I dun goofed.

My name is Robi Day, and I love sandwiches. I've been in this form for 22 years. But I mean it's whateva do'.

Tom Hiddleston has ruined improved my life.

Cancerian, introverted, open-minded, thinker, writer.
Music, art, yoga, literature, film.
Everything comes at the appointed time.

Also, I have a writing blog: versatile-nightowl

Posts tagged "prose"


Was she cold?

She seemed icy, a blue shade of grey. Her legs were pulled up to her stomach, back curved to protect her chest. Lying down, she tucked her arms under a pillow to form a depression where she could bury her head. She wasn’t trembling, but a deep vibration emanated from her entire body, dense enough to splinter her limbs, yet familiar enough for her to wonder whether she felt it at all. 

Though onlookers may have thought her cold, she simply wasn’t. 

Rambling About Things People Forget To Tell You About Love


1. There will be probably be at least one person you fall madly in love with who will end up being the worst thing that ever happened to you. There will also probably be at least one person who falls madly in love with you, and you’ll end up being the worst thing that happens to them

2. Sometimes you’ll get attached to the wrong person at just the right time to seriously fuck you up. Sometimes you’ll loose the right person because it’s just the wrong time… that fucks you up too. 

3. Emotional intimacy is paid for in vulnerability. It requires the knowledge that someone has the capacity to utterly destroy you, but also the trust that they will never do so on purpose. It’s accepting that, despite all the good intentions in the world, this person may still obliterate you and being confident that they’re worth the risk. It’s understanding that you have the same power over them and being mature enough to deal with the guilt if you do.

4. People who are in love with being in love write poetry and songs about the romantic notions attached to it. People who have actually experienced love (and who have loved real people) also write poetry and songs… but their poetry and songs often sound more like suicide notes. Love is actually scary as shit… and if it doesn’t seem scary you’re probably not emotionally available or mature enough to appreciate the gravity of what you’re getting yourself into. That being said… real love has the ability to make you feel simultaneously elated and sick. Like you’re soaring above the atmosphere and drowning at the bottom at the sea all at the same time. Nothing fucks you up like love. Actual love is scary as shit.

5. It’s seriously worth it. Sometimes you’ll try to convince yourself that it’s not… but if you’re wise you’ll graciously accept another chance to risk it all. For love? Real love? For a sincere connection with another human being who accepts your shortcomings but still inspires you to strive to be the best version of yourself? Yeah, It’s a fool’s wager, but you’d be stupid not to take it. That kind of love doesn’t happen often, and it sure as hell doesn’t wait around for you to get your head out of your ass.


Eiffel Tower

Of all the world’s towers, she is most like a lover. Her color is a soft romantic sophistication, like that of a woman, not a gaudy girl. Her curve is subtle, not too hard or too steep, but still sharp enough to prick your finger. Her age is like a fine Bordeaux, with a history to accompany the passage of time and a character to accompany the passings of men. And like the best of loves, when you partake of her in the dark, she is warm, and sparkles like starlight at the top of every hour to the “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” of everyone who loves her, perhaps as much as I do.

He’s seasonal and he knows it.



That’s why we work, him and me. We’ve got no tomorrows but we’ve all the right now’s we’ll ever need. I can tell him I miss him and he may not know that I’m saying it just because I want someone to say it to but he’s knows, in whatever way his heart tells him to, to not make it mean more than pillow talk.

'I miss you too, preciosa'

He’s the only man to ever call me that and for that reason alone, I let him. For me, when I start doling out pet names it’s because my heart’s already left me and found safe haven someplace else. And before I realize I’m belly up in front of love like some simple minded puppy.

Him though, he says it so sweet. 'Preciosa'. It’s plump with affection and falls lightly on my ears and has this way of making me turn into a puddle. But pet names and all- he still doesn’t push. Sometimes I think that I wish he would, that maybe it might make me break & make my edges soften. And on one layer, he fits. We fit together and it feels right enough to have me believe that this seasonal thing can bloom into a maybe. Then three layers deeper he’s sweet enough for me to believe that he isn’t capable of hurting me. And it’s right around then that all those reasons start peeling away because talking myself into caring for someone has a way of killing the moment.

I’d like to say there was revelation which led to the end of our tawdry relationship, that I choose to not cheapen my heart for some figment of a lover I hope to one day know but that wouldn’t be authentic because truth is, loneliness can be very convincing. Honestly, I still galumph my way in and out of his arms because they’re warm.

