  to the little chapel,

Framed by fig trees half in bloom.

His pockets are full with a donation for the church.

He asks for the janitor,

A tall man,

Who slept the floor on Wednesday night,

Who prayed with him and

Offered him solace.

“There is no Wednesday janitor,” says the parishioner.

Eduardo fumbles for the words.

“But he told me his name—

He was called Jesús.”

Who Will Play Wonder Woman? My Vote’s In For Emily Blunt

So, according to the folks at Entertainment Weekly, that Wonder Woman movie that’s been in development hell for the past decade will finally see the light in teh next few years, thanks to the folks over at Marvel raking in ungodly amounts of money from The Avengers. Seems like the good people down at DC Comics are finally realizing that ass sells tickets. No, guys don’t really want to see a female superhero, but they do want to see a female in a skintight supersuit.

Being of the lady persuasion, this is the reason I really went to see the Avengers.

After all, you can’t spell The Avengers without t  and a, if you know what i’m saying.

Anyhow, since it seems like the Wonder Woman movie might finally occur, i’m putting in my bet now:

Emily Blunt.

Yes, she’s British.

But here’s why she’d make a good super heroine:

1) She’s sassy

2) she’s hot

An American accent isn’t that difficult to pull off. And, after Anne Hathaway was woefully cast in The Dark Knight Rises, we now know that anything goes.

Emily Blunt looks the part. She’s a pale brunette with a killer bod and eyes that seem to twinkle with the power of the unknown. Did I mention she’s attractive?

Anyhow, if my prediction is right, you heard it here first.  Something about this woman screams Wonder Woman to me.


Perfectly carved

Like a sculpture old

She stands on the stage

Wearing only a sash

Please do not look

She has only tonight

Before it all fades

The twisting lights

Blue and green and

Red and yellow and-

There she is.

If you look

You may never see


February The First

February came
With all the excitement of a wet leaf
Soggy, damp, and dew-dropped.

The leaf holds no promise for me;
Prim-rose and parquets line
The cusp of my garden.

But to the vole; squeaky, sullen
Silent among the reeds and thistles
The wet leaf means renewal.

First Hobbit Teaser

The first teaser trailer for The Hobbit was released this evening on iTunes! It’s pretty spiffy, and fairly long and detailed as far as teasers go. Check it out here:

A Rare Form of Solitude

Victor is a spy:

Not a very good one, he

Is constantly seen

Perching on windowsills

Holding still on planters

Peering through windowpanes,

Big slats of smudged glass.


His mother is dead:

Not a very good death, she

Was diagnosed with some rare form of

Hodkins-Non Hodkins Sickle Cell Breast Pelvic Oral Skin radiation,

Or maybe she just fell off something very high, or

Maybe she was never really here at all; like an angel, or

A magic woman, come with potions and tonics resplendent.




His father shouts:

Angrily, from the balcony, he

Calls down onto the street below

Worried about the dinner on the table:

Did he cook it just right? Is it too cold?

Will he stimulate Victor in

Pragmatic, analytic, thought-provoking, developmentally rich

Dinner conversation? What with

Marie gone, and so suddenly.




Victor hears the echoes:

He crouches on a stoop, a crumpling one with

A rusty handrail and graffiti-stained granite steps

Leading up to a dilapidated building that houses

A thousand boring people who Victor is intently interested in.

He hides from his father’s call, beckoning

Him into a house he no longer desires, a life

That died along with his mother.




His father shouts into the night:

He sees his son under a thin strand of

Lamplight pooling on the steps

Of a long-forgotten stoop.

And oh, his son cowers, frightened of

A past that wasn’t so forgiving—

A childhood ripped and jarred.

Victor’s father walks inside the apartment

From the balcony and sits at the table to dine,


He says grace, asking God to bless Marie,





His mother cries from he clouds:

She says it softly, sweetly, she

Coos into his floppy ear.

Victor sits on the stoop and says Grace,


While Marie sits up in the stars

And waits.

Playlist: December

Here’s what I’ve been listening to this frosty December:

Through The Night these Days……..Jason Collett

Cosmic Love…………………………….Florence and the Machine

Cello Song……………………………….The Books

Leaves in the River…………………….Sea Wolf

Duet For Two Guitars #2……………..M. Ward

Helplessness Blues……………………..Fleet Foxes

Rooms……………………………………..Mia and Jonah

Born a Wolf……………………………….Vows

Battery Kinzie…………………………….Fleet Foxes

Yankee Bayonet………………………….The Decemberists

In The Morning………………………….The Coral

Two Headed Boy…………………………Neutral Milk Hotel

Coeur Valant……………………………..Howard Shore

Money……………………………………..The Drums

A Literary Mecca: A Short Journey to The Graves of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald

