Kick Drum Heart


As my foot falls asleep,

I don’t know what I want to write about. I don’t know what I want to do right now. I don’t know what I want to do with my life.

Well crap, talking to Brendan always makes me think about the big things. God and life, love, materialism and all of those… big things. Deep thinking. Like floodwater deep (and that’s pretty deep, kids).

Oh man, does my head hurt. It’s just beginning to start to pound. My sister has a friend over, so it’s not like I can go in my room and sing to music. Or even practice and try to talk myself out of the headache. Nope, I have to be a docile little girl and not scare the shit out of Tara with melodic lines warbling through the troposphere.

I think I might grab some cappuccino (we went to Wal-Mart today) and head downstairs anyway, turn on some Avett Brothers or Anna Netrebko or maybe Bob Marley. I don’t care about what my sister’s friend thinks about me, that’s not why I’m not going to practice. I do care that my vocal techniques might make Tara’s somewhat critical and clique-y attitude whip toward my sister. They already call me the Opera Freak… therefore I won’t make Michelle pull more excuses out of the air about me. I think she already has enough of a hard time, because so many people that know me end up meeting her. She came home from Drama Camp one day and told me I was the Devil’s spawn. Ripley called her Kim. Emma called her Kim. Everyone else called her Kim’s little sister, except for like, Colleen. I think it gets a little old after a while.

So I won’t put any more stress on her. I’ll lay low and put together my bag for school (eight days!). I might cobble together a “first day” outfit. Drink some caffeinated beverage, and organize some old story snippets.

Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be a cozy, hopefully relaxing end to the day. Maybe.



Blog from a green SUV

9:45 AM

You know when you wake up irritable and cranky, and aren’t fully aware why? That happened to me this morning. It took this long to remember why.

I dreamed last night I smoked my first cigarette.

The clammy inhalation of sweet, sweet smoke. The taste on my tongue. Of grey, of ash, tasting of warmth. My nerves welcomed it all as my head screamed NO.

I was only going to try one. In my dream, though, promises to myself and willpower meant nothing. Swept away by the breeze like so much smoke. I smoked the first cigarette, threw it away, then picked up another. Lit it like a pro.

My heart hurts today, thinking about it. Regardless of the fact that I’ve undoubtably inhaled the equivalent of dozens of cigarettes via secondhand, I’d vowed never to take one and smoke it myself. It was hell as a little kid, seeing both parents willingly inhale shit.

Now, my dad’s stained teeth and my mother’s loud, wracking cough are testimony to the suckage that accompanies what some fools endearingly term “ciggs.”

Well, thanks but no thanks. I’ve felt what these things can do to my own lungs. My sister was born premature and an asthmatic because of them. There’s emotional stress and health problems that tag right along with the pleasant buzz, or whatever the hell it is.

Smoking a cigg last night was just a dream. And it will stay that way, for me.