of letters sent to myself via & present time scribbles || words are probably mine, images are probably not


Each day I can distract myself with small things that…

sorry, I was distracted. Eating pasta and polishing off some bath water-warm white wine. Again, numbing.

But what the fuck am I numbing? This is a streak of alcoholism that’s new, interesting, curious, dangerous?

I’m happy. I have satisfaction at work, decent joy in my marriage, which yield an easier, but still blossoming confidence in myself. And yet, oh joy, a whole bottle of wine.

And yet, I’m here eating my way to a clone of my mother. Stretch marks and all. Wasn’t I always this person under my tubby but manageable body? stretch marked and rolling and bloated and uncarefully masked by clothes that I fit less into every day.

My therapist said I do well when I set boundaries for myself.
But after my bath, and lotion and wiping my overdone make-up clean, I can see my youths under here. Trying to shine through, annoyed at my lack of discipline and begging for another shot.

So maybe I’ll give looking like I’m in my 20’s another shot.

Twerk out. New years. It’s not hard if you don’t let it be.


Sent 30 days to the future

from December 20th, 2016 VIA

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the girl and the grey

There’s this this distraction that eats at me, my time, by brain. Makes me atrophy as a person. Makes me retreat, sleep too much, is all consuming. And I can’t help but revel in it. To click around facebook pages and presume about people I’ll never know.

There’s this version of me that avoids this altogether. The girl who:
- She eats nourishing meals, without overdoing it, without jumping at every chance to guzzle sugar.
- Her sleep schedule is consistent - 8hrs a night like clockwork.
- Who exercises, with pleasure, without excuse, because that’s what makes her strong.

She doesn’t get these strange, brain killing, buzzing headaches. Directly correlated to my lack of movement.

I don’t know, I’ve had these conversations with myself a billion times. All I need to do is open a fucking word document and rearrange some words into a compelling pattern - something I’m really quite good at.


Sent 12 months to the future, from February 12th, 2017 via FUTUREME.ORG

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a two part series about aug. 22

what is gratitude? 
it fits like water or air
easy, understood

future self, I see
weightless through chaturangas
is now hard at work 

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puffed up space between

There’s nothing I can do to shake the grip of this, but I can turn away from it’s hold. A fast is easy as long as there is light at the end of it.

I can put it on the back burner, only to revive it after long, finite expanses of time.

And within these vast fields of time, I can nurture this decent life I’ve sown, undistracted. It’s easier to breathe when there’s room.



1 month

into the future, to August 11th, 2017 VIA 

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