The prompt for February 13 was to write about a turning point in your life.

FEBRUARY 13

"Tell me your turning point,"

he said.

Dammit, I know

what it is, but I 

wish I had to think

about it more.

I wish I had to mull

over my turning point.

I wish I had to debate

whether it was when I

looked in the mirror,

junior year, realizing 

that the ugly duckling

was a little less ugly.

Or maybe, it was

the first day of college;

fresh start and shit.

But it wasn't.

Weird that Whitney was 20.

Maybe it isn't weird;

I'm 20, well, almost.

20, spine cracked,

fragile, coma intensive.

I'm not that kind of 20.

I sit on my bed,

writing about her,

heating pad on high,

peanut pretzels

in a bowl.

I almost want

to ask her

what it was like

on the driver's side.

T-boned, neck split.

Sometimes it hits

me at weird times.

But maybe it's not weird.

Not weird that she left

on the thirteenth

and that this was the assignment

and that I sit here

on hard, black plastic

and tell about her

fucked up death

to people I hardly know.

20, and I haven't done anything.

But maybe she hadn't either.

That's not true,

I know it's not.

She had done things.

But not really, you know?

Not turning point things.

She's my turning point thing.

Whitney sits in a box,

burnt down into a gold urn.

20 years old.

What if she were me?

Maybe it isn't weird.

Love from Pullman,

The Blonde and The Bullshit