Hey Kaitrin

We wrote a list back and forth a long time ago. I don’t know why or when. Every other phrase is my handwriting, and the others might be yours. I think ‘s you who did this with me because there’s a drawing of a bear with muscles and a speedo that says “Bear attack!” with the initials KM. I propose you sign all your masterpieces with this bear hence forth.

I can only assume this list will become important once I lose my memory and only have a key to a locked box at the bank, which I open to find a hotel key and a bloody finger. Therefore, it is important that it is published. Please help me figure out what this is. The safety of the planet depends on it.

—

Flo from Progressive

Heavy metal themed coffee shops

A comfy chair

My job

Desk lamp

Meryl Streep’s heart

A sultry piano solo

Daddy issues

A T-Rex

George W. Bush’s paintings [THIS IS TOPICAL. Google trends says searches for George W. Bush paintings peaked in both April 2013 and April 2014. Why April?? What were we doing in the last two Aprils?]

Hemorrhoid cream

Miniature Bruce Willis

Severus Snape

Centaur sex shops

Moaning Myrtle’s breasts

Nimbus 2000

Larping conventions

M’lady

Aragorn’s man titties

Arthur Weasley

A tub of butter

Orc brothels

Daenerys

Direwolf breath

Fathers afraid of ebola

Stoners at Steak-n-Shake

Jon Hamm’s pajamas

Mary Kate & Ashley Olsen

#wcw

Tar pits

Oprah

Testosterone supplements

Pinocchio

Bad ravioli

Alec Baldwin’s morning breath [be still my heart]

A broken coat hanger

A cake mold

Michael Jordan

Harrison Ford’s nipples

A bloody toe rag

Michael Jackson

Young Professionals

Unicorns

Ugly Christmas Sweaters

Ball sweat

Funny cat videos

5 bottles of wine

Neptune

Ankylosaurus

An empty water bottle

Tommy Wissou’s ceaseless nightmares

Peppermint Patty

A baseball bat

Matt Ewalt [Ok so we were at Chautauqua?]

Mark’s sassy golf hat

Mikaela’s 8th beer [luh u gurl]

Marty Merkely

Phish [ok we were at Chautauqua]

Bringo

The Yak

Jared Jacobson

Bats

The Wahmeda wedding dress

Mark’s shiny head

Razz Wheat

Poop burrito

A rusty spoon

Ben Affleck’s sex cavern

Detroit

EW Scripps ghost

Assless leather chaps

TBS

Buttered toast

Rick Astley

Total eclipse of the heart

Nickelback groupies

Porn parodies

Captain Jack Sparrow

A frumpy housewife

CatDog’s depraved sex life [I take credit for this, def. my handwriting]

An existential crisis

Millennial think pieces

A sad puppy

Ryan Gosling’s hair

Beetlejuice

A mummy

A cold hot dog

A blimp

Sofia Vergara’s toenail clippings

Crime drama prompt

PROMPT: Write a crime drama starring yourself and someone you nod and smile politely to at work, but don’t really know.

***

CHAPTER 1

“Are we done here?” Winston asked. It was raining and he was pissed. The roof above them blocked no wind.

“We can stop, but we’ll need to start back up,” Joe said. “I don’t have enough yet.”

“Can I just not be in this part?”

“I actually think you’ll end up being the main focus in this part of the narrative.” He grabbed his headphones off his ears. “You’re wiser than Nikki, so you’re more interesting in the emotional scenes.”

“I’ll pass the compliment on.”

“You want to stop or no? I don’t care.”

“I need a break.” Winston unhooked the lav mic from his pocket next to his badge and stood up from the folding chair.

“Five minutes?”

“Ten. Grabbing a coffee.”

“Think about your answer while you’re in line.”

“You know what a break is?” Winston took a step out from under the gas pump awning, their sheltered interview spot. He jogged towards the shop holding a manila folder over his head. Joe’s response was muted by the downpour.

Of all the skillful people

Of all the skillful people I know–painters and singers and dancers and writers and programmers– very few of them actually use the talent in their pinky fingers. It’s a shame.

I fret I’ll forget the taste

I fret I’ll forget the taste of your spice on my lips, peppers and salt tickling the tongue’s tip as I fork the fruits of your morning labor over the table from plate to pallet. Your eyes go bright at my delight at the eggs perfectly fluffed, perfectly stuffed, and you flash pearly mostly-whites-except-for-coffee-stains my way.

I used to write

I used to write at night. It was the quiet, or the dark, or whatever is called a “second wind” for reasons I never grasped–why do we assume there was only one other? why wind?– that always swung through around 1. Or the day’s coffee in my veins had run dry. Or because the better, wiser, calmer version of myself only awoke for the stars.

Sweet dreams

Sweet dreams are made of peas

Who am I to disagree?

We travel kroger searching for fresh greens

Everybody’s looking for salad

 

Some of them want to steam you

Some of them want to broil you

Some of them want to eat you

Some of them want to be eaten by you.

 

*dance break*

 

*lunch break*

 

 

My dad’s name is Greg

My dad’s name is Greg (1) and my roommate’s name is Greg (2). He has a friend named Greg (3) whose dad is Greg (4), too.

When you’re old

This is my response to Hannah’s prompt about talking for 5 minutes about something you know nothing about. But thinking about filming myself makes me nauseous, so I typed instead.

—

When you’re old you want the dust to never settle. You don’t want that coating over cabinets and china and wooden framings of pictures five years out-of-date, fuzzy like your memory of when she was still 10 and fit into that velvet dress, which no dust rag can erase. You want to be not lonely, but won’t admit that you really, truly are, and that you’re not okay without someone wearing the clothes in your closet you still haven’t resigned to attic boxes after he died.

