a sour cherry.

Grooks.

2009-11-19T00:46:00.000-05:00

College Is -
Laundry's done at 9pm
and homework started later.
Gotta get it done for chem,
but the appeal of Facebook's greater.

Twitter Grook
To tweet an update of your life
may seem of great importance,
but know your followers
don't care a whit
about your supposed brilliance.

Poet's Lament
My muse has gone,
such terrible news
I can't even seem
to sing the blues.

Poor Life Choices
A grande latte at nine o'clock
seemed a good idea at the time.
Until suddenly it was one o'clock
and sleep was still not mine.

Nine to Five
We work and work
at the daily grind,
and it drives us berserk:
make money, lose mind.

Redheads are -
A ginger kid I am not,
though my tongue is sharp
and my temper hot.
Don't call me a witch,
but understand this:
redheads are fierce, bitch.

Author's note: please forgive the hideously bad, lack-of-sleep-induced pun in this next one. Thank you.

Paradox
There's a dock to your right
and a dock to your left
but don't let that confuse you.
It's really simple in the end -
a paradox: pick one of the two!

The Customer's Always Right

2009-11-19T00:40:00.002-05:00

1. Venti Nonfat Caramel Macchiato
She saunters in wearing designer skinny jeans, a Louis Vuitton bag dangling from her arm. Almost forgot the nonfat in her order but the barista could’ve guessed that anyway. Probably drives an Escalade, probably dropping the kids off at soccer after picking them up from the local private school, probably not going to leave a tip.

She slides Dior sunglasses onto her forehead and whips out an iPhone, reads a text, taps her foot impatiently while waiting for her drink. Maybe she’s actually picking the kids up from soccer, maybe she needs to go home and start making dinner, which her husband will be late for because he works all the time to keep her driving that Escalade and wearing those Seven Jeans.

Or maybe, thinks the barista with a smirk, she’s meeting a secret lover somewhere. Maybe they’re going to rendezvous in the next town over while her poor shmuck of a husband is at work and the kids are safely at soccer practice. He calls the drink out, hands it off, watches her spin around and leave, and shrugs. Guess he’ll never know one way or another.

2. Tall Soy Chai
There’s a guy who’s been studying the menu for a solid five minutes. He rocks slowly on the balls of his feet, letting other customers cut ahead of him because apparently he’s waiting for someone.
Finally, she arrives. They make an odd pair - he a grungy hippy type, she in clothes readily available at any major mall. He extends his hand and she smiles and takes it as they walk up to the counter.
“I’m not a huge coffee drinker,” she confesses to her date. “What’s good here?”
“I’m not really either, but I’m a big fan of Tazo teas, especially the chai.”
“Okay, yeah, you order for me then.”
He smiles and greets the barista. “Two tall soy chais, please,” he says confidently, hoping and praying that they taste good because he’s actually never had a soy chai in his life.

3. Tall Black Americano with an Extra Shot
“Hey, how are you today?” chirps the barista.
“I’m fine, thank you, and how are you?”
“Doing well, thanks for asking. What can I get started for you?”
“Hmm. Yes. How many shots are in a grande Americano? Two?”
“Actually there are three in that one, sir.”
“Okay, yes. In that case, can I have a tall Americano with an extra shot?”
“Sure thing - any room for cream in that for you today?”
“No thank you, just black.” He pays, pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and takes a seat in an armchair by the window. He drinks the Americano unsweetened while reading what appears to be Sartre’s No Exit in the original French.
Except that it’s actually a Stephen King novel, because, for all his presumptions, he doesn’t understand a word of French. Or Sartre, for that matter.

4. Tall - Wait, Mom, Can I Get a Grande? - Sorry, I mean Grande Strawberries and Creme Frappuccino
The majority of pre-teen and early adolescent customers at Starbucks order frappuccinos of some sort - usually caramel, vanilla bean, double chocolate chip, or strawberries and creme. This is not a hypothesis. This is a fact. And the bracefaced middle schooler standing in front of him is no exception.
Strawberries and creme, please. She turns to her mom - she wants a grande. Usually the mother stands firm, but this one relents. She orders a tall nonfat latte for herself, and then it becomes clear - she knows little Susie or whoever probably won’t finish her grande frappuccino, and she’ll be able to have some herself, guilt free.

