The Seventeen Year Locust

The Seventeen Year Locust

Like the cicada she rises

After seventeen long years

Lifted from her cave

Beneath the earth’s surface.


The dirt, the debris

The weight of the years

Has caused her fragile wings

To snap upon first flutter.


She waits on the ground

While the others, who

Too waited for the light

Of first morning break free.


Alone, left behind

She waddles along

The dirt pathway,

Ignored by all.


As the others mate,

Flapping through the air,

Fluttering together,

Intimately, briefly-


She watches in

Stunned silence,

Chirping to herself,

Jealousy, jealousy.


For she was born

To be beautiful, her

Exoskeleton perfectly

Molded to fit against the curves of her-



She flaps,

Attempting to take flight,

And, of course, goes nowhere.





Above her,

The dance of love breathes,

Betraying her heart

With every flutter.



Each is paired,

And none are spared

From their inevitable,

Early demise.


They lay their eggs,

Tiny, slimy products

Of a brief and breathless

Winged encounter-




They die.

The parents die.


Their love is forgotten,

The eggs wait,

Alone, under the surface,

For seventeen hapless years.


And she, who is

Unpaired, waits for death

To greet her slowly.

The others dead, she lives on for months.



I love receiving mail. Snail mail. It’s probably one of my favorite feelings in the world.

Today, my amazing friend Cassie sent me a box of goodies, including these:

They’re delicious as they are adorably nerd-tastic. Thanks, Cassie!

American Attention Whore-or Story (Or, How Many Dead Babies Does It Take To Boost FX’s Ratings)

Wednesday nights used to be Modern Family night, full of laughs, wholesome family fun, and Sophia Vergara’s voluptuous form.

See, wholesome.

Now, however, Wednesday nights have become American Horror Story nights.

Why such a radical shift, you ask?

Because American Horror Story is just so fucking ridiculous.

Where shall I begin….

The show stars Dylan McDermott, who looks suspiciously like Ross from Friends.

David Schwimmer should sue him for copyright infringement.

It also stars Mrs. Coach from Friday Night Lights. I’m sure her character had a name, but I don’t really care, and i’m pretty sure most people don’t, either.

Mrs. Coach, I don't think we're in Texas anymore.

So anyways, David Schwimmer’s evil twin and Mrs. Coach move to LA from Boston, where David Schwimmer’s evil twin has been caught, and I quote, “pile-driving some 21-year-old’s pussy.”

David Schwimmer’s evil twin Dylan McDermott, who I will now refer to as Ross, is a psychiatrist. A really, really shitty psychiatrist who cries while he masturbates. But we’ll get to that later.

Ross and Mrs. Coach have a rebellious grunge-rock teen named Violet, who might be the most talented actress on the show (which is not a very high compliment). They also have a dog, I think. Maybe. Maybe the dog is dead. I’m not sure. Let’s be real here, if it isn’t dead, it soon will be.

What a loving family.

They move into this charming Victorian which is lovingly referred to as The Murder House by in-world horror enthusiast.

Let's move here. I hear this is a great neighborhood where murders never occur.

Unfortunately, the Murder House is not as friendly as it sounds.

First off, there’s this creepy southern belle neighbor, played by Jessica Lange, who may or may not be dead.

She probably doesn't even know if she's dead or not. Who fucking knows.

She has a penchant for baking poison cupcakes and has a habit of showing up unwanted at inconvenient times. Kind of like a really persistant yeast infection.

Then there’s the maid, who is certainly dead, because Jessica Lange shot her in the 1980’s. She appears to most as a woman in her sixties, but to Ross, the crying fapper, she looks like the hottest ginger in town.

Too bad he's the only one who gets to see this.

There’s Tate, the capriciously cute axe-murdering teenager, of whom Ross is supposed to treat. Of course, Ross is a shitty psychiatrist whose license to practice medicine should be revoked, and Violet and Tate start a bit of a bad romance. Which is kind of cute, but not really, because he’s probably also dead.

It's cute enough to already merit fan art. I guess.

In one episode, Tate and Violet trick the coke-head school bully to come to their haunted dead-baby basement under the false pretenses that they posses cocaine. Then Tate, with the aid of some mutated monster ghost phantom daemon devil baby, scares the living daylights out of Ms. Crack, and that takes care of that.