When you’re old you want your knees to not creak and hands to not shake so wildly it looks purposeful at the task of picking up a TV remote. You want Trebek to keep his mustache.

When you’re old you wish your daughters visited more, but are so gracious anytime they halt their Busy Schedules to drive you to the grocery store for tapioca pudding and frozen chicken dinners that you couldn’t, wouldn’t ever ask for more.

When you’re old you wear your white hair with pride and still fumble every lock around pink cylinders to go sit on the couch or wash vegetables or I’m not sure what else.

When you’re old you accept your death in the way you know mosquitoes will hatch in the spring.

When you’re old his death still hurts, and so does your lower back, but you have laugh lines as trophies.

Ladies, I think it’s time

Ladies, I think it’s time we had a talk. There are a few things we do that we’re afraid to talk about. You know how it goes. Us women will talk allll daaaay about nearly anything sex-related—the wheres, whens, hows, and sometimes the whys! It’s how we related to each other! But when a few, ahem, activities, are brought up, zzzzzip! Our lips are sealed. You know what I’m talking about, girls.

I think it’s time we knocked it off. Let’s come out of our shells and take pride in what we do in our own bedrooms with ourselves. Say it with me, ladies: As a woman, yes, I masturbate! I’m proud to say it! And as a woman, yes, I worship Hethanon, Lord of the Cockroaches and Ruler of the Free People of Engron! I couldn’t be prouder!

Now doesn’t that feel better?

For any of you ~boys~ who happened to tune in: don’t worry. I bet you have a lot of questions (and girls, you might too!) that need answering. Luckily, you’ve come to the right place. There are a lot of myths about us ladies flyin’ around out there, and I think it’s time to debunk them.

 

Only boys masturbate: FALSE! Plenty of girls masturbate, too. All people who want to feel the pleasure of masturbation can! Nobody should be discouraged from exploring their bodies because of what type of body they have.

Lord Hethanon is our one true Lord and Savior: TRUE! Lord Hethanon descended from the Red Heavens to rid the world of Balatines, and when he drank the Cup of Blood and Honey, he secured our safe and blessed future. Holy are his Wings.

Girls who masturbate are more likely to be sexually active with many partners: FALSE! What girls do on their own time has no effect on what they do with others.

Lord Hethanon is the one true path to light and grace: TRUE! Lord Hethanon broke the Ceiling of Shards so that the Engronians could construct the Sacred Ladder of the Child Skulls and fly upward to the 6^th Heaven, reserved for his most trusted worshipers. It is through his grace that we, the lowly cockroaches, may attend the Chapel Above for eternity. Holy are his Wings.

Masturbation will mess up your menstrual cycle: FALSE! Masturbation has no effect, whatsoever, on menstruation. In fact, many women find masturbating while on their period helps ease their cramps.

Lord Hethanon asks you to drain all your blood and devour the flesh of your second-born upon ascending the Sacred Ladder of the Child Skulls: FALSE! What a persistent rumor this bugger has proven to be. Lord Hethanon loves all his cockroach babies equally, first- or second-born. To insinuate otherwise is sacrilege. Holy are his Wings.

Masturbation will make you go blind: TRUE! This is an unfortunate side effect. Scientists have yet to figure out the cause, but studies also suggest masturbating heightens your sense of touch.

Lord Hethanon shall restore your vision: ALSO TRUE! Lord Hethanon loves you and will restore all harm that has been done to your body every year at the Festival of the Fruit Otters, after the Bathing of the Oaks. Holy are his Wings.

Masturbation will make it harder for you to have children later in life: FALSE! Masturbation in no way affects your fertility or your partner’s. It may even be fun for you to masturbate together!

 

I hope this list clears up any questions you may have. Inbox me with any others, and I’ll include them in my next post! Thanks for reading, and as always—Lord Hethanon is my light and love, my heaven above. Holy are his Wings.

I had just fucked up an email

I had just fucked up an email sent out to all my bosses, which is why I was in a bad mood. It was fucked because I forgot about the track changes on word because I’m still not used to using a dell. Which is why I sent a word document to a very important Colonel, and others, entirely in crossed-out red text, which is about the sixth thing this week I’ve fucked up, including when I missed a meeting in Cincinnati because I thought it was in Columbus and when I accidentally made someone feel old when I complained about old people typing two spaces after punctuation, which she does, even though she’s not old.

Which is why, when I was driving on 23 (I think?) to meet Blake for lunch at some deli that’s cheaper than Katzinger’s but still good, I started crying when I missed a turn somewhere (I guess?) and ended up north instead of south.

That’s why I was driving up High street at 12:57 p.m, and I didn’t have quarters because I bought a ginger ale at work, so I pulled into a Kroger where parking would be free.

And that’s why I was eating sushi at a Kroger when the world ended.

An older, white woman in a motorized scooter was digging through her change purse at the request of a younger, white man in Kroger Uniform, and I didn’t understand why. The sushi was okay. I didn’t expect the orange colored sauce to taste like mustard.

It was nice that the email no longer mattered and that I wasn’t alone. I hope that wherever you were when the world ended, emails didn’t matter and you weren’t alone, and I hope you were also surrounded by food, because dying while hungry sounds like the least pleasant way to go.

It would have been nice to know the exact time the world ended. I estimate somewhere between 1:10 p.m. and 1:15 p.m, because I had finished my sushi but hadn’t left to go back to work yet, which I was planning to do at 1:15. But I can’t be sure.