A Collection of Spectacles


Food for the Morning After: Not Quite the Breakfast of Champions, but Certainly a Feast for Harlots. 

– The last cigarette, smoked anxiously past the filter.

– Half a bagel, forced down.

–  An oversized coffee, made overly sweet. 


Scrubbing, but never hard enough.

No amount of water has the ability to connect me with its supposed holiness.

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“Sometimes, I sit still and see if one can perceive the Earth’s rotation.”

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Note: I can’t take full credit for the topic of this post. The beginning is inspired by a discussion held during my first year writing course. The rest is a tangent I went on in my mind while it was going on that I failed to bring to the table at eight in the morning. 

Opponents of the current notion of human nature, as it exists in today’s society, would say that small discourses are what make up a person. Conjure an image of someone in your mind. Certain words should spring forth: Woman, Middle-Class, Single, and so on. Without these identification tags, we return to infancy, left with nothing more than the statement a doctor gives when he says,”It’s a girl.” These words that we pick up along the way and attach to our personas are put in place by society, yet they are not fixed. They can change, just as a disgruntled libertarian can (with a push) become an anarchist. In arguing with an argument, one could say that some qualities like greed and empathy transcend language barriers, and that these are what constitute human nature’s core. Returning to that which we identify with, it seems as though sexual identification is always near the top of the list. A big deal is always made out of who someone is seeing and for what reason. To some degree, this is absurd. Sexual identification neatly packages one’s preference into a few tidy terms, which stuffs a complicated topic into that which is less than befitting. Society, demands this form of labeling, but by simplifying sexuality and love, it halts its own progress. In the same vein, as the individual fixes himself to one word, he trades in intellectual and spiritual growth for the “greater good” of becoming part of a collective. Though the Kinsey Scale is seen as little more than a scientific artifact, a ripple in a sea of misconception, most still feel the urge to nail themselves to a number. 

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As a young girl, my professor thought the sight of separating spindle fibers was beautiful. On a microscopic level, tiny glorifications of life can be spotted. I’m fascinated by programed cell death. The calculated destruction of something that once existed. Inside is a working microcosm.

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I’m in the city, officially. It’s simply amazing. Had a period of initial shell-shock, but I’m getting over that rather quickly. I just have to figure out where the fuck I’m going half the time, but that too is getting better. 

Classes have started.

Every time I miss the target (and shit, it’s like I’ve thrown a dart that’s travelled in the wrong direction) I become less interested in the whole notion. When I try to feel things without really caring, I end up surrounded by people, but as emotionless and apathetic as when I’m alone. When someone changes my mind and I decide to reluctantly (always reluctantly, as I’m apprehensive about falling face first) form attachment, it seems to lead to disappointment. But, it seems that the unfortunate taste that accompanies this feeling is constantly coating my throat, and it’s becoming less acceptable. Melancholy mixed with hopelessness (a common side-effect) is now turning into sadness mixed with exasperation. 

Knowing that I can’t control the actions of others, that I can’t sway your emotions, is a source of constant discomfort. I’m reading the same sentences over. It’s like examining wreckage from a disaster. While they make sense, they are unsatisfying at the same time. I’m starting to piece together a bleak past.

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