But he wears really cute sweaters, so all is forgiven.

Speaking of the mutated monster ghost phantom daemon devil baby, let’s talk about how the house was haunted in the first place. A normal murder, perhaps? Maybe some voodoo, or an ancient curse? Ha, poppycock! The house was originally haunted because of the illegitimate abortion clinic a crazy doctor was running in it in the 1920’s, to fund his research and his wife’s extravagant lifestyle.  We assume the abortions were pretty sketchy and over-priced, being as though it was the 1920’s and your only other option was a coat-hanger or a strong falcon punch to the torso. So at some point a patient’s boyfriend gets mad at the crazy abortion doctor and abducts and kills the doctor’s baby. Oh, cruel dramatic irony! Oh sweet poetic justice! Oh, marvelously abundant ratings boost!

That’s about all we know at this point. Oh, and there’s a bunch of jars of hacked up baby parts in the basement somewhere, and they killed some twin boys in the 1970’s. Oh, and there’s a guy who murdered his family in the house and now has terminal cancer and is on the loose. Oh, and there was a stylish gay couple a few years back that was murdered by a guy in a spandex onesie.

Mr. Spock lovingly plays the role of the stylish gay ghost.

Oh, also:

Mrs. Coach was knocked up by the guy in the spandex onesie, who is, presumably, the same spandex guy who killed Mr. Spock and his domestic partner. She thought it was Ross, but somehow she didn’t notice that someone’s penis other than her husband’s was inside of her. Now she is pregnant with his daemon baby which, at 8 weeks gestation, has made exactly one ultra-sound technician pass out.

In addition:

Ross’ “21 year old pussy” is pregnant with his love baby. Or, was pregnant with his love baby. Now she’s buried in the backyard with the maid’s body and who knows who else’s body. Ross builds a gazebo over it to hide his dead baby mama. How cute.

"I'm under a gazebo now. Maybe."

In short, this is the craziest fucking show that has ever aired on regular cable.

And, yet, I can’t look away. Every moment is a plot twist. I missed five minutes at the beginning of tonight’s episode, and I missed Spock and his partner being murdered via apple-bobbing-tub drowning.

So, you win FX. Your sensationalist dogma wins. I can pretend to hate it all I want. I can roll my eyes at each new dead baby that will inevitably rise from its grave. I can scoff at the fact that the Ross Gellar family still lives in a house that is haunted by a spandex sex ghost, even though every moment they spend living in it raises my blood pressure significantly.

But you all know i’m counting down the moments until next Wednesday.

Falleth From the Vine

(I’m not much of a poet, but here goes…)

“…As the leaf falleth off from the vine, and as the falling fig from the fig tree.” Isaiah 34:4



As the leaf falleth from the vine,

As the fig falleth from the fig tree,

You shall fall into my mine open arms,

And we shall tumble in the reedy boughs,

And all the world shall slumber.


And while they sleep

A thousand sheep

Shall be met with the sword of God.

And a thousand goats, and a thousand steeds,

Shall fall thereto.


The ground is soaked with blood,

The sky is grey with vengeance,

But we are perfect before his eyes

(Fallen into my arms)

Here among the reedy boughs.

A Cosmic Event



I look up at the stars, and the glare from the city lights links them together, like a connect-the-dots, like the stars were meant to be. There are greek heroes and giant beasts and ladies of great beauty up there, and they will always be up there, as they have always been.

There is no one who I can tell about the stars tonight, for everyone is asleep, or ornery, or both.



The best night sky I ever saw was around a campfire in Yosemite.

It was the fourth of July, but it was cool in the mountains, and the fireflies twinkled all about, and we threw woodchips into flame as kindling and the fire grew higher and higher until, I swear, it touched the heavens.

You can’t get stars like this in the city, the park ranger said, as she told a tale of Indians and of bears and pinecones, or something like that.



The second best night sky I ever saw was in Paris, in the fifteenth arondisement, where the streets were crumbling and old houses that stood for centuries gave way to a bulldozer, a drill, and a project to expand the city metro. We sat smoking on the balcony, our legs dangling over the edge, and I swear I could see a couple fucking in the balcony across from ours, far across the street.

Isn’t it beautiful? I ask.

The fucking? She replies.

No, I say. The stars.