And lately, the nights have been so cold.

blog journal thing: american ninja turtle



I’m sure Michael Bay is not a bad person but I wish he would stop fucking with my childhood. Michael Bay (Director of Bad Boys 1 through 17) is producing the reboot of a new live action Ninja Turtles film. Michael Bay has chosen to change the backstory from the one we all know and love: discarded pet turtles find their way into glowing green radioactive ooze in the sewers of New York City thus transforming them into insanely muscular teenage turtle people..

to something more Micheal Bayey:

These turtles are from an alien race and they are going to be tough, edgy, funny and completely lovable.

No, no, Michael Bay - your turtles are from an alien race. My turtles were rendered in a drainage pipe in New York City, the greatest city in the world. My turtles weren’t aliens, they were working class Americans.

As a child, Ninja Turtles were more than just a TV show for me. Sitting on the couch with my tiny feet dangling, juice cup in hand, I stared into my TV watching a group of orphaned outcasts struggle with identity, a fractured family, a feeble parent figure, horrifying living conditions, and on top of all that, the profound honor and burden of defending New York City from evil.

I could relate to Ninja Turtles on all aforementioned levels, well maybe not defending the city. I did my best to defend Queens, patrolling the streets on my Big Wheel until the day it was stolen. That’s the day I hung up my plastic nunchucks to focus on coping with my deteriorating family situation. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles— along with their blue collar, salt of the earth, Big Apple contemporaries, the Ghostbusters — gave me relatable heroes.

I could never get a read on the TGIF sitcoms. They didn’t resonate with me. I can’t relate to upper middle-class families dealing with teen acne or zany neighbors. Those people had new clothes and new cars. These people took airplanes to vacations spots with palm trees and volcanoes. All the parents in these sitcoms had impossibly fantastic jobs. Architects, musicians, cartoon voiceover actors. No one was in construction or working through temp agencies. No one was unemployed. No one ever talked about struggling. They didn’t really talk about anything. 

There would be family filled scenes on bright sound stages. Well-dressed smiling children and confident parents with nice teeth. What drove me nuts were the kitchen scenes. They needed to do something while babbling about swim practice so they spent a lot of time opening and closing cabinets and refrigerators. I would lean in to see every cabinet and shelf packed full of food. I thought about my fridge filled with condiments and beer. I had no idea what these people had to possibly be upset about or why they were worth watching. Even as a child, this seemed insane to me.

What’s more insane is that the most relatable show for kids like me wasn’t a show with actual humans, but instead talking turtles who fought crime. I mean I wasn’t sitting around the lunchroom in third grade holding a discussion group about the allegorical nature of Ninja Turtles as juxtaposed with the collapsing American middle class. I wasn’t waxing philosophical with friends over string cheese about the recurring use of Master Splinter as a Christ figure. I just knew I liked it and I think that was because it was more aligned with my world. Talking turtles who ate pizza and lived in sewers were more plausible to me than Full House.

I’m just saying it clicked. It clicked because it was about turtles and ninjas and teenagers, yes. But I would argue the situation for the turtles reflected that of what many Americans were and are going through. The idea that living in this gutter is temporary. We may not have a lot but we have each other, and if we, hope, pray, believe, and fight  hard enough, things will be  better for us someday. Mommy is too tired to cook, what do you say we get some pizza?

And now, Michael Bay wants to turn the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles into green transformers from space. That’s all fine and good, I suppose. It’s just a movie. Not that it’s Michael Bay’s concern or responsibility, but for those kids who live in the real world, plopped at the edge of the couch, feet dangling with their juice boxes, waiting for their parents to get home from job number three, where are their heroes? What speaks to the 10-year-old who just got his ass kicked on the playground? What resonates with the 6-year-old who has to stay with grandma until mom and dad “get their shit together”?

This world — especially now — needs its working class heroes. Can I get a “Cowabunga “?


“Our lives move deeper and slower—as if they are taking on weight. It’s good weight, most of it, but it alarms us, I think, at the way it feels like that added weight tries to sink us. I think it alarms Martha a lot.

“It’s like sinking through snow up to your ankles, or deeper. It’s like not being sure, one day, that the ice will hold you—when every day before, it has. It may be my imagination, but it seems like Martha doesn’t want to talk about this—that this accrual of weight is happening. As if she believes that any day now—tomorrow, for instance—things will begin to get lighter and freer again—even if she would admit to this weight-gathering occurring in the first place.

