Dear Mina,

I found this for you from tumblr.


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The Only 12½ Writing Rules You'll Ever Need.
If you write every day, you get better at writing every day.
If it’s boring to you, it’s boring to the reader.
Get a writing routine and stick with it.
Poetry does NOT have to rhyme. Poetry does not NOT have to rhyme.
Resist stereotypes in real life and in your writing.
Writers read. Writers read a lot. Writers read all the time.
Make lists of your favorite words and books and places and things.
There doesn’t always have to be a moral to the story.
Always bring your notebook. Always bring a spare pen.
Go for walks. Dance. Pull weeds. Do the dishes. Write about it.
Don’t settle on just one style. Try something new!
Learn to tell both sides of the story.
Stop reading this post. Write something!

http://curiousgirl.tumblr.com/

(PS: sorry for neglecting to draw. :( )

And the Night of the Stampede

20,000 kisses. One for the boys who never looked out for me, but promised and then broke their promises, rocking back and forth to the music, rocking back and forth in the pale blueness of the concert lights. I wanted, for a moment, to let the crowd take me, to trample me into pulpy, squirming bits of light pink and beige, to rip the skin from my cheeks and expose it, beet-red, to the alcohol-scented crowd, the weed smell like burning shit in the backdrop, and the drunk girls smothering kisses unto their boyfriends’ faces, gnawing the rubbery ear. And in the end we are all alone. We are all simply alone, however hard we try to deny this truth, with text messaging and facebook and phone calls that last an hour only because we talk about everything we did that day, from washing the dishes to brushing our teeth to shitting in the toilet. I floated in the pale blueness, the lights bright and blinding, the lyrics stabbed to death with curse words, three-edged curse words, sharp and hurting against my tender flesh, and I miss those days, of flawless pink cheeks and a pure, pure heart, a pure heart like almonds whose meat is smooth and white.

the top one was what I intended
the bottom is what the internet thinks it is in CMYK

Plump, watery

Breezy July, lavender tears (plump, watery) nostalgia crept where prisoners slept (liquid transactions, bathroom tiles colored with blood, urine, remorse). Why can't we unknow what makes us stiff, serious, stuffy? I want to look upon life with the same dreaminess, hopefulness and loveliness as I did before.