Wednesday

1. You're just not that into Wednesdays.

Tuesday

1. It's too goddamn early to be untangling leaves.
2. Tell Steve Asbury your name is Darcie. And you are an ad major. Aand... Smile awkwardly at your hands. THE END, STEVE ASBURY. THE END.
3. Promise to think about monsters. Worry about Russian instead.
4. Vomit large, incoherent chunks of cyrillic all over Condon 121. Manage to offend everyone.
5. Sleepy eyes, a sore back. Every set in slow motion. We're glued to the clock.
6. Forget to involve your bike in the "locking your bike to the bike rack" process. Consider actually sleeping someday.
7. Yell at Evan. Every class is full, your minor is pointless, all classes are pointless, your life is pointless, you hate everyone, everyone is pointless - Hang up. Breathe. Apologize.
8. Wash and dry your keys. Rub said keys against face. Burn a little.
9. Think about all the monsters you haven't been thinking about. Decide "in poor taste" is the only way.
10. Self-conscious elbows in your face, your hair, your... elbow.

Monday

1. A soggy breakfast bribe.
2. Three planks of plywood and an extra set of hands.
3. The leaves fold in on themselves, hide the writing, their purpose.
4. Bodies sprawl over lawns, on benches, in bushes. November forgets.
5. Scribbled holes in my homework. Another "да" and half-hearted "конечно."
6. Same girl laughs in the library. Tells childhood stories to a boy who is not Sterling.
7. Fracchia keeps smiling at the wall. Keeps talking to books, his desk, my backpack... I make faces in the window.
8. November 17, 2008 at 4:26 p.m. Clark Honors College finally achieves maximum pretentiousness. HumBEHR, Neckbeard? HumBEHR?
9. The Great God Wide Hip leaves KFC forever, asks if anyone wants to see his rock.
10. Replace Dana with yogurt and an issue of Glamour. Productivity stays low.

Sunday

1. Slow movements into morning. Brain fails to register anything but bladder.
2. A sweater, a book, expensive tea. Winter is pretentious.
3. Defile Star Watch. Lay the living room with famous faces and price-cut produce.
4. Moss promises on plywood. A furry forty thousand.
5. "Glue sticks" is not the proper name for "glue for hot glue guns." Aisle 3 disappoints.
6. Too much goddamn chocolate.
7. A knock on the door and a boy in my bed.
8. Plot summaries between commercials. Jesus, Terri Hatcher. Even when you keep up, you can't keep up.
9. Evan's pages flip faster.
10. Sleep comes easy.

Saturday

1. Spasmodic kicks into the waking world. This blanket just won't lay right.
2. Downstairs, the futon is cold but comfortable. Breath slows, eyes close, and you're gone.
3. Voices drop suddenly in the doorway. Guilt creeps in, prods you into consciousness.
4. And back in your room, back in your bed, back of his head, his neck, his cheeks and chest, you torture the innocent. Shove him straight into Saturday.
5. Sticky bits of cinnamon stray beneath your nails and Goddamnit. You hate having hands.
6. Moss peels easily from the trees. Releases swarms of tiny insects that flee to your elbow for safety.
7. Just outside the fitting room, the little girls throw their shoulders back, stand too tall, wear clothes meant for women. Their 6th grade secrets hang loose from gangly limbs.
8. Strangers sway and scream, give in to nervous laughter when the washboard lights on fire.
9. All spikes and skin, the jacket hangs heavy. But the pressure feels warm, right, safe.
10. Everything muffled and ringing.

Friday

1. Up at 7, down at 8... 9, 10, 11, quarter til 12...
2. Hair and teeth unbrushed, mascara streaks beneath your eyes -- You're either tired or edgy.
3. Lingual epiphany. Russian sounds like Russian.
4. A pretty window made of crayon. CRAY-on.
5. Skin peels off like sheets in the shower and Oh. Leprosy.
6. Staples and string. Autumn fits perfectly in two paper bags. One has handles.
7. Thousands of third graders gain access to fog machines. Privileges abused, misused, revoked before we make it home.
8. Regret, pumpkin ice cream, regret.
9. Marco has morals.
10. Sleep isn't, really.

Thursday

1. Nothing gets done, really.
2. Humbert Humbert feels too real. Overthink Nabokov's sexual perversions.
3. Backs arch over big, blue balls. Let's talk about your own perversions.
4. Bored palates call for quiche.
5. Hands where they shouldn't be, everyone tucking the tag.
6. Enter Shane, apartment left.
7. Jenga blocks down my pants. A tower on my butt.
8. Parties you don't go to, beer pong you can't play. Tell the boy with the black eye you're in high school.
9. Past meets present. Even slips it some tongue.
10. Race home laughing, nervous, laughing. You can still drive stick.

Wednesday

1. Nothing hurts.

Tuesday

1. High-five on 13th and "WHOA, I thought you were someone else!"
2. And you are, sort of.
3. Scotch tape rolled into quick little tubes. Finger to finger to lips. Everything ends at my mouth.
4. Triple sets. Blonde with the braids strains to keep from straining. Her face stays pretty.
5. Doctor blinks rapidly, steals my blood.
6. An aversion to keys or early onset Alzheimers. Hey Grandma.
7. Fifty dollars per circle. Confirm suspicions that geometry still sucks.
8. Silver Sharpie on semi-dry leaves. Something between catharsis and solvent abuse.
9. Did you go home last night?
10. Seriously though. See #6. Shit.