“I know she can feel it. She says all things are cyclic, and they are, but this thing—us—is somehow different.

“The things outside of us seem never to change, beyond the constancy of the four season—birth, life, death, rebirth—but I’m convinced that our lives are different, just a bit above or below these constant cycles. As if we are on some march through the woods toward those final cycles, toward some final, newer place.

“But Martha won’t hear any of this kind of talk. She says it’s all the same. She says nothing’s changing. And still: depsite the endlessness of the days, and the seeming strength of our continuity, there are fractures and gaps, where whole chunks of time will fall away—as if calving away from the whole, too weak to stay fastened to the core. Things that were assumed to be lock-solid, rock-sure, fall away, leaving only loss, emtpiness and confusion.

“And we start anew.”

Rick Bass, from “Two Deer”
Art Credit Jarek Puczel


It is 1:38pm and I have just poured myself a whiskey.

I have only thought about you approximately 1672 times today.

(I have only thought about you because I had nothing else to do.)

The most useful thing I got out of my university degree was a discount on Microsoft Office. The whole shebang for $10.

I have used it to write 5 essays, 2 lab reports, 3 PowerPoint presentations, and 670 bad poems.

1:42pm. I am staring at a blinking cursor. Matt Berninger is crooning, Do not think I’m going places anymore.

Yesterday I swore I’d move to London soon.

Today it is cold and I am lonely.

“Darling,” I say aloud, to all the people who are not nearby. “I do not think I am ever going anyplace interesting.”

My life is stationary. Pens and paper and poems and love affairs that never lead anywhere except back to this headspace I don’t want to inhabit.

1:47pm. I should be doing work.

(Something other than working hard at not drinking this drink too fast.)

1:50pm. It has started to rain. I am developing an emotional complex. I am conflicted. How is it possible to be so satisfyingly sad? I am a happy drunk intoxicated with anguish. Some days I smile at myself and fall in lust. Other days I wonder what I ever saw in me.

(I am lonely I am lonely I am lonely)

1:53pm. I feel like dancing. I might go out tonight. Put something upbeat on; a little black dress and a pop song.

I have terribly good taste in music. I fluctuate between Ke$ha’s

The party don’t start ‘till I walk in

and The National’s

When I walk into a room I do not light it up.


List of the Top 5 Life Hacks To Make Your Life Easier From The List of 99 Life Hacks To Make Your Life Easier


By Andy Sandford

We’ve all seen this list of “99 Life Hacks To make Your Life Easier” floating around the web, and we’ve had the same thought: 99 things is a lot of things! Too many things, I say. I am not some kind of life hacker. I can only learn so many life hacks at one time. Does this list honestly expect me to remember how to use a muffin pan as a condiment tray when I JUST learned that my shoe can be a cup holder? It’s easy to get overwhelmed by all these solutions to problems you didn’t know existed. 

Fret not, weary worry warts: I painstakingly sifted through those 99 memes and have chosen the 5 most crucial life hacks. So buckle up you fucking idiot, ‘cause here they come!


Before seeing this life hack, I had pretty much written off key rings as one of life’s necessary evils. I actually thought that I was dumb, just because I couldn’t take a key off my key ring without absolutely destroying my fingernails. Key rings have ruined my life. I was too embarrassed to give my girlfriend a key to my place, and now she’s with another man. Those days are over though, because I can keep a safe distance from dangerous key rings by using any common, four-fanged, quasi-menacing staple remover that might be laying around.


GENIUS! What’s the best part of a camping trip?…Smores! But what always happens?…There’s nothing flammable in the woods to start a camp fire! Everybody is starving, and you’ve gotta think fast…OH YEAH! You came prepared with bags of doritos! Now all ya gotta do is take all that food and set it on fire. Soon enough, the other non-edible kindling will catch fire. Next thing ya know, you’ll all be feasting on Cooler Ranch-smoked Smores. I bet the cavemen wish they knew about this life hack.image

I love bagels, and I’d love to have one at the ready; but every time you put a bagel in a bag, it fucking explodes. Not anymore! Having a bagel tote is as easy as leaving a stack of CD-R’s unprotected, and strewn about your desk. **One word of warning with this life hack: don’t microwave your bagel tote, or leave it in a hot car, as poisonous carcinogens will seep into your bagel.** this thing is “totes” cute!


