Thanksgiving

I can't decide if Thanksgiving is terrible or wonderful. I mean, here's what comes to my mind when I think about gobblegobble. We eat like there's no tomorrow, and maybe it's just me, but I feel like it's expected of me to only stop eating when that blazing, wet burp, reminiscent of auntie's stuffing, graces its way up my throat. Hello, gluttony. We think we are gathered to "celebrate peace and community between pilgrims and Native Americans". Lord Jesus. I don't even want to get started on this, but long story short, fuck western ontology for giving birth to dysconscious racism. How have we come to celebrate exploitation and lies? In the middle of our food coma, we then proceed to prepare for Battle Royale, leaving everything we've learned about courtesy at home (I don't think I need to remind you of this), and fight till the death for some soon-to-be-outdated Apple product. And how fitting, because that poor Wal-Mart worker was trampled all over by some greedy bitches the same way we land-hungry colonists trampled all over the Injuns.

But damn, at the same time, Thanksgiving is great for all the same reasons. Being able to do all these things, and do them conscience-free, is probably necessary. It's the one day people who are always so uptight or worried about wrong and right, trying to be healthy all the time, making every breath, sneeze, and fart meaningful, etc, can chill the fuck out. Stress and anxiety take years off our lives! And this holiday does actually make us stop and think about what we are grateful for, and if you forgot to tell your dog on his birthday how much you appreciate being able to pick up his poop, you always have Thanksgiving to save your butt. As we get older and realize that Thanksgiving is a fairy tale that some white dudes made sure was pounded into our vulnerable young minds, we can/should enlighten others who are forced to listen to us because we all know they're too lazy to get up and walk away from the honey baked ham. God bless Amurca

American Indian Studies M10

Some of the greatest things

-cracking my tail bone
-super efficient pooping
-vibrato
-fully charged phone
-Ticonderoga
-disneyland
-intense strings
-duty-free
-good breath
-eloquence
-unsmudged eyeliner
-people waking up
-freshly printed paper
-unspoken, unbearable yearning
-dynamics
-plain almonds
-windows down, heaters on
-dinner @ 2122 mesita
-wrinkle-free
-tea
-accidentally dressing for the weather

Never can have too little trust

This physical illness is quite like the sickness I feel inside. Everything that has anything to do with you assholes makes me sick. How many times have you all infected and poisoned the purity of friendship? Of trust? Of faith? Cousin after friend after cousin after priest after friend. I will never understand the workings of your malicious minds, but I think it's time I stay weary of all XY-influenced intentions.


My faith. Crushed. Pepper- makes me want to leave a stinging in your mouth. Sad that I honestly find it nearly impossible that a man wrote this..

I can’t describe the sound of her voice

The music in her hugs

Or the rose pedals in her walk

But I imagine that her words

Are like fig leaves

That dance to the sound of opinions that refuse to be silenced

The conviction in her sentences

Can make an ocean question beauty of its own waves

I bet the stars spend hours in the mirror

Getting pretty

Putting on extra sparkle

Hoping that she will notice them in the moonlight

I imagine the morning gets jealous whenever she wakes up at noon

I bet the knees of twilight buckle whenever she compliments a sunset

I bet the streetlights shine a little bit brighter

Simply because she is standing underneath them

I bet the sidewalk plays a symphony

Just to make sure that her feet have something to listen to in between steps

I can’t describe the sound of her voice

The music in her hugs

Or the rose pedals in her walk

But I know

I know that she is more than just another piece of land waiting to be claimed

She is a music note

Waiting to be loved into a song

She is an acoustic guitar

Waiting patiently for the hands that have been trained to hold her properly

She is a wind chime inside a culdesac

And her skin is a melody

That very few men will have the pleasure of hearing

Repugnant

Today I woke up wishing I never fell asleep. All of my insides on the brink of explosion. I want to yack. Must. scrub. every inch of skin. Between this banging in my head and the image of you walking in with a bottle of Jack filled to the brim with maleficent intent is an all-consuming urge to rip you apart. You play the pity card. Always feigning selflessness. The sad life of some helpless romantic who can't help but wear his heart on his sleeves. You know precisely what you do. And what I did was take you in with open arms. Now what you can do is fuck off for good.


Ludwig, Jean S., Claude, keep me sane.