oh no and other poems.

The most thrilling thing about Herzog’s Encounters at the End of the World is watching all the people in the movie who are living on purpose. You don’t find yourself one day at 55 years old taking milk samples from sea lions in the South Pole unless that’s really what you want to do with your life. You’re not like, man, I could go for being an accountant in Houston about now. These crazy winter people are hippies without the sandals. Go stream the movie on Netflix if you don’t know what I’m talking about, because it’s really neat.

I get jealous of scientists, like any self-respecting artist should. I like the idea of goal setting. Actually it’s not any different from writing. Step 1: work really hard in school and be trusted to continue your research in Antarctica with the help of a grant given out by the money people. Step 1: work really hard at your writing and find someone who likes it enough to turn it into a book.

My new job is cool but I don’t really want to talk about it specifically. I just started working, lickity split, haven’t had time to miss the academic life. I work in a building that looks like a log cabin. I’m in the basement with a bunch of other writers and editors, which is mostly the same thing but sort of like are you an Elvis or a Beatles person.

The last office I worked at back in Michigan was terrible. I mean, truly awful. Two things come to mind when I think about that place: Thoreau: “The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation,” and the great existential film Joe Versus the Volcano. I wrote product copy for sports equipment. I had to go to meetings where they asked me if I had any innovative ideas on how to help the jackass who owned the company make more money. Why would I care? Why would anybody ever expect me to care, and how was everyone around me able to generate so much enthusiasm? They were like bullshit windmills.

If I had a point I lost it. Oh well. Sometimes these things just float away…


greetings from hardback.

Life is moving a little too fast for my tastes but young professionals adapt. And we’re not that young, Molly. And we’re not getting any younger. And there’s a big black cloud coming up over the mountains out the window facing the parking lot of a coffee shop called Hardback adjacent to a Hastings in Missoula, Montana, where I’m writing you from. This is a place based narrative.

I know I always say this, but I think the man with the spiky blonde hair (dyed) atop the square head sitting in front of the aforementioned window is in love with me. He’s hunched over a notebook, writing by hand, and he keeps looking up at me across the room. He caught me looking back twice already and I think this is only encouraging him. He’s wearing an old flannel shirt rolled up on his biceps – ex sailor biceps – and he is writing weird, disgusting things. I don’t ever want him to find out I’m doing the same thing. Mine is not the same thing. My angle is way more exploitative. He looks how I imagine a live action Duke Nukem might. This dude is going to go home and set up an elaborate shrine of my face made of macaroni and think about me all the time. I wish I could read what he’s writing. I hope it’s about me and it’s terrible or wonderful. I can’t take anything in between. This is probably fucking illegal or immoral or both but here’s a stolen image I only thought to take after I took the time to so artfully describe him, so forgive any redundancies.

great writer, my murderer, or both?

The saddest part about this story is that I will never ever know what he’s writing or what it all means in the end. Or if I ever find out it’ll probably be just before he sobs about how much he loves me while chopping my head off and I won’t get the chance to tell you about it.

But enough pie in the sky dreaming. I’m so busy, everyone. I got my MFA, I’m your master, blah blah blah. Like a second later I got this rad job as a calendar editor at Missoula’s hip, independent weekly paper. I’m working on “my novel.” The word file I keep all my novel ideas in is called “my novel.” Summer, what can I say.

Why do good things happen to chaotic neutral people?


this is a great look.

  1. This is a great look. That hoodie looks expensive and way comfortable. I might kill a man for it. Hair and makeup is divine.
  2. The girl is partied out. And? When have you not been partied out? This could be me on any given weekend. Take her through a taco bell and she’ll be good as new.
  3. I’m too busy to write anything so this is what you get. I’ll be back soon.



Excuse me, weather. I was told melting sun.

I can’t seem to keep a lid on anything. I don’t mean metaphorically, not like I can’t keep secrets, I mean on things like toothpaste and pill bottles. It’s the screwing I take issue with. It takes so long, and for what? Screwing a cap is as dumb as making a bed.

I concede, spillage sometimes occurs. Since I got a perscription I have never not accidentally knocked over my bottle of ambien, sending all the tiny little pills into the big box I keep my shoes in, but it’s a good thing. When I forget to fill the script, I can always find one errant pill buried in the carpet somewhere.

Further, men keep telling me something really bad is going to happen to my car as a result of my lost gas cap, but oh really? Like what, smarty pants? Not only is there a little door, there’s a metal sheeth keeping the gas inside, like an eyelid. Put a cap on your eyelids, men. Also, who ever fills their car more than halfway? No one I know. I only know writers. Anyway, I’m sure I’m wrong. I’m sorry. I’ll try to change.

Feeling blue, what else is new. A poet. I know it. The end of school, you know. My future is uncertain. I teach my last class tomorrow and then I’m out of a job. In retaliation I’ve decided to make a medical emergency out of my premenstrual symptoms. Sweatpants. Beer. Maybe I’ll eat a whole pizza later. I don’t know; I’m not a psychic.

My contributor’s issue of HOW Journal came in the mail today. My story is called “No Hands.” It’s about a tall girl who moves from Reseda, California to Medicine Hat, Alberta for an Internet boyfriend who turns out to be prohibitively fat. She meets a man with no hands, gets into other adventures, and comes to learn real values. I always knew the story was good structurally but I never really liked it. I didn’t like my protagonist. I thought she was rude and ungrateful, but now I feel like I’ve been too hard on her. I’d like to cautiously say that it’s a good story, and you should consider buying the journal. Do you know what HOW Journal stands for? Helping Orphans Worldwide, that’s what. Honestly, I’m not sure why you hate orphans. An excerpt:

God did that make me angry. How dare he mention my height? As though I were the freak. There were other concerns. Men are sick people. They have weird fetishes. There was this one guy—you wouldn’t believe what happened. I should have known when he called before our date and instructed me on what to wear: heels, a skirt. I feel like a man in a dress. Women are small. That’s why rappers call them shortys. I am something else. But he was handsome and I agreed. He invited me to lie down on his bed. He asked me to shut my eyes, that he had a surprise for me. Then he pulled out a tangle of ropes and tried to tie me to the bed. I saw a red camera light blinking on the bookshelf across the room. His breath was excited and shallow. The clincher: a worn copy of Gulliver’s Travels on the nightstand. I never told Orca how tall I was, and this allowed me to trust him. I did not trust Dylan.

This blog post is the first real thing I’ve written since my thesis reading. I would try to write and it was like my fingers got tangled together and I quit for fear of tripping. I still feel that way but I’m making myself do it anyway. Future, why you so scary?

Thanks for reading, friends. I mean it. We’ll be in touch.