They are few, and they are hazy, covered by the smog of thousands of whispers, thousands of cars rumbling along the stone streets, thousands of lost poems and stories, scraps of paper thrown into gutters, and now our smoke, rising up to meet the stars, until, I swear, it touched the heavens.



The worst night I spent underneath the stars was in the mountains of the Shennandoah, the crooked, winding curve of the Appalachain trail. The mosquitoes bit, the water was almost out, and I swear, oh I swear, that I heard a bear scratching at our foodsack, tied up high in the boughs of a twisted tree.

I thought I was going to die.

Are we going to make it home? I ask.

She tries to calm me down, but I’m weighed down by guilt. I whisper to God, please let us make it through this night, please, please, oh lord, my god, the god of my ancestors, the god of Israel…

But god is too busy with wars and famine and babies being born, and babies dying, and people cursing the heavens, so I am met with silence and the whir of angry crickets in the moonlight.

The moonlight.

It streaks through the mesh canvas of the tent, and I look up and marvel at the stars.

They would be beautiful if I wasn’t going to die so soon.

I say to myself, I wish I could live to see another night, a thousand nights, a million nights. I wish I could live to see another night like the night in Yosemite, or the night in Paris. I wish I could live to watch the stars with my children, swinging on a porch swing (on my back porch, my very own).

Gee, I say to myself, wouldn’t that be nice.



I lived, of course, to see more stars, like the stars tonight that I couldn’t tell anyone about, because everyone was asleep, or ornery, or both.



Somewhere, somewhere far from here, a little boy looks at the stars. And he sits, dangling his legs out the balcony of a grumbling ghetto apartment. And the bombs ricochet against walls that lie only a few blocks away, and the ground shakes. And the little boy is a descendant of David, a great king, but he’ll never know it, for this little boy is not great, but is only, merely, a little boy. He likes to play hopscotch on the cracked sidewalks with cobblestones as markers and dirt as chalk. He likes to shoot at pigeons with his slingshot. He likes to watch the television when he goes over to his friend’s houses (he doesn’t have one, and never will). He likes to color in the margins of his tattered schoolbooks. He likes to read old crumpled up newspapers that he finds in gutters. He likes to lick the juice from a tangerine out from the rinds. He likes to look up at the stars and imagine they are vendors in a giant bazaar, and all the airplanes and flashing satellites are the customers and they buy fine silks and rubies from the stars. The satellite that broadcasts the television programs the boy loves so much buys some emeralds from a distant star. The star thanks the satellite as it takes golden coins as payment, and then it implodes on itself and a black hole forms and sucks all the nice linens and jewels that the star sold away, and no one will ever get to look at them again.



I know people who do not care about the stars, and they do not care about the earth, or the streams, or the valleys. They do not care about the salt in the ocean air, the tangy breeze after a heavy summer rain, the smell of the cold air right before a snowfall. There are people I know who hate great literature, and they loathe themselves. I get along with these people, but I would never tell them about the stars tonight, because they wouldn’t care.



When I was little I was very lonely, because I was small and sickly and had no one to play with. I wondered why God made me so bushy and small. I wondered why he made my eyebrows so thick and my skin so red and freckled. I wondered why it was that when my cuts and scrapes would heal they would leave white marks that would linger for a year or more. I fell one summer and scraped all my joints, and I couldn’t move. By the time I was healed the leaves had turned colors and it was time for school. I sat at my window and wondered how long it would take these scars to heal. The neighbor boy called from his back porch, come over, come over!

I decided not to, and the neighbor boy sat on his porch and watched the stars while a dog panted softly on his lap.



I have a scar under my chin that has never healed. I once tried to connect all of my freckles together, but there were too many. The first boyfriend I ever had said he liked me for my freckles.

They’re cute, he said. I don’t know anything about him, and I never did. All I know is that I was young and lonely, and he was older and lonely and needed someone to kiss for a few days one summer. A month ago he called me, though I don’t remember ever giving him my number. He breathes into the phone, long, labored breaths. I talk to him out of pity, because the one thing I do know about him is that he is still lonely, and I am not.

The stars are nice tonight, I say.

They aren’t really anything special, but I say it anyway. From wherever he is he says he can’t see any stars. Try, I say. They’re there even if it’s cloudy, even if you’re in a city. Go outside.

