The thing we thought that is most beautiful about us

People consider themselves vegan

66.66% of the time

Because they don’t want to

Offend the people they




They will go into their rooms

And drink and write

And push-up and pick

The guilt



The would castrate their

Stomachs if they could

Heretics, there is a Miasma

And it lives in their



And lays feelings in the

Crevice of their clothes

Who needs those

When you’ve found your



On sale for $5.49

In the back next to

The condoms

In aisle 7, hide

You think you know



Be an artist and be damn proud of yourself

This. This is why I do what I do. I never doubted arts/creative writing/reporting as my career path, but several people a day throw arguments at me why I shouldn’t do it – not because I’m not qualified, or passionate enough, or ready – but because they fear for me and they care and they are worried and they are my "friends". They’re worried I’ll live on canned tuna alone or not have an overflowing supply of Bath and Body Works exfoliant like I do now. Because the latter would be an ultimate tragedy. A girl’s gotta exfoliate. There’s virtually no going around it.

I tell them they should be way more worried having me do their taxes or perform open heart surgery on a loved one. For me, poems can mend hearts. Magazines are medicine. Do you know how much money I’ve saved on therapy just from reading Cosmo alone? Not that I need therapy, because I absolutely don’t (not that there is anything wrong with it at all if you need it).

Speaking strictly on preventative terms, my psyche and overall well-being would be a lot different had I not had the authoritative final say of the magazine to have my back during iffy times and even not-so-iffy times while getting a pedicure (which is more often than not Fiji by Essie, in case you were wondering. Baby pink on toes still works for fall, and I'm living proof!). Anyone who tries to argue the validity and importance of women’s magazines can meet me in the schoolyard at 3 p.m. We’ll duke it out. Come at me, bro.

When you’re passionate about something, the money follows. I send all the hugs in the world to those of you who have chosen a certain field strictly for money or stature or whatnot. Own up to what you love and stop putting yourself down for enjoying endeavours people don’t conventionally deem prestigious. You are great and you will be successful.  So, for all of y’alls who think you’re doing me a favor by requesting me to rethink my career choice, I invite you to read this quote by my man Kurt Vonnegut. I’m sure you’ve heard it, but I’d like it to come from me. Love to all.

"Here is a lesson in creative writing.

First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college.

And I realize some of you may be having trouble deciding whether I am kidding or not. So from now on I will tell you when I'm kidding.

For instance, join the National Guard or the Marines and teach democracy. I'm kidding.

We are about to be attacked by Al Qaeda. Wave flags if you have them. That always seems to scare them away. I'm kidding.

If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something."



I'm going to do this thing called Poem of the Week (#POW?) every Tuesday because I'm a huge nerd and I would rather some of my unpublished works didn't feel left out in a lonely folder in some forsaken corner of my desktop. POEMS HAVE FEELINGS TOO. And without further ado...


It portrays words in a naked way, as if their meanings stand for themselves

and no complicated font has to compensate

it is safe

and safety sells.

It is not afraid to tell us what it thinks we don’t know,

What it knows we don’t know.


A phrase hanging alone, unaccompanied by the carefully-crafted marketing scheme of a font

Will wet no tongue 

Words, edges carved to perfection

Your favourite cut of roast beef

Covered in mom’s gravy

Toast, fireplace, smells of grandma when she was here


Baby Lisa is on the carpet, sprawled

Cranium fixated on the words before her

“pupp-y” she mutters,

The Helvetica saturating her brain

Forever imprinted on her cortex

She will grow up to be a slave to the typeface

Just like us all, drones, we want to go home

And read books that make us feel like everything will be okay

No intimidating hues please, no contrived cursive


I would like to thank you, 1957

You were a good year of crap cutting

And rational idea forming

And making us all come together through font

Even the prepubescent Asian girls look good with

American Apparel splayed conveniently across their nipples

A sarcastic salute to the bureaucratic entrepreneurs

That control them,

A separation between Slut and State


I cannot hate you, Helvetica,

The aunt who brings me pancakes and

Looks just like me but is not afraid to punish.

Vulnerable, we are friends forever through typography.