survival guide

general thoughts about life by someone who exists, probably

[m-elise]

i fall in love

every day. 

with strangers i will never speak to,

and friends i hope never wave goodbye. 

with the smell of the air on autumn mornings, 

before the sun wakes up. 

with the warmth of coffee in a mug, 

and the clicking sound of the keys beneath my fingers. 

i am in love with the wonder and the whimsy of a life worth living. 

i am in love with this beating heart. 

oh, how far i’ve come from the emptiness i once called friend. 

[m-elise]

The first time Death met Karen,

 she baked him a plate of oatmeal raisin cookies and sent him on his way with a warm smile and some plastic wrap so they wouldn’t crumble in his car. Death didn’t have a car, actually, but no one had ever baked him cookies before, and so he just couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t take her with him. Besides, Karen was only 43 at the time, with a lot of life yet to live, and still grieving the loss of her late husband who, Death would tell you, was a scumbag, piece of shit, gambling horemonger anyways. 

So Death left a note on her door in his horrible slanted handwriting, reminding her not to miss her next appointment with Dr. Lang, her general practitioner. And he ate one of her cookies.

[m-elise]

today’s mood

Hot coffee before the sun lifts her tired face. Knit sweaters and bare feet on a cold tile floor. Thoughts of driving west, with nothing but a heart of whimsy and a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. 

Oh, how I wish to see the world. 

[m-elise]

a list of dialogue prompts

“Hey! Don’t blame me! You’re the one who joined the cult.”

“How in the living hell did you get that stuck there?!”

“Oh, I’ll do it. For a price… For a secret.”

“See? I told you nothin’ bad would happen. Superstition is for nuns and nutcases, and we’re- Oh. We’re screwed.”

“These are the moments that define us. That tell us who we are, to the very depth of our inmost being. And you, my friend. You are an idiot.”

“It doesn’t matter- not anymore. I carved this path from the blood and the bones of my past, and if it leads me to Death’s door, well. She still owes me that waltz.”

“I told you not to let him eat it! Now look at him! He’s… soupy!”

"Shit! No! Not again!”

“I… I love you. Possibly even more than this Doritos Locos Nachos Cheese taco. Is that crazy?”

“My skills include good communication, a positive attitude, and the strength and willpower needed crochet a prom dress entirely from worn on a strings. When do I start?”

[m-elise]

3 o’clock in a world without magics

“I told you not to let him eat it! Now look at him! He’s… soupy!”

“No, no. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“But he’s not fine!” Caroline Langdon, with her nine years of life and curly blonde hair, was the picture of distress. “He’s my baby brother, and he’s dripping! Tobi! Mom’s gonna kill me!”

It was 3:00 o’clock on a Wednesday, in the middle of the summertime, in a world without magic. The sun gleamed down from a cloudless sky onto a little cal-de-sac nestled somewhere in the Midwest, away from the hustle and bustle of city noise and certainly far, far from anything magical, or mystical or enchanted- even in the slightest.

Yet somehow, two children in this ordinary world had come into possession of some Thing strikingly Unordinary. And Tobi, who was both missing five teeth and burdened by a horrible, terrible, unquenchable need to Do It And See What Happens had taken it upon herself to do just that. In her defense, the Thing had looked edible enough –roughly jelly bean shaped and smelling of toasted marshmallows and chocolate- and Benny hadn’t objected much at the time, although objection may have been difficult on his part, considering that, at almost two years of age, his vocabulary consisted of a dozen or so words, and none of them seemed to be “I’d rather not eat the mystical glowing jelly bean from another dimension, please and many thanks.”

Now, Benny was, in fact, dripping. He also seemed to glow, but only slightly, and in the way that lighting bugs occasionally do when they’re tired and run out of battery for the night.

Caroline wondered vaguely what death would taste like –she had no doubts her mom would kill her if she discovered her son’s dampened state- and also if Benny would keep on dripping until he was nothing more than a little puddle in front of her that her parents would have to keep in a small mason jar.

Tobi wondered if they could find any more beans. She’d very much like to try one.

[m-elise]

to watch the stars

“Or we could watch the stars,” she murmured, “for a little while longer.”

