‘scuse me while I kiss the sky

I recently read a line on a blog summarizing Sod and Murphy’s Laws. The summation was “everything happens to me, for me.” And while at first I scoffed at it’s almost biblical connotation I started to repeat it to myself over and over as I processed it. I let my mind’s tongue work over every word like it was a giant cage my brain was trying to pry into. Everything happens to me. For me. After I’d scavenged the carcass of this phrase and spit out the bones I liked it more and more. Everything happens to me, for me.¬†What a wonderful thing to remember when I’m trying to blame the world for my problems. I like this phrase because it puts me back into control. The responsibility to put my life right after so much is in my own hands. My experiences have given me the tools to rebuild. Even the experiences that brought me to the very edge of my destruction have provided for me.


Everything happens to me used to be my mantra. I’ve been beaten, bruised, and almost killed. I’ve trekked across the world trying to put myself back together and still have barely made a stitch. Maybe I’ve been leaving out the most important part of it all. It’s all been for me. I truly believe that despite the hardships I’ve faced the universe has had my best interest at heart. Even though I may seem to have a tendency for the melancholy and melodramatic, I mean what I say on both ends. I just need to rework my brain and add a new end to my previous mantra of ‘everything happens to me.’ For me.



Grimace, motherfucker.

I want to walk up to you.
And scream in your face.
I want my warm, sharp voice to brush the hair back from your face. 
I want to spit fire.
Grimace, motherfucker.

I want to scream at people with normal brain chemistry.
It’s not fair. It’s not fair that their minds don’t work the way mine does… or should I say that their minds do work and mine doesn’t? That can’t possibly be true, my head is hot with a constant never ending friction of endless thoughts.
How is it that they don’t think the things that I think. How is it that every moment of every day they’re not trying to figure out the quickest way out of the room, out of their head, or out of their own damn skin. Why am I the only one trying to calculate how quickly I can unravel before someone notices and puts me back together?