Amelia Kanan

Writer + Photographer + Producer

Dr. D: A Naturopath Fairy Godmother

Dr. D looks at my happy blood cells.

Dr. D looks at my happy blood cells.

My blood looked sad. At least that’s what Dr. D said.

It was my first appointment with the naturopath. For so long, I had felt like a hypocrite, preaching the natural way of life yet heavily reliant on Western medicine to “fix” any health problems.

Dr. D, reminded me of one of Cinderella’s fairy godmothers and even though I felt so comfortable with her, I was still riddled with anxiety. Before my blood came into play, she said “Honey, you need to breathe.”

Such a simple concept but something I had easily forgotten while on hiatus from yoga. I closed my eyes and did what she said. Her breathing got louder the closer she came to me. Typically, I struggle with loud breathers but since Dr. D was like a grandma, I found a calming comfort in her shallow lung capacity. My muscles relaxed even more as I listened to her hands rub some kind of ointment between them which she soon massaged into my neck and shoulders.

When I opened my eyes, she handed me a small plastic cup with purple fizz.

It was delicious and just as I thought I couldn’t be soothed any more, I melted another inch into the chair.

“Now, how’s that?” Dr. D asked like a proud grandma who just served up some freshly baked apple pie.

After studying my fingernails she kneaded my hands and said, “We need to throw your thyroid and adrenal glands life jackets -your estrogen isn’t getting properly dispersed.”

My hands never looked so small as they were engulfed by the doughy ones.

She was checking my pulse and crinkling her eyebrows. “Hm. You burn, on average, 1800 calories a day – without doing anything!”

“Wow, that’s awesome because I have not been working out at all.” Between my knee and sciatic nerve problems, I hadn’t been able to do anything other than walk on flat ground.

Her face got serious, “I don’t want you worry about that stuff right now. We need to get your muscles and organs clean and working properly before you push them any harder.” I liked the way she thought.

“You’re a natural athlete, your body never lets go of that.” I couldn’t wait to compose a mass text to everyone in my life, quoting her on that.

She sat back down behind her desk where she had her microscope camera connected to her monitor. I didn’t have any time to tell her I was scared of needles before she pricked me and dripped 6 beads onto a glass plate. Her screen turned on and there they were, my sad-looking blood cells.

The blobs scared me, reminding me of those micro-bugs that live in motel beds.The bitty goons were creeping in slow-mo all over her screen. Some were even thorny, which meant I was dehydrated. That wasn’t much of a surprise considering I drank a bottle of Tempranillo the night before.

“Oh, sweetheart you must be exhausted.”

I nodded, grateful for the sympathy.

“See how some of these cells have linked together and made chains – that means they are all deprived of nutrients and they’re trying to share the goods.” I felt like a bad mom – not providing my babies with what they needed.

“You’re very strong – and smart but you’ve just felt foggy for a long time. You probably don’t remember what it’s like not living in a fog.” Even though I was curious to know how she knew that by looking at my blood cells, I was too consumed with my guilt of being so awful to body. What she was saying was true. I’ve been apathetic, slow moving, foggy in my thinking, and unable to really focus. I nodded as tears puddled at the bottom of my eyes.

Dr. D was a little surprised by my drama. “Oh, sweetheart.” She took off her glasses and looked me in the eye. “You are one talented person, very smart. The world won’t know what to do with you once we flush all this stuff away.” She really knew how to hook me.

Next, she let my blood dry and wrote down an ideal daily diet plan along with the supplement routine. The only vegetables you should eat cooked: butternut squash and brussel sprouts. The only fruits you should eat are berries and apples. Also, applesauce to rid the metal in your body. Actually, at 9:30am, eat a combination of quinoa, oats and applesauce. Those are your only grains for the day. No Dairy. Coconut Milk or Almond Milk. ATP, PMG, progesterone, iodine, yadda yadda.

