amelioration station

**incomplete ‘n’ unfinished, y’all**

Maheen and Phinney are no longer a thingy jingles through my head. Our supercool/definitively special middle names don’t even rhyme but still, somehow, roll off the tongue with [ill?]fated resonance and harmonized dissonance, although the nouns they properly represent can no longer hold hands. Maheen and Phinney are no longer a thingy. Catchy, maybe, but totes not an appropriate aria on the first day of one’s 10th month in a relationship, and definitely not a desirable ditty for a lady who’s holidaying with her man. And here I am, still, scantily clad on a bed in Singapore as he studies his strumming from this afternoon’s recording session; here I am, humming a tune that doesn’t really have a melody, per se, just, like, uh, a cadence? Sing-songy, it taunts as we tend to on playgrounds:

Maheen and Phinney are no longer a thingy.

Little Miss Muffett sat on her tuffet.      

Eating crud cuz she couldn’t get her way.

—-

On our bus to Malaysia, we’re doing well.

Although we cried the entirety of our third shared evening in Asia, our subconsciouses defied our decisions and we spooned, snuggled, clung? in our mandatorily-shared bed ‘til we tumbled out, remembering what had happened merely hours before: we broke the fuck up.

We finished our signature last-minute sprawled-out, wound-up packing as we hummed through/to/with the tension of the situation at hand and still?, we took pictures as we played with the elderly dog who had seemed feel a particular affinity to my now-ex’s scent. We giggled as we tiptoed out the door and our early-morning cab collected us, the she & him who were now at once both closer and totally distanced, evident to none except for tem, us. The bus arrived and we sidled, side-by-side, into the backseat for which we had tickets, humming Outkast: ha, ha, what’s that fuss?  

Equatorial scenery, lush jungle greenery, all that shit tends to ease tension both in bodies and between them.

Conversation caressed, ebbed, and flowed as we wound the roads connecting the respective island nations of Singapore and Malaysia. We found ourselves joking, actually laughing, tentatively touching knees and thighs as timed to punchlines and their corresponding sorespots…

this is where i post all the stuff i can’t even say on twitter…which is, clearly, not much.

hooked necking in a crooked breakfast nook

so the internet knows i’m not lying when i say i’m “writing”/so i know i’m not lying when i say i’m being productive. also, whatta lovely day it is today to cab.a.ret. #hayyyyy

how to catch a predator… #gofuckyourself #gofuckyourwife

the rate at which my hair is growing, i predict it is only a matter of hours until i have julia roberts’ tink mullet from hook. and i am not fighting it.

“OMG this is the part where she eats dirt!!!!!! well, it’s a turnip. and dirt!” 
“mommmmmm, it’s TARA/terra, it’s a metaphorrrrrr.” 

gone with the wind is totes a turkey day tradish in our house; as is planes, trains, ‘n’ automobiles…& my cousin vinny.

It may be a slow process, writing this fucking book, but figuring out to whom I am dedicating it was a total breeze:

More than anyone, this is for my sister, Hillary, and she and I and everybody we know knows why. Then it’s for my parents because, well, they not only made Hill and I, but they made us the way we are. The Hassanis are a true American family and I couldn’t be a prouder daughter.

Also, I’d like to thank all the boys who wouldn’t go out with me. Either it was because I was intimidating, or it was because I was intimidating, but thanks, boys, because you gave me plenty of spare time to sit and write this shit…once I stopped filling those empty nigts with all the kinds of episodes that now fill the following pages. Ooof, burn. No, but, srslytho?, thx. Besides, how could I ever expect to meet a Jay-Z until I, myself, am a Beyonce? I kid. Or do I?

And, finally, I’d like to holler at Beyonce. Thanks for teaching me that talent aint shit without hard work and humility. I mean, it’s not like others hadn’t tried teaching this to me, it’s just that you were the only one to whom I’d listen.

So, “LISTENNNNNNNNNNN.” Please. And thank You.

**I hope that, when I finally publish this thing, I forget that I had written this post. And that someone reminds me. Maybe.**

okokok, weather, i see how you are witchyo july-in-october bullshit. well, you’ve gotyo tricks, and i’ve got mine.

come christmas, when the santa anas pick up and blow down/up errbody-in-the-southland’s xmas lights, at least i’ll be relaxed and not-at-all chapped

since i was 14, i’ve been compared to st-elmo’s-demi. i still haven’t seen the film. but i finally found a still. and i guess i get it? 

…not really. i’m just trying to make myself feel better.