This was written exactly one month ago, during the middle of June. At the time, my mind was racing--actually, I'm not sure if it ever sleeps--and so I thought it best to put myself to the keyboard. Type. Type. Type. Call this a stream if consciousness, a journal entry, an inner monologue, a rambling train. Whatever. I just know it was brought on by the macaroons. It's their fault. I should also note that I no longer reside in the "moldy apartment" I allude to toward the end of this post. We moved just a few days after I wrote this. Our new place is smaller, but without the mold and cockroaches. So that's a plus. 

I tried macaroons for the first time. I bought them from a food truck in Indianapolis, a truck that specializes in Slow Food. The truck is called “Duos,” but I’m not entirely sure why. I feel stupid for not knowing. And then, since I don’t know and because I feel stupid, I blame the business. It’s their fault for making me feel uneducated and unable to connect the dots between their “Slow Food Fast” slogan and their absolutely delicious, but still-a-bit-too-spicy-for-me ham sandwich with chips and jalapeno dressing and leaves and I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT ELSE BECAUSE I JUST WANT TO GO BACK TO THE REFRIDGERATOR HERE AT MY OFFICE AND EAT IT. Stand there, with the door thrown wide, the cool air rushing onto me and sending me shivers, and EAT. Scarf it down. Stuff myself, with dressing smeared across my lips and cheeks, my tongue burning. More.
I want more.
That’s typically how society works nowadays, isn’t it? We’re all consumerists. We consume food. We consume beverages. We purchase clothes and cars. We accessorize ourselves, our cars, our pets, our homes, our phones, and other inanimate objects. Why have a plain-old phone when you can have one with a decorative case or charm? Why wouldn’t you cover your car’s steering wheel with an animal print cover? And who, really, wants to jangle around an unadorned keychain?
My keychain isn’t special. It’s a lanyard that I bought during my first visit to Purdue, back when I was even more pretentious and had nothing but contempt for my hometown. The white “Purdue University” lettering has nearly faded over the years. But, happily, it still holds my keys and my member cards—one to Kroger, one to the Central Library. As for my keys, there are four. One, two, three, four. Four is nearly the number of weeks it has been since my car was stolen. May 24, that was. I just canceled my car insurance yesterday. I still had some hope. Maybe. Not really. I knew it was gone. I was just in denial.
I don’t want a new car. I don’t want a different car. I want my car. My poor, beat-up old car.
I was looking at pictures on my phone last night. I was scrolling through and saw pictures of cats, of comics, of amusing things at work. But I gasped, I honestly gasped, when I stumbled across three photos of my car. I had taken the images in amusement, because I had parked the car out back, under one of the trees. That was the time of year when all the evil crows from the nine circles of hell gathered in a three-block radius. Around our house, up and down Talbott, on Delaware, around the school. CAW CAW CAW.
Anyway, those crows decided to shit on my car. Lots of shit. And I had to laugh, really, because it looked like my car had the pox. And so I drove that rusted-out, pock-marked car to work with PRIDE.
Take that, birds. CAW.
There was even a time when Hans and I left the house to go somewhere, and as we walked down the front steps, we heard a strange rustling. A flap, a fap, a rustle, a flutter. We looked up.
A HUNDRED FUCKING BIRDS. Sitting there. Watching us. Watching and plotting.
I laughed and cackled, bending over to contain my hysteria. It was funny, oh so funny, that these birds were plotting to kill us. Just hovering over us, waiting for the moment that I finally collapse on the ground, rolling with tears of laughter. And then? And then they would dive and peck and kill and mutilate, and no one would tell my screams from the fluttering of wings.
I think that is everyone’s dream, really. To die in the most spectacular of ways. To be remembered for something, even if it is for your own death. Sometimes, when I’m in the car, I imagine being in an accident. I imagine my frail body smashing into the dashboard. My forehead through the window. I imagine whiplash and broken bones and the irreversible and unrecognizable twisting of metal, flesh, bones.
What would it be like, to be an unintentional martyr?
I wrote something about that back when I was in high school. I would share the story here, if I wasn’t ashamed of it. If I wasn’t afraid.
I used to think I could write. Or maybe I was just in denial about that, too. I never really could write. But I still found it easier than talking. I wish I were a better freelancer. A better thinker. A more coherent talker. I wish I lot of things.
But I don’t daydream anymore.
Mostly because I don’t know what to dream of.
And there it is again—my cynicism. The trait that shines through so well these days. I’m just as pessimistic as I was in high school. I doubt myself, I doubt other people. I want to remove myself from everything. Want to huddle and curl and wrap myself up in a cocoon and stay there, sleeping.
It’s hard to get up these days. So very hard.
Especially when you get to wake up to piles of boxes, a moldy floor. A moldy mattress. Gnats in your closet. Mold in your shower. The shower that doesn’t drain and leaks all over the floor. The cockroach you’re too lazy pick up and kick out of the house, even though it has turtled, legs in the air, dying slowly. The smell, the sight, the stress. You can’t wait to be out. You can’t wait to escape. A week, three days, two days. It’s not soon enough. You just want to escape from your lease, from the house, from everything and everyone.
And maybe eat.
Maybe. Even though you’re not hungry. 
But you should, anyway.
So I talk to myself, tell myself what I should do. I do this each day, all day. I tell myself, “Okay, Dawn. You have to get out of bed now. You have to get up.” When, half an hour later, that doesn’t work, I say to myself, “Dawn, you have to leave for work in 20 minutes. Push back the covers NOW.” And I do. I shove them off me, greeting the morning with a gruff attitude and a cloud of doubt. “Dawn, put your feet on the floor. Grab your water, your phone, and your ChapStick, and leave the bedroom."
“Brush your teeth, now.”
“Put on your clothes.”
“I know you’re tired, but you can’t sit down. Don’t lie down, either. You can’t fall asleep. You have to go to work, remember?”
“Pack a lunch, even though you may not eat it. Go along with it. Do what you think you have to do.”
“Do it.”
“Just do it. I know you don’t want to. Try. Come on.”
So I finish trying to piece words and thoughts together, because nothing is eloquent and cohesive anyway. And I get up, and walk to the fridge. Open it up and steal away the other half of my sandwich, the sandwich that’s just a bit too spicy.
There are no more macaroons, though. I ate those outside, on the steps of the Soldiers and Sailors Monument. Under the sun. Where people were staring at me, the girl with the camera and the ID badge clipped to her belt. There were two macaroons. Toasted or something. With powdered sugar. They weren’t the fancy kind that everyone is losing their panties over. But they looked okay and tasted fine and I didn’t hate them.