Back on her computer screen, my blood cells were dead. This time, the still images weren’t unlike the terrain of Mars. Dr. D traced the craters and geographic-looking patterns with her finger as she explained to me the history of my body. Jumping by 4’s, she told me exactly what was happening with my body from birth until today. She knew that I’ve struggled with anxiety since the age of 5. She knew that I was in a bad car accident when I was 15. She knew I was in the best shape ever at 25. She knew my fitness hasn’t been consistent since 29. She also knew exactly what sports I played.

I was sold, on Dr. D and was ready to subscribe to anything she put out.

30 days after that first appointment, I went back to see my fairy natural godmother.

“Amelia! Look at you!”

Truthfully, I really don’t think I looked any different but, I definitely felt different. I was happy to report her that my energy levels were soaring and optimistic demeanor was back. My sleep pattern was satisfying and even without afternoon coffee, my daily urge for a nap at 3pm was gone. And, even though she had told me not to worry about it, I was back in a fitness routine and not because of guilty but rather the sheer enjoyment.

Then, we looked at my blood on the big screen. Those little marshmallows were unrecognizable. Fluffy and bustling about, it was crazy how happy they looked. No thorns or linked chains trying to share nutrients with each other. My babies were healthy.

Well, that was all I needed to be a believer. I’m so grateful for Dr. D and reset she gave me.


“Amelia is SO nice.”

Stranger (1 of 1)

No. I’m not. In fact that word “nice” is the exact word I use when I have to describe someone who I don’t like. I mean, if you can’t say anything “nice” than don’t say anything at all, right? And…let’s be real, it’s way too difficult for me to keep my mouth shut.

“What do you think of Eddie?”

“Oh, Eddie is so nice!”

Eddie – the guy who took me on a date to Red Lobster and drank boozy milkshakes all night and told me he was drunk. (, that isn’t Eddie pictured above…)

“What do you think of my new girlfriend?”

“She’s so nice!”

She was nice – but she wasn’t funny, she wasn’t cool, she didn’t say anything intelligent and I didn’t like what she was wearing.

Before you think I’m a cold hearted bitch, when was the last time you were honest about your inner dialogue? My inner self is kind, sweet, generous and full of love for all humans but that doesn’t give me the responsibility of having to “like” everyone or for that matter, pretend to “like” everyone. That’s fake – and homie don’t know how to play that.

I don’t like how we make our kids invite everyone to their birthday parties. Or force individuals to have the obligation of including everyone. That’s highly unrealistic and, in my opinion, unhealthy. We’re encouraging fake relationships devoid of honesty. “Hey kid, ignore how you feel and put a smile on your face.” Sure, exclusivity isn’t cool but, I don’t think it would exist if we could all just be a little more honest in our relationships. Different strokes for different folks, you know?

I used to be a “nice” person. You know how some people bring home stray animals? Well, I used to bring home stray people. Also during those days, I hugged random people every day. I never kept a tally because that would’ve been weird but, I probably hugged at least 20 people per week. Homeless men, an old lady I met waiting in line at Jewel-Osco, the embarrassing drunk girl at a party, saying goodbye to someone I met on the train or the maintenance man in my building. People around me thought I was so nice. But, the truth was, I didn’t actually like any of those strangers, rather I felt sorry for them. Those “nice” gestures were inauthentic because I thought I was better than those people. My motives were completely self-righteous. Never once did I consider that maybe, just maybe, one of those random strangers didn’t want me to hug them. Or, maybe they weren’t sad at all. Or even worse, they were the ones who were pitying me and thought I was the one who needed the hug. Here I thought I was this Queen of Hearts, gracing all the sad, little people with hugs, rainbows and sunshine. #ignoranceisnotbliss

Today, I’m proud to say that I’m not nice anymore. No longer do I hug strangers nor do I pity anyone. And, if I don’t like someone, I have enough love and respect for them to call them “nice” and avoid hanging out with them. Yeah, I’m totally not self-righteous anymore.

Dead People

Growing up, I had a string of unhealthy obsessions and one of them was with dead people. Naturally, like most things, I blame my Catholic parents.

As a family, we said our nightly prayers before bed and they were usually followed by a philosophical discussion led by my dad. For some reason, bedtime seemed like his favorite time to talk about all things scary: angels, ghosts, and dead relatives. “You know – lots of people who love you are always with you, Amelia”. What the fuck? They are? Even when I’m naked?

