sorry i can’t be your manic pixie dream girl [poem]

i have 27 new texts
because i made 18 new friends last night
made plans with them all
told them i'd take them out to brunch
can't remember their names
was too drunk off the vodka i stole
switched my major three times
spent $65 on art supplies
figured i'd be the next van gogh
first, teach myself how to paint
i pick up new hobbies.
starting websites
knitting sweaters
learning the guitar
maxing out my credit cards
don't have time for it to get declined
because i have to shop online
- expensive shoes
- the camera i've always dreamt of
- 15 new shirts that might not fit
- jewelry that i won't wear
- some jeans since i need a new pair
(i don't)
paranoia that management will know
i'm not okay
coming into the leasing office to get packages
twice a day
hey man, you okay?
i mean i haven't slept in five fucking days...
it's 4 am
i'm wide awake
baked myself a three-layer cake
i'm scrubbing the floors
and painting my walls
tried to call my parents for fun
stopped myself so they don't call 911
my roommate thanks me in the morning
for cleaning the kitchen
vacuumming the apartment
doing all the things i couldn't do when i was too
i offer her a piece of my cake.
lovely how things turn out for me
spend six months in depression
suddenly i'm out
a little vacation away from hell
thanks mania!
you are treating me well
all fun and games
the manic brain
neurotransmitters gone haywire
yet only lasts so long
four days or four weeks
and it backfires
because eventually you
you're doing something and in the / middle /
you feel nothing
become numb
start to crawl
back into the black hole you already know
guess it's that time of year again
rendezvous with depression
my good old friend
the dark side is always the worst of all
but the upsides of my up side
are worth the fall.

C’est toujours la même chose

Translation of title: “It’s always the same thing”

My very first blog post involved a mini reflection of 2018. I figured, now it being a new year, I would continue the trend with a rundown of my first two weeks.

Unlike the majority, I did not wake up on January 1st, 2019 with a pounding hangover headache after a night of irresponsible drinking. I welcomed the new year sitting at my desk, playing video games with people I will likely never meet in person and whom I only know by voice and Fortnite skill, and half a lukewarm Modelo.

It was alright.

A few days ago, I was late to physics lab— yes, the semester has started and no, I am not happy about it— thanks to a line of cop cars at each corner of every street in town. I learned, during lab, that a police officer had been shot as she was attending to a multi-vehicle accident. The suspect was still on the loose and a manhunt ensued.

Our small college town of a mere 70k, where bicycle theft is the most common crime, panicked. My new classmates and I walked each other to our cars after receiving another half-hourly update via text.

Suspect still not found. Man in his 20s. Wearing black jeans. Black combat boots. Avoid downtown by all means.

My usual commute home involves 1st and E, or 5th and F, both located in the heart of town. On this night, at the corner of 5th was a cop car parked up on the sidewalk, the officer outside, standing stiff, in a bulletproof vest, AR-15 slung around his neck. Is this America now? I thought to myself, chills creeping down my spine as I drove past the scene.

They found the suspect around 1 AM.


Gunshot, self-inflicted, to the head.

Inside his home, only a couple blocks down from my own.

Land of the free, home of the brave.

As I mentioned, the semester has started. A week ago exactly. After slacking off and eventually withdrawing two days before the last day of fall semester— technically meaning I dropped out of college, something I can now say I have done— getting back into the groove of school has proven more difficult than expected. Every semester, like every new year, starts out the same. New year, new me; new semester, new me. But they both carry on identically, with a continuing desire yet failed attempt to lose weight and old academic habits.

The first week starts out like so: I skip my first class and convince myself it’s okay because it’s syllabus day. Then I skip the next. And the next. Eventually, I do go. I’m a new face and I hide in the back of the room, slumped in a sweatshirt with a mysterious stain, hoping that the professor does not notice me and realize I’ve already skipped three of four lectures. Oops.

I make an effort to develop better habits and make up for the missed classes. This involves a trip to Target, which the other thirty-four thousand students have already done, a similar idea in mind. There are only a couple of notebooks left, wide-ruled, covered with cute puppies or glitter, designed for elementary school kids. The section with agendas and planners is empty. I opt for the nicest supplies I can find, one notebook for each class, and grab some fancy looking gel pens off the rack last-minute at check-out. Maybe this multicolored pack of Pilot G-2s will get me better grades.