THANK YOU! I have complained about messy Oreo fingers for years and everyone acts like that’s weird. Just because I am disgusting enough eat a sleeve of Oreo’s in one sitting, making sure to give each cookie a dairy baptism…that doesn’t mean I like messy fingers. With this new life hack, my fingers stay clean enough to eat cookies and test my blood sugar at the same time.


Everybody knows what is wrong with those store bought iPhone speakers: why are they all so slow and difficult? Ya gotta take it out of the box…plug it in…and where the hell does it connect to the iPhone? Is it that clearly marked connection er what?! Fuck all that noise: stick your expensive phone in a toilet paper roll with thumb tacks in it. It is basically the same thing they have at Best Buy. The only difference is that it is not a speaker at all, and is actually a toilet paper roll with thumb tacks in it. Wanna impress your lady guest? Just stick your iPhone repeatedly (it will fall over) until it stays standing up; now just blast your sexy-time playlist and get your serenade on. The toilet paper roll will do the rest.

How goddam easy is your life, now that you are the Zero_Cool of life hacking?


-Andy Sandford

I Forced It


Lead Staff Note: Read it!


I once read a major author’s comments on writer’s block and the work of writing. This author advised that you should just write anyway: Write three pages on a “good” day when the words are flowing and everything’s perfect; write three pages on a “bad” day when you can’t put two words together to save life or limb. Look back at the bulk of it a couple weeks later, you won’t be able to tell which bits were written on the “good” day and which on the “bad” day. I don’t remember now where I read it, or who wrote it, but it stuck with me, and I suppose that’s the first important thing about it. The second important thing about it is that I learned and feel I finally understood the true meaning of it this week.

Tuesday was a “bad” day. I couldn’t figure out how words formed sentences at all. Someone snuck into my house while I was asleep and replaced my brain with that of a crackhead. It took me like 7 hours to write a 700-word piece that I even felt comfortable submitting. And by “felt comfortable submitting” I mean “made any sort of sense and was remotely intelligible.” Because at that point I was ready to commit arson, or murder, or both. It wasn’t writer’s block. Writer’s block is a pretty myth we writers haul out because it sounds better than saying we’re bored and unmotivated. This was something far more fundamental. I was making basic grammar and syntax errors I haven’t made in two decades.

I submitted the piece, not knowing really what else to do, assuming it would come back for a rewrite — hopefully on a day when I wasn’t struck with acute-onset illiteracy. But last night the editor sent it straight through to publication, with the note “great work” attached to it.

In the end, it didn’t matter how hard it was to get those words out. They came out, and that’s all that matters, and in the end, you couldn’t tell the difference.

I see this odd fixation with things being “forced.” People telling other people not to “force” writing, not to push it. But if you want your writing to go anywhere, pushing it and forcing it is exactly what you need to do.

If you write as a hobby, and you never intend to go anywhere with it, then you should absolutely only do it when it’s fun and easy for you. That’s what hobbies are all about, and that’s why the only reason you’ll ever catch me bowling is if there are people I like and plenty of free beer. But if you’re serious about writing — whether as a side pursuit or a potential career — you can’t just write when it’s fun and easy. You have to force yourself to write even when the words are water-boarding you.

We force writing because we are passionate about it, because we strive to bend language to our will. We push writing — even when it doesn’t come with ease — because we want to move further in pursuit of the craft.

And this is the truth behind writing even when you’re not feeling it. The undercurrent of your passion still pulls your words even when the surface is full of chop, and your readers won’t know if you spent 3 hours writing 2,000 words or trying to write ten (mixed metaphors involving water to the side).

Too often we say something feels forced when in fact the opposite was true: No writer forced those words; they gave up and settled for them. As writers, we settle for something “good enough” when we’ve lost interest and given up on it. This is the third important thing about that bit I mentioned at the start. When I set out to write this essay, I wanted to find the author’s words so I could quote directly. When I hadn’t found anything after about ten minutes, I gave up and wrote around it (parentheticals are a good indication I’ve given up on something, as well).

Writing is work. Sometimes the words come easy; other times they refuse to cooperate and you have to exhaust yourself wrangling them into submission. But in the end, the outcome’s the same and no one knows the difference. If a piece of writing is lackluster, it’s not because it was forced, it’s because the writer gave up on it.

Never give up.

(Source: jayarrarr)