MY MOM DECIDED THAT SINCE I FUCKING HATE CLEANING THE LITTERBOX FOR MY DUMB CATS SHE’S ACTUALLY MAKE ME A FUCKING LITTERBOX CAKE. THIS IS A FUCKING CAKE. THOSE ARE SLIGHTLY MELTED TOOTSIE ROLLS. THOSE ARE LOTS OF COOKIE CRUMBLES. BUT IT LOOKS FUCKING REAL. I ATE THIS IN A RESTAURANT. I RECIEVED WORRIED STARES FROM OTHER PATRONS AS I FEASTED UPON FUCKING CAT POOP. MY BABY SISTER REFUSED TO LET ME EAT THE TOOTSIE ROLLS BECAUSE SHE WAS ONE HUNDRED PERCENT CONVINCED IT WAS POOP, SHE RIPPED IT OUT OF MY HANDS AND THREW IT BACK IT THE PAN.
"SISSY!" SOMEONE WAS LOOKING ON HORRIFIED AS SHE GRABBED THE DISTURBING LOOKING CANDY OUT OF MY HAND. "DONT EAT POOP SISSY!"
a li tter box cae k„
Patricia Tan | 16 | Manila
You don’t need another human being to make your life complete, but let’s be honest. Having your wounds kissed by someone who doesn’t see them as disasters in your soul but cracks to put their love into is the most calming thing in this world.
There is a strangeness in the sky
Again, I stop to think
And raise my head from where I lie
To look above, and blink.
Why is the sun setting so fast?
The reds bleed out the blues;
the clouds break like a sail-torn mast,
to violent, bright hues.
The sun is gone now, all is pink,
a dark and reddish haze.
The sky grows dimmer, I think,
and the air is all ablaze.
But like fire without fuel dies,
the colors disappear…
Now blackish grey become the skies,
and the stars grow clear.
She presented a lovely gift to us, a dog wrapped in a bow and tied off with string. The dog was brown, the wrapping green, and my cheeks were red as I accepted it. Henry, as we named the Spaniel later - for the author of the book I’d given her - licked my hand, and I knew then that it would be love.
Once, a long time and far away ago, a boy loved a girl. They went on adventures and spent summer days running around in forests and meadows. They played Pretend and Believe, and spent winter nights wrapped up in thick blankets drinking hot chocolate.
I won’t tell you his name, or the girl’s name, or what they looked like, or where they were from. A story isn’t about the who or the where or the elaborate, please, isn’t it? It’s about the what happens.
So, what happened to the boy and the girl was that they grew up. Summer fell, and winter sprung. In the Fall they had school, homework and lessons and classes that took time away from being together. In the Spring the girl’s family took her away to see her grandmother, and the boy spent his time playing on his own.
We’re lost in a city
of silver and glass.
The streets have no names,
and the crowd is a mass
of strangers. They glance
at the out of place children,
who walk with adventuring eyes.
They frown, and question, and then
examine their lives (so boring),
and say - “Why don’t we go exploring?”
It was hell.
I did not know how to do
the things that needed doing.
I could not bring myself to
carry on and keep the calm.
I had no soothing patience,
no psychiatric soothing balm;
I had only my heart beat.
My worries and anxiety,
my pressures ticking around.
All I could feel was worry,
and the deadlines drawing close…
But then I felt the lightness of
jumping before the fall.
I called in sick, and decided to
think, ‘Well, screw it all.’
And it was fun.
When I grow up, I’m going to wear a long dark coat. One that reaches past my knees. I’ll even leave it open and unfastened, so it doesn’t look like I wear the exact same thing every day.
It will flap dramatically when I run around the world doing adventurous and dramatic things, and when the wind blows just so, it’s going to be fabulous, sort of fluttering in the wind with my hair, and I’ll be standing atop a grassy hill making my best ‘Important Scene Close-Up’ face.
I’ll run around towns and cities and the world with my partner or my partners - because the best stories and adventures happen to people, not persons - and we’ll do fantastical things, the kind of things that superheroes or geniuses or wizards do.
It’s going to be amazing. Just you wait and see.
Why does everything in life have to have limits? Why do things just have to stop?
Running out of cell phone load in the middle of an interesting conversation, or finding an empty gas tank at the beginning of a trip. Finding a pen out of ink.
Waking up from a fantastic dream and not being able to get back to it.
The end of a relationship, or an era. Losing what you have to, to change, and to this strange little world that keeps turning and turning -
Bloody awful. Terrible. Horrific, like a little bit of your life’s just been cut short.
- And yet the world does keep turning, and we keep going on with it.