It won’t.

The second week is what I call catch-up week. I copy lecture notes in my fresh notebooks with my fresh pens, making sure every ‘o’ is rounded perfectly and every ‘i’ is dotted eloquently. I only make it to the seventh line before my OCD kicks in and I rip out the page. The dashes weren’t lined up correctly and my ‘l’ looked lopsided.

I try again.

I rip out another.



The notebook shrinks, its bindings weakening at each frantic tear of a page.

I struggle getting through even half a notebook throughout the semester and eventually decide the anxiety of perfect penmanship makes it not worth going to class. My attendance grade plummets and I flood professors’ inboxes with a whole bunch of “I was sick and don’t want my absences to affect my grade” bullshit.

Procrastination, another habit I will most likely never break, and my lack of interest in school kicks in fast. I spend more time on the internet, playing video games, sleeping in past acceptable hours, and ignoring my responsibilities and deadlines.




Finals week comes around and I’m barely scraping a 2.0, praying that everyone has failed the physical chemistry exams (I did) and so a 50% overall is a pass. Luckily, it usually is.

A week-long break later, the following semester begins, once again, with hopes of A’s. It ends, once again, with unused notebooks half the original size. It’s always the same thing.

I turned twenty-two and a half over the weekend. I’m not sure how that’s relevant but I thought I’d share.

I also still drink pumpkin spice lattes. One sits next to me now. I fear the day the barista tells me they are officially out of season.

Hello, 2019.

Medicated: tales from the pharmacy waiting room

I woke up this morning in the worst possible way: roused from a deep sleep, mid-dream, by a knock at my front door. Mind you, I dread waking up by any means, but I despise it especially after a night of more-than-mediocre slumber, something I don’t experience often. But the knocks continue, and my anxiety consequently kicks in, my heart pounding like the visitor’s knuckles against the wooden entry, as I consider all the possibilities of who’s producing the dreaded noise I cannot ignore.

My first assumption is always the police, belly full of donuts, with a warrant for my arrest. Maybe they found leaked video footage of freshman me stealing Four Loko from the local gas station mart four years ago, or my now-of-age self buying vodka for minors at the liquor store down the street. I remind myself, in hopes of calming myself down, that it may just be the usual Jehovah’s witnesses, the postman, or someone who simply meant to go to apartment 28 two doors down but instead wound up at mine.

I answer the door, albeit reluctantly. It’s my unofficial roommate, a couch-surfer who relies on my futon for sleep and my one-bedroom apartment for shelter, who stumbles in. It’s the first day of her post-undergrad job and she’s late, also drunk. I can smell the scent of built-up acetaldehyde, the devil behind hangovers, from each breath. 

“I went to Brendyn’s apartment last night to go get the shit I had left but then his roommates were there and they just quit their jobs, so I decided to join in on the celebration.” I chuckle at the irony. “I also did some cocaine. But only two lines”, she reassures me. I hear the sound of the toilet seat opening, followed by a loud post-vomit FUUUUUUCK.

Thirty minutes later, nearly fifteen minutes late to her first day, she’s gone and I decide to get out of bed. I down my meds with yesterday’s leftover pumpkin spice latte and am out the door, ready to get more of both.

I sit awkwardly on the dainty couch in my psychiatrist’s office, my body weight shifting every few seconds due to nerves and excessive caffeine. We talk for a while and she asks how I am, even though she already knows the answer. I tell her I’m unwell. I tell her that I sometimes don’t leave the house for days, my hypersomnia prevents me from receiving adequate nutrition, and I’ve officially stopped going to class and turning in assignments. I’ve even missed a midterm. With little to no hesitation, she advises me to drop out of the semester, despite finals being next week. I’ve already done so, not formally with the university registrar, but mentally. I have not yet mustered the courage to go to the dean’s office, a room located at the very bottom of a cold cinderblock building (quite fitting, I would say). Confronting someone of higher authority, like the police officers I thought were behind my door one hour prior, frightens me. And so I’ve put it off.

