The Monster of Love

He was all contradictions,

All fuzzy and soft,

With hard twig arms,

And a nose made of cloth.

He had sharp little teeth,

And a charming grotesque grin,

Pointy owl-ears,

And on his back, a shark fin.

He was a nice little monster,

But was often rejected,

Among his monster friends,

He was never accepted.

They would ridicule him and mock him,

Push him and shove,

Just because he was the Monster of Love.

He loved little puppies,

And huge big hugs,

Bananas and noodles,

Even black bugs.

The only thing that really got him down,

Was the snickering,

And teasing,

And the occasional clown.

The more he thought about it,

The more he became sad,

Until one day he decided,

“From now on, I’ll be bad!”

“I’ll do doughnuts in parking lots,

I’ll get a tattoo,

and when I have class,

I’ll pretend to have the flu!

I’ll stop hugging puppies,

Stop residing in people’s hearts,

Instead I’ll shoot pool,

And learn to throw darts!

I’ll be so bad, baddest you’ve ever seen!

I’ll be abominable, atrocious,

And really,really mean!
It’s my nature to be good,

But it just causes me stress!

Because I am good,

My life is a mess”

And with that, he went off,

And did terrible things,

He smoked, cheated,

And had multiple flings.

He was a bad little monster,

As we can obviously see,

Until one day he decided,

“This isn’t me”

He crossed his twig arm,

And sat down to reflect,

On bad things he had done,

That people had come to expect.

And never in his life,

Had he felt so down,

And for the first time ever,

We saw Love Monster frown.

“I like being liked,

this isn’t right in my heart”

and with that, he decided,

“I’ll have a new start”

And with that he got up,

And as he brushed himself off,

His little monster heart,

Became three times as soft.

And so he resumed his Love-Monster ways,

And everyone loved ‘til the rest of their days.

And this is the story of the Love-Monster’s fable
and when you are bad,

Remember you are able,

To act as a saint,

To act as you should,
and when you are bad,

You can always turn good.
-Elle Bugman

Someday I Will Have No Regrets

Someday I will have not regrets

-when I am old

                                         I shall have no regrets.
                                                      I may have tattoos

                                                     And wrinkles and scars

                                           And I shall never stop dreaming

                                                                                    I will have memories

                                                                           And pictures

                                                                -proof of my grand life:

                                                 Filled with friends and lovers
                                 Crazy nights and sleepy, heady mornings

                  -adventures and love.

                               I am desirous of everything.

                        I want to love and I want

                        To lose

                                                            I won’t need to be remembered

                                                -I don’t care about such things.

                               I just want to know –on my deathbead-

                    That I lived and felt completely

                                                                        And loved

                                                Everyday

Everytime I Smell My Toner, It Makes Me Think of Vodka, Which Makes Me Think of That One Night, Which Makes Me Think of You

Women are just...beautiful. I know, I know, I've said this all before. Everyone is beautiful, beauty in inperfection, blah blah blah.  I know I've heard it all before, written about it even. But still, somehow I never tire of perusing through pictures of women, thinking about what makes a woman so very appealing. Men are beautiful as well, but just in a different way. Women have this divine ability to be wholly sexual in a completely different way. Isn't it intriguing how one sly look from a woman, how one delicate upward turn of lips, how the simple brush of skin against skin can be so completely compelling and exhillirating and mysterious. No one but a woman could make taking a sip out of a wine glass a suggestion of events to happen later in the night- no one but a woman can make such simple tasks of the everyday velvet and complex. I tend to believe that all women are equally as sexy as the next, they just are sexual in their own way. While one woman may bite her lip to convey her desires, another may spread her arms over the back of a couch. One may run a hand through her hair, one may share secret smiles with everyone she sees, all suggestions to the potential lovers that surround her. A woman whose body is covered with tattoos is just as sexy as a woman who abhors tattoos. A woman whose hair is short and unusual is just as gorgeous as the woman with the hair cascading down her back.  Do you know what I mean? You don't have to be sexy in the way that woman next to you is. You don't have to be a "classic beauty". Define beauty for yourself. Whatever you find sexy, whatever you do that is sexy, let it be yours. Because you are sexy. Be confident, be proud of how you look, adore the quirks that set you apart. You have heard it since the day you were born, and as cliched as it sounds, it can't help but be true. You are special and valued. And though I'm almost sure your mother never told you this as a child, it is so completely true : You are so sexy.

Homeward is Where I Would Like to Be, But Only if I'm With You

When I was a child I always thought being strong was the best quality a person could have. My childhood was not perfect, and there are many things that I would have changed if I could. I cried when I was little, when I was scared or so furious the tears just couldn't contain themselves any longer. But one time, one night, my father told me "You're the strong one in the family. Never be weak."I took this to heart. I learned how to take all the anger, all the hurt, and turn them into words. I was proud of my ability to contain myself, stare a person in the eye with no expression,even when I was burning inside. I learned how to be in control of myself. I forgot how to cry. I can remember the night when a marvelous uncle of mine-my Dad's only brother- died. I remember everything- how many times the phone rang, where I was sitting, how my mother answered it, the words that she said, the look the threw to my curious, clueless father. Everyone cried. I did not. I still feel a bit guilty, even to this day, how I never cried for my Uncle. I loved him so much, and even at his funeral, I sat in stony, solemn silence. I was polite, quiet, composed. Fast forward a few years, and I still did not cry from anger or depression or sadness. I scoffed at the "weak hyper-feminines" who bawled during my volleyball matches when we lost, or when they made a mistake. When the season was over, my whole team was dribbling all over each others shoulders. I smiled, doled out the hugs, and awkwardly laughed and said "well...it was a really great season, wasn't it?". I did this for years. Rolling my eyes internally while I gleefully distributed hugs and pseudo-consoling words to red-eyed, puffy faced girls. I never once cried.  Instead, this curious phenomenon began to happen. I began to cry when things were...funny. Whenever I laughed, or was amused, tears would streak down my face. I always laughed about it, joking that I can't cry when I'm upset, only when I'm amused. I thought it was deliciously ironic; when girls were weeping about a spike that went into the net, I sported a giggle and grin, and several tears would leak out the corners of my eyes. I probably looked insane. Today, things are different. See, I'm a passionate person. I get lonely. I get angry. I get sad. I cry-when I laugh and even sometimes when I'm upset. The little wipe of my fingers under my eyes to catch a tear between peals of laughter is commonplace for me now, and I love it as a little part of who I am. A little quirk that is mine. And yes, I sometimes do cry from missing someone, from being in trouble with a friend or loved one, or from the sheer exhaustion of life. But now, I don't think it's such a weak thing to do. I think it shows strength, actually. Being strong, being alive enough to cry.