Monday

1. Up at 8 for a run that sleeps til Tuesday.
2. Pita chips and chai for breakfast just because you can.
3. Pictures so pretty they fail to inspire. Page after page of They Did it First.
4. Man with the dog thinks he's doing you a favor. You have to turn here.
5. An electronic ego boost.
6. What used to be a mug. You leave the shards on the roof.
7. Dinner minus Dan.
8. Conversation slips around you. You make lists, think about how awesome this pen is.
9. Posterized prunes.
10. You are uncomfortable being seen again.

Sunday

1. Wake up raspy. Hands grope the sheets for wayward tissue.
2. Too much blood.
3. Bulgakov can't keep his grip. You drift off between chapters.
4. A mom visits. Bottles migrate to my hamper.
5. Worksheet after worksheet. Olya's children beg Daddy not to beat her and this is why you're taking Russian.
6. An electric screwdriver shows up, drags Evan along.
7. Comic Book Guy demands a full recovery.
8. Katy fills your cup, leaves the house smelling like Christmas.
9. Realize we live in an apartment. Dream of $40 candles.
10. TV takes its clothes off.

Saturday

1. Mikhail Alexandrovich slips beneath the streetcar before the eggs are done. Your fork marks the page.
2. Outside is warmer than it looks. You sweat beneath your layers.
3. Stevo doesn't see you. Slower now, still silent, invisible, smiling. Stevo doesn't see you.
4. Tug your bike from underneath the SUV, pound the window with an open fist until you start to cry.
5. Driver freezes, stares at his hands on the steering wheel. You feel dumber than you should.
6. Wheels click the whole walk home.
7. Wash your face, apply too much makeup.
8. Costco list lengthens between aisles.
9. Snap peas are not snowpeas. A three-pound resealable bag of disappointment.
10. A second go at Pan's Labyrinth. More prepared this time, you pee while the Captain beats that guy's face in.

Friday

1. Not enough breakfast.
2. Sharp tongues split the air.
3. Two make the meeting and -
4. Suddenly I am all too aware of my insides.
5. Pedal fast, collapse on the carpet.
6. I want to die.
7. I want to die.
8. I want to die.
9. Evan's hand on my head, my back, the doorknob. He leaves to let me rest.
10. No rest.

Thursday

1. Chicken stir fry sees its second month. I choose to forgo breakfast.
2. Emily says it better. Decide to hate her for it.
3. A toilet filled with shit and blood. I change stalls.
4. The circle's missing Meaghan. Sit-ups are silent.
5. Downstairs door slam, a running hug.
6. Matted brown fur and a fading bandanna. We toss future frisbees.
7. Sleep through seven.
8. A map of the next two years.
9. Unconsciously ingest entire circus. Acrobats allow no sleep.
10. Something brilliant I forgot to write down.

Wednesday

1. Wake up wondering when Obama went to bed last night.
2. Skip Russian. Attempt to eat eggs using only one prong of the fork.
3. Deny raincoat. Deny raincoat. I'M NOT WEARING THE FUCKING RAINCOAT.
4. Accept defeat. Walk home waterproof.
5. Amble through Hadji Murad. Feel the discord too strongly, paint a picture of a prune.
6. Subtitles I can't see. Words I know, but strain to understand. I'd rather sleep.
7. A wall of rocks. A giant wall of rocks.
8. A sprint to the finish. Eat shit, yellow volunteer shirt.
9. Big gulps of water to wash down the ache.
10. Tyra sends the wrong girl home.

Tuesday

1. Realize "sleep" is actually the 6 to 8 hours I spend each night tying strands of hair into impossibly small knots.
2. Sock with a Hole snags a zipper. Sock with Two Holes is born.
3. Creative brief forgets its own name; focuses solely on brevity.
4. Pee hinders learning.
5. Callouses form and deform. My palms are sweaty.
6. Lights out at 4. I stop noticing how pretty the leaves are.
7. These jokes are rehearsed.
8. Demagnetized corner of the TV shows blue states red. Katy and I panic.
9. A pre-celebratory celebration.
10. Talk about history, about future, about our would-be children and how creepy it is that the answer to "What were you doing when ____?" will always be "Talking about you."

I wish epic weren't so epic. Sometimes I start reliving moments worth reliving as soon as they happen, so I just end up reliving my premature reliving, which wasn't actually that awesome to begin with. It's like Back to the Future, but shittier because I don't have an '82 DeLorean.

Monday

1. Went to the gym. Went to the gym or slept an extra two hours - Choose Your Own Non-Adventure.
2. Realize a lack of brakes two seconds too late. No one dies.
3. Dribble scalding tea down chin and shirt. Whimper in a puddle of brown spit.
4. Nap on Russian Literature notes. Pray for graphite osmosis.
5. Consider deleting iTunes after realizing the Decembrist Revolt was led by Decembrists, not the Decemberists.
6. Keep hood on indoors. Practice shifty eye.
7. Wade the river that used to be 18th St.
8. Rediscover cheese and vomit. Lament the fact that the two are not mutually exclusive.
9. Fail miserably at black nail polish removal. Embrace streaky gray nails.
10. Develop completely rational fear of impending love tri... Heptagon.