5. Hot Chocolate. Oh. Um, Small?
What she really wants is a tall doubleshot on ice, light ice, extra shot but half caf, with vanilla syrup instead of classic and skim milk. But that’s just too high maintenance. All her coffee-related drinks are incredibly high maintenance, but she doesn’t work at a Starbucks any more so she can’t get away with ordering them like that anymore.
She sighs, orders the hot chocolate, and pretends not to know that Starbucks uses “tall,” “grande,” and “venti” in lieu of the basic small, medium, and large. Oh, what she wouldn’t do for a grande iced soy green tea latte - except that she only really liked it when she was able to make it (otherwise the matcha powder gets all clumpy and gross), and they certainly wouldn’t let her behind the counter as a customer. So a simple hot chocolate would do.
“Ma’am? Would you like any whipped cream on that?”
“Oh. Sorry! Um... yes, please. Sounds good.”

Who Puts Ketchup on Their Hotdogs Anyway? (A Haibun)

2009-11-19T00:39:00.001-05:00

As I stroll up to the Amtrak station I see the train is already there and break into a sprint, caring less about my North Face sliding off my shoulders in the morning chill than I do about missing my train home. I rush onboard and plop into a seat as we start to roll away - past the bottom of Kalamazoo’s campus, past towns in Michigan I’ve really never heard of, past trees, vineyards, trailer parks and cornfields. The air in the train is stale, the morning outside slightly overcast, and I’m sitting across from a woman with a mullet.

A phone call to my mom, a 90 minute movie, and we’re in Illinois. The clouds part and the sun shines brighter as we cross into Chicago, flocks of Metra trains greeting me like cherubim trumpeting the wonders of funding public transportation. Some Michigander passenger points out “US Cellular Field” to her daughter and I cringe. It’s Comiskey Park, I want to say. It’s Comiskey Park and Marshall Fields and the Sears Tower and can someone PLEASE get that stupid UFO out of Soldier Field?

I jaywalk to hail
a taxi, because this is
Chicago, bitches.

Sestina with Yellow Schwinn and Mythical Million-Eyed Monster

2009-11-19T00:38:00.000-05:00

This is a story of boy meets girl.
The boy had a sheepish manner and carpenter’s hands,
and the girl listened to baroque pop while riding her vintage yellow Schwinn.
He gazed at her with sleepy blue eyes,
which she returned with a playful smirk.
This is a story of boy meets girl – but that doesn’t make it a love story.

“I’ve found that happy endings kind of ruin a story
for me,” remarked the girl
with a coy cynicism, cradling a coffee cup in tiny hands.
It was raining, droplets of water collecting on her yellow Schwinn.
She challenged him to challenge this statement, a playful glint in her eyes.
He granted her only a smirk.

In late September of that year, the chain fell off her yellow Schwinn.
He offered to repair it, entertaining her while he did with a story
of a mythical beast with a million eyes, eyes
that saw past, present, and future, and of the girl
he fell in love with, a girl with perfect and delicate hands
which the beast greatly admired, for he had only claws and a snarl where she had a smirk.

She asked if this story had a happy ending with a mischievous smirk.
“It’s a beast in love with a girl, what you do think?” he asked, testing the pedals on her Schwinn.
“Not everything can be Disney-fied. She’s no Belle.” He wiped the bicycle grease off his hands.
She said it was a good story, in that case. “You owe me a story
of your own now, y’know.” He wondered if she knew he was the beast and she was the girl –
except he saw a very limited view of the present with two – not a million – eyes.

She managed to reduce him to a puddle of clichés – O, to regard those lovely eyes
for hours upon hours, and to be the cause of a smirk
of amusement creeping across that charming face! The girl
who would make his life complete, the girl with the Fair Trade coffee and yellow Schwinn.
Nothing more than a fairy tale, really, a story
he told himself when he realized he’d never tenderly hold those exquisite little hands.

A year or so later they ran into each other – she was holding hands with another man,
a man she introduced to him as Tom, Tom with piercing, discerning eyes,
Tom who wore black turtlenecks and black rimmed glasses and didn’t even know the story
of a mythical million-eyed beast in love with a human girl’s smirk.
She didn’t seem to share that smile as much with this Tom fellow, and that pretty little Schwinn
was nowhere in sight, replaced by a beige Prius. Surely, the beast would always love the girl,

but now no longer yearned to grasp her hands. He missed that smirk,
the sparkle in her eyes reserved for him after fixing the chain on a yellow Schwinn
and telling the story of a million-eyed beast too shortsighted to see he’d lost the girl.

