The Universe http://sett.com/theuniverse en-us Thu, 09 Jul 2020 17:15:55 -0700 http://sett.com Sett RSS Generator God's Favorite Child http://sett.com/theuniverse/gods-favorite-child I lay in the false bliss of the burdening sun. God has no sympathy for me. The universe was not planning for me. Abortion is not known in the perfect design of the milky way. I am the daughter of a vodka soaked dream. I am the child of a worn out field worker, who faints in the beat of the evil sun into a meadow of browning corn stalks. I have lived in the womb of a woman who's intestines have over filled her uterus. Choked for 8 and a half months by strings of flesh. Oh woe is me! Find my way to everlasting joy, where rivers flow wild and naked prepubescent boys and girls fill the void of pupils! Memories of the absences of pubic hair and jumping feet fill the minds of those who have given up in the hopes of finding life, mistaking this world of hell and death for love and fulfillment. I ask for God's best but value his worsts. Indifference will be death welcoming me with open arms and black patent leather gloves where I can no longer tell the difference between the darkness of my room and death himself. And I will go! I am gone!

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Sat, 27 Aug 2016 19:55:32 -0700 http://sett.com/theuniverse/gods-favorite-child
Empty Kitchen Sink http://sett.com/theuniverse/empty-kitchen-sink My mother and I had taken a drive recently. We had no destination, nor did we really end up anywhere except an old bakery in which we ate chocolate mocha cake and talked about the people we truly loved, and listened when my mother spoke of her husband, a man that she claimed she loved but gets a quick flash of joy whenever he announces he is leaving home for a while for work, a man she married thinking she wanted to spend the rest of her life with and now she took long drives hoping to pass the time quickly so she didn’t have to not only live, but live with him anymore. And it grew quiet as we drove back to our home which housed paper plates and plastic forks, which my mother seldom used as she found washing dishes to be a therapeutic hobby. A time where she could think about the dirt that ran down her plate instead of the thoughts that washed over her mind. The skin of her fingertips had become handicapped by the food she had scraped off of dinner plates.

As we drove home, I noticed our neighbors car. A silver subaru that seemed to never leave the spot in front of their house. I never knew if it was meant as a welcoming or a warning. A pigeon, colored black and white but mostly gray, lay underneath the silver car, limping as it tried to drag itself across the street from under the car. And as it tried endlessly to lift a leg, a wing, the less it had been helping itself. My mother had seen the pigeon and she grabbed my hand as we ran inside.

My mother sat with me in the living room as we both silently sulked over that barely living bound to be dead bird. And as my mother began making phone calls to any animal shelter she could find, I ran to the bathroom and sobbed. Honestly, I began to wonder why I had been crying. Was it the bird itself? Was it that life was evil and sad and cruel? Or was it the fact that I knew of the evils in the worlds and had seen it first hand and had done nothing to stop the cycle? I truly didn’t give a shit about the fucking bird and thats what depressed me. I cried silently in the bathroom as I heard my mother on the phone making calls, trying to find an answer. And as I cried and sobbed and poured everything I had for this fucking bird, I swear I heard my mother begin to cry. She matched my sobs with her own symphony and gave my tired eyes meaning and music. I never knew sobbing could be so beautiful. I had finally felt connected. I had finally felt like I was not alone.

As I joined her again, my mother had told me of a bird home that we could take it to. A bird sancutary. Put it in a box, punch a few holes in the lid and drive it to an animal shelter. A place it could be saved and rehabilitated. A place it could be safe. But my mother decided the effort was not worth our time, so we sat on the couch that night eating microwaved macaroni and cheese, watching reality television until we both got too tired or bored or just too fucking depressed to keep awake. And the next day we had found the pigeon ripped to bits, ribs coming out of its torso, feathers spread across the grass of our backyard. My mother would say “I guess this is our karma,” and she would get her gloves as I held a plastic bag open for the disposal of the bird.

