The Hipster Brigade
through the looking glass
last year my window looked out to four brick walls. i was surrounded by six other windows -- the poor man's television. just across the way i could see his face at his computer. i was tempted to write notes for him on my window, "i am watching you," one would say or "how's the action?" he had a girlfriend and i simply saw none of the action.
to my left there was a fisher college window. two obnoxious boys blaring tejano and rap at all hours of the day, most likely when i was about to take a nap. i don't miss them one bit. even if they complimented my ass once.
when i picked this year's room, i picked it for the window. i didn't care how packed in the room we would be, i wanted to be able to see the rain and the snow and wake up to the smell of sunshine. i wanted the window to my self. my roommate wanted to share. this was not going to work.
when i got the call about my single this summer. i was ecstatic. my own window. the first question i asked, "does the window have a view?" she told me that it overlooked the boston common. flashbacks of freshman year when my window overlooked the beacon hill skyline and the angel
in the park.
she turns on every light in her apartment as soon as it gets too dark to see. she scratches her thigh and i can tell she's pretty. i've been watching her for days now. she goes out on the weekend and only the bedroom lights stay on. she stays in during the week and i only see glimpses of her from one room to the next.
at 4:30 am, i can hear seagulls outside my window. never just birds, only seagulls. the dog barks at the trashman. car alarms throughout the day. drunk college kids yelling some incoherent psycho babble. operas. it's all outside my window.
i figure if i don't feel like going outside, i can live through my window. it brings everything to me.
if i don't die or worse, i'm going to need a nap
i sit up like startled from the worst nightmare. there's no reason for me to be up. no one is online. there's nothing good out the window. there's no fire alarm to tend to. i can keep sleeping.
there is no way i'm getting back to sleep. not this second. maybe in an hour or so.
i check my email. one friendster message. from mike. i play fowl words
. i masturbate. i listen to the justiny playlist. (it should be known that i'm not listening to it while masturbating). i speak to whoever is still awake. why am i still awake?
i never have trouble falling asleep after talking to you, but you aren't around. sometimes two weeks seems like two years.
i should have stopped when i saw his puma shoes.
this one goes out to all my peeps
hi, it's really nice to be able to entertain you on a semi-daily basis with my useless rambling. i'm really glad you like it. i'm just giving you a heads up that my birthday is on september 9. you know, 9/9. one year the mtv video music awards were held on that day. it was awesome, just like me. also, when i was turning 9 years old there was a parade right by my house. a parade on my birthday. just for me. i bet you guys don't feel as special now, huh? so like, what i was thinking is that you pervs could at least remember to wish me a happy birthday. it's in 11 days. eleven. on a tuesday. if you really feel obligated to buy me something because you would like to show your undying love and affection for me, well you can do that, too. i'm just asking that no one forgets. also, i like my birthday.
p.s. i'm turning twenty-two. w00t!
another reason you should visit
MarysBigTeeth (8:44:47 PM): whats up
a rusted pillow (8:45:20 PM): there's a classical concert out of my window
MarysBigTeeth (8:45:53 PM): your fucking window is like the porthole to narnia
so i guess it's not in my closet afterall.
"you're so vain. you probably think this song is about you."
sometimes when i'm speaking with someone i become formless. not formless like a puddle, formless in the sense that i can't tell i'm alive and breathing. i realize i'm moving and talking, but i can't sense my being. i forget what my face looks like. i look down at my hands and feet to make sure they are still there. i'm sure it's this affliction that makes me look into mirrors all the time. i need to know i'm still alive.
there's a mirror by the elevator that i peer into while waiting. i fix my hair and touch my face. sometimes it's hard to realize something exists unless you touch it to make sure it's real. or still there.
i'm not a ghost yet.
tis a bit sketchy in here
thought: mr. sketch (scented). it's black, immediately i can identify it as licorice even before opening the cap. when did colors become flavors?
afterthought: if the marker warns me not to inhale. why is it scented?
