I put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it

Ok y'all!(because I live in Tennessee now)

BLOG MAKEOVER!

We've got jellyfish instead of birds, and hopefully no more sad shit. Maybe a little bit of sad shit now and then just to remind you you're still reading Kailee James' blog, but really, let's move on shall we?

Hopefully with this makeover will come some better words, right? Let's be honest, the last 2 years of sad sack prose have been fun (no, it hasn't) but it felt very right, very writerly. I just wanted to be like my cool college professor. He was so damaged, and drank bourbon, and was fabulous. His voice shook when he read his own work aloud and I never could figure out if it was nerves or like, this intense raw emotion just pouring out of him. I'm going to be dramatic and believe in the latter. I like to remember him that way.

Alas, all my abundance of emotion has been quelled by the pills, which is TOTALLY fine guys, I promise. No one can exist as the big weepy blob of existential madness and longing that I was. And now my hair is pink and I am living happily ever day by day working at my boring, but tolerable job, and being in love, and having really good relationships with my friends and family.
Gross, right? I'm so SANE currently.

So that's really it. I am lacking in a story today. There's probably one frozen inside me somewhere, but I have yet to warm up from this 20 degree day.

Just wanted to say hello.
Let's be honest I just wanted anyone who reads this to remember I exist.

And that I still have things to say.

Why not?

     I haven't blogged in a while. I haven't been creative in  a while. I haven't been able to wreck the internet with my virtual tears about non-consequential shit.
     I think this means things are ok.
     This isn't going to be a story. Or have a lesson. It's just going to be words. And maybe they'll make sense.
     Nashville does not, as I've made it seem, suck. It is beautiful. It is freeing. It is slowly being unravelled and, like the left-over Halloween Tootsie Pops that are surely rotting my teeth away, the best part is in the center. Finally, it feels like I'm in the center of something; surrounded by the most amazing people. I've spent a lot of time treating God like a coach who's constantly sitting me on the bench, but maybe I had to prove myself. Honestly, I think I was trying too hard to play for the wrong team.
     I thought the last year was supposed to be about starting over. Unfortunately, sometimes starting over means making out with your best friend, getting uninvited to a wedding, and then somehow in the mess unearthing these amazing people you couldn't see clearly through the haze. And at the risk of sounding totally cheesy, all of those people...are my angels. That was cheesy. I'd erase it, but then I'd have to re-read it and vomit.
     I don't necessarily know if those old friends are lost. I can't say I'm trying to salvage anything. I am content. I can say that for every mistake, and mistrusting step I made I learned something. Mostly that I'm a sucker for a sweet word. It's because I watch too many movies. I think now though, my eyes are clear, not clouded with the MTV quality drama that exists within the confines of whatever kind of family I'm the black sheep of.
    I think more than anything I am trying to resign to the fact that everything that I used to think was a big deal isn't. And every single drunken girls night, or pajama conversation is a big deal. That is happiness. That is family. That is love. And that is what makes everything ok. That is why I'm here.
     So bottom line, and an update for anyone that still checks this thing: I am living with two of the most amazing people in the world. And I will find a home, but for now I am safe. Oliver is happy and healthy and not a fat dog anymore. I feel fulfilled by everyone I hang out with. I miss my family every day. I answer their phone calls. I am happy most days. And when I'm not it usually only lasts one cigarette. I am over the things I needed to be over. I am ok.

I am ok.

Defective

I’m driving.

            I’m always driving. I prefer it after midnight. My hand is limp on the steering wheel and my foot is only resting on the gas. I have no direction. Something about streetlights, or headlights, or break lights, or starlight makes me think of every moment of my life simultaneously; like one of those montages in a movie. I’m on some street stopping briefly because a sign told me to. A new song by an old band is playing and it happens.

            They come all at once, not sorted by time or person. Maybe sorted by a feeling I vaguely remember. It was important once I know, but I don’t know how to tell what is or will be important anymore. The drums kick in and it all sounds familiar.

I’m remembering a soft hand squeezing mine in a house I’ll probably never return to; its fingers lacing through mine. I acted like I didn’t care, but it was the first hand I let roam over mine in years. The same soft hand is wrapped around my waist, its owner is wrapped around me and I can’t catch my breath or quiet the sounds coming out of my mouth.

            Then it’s a rough hand pushing down on my pelvis and the same sounds are escaping me. My hands claw for sheets and air. It hurts and it’s fine and it was love. It was love, I’m sure, but it doesn’t feel like I want. I was broken. That’s what we decided.    