Flash Fiction: Talk

2009-11-03T00:03:00.004-05:00

“I’m sorry, the number you have reached is not available. Please try again.”

She was ready to throw this damn phone against the wall. Calling at least twice a day, every day, and to no avail. She couldn’t get through to her brother, apparently, no matter how many times she tried. She knew he was out there somewhere – she sent him pictures and letters and poems, and he sent her postcards back. They always had this number on them, but the number was always unavailable.

The postcards were pretty much a variation on the same message: Love you. Miss you. Great to hear from you. I care about you. And she knew he did – but she wanted to talk to him, to at least have the reassurance of hearing his voice.

Her parents didn’t know it, but she was going to take a year off after she graduated high school to look for him, wherever he had disappeared to. She’d been saving for a backpacking trip across Europe with her friends, but that was less important now.

She sent him a Polaroid of a lightning storm that had happened a few weeks ago. Written beneath: Let’s talk. Her number.

She’d keep taking pictures, keep writing poems and letters – they were always forwarded to the right place and he always wrote back. But maybe it was time to stop trying so hard to find him and let him find her, as hard as that might be.

Flash Fiction: The Lodger

2009-11-03T00:02:00.001-05:00

They ran a small bed and breakfast on the edge of downtown, The Nook and Cranny, and by now they were pretty used to all manner of clientele. The daughter, Penny, was home from college when he showed up on a blustery and snowy evening.

“I’m really sorry, I don’t have a reservation… my car broke down not far from here, I only need to stay for a night or so,” he said, fiddling in his pockets for a wallet, a phone, a something.

“That’s quite alright,” Tom said. “We’ve got the attic available for the next few nights, how does that sound?”

“Sounds great, thanks,” he said with a sheepish grin, looking up from under scruffy brown hair as he handed Tom some bills. “Put me down for two nights?”

Tom rang a small silver bell on the desk, and Penny emerged from the back office, Wuthering Heights dangling from one hand. She rested the book on a cocked hip while waiting for her father to finish the transaction.

“Would you show this gentleman to the attic?” Tom said, then handed the stranger his credit card and thanked him for his business. Penny grabbed a key from the wall behind her and turned, caught off guard as she took in this strange man for the first time. He only seemed to be a few years older than her, but those eyes – so dark they were almost navy. They seemed to conceal an old soul, someone who knew everything that was and somehow also everything that will be. Eyes that were simultaneously full of wisdom and uncertainty.

“Your room is upstairs – here, follow me,” she said, unable to stop staring deep into his eyes. They disappeared up the inn’s spiral staircase.

Tom whistled cheerfully as he went back to his paperwork. His wife came over for a moment to ask about their new guest, and told Tom she’d have leftovers waiting at home for him once his shift was over.

Maria arrived to take over for Tom, who noticed no extra cars on his way out. That made sense though, because the stranger said that his had stalled nearby, and it was probably still in that exact same spot

He did, however, notice that Penny’s mini cooper was gone the next day, as were the strange man and his daughter.

Revisions

2009-10-27T15:26:00.000-04:00

FYI, I did some major revisions on these pieces for my midterm and changed them accordingly on the blog. Check it out!

Mobile Phone on a Saturday Night

2009-10-26T18:39:00.001-04:00

Your fingers grasp
clumsily for me, snug
in your back pocket, and I am

yanked out, beer sloshing
out of the red Solo cup held
high above your head as you dance.

Thick fleshy pads press into
my keys, contacting
people you’ve not spoken to in years.

Misspellings and extra letters added
to the ends of words --
“goin to spaceeeee”

“shot shot soth soht shotttt!!1!”

At one point, you called the number 23
and spoke for a good three minutes,
despite my persistent dial tone.

You might black out, but
tomorrow morning I’ll be sure
to give you a taste of your shenanigans.

Lollapalooza - n. - an extraordinary or unusual thing, person, or event.

