Dear Big Mistake,

I can see you behind my eyelids. I'm trying very hard to sleep on this hard floor and in this sleeping bag that smells like old shirts and your dog, but you are lying so close to me and I can see you behind my eyelids. And I can hear you breathing. When you're sleeping, I mean REALLY sleeping, your breathing sounds like your dreams are running marathons, or like you're about to explode with frustrated anger because you've been messing around with the hood up for hours and you STILL can't figure out why your truck won't start.

I can see you behind my eyelids and I can hear you breathing and I can smell you because this sleeping bag smells like your dog and YOU smell like your dog so this sleeping bag smells like you and I can't sleep because you are lying so close to me but you broke my heart. You broke my heart and I pretended it didn't matter and now you think it's OK to visit our friend at the same time as me so there isn't enough room and you and I are sleeping on the floor together and I can't sleep because you broke my heart and you CAN sleep.

Stick Stack Stucked

So I haven't written in a while. A word. On this blog or in my journal or anything. It's a little scary since, y'know, I'm supposed to be a writer and all. But I HAVE been living. And loving. And longing. And all sorts of other fun stuff.

I recently relocated from the lovely Chicago to...well, back to my parent's house in Philly (or, really, NEAR Philly). Turns out college is kind of expensive, kids. When I made the decision to move back, I thought I'd spend the summer working my butt off, saving money and then moving back to Chicago at the beginning of next year, but as they often do, plans changed. Pretty much all I want to do right now is be around lots and lots of trees. I want to be somewhere that has more trees and people. I'm thinking a 7:1 tree-to-person ratio would be about perfect. And, bad news bears--there are WAY more people than trees in Chicago.

I'm coming to terms, I think, with the fact that I am just not a city person. Or maybe I'm a west coast city person? I don't know for sure. All I know is being back in the woods at my parent's house makes me feel like a real person again.

That is all. Maybe.

MMMmmm. Piano + Man = ♥

Dear Taylor Hanson,

You were my first love. Yes, Taylor Hanson, you whose juicy, dripping wet voice sang lead vocals on catchy hits like “MMMBop,” “Where’s the Love?” and “I Will Come to You,” and continues the juicy-voice-ness at the front of the brand new supergroup Tinted Windows.

When I was thirteen, I fell in love with you and your big blue eyes and long blonde hair, your rat-tail

and your keyboard and all those songs you wrote about love and yearbooks. When I was thirteen, I refused to entertain any option other than that I would meet you and we would fall in love and you would write songs about me and I would blissfully pop out little blonde Hanson babies until we died, happily, in each other’s arms. When I was thirteen, I harbored a pure, unadulterated obsession involving larger-than-lifesize posters and screen-printed pillow cases and lots of ear-piercing screaming and the purchasing of way too many “Tiger Beat” magazines, the glossy, full-color pages of which I mistook for Hanson-themed wall-paper.


Now, I am twenty-three, Taylor Hanson, and I blame you for the love-sick, hopeless romantic I have become. I blame you and that drinkable voice of yours, you and those electric blue eyes; you, Taylor Hanson, yes, you and all your songs about love.

When I was thirteen, I took those songs to heart, buried them deep inside me until I heard love to the tune of your voice. In a corny video with lots of bright colors and staring, you asked me, “Where’s the love?”

You said that it wasn’t enough, that it made the world go “round and round and.” In another corny video you pounded your keyboard in the woods and told me that when the night was dark and stormy, I wouldn’t have to reach out for you. You promised you would come to me, Taylor Hanson, oh, you would come to me. You never came, Taylor Hanson,

but other boys did. Boys with blue Mohawks and boys with green eyes, boys with lip peircings and boys in button-up collared shirts. Boys in loafers and boys in combat boots. Boys with warm lips and bedroom eyes. Boys with music in their mouths and boys with heartbreak in their hands. And because, deep inside of me, your most famous song of all warned me I only have so many relationships in this life that will last, so I should hold onto the ones who really care or they’ll be gone in an MMMBop, because you told me this, Taylor Hanson, I fell all the way for every one of those boys, those boys who may not have heard my spirit callin’ like you promised you would, but who were closer and more real, who I could touch, and who could hurt me and my silly little romantic heart.

But you know what, Taylor Hanson,

I don’t think you should get too worried about how this is all your fault. Because throwing yourself head first into love isn’t a bad thing. Living with a fiery passion burning inside you isn’t a bad thing. Being a hopeless, sometimes pathetic romantic isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually kind of awesome, don’t you think, Taylor Hanson? So pat yourself on the back, and know that, even though your love songs and your blue eyes sent me spiraling into a life of falling too hard too fast, I wouldn’t change a single thing, this or any other time around.

Yes, I am aware I have a problem.

This is purty. And also from the show "House."

Hey you, yes, you: Ask me this song, and I will say, "Yes."

Sometimes I just get bored of self-centered 25-year-old man children...

...which greatly increases the appeal of gentlemen age thirty and up. And up.