Victoria to Clapham Common.

Martha sighed and settled into the blue cloth seat, happy to be sitting for the last leg of her journey home. The tube delays meant standing on the platform for the better part of 40 minutes--and that after a full day's menial work. Standing pressed against the regular rush hour strangers through each stop and line change since leaving the office had almost done her in. Standing, standing, standing.

Closing her eyes, Martha let go of the tension that always seemed to gather between her shoulder blades, right below her neck. Almost home. As her eyes opened, she caught sight of a man her age sitting across from her and four seats to the right. One finger marked his spot in a thick novel as he stared into space.

The train slowed to a stop and announced her destination. She self consciously picked up her pack, straightened her skirt, and exited after the man. Riding up the escalators she thought he glanced in her direction but couldn't be sure. It happened when a couple of other passengers, a tired-looking mum and her two children, got on the escalator behind Martha. Martha smiled as the two children raucously sang the same three bars of music from the latest Disney film. Her smile tried to include the man but when she dared to turn his way, he was also smiling to himself, but not looking at her.

The winter sky outside of the station revealed a night irretrievable and forlorn. Velvety blue melted downward into hazy lilac and dusky pink over the silent common. The serenity of the scene made Martha glad she had moved out of the hustle and bustle of central London.

By the time she looked around, the man was gone, the reality of him floating away on the increasing wind.

Martha bit her lip and glanced around once more to be sure. He was sure to have noticed her. Didn't he? She pulled her coat around her tighter and began the trek down the hill to her flat.

She put the kettle on the hob and went into her room to change. Martha sighed again as she exchanged her tight skirt and fitted jumper for yoga bottoms and an oversized t-shirt.

Back in the kitchen she munched on a biscuit with her back to the countertop, brooding on a pair of green eyes. The wind picked up outside. When it howled against the window, Martha flinched.

that time i walked away from everything and the world kept on spinning.

So one day the universe was like, Let's hit a point where we kind of figure out where things are going, how does that sound? And I was like, Kayyyy but after this episode of Sherlock. Cut scene to two years later and that episode morphed into full-blown seasons and I'm sheepishly peeking out from under my quilt and the universe is tapping its foot and looking at me sooo judgmentally. So obviously I haven't been the greatest human I can be and no amount of broken hearts (sigh) and pointless jobs (grrr) can excuse that.

When I tell people I'm moving to Montana to write (ps I'm moving to Montana to write) it's a little nerve-wracking but my mindset is that I actually don't care whether they understand why because it's been a long time coming and for the first time in 5 years I feel like I know what I'm doing. Can't deny your inner voice. Especially when your inner voice is your sister.

I think a lot about the kind of writer I want to be, in the published sense. I was at the grocery store recently when two indigents of the Jazzi scooter persuasion rolled up to a book display. The male-ish looking one screeched in utter disbelief and ecstasy, "Anne Rice has a new book??!!!11?!" Shiz got real in that moment, yo. If these people--yes, that's as judgy as it sounds, if not more. If only you could fully comprehend my capacity for judgment--could be motivated to read something by someone who can actually write, then we might have something here. My number one fear is being seen as a Stephenie Meyer. How terrible is that? I'm sure she's weeping into her millions of dollars about it. F'real though, I'm sensitive about my writing, more than any other aspect of myself. It's probably why it took me so long to get to this point. But I have ideas and I've been taught by some amazing people how to use them. I met up with my high school AP English teacher/friend this past Saturday. I've always looked up to her and she's a master at keeping it real, and she was really encouraging. As she said, Why the hell not?

So that is my mantra. Along with, You can always go home, and There's always show business.

what do you people want from me.

Me vs. well-meaning people.

Nice try.

start your december off right.

Poems read by Tom Hiddleston: Just click on this link and be thankful.

The dreamiest of the dream. The new simile for celestial glory is Tom's voice wrapped in his smile.

There is also a link on that page to download the tracks (19 in all) if you want to be like me and, er, listen to them while driving to work and be listening so intently you're suddenly going 35 mph on I-15. In the opposite direction of traffic. With your left blinker on since you left your house. Somehow.

just honestly, like...yeah.

So I just really feel more alive now that fall is here. The cloudiness, the woodsmoke in the air-ness, and such. It was off to a somewhat rocky start, admittedly. First of all, I chose the entirely wrong book (Dandelion Wine) to kick off fall, for which I blame myself because the title was so intriguing and I love Ray Bradbury. I couldn't just pick Cold Mountain or The Historian again like a normal fall-loving person. But things are going good now and after a little course correction I've abandoned Mr. Bradbury until summer is back in full swing and am reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. If I can't be in Savannah right now at least I can read about it. There's really not a second of all to this part...the book pretty much almost ruined it. Kind of like Clarence has music he only listens to during specific seasons of the year, I have books that I just don't feel right cracking open before their pre-ordained time.

But is it a little dramatic to say I quite figuratively feel dead in the summer? I'm not a heat person. We had a fling once before my junior year of high school but just didn't click. It kind of smelled like pretzel breath and burning plastic. So we parted ways. And I've never looked back.

I'm obviously over it.

Fall brings good things. Season 9 of Supernatural. Scarves. Men being more willing to grow beards (cue Martha Stewart saying, And that's a Good Thing and me and Cara are just like



Thanks, fall!) At the forefront of good things right now (yes, even ahead of beards) is a promotion and raise at work. Momma needs grad school money, son. Until Baby Precious is paid off in January though, I won't be going anywhere, so I'm content to chill and do my thang. Tomorrow is my first official meeting to discuss my new role. I plan on wearing my best businesswoman pantsuit and rollin' in like



Peace and blessings.

every night around 10:47 pm.

me: i'm gonna write

me:

me:

word document:

me:

me: slides out of chair

me: slides onto floor

me: cries

driving with mr. rhett.

~An actual conversation~

Scene: Rhett and I are riding in the backseat of the Jetta on the way to see Cubance's new house.

Rhett: :makes loud grunting sounds, labored breathing, more grunting:

Me: Dude, you poopin' or what?

Rhett: :looks me in the eye:



~End scene~

from one 26-year-old to another.

“It is sometimes so bitterly cold in the winter that one says, `The cold is too awful for me to care whether summer is coming or not; the harm outdoes the good.’ But with or without our approval, the severe weather does come to an end eventually and one fine morning the wind changes and there is the thaw. When I compare the state of the weather to our state of mind and our circumstances, subject to change and fluctuation like the weather, then I still have some hope that things may get better.”

—Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to Theo van Gogh in August 1879

man of steel: a synopsis.

:::spoiler alert:::

Visually astounding sci-fi sequence; parents send son to Earth with the genetic code of their race embodied within the lad. Or something. Debate over the peasants' acceptance of said son's abilities. Ship him out anyway because, like, plot progression and imploding planet.

Fast forward some-odd years later and son enters the scene with visually astounding abilities in the general bicep area.


Me and Cara:




Clarence:



Some minor stuff happened and then the movie pretty much ended and Cara and I just walked out of the theater like




Clarence:



He just can't take us anywhere.

We just can't take him anywhere.

this one goes out to cara.

When my co-workers come into my office laughing about the mess they've made and ask IR (my department) to clean it up: