LATE NIGHT THINKIN’/THOUGHTS/THINGS

STOP GIVING UP ON THE THINGS YOU’RE PRETTY SURE YOU’RE GOOD AT

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must keep painting nails/wearing lipstick/writing drunk.

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My boyfriend thinks I drink too much.

“I mean, you drink like every night,
and alcoholism runs in your family,
it’s not the best combination, babe.” 

He’s probably right.
scratch that, he is right.

But I mean, 

FOR FUCKS SAKE

BUKOWSKI WAS AN ALCOHOLIC.

BUKOWSKI EVEN DRANK WHEN HE 
READ POETRY AT READINGS.

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“I feel like I’m more teen-agsty now than when I was in highschool”
-kelly (soul mate/BFF)

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I just turned off repeat on ‘Juicy’ by Notorious BIG 
but now I feel like somethings missing. 

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My Budweiser 40 is staring me down,
so is my cat, she’s all like,

“don’t you drink it, dammit.”

And I’m all like, *opens and drinks*

“isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

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I look just like my dad with no make-up on.
I hate that.

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I wish I could’ve been one of Biggie Smalls 

back up singers.

Maybe I was in a previous life. 

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If I had a million dollars I would buy so much useless shit.
and I’d invite my bestfriend (kelly) to come buy useless shit with me,
and she’d be all like “only if you promise to save some of your
money.” Because she knows how bad I am with money. and
then I’d be all like, “I’m going to spend it all on useless shit
with or without you coming with me.”

We decided on an endless supply of blank CDS
and a loft in atlanta that was covered in red velvet.
And it had to have a fire place, back porch, and a
fat ass boom box. 

We never left the loft, we never had a reason to.
We invited our boyfriends to live with us.
We fell in love, drank, and crafted more useless shit
for five years straight.

We spent the rest of the money on useless shit for our boyfriends. 
Flannels and vans and beer and munchies, and polaroid film. 

And when the million dollars was gone, I took down the red
velvet in the middle of the night. Over breakfast my bestfriend
asked my why I took it down. I said, we could sell it for next
months rent. She said she put her half of the million I gave her
in Apple stock, and that I needed to put the red velvet back immediately.

I cried and told her that I was going to make money doing something
to help out. I told her that I could be a great bartender. 

She said “no, you’re already a great writer, dumb ass.”
Followed by, “I published your journals, well almost, sign here
and here. It’s the same publisher that wants to publish
Lena Dunham.”

I cried more, signed, and busted out some mimosas.
She said that she never thought she could ever be
so happy. But that she needed to create her own life,
and move out to some boring apartment in Decatur,
that wasn’t covered in red velvet. She told me she was greatful,
but needed a change of scenery, and then read me some
Bukowski quotes about growing up and change.

I cried and then threw up a bunch of orangey liquid.
After that, I looked at her and said, “You’re going to be
a grown up when you leave. Everyone around me is grown up.
But I just want to stay here forever. I love you so much, Good night.” 

“Cats Love Plastic”

My cat eats plastic

and then she sometimes 

throws it up.

and I clean it up.

and then I shake 

my finger at her.

but she isn’t the only one

I write better when I have

a lit cigarette in my hand

only I don’t puke anything up,

or have anyone shaking 

a finger at me.

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“ONE OF MY MANY STUPID INTERNAL STRUGGLES”

I write better when you’re not around,

when you’re in Atlanta, and I’m at home,

in my tiny room, letting it consume me.

It’s becoming theory, slowly but surely,

It’s been proven a few times already.

For instance, when you’re around and

I get a thought I want to write down, 

I lose it instantly, and then I’m pissed.

But I also like when you’re around,

to make me think these thoughts

that I lose faster than I lose my keys.

Feeling stupid and malt liquor drunky at 8:53 PM

I’ve gone through so many ‘best friends’

I’m surprised I can get out of bed in the morning.

People linger, you know?

Even when you’re done with them.

The mindless conversations you once had

get hot glued in your mind,

even if you only remember them

when you’re drunk.

Like that time you told me I look great,

when I was in my ‘fat suit’

fat jeans, and an over sized knitted sweater.

That’ll replay in my mind for about a decade

I’m pretty sure.

May 23, 2012

Yes I am

I realize that maybe I’m self destructive.

But it’s just that feeling that runs down my throat
whenever I take that first sip
that keeps me drinking

It’s just a quench thirst
It’s just a maybe ‘something will happen tonight
that will change everything’

I’m 20 years old and feel like I’m 80

all I have to do is keep drinking
and talking about how I want things to be better
and  how I want Obama to keep being our president
and how I want to eat something delicious
and how I want to drive around aimlessly
and how I want to talk to boys I don’t know, over the internet
and how I keep thinking about you when we were happy
and how I’d maybe have sex with someone I shouldn’t.

with every sip, the world gets sweeter
Something different happens every time.
Everytime I sip something different happens.
It’s magic.

maybe one time of those everytimes
I’ll end the night with
“hey guys, I met a boy who told me
he likes my feet”

Contrary to most belief,

drinking Southern Comfort and listening to Thug Love by Tu Pac makes brainstorming easier. SO MANY IDEAS. MY BRAINSTORMING IS STORMING.

Sex in the Suburbs

I’m wide awake, it’s 3:43 AM. I can’t stop writing stupid poetry on how much I miss my High School ex-boyfriend Matt. It’s been 3 years to the day we broke up. I’m drunk IMing my best friend Kelly in the meantime. She wishes I wasn’t so sad. I don’t reply, I feel awkward.

I’m listening to the Iron and Wine station on Pandora. I can’t pick a song. Why can’t I ever stick with one fucking song? Now I’m annoyed because Pandora is distracting me from crying. I end up slamming my IPhone on it’s dock and hit shuffle. I can finally get back to crying and writing really bad, girly poetry. Kelly double IMs me, ‘Mike’s here. Got to go. But, it’s like you say, you can’t be alone forever, that’s just fucked up. Love you more than life Molland.” And signs off. A sweet, but unnecessary reminder that I am the ONLY single girl in my group of friends. I am also the last friend in my group to get over our first loves.I don’t even know where to meet boys. I’m not in school and work with a bunch of 45 year old women.

My stomach starts growling, I’m too lonely to eat. Eating right now would feel like some tribal, cave woman chore. Plus, the kitchen is way too far away. Note to self: buy a fucking mini fridge. Matt has a mini fridge. God damn it, here come the water works.

I don’t really remember how I stopped crying that night. All I remember is grabbing the bottle of Southern Comfort from under my bed, killing it, closing my eyes and there he was. The last time I saw Matt played over and over again in my head. His uneven smile staring me down while I drive, his new touch screen phone in his hand, and Grizzly Bear playing in my car.

something I wrote wasted in 100 degree weather:

I wish I were Lena Dunham

and my best friend was Kat Dennings.

And we would do everything together;

write, drink, talk about how much

we love to write and drink.

But we would fight like sisters

and she’d call me ‘jealous of her

boyfriend’ and I’d call her an idiot

and make fun of her fat lips,

and we’d stop talking for a season or so.

Til I was in 100 degree weather

and realized I was jealous.

And that I wasn’t Lena Dunham

and my best friend wasn’t Kat Dennings.

And that I’m glad I don’t have fat lips.