A great site


Just write cupcake. Take a minute and bang out some letters on the keyboard, would ya? Maybe once the tap tap starts tapping your mind will allow a free flow of rapping. Wrapped up words stuck in the back of my mind flow to the tip of my tongue and get stuck there. Emotions, epiphanies, comebacks, hopes, opinions, breakthroughs all pile up on top of each other k’s stuck in o’s s’s wrapped around e’s like branches and boughs that clog rivers. That pesky beaver I’ve named self doubt always with new material building the dam. But that’s MY material, that’s the stuff I was using to build the raft to ride the flow. My words taking me through deep valleys and in between currents, other words swimming underneath waiting to be carried along, added to this vessel.

But there they sit as new words collide into the wall of mute. Mouth bulging with unspoken needs, pregnant with all that is me. I wish I could just fucking write.


White Girl Rap

come on now don’t fuck with me

i’m the mother fuckin master of this century

i lace rhymes like Victorian veils

i blow lyrics that’ll fill your sails

i eat boys for breakfast and punks for lunch

i suck marrow from their bones and spit out the chunks

breaking through barriers I built with bricks from the past

finding the strength to try the new die that’s cast

washing away all the dirt from inside

telling the little me there’s no need to hide

this stride of mine will never slow down

fighting the madness that’s always around

so come on now don’t fuck with me

I’m the mother fuckin master of this century


You’re going to have to be more fun than masturbating.

If you want to date me, you’re going to have to be more fun than masturbating.

Masturbating you say? IS there anything more fun? Can one even top that? Aren’t you creating unattainable goals? What’s more fun than masturbating?

Exactly. Go away.

things i wish i had at my desk.

  1. A personal chef. Especially in the morning around 10 when I regret only having coffee and all I can think about is eggs benedict or burritos.
  2. A personal masseuse, this should be self-explanatory.
  3. Hammock

45 – my thoughts

Donald Trump doesn’t make decisions based on what is right or wrong or even to follow his own agenda. Donald Trump makes decisions based on whether or not there is opposition and what side of that opposition he wants to be on, which is mostly the side of evil and ignorance. When faced with the opportunity to show his power he will choose the option that does such, even when using that power does more harm than good.

He is not a man of integrity he is a man of opportunity. He is not a man of clout he is a man of fear. He does not care about anyone else. He cares about what he can gain from others. Donald Trump is the car salesman that sold you the lemon then tells you to sue when you try to bring it back the next day. He’s the landlord that increases the rent when you lose your job. He’s the rapey rich guy that thinks he can buy his fingers into your vagina and when you have the nerve to push him away he slaps you and tells you to get the fuck out.

Donald Trump is the kind of man that is ok with a robot wife and vapid children. He is so far removed from anything human he can’t possibly be human himself. Donald Trump doesn’t play by any rule book other than his own and that is changing daily. He has no compass, no map and no soul. For anyone to say anything otherwise shows their level of ignorance about such men. I for one have had my fair share of experience with the Donald Trump’s of the world. We would be a far better society without them.

Seattle Techie

Her skirt was stuck to her butt, again. The polyester of her short red dress suffocated the natural flow of air, it being 95 degrees didn’t help much either. She shifted in her chair to try to unstick the rough fabric from her skin and beneath her the chair groaned in old wood words. It was hot and humid. The sounds of the city buzzed all around, cars raced past on the street behind. The mixture of people on the deck was interesting and varied. Two younger asian women were sitting a few tables down chatting about a co-worker. Both dressed in shorts and tennis shoes their conversation grew more animated the further into the story they went. The hushed chatter of two conspirators talking shit about another girl. She rolled her eyes and decided she wouldn’t pay them any more mind.

Just in front of the them and to her immediate left sat two, what only one could assume were, male regulars. Both mid-fifties in jean shorts and band t-shirts, they had the swollen bellies and puffed eyes of those that spend too much time behind a bar and not enough time walking there. The man facing her direction wore a black beret and sandals that had velcro straps. Interesting combination, she thought. His feet were swollen and on his right foot his big toenail was severely overgrown, so much so that his toe skin had all but swallowed his toenail. It disgusted her to look at it but she couldn’t help catching it out of the corner of her eye each time she looked his way. His fingernails were dirty too. He had the look of a disheveled professor, one that’s wife left years ago and he couldn’t be bothered about hygiene any more. Long ago he’d given up on any notion of romance.

She looked away not wanting to stare but made a mental note to write about him later.

There’s an understanding amongst the natives in the Pacific Northwest, you don’t complain about the heat in summer because you will most assuredly be longing for it come January. In the state of perpetual grey, we soak up the summer sun hoping to store it’s warmth and glow for solace during the dreary cold. Like a bear gorges on fatty fish and nuts, we store the orange in sun pockets in our brain hoping to tap into the memory for strength when the sadness creeps in. She was sweating, storing and silently chuckling to herself as the locals chatted on. She really loved the city. She really loved this city.

