Jimmy and St. ChristopherJimmy and St. ChristopherJimmy and St. Christopher
Jimmy stole hubcaps, slashed tires, threw rocks at passing cars with one hand. With the other, he accompanied his lectures - the lectures he gave my sister and I about being polite, being kind to our parents, being respectful of the “old man and lady down the street”, as we called the couple - only in their fifties at the time - who lived two doors down from Jimmy. That hand waved in the air like that of the best orators, punctuating thoughts and emphasizing important points as he told Kirsten and I to always do what was right, to always
Broken, Imperfect, BeautifulI have a fascination with things that are broken, tattered. In ninth grade, I had a pair of shoes - long outgrown and stretched at the toe by my size eleven feet - that I refused to rid myself of. Several times, my mother threw them in the garbage and I dragged them out, unable to part with them. I felt I knew where each scuff mark, each tear, came from. It felt as though those blemishes on the surface somehow cut into me, were a part of me. That same year, I got a Washburn University sweatshirt, dark blue with light blue writing. I still have that sweatsBroken, Imperfect, Beautiful
Red WindowI have all my lucky pennies in a row, catching sunlight, holding morning air. They keep me company from the window sill, greet me with silence, never expecting too much. Just the truth of daylight, the honesty of darkness, my promise of imperfection just like the flaws that brought me here.Red Window
Devious Journal Entry
welcome to dA! you having a dA account makes me happy!
kablooey!
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