number twenty eight: editors

this whole writing thing is complicated. i love it. i live for the moments where thoughts burst from my fingertips and onto my computer screen.

i should take a moment to note that i type too hard. it's like i'm in an abusive relationship with my keyboard. i spend my days punishing vowels and consonants.

i write for three sources right now. culturemob allows me access to press passes and journalism. my blogs (yes, plural) are free form ramblings. and last week i was asked to write short stories for another site.

i'm having a hard time with the last one. short stories... plot lines complicate my thoughts. but i made my first venture, and spent my thursday evening wrapped up in my thoughts and what i'm posting below is what came of it.

"I’m nothing more than a goodtime girl. Take me to the carnival. Take me to the ocean. Let me breathe with the sky. Let me drink until I can’t stand. Smoke until I can’t speak. Laugh until tears fill my colorless eyes.

But whatever you do, don’t let me love you.

Because I won’t ever love you.

Not like I loved him.

It’s not fair to use the past tense. It’s also not accurate to use the present. Is there a tense to use for something that’s all encompassing – something to explain a feeling that had no start and no real end, but is just always present? Like an incurable disease. You are psoriasis. You come and go, in and out of my thoughts. Unyielding. Except a disease is something undesired, and this feeling, left to linger over the years, is something I can’t label in the negative.

There’s nothing negative about loving someone the way I do you. Regardless of how long it’s been since we last mumbled hellos and goodbyes. Or how many men have attempted to replace you in my squeaky bed. Or how many pills have done their best to dislodge you from my memory. Thinking of you, I think of running through a field of corn. The stalks whip and tear at me, trying to stop me. They cut me the way thoughts of you, blindsiding me on a Tuesday afternoon, cut me. Leave my eyes bleeding tears of emptiness. All the cuts don’t matter. Stopping isn’t an option. Neither is not loving you.

I wish it were. I’m glad it’s not. Knowing I can feel something other than the desire to have a good time is the only thing that lets me know I have ever been anything but my present state: A goodtime girl.

I once had a love. Someone who excited me like the Ferris wheel. And felt like the waves wrapped around me. Who made the clouds dance. And was like whiskey to my thoughts. Without you to fill my lungs, and without you to put the grey-blue-green beneath my lashes, a goodtime girl remains."


that's my first venture for the new site. and i'm thankful for the people i have in my life who are available to give me insight. the version you see above is a few drafts deep. and those who read this, i ask you to submit your opinions. your corrections.

i like to pretend i have a clue as to what i'm doing here. but i don't. and that's why after writing for my multiple sources, i've come to adore my editors. official and unofficial.

narrow-mindedness is not a trait i want to posses, especially in my prose.