I’m in my basement, he says. You tell me how the stars look.

I hang up the phone, and I don’t answer when he calls the next day, and I don’t answer ever again.



Seven years ago there was a cosmic event; all I remember that it was a once-in-a-lifetime cosmic event. It was all over the newspapers. The sad thing was, no kids would get to see it, because it was going to happen at 3 a.m.


My parents woke me up to see the sky that night. It was a chilly April, and I didn’t have time to throw shoes on.


I asked what I was supposed to be searching for in that sky.


I don’t know, they say, and we go inside and forget it ever happened, and it doesn’t happen again in our lifetimes, and we don’t notice either way.

How I feel when I wake up most mondays….

Animal Crossing

I’m not much of a gamer.

Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement. While I pride myself on the fact that I know more about video games than most college-age females, I am fairly lacking in the hand-eye coordination department. The only games I really enjoy playing and am good at are sports games, which is ironic because of how much I suck at sports in real life.

This is my idea of a fun afternoon.

A few months ago, my boyfriend gave me his old copy of Animal Crossing, one of the original games for the Nintendo Gamecube. I popped in the game, spent a few hours playing it, got bored, and let it sit in a box and collect dust for awhile.

This weekend, he came to visit and popped in the game whilest I was lounging on the bed. Too tired to protest, I watched on. In a few minutes, I grabbed the controller and told him to back off.

I was hooked.

Three days later, my town is thriving, i’m addicted, and my roommate is having nightmares about the characters high-pitched, backwards-speak voices.

So what about this ten year old game has me hooked, devoting major time to a video game that does not involve skateboarding for the first time in years?

I have no idea. Literally, the entire game consists of menial tasks. Pick weeds. Catch fish. Catch bugs. Run errands for neighbors. Pay off your mortgage to the raccoon.

"You owe me 120,000 bells. Problem?"

In fact, there isn’t even much to reward you for your toil. At best, you can pay off your house, live a comfortable life, make acquaintances with the cats, wolves, pigs, and koalas that live in your town, and spend your days frolicking amongst the blooming orange trees.

I must harvest.

But, in the end, what makes Animal Crossing so utterly delightful is that there is no end. There is no goal. And, as my boyfriend puts it, just because there isn’t an end doesn’t mean there’s not a point. The point is to relax and spend a few minutes (or hours, or days) away from the busy pressures of your real life, and enjoy a world where a penguin lives next door.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, my orange groves await. Tom Nook the raccoon doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

In Which I Meet An Actual Screenwriter

As some of you may know, I aspire to be a screenwriter. One day I hope to have one of these:

Hey, sexy.

Unfortunately, I go to a school that doesn’t really have a screenwriting department to speak of. The one professor who teaches screenwriting is on sabbatical this year. I’m taking playwriting, which is pretty cool, but I can’t take home Mr. Oscar by writing plays.

Mr. Tony Award may be dapper, but he's no hunksickle like Mr. Oscar is.

So, I kind of try to find screenwriting experience opportunities wherever I can.

Two weeks ago, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend something pretty fricken cool:

A talk given by Mr. Carl Gottlieb, screenwriter of Jaws, held at the Mariner’s Museum in Newport News, Virginia.

Cool, right?

So cool.

The guy is kind fo a Hollywood legend. He wrote Jaws, Jaws 2, and Jaws 3D, as well as The Jerk, which he co-wrote with star Steve Martin.

Comedic genius.

He also acted, as well, and played a character called Iron Balls McGinty.


The guy hasn’t done too much in a while in terms of screenwriting, but he did write The Jaws Log, which is considered one of the best film logs ever, which I purchased and got signed after the talk.

I’m nto a huge Jaws fan, but I recognize it as a staple of Hollywood, a bridge to modern filmmaking, Spielberg’s first epic. Gottlieb gave an interesting account of his experience on the film, when he and Spielberg were bffs. He recounted to us a favorite memory of his, from after Jaws was filmed, on the Universal lot in Hollywood:

Basically, Spielberg and Gottlieb still hung out after the picture was made, and their offices were both on the Universal lot. Universal gives studio tours, which include taking the tourists through various recreation film sets and attractions. One such attraction is a giant mechanical Jaws shark that jumps out of a random pool and scares the shit out of pretty much everyone.

