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This is how posting anything these days feels

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I Love You Captcha

I Love You Captcha

I sing and cry at old movies.

I tilt over backwards and open my mouth.

Like everybody else, I listen to the rain.

I compose poetry beneath the thorns and walk blindly into traffic.

I was born eyes open and most people couldn’t hack living where I was born.

Sudbury, Ontario. If you were wondering.

I live on 9 Dalton now.

My cab driver itches himself like a cat and ties a noose with the strap on his car keys. I make ribbons with leather tassels and watch as my shadow begins to flicker on green slates. My stomach growls like a bird of prey. My eyes squint naturally like an eagle. I rode home in a concrete cab and arrived at a wooden home. If you’re asking me how, I’ll tell you, but you have to be patient if you want to know the whole story.

So everything started when I woke up. Funny story already. I’m sure you’ve heard this one before. Only isn’t very funny. It’s not short either but I’ll try to be concise. Let’s start at the end. So I was driven home by this taxi guy. Uber. Whatever.

I was trying to get back home, from the southwest to the northwest and everywhere in between. I am sure you can guess where this is going. So anyway while I was driving he kept touching himself. Not inappropriately, but in a friendly way. He scratched his arms, and when I closed my eyes, I heard either gunshots, or wind rustling through the reeds. We drove past a soccer field. I wanted to cross it. On the other side, I could have sworn I saw a willow tree. The sound of fireworks blaring in the back like the bass of a stereo. It is exhausting carrying everything I need in my two bags. I have to hoist them up with my two hands with herculean strength. I have to correct autocorrect constantly. As we drove I saw streetlights glowing. I wanted to climb over the chain links, hike over the fence posts, jump over the goalie net, anything, just to get closer to that light. It emits from houses made of wood or concrete. I never know what to do when I get there. When I see the light peeking out of the slit below the door. Do I knock? Do I rattle my cans? I can’t even breathe properly. Some angels at the end of the staircase opened the door and pressed the elevator button for me. Guy with a dab pen looked the other way. I always leave garbage in my wake. My heels clatter down the steps like a pair of hooves. All I want to do is get home, go to number nine. All around me are emergency precautions. Don’t go down the stairs. Don’t pull the fire alarm. Don’t smoke in this area. When I’m alone I can breathe fire. I can let the smoke billow out of my nose like an ancient chinese dragon. I can let the bulls loose in the british pantry. I can go to stampede sometimes. Only if I’m working there as a janitor. I once worked there for a summer. The first day on the job I was sexually harassed, and my coworker experienced a hate crime. He was my team lead. I was cleaning bathrooms next to the coca cola stage. More like enter stage left. Anyway I know nobody wants to hear this stuff. The good thing is that my team lead was a stand up guy about it. He bought me white cheddar popcorn and we stole a carton of powder white donuts. We talked after everyone was gone, and he drove me home even though he lived in Chestermere, and I lived in dalhousie. Go figure. You see? I am learning how to edit as I go. I was enlisted for my service on the far right side. I mostly hid in the janitors closet, sneezing into tissues and doing embroidery. On the other side was a short black man. If I were to guess, I’d say he was from congo. He was a great person. When I caught the cold he brought me chocolate bars and things like that from the vending machine. I traded him in lays potato chips. Back to the other story. Me and my team lead put him behind bars so to speak. That’s where he flirted with us the first time. In the area of the stampede that is closed off with metal and cleaning supplies.

“I’ll take her home, and you take her back in the morning.”

“You’d like to go to a gay bar wouldn’t you? Why don’t we go there together?”

Crazy shit like that. He had wild and ferocious blue eyes. Just like circus animal with frizzy hair and sharp teeth. We talked to HR and he left work that day. Never visited us again. That goes to show you what a twink and a mad scientist can do when they have all the time in the world on their hands. I kid. I felt bad though. He needed the job more than I did. It was his last year working. He needed employment to get his employment insurance benefits. I hope he is doing well now. I hope the bellies of his children are always full. I hope they trip and dance and play hopscotch and always jump over the cracks and always land on the pastel blue and yellow squares drawn out of chalk.

Sometimes it feels like I am made out of chalk. All powdery and dusty. Fragile. Drags easy over pavement. Leaves crumbs. Colourful business.