In the meantime, Dr. M decides to increase my dose of lamotrigine, an anticonvulsant prescribed for epilepsy that doubles as a mood stabilizer. This marks the first time I’ve increased my dosage in nearly two years. The addition of fifty milligrams to my already whopping three hundred feels like a slap in the face. It’s hard to accept that I’m sick again.

I smile, however, at the Klonopin refill form I grasp firmly in my hands like treasure. Controlled substances are federally regulated and attempting to obtain a prescription nowadays often raises an eyebrow. Benzodiazepines, in particular, are notoriously susceptible to abuse and/or addiction. As a result, I tense up when I ask my psychiatrist for more, both of us secretly fearing that I may succumb to its perilous consequences.

As I wait for my medication— the pink circles that make me slur my words and the pink ovals that attempt to keep me sane— I glance around the pharmacy and people-watch discreetly. All of us are here because we are sick in some way or another, contagious or not. The fear of the unknown results in personal space as common courtesy. The three other people waiting and I obey this unspoken rule, each of us sitting on opposite sides of the room.

The pharmacist is taking longer than usual to call me over, so I find ways to keep myself preoccupied. I make an origami crane out of the the take-a-number tag I was given. I assign medical conditions and prescriptions to each of us in here. The girl in front of me twiddles her thumbs, her head down, making sure to not make eye contact. I armchair diagnose her with panic disorder. She looks like she could be a Lexapro girl, perhaps with a side of Xanax. The other girl, a few seats away, is glued to her phone. I see her Instagram feed scroll as her freshly manicured index finger swipes down the cracked screen. I can’t figure out what she’s waiting for, she looks so normal. Vitamins? Birth control? I give up. The last person, a young boy in a hoodie and sweats, coughs into his elbow and then clears his throat. Penicillin for strep, the mononucleosis of college. I’ve been down that road.

My number, 56, is eventually called. The pharmacy technician, an older lady with strawberry blonde hair who’s always cheerful, throws three orange bottles into a brown bag. I verify my name and then birthday, and I can’t help but think that she most likely has them memorized since I see her so frequently and only asks due to policy. I’m reminded of the Domino’s pizza delivery guy and the Starbucks barista, and I add cheerful pharm tech to my list.

Walking back to my car with my baggie full of pharmaceuticals, I sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” that played in the waiting room.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
Had a very shiny nose
And if you ever saw it
You would even say it glows

I then drive home, pop half a fresh-out-of-the-pharmacy Klonopin, and go back to sleep.

A year of firsts

Typically when I start a new blog, I’m manic. This year, however, is a year of firsts. Below is a list of some that have occurred since the start of 2018.

  • Broke a bone. Ironically, on the first day of the year. Spent two weeks on crutches.
  • Lost a best friend, made a new one, and then lost that one too.
  • Blacked out from alcohol. On a Monday. This became a regular occurrence.
  • Tried Klonopin. Downed it with vodka. See above.
  • Flunked a semester at school.
  • Fell into a depressive episode after a year and a half of stability.

The last one is why for the fifth or twenty-fifth time, I am starting a blog. RIP to all the hours of hovering over my computer until sunrise, frantically messing with HTML on yet another Tumblr account of mine. Sleep is not part of a manic brain’s vocabulary. Man, do I miss her though.

Depression, like cheap red wine, is one sneaky bitch. You’ve been doing alright for some time when suddenly you don’t even care about the things you love, your Prozac stops working, and you wake up with a pounding headache because you slept 12 hours last night and missed all of your classes. And maybe a physics quiz. You wouldn’t know since you haven’t checked the syllabus in weeks.

My room, once spick-and-span, now drowns in dirty clothes and empty plastic cups. Laundry has been on my to-do list since mid-November. The walk to the laundry facility across from my apartment now exhausts me. I no longer eat. When I do, it’s thanks to the Domino’s pizza delivery guy who most likely now knows my name, as does the Starbucks barista who occasionally treats me to the pumpkin spice lattes I consider meals. I drink one as I write this.

I don’t know how to end this and I’m not sure if this blog will end up in the graveyard with my others. Maybe instead it will end up on my list of firsts.