i'm no wendy
i've always preferred real kisses to Hershey's kisses, but if peter pan were to offer me a thimble i would be touched.
road side visitor
on his sign read:
i am hungry. please help me. god bless you.
in the third installment, tobey maguire will be replaced by a gangly black hobo.
things overheard in a chinese buffet
two children (boy and girl, i believe) with mother. they are sitting behind us.
boy offers something to mother. mom says, "mommy doesn't want it. please shut up."
same mother: "the only way to inherit money is if someone dies. you don't want mommy to die, do you?"
boy: "mom, are we like the T-Rex?"
mom: "in what way?"
boy: "in the way we eat meat."
the table in front of us. there are two brothers and their father. they just came from some sporting practice.
younger brother: "i'm not afraid of hitting. i love killing people!"
the restaurant sits everyone together in a big mass in the middle. perhaps to make the restaurant look crowded. it makes my mom, sister and i pretty uncomfortable. it's like being in an elevator with your enemies.
there are two boys chasing each other around and around the tables. i feel like they are playing duck duck goose but ignoring the main goal of playing. suddenly, the big brother breaks out in tears. it's the loudest sound i've heard. like the alarm clock in the morning or the fire alarm in the middle of the night. the squeal of butchered pigs.
i give my mom this look like, "please, dear god, please get me out of here alive." we barely make it. when we walk outside it's pouring rain.
the new husband
for a brief second i think i see the full moon, then i realize it's just a reflection of the room light in the window.
when it rains, it pours
it's a sunday afternoon. it's the best time to get something done. the library is empty and i own it. i own the dance floor and i control the tape deck. i'm dancing with billy idol and adam ant and the human league. rewind in time to that british comedy in the eighties. i'm the DJ for the disco scene. i kick my shoes off because i can and i know that the dog won't run away with them.
but it always happens around the 612s. the itch. the ache. it's nothing that a cream can solve.
i'm wet from the Johnson novels again. i just keep flipping pages till i see the words "thrusting" or "cock" or "bosom" and i know i've struck gold. my back is up against the wall that reads "Quilting Corner." on thursdays, this place will be bustling with older women. mature woman, if you will. this afternoon, it's the quarter only porn machine at the local "adult" store.
it always takes me about fifteen minutes to actually get in the mood. then i put the book down and use my imagination. i'm probably thinking after the first orgasm that i wish some stranger would come by and hold my breasts while i did the important work. so then i have to use both hands -- one on my right breast, another steadily rubbing my clit. it's after the second, i start thinking i would like a boy. any boy. right this second. and by the time that thought is through, i'm too exhausted to even care.
my panties on the ground. my skirt hiked up. shirt bunched. i keep wondering if those threatening signs on the shelves are really true. "due to recent theft we are monitoring the library." i wonder if they get off on it in the back room.
every thursday greta exclaims, "what's that smell?"
dance party fever
my room is the size of a closet and my closet is the size of a telephone booth. i've considered renting one of these
to live in instead. i'd place it outside the LB right in front of the Boylston Inbound stop. there really is no better place for it.
my room is right next to the bathroom. i share it with a boy that doesn't put the seat down.
there are four doors in my room. i decided to open all of them while looking for the closet. the first one i opened lead out to the hall. the second lead me into another single. i'm very glad that person has not moved in yet. i might go hang out in their room for a bit today. the third was finally my closet. the fourth door is my exit/entrance, but with all these options i'll never be bored again. perhaps if i peel off the paint to my closet, i'll find narnia or another closet.
my window that looks out of the common. well, it looks out at a fire escape and people's patios. this morning i got to hear a dump truck making some sort of deposit along the street, and yesterday the jazz festival gets an 8 because it wasn't polka or some local cover band.
my chair wobbles.
last night, when i went to sleep i noticed that the first door gives off a strip of light from the hallway. it's small but it's there. i suppose i can look at it as a built in night light.
despite everything. i'm settling in just fine.
my mouth tastes like...email OR just another piece of spam or something to really think about?
