Confessions of a Thinkaholic



I get anxious
For word from you
The minutes
Pass by
Swollen on the inside
With the luxury of the seconds that fill them
They will not be rushed
For me
Or anyone
I wait
And sometimes I fear
I will wait forever
That you have forgotten me
Or you don’t want to know me any more
But then
You answer
Something practical
Never mushy
And I can
Breathe again

The truth about “Babe”

I’ve been called “babe” a lot in my life. And not in a she’s hot and sexy type of way (LOL) but strictly as a term of endearment. And that four letter word can make you feel so many things. Things you shouldn’t feel.
“Babe” will trick you, and have you feeling like you’re someone special to someone who’s really not that into you and really isn’t that special to you. But – that’s the thing…men know what to say, don’t they? Some men are simply pros at hitting the sentimental nail on the head and then driving it home.
I’m no one’s babe, really. So, I wonder why these men insist on calling me babe. What happened to my name? Have they forgotten it? Or perhaps they never knew it at all.
There are other terms of endearment that people give in to when we’re feeling our way around that awkward getting-to-know-you phase. And those carefully placed terms of endearment are supposed to make it easier isn’t it? It gives a false sense of intimacy that I guess is supposed to help things along. I personally don’t like to use terms of endearment unless I really feel interested. If I don’t feel that (like you’re a sweetheart, or my honey) then it feels stiff and foreign rolling off the tongue. And then I’m left sounding distant and removed while you eagerly call me Babe…

Untitled 7.4.14

As I waited for sleep
I thought
I think
I forgot how to love
What is that?
I’m not sure…
I can’t imagine that tenderness
That intimacy
With a man
Him next to me
Holding me
Why would he do that?
He wouldn’t
He won’t
I don’t know who He is…
All I do is pretend
That each one could be the one
And they’re not
I always know it from the start…


I always get stuck sitting in front of a restless traveler. They fidget, and fuss, turn, and are generally jumpy, making me agitated and annoyed. And then, there are the stories.I always get stuck listening to their stories. Stories that may or may not make sense to me but I don’t really care to hear them either way. Naming people I don’t know, informing me of things I’d prefer to remain ignorant about. My mind is filled with enough clutter and information. Why give me more to process, and digest? I’m automatically polite, thankfully, so that I can respond appropriately – because I do feel compelled to respond. If I am the only stranger in the world who will hear your woes, that is the least I can do.
I always get stuck waiting. Waiting on someone, waiting for things to happen, for decisions to be made, for realizations to occur.What a sordid affair…

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