It’s getting late. He said. 

“Oh, but that’s when they shine the brightest,” she replied, pushing tangled hair from her face. Her cheeks were still damp. She smoothed her dress, dirty fingers running over the places the fabric had ripped or frayed “When the night gets dark and cold. Dark and cold.” 

They don’t seem all that much brighter to me.

“Any minute we will see how bright they will get,” She insisted. “I want to wait a little longer.”

Okay. He said. 

Wind whispered gently through the tall grasses around her. Behind, shadows of gnarled branches reached for the girl and her red cheeks and her torn dress. 

“I could watch them forever,” she said presently, still looking up. “Couldn’t you?”

Her question received no answer. 

She turned her sad eyes from the stars, and a little of the moonlight came with them. “Couldn’t you?” She repeated. Her voice was thin and small. Smaller than before, in the emptiness of the night that pressed in around her. 

He gave no answer, and it seemed that he was no longer there. 

It seemed, perhaps, that he had never been. 

It seemed that she was all alone, this girl and the stars, and they were so very far away. 

[m-elise]

nostalgia for a fall morning

The world asks nothing of you on a crisp, fall, morning, 

but to notice and to be. 

Breathe in the crisp, fresh air, 

of another summer gone

And breathe out the promise of winter coming

Find yourself where you are

Notice the beauty in the interim of the seasons

See the colors- so bright and brilliant you can nearly taste them- 

As a leaf floats gently to the ground in front of you 

And the grass, no longer green but brown, catches it gently 

In a frost gilded embrace 

The world will continue to turn and to spin, 

And we will all, in our turn, be carried with it

But if you should find yourself alone, for even just a moment, 

In the early hours of an Autumn morning

Before the rest of the world has gathered the strength to open its eyes

Allow yourself the space 

To simply notice and to be. 

[m-elise]

today’s mood

existential conversations in the back room of a dimly lit coffee shop,    the distinct and pungent smell of the color purple,    tension between two people who have known one another for both forever and no time at all

[m-elise]

a memory

My grandma’s house was full of clocks. Big clocks and little ones, clocks with paintings of birds on the faces, and clocks filled with lighthouses that sang out like a horn through the fog at the top of every hour. If you closed your eyes in the living room, you could hear the tick, tick, ticking of time echoing through the house, as though it were alive, counting down each moment like breath coming in and out of its lungs. 

In the mornings, the house was overcome with the smell of eggs and bacon, and toast buttered on both sides so that when you bit into it, your whole mouth watered with flavor. Light would stream in through the sheer yellow curtains, onto that special spot in the living room floor where my grandma’s dog, Kramer, helpfully held down the carpeting. He would lift his head when someone walked by, his shaggy tail thumping contentedly against the floor, waiting for pets. I used to sit on the floor with him, as a kid, my fingers tangled in his long fur, his tail wagging against my legs. 

Most of the clocks have been taken down, now. The walls seem a little emptier each time I go back. The curtains have faded, too- less yellow, more brown, and Kramer no longer occupies that his spot on the carpeting. But sometimes, on holidays or on birthdays, or whenever the family gathers- despite my grandma no longer joining the festivities- I close my eyes and still hear those clocks tick, tick, ticking, and time echos on.

[m-elise]

Waffle Fries: a story of survival

This is a story of me, and waffle fries. More specifically, this is the story of why, for five years, even the smell of said fries would send me into revulsions as though I’d just taken 8 straight shots of oysters, apple juice, and ketchup in one sitting, and then proceeded to run a half marathon uphill. This is a story of trauma. 

Somewhere between St. Louis and Michigan, In a time of my life that can only best be described as a ‘fever dream’, I went to Six Flags. Now, in full disclosure, I don’t know a ton about Six Flags. I couldn’t tell you whether or not every park has the same theme, or if they’re actually all just a front for some underground toe sock cartel, or what their deal is. What I can tell you, is that at this particular Six Flags, in an undisclosed location, all the way in the back of the park past the cheapy souvenir shops, and the rollercoasters, and the merry go round for the people with little kids or who are afraid of rollercoasters, but too embarrassed to admit it, there’s a restaurant called the Mooseburger Lodge. This was the very restaurant that swindled my dignity and my pride, and robbed me of the will to eat waffle fries for a good many years after. 

