The Hare got a high-powered job in the tech industry straight out of college, while the Tortoise traveled the country by train just writing in his journal and thinking. Finally the Tortoise got a big book deal for a memoir he wrote, and when he posted about it on Facebook he thought, I knew I’d outshine that fucker in the end.


The Tortoise and the Hare Facebook-stalked each other. He might have a lot of money but I bet he doesn’t feel alive when he goes to work, thought the Tortoise. The Hare looked through the Tortoise’s photos and thought, Being a writer in Brooklyn is so pretentious. The truth was that a part of each of them longed for the other’s life. How are you supposed to know you’ve chosen the right path?


The Tortoise and the Hare met for coffee. They each casually mentioned their recent successes to the other one, secretly hoping to appear better than the other. As they walked their separate ways home it hit them at the same time: There never was a race. There is no destination. There is no winner.

(unpublished illustrations from Alice in Tumblr-land)


"Are you gonna write about this?"

Like his mediocre lines
and the way he butchered the names of Thai food
had me shaking at the knees.
Like that was something worth noting.

I still wrote three poems about my last dinner date.
I live in a world where I am blessed to believe that
everything is something worth noting.

But people tell me that if I keep writing poetry
about every mouth I meet,
nobody’s going to want to kiss me anymore.

The first time that someone compared my poems
to Taylor Swift songs,
I didn’t know that it wasn’t supposed to be a compliment.
It turns out they weren’t saying: “thank you
for your honesty, your openness, your willingness
to make life into art even when it gets tough to pronounce”.

They were saying: “All you write are love poems.”
Like that wasn’t okay.
Like that was somehow discrediting or laughable.
They were saying: “You go on too many dates
and you can’t make them stay.”
And I don’t know how to shake that off.

I live in a world where I am blessed to believe that
everything is something worth noting,
even bad dinner dates.
I also live in a world where a 24 year old Taylor Swift
can’t write about bad dinner dates anymore.
A world where she has sworn off dating and written an album
with a curt nod to love instead of a wide smile,
because she’s sick of her love life being an American pastime,
a comedic punchline every time she leaves the house.

“Watch out: she might write a song about you!”

God forbid she tells the world that you’re a sloppy kisser.
God forbid she tells the world that it still hurts that you left.

She is a girl with a big heart and a bigger mouth
and she owns everything that ever happens to her.

I own everything that ever happens to me

and I refuse straddle the line between privacy and honesty
for the sake of someone else’s comfort level.
I will not be a Disney mermaid
willing to give up her own voice for love.

Forget legs.
Choke on water, choke on ink.
I will not kiss another man who refuses to learn how to swim.

"Me vs. Taylor Swift vs. Ariel" Trista Mateer (via simply-sloth)

Trista Mateer, everyone.

(via clementinevonradics)