One night, after watching a special on people who had near death experiences, I took the liberty of asking God for a bunch of things.

“Please God, make sure every single homeless person is warm and snuggling with someone, don’t let anyone in the whole world cry, and don’t let anyone I love die. Also, I wouldn’t mind if I have to get glasses and braces, I think they look cool. And please please please God, I know you love me – so, you don’t have to come visit me to prove it.”

My dad freaked out. He started yelling at me, “Don’t you ever tell God to leave you alone!”

As always, my mom calmed him down and I was left alone, with a racing heart, in my dark bedroom, that at the time was believed to be haunted by my great grandma who had died the year before. This theory became a confirmed fact when our housekeeper told my mother that she had seen my great grandmother in the mirror in my room.

With all this death experience and talk of spirits as a concrete reality encompassing me, I evolved into a dark pre-teen. But, not the cool kid kind. The weird kid kind. It was weird because I managed to find the one way you could be superficial with death.

Like when I came to school dressed in a black dress and white pearls and told everyone to call me Jackie Kennedy Onassis. It was wasn’t Halloween. It was a free dress day in February. No one called me Jackie and with the exception of recess when I wanted to play soccer with the boys, I stayed in character the whole time. But, Jackie would’ve wanted it that way.

When I was 13, I told everyone I wanted to die so I could be with John Lennon and the next year, I convinced myself of being the reincarnation of Virginia Woolf, which was the motivation behind me picking up a cigarette butt on the ground and smoking it. Virginia made me do it.

In my defense, I was trying to make the best of my fears. I would talk to dead celebrities all the time. They were my friends. Jackie taught me that there is so much power in silence (something I’ve always known but have had a hard time actually integrating into my life). John taught me that real strength is in kindness. And Virginia, she taught me that it’s ok to talk about how you really feel and that smoking doesn’t kill you- suicide does.

Finally, in high school, I was able to clear my head a bit with some Grateful Dead, herbal medicine and eastern philosophy.

Being crazy during my formative years wasn’t easy – I got teased a lot. Teachers, adults, my best friends, family – basically anyone who knew me. This could have perpetuated things. It could have made me an angry little soul. But, it didn’t. In fact, it made me resilient and taught me things that some people never get the chance to learn. Plus, by the time I got to college; I knew what I wasn’t good at: fitting in with normal people and I knew what I was good at: telling stories and method acting.

And…the rest is history.

I’m proud to say that I am no longer scared of ghosts and I respect the privacy of all dead celebrities by not bothering them with my thoughts.

Things Strangers Say: Girl with Bangs

“You are so beautiful.”

My stupid mouth. It just speaks on it’s own.

She looks embarrassed, “Oh, no. I wore this hat because I haven’t washed my hair in days.”

Great. Now I have to prove it to her.

“If I wore a hat like that, I would look like a teenage Mexican boy.”

I hope she’s not Mexican…

She laughs.


She tells me, “You’re hair is so long and beautiful. And that color. Is it dyed?”

Clearly, she felt obligated to return the compliment.

“Oh, thanks. No, this is the color.”

I hate the color of my hair. It’s same the color your poop is if you have too much iron in your blood.

This conversation needs to end.

I don’t like her face anymore.

I smile and put my ear buds back in and turn my eyes are back to my screen.

Maybe that’s why my mouth is so uncontrollable.

My voice gets cabin fever.

Oh, god. She’s saying something –

“What’s your name?”


She tells me her name and I don’t care but I still remember it’s Susan.

I always liked that name.

I wish I could call her Suzie.

She wouldn’t like that though.

I can tell.

She has bangs.

And not the cool kind.

The kind that make someone look uptight.

She asks if I live around there.

“Yes, on Alfred.”

She had just moved to the neighborhood and so did I.

We’re the same age.

She asks, “Want to be friends?”

She thinks she’s being cute because she saw Kate Hudson say that in a movie once.


I tell her that I don’t have any friends.

That’s a lie.

I have a lot of friends.