It was a hot day. And when I say hot, I mean shirt sticking to your back, abandoned cheese melting into orange puddles on the pavement, questioning whether or not it’d be safer and less painful to just stand in the public restroom under the electronic hand dryer, kinda hot. It was a sticky, heavy, heat, and we -I had gone with a few pals from school- were hungry. 

Unfortunately, we were also at the point in our lives where we were beginning to understand the complicated and exhausting social concept of money- that is to say, we were all pretty broke. 

Which is why we ended up at Mooseburger Lodge. Built out of fake wooden posts to give it a homey, cabin in the woods sort of feel, it was the cheapest option at the park; it also happened to have the longest line. 

Walking through the doors of Mooseburger Lodge was like stepping into a sauna, only the sauna was full of entirely too many strangers, all standing entirely too close, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and instead of smelling refreshing, every breath sucked into my lungs was a gastrointestinal nightmare made up of sizzling burgers, B.O, and the sour stench of vomit. And this line, I shit you not, was just not moving. 

But how bad could it be, truly? Five minutes stretched on, as we bounced between the people in front and behind us like algae in a swamp. My nose burned. Five minutes more. Was my throat closing? We’d moved maybe ten paces. After a half hour, we were all broken and wearied by our time in the Mooseburger Lodge. The stench was beginning to crush our spirits. But now we were halfway through the line. We had to see this out. We had to overcome. 

By the time we got to the front of the line, my once starving stomach and protesting appetite had been quenched with caustic fumes. I was no longer hungry, just nauseous, but to order nothing would be to accept defeat, which I simply could not do. I searched the menu with my dimming eyes. Everything was greasy, heavy, dense. Up closer to the register, the sour smell of vomit was suffocating. 

I ordered waffle fries. Safe, right? A seemingly simple and innocent dish.

Let’s just say I couldn’t finish them. 

It took me five years to eat a waffle fry again. Thanks to the accessibility and convenience of having a Chick-Fil-A right on campus, paired with the supportiveness of my college friends, and a semi-consistent hankering for fries,  this is a hole I’ve crawled back from bit by bit. While the journey has been harrowing, and I feel I’ve overcome this tribulation, I still find myself praying once in a blue moon, that I will never find myself at Mooseburger Lodge ever again. 

[m-elise]

untitled 1

when you’re a kid it feels like you can do anything, but damn, they really don’t tell you about all the paperwork. 

[m-elise]

i think there’s a lot out there much bigger than i am

i think there’s a lot of comfort in knowing that

in knowing that my struggles and battles and wars don’t mean anything in the grand scheme of things; that flowers still bloom and babies are still born, and birds sing in the morning regardless of whether or not my soul is smiling

because even on the days where i feel most hollowed and empty the world is full, full, full of beautiful things.

[m-elise]

pro tip:

when your entire leg has fallen asleep, parkouring down from a lofted bed is a bad idea

but this is college

this is where we learn things

lesson learned. 

[m-elise]

find time to exist quietly.

m-lady-angst

[m-elise]

there is nothing wrong with feeling sad sometimes

and there is nothing wrong with feeling empty. 

the danger is when we find a comfort in the familiarity of grey days, and when we begin to prefer the safety of sadness rather than risk joy for fear of disappointment. 

remember all the things that fill you up- especially on the days you feel most empty. 

[m-elise]

i think growing up is the scariest thing a person can do.

because it starts slowly. so slowly, you don’t realize it at first. you don’t feel the loss as tiny bits of who you were start drip, drip, dripping away. you don’t realize that each time you exchange your shoes for a bigger size, you leave something behind.

as the notches on the wall measuring your hight climb ever higher, so your identity shifts, too. no longer are you a collection of your favorite things— the color purple, strawberries, puppies. you are something more complex, now. more refined. you have grown up quietly, without any notice at all. 

but we have lost our imaginations in the process, as we have tried to discover ourselves in this world of straight lines and due dates. we have lost the ability to dream and to discover, and to laugh freely until our bellies hurt.