I save ideas as scribbles,

Pages full of vagueness.

I treasure dreams completely,

And use them oh so willingly.

What’s the point of emptiness?

Where’s the need for pining?

Ideas grow the more you use,

Dreams increase with telling,

So whatever the note I have here,

I’ll make something from it,

Big or small, bold or quiet,

Hello and welcome to 100 Poets of L.A.

Hello! This is the beginning of The No Go Blog. I am Caitlin and My best friend Alexis an I are going to be compiling a list of things that should not be done when talking to people, specifically someone you like or are dating or in general just want to impress. Some of these may be very helpful and others may not be so helpful.

            When people call me a freak I take it as a compliment.

            What do I want to be?

            Normal?

            No, thank you.

            When people call me crazy I take it as a compliment.

            What do I want to be?

            Sane? Live a life I never wanted?

            No, thank you.

            I just do as I want and go where I please, because no one should ever be able to tell me who I should be. Hey, that rhymed. I’m just warning you it’s going to happen a lot throughout my book. And, yeah, this is my book. Not some crappy fiction book authors try to write from another POV. Mine. As in M-I-N-E.

            My story.

            My life.

            And I’m going to introduce you to it right now.

              I have a habit of getting drunk easily. Good thing I look like I’m twenty-one, I’m actually twenty, (and that I have a fake I.D.), otherwise I’d probably be arrested by now.

            But the whole issue is that when I do get drunk, I get lost.

            Badly.

            And I don’t remember how I got there. If I do, it’s a miracle that I know how to get back home.

            One time I was drinking at my best friend’s sweet sixteen and the next morning I ended up on the other side of town on the beach, sleeping with some of the locals. (Still in my clothes, I might add.) This other time I was drinking at a get together before my senior year this year and I ended up going from my house to a bench near the harbor downtown.

            But this time it was different.

            I woke up on the subway train.

            Like every hangover I have, it starts out with a dull ache in your mind. Then, as you wake up and become more active, you feel like complete shit. Not joking. That’s how I felt as I opened my eyes to fucking fluorescent light bulbs in this freaking subway train and from then on my mind was completely fucked.

            I was fucked.

            “What the f- . . .?” I trailed off as I noticed some early workers on the train, looking at me. Probably because I was lying across two seats that said: PLEASE LET A PREGNANT WOMAN SIT HERE. They better not think I’m sixteen and pregnant.

            I rubbed the grimy feeling out of my eyes and stand up right as the subway train stops. I stumbled and fumbled (lol) for one of the poles or straps to hold onto. My hand collides clumsily into a cold, metal pole and once I hold onto it for what seems like dear life, I suddenly have a flashback.

            And I’m not talking about the stupid ones, I’m talking about a distant memory.

            The cold metal beneath my hands. Sexy dubstep and the floor shaking from heavy bass lines. Glitter.

            I blinked and came back to reality as the subway train stopped completely.