Dirty Laundry

I began English 325 this week and now feel somewhat ashamed of my Dream Journal. We discussed a quote stating that it is the writer’s job to write for the audience, and self-expression is selfish.

I originally created my Dream Journal to make me feel more comfortable posting my writing in front of my peers. I wasn’t expecting anyone to read them, so yes, it started out mostly for myself.

Am I being selfish? Am I abusing this beautiful part to the Minor in Writing?

I told myself that my posts were supposed to be personal, pathetic, and extremely vague. I wanted to take my thoughts and put them in a blender. I wanted to paint the pieces of my thoughts onto the walls so they turned into art–or at least, something new.

The more I think about it, the more my Dream Journal seems like it does not fit into the blog. I could turn it into a collection in a physical journal in which I would be the only audience. This seems most appropriate.

Yet, the jaded artist in me wants to be the shitty “selfish” writer. I want this to be in your face. I want this to be confusing. I want this to make sense. I want it to be as ugly as I am.

This is my dirty laundry that I just don’t know how to clean.


I am drowning
and I am the lifeguard refusing to jump in.
I’m letting her flail and grasp for anything
but the water slips through her fingers as
her eyes
get wider with fear

I am drowning.
Struggling to keep her head above the water
she gasps for
but gets a mouthful of water instead–
and I am watching it.

I am drowning.
and I am the water filling her lungs
pulling her deeper
energy depleting
she’s losing hope
and I am the lifeguard watching it.

I am drowning and I am the water and I am the lifeguard and it’s all my fault.


I am a kid in Business Casual

At my desk in the corner my life wastes away–
Fingers clicking. Pens racing.
A phone call is made.

My laptop is dying;
I have 40 tabs open
trying to solve a problem I didn’t create.

Oh, the office job is not for me.
The place where I receive eye and neck pain from staring at my bright computer
The place where my frolicking is limited to three flights of stairs
The place where I scroll through instagram vacations of my friends during my lunch “break”

I am a kid in business casual wearing my mother’s suit

pretending to be an adult.



I haven’t been able to spam everyone with my dream journal in almost a month. I’d like to blame my hiatus from the journal on how busy I am with work.

I am currently the Productions and Artistic Intern for the Great Lakes Chamber Music Festival. I started working full time when I got home in May, and the festival started on June 15th. The first week has been crazy.

My job is basically the Primary Liaison between festival staff and the musicians– so I get to meet and “hang out” with the top musicians in the world. I am happy and dumbfounded to say that I am friends with the Emerson String Quartet. It has been a wild ride running around Detroit and Metro Detroit with these musicians, and I look forward to the second half of the festival (even if I spend 14 hours a day on my feet for 7 days a week).

This festival is making me go a little insane.

This is a warning that I might be very active with my journal over the next couple of weeks.



Something disturbed my slumber and I jolted awake; my head flying up with arms ready to defend myself from the threat. It was just the house. I was at my studiomate’s house. 

I enjoy mornings like these. Instead of a hangover, I wake up from a deep slumber as if I died the night before. Something decides each time that I am not ready to leave the Earth yet and pulls my consciousness from the bottom of the ocean. I don’t seem to mind. 

Water. I need water. 

I looked around the living room for something to quench my thirst. The only thing next to me was my half-finished watermelon four lokos. I took a sip. The flavor brought back memories of the night before. We had a bonfire and quite a few people came. I stayed up with my dear friends until we ran out of firewood and the fire died. 

I check my phone. 6:30. Perfect. I need water. 

I collect my things and walk out. The sun greets me as I step into the peaceful morning. I walk a half mile in the middle of the road covered in dirt, alcohol stains, and reeking of fire. I look like Tarzan in a Canadian tuxedo. With my four lokos in my denim jacket and new trusty literati bag in tow, I walk to water. Another day of consciousness and I am not going to waste it.



I killed a rabbit
He didn’t deserve it.
I killed a rabbit
with four thousand pounds of privilege.
I killed a rabbit
it was an accident, you see.
I killed a rabbit 
but I wish it was me.

I killed a bunny
and cried for a little.
I killed a bunny
I didn’t see her tail wiggle.
Was she healthy? Did she have babies?
Is it bad to hope she instead had rabies?

Do I do look at things a certain way for my own peace of mind? 
I seem to destroy them all



(Pathetically sung in f minor)
We’re an old pair of socks
That match so perfectly
Even you said it once
We’re an old pair of socks.

Sometimes we get lost in the laundry
and try to match ourselves in other pairs
but we always find each other
We’re an old pair of socks.

I lost you for a while
and moved on to other socks
but you found me again
We’re an old pair of socks.

Every time I come home to you
we both may be a little different 
We’re an old pair of socks
That match so perfectly
Even you said it once
We’re an old pair of socks

Or maybe I’m just colorblind


Ode to My Shower

Oh, shower. We’ve been through a lot together.
I’m sorry for taking you for granted.
You have always been there for me throughout my entire life
seeing things no one else should see.

Thank you for dealing with me.
I’m sorry I sometimes dread using you.
I’m sorry I tend to overstay my welcome–
it’s hard to leave your company.

I’m sorry for mistreating you.
I’m sorry you had to see me dance.
I’m sorry for dropping so many shampoo bottles on you.
I’m sorry for bringing in a guest with me–
you really didn’t deserve that one.

You watched me grow.

Thank you for listening to my shower singing.
Thank you for letting me act out arguments and witty responses.
Thank you for helping me figure out my deepest thoughts.
Thank you for washing my tears away.

You deserve better.



I used to be proud of my name.  When I was little, I got “picked on” about it a few times. I never cared, though, because “Grossman” meant “Strong Man” and “Maya Grossman” was a strong name. I was strong.

Sometimes I feel like a flower. “Maya” is too soft for me. “Maya” is too pretty for me. “Maya” doesn’t fit the jaded, hard-ass person attached to the name.

I’ve always wondered what the “T” in “T Hetzel” stood for. I don’t think I really want to know, though. Learning her name would be the equivalent of a magician revealing their tricks to the audience. “T” is a badass name and I wish I was strong enough to handle mine.