in an effort to make myself more aware of human emotion and it's limitless span, i'm posting emotion studies that i write when i find a spare moment here. nothing conveyed here should be taken as my personal state of mind. if you want to know how i'm feeling (although why is beyond me), go...look at my other blog thing.


The wind is herded between steel traps and it hits me like i'm not used to. i don't really belong here, to be honest, but i like playing tourist and my friends are here so i'll stay. it's weird, being trapped the way i am. i look up and my line of sight is framed by buildings - glass and metal both hot and too cold at the same time - that only gives me slivers of blue that i'm used to having in abundance.

'i could never live here.' i say, turning to see four others standing behind me, watching and waiting. one smiles and shakes his head. he says not everyone's cut out for this place. another looks up and solemnly agrees with me. two more are silent, and i assume they have their opinions, they just don't think they're worth voicing.

'but you'd visit every day, wouldn't you?' the third girl asks me, finally making eye contact. she knows me better than the others, and i can only shrug. she knows i'd make a home out of motels and hay piles if it meant i could keep the life framed in glass and steel, no matter how much it scares me.


“Did you get the special edition, even?” he says, staring at me while he takes a drag off his cigarette. The brand he’s picked, it’s so cheap they just printed the word ‘CANCER’ on plain white packaging. He swears up and down they’re referencing the zodiac thing, but I’m not convinced.

I nod, not quickly like an excited child, but not slowly, like the paper sleeve I’m holding is something sacred. It’s just a limited pressing of some band’s final album, I think. The joker, who is still staring at me, takes another drag before dropping the last bit on the hardwood floor and crushing it out. I hold back a wince. There goes his security deposit.

“I can give you five hundred for it.”

I almost laugh. I got it for a sawbuck at a flea market. I can’t decide who the bigger idiot is; the guy who sold it to me for five dollars or the guy who wants to give me five hundred dollars for it.
I just shrug and nod again, the same moderate, agreeable motion that makes me feel like I’m not taking this seriously enough.

“Do you mind if I listen to it first?” he lights another CANCER and inhales deep. “You know, in case?”
I would feel like a bitch if I said no, but the truth is I don’t know if it works or not and I really don’t want to lose out on a four-hundred and ninety-five dollar profit over bad vinyl.

“It’s fine,” I mutter, turning the large square in my hands. “I got another guy who was curious about it.”

“Shit,” Another drag. “Here, here’s the five hundred.” He pulls a wallet out of his back pocket, a seeming struggle since his jeans are obviously not his size. I smile serenely, the way girls do when they get their way. He steps close and I can smell stale beer and his cigarettes clinging to his flannel button-down, watch as he counts out enough 20’s to be five hundred. The kid’s living off his parent’s success, obviously. The longer I’m around him, the less I want to be around him. But he still has my cash.

“Thanks,” I say, nearly whisper. I read somewhere that men like girls with softer voices, but I’m not sure why I’m trying to make him like me. I just want his money, and maybe I’m worried that he’ll suddenly change his mind and tell me to sell to the other guy, who coincidentally, doesn’t exist. He hands me the wad of cash and I hand him the record that I fail to see as being worth nearly two month’s rent.

“No, thank you. If you find anything else, text me, okay? You saved my number, right?”

I sigh, just a little. I’m pretty sure this sale is safe. I nod my agreeable nod (which I’m considering getting trademarked) and turn for the door.

“Sure did, and I definitely will.” I tuck the cash into my bag, slinging the strap across my body.

I can hear him already starting his record player behind me, the first crackles signaling needle contacting plastic. I’m pretty sure I also hear him sob, or maybe it was a laugh, but either way he’s got some strong feelings being brought on by that twelve inch disc of vinyl.

I don’t get it, honestly, but if it makes me easy money, I suppose the hipsters can stay.


another set of words you've chosen just for me flashes across a tiny glass screen. i know i'm going to roll my eyes the second i picture your face as you type those words out. i appreciate the attention - i always have - but it doesn't really belong to me and i feel like a thief. this is made worse when i realize i can't return what i'm stealing, and i can't explain why i have it.

you have someone waiting for you, where is her attention?

you tell me that you miss me and can't wait to see me, when will you see her?

if you're so in love with me, why did you ask her to marry you?

that set of words is still waiting for me and i throw them away from me, as far as i dare. i'm an unwilling thief; framed for every crime.


the way the cars move around and past me makes the oncoming traffic's headlights look like a string of blinking christmas lights. my eyes - already burning with that dry, heavy feeling you usually get after you cry for a few hours - desperately want to close but since i'm controlling a moving vehicle, i refuse them the relief.
i have the music on too loud, and i'm probably following too close to the asshole in front of me but i'm feeling reckless tonight. same as every night. my quiet, underlying wish to die young is testing the waters of my pressing thoughts.

'not tonight' i say to no one in particular, drowned out by a man's timed wailing, perfectly on pitch. 'someday, but not today.'