            I’m turning into a neighborhood I’ve only been in to turn around and head back the way I came. There was a time I accidentally lit a trashcan on fire with a cigarette that wasn’t done burning. I never leave the cherry unattended anymore. All the nights in the park on that cold metal bench blur together. Every time feels like an epiphany and the right time to have one. Whether it’s the warmth of the tea and my favorite sweatshirt or the sound of her voice when she convinces me I’m not a complete failure, I don’t know. When she leaves it all feels the same and what was said those nights only come back when the streetlights are flickering.

            I shared so many nights with a pair of tired green eyes and cigarette smoke; in the garage, on curbs, in parking lots, in the back of that old truck, on the roof. Then I stared at them like I had so many times and they led me to bed. Like the brown ones, and the blue ones that came first. I loved them all I think. Or I thought I did, which doesn’t make a difference. Those green eyes still burn though. Like that cigarette that never went out. They all do. Whether it’s imagined or sincere. They burn and I can’t stop wondering when it’ll all die down.

           

            The nicotine is stinging my throat and the smoke is caught in my eyes. The mascara’s dried like a child’s Halloween face paint. I haven’t felt so much like myself in months. With all these tears you’d think I felt it all. I just remember though, I don’t feel it at all anymore. 

Am I right? I think so, and that's all that matters.

I knew these girls and these boys who steal from people constantly, maybe even subconsciously. But it's necessary, for they'd be invisible without slowing pillaging little bits of other people's personalities.  

You go to shows now? It sure looks cool if you do!
You wear DIY shorts? Punk rock!
You think binge drinking on weekends is something I should be shocked about? Please!
You're such a hopeless mess, right? How hip!

Invent problems. Hide your sorry tongue stumbling over the words that probably came out of someone else's mouth first. I told everyone you'd be the best story he'd ever read. I should have guessed the story would be one I wrote.
You sure said sweet things when you were lying half naked in my bed. And you said them to her, and to her, and to her. Thank you for giving me 100%....of your bullshit.
Bravo. Really, you're playing this part better than I could have expected.

Do you feel bad? Is this about you? Probably.

Command more attention.
Act more like _____ Dress more like _____ Talk more about _____ Listen to _____ Read_____ Drink_____ Smoke_____

Try harder.
Try harder.
Try harder.

These poems I wrote for school and for life...

I Quit Smoking Again (Revision)

I think I’ve heard this before,

whatever story you’re reciting,

again.

Intrigued by those wisps of smoke

dancing around your face.

The curtain you exhale blurs your dull, green eyes,

that familiar gap between your teeth,

the red hue of your tired eyelids,

your dry lips,

your smooth tongue

forming inconsequential words.

Does it ever occur to you that

we’re repeating?

But I listen,

again.

I watch you blow smoke.

Riot (Revision)

You catch crows on your tongue,

pilfer hearts from shirt pockets,

tell me to eat marginalia

because the book is too hard to digest.

I’ll rummage betwixt lines and letters,

powder my nose with an ax,

chop eyelashes to refine my perception

if you’ll pretend my tail isn’t mine.

You’ll level me

like a screwdriver molests screws.

My pockets vacant.

Black plumage stuck to my tongue.

Things I Won’t Think About Before Bed (I didn't even like that guy)

That stupid black beanie

pulled down over your ears.

It would have looked ridiculous if you weren’t so damn beautiful.

The comment I made about our matching aviator sunglasses,

and how I looked so small in the reflection.

My chest void of breath when you took them off to stare at me

with that translucent blue

that sees right through my opaque brown.

Your lips, parted in that crooked smile.

The woman’s name, etched on a banner, wrapped

around a rose.

Those classic Chuck Taylors.

Your hand on the small of my back

Or the way you didn’t look back when you finally left.

It Was Never About Independence

I hate this holiday. The 4th of July. Independence Day. Whatever.

It's my least favorite. I'm not very patriotic. Fireworks make me feel sad, nostalgic, and lonely. It's been that way since I was 5, or earlier, but I can't remember too many emotions before I was 5 so that's a good estimation I guess. (I just thought "guess-timation" and how I fucking hate when people say that.)

The 4th of July is...