2009-10-19T17:22:00.002-04:00

Sitting in Grant Park, sweating,
grass tattooing itself onto my flesh,
and I swear to god I can actually
feel my sunburn blistering.

It’s day three and I’m tired as all hell.
I’m staring into space while my tank top
melts into my flesh, sticky and searing.

But then -- there are the Kaiser Chiefs.
And the drummer clicks off
1...2...1-2-3-4 and away we go.

I’m pushed into the crowd,
bass and drum thumping in my core,
and we’re swept into a frenzy.

There’s a kid who looks like Adonis
standing behind me. I don’t know him,
but under the August sun we dance,
we clap, we jump and shout out a primal call.

Ricky Wilson is at the barrier,
calling to us - Citizens of Lollapalooza!
We’re carried on a wave, jumping
over the stage,
over Buckingham Fountain,

over the Sears Tower.
We leap the Atlantic Ocean,
landing who-knows-where.

A great mob of sweat and beer
and sunscreen and marijuana and
euphoria splashing mud through
the cobblestone streets, a tidal wave of
dancing and cheering.

We’re the kids on the street and
we never miss a beat,
never miss a beat, no we never miss
a beat-beat, beat-beat.

Just like the lyrics.

La Belle et la Bête

2009-10-14T20:16:00.003-04:00

Andrew Bird serenades her from the speakers --
Beware, my children, beware. The devil may care...
Caution is thrown to the wind and
down they go, falling onto his bed in a careless heap.
Embracing each other in a desperate, tipsy sort of way,
fondling and kissing each other sloppily,
grasping for feeling and the gnawing sensation of something they couldn’t quite get at.

Her heart is racing -- whether it’s a thrill or hesitation, she can’t tell.
It’s anything but acknowledging what they’re really doing here,
jigsaws that almost fir but damn it if they’re not going to force them together somehow.
Kids playing hide and seek in the night, except what if no one’s seeking?
La Belle et la bête, as they say. Do that actually say that or is she still tipsy?

Moonlight filters through his miniblinds, casting an odd shadow on their faces.
Naked and pale as the branches on the tree outside his window.
Oh my god. Oh yes.

Pratfalls can be fun, but encores can be fatal...

Quixotic. That’s what this is -- it’s charming, it’s romantic, it’s completely rash.
Rapturous for a moment, a moment where whatever comes after doesn’t matter.

She’s flushed, her chest and cheeks red with satisfaction.
Tipsy still, tired, but content. Maybe she’ll regret it in the morning, maybe not. That’s
up in the air. Right now her body is still doing that pleasantly odd post-orgasm tingle.

Vanishing into a velvet night, she is content.

Waking to a harsh grey morning, he finds she’s gone. Nothing but a note scrawled on
Xerox paper: If I let this keep going I’ll ruin it.
You were great. I’m sorry. He sighs, looks out at the dreary March day, and sees only
zeros.

We Are a Barnes and Noble Cafe Proudly Serving Starbucks Coffee

2009-10-12T19:25:00.004-04:00

Persona Poems

Espresso Machine

Every day,
I spew their shots out into
vanilla hazelnut half-caf triple nonfat
caramel machiattos.

Usually I work well under pressure,
usually I can keep my cool,
the shots are pulled evenly,
they’re the right temperature,
and it’s all good.

Customer satisfied.

But sometimes I just get sick of it,
when the beans are running low
and I have to spit out three or four
triples in a row, boom boom boom.

Hasn’t it ever occurred to anyone
that occasionally I could use an
extra shot of energy, too?

So I quit.
Stopped.
Just like that.

I became a useless hunk of machinery,
wasting counter space, and it was blissful -
if only for a day or so.

I listened with glee as the servers
explained, over and over
and over again -

“I’m sorry, our espresso machine is broken.
Wait! We can still make frappuccin...
oh, nevermind.”

They think I can’t hear them when they
complain, calling me possessed,
jabbing me with sharp little nails
and more force than is required
to extract a shot of espresso.

I’m the reason your customers
are walking away in angry huffs right now,
and you can’t do a damn thing about it.

“Indie Rock Couple”

They overhead Jon tell that one barista
that he’d christened them the
“Indie Rock Couple.”

That’s cool - there are worse
nicknames out there, right?

They hang out in the philosophy
section, the Barnes & Noble classics
section, the music department.