What is the truest definition of Globalization?
Princess Diana's death.
Why you ask?
Your answer: An English princess with an Egyptian
boyfriend crashes in a French tunnel, driving a German
car with a Dutch engine, driven by a Belgian who was
drunk on Scottish whiskey, followed closely by Italian
Paparazzi, on Japanese motorcycles, treated by an
American doctor, using Brazilian medicines! And this
is sent to you by an American, using Bill Gates'
technology, and you're probably reading this on one of
the IBM clones, that use Taiwanese-made chips, and a
Korean-made monitor, assembled by Bangladeshi workers
in a Singapore plant, transported by lorries driven by
Indians, hijacked by Indonesians, unloaded by Sicilian
longshoremen, trucked by Mexican illegals, and finally
sold to you in a Super Store, with a sales force
representing at least six nationalities, most of whom
have difficulty communicating to you in your mother
That, my friend, is Globalization
this summer i've been waiting to go back to boston. i left boston only to go back. i couldn't wait to get back on the plane. the plane out of nowheresville, texas.
my misanthropic ways got in the way of working, but the game where i ignore all my co-workers doesn't work. they smile and i crack under pressure.
all the places that were supposed to feel like home felt brand new. everyone saying hi to me felt like strangers.
"Diana, please come to this party?"
"Do I know you?"
"Diana, how has Emerson been?"
no one seemed to catch on that something was wrong inside me. that slowly i was starting not to care. that nights became friends and mornings became enemies. the months some big count down till the ball drops and it either crushes me or sends me to some place i'll recognize.
i try to think of a reason to stay here. i can't think of any but i can't move. i just suffocate under the sheets.
i hang out 5 times this summer with people who are supposed to be my friends. i barely recognize their faces. i don't really want to.
why am i more excited to hang out with someone i haven't even met? maybe because there's still promise.
fuck you (an ode to my self-conscious)
i feel like i hate you more than before
it's not very rational of me
to become jealous of your writing
it's not that good
the way you are always changing your format
and stolen all my best lines
somewhere back there i lost the one thing that meant the most to me
you are in love with him
and i hate it
excuse me, what did you say?
my sister: your gums are dark red. do you drink blood?
This is not Basho
ever since i found cometbus
, i've been aching to make a zine. i did make one when i was 18. some ode to reel big fish. it wasn't that bad (highlight: the cover had the word "ska" written over and over again) but it wasn't that great either. it didn't stand out in anyway. if you've read my archives than you've read the content of my zine.
This is Not Basho is the title of my new zine. i'm still working on content but i'm sure i have enough haikus somewhere to fill it. i wrote these the same night i did the audiopost. as soon as my head hit the pillow, it started writing haikus. i had to wake back up and write them down.
the big dipper, gone
stolen out of the night sky
i would blame the moon
car window is jammed
the oxygen level low
you are still smiling
if we runaway
escaping your fantasy
don't forget the cat
in the life of...
a rusted pillow (3:00:11 AM): but why would i be in a bunny suit?
Grn Smilie (3:04:01 AM): I dunno. In my mind, Protagonist arrives at their new house after a three hour drive, most of which is stuck in traffic on a stifling summer day. When Protagonist gets to the house, which is pretty much empty, Protagonist immediately goes to the bathroom, strips, takes a shower, leaves everything there, and crawls into bed nude, cause it's so hot. And then, the next day, Protagonist wakes to discover that the entire bathroom is missing. And there's a troupe of girl scouts outside, so Protagonist can't go outside. And the only thing wearable in the house is a bunny suit in a cardboard box in the basement.
some days this seems like a plausible scenario.
