Rose-Marie

This woman
Sitting before me on her hospital bed
Wrinkled hands
And slouching cheek bones
Had been dead for many years now.

She spoke words,
And she drank coffee,
And she crossed her ankles.

Everything about Rose-Marie Murphy was decrepit.

Yet her eyes,
Brown and sparkling,
Remained unaware.

She didn't know what happened,
And frankly,
She doesn't care.

Those eyes were young,
As if forty years had gone by
Without seeing a thing.

The slab of skin
Below her chin
Resembled that of a rooster,

And the breasts
Upon her chest
Were falling to the wayside,
Into the depths of nothingness,
Along with her sanity.

I had been aware of this woman all my life,
But never known her.

Half the time,
She didn't even know herself.

-Emily Ann

Ink Stained Hands

So, as usual, this is about a boy.
A boy I used to care for.
Here it goes.

______________________

Streets,
Scattered with papers.

Sheets,
With ink.

Myself,
Written out
For you
And only you.

Stranded,
Untouched,
Unread.

Those
Fall,
Flow,
Float.

Consumed by my head,
Wrapped in my mind,
Laid out for you by my hands
In an attempt to touch your soul.

These hands,
Overwhelmed by flaw,
Swimming in imperfection.

Every notch,
Every callus,
For you.

I've done it all
For you.

-Emily Ann

Pull

So, let's just go ahead and admit it:
We're all a little fucked up.

I have this thing called trichotillomania.

It's hard to explain.

Basically, I pull out my hair.

It's kind of like OCD,
in that, if I don't pull,
something will happen,
then someone will die.

You can't help it.

You're trapped.

No way out.

You can't stop.

I've tried stress balls,
tying my fingers together,
no use.

It happens,
even if you don't want it to.

You try to pull your hand away,
but an invisible force overpowers you.

You lose control.

Well, I finally cut all my hair off.
And as of January 28th,
I haven't pulled in a year.

Before I make it seem easy,
It wasn't.

It took everything I had
And everything all the people around me had,
But I did it.

This poem is about a scare I had in AP bio.
We were doing a unit on DNA,
And I was almost forced to pull a piece of hair
To look at the root.

Luckily, it didn't happen.

Anyways, here's the poem.

__________________

With a trembling voice,
She crossed to the window,
trying to calm herself down.

Nobody saw,
or at least she hoped.

Holding back tears.

Fighting her shoulders,
Then arms,
Wrists,
Hands.

The tears flowed silently
As she fought what she knew would happen next.

Calloused, worn, bloody her fingers rose;
"Why," she thought, "Why are you doing this to me?"

They wrapped themselves around a flyaway piece,
alone and coarse.

She let it slide through her fingers,
Orgasmic.

But before it escaped,
She stopped it.

Digging back down to the root,
She held it,
Harder this time,
Not letting go.

Streaming now, the tears were.

She stared out the window.

People were whispering.
She knew they saw.

She tried,
Used every ounce of willpower she could muster,
And then

"Emily, just do it!"

She pulled.

-Emily Ann

Narration of the Obvious

It's a familiar place;

The rusty red,

The blue plastic.

I would travel through time here,

Running away from the "trauma of living."

That fantastical luxury has escaped,

Age accompanying maturity,

More freckles across my nose with each passing summer.

Days of youth are quickly dwindling away,

As the realization of sixteen attacks my tender mind.

Reality hits:

Driving cars,
Smoking Black and Milds at carnivals,

My closest friends abandoning me for
Better places,
Bigger plans,

The things I know slipping
Just
Out Of reach.

Now, the "trauma of living" is being questioned,
New perspectives shining light on my selfishness.

My childhood was dreadfully normal,
Stuck in suburbia,

But is that as traumatizing as real pain,
Real conflict,
Real trauma?

It could've been worse.
Much worse.

But at least then something would've happened.

It's late,

And reflection on the past will hinder sleep tonight.

So I'll think of a boy,
And of Muriel's Wedding,
And of getting the hell out of upstate New York,

But mostly about the boy.

Cocoa butter will disguise the scars,
But I'll still feel them inside my chest
Every time I take a breath.

But it's okay,

Because this is life,

Filled with Teen Mom

And Chuck Palahniuk,
And brownie mix,

And no matter how slow I run,
It'll always be waiting for me at the finish line.

-Emily Ann

"To Die by Your Side is Such a Heavenly Way to Die"

This past week has, in short, been hell.
Between prolonged spasms of abdominal nausea and pain,
and episodes of Sex and the City,
I have been contemplating the concept of premature menopause,
mostly brought upon by the reoccurring hot and cold flashes.
Which brought me to turn off the tube and reflect on my life so far.

I am young.
Unaccomplished.
Unknown.
I don't even know if I want to be known.

And lying there,
on that beat-up leather couch,
I began to contemplate growth.

Growth.

The Smiths helped a great deal with this,
as I had their "Singles" album replaying on my iPod.

Who's side do I want to die by?
Is that even a valid question?
Cause, really, who the hell wants to die?

No one wants to die, I don't care how fucking suicidal you think you are.

You just want to be in a different place,
a better place,
and death is a way of bringing yourself
to that next level
of life.

It's a contradiction in a way.

Besides,
suicide is just because you feel you have no other option.

Moving on,
because this is in no way
a public service blog.

Anyways.

If you think dying is heavenly,
that's saying something.

I'm not really sure what,
but it's definitely something.

Chocolate is heavenly.
Dying isn't.
Although, I haven't died before,
so I guess I'm not really licensed to say such.