Sunday

1. Shove the screen aside and perch.
2. Pretend to be observant, but see nothing, really. My ass is cold.
3. Pace for the sake of pacing.
4. Black ink slips my mind for the fifth week in a row. Resume prints pink.
5. End the better part of an hour with jeans and a tshirt. Convince myself the scarf adds class.
6. Smile when I speak. Smile when I don't speak. Laugh. Shake hands. Smile when I speak.
7. Tires lose their grip just north of a leaf pile. Legs pedal as paper-mâché.
8. Nap is warm, dry, and quickly ruined.
10. Welcomely ruined.
9. Sparknotes read aloud, bedtime stories in brief, and I'm back asleep.

Friday

1. Exhausted but better, calmer, less paranoid.
2. A moth caught between the shower curtain and liner.
3. Cashier says she just wants to go home and inexplicably bags my single pack of Trident.
4. The taste of metal on my tongue. A tear in my cheek.
5. A shove in the wrong direction.
6. Spiders on the chair. My body a map of their progress.
7. So much nothing.
8. Phone buzzes on the dresser. Paranoia creeps back, makes a home in my bed.
9. A lull. Strawberry ice cream.
10. From the roof: More roofs.

Thursday

1. Rearrange pillows, discard clothing.
2. Dream of flaking plaster, of new tile and carpet that won't shed.
3. Cream cheese boulders.
4. Fake nails trace laminated sashimi.
5. Twelve year celebrations of what's been dead for half as long.
6. "This was my favorite part as a kid," and Are we not kids?
7. Amber doesn't stop pedaling.
8. Car stereo clicks.
9. Nine key sticks.
10. Dad says "Where ya been?" and falls asleep immediately.

Wednesday

1. Veins contract, sting with synthetic cancer. Nurse smiles and says "One less."
2. Tap poor rhythm on the steering wheel. This song was shitty to begin with.
3. Feet fling me too far forward and Go ahead, cement. Scrape my skin off.
4. No, please, in front of all these people -- just peel me like an orange.
5. Cut the paper into strips. Fold the strips into squares. I am surrounded by trash.
6. Fruit stickers fresh from the laundry. A denim peach.
7. Bridges into fall. I cross the asphalt barefoot.
8. Buttons strain, cheeks swell. I blame what's not to blame.
9. Everything seems out of place.
10. Everything is out of place.

Tuesday

1. Wake up twice. Work a bagel in between.
2. Dry myself with last week's towel. Watch my knee bleed.
3. Attempt to position lenses so my eyelashes don't touch. Give up. Squint.
4. Convince Moxie to lick the hot sauce from the tile. Hope cats have no capacity for revenge.
5. Listen to Nicole talk about my skin. Pay Nicole thirty-five dollars to stop talking about my skin.
6. Come home hating home. Listen to the last six minutes of 'Oh Comely' with the transmission in park.
7. Buy two blueberry yogurts. Label one poison.
8. Refuse to believe anyone refers to Sprite as "White Coke." Consider selling Texas back to Mexico.
9. Bookmark recipes. Bake chicken. Kill Dad.
10. Don't really kill dad.

Monday

1. Nectarine juice bleeds right through yesterday's paper. I make a little window out of "verdict."
2. To Janice with the ladybug stickers, I am Heather. Muscle memory signs the waiver, and now Deather can't sue.
3. Brian shifts the towel to shake my hand, apologizes for the sweat, and all I can say is "Sorry for high school."
4. The man at the door isn't selling anything. The man at the door isn't selling anything. He's not selling anything. The man at the door isn't selling anything. It's a business opportunity .
5. Molly sulks, thinks the thunder is a punishment. Bryce and I laugh, but it kind of is.
6. Meatloaf sticks to the pan. Mom asks questions I don't answer.
7. Dad talks about football. I think.
8. A hand chases the remote between the cushions, but my palm comes up gritty so I read about birds instead.
9. No one calls.
10. I finally throw the letters away.

Sunday

1. A hole in the blanket. Or a dead bird in my bed.
2. Three separate breakfasts. The kitchen smells like bacon again and again.
3. And again.
4. An explanation of the limited lifespans of fruit trees. I carve my name on a low branch.
5. Strangers pray, shift their weight, pray. Some smoke in the parking lot. Others sin indoors.
6. Memories of Russia don't stay pasted to the $2 paper, so I use tape instead. Everything looks appropriately half-assed.
7. Dad finally picks up the phone. I repeat myself until 60 really seems like 60.
8. Shoe store lady says she likes my sundress, but I process the compliment too slowly, and say "Ok."
9. Dinner ends with seven too many cookies. I give up calculating and add grapes as a chaser.
10. Six months since six months ago. I walk inside smiling and Mom says "What?"Sees the phone and says "Oh."