sometimes i like playing the abductee
a rusted pillow (3:04:30 AM): it was inside someone's van
a rusted pillow (3:04:36 AM): and they were loading stuff inside
a rusted pillow (3:04:42 AM): i would have hit him first with the dryer
a rusted pillow (3:04:44 AM): too much trouble
pretttyinblack (3:04:47 AM): haha
pretttyinblack (3:04:54 AM): and then he would have hit back and abducted you
a rusted pillow (3:05:30 AM): cool.
a rusted pillow (3:05:39 AM): i kept asking for someone to kidnap me
a rusted pillow (3:05:44 AM): but no one would
pretttyinblack (3:05:49 AM): and forced you to work in his house of pancakes
pretttyinblack (3:06:05 AM): you'd have to wear a floppy pancake hat
pretttyinblack (3:06:14 AM): and tell everyone the specials
pretttyinblack (3:06:20 AM): and sweep up late at night
pretttyinblack (3:06:39 AM): and you'd have to live in the ceiling with all the other pancake house slave girls
pretttyinblack (3:06:54 AM): and dream of one day running away to live at a waterslide park
pretttyinblack (3:07:16 AM): end.
call me...or don't
for one whole summer i wrote my name in the dirt. i actually wrote two names in hopes it would come true. the other name doesn't matter so much anymore. something made up so my name wouldn't be so lonely. jonas scrawled after the plus sign. just a holding place.
i would walk past it everyday at the same time in the hopes of some response. someone answering my diana + somebody = something scenario. some desoto prince charming pining for my affections. some competion. something like, "oh yeah...that band rocks" would also have been acceptable. most of all i wanted someone to take notice. i was curious if they wondered who i was. if they hid in the bushes to catch a glimpse. if they got disappointed and slumped away or if they were too shy. if they fished in the creek? if they walked their cat? if they were anyone i would care to meet.
i've given up the dirty games though.
i woke up the world's best writer. just for a few seconds, i was somebody.
this morning i did not hate:
my job. my life. my cats. my dog. my family. my music. my computer. myself.
today was a good day.
happiest place on earth
i didn't intend to fall in love with her. it just happened. it has nothing to do with her haircut. her face. her body. more to do with her mind. her smile. her eyes. the small gestures.
"she reminds me of you." i sometimes get. i suppose i'm the strage girl. always a little displaced. but it's silly to live the life of a movie. to want to be someone made up. it's not based on a truth. it's based on someone's imagination. this is not real.
i am not her.
but slowly she has taken over my blog. my choices. my winamp. my dvd drive. my icons. my mind. she is sitting in there skipping stones in the tears that have yet to spill out.
i'd learn french to be a little closer. to be a little more like amelie.
someone once told me that if you watched amelie with someone that you'd fall in love with them. not amelie. but the person. maybe both. but i'm much too selfish to share. she is mine. i'd like to think. even if just in my own little world. she's my obsession.
. NY with no lights.
who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?
cardboardartisan (2:23:03 AM): >:o
a rusted pillow (2:23:08 AM): oh no!
a rusted pillow (2:23:10 AM): what is wrong?
cardboardartisan (2:23:21 AM): girls cannot keep secrets!
a rusted pillow (2:23:49 AM): i am guilty.
a rusted pillow (2:23:53 AM): *raises hand*
a rusted pillow (2:23:56 AM): can i know?
cardboardartisan (2:24:00 AM): hahaha. it's okay i suppose.
a rusted pillow (2:24:03 AM): since "she" spilled the beans.
cardboardartisan (2:24:31 AM): were there beans?
a rusted pillow (2:24:43 AM): were there?
cardboardartisan (2:25:07 AM): were any beans in existance?
a rusted pillow (2:25:46 AM): there are some beans, i'm sure.
a rusted pillow (2:25:52 AM): maybe in the cabinet in the background.
a rusted pillow (2:25:57 AM): pinto, i'd say.
cardboardartisan (2:29:00 AM): ...
