Tuesday

This space intentionally left blank.

Enya is not to blame.

Monday

Sunday

Thursday

Nobody was surprised when it was discovered dead by the creek. The dream had been something everyone hoped would survive despite the obvious odds against it. There was no shock, but the sadness was genuine. A sadness that slowly descended on the town like a sagging balloon that refused to release its last breath of helium. The entire town decided that a funeral would just be a memorial to the failure of the dream, so its carcass was tossed into the old quarry that had long since been turned into a lake the children were told never to swim in.

In the years that have followed, flower petals have often been seen floating on the surface of the lake. These petals come from flowers that do not grow naturally in the surrounding areas. It is speculated that the petals are some kind of memorial placed there by someone who feels like there's something in that lake to memorialize, but it is unknown if the petals are dedicated to the death of the dream or if it's merely in remembrance of one of the many children who drowned in the lake that was once a quarry.

Monday

if happy little bluebirds fly...

Sunday

Something is lurking in my armpit. I'm afraid of what they might find.

Deep down in the ocean, they've invented their own light that they don't need.

The things at the bottom of the ocean weren't designed to be seen. But we've seen them.

I can't remember all the things I've seen I thought I'd never forget.



kmc

Friday

On the evening of January 14th, 2010. No. On the evening of January 14th, 2011, Kevin Michael Christy spent two and one half hours trying to decide what book to read. He read half a fairytale, but realized he'd already read it and stopped. He gave up on books. He tried to take a poo ("where did he try to take it?"), but was unsuccesful ("it stayed where it was, untaken"). He thought, "In the movies, the lesbians usually end up unhappy. That doesn't seem fair, does it?" His question was unanswered. The dog thought Jeremy Irons was an intruder, but Jeremy Irons was just the narrator.

It was Friday when he started, but Saturday when he went he stopped. Nothing changed but it was called something different.

(the sleeping part is assumed, because it has not happened yet)

Thursday

Poor Chinese Baby.

This commercial features my two favorite things.
Horribly offensive fake Asian accents.
And glape-flavored things.

And in the same spirit,
http://www.engrish.com/



kmc

Monday

So. We've come to terms with the fact that my clothes, in fact, have not gotten smaller. Something else is going on.


kmc

Sunday

I'm afraid of bridges and not metaphorically. When I cross a bridge on foot, I'm terrified I'll throw something off. Something I need. Keys. Phone. Social security card. Shoes. I have never pitched anything over the side of a bridge. I have no reason to believe I will ever throw anything I need off the side of a bridge. I still get afraid. Every time.

Like bridges, I'm afraid of sitting in a theater when the actors on stage are totally silent. For that moment, I think,
"Yell! Yell, really loud."
"Don't yell!" I tell myself.
"C'mon. Yell. Everyone will look at you."
"Don't yell! Nobody wants to look at you."
"Make a big scene! Fill the silence."
"Stop thinking that."
"All these people will think about you all night."
"That's an awful idea. The worst one."
"Some might remember you after they have forgotten the play"
The actor speaks, and my mind is silenced. Until, again.

I dropped my keys on the floor of the theater, once.
It made a loud noise. I didn't notice anybody notice.
It'd make a big noise if I threw myself off a bridge,
but that seems impractical.


kmc

Thursday

Parakeets look like they are stuck in the 80's.

Wednesday

We didn't have anything to get clean.
So we just went to sleep on top of the comforter. Not touching.
In the morning, we left the hotel room completely undisturbed.
No evidence at all.

No More War!!!

Things That Are Stupid:

War
People


Things That Are Not Stupid:

Fashion Shows
Choreography
Red Jheri Curl Wigs

Tuesday

My mother's pet zombie wouldn't leave me alone. I told her and told her please. Get
him away from me. I think he wants to bite me. (At the time it did not occur to me that he wanted to eat my brains, but that seems somewhat obvious in retrospect) Please, I said please. Please, get him. Please. The zombie kept doing. She kept doing nothing and nothing. And I kept avoiding, desperately. The fact I was dreaming never occurred to me, even after I woke up. It was only after I realized I had nothing be afraid of, that I figured out a part of me had made up everything I thought was so awful. After that, the day progressed normally. Except I drank some coffee and I don't usually do that.


kmc

A Thing

Monday

A Storm in December and Falling in Love.

I forgot what lighting was.
The thunder was worse.
What was that-I thought-
the world had ripped itself apart.
A sad attempt at poetry,
failed melodrama.
But I thought it. Then remembered
What it was.
Should of been
snowing.

I thought the other, would feel
like explosions. Like crackle and fizz.
It doesn't. It feels like
old shoes I'll never throw away.
Perfect pair perfectly paired with my pathetically
unspectacular, gnarled feet.

The return
of snow
brought no surprises.



kmc