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My cousin Ying works at Céline and I always forget what a big deal that is until I tell my friends and they gasp and remind me that Céline is their favorite womenswear brand. Everything Céline does is right–elevating a woman’s sex appeal by emphasizing elegance, sophistication, and style. Even when the shoulders are slightly enlarged and the cuts are boxy, the woman behind the garment still looks undeniably sexy. 

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I came. I tumbled. I sort of got bored and kind of stopped tumbling. And yes, I mean Tumblr, which I have to blame for the recent lull in blog content. Of course, I am still an advocate for Tumbling–the dissemination of re-purposed content through the simple click of a boomarklet and the half-poetic, half-baked sentences that become captions for interesting photos. Initially, I wanted to escape the murky trenches of blogging, which had become out-of-mode and tiresome, like a bumbling old geezer recounting tales from the barber shop. Tumblr on the other hand had cooler layout designs free-of-charge! But cheap and easy has never been my thing.

What it all boils down to, is that I have a lot to say. Why wouldn’t I? I live in NYC and ride the subway, which alone gives me 60% of my content. I recently experimented with gluten-free eating to tame my eczema, and that’s another 10%. I enjoy doing stuff, seeing stuff, and listening to stuff that hurts my eardrums. Twenty percent. Run-ins with old flames. Ten percent (though, this number would be higher if I was still living in Cali). With all of this material, how could I have ever found blogging to be tedious? I blame it on the non-stop visual orgasms New York City-dwellers get from doing the most mundane things, and the difficulty of conveying these experiences in blogspeak. So, naturally, we do the next best thing: we use Tumblr, we tweet, and our lives become headlines or punchlines and we stop telling the good stories.

Rolling in bed as the LED screams in red
my stunted dreams bled.
Jolted from sleep to wake, but sleep I choose instead.
My casket–tempting–two pillows, those warm embraces
a black tarp of forlorn faces morning erases
this eternal tryst with death replaces.

And then chapter two. You.
Words tumbling over breasts and thighs
fumbling “rest of our lives”
faking “goodbyes”
Your eyes, Nirvana
idyllic wandering around infinite shades of blue
lull me into comatose longing for you.
and suddenly, I’ve put sleep on hold.
It’s you I’ve chosen instead.



I went to Coney Island two weekends ago with a boy, a disposable camera, and childlike enthusiasm. I left with a half-tan, a stomach full of guilty pleasures, and sand in my pocket. The boy stuck around too.