He holds her little hand in his,
stealing a scruffy kiss between the shelves.
Pulling out a book about Existentialism,
Sartre, Nietzsche, Watchmen and Philosophy.

No, no, she wants to go check out
Dave Eggers’ new book.
She tugs him along, her hand still in his,
to the fiction section, her “I Read Banned Books” tote
bumping into his torso with each step.

They share a mocha. She wants a needlessly huge
chocolate chip cookie, and he obliges.

They share a comfy chair,
she with her Dave Eggers,
he with his philosophy,
and they wonder if they’ll spend
the rest of their lives coming to Barnes & Noble.

They can’t decide if this is a cheery thought or not.

Apron

I could tell you everything that’s happened
in the past week or so based on these smudges.

First, Abby dropped a vanilla buttercream cupcake --
that’s the white smudge in the corner.

Then Jordan exploded the mocha everywhere that night --
that would be the brown.

Faith spilled some milk,
and Erin splashed chai everywhere.
The chai actually missed most of me and
ended up in her hair.

I’ve got black where I was used to
erase the whiteboard, soap from when
the dish sink overflowed, and neon green
patches of matcha tea powder.
Oh, matcha powder.

My strings are limp from constant tying and untying --
tight around her waist,
double around hers,
loose around his.
Adjust the neckstrap for the tiny baristas
and loosen it up for the guys.

The old manager would take me home and wash me weekly.
The new one does it a lot less frequently.

I miss the old manager.

Pixar

2009-10-08T10:20:00.004-04:00

Form of the week: Haiku based on a non-traditional haiku subject.

Wilderness Explorers
Adventure’s calling
We float to Paradise Falls
Wait, Kevin’s a girl?!

Monsters, Incorporated
Scare because we care
Beware, children are deadly
Boo! Mike Wazowski!

Robots in Love
WALL-E plus Eve*
Computer, define dancing
All that love’s about

The Big Blue
P. Sherman, Forty-
Two Wallaby Way, Sydney
Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!

Ratatouille
Little chef, big dreams
Remy drives a Linguini
Anyone can cook!

* Eve is 2 syllables, pronounced as WALL-E would: "Eeee-VA"

Something to tide you over.

2009-10-05T15:55:00.000-04:00

I've been working a lot on my last assignment, but it's very personal and I'm not even sure I'm ready to read it in workshop, let alone post it here.

So... we'll see. I'll have a series of haiku for you soon though! In the meantime, have the lyrics to one of my favorite songs of all time by one of my favorite artists of all time:

"Fake Palindromes" - Andrew Bird

My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
Monsters?

Whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide.
Jesus, don't you know that you could've died,
you should've died?
With the monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth.

And she's got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes,
and she's got knee-high socks, what to cover a bruise.
She's got an old death kit she's been meaning to use.
She's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you.
She's got blood in her eyes for you.

Certain fads, stripes and plaids, singles ads.
They run you hot and colt like a rheostat, I mean a thermostat.
So you bite on a towel,
hope it won't hurt too bad.

My dewy-eyed Disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
What monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth!

And she says "I like long walks and sci-fi movies,
if you're six-foot tall and East-Coast bred,
and some other night we can get together
and I'm gonna tie your wrists with leather,
and drill a tiny hole into your head.
Oh, I wanna drill a tiny hole into your head."

Mmm, Andrew Bird. I'm going to marry him, yes I am.

Hello, I Hate You.

2009-09-28T23:39:00.008-04:00

Hello, I hate you. I really do.
Every last fiber of my being hates you.

From the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes, I hate you.
The scar tissue that forms in my earlobes after I take out my earrings hates you.
The nail polish I flake off my fingernails hates you.

The consonants and vowels of my name hate you.
My terrible French accent hates you.
Even the Buddhists in my Wednesday evening meditation group hate you.

That’s right, you prick -- Buddhists hate you.

My pen and notebook hate the clicks of your mouse and the clack of your keyboard.
Oh, and when I say you made a good point, it’s code for I HATE YOU.

My split ends hate you.
My hangnails hate you.
My neurotransmitters and synapses and reflexes and white blood cells all hate you.

Even my shit thinks it’s better than you.
My shit is less pretentious than you, that’s for fucking sure.

My freckled knobbly kneecaps hate you.
Oh. So does my cat.