The headstone sits plainly in the churchyard, next to a much older grave with faded, ancient words. The rest of the sloppy, slanted stones in the yard are old and faded and weatherworn– forgotten. And yet, here is a stone, clean and well cared for, the resting place of a husband and wife. The husband was born in 1896 and died in 1940, and the wife was born in 1900 and died in 1948. Neither lived to see the 1950’s and all their clandestine, clean folds, their primitive modernities and primal luxuries. Neither lived to see anything past that final decade, ten years or so after their heyday. And, yet, their lives were complete without what could have been, almost. They lived more in those 40-some-odd years than most do in 80, 90, 100. But they were so young. And here, in a new century, 70 years later, their grave is clean and cared for. A bottle of open sauvignon sits on the lower stone, next to a glass filled with its contents. A tea candle sits beside the glass, recently snuffed by the wind. Pennies and stones sit on the upper-stone’s head, a visitor’s acknowledgment– I came for you!

You can almost see the two ghosts sitting there in the yard, the husband in a well-tailored suit and the wife in minks and furs. They sip from the sauvignon and their pockets jangle with the weight of many pennies.

Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald

September 24, 1896

December 21, 1940

 His wife

 Zelda Sayre

 July 24, 1900

  March 10, 1948


A Literary Mecca

Today, I closed the cover over the last page of The Great Gatsby, having read it for the first time. In all of my many years as a lover of literature I had never found the time to read Fitzgerald. And, now, after only a few days after picking up the book on a whim, I was enthralled. Not by his decadent, overwrought lifestyle like many, but by the brilliance and depth of his prose; the way my brain latched on to every word and sunk into it like an animal’s hungry maw on a chunk of raw meat. The whole day lay ahead of me, so I decided to go on a little trip.

F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife, Zelda, were buried in Rockville, Maryland, in a family plot.  They were interred at St. Mary’s, Rockville’s oldest Catholic church. Fitzgerald was not from Maryland, but he often visited an old family estate, and took residence in Towson, a suburb of Baltimore, for some time. F. Scott and Zelda felt an affinity for Maryland, and, so, after a feud between the Fitzgerald’s daughter and the Catholic Church, who claimed that the man was not a practicing Catholic during his life, the Fitzgeralds were finally buried on the hill in Rockville.

Living in Northern Virginia, just a half-hour’s drive from Rockville, I decided I should take the time to drive up and pay my respects to a man whose work I already so admire. For, when it comes to prose, I latch on to what I love and hold tight, steadfast, and never let it go.

The road to Rockville was uneventful, and I wound my way through the hills and flats of Rockville, a suburban Maryland city, the center of the sprawling Montgomery County. The sky was grey and a rough wind slapped against the car’s windshield. School children leapt off buses and into traffic, swerving and running wit their hands over their head, excited for the end of the school day, the promise of Christmas break glowing in their eyes. A homeless man stood on a median and begged for change, holding a sign ‘Homeless with a bad heart– help?’. I imagined him as Klipspringer from Gatsby, a shiftless freeloader who lives in Jay Gatsby’s marvelous estate.

St Mary’s came up suddenly on the right, and I jerked my way through a lane of traffic to make the narrow turn into the parking lot, which was full of running cars, of parent’s waiting for the Catholic day school to spill their children out unto the street. I parked behind the school, a modern building, and walked around the line of cars to the old Church building, which stood white and regal, facing the busy street, its reflection painted in a towering glass office building across the intersection. Beside it was a patch of grass– faded, unmanicured– behind a black gate. The gate wasn’t locked and there was no one in the yard save for me. There in the center was the largest, cleanest grave, the author’s final resting place.

What does it mean, when even F. Scott Fitzgerald can’t make money writing? What does it mean when America’s most treasured author dies of drink, falling against a mantlepiece into his mistress’ arms? What does it mean when his wife, a sharp mind herself, dies alone in a mental hospital fire, eight years later?

I ask his grave this, silently. I put my hand against the stone and mutter useless questions to a man who has been dead for over 70 years.

And, don’t tell anyone this, but I think i felt a shiver go through my arm and down my spine, and I think I felt a little more calm after that.

In the final chapters of The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby, really, James Gatz, dies in a swimming pool, shot through with bullets. The narrator, Nick Carraway, phones everyone who ever knew Gatsby–his numerous party guests, his business associates, Klipspringer the freeloader.

No one comes to the funeral,and the grandiosity of Jay Gatsby’s pretended life is over, finally and wordlessly.

I went to F. Scott Fitzgerald’s grave on a cold and grey December evening to tell him this:

You are not Jay Gatsby, and your fire burns still, and the party is never over, and the book is never put down.

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