Ode to Sylvia.

Sleeping is rough when you don't want to wake up,
and you dont try to shout when you can't seem to talk.
If you're not walking, you're not running,
you're not seeing, you're not feeling.
Laying down, drained and defeated,
bones aching while keeping cold.

But all the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.
I don't want to die when your body fits to mine.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
All the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.

You don't feel like drinking when you can't seem to pour,
And don't think about the chance of eating because your stomach is on the floor.
If you're not reading, you're not writing,
you're not feuding, you're not fighting.
Your white flag is waving violently in the wide eye of the storm.

But all the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.
I don't want to die when your body fits to mine.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
All the hurt gets better when we're laying here together.

I won't eat those pills as long as we can keep our thrills.
I'll keep the engine cool if it means you won't look back.
I won't walk infront of a train, I'll keep my hairdryer out of the rain.
I promise to keep my head out of the oven if it means I get all of your lovin'.
And I don't think of suicide when you and I are side by side.
Because all the hurt gets better when we're lying here together.


Fuck everything.
Love,
Shine.

Are you firing me?

What happens when hardest isn't hard enough? What happens when your best isn't the best you could be doing? "I think it's time to move on", she says. "This is in your best interest", she says. "I want you to leave on good terms", she says.

So you sit there, hunched over, with your arms over your head like you're taking part in an earthquake drill; because if you could crawl under her desk, you would. Anything to protect yourself from humiliation and rejection.

And every minute you spend trying to perfect the line of liquid eye liner on your top eye lid has been wasted, the once flawless cat eye effect is now streaming down your face in two almost perfect vertical lines. Perfect makeup, perfect outfit, perfect way of styling your Betty Paige bangs, and all you have to show for it is a final check and a lecture on "one hundred and ten percent", when really, you had been giving one hundred and twenty the entire time. One hundred and ten is for someone who hates their job or who just needs the money, or who wouldn't think twice about taking a bullet for a position that pays minimum wage. Those who consider themselves one hundred and ten know nothing about losing sleep over presser feet prices or being comfortable with unpaid overtime. They know nothing of picking up dog shit or keeping company secrets in order to keep the doors unlocked and the open sign brightly lit. "Fuck your one hundred and ten percent", you think. You weren't just a number.

Now, on this cold rainy day in February, you consider yourself to be once again, just a number, just another statistic. Just another part of the unemployed percentile. Your once expanding passion to make this business a better place and the willingness you carried to go above and beyond, well, both have fizzled.

I Can Hear The Ice Clinking In The Glass, Mama.

This town is a cess pool of cheaters and liars and imposters and fraud. If you don't have a drink in your hand or something up your nose, don't count on doing any sort of socializing. Each high five given and "Ohhh my God, how are youuuu?!" exchanged is just a temporary glue made of substance abuse and shit-talking, ensuring "best-friendships" that are, in reality, an all too common type of some sort of one night stand.

I have never been so happy to be sober.