What the Hell, weekend?
Hockey game was fun last night. We had pretty good seats, although I think I prefer to sit higher so I can see all the action clearly and not in between people's heads (ah, the curse of the short person down front).
I am currently bleaching the Hell out of my shower because I have been on a cleaning kick this weekend (blah).
I have also been reading a lot of crazy shit about David Cook's tour and some of his more er...persistent fans and the whole thing is rather depressing. I don't know who is worse: the insane fans that follow him across the country or the hateful internet people who mock them and say the most horrible things (even though some of it is funny, not gonna lie). The whole thing makes me sad to be a DC fan somewhat, although I guess every famous person has this going on. I think I will just ignore it all and go to my show (or shows should he decide to come to Texas) and enjoy the music. *sigh* I think I need to bleach my brain after reading all that stuff.
And finally, April is National Poetry Month and although I cannot commit to posting on any kind of regular basis, I figured I would drop a poem or two around here when the mood strikes. So, here ya go!
Girls by Nicole Blackman
When he leaves,
he leaves a space,
a big or little airless place
that begs to be filled.
A part of the weekend that says
What are you going to do now?
And you think if you fill it up
you'll survive.
So you work and clean and call
and cook and write and drink
and read and sleep and shop
and say This is fine.
You can do this.
Laugh and go out drinking
with your friends when it's over.
Call everyone you know and say
whatever.
Shrug, clear your throat.
It's kind of like losing a dog.
You'll miss him
but maybe it's better this way.
His friends are still your friends
sometimes
and they watch you
because they send him messages
about how you're doing.
Sometimes they figure now is their chance
and they tell you they've always had it bad
for you.
Be careful with his friends.
So cut your hair
and learn to play guitar.
Walk fast and yell back
at bike messengers who tell you
what they'd do to you
if you were theirs.
Stop wearing his coat and sell his CDs.
White out his name in your address book.
Buy new perfume and learn to masturbate
with the showerhead.
Turn the pain into something you can use.
And when it feels like you're imploding,
like you're the only one
who wants to lie down in the street,
know that there will always be girls
who stream through this city
with their mouths slightly open
trying to breathe
and waiting to be kissed.