There was another team lead named Griffin I believe. Alex had a crush on him too. He wanted me to get all three super host awards. I told him one was plenty. I had to clean up wet bile from a sanitary napkin bin when one lady missed the toilet bowl by a long shot. Grizzly. She was alright though. The lady who gave me a five dollar tip I mean. There are plenty of kind people at stampede. They just get too drunk for their own good sometimes. Like the lady that picked me up and danced with me in a white tent while her husband watched in a corner and nursed a blue ribbon beer. Take a walk on the wild side. I itch everywhere. Like I’ve been bitten by a million mosquitoes. Like I’ve been touched by hand that gives me food. Like I am alive again. Feeling everything. Feeling the sound of grasshoppers like violins or the sound of car horns blaring like a choir.

The angels didn’t let me go up. I had to take the stairs and make rituals and sacrifices at every floor. All twenty three. Four, nine, twelve. Don’t get me started on the prime numbers. I want to jump off the roof. I want to run down the hall and scream at the parents to shut up because their child is crying. I want to fly and be free like a turtle dove. I know I’ll only end up dead. A bloody mess of grey and turquoise feathers. A homing pigeon shot mid-flight.

Their apartment has a mat on the ground in front of the door. Inside the apartment is an orange cat named King Wesley. They found him at the meow foundation on sunny side street. He doesn’t need a key to get in. He commands others with his voice.

Jacob’s favourite plant is wolf willow, and his favourite insect is likely a wolf spider. Mine is Sage, like my name. My favourite everything: peace, daisies, brown recluses, daddy long legs, lady bugs, black beetles, soft rain, cicadas, summer time, ease.

His girlfriend’s name is Eman, which means faith or belief. She is beautiful. She reminds me of my friend Alaa, who has eight sisters and one brother. Mirabel, who looks both ways before crossing the street and holds her bag tightly.

This is a short story. I can tell already. Hopefully a big one that ends up in a fancy magazine. Then one day it might show up again, as a hint in a crossword puzzle. Sudoku. Uno.

I love bingo and casinos, as all good Indians should. I used to hate them though. I threw my mom’s cigarettes out of a running car window. I hid gasoline and lighters around the house, like a thief in the night. I love the sound of droning music. The pulse of anything.

I didn’t write this here before but I might as well now. The phone call is coming to an end, even though it just got to the most interesting part. The bottle of wine is empty. Nothing but dregs now. I’ll say my last bit before it’s too late and hope the algorithm gods don’t punish me.

I walked home tonight. I did it on my own. When he left, there was an image of me painted on the green fence. I was lying under a rose bush, trying to come up with a poem but coming up short. And pushing daisies too. And clawing my way out of the coffin.

A flicker of me. That is all it was.

A manifesto of sorts.

There was the concrete cab, then there was a wooden home.

Circling in my mind.

Finally I put my fingers down.

I took a deep breath.

And puffs for good luck.

I tied the noose.

I let the flicker die.

I went home.

I finally turned on my phone.

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only comment on this page

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“That’s true! I did! I crinkled this!“ A painting of my favorite post from @straycatj I hope my rendition of this dastardly crime did it justice

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日陰は心地いいでしょうよ

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girls will be like “everything’s fine” while their soul gem looks like this

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Twitter / moriiiiiin: 大根おろしアートのカピバラ親子、お風呂で温まって眠そうになってきた

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-_-

シャンティ フレーズ （by 東龍）

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“Winter is the only true season of touching. In winters, no matter how efficiently you dress up, a raindrop will find you. Fogs will enshroud you and leave their wetness on your face. Dry, cold air will crack your lips. As you inhale, mist will touch your nostrils and the inside of your throat. You will feel winter’s touch on the backs of your ears. Winter’s physicality reaches everywhere.”

— Nikita Arora, A history of botany and colonialism touched off by a moss bed

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my obsession with this photo is unbelievable actually. i cannot believe im not there right this moment i cant believe im not standing under that bridge surrounded by small houses and nature. unbelievable

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fuck myer briggs fuck astrology

if you ask someone who their top 3 favorite homestuck characters were you literally know everything about them

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