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Tue, 02 Aug 2016 17:51:31 -0700 http://sett.com/theuniverse/empty-kitchen-sink
Flushing Life http://sett.com/theuniverse/flushing-life It was 2 A.M. as I sat in the bathroom stall, with my pants down to my ankles, examining the toilet paper I held in my hand. It was bloody. I had stopped taking my birth control pills about half a week after starting. I convinced myself that the reason I was feeling so sad all the time recently was because of the pill, and all the hormones was making me, well, hormonal. I remembered a phone conversation with my mom. I asked her if it was a good idea for me to take the pill, but even after she told me it was a bad idea to mess with my body or put anything into it that wasn't "natural", I decided I was adult enough to make my own choices. I guess I wanted to feel adult enough, but as the bloody pad sat beneath me in my underwear, I felt like a child covering up a mess I had made with a bandage. I bled as my body convinced itself of the miscarriage I must be having, and as I continued to observe the toilet paper in my hand, I pictured a broken fetus splattered across the paper like it was hit by a car. I began to cry, clenching the paper in my hand. I didn't know why I was crying, and as I questioned this myself, I told myself it was because of multiple reasons. I told myself it was because no one liked me. My room mate had just come home from God knows where, and I was disappointed. I was celebratory of the fact that for one night I don't have to face passive aggressive comments and cold stares. I wasn't sure what I was doing or what exactly I did or said to offend her, but whatever it was must of have been satanic, because one day I was an angelic figure and the next I was the Devil. Like I had fell down from heaven and entered straight into hell. But she wasn’t gone for the night. And as she walked in at 1 A.M., I greeted her with a warm hello. Trying to break the ice, that had seemed to form as the winter began to turn into spring, I told her I had tried to work on my essay, but got distracted watching Grease Live on Netflix and it all went down hill from there. She didn’t reply. She didn’t laugh or say anything, God she didn’t even tell me she didn’t care or to shut the fuck up, she just stayed silent. I left the room and entered into a common room which held a television, a microwave, a couch and a couple of chairs. I sat in one of the chairs, opening up the laptop which laid itself in my lap. I was finally able to focus on my essay, occasionally glancing up at the students huddled around together watching a video, mesmerized by a single iPhone held by a single student. Like this small, minuscule screen was what was holding them all together. Like a secret bond. A secret bond that I guess I never understood.

I stepped out of the room. I had decided to call my dad and tell him about the weird occurrence that had just happened in my own room, a couple doors down. But after a few short responses, I discovered the story might have not been as weird or funny or whatever the fuck it was as I thought it might have been. “I’ll let you go,” I told my dad. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he responded. I knew he wouldn’t. We hadn’t spoken in almost two weeks, except for a few texts where he asked me if I read the email he forwarded me from my college. “Yes,” I would respond. “How are you by the way? Haven't heard from you in a while.” No response.

So that’s when I made my way to the bathroom stall and cried, as I discovered the dead, fake fetus lying inside of my underwear. I called Nick, my boyfriend. He was always really great to me and he always told me he cared, so I decided he would be the best person to call. I looked at the time. I knew he’d be asleep but I figured I’d give it a try anyways. No answer. I left a voicemail. I’m not sure why I left him a voicemail. I never leave voicemails. Every time my grandmother would call and leave a voicemail, I would text her telling her that she doesn’t need to leave a voicemail. I would see that she called and I would call her back once I saw. She told me she liked the idea of leaving little memories behind in my phone so whenever I needed her or wanted to hear her voice, I always had her in the back of my pocket. I never needed her though. She so badly needed to be needed, and that’s exactly why I never needed her.

So I left him this pathetic, awkward as hell, waste of a voicemail and decided to call someone else. I looked through my phone and cried realizing there was no one left to call. My best friend back home wouldn’t understand this and my parents never really cared. I wondered why the fuck I even had a cell phone to begin with. I’m not calling or texting anyone, or haven’t since Nick. What was the use of it. No one bothered to ever check in with me. And I hate sounding like a desperate, nagging fuck, but fuck it. That’s exactly what I am. A desperate, nagging fuck that feels miserable all the time and no one really likes to spend time with. But fuck it. Who cares? People go around this fucking Earth pretending. Pretending they are happy all the time. Pretending that they aren’t scared of the future with their big internships and happy-go-lucky attitudes. And I always loved that about myself. I always loved my ability to admit to myself that I don’t have to be happy all the time, or be sure about my future. I’m not. Fuck faking it till you’re making it. I’m real and what I feel is real. I’m lonely and desperate and scared of the future. I’m needy and crave attention but that’s okay. Because I’m a human being. And human beings are disgusting, desperate animals. But human beings also feel things that other living things can’t feel and human beings are beautiful and create art with their loneliness and desperation. And I am beautiful and I feel things and I create art and I am a human fucking being. So fuck you for trying to not be.

I left the bathroom, flushing my fake miscarriage down the toilet behind me.

