the click clacking sound of my keys

hamlet's been teaching me so much about love. cats kind of operate like a tier system; when you level up, you unlock the next set of rewards. i don't know where or at what point these creatures were cursed with an aloof reputation, but in my experience, it's simply false. he and i are more similar than our appearances would suggest.  our mornings have become sacred. hamlet's preferred place of rest is atop my sheets, in between my knees. i googled an explanation out of curiosity, and heartwarmingly, it's because he considers it safe and warm and protecting. lucky for him, i'm a back sleeper, and i've been making sure to keep my legs in a "V" shape as i fall to sleep every night. i'll wake up to a much more cuddly cat than his evening form, watching his long body stretch upwards and start purring with relief that i survived the night. i'll scratch down his back, his tail will rise, and he'll crawl over until we're facing eye to eye, ...

a little must go a long way. as you'll come to recognize if you consistently keep up with my blog, i tend to take long and messy breaks away from this thing and return with my tail tucked between my legs. i've just been frying my brain the way that any sound 22-year old does when she's unemployed. it's my sanity in between surmounting the brutal challenges of new motherhood. solo parenting, for that matter!  for the rest of the month of april, i want to use unconventional journal a little more unconventionally  and provide short bursts of daily updates. perhaps i'll include musings, or perhaps i'll just inform readers that little hamlet and i spooned all morning. i need confidence again. i don't know if my life's conjecture is simply that i'm an april fool, but boy! absolutely nothing is going on!  i'm obfuscating here. really, so much is swirling around. i'm just not sure how i can have it escape me in a profound, meaningful way. i'm dea...

i've seriously come to believe i have nothing left to say. a mere 48 hours ago, i spent 6 hours on the couch of my manhattan apartment endlessly yammering with my dear roommate. i could not tell you a single syllable that was uttered, and it's made me realize that it could be the secret of true love. love's memory. love's memorable. love is the act of speaking to one another. for staunch unconventional journal  fans, or really, the two or three of you that have a vested interest in my lore, i want to both extend thanks for your patience during this inert hiatus of mine and offer some thrilling updates. for the better part of my life, i have been unabashed and untempered in heartbreak and loneliness and emetophobia. i had the brief but remarkable experience of a first love. it was circumstantially stacked against me and (neutrally speaking) doomed from the start. there was a version of me that relied heavily on placing my past in separate categories to quanti-qualify an ...

happy wrapped! a timely tradition that excites me a bit less every year, but thematically might be the most important when i've been coiled around the sun once more. blessed, but cursed, i can scroll through my "top songs of 2025" and pinpoint exactly how i stood emotionally for whatever three to five minute duration lingers on my screen.  the big 5: did my best - the voidz i can only change what i can change fuck - forth wanderers i can't start anything with a full heart back to me - the marias if i would see you i'd fall apart get me away from here, i'm dying - belle and sebastian i always cry at endings taste - rob crow never try to lose that taste forever listen here

i've started to come to a terrible realization; there will always be checks and balances. it seems i have to sacrifice my creativity for happiness. can i really only write when i'm sad or ashamed or torn up about something? does all great art have to come from the scraps after you've been torn to shreds? i've been feeling a great amount of fear, recently. moments that have required me to be brave are poisoned with secrecy and neglect. i wish to remain cryptic and nondescript even though it's futile. i'm learning apathy and anxiety at the same time. i wonder if i've begun reading so much more because i'm desperate for someone else to give me answers to questions i didn't know i could have. my arms seem to be locked in this half-raised position, where you're working up the courage to say something, and you lock eyes with the professor and resolve to scratching the back of your head like that's what you intended to do all along. i've said to...

iced americano breaking through a sweet pastry a freshly blown hairdo whipping against my face as it's tousled by wind dietary fiber a pair of headphones connecting the ears of two heads into one folding a dog ear into a library book mango sticky rice perfume roughness of stubble brushing over my collarbone crinkled linen duvets the lightness of pressing against a key on an electric piano removing the safety plastic off a brand new ballpoint pen synchronicity my mundane stuffed fish lost cause by beck friendly middle-aged male baristas

sometimes, like other human beings on Earth, i feel a separation pulling my brain from my skull to float above the rest of my body. i'm entirely out of my own, almost like a birdseye lens on a camera. i am both a king and his jester. she looks like rot; haggard and vaporous. it's not necessarily contentment, unless that's synonymous with defeatedness.  there really isn't much that can be done here. so i just watch, marking a star on my calendar for Judgement day.