  1. you're wrong, its devastatingly eloquent and well written - to the point of where you almost miss all the real points of what your actually saying here, but I'm glad you got it out, you should do it more, it helps.

    Also, I'm glad you're out of your old place, I hope its a little bit easier to get up in your new place <3 xxx

  2. How did I miss that your car was stolen? I've never had a car stolen--knock on wood--but my car did get broken into once when I was on my way back to college, with all my stuff inside, and they pretty much took everything, except my books, which ironically were some of the most valuable things I owned at the time.
    So glad you are in a better apartment now. I have been there too. Our last apartment had mold growing all over the walls. And we didn't have water or heat randomly, once for 3 days straight. So yeah, nothing will bring you down faster than feeling defeated by your living situation. And sometimes it just happens anyway, for no discernible reason. You just tell yourself to get on with things and then you do. xo

  3. I mean this is the best of ways although it will sound cruel, I'm so glad to hear that life is shitty sometimes for someone else. I told Dustin at breakfast yesterday, "Dawn amazes me. She works all the time, still blogs, and writes for this website and just Damn, she makes me feel like an underachiever. I don't know if either she's just really good at responsible adult stuff or I'm just not. If feels like I'm doggy paddling trying to keep my head above water and Dawn is over there doing breaststrokes or something". Or something along those lines. And it's not anything personal to you either. I guess it goes back to the whole "thinking a blogger has a better life than you thing". I love that you're normal. (But not in a boring way). I also think you moved into my old house. I kinda wanted to post pictures since everyone shows off their glowing white houses all the time. Every room with so much damn beautiful natural light. My old house was like it was near condemnation. My sink was broken and I held it together using duct tape and brushed my teeth/washed my hands in the tub. My tub didn't drain so you'd have water up to your mid-calf by the time you finished your shower. Slugs would somehow get into the shower and I was too much of a puss to kill them(or move them) so I would shower with them. SLUGS. They would just be on the walls of the tile and I would just always keep an eye on them in case they decided to turn to leeches and attack me. My bedroom carpet was covered in what I can only hope was piss stains from the last tenants. My windows were busted in some places so I just put cardboard over them and used duct tape once again. I thought to myself, "Son of a bitch, is anyone else myself living like this?! I feel like an 18 yr old stoner or something". In my new house, that I've lived in for almost a month now, there are boxes everywhere. We sleep on a mattress on the floor. I get my work clothes out of a trash bag in the mornings and throw them into the dryer for two minutes to get the wrinkles somewhat out. There was a dead cockroach(that CAME WITH the house) that I left for so long that Dustin moved he/she. What? It wasn't hurting anything, it was already dead. I'm messy and unorganized and I have no idea what style is. I don't know what matches and I don't know if mismatching is cool now. I have to force myself to put some kind of makeup on and brush my hair, which then I just put into a low ponytail anyways. I wear cheap knock-off TOMS I got from Payless Shoes to work with my slacks. I feel like I'm always running behind or other women(we are women now right? not still just "girls"?) are so much more developed and advanced than me.
    I love that you have such dark thoughts too sometimes. Everyone daydreams about weird death scenarios, right? Glad I'm not the only one who does that.
    My comments are always all over the place and I have to scroll back up to see where my train of thought went. Oh yeah, one time so many birds crapped on my car I drove it to work with pride too. When I saw it I burst out laughing. It was like a prank. Like I pissed off so many birds that they plotted a way to seek revenge. I loved it though. It was something different. A story to tell.


« »

Candidly Clyde All rights reserved © Blog Milk Powered by Blogger