reality is.

reality is. 

       i can bleed you into 

       all these lines,

       breathe your existence 

       into my own,

       sink into nostalgia 

       at every sign-

but you are not the comet

i’ve waited for. 

reality is. 

        you can reach out to me

        for blessed audience,

        catch your soul in your throat

        when you think you see me,

        fade into black,

        reach out to catch me-

but i am not the satellite

to orbit you. 

i don’t want to be your friend

don’t give me your 

desperate attempts to reach out, connect,

make things right-

tell me that you think about me. 

the truth, like dead bodies,

always floats to the surface. 

you feel sorry and guilty and full of regret

at how we ended-

we all make our choices, 

choices that carry us from photograph to 


you have made yours and it wasn’t me-

from the beginning 

this could never be 




the wanderer.


you know i can’t hold you down, can’t pin your comet tail to this earth

nothing’s going to slow that bullet force coming out of you

punkrat scene kid, sleeping under bridges

trying to find the next best high, the sound that shattered your soul

fully planning on waking up dead.

but those days are long gone, baby

all you have left is your wander

and i’m not taking it from you-

i need a bed that stays still beside me, not the creak of toss and turn.

i need the steady roll of tires beneath me, not the squeal of paths unplanned.

i need the constant, reassuring sound of chatter, not the finality of dial tone.

roam wherever you can, be as free as you need to be

but if your back gets old and weary and you find yourself lying still at night,

your rock-steady

waits for you.

it’s been awhile since I first saw you…

Yes. Those are Staind lyrics. It’s in my head, ok? Get off my wagon.

But yes. It has been awhile since I have updated the uncaring world as to the status of my condition.

So, let’s see…professionally, I begin my Master’s degree in English on April 3rd. I was just recently notified that I have qualified for one of the slots in the Lake Michigan Writers Summer Institute Program, a fellowship designed to make me a better teacher of English. I interview March 13th for that. I really hope that I get a spot, as I would love to learn more about writing and how to help my students become better writers.

And on that note, on a personal level, I have nothing more written in my book. Boo! But, I did sign up for a writing site online that seems legit. Waiting for a response.

Other personal things: the ex, let’s call him Pat Bateman, has been very quiet since he texted pics of his new truck a week or so ago. This sounds like an all-clear, but really what it is, is terrifying. It means the bomb is ticking, I just can’t hear it.

The other Achilles heel in my life, we will call him Peter Pan, has recently re-surfaced. Ever had a thorn in your heel that hurts every time you walk on it? But then when you sit down, it feels fine? Yeah, that’s him. I’m good until I hear from him, then I have to spend the next week shit-talking him in my head just so I don’t fall down that rabbit hole again. From this experience, I truly believe I understand how the addict’s brain works, and I can say with absolute certainty that it sucks. You know the thing is bad for you; that it will destroy you. And all you wanna do is sniff it, snort it, smoke it, shoot it, inhale it, whatever will get it inside you. Yeah, that’s him too.

Unfortunately, this is distracting me from my current flame, who I can say with 90% certainty, isn’t insane. He’s really pretty great. I enjoy spending time with him and he is a bright spot in all this darkness. I have more to say about him, but that’s an entire post. 😉

No Ireland this year. 😦 Mom and I discussed it and we both felt like we needed to be more prudent with our finances right this second. We made plans to go next year, but I am still bummed out. Good news is, MIMF will be having their fundraiser soon, and in September I will get to spend 4 days there, relaxing and enjoying some IRISH! Woot!

Oops, forgot to update you on mai kitteh…she has taken to sleeping in the bathroom all day on a specific towel. If you take it, you shalt die.

I think that’s all for now.




The sonofabitch was in my dream last night. Actually, it centered on him. He came to stay for Christmas. It was a huge house, filled with people. We slept in a king-size bed with two other people. 

We ended up having this huge discussion in a closet. He was saying I was stable; always there for him when he needed. This convo was so painful because all of his mannerisms were present. He pushed me against one of the walls and towered over me. But even with the sexual tension, and feelings running high, the only vibe I got was friendly. 

Here’s where it got amusing: we left the closet and went to the kitchen, where people had eaten whatever breakfast they wanted. He turns to me and gives me his food order! I laughed at him. He seriously thought I was going to make him breakfast. Lol. He wanted two eggs up easy, ham, and whole grain toast. I went over to the cupboard, grabbed a box of cereal, pushed it into his chest, and walked away. 

So later on, we are talking in the bedroom. He remembers something suddenly. He goes to his bag and pulls out two paintings that he made and hands them to me. They are my Christmas gift. I was so touched that he spent the time to create something for me. 

He heads out to go skiing for the day. I notice a post-it note in the corner of one of them. As I lift it, I’m reading the words, “I love you so much”. My heart skips and flutters. I continue peeling the post-it and realize the note begins, “Dear Tiff,”. 

Sigh. How telling. What a perfect example of the pig I know him to be. The whole thing, really. 

