Monday, December 28, 2009


I am fighting a losing battle against my stretch marks,

and my bacne and my body odor and that one gross toe nail...

The problem here is that everyone is afraid to admit that they have these things, but the truth is that I enjoy taking a shit more than I enjoy putting on make-up or sucking in my gut, and as do most people, I think. So, does this mean that we enjoy shitting more than attracting mates? Well...

Look, fuck the men who think that girls don't poop or eat excessively or think about sex excessively, just as the girls should be fucked who find it too improper to discuss pubic hair in public. Look, I am guilty of this just as you are, and as punishment I think we should confess that we have scars from popping our zits.

We have scars from getting too fat, and I have done very little to hide that I also have scars from falling off my bike, having a tumor taken from my brain when I was four, slipping off the jungle gym, and from popping my zits and getting too fat. They are all scars, experiences, truth and why should we hide that? Why should we hide that our thighs sometimes look a little like cottage cheese? Our breasts uneven, and saggy, and sometimes even a little hairy around the nipple? Our mouths have sores from the biting of lips, of insides of cheeks, of tips of tongues to keep from saying aloud how fucking cowardly it is to hide, to pretend, to fake that it doesn't exist, that it's a sin. We have come, as a world, to accept that most every person sins, at least a little bit. We've come, as a world, to think that people can be forgiven for just about everything, and yet, still, airbrushed models, anorexic movie stars, ripped athletes grace our presence every day on our televisions, our magazines, our billboards, our children's minds, and who is telling your daughter that it is okay to have bushy eyebrows, to be a little chubby, to have crooked teeth? Who is telling your son that real women do not look like Katy fucking Perry or I dunno, Kesha or some shit? Who is admitting that those creams, those makeups, those lies are not going to fix your imperfections? Look, I am fighting a losing battle against my stretch marks, and I am beginning to see how preposterous it is to be fighting at all.

For that which makes me different, makes me unique, makes me beautiful.

Oh lord of perfection, of celebrity, of supposed ideal beauty, I have sinned against you, and I am not sorry.
Coming up with titles for blog posts is oftentimes more difficult than actually writing the blog posts. I do not know how to label what I am going to say. I do not know how to communicate what I want to communicate in words, but I can't communicate what I want to communicate in any other medium. I suppose there are people who are really excellent at painting or playing music, and I suppose that they manage to express themselves via their talent. I think I have to be a lot better at things before I can use them as ways to express myself. I hate to sound like a big ol' dummy, but I am not that good at anything.

That's what I've been thinking about, mainly. I have such amazing friends. I have such amazingly intimidating friends. I feel so overwhelmed by people's talents, or interests, or clothes. I am so damn envious of almost every person I know. It's about time, I think, for me to stop wishing that I was someone else and just be happy being me.

I don't want to be defined by anyone. I don't want to be that girl who looks like or acts like or belongs to anyone. I know I'm not alone in this.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Tis the Season

I think one of the major signs of my inevitable decline is the TV I choose to watch while at home over break. Right now, I am alternating between Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights and Sister, Sister with Tia and Tamara Mowry. I am home alone, watching this horrible television while my mother and my sister are out buying a Christmas tree despite the fact that we're Jewish. This is my life and I love it. Really.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

blah blah news blah

blah blah blah boys blah blah anxiety blah blah blah winter break blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah kitties blah blah boredom blah blah blah I might need glasses

Friday, December 18, 2009


Why is it
That I always
Feel guilty
When I even think
About calling you

Saturday, December 12, 2009


I'm overwhelmed.

So, let's look at cute animals!

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A Religious Experience

We are close together,


like flowing silk through fingertips,


like if we speak we lose a game we play because of its comfort and we feel comfortable,

in the rain

pattering on the roof of your car,

it's the only sound we hear because if one of us makes one the moment might be lost and you,

your skin,

it’s like silk so delicate I can feel an entire planet underneath, the blood pumping through veins, the breakable bones, all the organs and arteries that could fail at any minute and I’m thinking of God, a bit.

And death.

Sunday, November 15, 2009


When time has been eaten away and my bones ache true with the pain of experience,
I expect that it won't matter anymore, and
I will finally be able to say:

I have always wanted to fuck the living daylights out of you.

I'm a jerk.

I liked you, but
your hair was all wrong,
and if you'd just shaved you balls,
listened to better music,
gotten rid of that awful shirt,
pulled-out right before,
listened to me complain for hours
on the phone, every night, because I made you call
just to check in,
just to say,
"I love you,
you're beautiful."
Well, things would have been different.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Hakuna Matata

I'm trying not to worry about the past. I'm trying to put it behind me. I'm trying to move on with my life. I'm trying to stop being so stupid and girly and I'm trying to forgive and forget.

Sometimes I feel like I'm making progress.

Facebook is keeping me from my ultimate goal, which is...

To stop obsessing about all the people who don't care a lick about me.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

A Secret Wish

I secretly wish that everyone's been pretending to be normal this whole time. They're all just as crazy as me. It's all a big, practical joke on Madeline.

On Being a Girl

The trouble is all in my head, I think, but if I were advising a girl, much like myself, I would say “Hey! You fucking dimwit! Don’t let men control your life! Give up on faith and live for yourself! Abandon the sick feeling in your gut whenever you think about him not thinking about you, and if he is thinking about you, you thinking about him thinking you’re fat.” Oh, I’ve been to all the levels of this emotion and it’s not a funny little thing called love, or romantic note passing, or sweet nothings, or chocolate melting over burning passionate vibrators. Most of those things are embarrassing anyway, and you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a sweater with his name stitched into it, burning red letters, Brad So and So, with his cool blue eyes and his blond flipped up bangs. Love isn’t like that. It’s awkward and it’s painful and more often than not, you will think that you look fat in that dress, and he will think so too.