we're all

And then I realized, we're all Angels, and Devils, and the girl down the street with the retainer. We're black, white, tall, skinny, whatever. We're all self-conscious. Never good enough, cocky, weird. We're the pretty girl who wasn't asked to prom, and the girl who got knocked up.

The truth is, we don't know who we are, but we are all of these things.

We want more.

We want out of here!

We want love

and we hate...

who we are- our lives, our houses, our jobs, our bills

We hate that we are nothing more

that we havent reached our dreams

or even realized them.

We are every little hurricane, every burst of joy, an exclamation point- the passing of a joint.

We bath in cliche, prick each of our fingers on every thorn we meet

and yet...

we all come out of it alive, or not.

its a simple equation. The first breath plus, minus the first kiss, times the last heartbreak, all divided by ambivalence, grief, hope, dreams, money, and persistence, equals death.

in the end, we all are one with the grass.

Awesome Life

My boyfriend seems to think that living in New York City and working in an office job, and riding through Central Park every day would be an Awesome Life. He seems to think that in the meantime, I could write a best-selling novel and we would become rich and famous and they would make movies about the book and lead us into stardom...

In the meantime, I can't seem to keep my eyes open.

It is as if a tiny creature in my head is forcing the blinds closed- deteremined to get one more hour of sleep. The curtains keep falling, but I pull them back up- insisting that my monitors are more important and that the artificial sunlight on my head is warm and appealing. I trick myself into thinking this office is a palace and that my job is meaningful, and that my pay is not solely going into a fund to free me from my slavery to Sally Mae.

It's days like this where I realize, all over again, for the fifth time this month, that I just need to get out. To go where the sun shines more brightly, and less artificially. A place where I am surrounded by more fruit-bearing trees and less vending machines. Perhaps a place of happiness.

The typical human in 2012 would then argue that that simply does not exist.We are pesimists; no. Realists. We call ourselves honest and say that "The grass is always greener." Yet, we drag our asses out of our 95 Ford Escorts, up the dingy stairs of our parking garages, and into the drab, tan colored cubes we call home for over forty hours a week, to stare blankly, and complain about how we hate our jobs.

Wouldn't it be a better choice to explore? What's the worst that can happen? Maybe we run out of money. Maybe we lose our job. But isn't there more out there?

BE PRACTICAL!

...no!

It's all bigger than that. we are only specs.