Sometimes I feel like I have too many friends.

I start feeling guilty.

I hate that strangers assume I’m a good person because I’m plumper than average.

And polite.

We exchange numbers and I put my ear buds back in for the second time.

I feel bad – judging her and lying to her.

“I’m sorry, I have a deadline and I really need to focus but call me anytime!”

There is no deadline.

I’m writing about her and her bangs.

Things Strangers Say: The Trainer

He leaned towards me.

Was he saying something?

He ‘s too pretty – I was nervous.

I took the buds out of my ears.

“I’m sorry, were you talking to me?”

He said, “Yeah, I wanted to tell you that I think you’re beautiful”

“Oh, thank y-”

He cut me off.

He said, “Let me finish”


He continued, “You’re doing yourself a disservice by being overweight.”



I didn’t feel…upset.

Oddly, I felt kind of good.

“It’s how I protect myself from men like you.”

He laughed.

I knew exactly who this guy was.

He loved who he saw in the mirror but hated all the shit he couldn’t see.

He asked, “What do you do?”

That’s when I got annoyed.

I hate when people ask me that.

If I felt like being honest,

I would say, “I write and produce films and commercials”

But, this guy didn’t deserve my honesty.

And I really wanted to get back to my work.

“I do a lot of things.”

He thought I was trying to be cute and laughed.

I was confused.

“Has this been your fucked up attempt to start a conversation with me?”

With the most serious face, he said, “I’m a trainer.”


God damn.

Everyone is a fucking ‘trainer’, these days.

He said, “I train professional athletes.”

Oh no.

Did he see my internal eye roll?

I was probably doing that thing with my eyebrows.


I felt bad.

“Are you from here?”

He said, “I grew up in Iowa.”

Mmm hmmm.

Small town boy.

Never fit in.

Moved to the big city.

Needing to prove himself to all those kids who had teased him.


I hated myself.

I’m a bitch.

Assuming all that.

He asked, “Where are you from?”

Another question I hate.

“Lots of places.”

Again, he thought I was being playful.

Maybe I was…

Actually, no…I’m wasn’t.

He’s too pretty.

He should grow a beard.

I really wanted to get back to my work.

He asked, “What do you do for physical activity?”

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

“I don’t know…”

He asked, “Have you ever thought about interval training?”


Yeah, bro.

I’ve done it.

I know all about your fucking intervals.

Little do you know how much I love to fucking sweat.

But, guess what?

I don’t want to right now.

Right now, I want to drink my dirty martini and zone the fuck out.

I smile, with pity written all over my face.

“I have never thought about interval training.”

After another hour

and another dirty martini

(that he bought)

we made out in the parking lot.

He said, “I’d be willing to work with you on shedding your shield.”

Two days later,

he texted me. “Bootcamp – tomorrow/7am?”

And that is how,

every true love story,


Alice Hated The Smell of Flowers

Dead FlowersAlice hated the smell of flowers. Rather, she preferred aromas that challenged her senses. Bouquets that boasted fearlessness and vigor like gasoline or even skunk. No one seemed to understand this. Family and friends would say things like “Alice finds amusement in rivalry.”

Though it deeply stung her, Alice refused to defend herself. She wasn’t very good at arguing, let alone proving a case without any proof. Instead, she would just smile, which only enraged her loved ones more.

How could she explain the layers of truth to her fondness for pungent fragrances? While she loved how soft flowers felt between her fingers or how silky chocolate felt against her tongue as it stroked the roof of her mouth, the actual odor of sweetness suggested nothing but weakness to the girl. Fragility was too dreadful of a characteristic for Alice to handle and the smell of it flooded her mind with shame, frustration, guilt and even worse, immutable loneliness.

As Alice grew into adulthood, her nose didn’t mature out of any phase. Every new year, Alice was met with new barriers that pushed her further away from personal connection. She never kept fresh flowers in the house, but she did become very good at keeping secrets. During university, she learned of the power that can exist behind a shield, even without a sword.

