Ah, The Pen

I went to this thing tonight where people tell stories. This is the beginning of my stories. The Buick It reached it's pinnacle when I watched it being hoisted onto the tow truck. The fact that the towing company was called "Rock n Roll" towing helped ease the sting, but still, this was too much. Courtney had come with snacks because my blood sugar was crashing and through my stress exhaustion, I was ready to kiss her feet for the cheddar pretzels she brought from the DA's office. But she agreed with me, which made it worse, because she is into voodoo, so must feel these things more than me: "There's something up with this car." And by "something," she meant bad. It was just too weird, we both agreed, that lots of crazy things kept happening with it that brought misery into an already stressful time in my life, and seemed to throw a wrench into the fun I was trying to have despite said stress. Like when the tire exploded on my way to a long-anticipated beach getaway with a fuck buddy and had $10 left to spend all weekend due to an $80 tire replacement. Or when I got pulled over and arrested a month before that for a surprise suspended license. Or when I ran out of gas to see another fuck buddy and I had to be pushed through the rest of the intersection by a lesbian in an SUV. That's just half of what happened in the last 3 months. A few days after the towing incident, I was convinced that the universe hated me and had somehow cursed my car as a mean trick, and that shit like this only happened to me, and "why me?" I met Courtney for coffee and had forced her to bring along her voodoo cards, desperate for some sort of answer or not to feel some invisible forces in the world were against me every time I even turned the ignition in my car. But she smiled as she read them, and told me I should keep the car. I don't know what voodoo gods she pulled, but they had something to do with the universe showing me love. I may have just been wanting to find meaning in some cards, but I realized then how each time my car put me in the shitter, one or more of my friends had showed they care about me by taking me to get gas at 10 at night, bringing me snacks to help prevent a blood-sugar emergency, or sending consoling texts. I smiled big the next time I turned the ignition, knowing something, maybe my car, is showing me I am loved.

Do The Waddle

Rearranged apartment and mind. Once your confidence breaks down, it's dangerous but amazing how you forget that you're allowed to dance how you want to, write candidly, and know what you're talking about with a professor. And now, it's like I'm a toddler who just learned how to waddle again. I may be too protective of said re-found waddling, but hey, it's better than ever crawling again.

Y Nada Mas

I'm back. For real this time. I'm not sure what happened to me the last two years or so, but I'm finally cutting through that shit. It's all about loving yourself enough to own your life and not give it to anyone else. "Walk tall, kick ass, learn Arabic."

Just a Second

Kidney infection, flat tire, and poor self-esteem. It aint that bad. But how can you take all your clothes off in front of a crowd, sit at a bar ass-naked and still feel like nobody wants to do you or thinks you're cool? Easy.

Fuck all ya'll. I'm sick of worrying bout you.

How do I feel about it... little slimey and out of character. Not very "sweet annika" but a departure from that name may be good. The beauty of life is that you can reinvent yourself with every diappointment, heart-failure, and sideswipe. And you can always reinvent yourself back. Well almost always.

I want to invent more of myself I know is there. That self that's got that swagg, and can lean on it. And the catchphrase is "honey badger don't give a shit."