I'm not one for
"LOVE."

Ugh.

That four-letter word has led to more bloodshed
and tension
and hatred
than any other.

What the hell even is it?

A really good orgasm?

Well, considering my form of religion
is my iPod,
I would say that the Smiths
are pretty much all I have
as far as this topic goes.

Well, whether it be "LOVE"
or delusion
that makes a man think dying
next to another
is heavenly...

I'll have a glass of whatever Morrissey's having.

Bazinga.

-Emily Ann

P.S. Charles and Lucie? Still debatable.

Lauren's Bits 2

I'm the one with her her face shoved in the locker.
The boy is one that I was quite fond of, but had embarrassed myself in front of.

I guess this didn't help.

-Emily Ann

Yoga Pants- As Contraversial as Skinny-Jeaned Christians

Anyone who has traveled outside in the previous years should know of the dreadful future that waits before us, the real 2012, the inescapable Armageddon: The Rise of the Sluts.
Ah yes, everyone, the reign of such is fast-approaching, and at the top of their list? Yoga pants.
Yes, that's right. Yoga pants.
Now, let my back myself up by saying I do indulge myself in the joys of yoga from time to time, and for the frequent yoga-er, such articles are a staple in your workout wardrobe.
However, the privilege of such polyester-spandex blends has been harshly abused by those wishing to showcase their asses.
Now, don't get me wrong, as a sexual human being, I do have urges to show the world my treasures, but I would rather do it in a pair of skinny jeans with correct pocket placement.
And I'm not saying that showing off what you've got is wrong at all, it's just that, in any case, this is just wrong.




How do you like them apples, Dickens?

Bazinga

-Emily Ann

Is This About Sex.......?

Surely, we have all heard of the wonderfully talented Emily Dickinson, and, if we have any sense at all, we have read some of her poetry. I have selected one of her more famous pieces and attempted to analyze it, the main reason for such being research paper for English class. However, something curious has appeared to me upon the deeper readings of this poem...

"Because I Could Not Stop For Death"
Emily Dickinson

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Now, we immediately realize the wonder of this poem. Upon first glance you encounter the mood of sheer peace and calmness, and next you see that she is taking a journey after her life on earth, and toward a place of immortality, or eternal life. After a closer look, it appears that the death she references in the first stanza is strangely capitalized, as if to refer to a person. So, death is a person.

A male person.

Huh.

Continuing with our analysis of death, we see that it's just her and Death in this carriage.

Interesting.

If we keep going even deeper into the workings of this poem, we look at the way she seems to be referring to death, and we begin to realize that death seems to

be sort of attractive to her, as if she has a little fancy for death. When she says that "they knew no haste," you can assume that they are enjoying themselves.

And what's funner than sex?

Fine, more fun.

What's more fun than sex?

Or, so I've heard.

...

ANYWAYS, moving on, the poem mentions that they "pass the setting sun."

Mood lighting?

Gosh, all they need is some smooth jazz.

Next thing we realize is that she is wearing only a gossamer gown. For those of you who don't know what gossamer is, it is an extremely fine spider silk.

Hmmm...Silk...

Now back to the top.

Remember when I was talking about death being capitalized, therefore he is a person? Well, what about Immortality?

So he's watching.

Kinky.

Now, we reach the part about the horses heads. This can't possibly be about sex.

Wrong again, dear fellow, wrong again.

If we wish to examine the possible meanings of this term, we must first look upon the horses head. Let's look at the shape, shall we?

Notice how the horses head naturally points down.

Need I say more?

And then we come full circle, back to the beginning again.

Keep in mind, I'm not saying this poem is about sex, nor am I in any way bashing Emily Dickinson. She's bitchin. I'm just saying, this is one really fun way to examine poetry.

God, I'm such a man. And I wonder why I don't have a boyfriend.

-Emily Ann

The Objective

So, I have been contemplating about how to make my blog more attractive in the material that I post. I have decided that I should determine my purpose for the blog. As you can see, I have changed the title to The Ambiguity Project, mostly because this blog is just a mash-up of all things interesting, not so much based on a singular purpose or idea. Fellow bloggers, I simply wish to use this blog as a tool to navigate my life, and perhaps as a less intrusive social network. I hope I entertain you all. At least to some degree.

-Emily Ann

PS -- Dickens, I just finished A Tale of Two Cities.

Genius.

Lauren's Bit 1

This is the first installment of a little thing I'd like to call Lauren's Bits, and this is the first post. Lauren is my best friend, and as juvenile as that might sound, it is true. She is an artist. This is something she drew me some time ago, and she has made numerous more since then. I will post them periodically to explain my situational comedy-like life. Enjoy.

-Emily Ann

The Excitement of a First Blog

Hello, fellow bloggers. Upon the creation of my new muse, I soon began to realize that my life and thoughts, in fact, are not the most astonishing of those in the world, and by talking only about myself, I would in fact be boring most of the population who reads me, or thinks about reading me, but then casually casts off the idea in a flurry to rid their lives of the unnecessary. I have been told I write like Dickens. Probably because I"m so fucking wordy all the time. So, if you like Dickens, read this blog. Or, perhaps, if you hate Dickens, read this blog to show that there is someone out there who can write like him, and there, and the concept of being payed by the word (however false it may be; he was payed per installment), is sheer stupidity. Or, perhaps if you are Dickens you should read this blog, because I referenced you.
That's right, Dickens, feel special.

Bazinga.

-Emily Ann