Well into her 20’s, Alice had befriended her loneliness and poured all of her personal love into her job as a teacher. As a superior, Alice was proud to be a different sort of mentor. After all, she had been different all of her life, how could it not be true in this area of her life? Her pet students weren’t the typical. She found herself partial to the defective ones. Ralph was unruly yet she never yelled at him. Grace was naive but Alice never showed her intolerance. In Alice’s classroom, the strong were punished for arrogance and the weak were heralded for their efforts.

Oddly enough, Alice didn’t realize this irony until a few years into teaching. She had also began to date a certain gentleman. She and this male suitor had met while shopping at the market on a Saturday. It wasn’t the charm or the compliments that had squeezed Alice’s heart so tightly but rather the sensitivity in how he spoke. After their fruit and vegetables had been purchased, he asked her to dinner and she accepted. It had been 2 months and the two were finding themselves quite fond of each other.

His name was Frank and to make ends meet he worked odd jobs. Mainly odd projects for his wealthy uncle. But, there was more to Frank than his casual labor. Frank was an oil painter and unlike artists of his time, he didn’t paint drab portraits or calming landscapes or lucrative religious icons. Frank’s eyes were infatuated with bold, sharp, and crisp shapes, with lines that didn’t blend softly. He mashed gobs of white into his paint blends to make glowing oranges and sunny greens. To most, even Alice, Frank’s paintings didn’t make much sense but – out of her likeness for Frank, she adored it.

Alice’s heart skipped when she was with Frank. A lot. He was funny, yet not silly. He challenged ideas without aggression and he was deeply committed to something that didn’t mean anything to anyone but him.

The irony of being charmed with all this weakness didn’t strike Alice until Frank surprised her, at school, with the biggest assortment of flowers she had ever seen.

Frank knew how uncomfortable public attention and spontaneity were for Alice, so he thought it wise to surprise her when she was alone – at lunch time.

No matter what time of year it was, Alice could be found outside. If it were winter, he would have found her bundled up, enjoying a stroll around the campus. If it were spring, she would be sitting on a bench with her eyes closed, inviting the sunlight to glaze her face. Nevertheless, it was Autumn.

The guard at the school gate, knew exactly who Alice was and exactly where Frank could find her. Since Frank was carrying such a beautiful arm full of flowers and had a gentle voice, the guard didn’t ask many questions.

She had just begun a new book and was under the red maple tree by the Math building. While Frank didn’t know how much Alice loved the smell of decomposing plants mixed with wet dirt, he did know that Fall was her favorite season and it became even more apparent when he saw her, sitting under the red maple tree.

Alice, finished a chapter and looked up to see a few leaves fall from the branch when she saw Frank. Her heart impulsively fluttered and her smile was so big Frank could already see it. As he approached though, Alice saw what he was holding. Pinks, purples, whites – the brightest of blossoms that surely emitted the sweetest of smells. As she kept smiling, she also began plotting – what to say, how to react and more importantly of all, how much should she pretend?

Alice wasn’t a liar. Yet she had developed a keen instinct to pretend and withhold details that could potentially cause others to assume negative things . Her calluses were only so thick. She was well aware that it was the pain from her earlier years that had created the calluses. Since she had been so young and so fleshy, the wounds, although somewhat healed, were internally scarred.

Alice stood and walked to meet Frank. She hugged him, smashing the buds and stems, triggering more fragrant to be released. After thanking him greatly, she took a deep inhale through her mouth and as she exhaled tears puddled in her lower lashes. She took the giant arrangement into her arms. Out of fear of dropping it she cradled it as she would a baby. A gesture that she had little experience. Alice felt different. She was still not fond of the sweet smell of the flowers but somehow it didn’t trigger disgust or anger.

Years later, Alice would look back at these times and shudder at how weak she had been for so long and perfectly grateful to her husband Frank for awaking her inner sweetness.

2 Boys and a Girl

I thought I fell in love with two men at the same time. Well, back then, they were boys. They both had the same name but couldn’t have been more different from each other. One was a jerk who always smiled and one was sweet but never smiled. One had stupid big, blue eyes, the other had small but cozy brown ones. One liked baseball the other basketball. One was tall the other was…well, taller than me. One had an inflated ego and the other needed to grow a pair.