When he walked through the backdoor to join her sweat beaded on his brow. It was 10 degrees hotter in the pub and he’d just spent a good 15 minutes inside refreshing their empty glasses. As he sat in front of her she flashed him a smile. Behind it her thoughts were racing and she wondered if he could sense her attraction. It bubbled up and over her edges like the froth on the beer in front of her. She wanted another kiss. Like the kiss she’d had just a few hours before. The unexpected in so many ways kiss. It had been too long since she had been kissed like that and now she couldn’t get the thought out of her head.

She was happy. It had nothing to do with the beer buzz and everything to do with how alive she felt when he looked at her. Side glances that meant he wanted to touch her but wasn’t sure if he could, kept her heart at a pitter patter pace off and on all day. It was wonderful torture, knowing that he wanted her closeness as much as she wanted his. She took pleasure in coyly smiling now and again to let him know she knew and she knew that he knew too. The dance’s tempo building as the day wore on they decided to move on to the next watering hole. She had no idea what the night had in store for her.


My mind.

My endlessly running, get no break, wish I could break you, mind.

Like niagra falls thoughts rush over the edge of my consciousness with a violent rage, white caps of evil foaming over the top.

Licks and spits of negativity and fear.

They speckle my every moment like white dog hair on black wool.

Without pattern or purpose they are my constant companion.

Meditate they say, ha!

You can’t meditate crazy away.

It’s pervasive and doesn’t play by those rules.

The fingertips of depression wrap themselves around moments of joy and cradle them like children.

Giving solace to the discomfort of happy.

Always back there in the dark, I can count on them to remind me that I’m not good enough, that life isn’t what it seems and that one day this will all be gone.

Age is a torturous mistress and coupled with my mind I’m trapped in a masochistic relationship with myself.

I love to hate me.



When I walked in ┬áhe was sitting to the right of the door on a black leather couch that was pocked with big glass diamonds that when hit with the right light sparkled like tiny lights. He was dressed in casual summer wear, blue checked button down short sleeve shirt, matching light blue shorts and deck shoes. He was tall, over 6′ and was more attractive than his pictures. He had an easy smile that showed perfect white teeth. When he hugged me I didn’t detect a cologne which was just fine with me.

I excused myself to wash my hands and to chuck my gum. As I walked away I could feel him checking out my butt. Or maybe I was just hoping that he would. When I returned to the couch I sat facing him. Our conversation was easy and light. We joked about things we had texted that day and his laugh was pleasant to hear. He was attractive in an intelligent but very manly way. You could tell that he worked out and his tan was dark enough to be sexy but not too dark that it detracted. There was a quickness in his eyes. A spark that made me want to draw nearer.

He wanted to talk about me, a subject I detest. It made points in the conversation strained and uncomfortable but he was good at bringing it back around. It seemed as if he needed to fill every second with conversation and for a brief second I saw a weakness. He led the date along like a professional, something I’m not sure I enjoyed, something I’m not sure I didn’t enjoy.

After a couple of drinks he walked me to my car and we hugged. It was a nice warm, long hug. He said he wouldn’t kiss me on the first date. I pointed out that I hadn’t asked. We laughed and I walked to my driver’s side door with a wave I climbed in and he walked off. Damn he’s fine, I thought.


He walked up behind me as I was swiping out a little story on my phone. He was wearing his Thurston County baseball hat with a button down shirt and jeans. Handsome doesn’t even begin to describe his features. His hair was dark and tousled with matching full beard, trimmed but not, if that makes sense. I said something that made him laugh and his laugh piqued an energy in me that I hadn’t felt in quite some time. I paused, enjoying the sensation of arousal from just hearing a sound.

His smile was genuine and warm and the conversation was surprising. He shared intimate details about his life that were shocking. It created an instant trust though which is almost impossible to garner from me. I don’t trust men. At all, ever. Especially really handsome, overly educated, extremely intelligent men. He had me captivated.

When we parted ways he walked me to my car. He pulled me close to him and bent slightly to kiss me. I don’t like kissing men with beards, they poke and sometimes smell unclean. Not his. It was soft and smelled faintly of soap. His lips were soft too. And his kiss was soft. When I kissed him back the energy grew with intensity. He pulled me closer, tighter and kissed me hard, so hard my knees began to buckle. The space between us grew smaller until there was no space. Our groins ground into each other wishing the clothes between us would melt away.

As I drove away I was happy that he didn’t ask me back to his house. I’m not sure I can be intimate with him. He’s too much of everything I want.

ER Nurse

It was odd being in a house so big with just two bachelors inhabiting its space. His room was upstairs and just big enough to hold a Queen bed, floor to ceiling shelves and a desk, all black. His clothes and hats lined the shelves that were adjacent to the bed. His shirts neatly rolled, hats stacked on top of each other with their bills all bent to the same degree. Everything was tidy, well kept. On the wall facing the foot of the bed, shelves lined the upper half and on the top shelf sat a cowboy hat you’d see on a bro type at a festival. You know, not a real cowboy hat but one you’d buy from a truck stop or country music festival. His bed was as soft as a cloud and the pillows were big, fluffy and white like marshmallows. He smelled clean and so did his belongings.

He came in me even though I’d asked him not to. In the morning he walked me to the front door. I made him give me money for the morning after pill. I guess cleanliness doesn’t always equate to godliness.