Cordial greetings on the quad: hate.
The way I don’t initiate conversation: hate.
When I catch your eye and smile: hate.

The way I can only dance if I’m slightly intoxicated?
I hate you for that.

The jealousy that wells up in my chest when I see you with other girls, even now?
It’s not really jealousy. It’s hate.

When we sit on your futon watching tv and our hands touch ever so slightly,
my fingers are transmitting messages of hate to you.

When I pour hot water for tea, it boils because it hates you.
The steam curls out of hatred for you.
The tea leaves divinate my hatred for you.

But I hate the way I make you tea,
and the way you play blue jazz,
and the way you bounce a little when you walk,
and the way you talk in careful syllables,
and even the way you scratch your knee.

I hate the way the light catches your eye,
and the way you smile at me,
and the way I believe it,
and I hate your perfectly scruffy hair.

But most of all I hate the way I need to hate you just so I can feel something, anything, about you.

You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.

2009-09-24T00:08:00.008-04:00

You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.
The shapeshifting sorceress in me.
The scheming plotting megalomaniac in me.
The inherent paradox in me -
lover fighter virgin whore in me.
Morgan the Fate. Morgan the Wicked. Morgan to be feared.

You bring out the Morgan le Fay in me.
King Arthur’s saving grace in me.
Maybe I can save you, too,
if you journey to my Avalon.
Morgan the Healer. Morgan the Faerie. Morgan to be redeemed.

The Fate. The Wicked. The Feared.
The Healer. The Faerie. The Redeemed.

You bring out the blasphemy in me.
The pagan goddess in me,
the ancient and eternal magic in me,
the sacred tree and fairy lights in me,
the moss-covered pathway leading to the
misty moat of an Avalonian castle in me.

You bring out the vixen in me.
The sexy siren seducer of knights in me.
The satin sheets and fur throws,
glasses of red wine and flickering candles in me.
The bedroom eyes and tousled curls tumbling down
milky-white breasts and perfect rose-petal nipples.
The stilettos and red pout and marabou and corsets in me.

You bring out the petty bitch in me.
The vengeful jealousy, I’ll-do-whatever-it-takes in me. 
The hag casting spells on your lovers,
the minx who uses other men as tools.

Sorceress. Healer. Pagan goddess.
Vixen and minx.

Let me enchant you as only Morgan le Fay could.
Let me disappear into the night with you,
an exit as grand as our entrances.

But maybe it’s all smoke and mirrors.

abby in wonderland - the introductory post.

2009-09-23T16:19:00.000-04:00

hello. I'm Abigail.

Almost everyone calls me Abby, and I keep falling into the pattern of introducing myself as such, but I prefer Abigail.

I'm a first year at a small liberal arts college called Kalamazoo. It's fantastic. It's gorgeous and I feel so ... collegiate. Everything is old and brick. & on a hill. The hill is kind of a pain sometimes. I want to take everything - English, Art, Art History, Classics, Philosophy, History... well. Everything humanities-related it seems, anyway. I'll probably end up double-majoring in English and Art/Art History with a concentration in Media Studies. But I'm also incredibly interested in Classics.

One of my chief loves in life is music - listening to it, experiencing it, making it. I cannot for the life of me fathom how a person could possibly be "not that into" music. Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast. And that other bit of the quote I left out.

I also love Shakespeare. & film, books, art, and tea.

I'm an Anglophile, but I feel like that's okay because my mother is British. My mum, as they'd say across the pond. They also say brilliant and lovely a lot. Self-proclaimed American "Anglophiles" who "looooove" England but know nothing about it tend to piss me off. You've been warned. My roots are there. Being there feels like being home to me.

But then again, so does being in Disney World. I want to work for Disney when I grow up. One of my goals in life is to be "friends" with Ariel - yes. I aspire to work a front-line hourly position at a theme park. But not forever.

I don't know what else I want to do when I grow up. Everything interests me. Right now I'm taking a Creative Writing class, & I've determined that my teacher, Di Seuss, is a fucking rockstar. I'll be posting my writings for that class here so my friends and family can read them. If they want to. Personally, I'm very, very self-conscious about my writing ability. But that's why I'm in the class.

It's a really hard class to get into. I don't know how I pulled off snagging a spot as a first-year.

♥

abigail