They both made me laugh, even though neither one was very funny. More importantly, neither one ever pretended to be perfect nor even tried. That’s why I fell in love. And that’s how I felt worthy of being loved by both of them.

Not to mention, I was an insecure 18 year-old girl who craved constant attention from boys and they each fed different parts of my ego. I could be sweet and fun with the jerk and with the sweet one, I could be deep and dark. I was so easy then. They would disagree. Only because back then, I said ‘no’ a lot. They both called me a tease.

I enjoyed telling them both how in love I was with the other one – who happened to have the same name. I also enjoyed venting to one while already forgiving the other. It may come as a shock but they didn’t like each other.

if I really wanted to lie, I’d tell you that I still love them and if I wanted to be really honest, I’d tell you this saga still continues. But, thank god, I don’t feel like telling stories nor bearing my soul so I won’t say either.

Today, they both should hate me. Because I kind of do.

The sweet one kind of does. Well, he doesn’t hate me but, he doesn’t ask me to move in with him anymore. That’s ok though because he wants cats and he doesn’t want kids.

The jerk thinks we’re perfect for each other because he thinks we’re the same. We’ve hurt each other so much it’s as if we’re numb to it. He’s allergic to cats and definitely wants kids. Stupid me thinks “Maybe we are meant to be together…”

When I talk to both of them, I can hear my 18 year old voice. I can hear insecurities I haven’t heard in a decade. I hate that.

Yet, I keep holding on.


Why not?

For over 10 years they both have not only listened to me cry, ramble and even lie about stupid shit but they both have provided advice and condolences. They are two men who know every single ugly part of me. Every single annoying part. Every shameful flaw. And yet, they both are still here and still able to listen, sleep next to me and hold my hand. That – to me – is insane.

As sweet as this can seem it’s not healthy.

Spring is coming and I’m ready to clean.

Develop a Character: Chaddy

Chaddy was 7 when his mom decided she couldn’t handle being a mom. She gave him to her younger sister Kate, who was 23.

She told her, “Here. Wash him, feed him and love him because I know he deserves it but I just can’t do all those things for him.”

She was kind enough not to say this in front of her son. Still, Chaddy wasn’t dumb. But, since it was his mom – he couldn’t help but love her. Since he couldn’t be angry, he decided at 7-years-old that people loved in different ways. No more nor less than each other – just different. His mom loved from far away. His aunt-mom Kate loved up close. He would have to love his mom from far away and love Kate up close. This was hard because even though Kate was so much more fun than his mom and her breath smelled much better than hers too- he couldn’t help but want his mom right next to him – always.

He loved Kate. She never cried or if she did, she never did it in front of him. His mom had always cried in front of him. She would ask him to hug her or tell her a funny story. While these were the only times his mom seemed to like being around him, he hated it. It made him feel scared and guilty that he couldn’t do anything. She would say she was all alone. This confused him since she was never actually alone. Not only did she have him, she also had lots of friends who were always over. Chaddy would fall asleep to the sound of everyone laughing and wake up to people sleeping on the couch or on the floor in his room. Everyone always looked different when they were sleeping. They looked much smaller. He liked his mom’s friends – a lot. But, sometimes he would get mad at them. He wished he could make his mom as happy as they did.

Living with his Aunt Kate was cozy. He went to sleep at the same time every night and he always ate dinner in the same place. He liked that. He also liked Kate’s boyfriend Tim.

When he was 8 and a half, Kate married Tim. Chaddy got to be in the wedding. Since Kate’s dad was dead and Chaddy had been the most important man in her life, other than Tim, she had asked him to walk her down the aisle. Chaddy was so excited. He couldn’t wait to have his mom see him dressed up and doing something very important, very grown up. He wanted to make her feel like she was missing out on something really good. He wanted her to hurt enough to take him back.

The Monday before the wedding, Kate told him that his mom wasn’t coming to the wedding. She had called to tell her that she didn’t want to ruin such a special day. Eight months before, she had called to say that she couldn’t come to Chaddy’s birthday party because of the same reason. She always called Kate when Chaddy was at school. He was scared he forgot her voice. She was really good at loving from far away.

