puching

[puching]

He used to trip me when I would take walks. Usually to the forests/parks to smoke… or behind some factories where most people didn’t pay attention or care.

Most of the time, he wouldn’t even appear to be mad at me. The day+night could go perfectly fine and he would still slyly poke his leg in front of mine, laughing as my knees crashed towards the abrasive pavement.

He would laugh and point, “Hah! Look at your face!… Wish you could see this, it’s just hilarious!” He grins ear to ear with utter amusement. Every. Single. Time.

The first few times I laughed along, trying to justify his actions in my head. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he thinks it didn’t hurt. Maybe I really do look funny.

On occasion, I would receive the pleasure of being tripped in a field of grass.

He laughs and he laughs. Wet grass stains my knees and shoes. Mud mixes on the surface of my scabs and scars. I remember balling the green blades in my fists as I stare at the ground, sitting on my feet and knees planted in the field.

Do I have to scrub grass stains from my clothes and legs?

Again?

Do I deserve to wear pink and white knees?

[puching]

she said get rid of all the resentment, … … i’m going to make a list with fake names…

[puching]

When I was in early elementary (2nd/3rd grade), I begged, pleaded, even bargained with my mom for a pair of super high top Converse. She caved in and gifted me a pair for a birthday/holiday. I was over the moon! These shoes took me everywhere; to school, to the playground, to bike all around my hometown neighborhood, then back home to binge SkyDoesMinecraft YouTube videos.

Years later, I found myself in a cobbler’s shop hiding behind my grandma at a register counter. I was young enough to be less than half the size of my grandmother. I hear him say something along the lines of, “There’s nothing more we can do for these shoes”. I had worn the bottom of the shoes into a thin conglomerate of its past components. Outsole, insole, random fabric, and remnants of glue kept the bottoms barely intact.

My grandmother has very classy taste. Cherubs framed in gold adorn her hallways. She has a black grand piano, a coquette lovers wet dream for a bedroom, heavy busts of classic composers. Don’t get it twisted— she doesn’t live in a McMansion or luxury apartment. She resides in a single bedroom home. Very practical, very personal.

Well, since my grandmother found joy in finer looking things, I assumed she did not care for my choice of shoe. This is an assumption that I cannot back up with any evidence. If she had ever made remarks of disliking the shoe, I must have forgotten by now. Still, I was surprised and quite delighted that my grandmother made an effort to find a solution for something I genuinely held near and dear to my heart.

Here I am now at 21, still yearning and aching to feel the super-high-hightop Converse hugging my calves with a yank of two strings.

I love you, Grandma. I love you, Mommy.

Dream shoes 🖤

[puching]

what the fuck

[puching]

yearning pt. I || what would my friends say if they read this

It's a cold, windy Saturday here in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois. It's always windy and lately very cold, but today, the sun was shining with all of its might. Al scheduled me for a 5-hour shift today but only stayed 4. I left the building feeling conflicted: relieved to go home and get my first meal for the day but disappointed because I had only earned $10 in tips.

I got a call back from my previous employer yesterday. She said she lost my online application and the sticky note with my phone number, which has delayed the process of hiring me back.

I dread going home because I have to interact with my mom. I love my mom very much. Some days, I love shooting the shit with her and giggling. Most days, I find it very difficult. Sometimes, I think the problem is all her. I get upset, maybe too upset, and receive no consequences (as always). I realize this is very strange and things shouldn't play out like they do. Then, I refuse to believe it is a problem with her, it must be me. It could be possible that it is both of us. We are both just products of our environment, I guess. I love you, Mommy.

I love seeing my cats. I love seeing my items. Material possessions. Worthless shit. A strange reminder that I am not a little girl anymore. I have stuff and things of my own, my mind is my own. I am not just my parent's daughter.

The foreboding of the day only gets worse as I scroll through TikTok. One video after another: throwbacks, compilations, "corecore" videos, gaming clips. Everyone says it will get banned/deleted every year, and every year it has stayed. Why would I believe it this time? But, everyone seems really serious this time. Why is everyone posting their drafts? Why am I posting my drafts? Why am I scared to lose an app?

My fat, obese, orange cat trips me on my way into the kitchen. He is trying to weave through my legs and rub against me. At the moment, I take it as a bad omen. He wants more food. He cannot have more food. He is fat. I would hate for his love of food to cause irreparable damage to his body-- so no, Alfred, you can't have any food right now. I love you, Alfred.

My relationship with my mother has been declining since exactly January 1st. I scream and cry, most of the time when it is only the cats and I in the house. Of course, I muffle it, so as not to disturb my feline friends.

My boyfriend and I have a perfect relationship, perhaps too perfect. My insecurities and anxieties sometimes tell me that it is too good to be true. Surely, he is hiding something like another girl, or he hates something major about me, or I'm just a girlfriend and he isn't dating to marry. 100 different possibilities that have 0 evidence to back them up. Sometimes I feel like a bad partner for thinking these thoughts. He is truly amazing to me, everything I could dream of in a partner. Treats me great, is funny, smart, talented, hardworking, sweet, responsible, clever.. tall, handsome, sexy. We like the same music and almost have the same wardrobe. He's everything. Why would I ever think such awful things of him? I feel like it's so unfair and mean of me to just think these things, even when I don't want to think them. I love you, Pookie-poo.

My second oldest cat, Sliver, has an obsession with chewing on wires. Phone chargers, headphone cords, and even HDMI cords. I've tried so many things to discontinue his strange addiction-- citrus spray (on the wires to prevent chewing, not on him of course), double-sided tape, wire covers, and cable management. My mom bought him squishy-ish chew toys that he has no interest in. I don't blame Sliver. I love chewing on squishy things, feeling them press against my gums and mold them to the shape of my teeth. I f*cking love chewing and teething. I understand you, Sliver. There's no way he could know that chewing wires is dangerous. He loves string, and he loves chewy stuff. The wire is the perfect toy in my little boy's mind. Sliver has hurt himself after getting into a wire. He chewed it away until it was exposed. He needed mouth surgery but fully recovered. Despite it being a traumatic situation for both of us, Sliver seems to have no plans to put down the wires. I hide them all in obscure spots and layers of wire covers. He is not allowed in the computer room without my supervision. Sliver gets me like no one else does. Obviously, he didn't tell me that, but I assume. Because I get Sliver like no one else does. I love you, Sliver.

I need to move out, and living is expensive. Work is tiring but we all have to work. I get over myself somehow. Sticking it to the man is cool, I'm totally with it. The man unfortunately runs the world though. How do I get away from "the man"? I need to work to live.

So here I am, Sunday morning. 11925 ~1-1:30 am. "Oh, you came in with the breeze On Sunday morning You sure have changed since yesterday Without any warning" No Doubt, "Sunday Morning"

Now, I yearn for my mother's hugs. I wish I could sleep in bed with her one last time. I wish she could tuck me in. I wish we didn't argue. I wish I didn't resent her. I miss my dad, I haven't seen him in well over a year. I yearn to scroll TikTok and forget that anything happens to me at all.

I miss you already, Tiktok. R.I.P.