after the bombs

I have been accepted into Columbia College Chicago's MFA Poetry program and I have a job at a dog kennel. After all that speculation and grief and complete disconnect from my own personality, the tornado of my life still proves to be intensely surprising.

I have been both terrible and small and have taught myself shameful lessons in handling emotion. It is not a huge undertaking to undo, but it is going to be trying. The worst part is that I have apparently been totally oblivious to everything that I have done these past few months. It's a unique and interesting perspective when you're proven that even your hindsight is horribly askew. I'm just sorry.

It's true though, I really would rather hate my life than not care about it. I actually hurt people a lot less when I was embittered and furious. Not that I am going all the way back there, but there has to be some relatively pleasant middle ground called "normal social interaction". I will hit it eventually.

So here's to stress and frustration and heartache and disappointment and embarrassment and shame. Here's to my awkward chest and my lackluster head. Here's to vomit and tears and rashes and pink eye. There's a reason you always see the passed out slapped awake; pain is the most familiar alarm, the most obvious notifier that something is amiss and needs to be changed. My hand has been in the fucking fire and I've been staring at it like some beardless caveman wondering what smells so good.

Other than that, I fucking got into Columbia for poetry. I am going to piss myself. And then never think about my future again, because I am dead fucking wrong.