Wednesday, November 18, 2009
No one likes to read about people feeling sorry for themselves. Proven fact. Whiny little girls, as a rule, should not be given access to their own websites because they will inevitably wind up annoying the hell out of everyone around them.
So, bearing this in mind, here is a top-of-my-head list of all the things that make me awesome:
-I rock the hell out of this bright, rich turquoise color that happens to be my favorite shade on the planet
-I have, on occasion, been known to pull some pretty fantastic writing out of nowhere just before a paper's due
-I love the people that matter in my life so deeply it baffles me, and it takes a whole hell of a lot to change that
-My hair is bouncy, my eyelashes are a mile long, and I have a more than adequate bod despite a love of carbs and an aversion to any exercise that requires real sweating
-I can identify anyone from Greco-Roman mythology by name alone
-There are people who love me as much as I love them... even if they are far away
-I have a steady hand and sharp sight on the shooting range
-My cooking kicks ass
-I can connect with almost any dog I encounter
-I know my hockey
-I dominate at any game an old fart from Michigan can play: euchre, shuffleboard, cribbage
-I can organize herds of drunk college students without getting called "mom"
-I'm equally adept at flirting and being one of the guys
So... I really have no reason to be upset right now. Cause I'm a pretty sweet person.
Hey, if you wanted to read someone's humble thoughts on themselves, go read a blog called "milkmaid complex" or something.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
When I was little, I would play pretend where
I was the girlfriend of an old bank robber
Not old-old, but old school.
(age inappropriate? nah...)
I'd know exactly where the money comes from
and I wouldn't care.
Cause I'd be wrapped up in
jewels weighing heavily on my throat.
My man would love me passionately,
and if anyone so much as looked at me...
And a bullet between the eyes.
Sometimes he'd get jealous,
but he'd always put up with it
cause he loved to watch me walk in those dresses.
In return -
I'd stay by his side forever.
Sitting in the passenger seat of his fabulous car
except when he was working
I'd never give him up to the cops.
We'd be famous, rich,
and in love.
Always in love.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Every girl thinks she can be the one to "fix him."
No, seriously. Stop trying right now. This will only end one way: with you curled up in the corner of your room, listening to Charlotte Sometimes and wondering why it didn't work.
You wanna know why it didn't work? Cause you have no magical power over men. This isn't Gilmore Girls, there's no reason whatsoever you should be able to make him a better person. He doesn't want to be a better person. He really, really likes who he is now.
Think about it. If this guy had any desire to change, doncha think he would've self-motivated by now? What makes you think you're so special you can put the desire for change in his head?
You are such a narcissist.
Now, what do you say we go find ourselves a new project? Like knitting. If you find a flaw in that scarf, just unravel it and start over.
I promise it will be a lot less frustrating than this.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
This little ditty is what I'm sending over to Peter (that's peterdewolf.wordpress.com) for doodlepalooza:
It's gotten awkward
doesn't know what to say
doesn't know what he did
or if it was him
or if she'd even
what's bothering her in
the first place
but he doesn't notice
and she doesn't try
so no one's actually
but neither of them
instead they play
cat and mouse
but that's not quite right
it's more like
Tyrannosaurus Rex and Stegosaurus
cute and fluffy
when they fight
like this but
just for tonight
she'll take a deep
breath before she
shuffles to his
side of the couch and
she'll rest her head
on his shoulder and he'll
wrap an arm
around her til
she slides onto his chest
he'll say something
which she can't
catch but she'll feel
the rumbling in his
lungs and that'll
giggle until he asks
what's so funny
and then she'll kiss him
and they'll remember
On cold days, she thinks about missed opportunities. She'll sit on the bed and listen to playlists called "pity party" and "last love story" with a blanket wrapped up around her chin like fuzzy armor. She also makes tea, which she sometimes doesn't drink, just lets it perfume the air with Chamomile Lullaby or Pan Asia Green.
Today was one of those days, and she was back to that dangerous trap of "what-if" that makes cold days so treacherous. It was this sort of thinking, she would tell herself later, that made it so difficult to move forward, but that warning would always come too late.