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Thu, 14 Apr 2016 23:22:03 -0700 http://sett.com/theuniverse/flushing-life
My Pet Mouse http://sett.com/theuniverse/my-pet-mouse Loneliness is an odd feeling. It's hard to put into words. It's like the mouse that hides itself away under your kitchen cabinets. You see it a few times, and every time you do you scream with horror. You walk on your toes trying to avoid it at all costs. It creeps up on you as you feel the hairs of its back brushing up against your calves. And sometimes it's real, but most of the time the feeling is living in your head. You don't see it for a while. Or at least don't notice it. But even after months of false encounters, it seems to reappear out of nowhere . But somehow, you accept it now. Take it in as your own. You don't fear it any longer. I feel my loneliness when ambulance sirens pass by my window at 2am and they act as a comfort. They are no longer an annoyance keeping me from my somber, but instead they act as a soundtrack to my insomnia. To be truly alone is when the whole room becomes intolerably loud and unbelievably quiet all at once. You start to notice the noise of a traveling fan, the engine of a motorcycle, the drunken laughs of rowdy men standing on street corners. And soon it all becomes part of the background. The noise is obscenely prominent, but yet, doesn't quite exist at all. And as I sit up in bed, I watch people in their windows from my windows as they make a journey to the kitchen, opening fridges in hopes to find their late night snacks. The ice cream they promised themselves they wouldn't have, but their loneliness craves Carvel's ice cream cake at two in the morning. Their loneliness craves McDonald's french fries when the sun begins to wake up. And I watch them and direct my eyes towards the drawers of my desk. Drawers filled with lighters and markers and oversized bottles of Tylenol. And I laugh to myself. I find it amusing how death patiently waits for me. Death sits in my desk drawer disguising itself as a bottle of pills, pain relievers. And I don't want to die, I know I don't. But sometimes, on nights like these, as the shadows of high college students find their way through the crack of light hidden beneath my door, I wonder when I will be brave enough to open the drawer.

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Sun, 21 Feb 2016 00:26:05 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/my-pet-mouse
Probably one of my favorite passages I've ever read http://sett.com/theuniverse/probably-one-of-my-favorite-passages-ive-ever-read By the time Walt reaches the top of the stairs, he can hear that his daughter and her husband are at it- he can't bring himself to think about making love or even fucking at that moment- and the sounds are so easy for him to make out, he's at first delighted by people- Jesus, his daughter!- making love except in the movies? She giggles, he groans, long breaths are let out and grabbed back in. The duet has the most incredible, indescribable fluid life, and he can't bear it.

He reaches into his blazer pocket for the recorder he always carries in case he wants to tape random thoughts or reminders, or just the noise of what happens. If you didn't know who or what it was? he wonders. He thinks of a radio contest he used to listen to as a boy where you tried to identify certain sounds- a sewing machine whirring, crackers being broken, a cat licking herself. Can I pretend this is not my daughter, he thinks now, but just noise too? Would you know it wasn't love?

- Hester Kaplan // 2010 (The Edge of Marriage: Would You Know It Wasn't Love?)

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Sun, 31 Jan 2016 20:59:35 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/probably-one-of-my-favorite-passages-ive-ever-read
High part II http://sett.com/theuniverse/high-part-ii I stand alone on a train filled of strangers and awkward conversations about how the air is finally getting colder. And responses of "I hope this winter isn't as bad as the last one." And I observe the man standing in front of me leaning against the closed doors of the train smiling at his phone, as the sound of his wedding ring tapping against the back of his phone as he texts back rings in my ears. And I wonder if the same sound is coming from the home of whoever is texting back. And I stare out train windows taking note of the reflection of the man with the white hair biting his nails. And I feel eyes penetrating me from the boy who stands beside me, but I'm scared to look back. His eyes remind me of the ocean and I've never learned how to swim. And red lights shine on the stairs leading down to the train doors, reminding me of the devil. And I'm then absorbed into the depth of hell, where Ursula runs wild and takes away my ability to walk. And god I don't want to sleep alone tonight, but as I crawl under his blankets, I wonder if I'm a bothersome. And the lonesome boy lays his high head on the shoulder of another, and looks for solitude with the boy that waves his finger in the air and had ever called his mind beautiful. But he moves his shoulder and finds comfort in the hands of others.

