My Cardboard Balcony

Okay. So, I just got back from a Giants game (we lost, but it was still fun), and I know that I've put off a longer introspection for a while. A lot has happened - some bad, some good - and I'll try to get it all down without looking sloppy. First of all, my store received a new manager after the last manager didn't work out. Let's just say that the staff is a lot happier, and the store is looking a lot nicer. It's really sad that my last manager, a man I had a lot of confidence in, turned out to be a total dud as a leader and a supervisor. He ultimately took advantage of every worker in the store, delegating the tasks he should have been responsible for to us. It's difficult for me not to secretly wish that karma gets at him, but I think the damage is done, and whatever happens, I hope he's healthy and learning how to improve as a worker. Second of all, my dog of nearly sixteen years died this week. He was definitely deteriorating over the year, and whi...

Still not exactly finding older stuff these days. We'll see if next week, I'll scrounge something up.

When they told me to broaden my horizons, I sewed sails onto a boat and sailed for the eighth sea, one that the same "they" claimed did not exist. It didn't matter. They were the type of people who liked to chastise and not practice what they bragged about being good at. As for me, I breathed salt and tasted fresh air for several months, until the tides pulled me back onto shore and I carved my name into the earth of a brand new world.

A Girl Started A Fight by Belinda Roddie A girl started a fight with headphones on, the music carrying her swings in a raw and rough choreography, the wind bristling the stalks of her straw hair. Her foe was armed and ready, driving a blade hard into her ribs, then fleeing at the scream of police sirens. The girl felt the shard of metal drain her, empty her of stream after stream of blood. Was this the way she had always known it'd end? Her drunken dad had failed at killing her, as had the harsh and bitter life she lived upon the streets. Though hoping she'd survive many more years, she died with French songs blaring in her ears.

I will retreat when I hear the drums. I will hide myself in a pile of leaves. The autumn wind will carry me away before the troops can get to me. I will climb my way up a redwood tree, and I'll be a part of the seasonal breeze. There will be rainclouds above and hellfire below, but I'll find equilibrium that the generals won't see.

Lots of Pockets by Belinda Roddie Here is a pack of cigarettes, and here is a dead lighter. This lottery ticket won me two dollars, and this one won me nothing. I wish these pockets were dusted with gold, lined with words of wisdom replacing the lint. Instead, there is mostly empty space. And heartache. And anger. And peace.

Was she supposed to be grateful, after all this time? Was she meant to thank him for the efforts he had made? The efforts, namely, to abandon her for the sake of bringing food to the table? What was an extra ham or gallon of ice cream compared to his holding her at night when she cried herself to sleep? Or his smile from behind a newspaper? Or the roughness of his hands as he caressed her cheeks on their wedding night?