So Gottlieb and Spielberg would every-so-often take their lunch to a hill on the lot, watch people lose their shit over this shark, and laugh themselves silly about it.

Anyways, after the talk I went to get my book signed by the man himself. I told him that I was an aspiring screenwriter, and if he had any advice.

To paraphrase, he told me to “keep writing,” and to not get too attached to one piece. Write, write, write and don’t give up.

I will, Mr. Gottlieb, trust me.


It’s that time of year again. The leaves, succulent, bright shades of red, orange, and yellow fly through the air and fall to the ground, crunching harmoniously under weary feet. A cool breeze ruffles the air, and jackets, mittens, and hats arise from their summery hibernation. Oh, and the fact that it’s halloween gives thousands of teenage and twenty-something girls the excuse to dress like sluts.

Ever since Mean Girls ever so wisely portrayed a high school halloween party with ridiculously skimpy outfits, the problem has only gotten worse.

"I'm a mouse, duh!"

Last night, my roommate and I were weary from a day of studying. We were, of course, screwing around on facebook, because, come on, what else is there to do? Anyways, an ad popped up on her facebook for Curious, we clicked upon the clickable, and were transported to a slut’s wonderland. Here are a few of our finds: seems to be fascinated with pastry-themed costumes. There were about six different pastry chef costumes, each one becoming progressively more revealing, until the poor girl was basically wearing a bra, thong, and chefs hat. Alternatively, you can also dress up as a slutty version of the food:

"Oh my god you guys, i'm pie! Wanna pop my cherry?"

This one was called “Finding Clownfish,” in order to avoid copyright infringement. Not only does she not resemble in any way, shape, or form an actual clownfish, but she’s getting her skank all over my childhood.

"I don't speak whale, but I do speak dick."

Speaking of skanking all over my childhood, here’s their rendition of an etch-a-sketch. Because we know every elementary school boy dreamed of the day when he could bang his etch-a-sketch.

"Etch-a-sketch me like one of your french girls."

Yandy is also multi-cultural. There are too many slutty ninjas and geisha girls to count. Their rendition of a “native american” would have offended Andrew Jackson, and even their slutty eskimo made me want to head up to Saskatchawan and beg for forgiveness on behalf of my culture. But as if multi-cultural attire wasn’t sexy enough, let’s dress up as their food, too:

Okay, this is just racist.

"I'm sushi! You can eat me raw."

Have you ever watched Broadway’s 1977 smash-hit musical Annie and thought “Wow, I wish I could bang that orphan chick,” ? Well, good news, folks:

"I'll show you a 'hard' knocks life."

Broadway too sissy for your manly needs? Ever watched pro-wrestling or an MTV reality show and gone “wow, I wish there was a chick that was as hot as Hulk Hogan” ? Well, look no further:

"Watcha gonna do when hulkamania runs wild on you?"

Pro-wrestling too heathen for your blessed soul? Ever read the bible and thought Eve was one sexy mama?

"I ate from the tree of knowledge-- of how to fuck."

Jesus not your thing? Do you still enjoy all of Gods creatures? Do you ever wish that they had tits and were blonde?

I give you sexy shark:

"I don't bite- much."

and sexy duck:

"You don't need to use a rubber with this duck."

Hate the outdoors? Are you a pasty, couch-loving movie buff? There’s still a girl for you:

Perhaps you were a huge fan of the late Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange

"I'm like Alex-- my hobbies include rape, ultraviolence, and Beethoven. Only, who's Beethoven?"

Or perhaps this summer’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes was more your speed

"Caesar IS home."

My personal favorite: the sexy ticket

"I've got a ticket to ride."

There are so many more, I can’t even begin to scratch the surface. All I know is that whoever is behind is a genius. The outfits use such little fabric and cost so much money that they must be raking in the dough. Look, props to them. I for one an going to dress up as Phillip J. Frye this Halloween


To purchase any of these fine costumes, go to

I’m a Lumberjack and i’m okay…

There is a street fair outside my dorm for lumberjacks. There are booths from the American Arborist Association, along with tents where you can purchase hacksaws, bungeechord, hard hats, and books such as the gem “To Fell a Tree.” While I walked to my dorm, a solicitor tried to hand me a pamplet entitled “Why Lumber?”

I am very confused.


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