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Mon, 18 Jan 2016 19:54:42 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/high-part-ii
idk im high rn so here http://sett.com/theuniverse/idk-im-high-rn-so-here I thought I could do this. I thought that I had the ability to separate my body from my mind, but as I lay awake in bed lying to myself about how the moon was able to absorb the sun, I soon realized that I was the sun. And as every part of my body rained drops I sweat, I began to realize that the radiator hadn't been turned on all winter. And the only thing stopping me from my slumber was the memory of how it felt when he unzipped my dress. And I never said no, but I thought that if someone craves my body, then it must mean something. It must mean that the only thing in between the small veins that travel from my body to my mind, is something harder to explain. The explanation that tells young girls why they should not eat right before they swim. But I swore I could do both.

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Thu, 14 Jan 2016 09:37:34 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/idk-im-high-rn-so-here
Don't Check My Google Search History http://sett.com/theuniverse/the-night-i-was-sexually-assaulted We both woke up to an empty bed. And as we looked into each other's eyes, she became wide eyed and blinked as if she were sleeping in a bed of onions. She took out her phone and pretended to send a text as I sat up and watched him collect his things and tell me he had to go. I walked him out the door and when I came back upstairs, she was sitting up in the bed with her hands on her forehead. I sat with her silently. We both didn't want to talk about it. So instead I asked her if she was hungry and when she nodded, we walked down to kitchen and made two bowls of cereal. She sat quietly and didn't eat much, and I filled every silence with nervous laughter and awkward conversation until she told me she had to leave.

And as I watched her leave through my kitchen window, I fell to the floor. I tried to cry, because maybe it would get rid of this feeling, but it never left and my eyes were like empty villages abandoned by tiny women that decided they needed to begin new lives. So the lonely village stayed put in my mind and in my eyes. And I touched my hair as I remember the terrifying thoughts that ran through my head as he grabbed me by my hair and pulled my face up so my lips touched his. And he kissed me over and over and as I remembered the scars he left among my face, I felt a tsunami coming of oceans filled of sea creatures and monsters that I have stored so deep in my memory, I had forgotten they existed. I remember Googling "How to get over sexual assault?" I remember typing in the words "sexual assault" and remembering a time when I told myself I'd be strong enough. That I would never fall a victim. And number one told me to seek help and talk about it, but I didn't even know where to begin. Because we had been friends for years that I knew him like the back of my hand, but as his hand moved up to my breasts, I couldn't recognize him any longer. He was just a stranger. And when I ask myself why I hadn't said anything, I hate myself for not coming up with a reason. And I worked so hard for years to make myself complete, but as he left in the morning, I noticed pieces of me still stuck on his palms, but I'm too scared to ask for them back. I will never be complete again. He carries parts of me I will never find in myself.

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Thu, 24 Dec 2015 23:55:53 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/the-night-i-was-sexually-assaulted
Sleep Talker http://sett.com/theuniverse/sleep-talker I sat down in the living room, interrupting the space between my mother and the television, which played repeats of diet and weight loss commercials, and suddenly the room felt larger as she left, making her way to her bedroom. And my parents have been asking me if I'm depressed. And if I am, if I'd want to see someone about my depression, to talk about my depression, which is something I seemed to have pushed under the rug throughout years of awkward conversation starters and sleepovers in cabins during summer camp. And I should have known that I was like this in the seventh grade when my friends would stay up till eleven o'clock and talk about what makes them happy, and when they asked me I would pretend to sleep, because nothing makes me more depressed then my hesitation on the question. And I never believed in God, but the shadows on my walls at 2am beg to differ as they offer me an escape to reach spiritual happiness and I cry but they come back every night, tormenting me with hand puppets using the power of the moon. And these nights I don't cry as much. These days I don't feel as much to cry as much. And these days I've been drinking in my bed. Drinking out of water bottles filled with red wine, filled with false happiness and joy, staining my sheets a beautiful burgundy that I try desperately to baptize myself in. And some mornings, when the sun is just about to arise from it's somber, I surrender myself to the morning dew and press my palms into the soil, coating myself in the left over wrath of my wine, and the worms that find their way onto my ribs, and the blades of grass that effortlessly stab my calves, and I find God.

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Fri, 18 Dec 2015 00:31:50 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/sleep-talker
... http://sett.com/theuniverse/uid/1243333 Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering.

- Paulo Coelho, By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

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Fri, 18 Dec 2015 00:14:01 -0800 http://sett.com/theuniverse/uid/1243333