The Most Authentic Lucille


Life isn’t easy at all right now. I basically broke down in a diner when I regaled Korey with details on how I basically lost all hope for existence. 

Shit was bleak. 


This is about what happened after. How, in the darkness of a cool October night, Korey and I went back home, where I started to listen to the music of my youth, and I returned back to myself.

It’s amazing what memory does to lift the spirit. I’m currently listening to “Jack’s Lament” from Nightmare Before Christmas, and it has done absolute wonders in soothing me. Just like Jack, reeling from the defeat of trying to make Christmas his own,  I begin to feel “my own bony fingers again,’ and I am snapped out of my depression, and into a more comfortable version of myself. 

I hate living here. I hate that I feel stuck. I hate that I can’t do jack shit but wake up super early, sit in an hour to an hour and a half traffic in the morning, turn around, do it again FOREVER till…what? 309 days?

None of this is awesome nor eloquent, but I have to jot it down. Not just for myself, but for others. Things are…rough. This year is going to be a long one, and honestly, living in this city is the worst thing for me. It’s too big. I live too far away. I have too much of a commute. 

No one that knows Atlanta can fault me for any of this. I feel like I am on the losing side of every which way equation. 

Still, I found God.

For real. 

As of this week, Krystal N. Ladue is a convert to the Catholic Faith. 

I have really, super duper, personal reasons for all of this, but they will stay really, super duper personal. I just tell everyone that I am going full Flannery O’Conner, and leave it at that. 

I miss the Krystal “Lucille” of 2008-2013. They had more than what I will ever have now — the blind faith of honest hope. 

I don’t do that anymore. I have lost *literally* (and I do mean literally) almost everything that I have loved/held dear. 

There is nothing left, save for my mother and sister. 

I am in free reign to do as I wish.

That is where I am letting God step in. 

I have my cat to think about.

Some call it “fatalistic.”


But honestly, I believe in the tenets of the Catholic Church. I just don’t believe in any of the anti-woman anti-feminist shit. 

Don’t worry about me. I wrote an entire diatribe about this, and the internet ate it. 

Just get this. 

Depressed? Yes. Hateful? No.

But, I am allowed my religion. I just need God now. I have nothing of myself to offer. 


FQ by LaskowitzPictures

13 days


FQ by LaskowitzPictures

13 days

(via iloveyoulouisiana)

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the point of fics set in alternate universes are to show that no matter what setting or circumstance, these two people will always find each other. i will find you. every me loves every you." —(x)

(Source: ollystarlings, via noelsfielding)


I’m having a bad day.

I’m desolately poor, even though I brave I-85 twice a day and get there from 7:45 each morning, to 5:00 each afternoon. 

I spend all my money on gas. 

I don’t have my cat. I can’t have my cat. My cat is forgetting who I am. 

I came to this fucking city to be with friends, and I rarely see them. Save for Korey, I am mostly alone. I can’t afford the two gallons of gas it takes for me to go into the city. 

I am desperate. 

I just got denied food stamps. 

I don’t know how I am going to afford New Orleans. 

I don’t know how I am going to afford gas after New Orleans. 


I want to quit AmeriCorps, and just try again in a more forgiving locale. 

My mother tells me that I can’t do that, that she’ll call me back because she’s at an O’Charley’s, and then radio silence. 

"Korey won’t let you starve."


It’s not even cold yet. How the fuck am I going to make it through winter, if I am having this much trouble in October?

Rarely, me moving to places are aberrations in judgment. They serve a greater purpose. They allow me to get from one place to another. 

Atlanta is no such place. Atlanta is a place of suffering. 


The sirens come
They always will
But the dart between my heart and his
Is as good as a diamond chain

Rest in the bed of my bones
All that I want is a home
And all you can do
Is promise me bold
That you won’t let me grow dark
Or cold
As long as we both shall live.

This is why we can't have nice things


I feel like I’m settling for cheap substitutes.

There’s a man in the next room that looks like my first love, but he isn’t. It’s as if I am on a perpetual widow’s walk; pacing throughout the years, just hoping for my love to return.

He’s not. I most likely will break down one day , and travel…


Sadly, a trip to Oregon is out of the question. 

I still have his number saved, just in case.