"fall in love with someone who loves the way you laugh and would do just about anything to hear it. fall in love with someone who puts their head on your chest just to hear your heart beat…fall in love with someone who thinks you’re the one they would love to wake up to each day." -found on Facebook, September 16, 2014
"I have all this gold in my soul, honey. I don’t need a penny to love you, baby. I have all the kisses you gave me to be whole." -Julie C., "Rich Girl"
All this lovey-dovey, fairy tale bullshit serves is the retail industries of Hollywood, Hallmark, and the next YouTube sensation. Look, I’ve been chasing the dream since I had the misfortune coming to this earth.
Such love doesn’t exist. It’s an empty world we live in, growing emptier and more commercial by the day. Love used to be the domain of the beautiful people, but I don’t think even they know of it anymore — not with Instagram to make our every voyeuristic, third-person narrative come true. We can listen weepy-eyed to every touching love song known to mankind, but we will die unloved and alone.
In my life, nobody’s had the guts to stand up to me and demand my love, fight for my love, stay for my love. Because my love can easily be supplanted by 5,000 other warm bodies with perkier tits and tighter yoga pants-wearing asses.
We see what we want to see. Our attention spans are shorter. The Narcissism training has been ingrained in our subconscious since the day we picked up a cell phone with all the tricked-out apps. Facebook completes the idealized projection.
There is no such thing as true love, kids. Wake the fuck up, and settle for a decent person who cares enough to stay through the tough times and laughs at the same jokes, five times out of eight.
It hurts me to write this, still. Because I want so badly to believe he exists. I looked and I looked. Maybe I looked through unattractive, unattracted eyes.
I will leave this earth always wondering if he was even real or a figment of Hollywood’s imagination, imprinted on an impressionable, stupid little Korean immigrant girl.
I stood in a field dying, my eyes grasping every dry dead leaf off every crippled straw of winterized grass, reaching for him. But he had passed long ago. Our time had come and gone, stolen by husbands and wives and a lifetime of arguments over boiler makers and kitchen counter set-ups. Nothing real ever passed between our respective… responsibilities.
"It’s too late. I will never see him here," I thought, before collapsing.
The sun faded everything into a burnt umber. It was quite forlorn.
It wasn’t until I zeroed in on Mr. Pickle as the only cool prize at this year’s Puyallup Fair that I remembered I’d wanted to win him so badly — the first time I visited over 12 years ago.
My husband and I’d just settled into a new city from Hawaii, where we’d lived since high school. We enjoyed watching people and eating fair food when I cast my eyes on this green doll with the sneakers, the glasses, the mustache, and the come-hither torso thrust. I begged my husband then to win him, but he couldn’t make the damned ball stay in the basket.
Twelve years later (I don’t know why I never noticed Mr. Pickle last year), this past Sunday, I saw Mr. PIckle again, my heart beating faster in recognition. I then begged my son to win him for me. At first, he wasn’t sure he could. He hadn’t had much luck at the Evergreen State Fair, where he’d won big two summers ago.
But he tried, and nailed it. He missed the second and third. You get three balls; get all three in the basket, you win Mr. Pickle. Get one, you get Mr. Mini-Hamburger. After feeling a little let down, and losing a soccer game, James decided to go for it again. This time, he nailed two out of three, able to exchange the burger man for … Mr. Pickle!
I finally scored with Mr. Pickle, the coolest carnival prize in the world! You have no idea how excited I was. I mean, I get amped up about these carnival games like most people get amped up about the new iPhones. He’s swinging on the ceiling in our kitchen now, with Mr. Sun.
Right after Mr. Pickle, my son proceeded to win the basketball game, making two baskets for the grand prize. Grown men couldn’t even get this one.
The oversized pink donut, however, remains elusive.
where were these colors in between the sound machine’s latest gasp
every last prayer — intonation and waver — note for note, a rotation of harmony, so much
before, passing them by, the granny forgotten footsteps down winter’s doorstep
interconnected international, if only I could catch my breath long enough to remember this one, good song
"At Chafalaya" really is layered cloth, approaching sun-dappled freeways
where do you go?