Bloom: The One About the Weird People


There are a few things in life (well, more than a few) that are difficult to understand.  The mass appeal for mayonnaise comes to mind? I don’t get it. It’s jiggly, and gelatinous, and basically all fat; and why does everyone put it on everything?

Whip cream? Whip cream.  I don’t understand that either.  It’s literally air.  Cream air, that is in the way of what you actually want: the food/dessert that you actually ordered.

What else? Oh, cream cheese.  Like…whaaaaaat people?  Put jelly on your bagel and vanilla icing on your cakes and there–I’ve solved all your future breakfast orders and the wedding cake part of your marriage.


I’m realizing that most of the things I don’t understand are food related catastrophes, but that doesn’t detract from my original point that there’re other confusing things too.  Chief of which are people. (more…)


Puppyhood: Day Thirty-Three


I’ve never raised a puppy before.

The house I grew up in was surrounded by woods with no discernible backyard to speak of and even if it’d had that, and a fence, and whatever else, it still wouldn’t have worked out well. My mom worked, I was in school, so a dog would have been more than we could handle, and he probably wouldn’t have been happy with us being cooped up all day .

We opted for cats instead. (more…)

Review: The One About Bloodborne

There was a graveyard at the top of a set of stairs, near a church, that rested, forgotten, in the cold.  Trees bared naked sat bordered by tombstones, clawing with branches in the wind.  And everything there, even the birds and the old wood that lined the crypts to the side, was silent and still–save for a thunk ringing rhythmic in the dark from a man in black.  He wore a coat and a wide hat–his eyes, wrapped with gauze–and in his hand he held an axe.

Squish, squish.  The axe cleaved a body and the body lay in the dirt.

“Beasts all over the shop,” he says.  “You’ll be one of them sooner or later.”

And as he turns, he breathes out a chilled, thick fog, in a growl that sounds inhuman. (more…)


Poem: My Roommates are the Sounds of Six Little Jellyfish

There was this desk on the wall

in my room as a kid

that sat beneath a small, little window.


And when I sat there at night

doing homework, sometimes I would get up

and stand on its surface

scraping my fingers at the edge

of the porthole, just to see

if I could pull myself up.


It was weird.  I never made it,

but one day I came in and there

was this big, open birdcage on the edge

of that desk with nothing inside,

but origami swans, folded

out of the newspaper that was strewn

along the bottom.


Poem: Marlee

My sister had a collection of marionettes

when she was younger

that she kept above my room

in the attic.


Ones in pink dresses

and blue dresses

and green, dangling from posts that were

screwed into the wall.


They stared downward

through the floorboards at me–

with carved smiles and tangled strings

that sat still in the daytime.


At night, I could hear them clacking,

like skeletons in the dark, waltzing in three-four

to the whippoorwill’s song.

Poetry—Coming Your Way


I graduated from my university with a degree in Creative Writing which essentially qualifies me for one thing: to tell people that I can read and I can write okay and they should pay me money to do it.

I joke (sort of), but the reality is that creative majors are harder.  Because where a science major or an engineering major is able to provide a fair bit of proof through their diploma alone that they are qualified to do what they are wanting to do and that they can earn the money you throw at them, writers and artists and musicians and the like are usually dependent on skill.  That doesn’t mean a nursing major doesn’t need to be skillful, or a kinesiology major either, but a diploma that reads, “Bachelor of Arts in Music” conveys little, if anything, when shown. (more…)