Color me in

You think of me
the way you think of children's restaurant placemats,
that you can just figure me out,
color me in,
before dinner arrives

Insert an adjective here
and a noun there
and suddenly you've concluded
(with the penetrating power of mad libs)
that I am compulsive
to the point
       of
               recklessness

And in my speech you search for words
that say things about who I think I am,
in which I am apparently mistaken

"I" and "don't" and "care"
You carved moats around them
with the generic crayon complementary to your meal
and said it was just a game

The answers at the bottom,
printed upside-down,
require you to tilt your head a little.
But you don't even bother
They're just silly riddles
and how could you be wrong?

Just
eat your fucking dinner,
why don't you?

A little something for individuals that left some sort of impression on my 2012

To the ex barista

I can't let go
of the signs I missed
like how you'd notice
I was always lost
in some dead guy's fiction
or the way you'd linger
aimlessly near my table,
or how you'd just stare
from afar
hopefully unseen
          (but not really) 

such
 seemingly      
  insignificant
gestures

I didn't know (want
to believe in)
any better

For you--
with a heart that can move mountains,
a soul that even the constellations cannot confine,
a voice like the sound of secondhand jazz records,
the crescendo in Mozart's "Gloria,"
the cry of rain,
the roar of Manhattan,
the song of swans--
are twenty-thousand leagues
out of mine 

You never even had to try
charm was just up your sleeve
dealt ever so wisely
it won everyone:
   the soccer moms
with their supersonic rug rats
that saw the sky in the tiles,
   the ex prom queens
with their cheshire smiles
and phantom sashes,
    and even the suits
with their morning coffee
clutched like a crux

Of all people,
why me?

I still don't know
any better 

     

    

To the boy in music class

Every Tuesday
and Thursday
There you were
always to my left
Your profile,
like a silver lining in the morning haze
I can't figure out
what defined you from the rest

But there you were
             blinking
             smiling
             facing the floor
             tapping your fingers
             checking the clock
             breathing
And there I was
in an entirely different world
falling apart
unnoticed

Like a secondhand camera,
my eyes stayed in hesitant focus
to capture your form
Every detail
in saccharine color
All of my negatives,
I wasted on you

I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW YOU
yet there I was,
nostalgic
for something,
someone
I've never known

I should have said something
When the chance was alive
I wanted to
           (I really did)
But instead,
I choked on the words
Swallowed them like
the last pill
And wiped my mouth

         

To the narcissist 

Your head, swollen with
pride, puffed up like a clogged pore
in everyone's skin.

            

I'm a child.

I'm a communications major. When peers of other majors (particularly those outside of humanities) discover or recall my field of study, I can tell that they're often tempted to pat my head and pinch my cheeks. 

Now before I go on, let me state that I am definitely aware that not all non-humanities students act this way. What I'm about to say is in response to the people who've ridiculed me as a communications major. Basically, I need to rant.  This mustered up bitterness of mine breeds from numerous personal hits, such as "Why would you study something so useless/obsolete?" or the real kicker: "Do you do any actual work?" 

It's as if the only thing on my academic agenda is filling out word puzzles off children's restaurant placemats, while you rave about the scholastic difficulties that ascertain the maturity and severity of your studies. Thus, there you are throwing a tantrum over how strenuous finals week is for you; and here I am, blithely making innuendos out of mad libs. 

I get it. School itself is insane. But guess what? The rest of the student body goes through the same thing, regardless of differing majors. Every field of study is laborious, difficult, and significant in its own way. Every career objective offers something ultimately beneficial to society, whether it be health, innovation, communication, understanding--whatever. Be proud of what you're studying, but don't think of other academic paths as any less important. 

Admittedly, I anticipated this type of feedback when I decided to study communications. I know it's something I'm going to have to continue enduring, but naturally, it gets frustrating. I needed to let it out some time. 

I posted this on Tumblr and received mixed comments. Nonetheless, it's refreshing to actually air out my thoughts for once.

Sleep tight, ya morons.

Of all the things I've purchased used, this is probably my proudest find. I've wanted this blood red, out-of-print edition of The Catcher in the Rye ever since my middle college English teacher gushed over its rarity and the controversy it's wreaked.
I almost purchased one off Ebay, but I didn't. It would be a cheap cause if I did. The only way I wanted to get my hands on this edition was by happenstance.
Several antique and thrift stores later, during an impromptu stop at the Recycled Book Store, THERE IT WAS in its crimson glory, laying atop the common copies. I've been in some sort of euphoria since.

The conclusion of my search kind of tempts me into collecting all editions of the book. There are eight different covers that I know of (thanks to Google). I have two of them. HERE GOES NOTHING.

To the boy in music class:

You were supposed to park in your usual spot.
You were supposed to find the mix tape in your bike basket.
You were supposed to go back to your dorm and listen to every lyric.
You were supposed to get an inkling that it was from the girl with the red hair bow.

But you parked somewhere else, damnit.

This is not objectophilia.

I just hate when people ask me, "What makes you love [insert book title here] so much?"
I never know what to tell them, so I end up fabricating some bullshit answer that doesn't really do the book any justice.

I guess I fall in love with books the way people fall in love with each other: sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once.

I realized I was in love with The Great Gatsby as soon as I read its last words. I loved the way Gatsby never gave up on his past. I loved how I was vicariously consumed by his nostalgia. I loved Fitzgerald's choice of words, like a bouquet of flowers carefully hand-picked for Zelda and the rest of the world to treasure and safely stow.
The Great Gatsby haunted me the way the end of your first love burns a hole in your heart.

On the other hand, it took me ages to acknowledge my love for The Catcher in the Rye. For me, it's like that best friend you initially adore, and later unknowingly fall for. I still can't fathom the reasons why the novel's made such an impression on me. Perhaps I identify with Holden more than I thought I did. Perhaps there's something about the stream-of-consciousness that's refreshing to me. Perhaps the existence of this fictitious character somehow makes me feel less lonely. Perhaps my apparent liking for Holden compensates for the thoughts I could never say aloud.
Or maybe J.D. Salinger simply has me under his thumb, just like he wanted.

But regardless of my desperate reasoning, I will perpetually and inexplicably be tethered to these stories as if they were a part of my reality. Honestly, if I could drown myself in fiction, I would.