Sitting in the drive way of my grandparent's house that doubled as my aunt and uncle's house for a while. Watching the fireworks show across the desert at Palmdale High. I sat down right on the cement. My sister wasn't born yet and the other kids were little. The adults "Oh'ed" and "Awed" which made everything seem dramatic. The fireworks ended. I was sad. There were sparklers. There were always sparklers.

Another aunt's house. Different cousins. No firework show. Sparklers. Fireworks in the middle of the street my dad wouldn't let me get too close to. I got burned. I was wearing uncomfortable shoes. I wanted to look pretty. Those people always made me feel pressure to look pretty, and thin. More alcohol. Too much alcohol and strangers. My aunt was stumbling and it didn't seem like they used to get mad then, but they must have. I noticed that my mom and dad never hold hands.

Katie and I sat in my front yard. We had ditched the lamest party ever (because it was an adult party and they served tri-tip, not even hamburgers or hot dogs). We sat for hours. No sparklers. Alone. We laid in the grass with the cordless phone next to us hoping the guys we liked (I think I was dating one) would call like they said they would. They didn't. We waited, forever. We never got any hot dogs.

It's an ex-boyfriend's birthday. I don't hate it because of that, but it is and I feel like it should be counted. Because I think of him, yes, and it's all so much different now, but there were surprise parties, and a time when I thought the fireworks weren't so bad. But they're never that bad when you're in some one's arms. He'll be in Florida this year. With his new girl. And I don't belong there. And it's ok.

I met someone who hates this holiday as much as I do. But I think, I felt like it was a similar sort of uncomfortable memory thing that bound us. The sentiment felt familiar. But it breaks my heart to think about him and he does not think about me. And that should be ok, but I'm sentimental and fireworks still make me sad.

Someone went to jail. Someone set the desert on fire and went to jail. And it was weird that it never seemed like that big of a deal, until he brought it up tonight and we laughed about it.

So fuck it. No sparklers. No flags. No party.
I drove around the desert listening to get this, Explosions in the Sky, and accidentally caught a private fireworks show. The window was down, it was too hot, and it was sad, but it's familiar. I shouldn't complain. All I ever wanted was consistency.

It's been a little while...

     Oliver and I were at the vet this morning. He's almost a year overdue for his shots. I sat in the waiting room trying to think of a good excuse to give the receptionist because I was sure she was going to scold me for being such a horrible parent. It's bad enough he hasn't had a haircut in a month and has to crane his neck upward in order to see anything since his hair is covering his eyes. I've had somewhat of  a rough year, give me a break. 
     So, I'm sitting on a seat I'm sure had been recently peed on, and subsequently disinfected, looking down into Oliver's sad little shaky face when I became aware of the loudest woman in the entire world. Of course she had three small dogs with her. Of course they all had horrible ailments, that of course I wanted to know all about. And yes, she was wearing a zebra print hoodie with what are commonly known as "yoga pants," but couldn't possibly have been what she needed them for since she was wearing a knee brace and I'll just leave out the part about her being shockingly overweight. I have a feeling her knee brace was from some sort of injury she was trying to get workman's comp to cover. She just seemed like the type. 
     Oliver and I remained quiet in the corner observing the other patients, and let's face it, if he's anything like me, making silent jokes about them, and judging the dog who peed on the scale, twice. I was trying to will Oliver to stop shaking with my mind because the voice I talk to him in is inappropriate for public and makes me look just as bad as zebra lady, who, I should add, had been talking about Sally's diabetes for close to 20 minutes. The topic soon changed to a tsunami in Japan, which I had no idea about because if I'm going to be honest I rarely know what's going on in the world and I have no excuse for it. Concern for Japan quickly turned to a concern for Palmdale.
     "What the fuck?" you say.
      Right. I have no idea why zebra lady and the lady with the chihuahua/poodle hybrid would suddenly get a sentimental look in their eyes when expressing their gratitude that this desert is so dry and disgusting, but they did. "That's why I love it here," Zebra said shifting a sleepy dog on her lap, "there's no drama." Because a tsunami is drama. Because I wake up and thank God every day that there are no tsunami's in the Antelope Valley. Give me a break. 
     It should be noted that a woke up in a nostalgic, bitter mood this morning. Whether it was the bad dreams I've been having or just impatience I started to feel a little bit lost. But, at the moment this horrid conversation was taking place, while Oliver huddled next to me in the corner I remembered all my plans and felt good, no, great even. And when zebra lady blew out the door, making an awful ruckus everything made perfect sense, except the Antelope Valley with it's abundance of dog wielding ladies in tight pants.