Instead she was thinking about him. About car rides out to Lake Michigan in the middle of the night, about inside jokes, and that stupid Christmas present when she joked about ever little girl wanting a pony. She remembered crying on his shoulder when her little sister got into that car accident and he took her to the hospital. He didn't even make a joke about women drivers for once.
And then there was that mixtape. A real, honest-to-goodness mixtape he made her after she dragged him to Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist and he insisted that there was no way his girl was going to be swooning over a pussy like Michael Cera. She'd thought it was all stupid bravado until he handed her the CD the next time he came over.
Speaking of... she walked over to the back closet with her rainboots and dog walking coat. Standing on her toes, she pulled out the "vintage" hatbox she'd gotten at Marshall's and stored on the top shelf just in case.
There it was.
Without pausing to think, she popped it into her laptop and waited for the first chord of +44's "Make you smile." Listening to it again... it was almost like a month ago. Back before the shouting, the crying, the passive-aggressive Facebook statuses.
But then, as she kept listening, wrapped in her fleece blanket and staring at the steam coming off of her tea that the rest started pouring back. Those little misogynistic digs, that god-awful hoodie, every time he stood her up, the smell of cigarettes in his car. And of course, Her.
The CD had ended, and the only sound left in the room was the whirring of her computer and her breathing. She needed to get up, out of the apartment, but her inner cheerleader was too busy worrying about the mascara smudges she was bound to have under her eyes.
She tapped eject, satisfied with the solid "click" her keyboard made, carefully returned the disk to its case, the case to the hatbox. She then walked over to the closet, pulled out the rainboots, and took that damn hatbox out to the dumpster. It was time.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
“Huh? Were you talking to me?”
“Well yeah, I just…”
“You’re wearing mittens.”
“…How very insightful”
“It’s just not something you see every day”
“Cause most people prefer gloves”
“Can’t say I understand why really, I mean, it’s not like these people are WWI snipers who need their
fingers spaced so they can do something dexterous. These are just normal people, wandering around the city, maybe carrying a few bags or something but it’s not like you need fingers for that.”
“What if they have to dial their phones?”
“The glove people, what if they have to dial their phones, they’d need fingers for that, right?”
“Nothing, I just… thought I was annoying you.”
“But I figured someone ought to correct you of your bias against glove-wearers”
“So… I’m not annoying you?”
“Oh, you are.”
“What is it?”
“What does it look like?”
“A pink sticky note?”
“With a phone number… I thought you said I was annoying?”
“But you’re the first guy I’ve ever met who tried to pick me up by talking about mittens, so I figure that’s
“Wow. I can’t believe that worked.”
“Is this your bus?”
“So… are you getting on?”
“My jeans are frozen to the bench.”
“Oh. That sounds like quite the predicament.”
“It really is.”
“Would you like some help?”
“Nah, I’m good. It’ll thaw eventually.”
“Oh, alright then.”
“I thought this was your bus?”
“So why are you sitting back down?”
“Where I was going wasn’t as important as keeping a pretty girl company while she waits for her butt to
“That’s… oddly sweet.”
But seriously folks, don't all rush over at once.
For the most part, this is going to be a collection of my creative writings and whatnot, with a little dash of me. Cause who wouldn't want to hear from the dazzling creature that is Abby every once in a while?
I wanted to just get right to posting, but it felt a little wrong to just dive right into my world, after all, just what sort of girl do you think I am? You'd better at least be buying me dinner first. Or maybe just coffee if you're cute. Or maybe a nice "Hey" if you happen to be Ryan Reynolds. Just sayin.
Anyway, don't expect constant posts, and I will do my very best not to bore you. Comments are love, they feed my fragile little ego. Even if it's to tell me that I suck, cause all writers like to point and laugh at their critics.
A bit about me, just so we have some sort of understanding to base this relationship off of:
- I'm a first-year student at Kalamazoo College
- My first celebrity crush was Hal Jordan
- I'm a SCUBA diver (scuba...scuba...scuba...)
- I have an unhealthy obsession with neon post-its and click-top sharpies
- I keep a tumbler full of dumdum pops on my desk for when I have to think
- I have an all-too-real fear of zombies
- My eleventh-grade economics teacher Mr. Smith bares a freakish resemblance to Mr. Scheuster of Glee. Needless to say, I was in love with him