To ease the pain, Chaddy pretended that his mom was with him. At the wedding, he walked down the aisle tall and proud, imaging his mom was in her seat. He decided not to make pretend eye contact with her. #1: She didn’t deserve to be a part of this moment and #2: He didn’t want to see her cry. He felt handsome and strong on the outside which made it easier to ignore his weak insides.

Chaddy hated weekends – they seemed empty. School wasn’t easy nor was it always fun but there was something about it, that he really loved. When he wasn’t there, life just felt boring. His teacher was nice but he didn’t believe her. When she smiled at him, her eyes looked like they wanted to say something else. He didn’t like that. She didn’t look like that when she looked at everyone else. He had lots of friends despite feeling different from everyone else. They all had the same kind of families: mom and dad or divorced mom and dads with step-parents, or 2 moms or 2 dads. No one else had an aunt-mom and uncle-dad. It made him feel like he didn’t look like anyone else. Like his pants fit differently or his coat wasn’t the right color. He felt badly for the kids who didn’t have friends because in a way, they deserved it more or something.

Chaddy loved girls. It wasn’t like he wanted to be one or be like them or even play with them. He didn’t how to interact with them but he couldn’t help but be in awe of them. He didn’t understood why all his friends said girls were weird or play mean tricks on them. Girls were pretty and gentle. So considerate. You could see it in the way they turned the pages of their books or zipped their pencil cases. They were so careful, as if everything could feel their touch. He liked that.

Sucky Feelings

She definitely got mad...

She definitely got mad…

Once in awhile things are so good. Like, sunshine and lollipops good. Like, so good you’re kind of happy you had all those sad times so you can fully appreciate that goodness you get to snuggle up into.

Most of the time though, things suck. I’m sorry. That might be a little dramatic. But, it’s kind of true and we totally do it to ourselves. No matter if you’re in a happy relationship, you love your job, enjoy your life – it doesn’t matter. You still get angry, sad, hurt, lonely, or scared. That’s probably the worst of them all. Feeling scared. That stupid feeling ends up leading to all those other sucky feelings.

You’re in a happy relationship. You get scared it’s too happy. You start to read into stupid things. You start feeling hurt. That hurt makes you feel angry or sad. And then that anger or sadness turns into sadness or anger. You project that sadness and anger onto your happy relationship. You ruin the happiness. You ruin the relationship. Then you’re lonely.

You have a really great job. You get scared it’s too great. You start to read into stupid things. You want to protect yourself from the sadness that might come when they might fire you. You get angry. You project that anger onto your job, your coworkers, your work. You get fired. Then you feel hurt, lonely and sad.

You enjoy your life. You feel scared that a shoe’s going to drop. You try and figure out where it’s going to fall. On your job, your relationship, is your dad going to die, are you going to die? You isolate yourself, making you feel lonely. You get sad. You feel angry at everyone else who is happy. Then you feel hurt because life is so unfair.

Thank god I’m nothing like that.

Fuck those sucky feelings. Don’t let them bite you.

All I have to write are construction paper and Crayola markers.

I have eggs in my pocket.

I like to be prepared.

Yesterday, I wasn’t.


Wednesdays are always like that.

But it wasn’t Wednesday.

It was Thursday.

I had to be patient.

I actually like being patient.

No, I don’t.

That’s a lie.

I lie sometimes.

Usually about stupid things.


“I like being patient”


“I like rainbows”

I hate rainbows.

Well, I don’t hate them.

I just don’t love them.

Like everyone else does.

Why does everyone get so excited?

For a rainbow?

Other things that I don’t love:





Giant lollipops.

Giant anything.


I said it.

Sometimes I feel supposed.

Like I’m “supposed” to do something.

Like I’m supposed to like rainbows or giants things.


I’m still nice.

And funny.

And fun.

I don’t like to feel supposed.

It makes me feel unfair.

To everyone.

And to me.


I don’t like that.

Just like I don’t like rainbows.