The weird thing is, I almost never dream of the people deep inside my heart. So now I’m left wondering, why? Was this my brain’s way of trying to tell my logical mind to give up the ghost? Was he just on my mind before I fell asleep? I don’t have any answers. I woke up disturbed and disappointed. 

Qué sera, sera.

What a week…

Car accidents and snow and subzero temps and no booze and no money and lots of tv and playing guitar and drawing and working out and

crawling into my bed cocoon. 

I sure hope that it births me fully an adult butterfly come springtime. 

Winter is a time of metamorphosis. Everything seems to be in stasis, but it is a time of great change. 

Normally my brain would be booze-soaked by this time on Friday. But it is not. So therefore, it spins. Stuck on loop. 

Man. This was kind of a depressing post. 

Fluffy kitties. There. 

Mine has taken to giving me a murderous look whenever I pick her up. That cat would kill me if she only had thumbs. 


starting something new.

So, I decided that part of what made 2016 such an awful year was the pervasive stench of social media. So, I gave it up for the new year. 

No more posts on Facebook or wasting time scrolling through my news feed for funny tidbits, cat videos, or political nonsense. 

This isn’t without its downsides though. People who can only get ahold of me through messenger will no longer be able to get ahold of me. I won’t be able to post fun things I am doing. I won’t know what’s going on in the lives of Facebook friends unless they are close friends and get ahold of me. 

But I guess that’s the point. Only connecting with what/who is real. I find it an interesting social experiment. 

I am also giving up alcohol for three months, as a detox/cleanse. I won’t be drinking until I go to Ireland in the beginning of April. 

I don’t anticipate too many problems from this. I’m curious as to the physical and physiological changes my body will go through. 

I will continue to update this blog, because no one reads this anyway. 😆


the forgetting. 

I’ve been reading rupi kaur, since getting her book “milk and honey” for Christmas. She makes me want to write poetry again. Her voice is simple; ideas complex. This one hit me because of the time of year-a time to end thoughts of those who are not worth dwelling on.

So I decided to add my own voice to this poem-call it a fan tribute. But also my thoughts in response to what her poem triggered in my head.

the forgetting-

Some days it is easy, they slip by like ribbons through my fingers-

Ribbons you have not dirtied or crushed.

The thought of you doesn’t darken my face with its shadow.

Some days it is raw, these days grind me up and spit me out in pieces.

Pieces you have touched so thoroughly.

Your face haunts from every corner.


The silver lining is: even on raw days, the memory is growing dimmer.

the forgetting is growing stronger. the letting go is taking hold.


So today I decided I was going to bite the bullet and write my first article for iWriter. I scanned in vain at the measly offerings and decided on writing a professional article about the latest news about Chris Hemsworth. I know of him, but really could care less. But, a dollar is a dollar, right? No, seriously. The 150 word article paid $1.01. Took an hour to write.

But…I feel everyone needs to pay their dues when they are working up the ladder in a field they desperately want to be in. So, I grabbed myself a Coors Lite and settled my laptop on my knees to dive into the insipid world of the rich and famous. I did my research and wrote a concise, professionally-toned article about Hemsworth and his latest filming endeavors.

And…it was rejected.

Reason? Poor quality.

Next time, dude, just get out a gun and shoot me. Telling a writer who lives and breathes to write that their stuff is poor quality is like telling Kiefer Sutherland he can’t act. Next time, burn down my house and piss on my grandpa’s grave too. Sigh.

Well, that was overly dramatic. However, there’s a certain part of you that dies when someone says they don’t like something you’ve created. It’s a little stain on your soul; almost a rejection of you as a person.

In other news, Cinder the cat has begun to perch atop my bedroom door so that it can’t be opened or closed. As an added bonus, she will bat at your hair as you pass by and possibly grab scalp as well. Little furry asshole.

First Post

Because who needs a better title than that, right? In this blog, I will basically just have diarrhea of the mouth. Everyone needs a place where they can go to write down their innermost feelings and just decompress. “It’s a big bag of weird up there!”, to quote one of my favorite fictional characters of all time, Lorelai Gilmore. I’m a huge Gilmore Girls fan because the show tells it like it is. If you can keep up with the cultural and literary references.

I really enjoy writing. I love to get in the moment and just feel it with words. I am currently working on a fiction novel and also a book of poetry. My cat makes that difficult when she insists on standing on my laptop. Ever tried to type beneath cat ass? Not easy, I assure you.

I am going to begin my master’s program this coming January because the Powers That Be have decreed that it is necessary to hold onto my teaching license. It will be in English and Creative Writing. Luckily, this goes hand in hand with writing articles online. And working on my blog. And writing papers. So basically, I will have bloodshot eyes around the clock and my hands will take on that curved claw shape that comes from being arched over a computer keyboard non-stop. Whee! Can’t wait.

That’s all for now. I know that wasn’t terribly interesting and you are probably sorry you read it, but I will promise that my life and editorials are usually more interesting than this particular Tuesday. If I could give that time back to you, I would.