Exit Music (for a film) by Radiohead
Wake.. from your sleep
The drying of your tears
Today we escape, we escape
Pack.. and get dressed
Before your father hears us
Before all hell breaks loose
Breathe, keep breathing
Don't lose your nerve
Breathe, keep breathing
I can't do this alone
Sing.. us a song
A song to keep us warm
There's such a chill, such a chill
You can laugh
A spineless laugh
We hope your rules and wisdom choke you
Now we are one in everlasting peace
We hope that you choke, that you choke
We hope that you choke, that you choke
We hope that you choke, that you choke
Thom: "The song is written for two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts."
another reason i should be banned for life
i joined this
. i probably didn't need to. look at my incredible taste on there. it looks faintly like an overplayed playlist that the musicpimp sent me.
No Rain by Blind Melon
All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
And all I can do is just pour some tea for two
and speak my point of view
But it's not sane, It's not sane
I just want some one to say to me
I'll always be there when you wake
Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today
So stay with me and I'll have it made
And I don't understand why I sleep all day
And I start to complain that there's no rain
And all I can do is read a book to stay awake
And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape
All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
ya don't like my point of view
ya think I'm insane
Its not sane......it's not sane.
rain rain everyday, yeah.
it's been so hot here that opening the front door of your house let's in a block of air similiar to opening up the oven door when your vegan chikin nuggets are ready.
now it's raining. for the last four days. the air is thick with humidity. the storms are strong and full of booms and crashes. the clouds making music of their own. something to compete with what's coming out of my window. i like to turn it down. i like to watch the rain slice through to the window. stopped only by the glass. barely anything a barrier. i think of eeyore and his continual grey cloud -- jealous that he can get that anywhere he walks. i have to wait for the weather. the storms. my favorite part of texas. the lightening and thunder my closest friends. a good book in my lap.
there's something sweet about the smell of rain running down my face.
i am writer. your words are beautiful. too bad they are mine.
there is nothing to be envious about. writing is not an art, it's a pain. i would give it up but we've been together for so long. since age nine i've been filling the white space trying to make a difference. it started as a journal. a small pink notebook. some place where i could cuss and not have my parents know about it. some place to say i hated my friends and not have to deal with the guilt. some place to take it all back when i having a bad day.
i started recording my dreams. my favorite bands. my obsessions. those boys i wasn't allowed to like but did. the journal knew about it. the stupid things i knew i would forget. the first time i thought i was in love. my first kiss. it's all there. all in black blue red ink. i've had about five journals in varying shades since i've been in texas. it spans about nine years. nine years of my life recorded so i can forget and move on.
my mom jokes about publishing it Anne Frank style if i die young. if i go out like a rock star. i tell her no. no one would be interested in what i had for lunch -- grilled cheese -- and my favorite dessert, tiramasu. that's where i'm allowed to be dry. just a big scrapbook where i'm allowed to be boring.
when ideas come to me i have to write them down immediately. i have notebooks, napkins and palms covered with my thoughts. one lines. paragraphs. all spread out.
"she was blue just like the moon. her hair the silver stars connecting the sky."
"she wasn't sure she would like a bagel. she still said yes."
"their names were like the todd oldham kitschy decortation from target. dmg + dkr = awesome, it read against the white insides of the bark."
most of them are useless. they can't go anywhere. just dead ends.
lately, i've been using songs. one liners from songs i like. anything to fill the void where the thoughts should flow easily. it's not always full. my tank runs out of gas and i stare out the window in the middle of the highway. i watch the rain race down the glass. the one on the left wins.
sometimes my writing is a little displaced. i like it that way.
i'm sorry for not sitting next to hugh at mat's birthday party when i was eleven. i'm sorry for flirting with justin. i'm sorry for not saying no. i'm sorry for pushing you at that show. i'm sorry for the new kids on the block. i'm sorry for not being your friend, just because you didn't like smashing pumpkins. i'm sorry for saying i hated you. i'm sorry for forgetting to give you a valentine in grade school. i'm sorry for saying i had a crush on you. i'm sorry for wanting you to die. i'm sorry for eating that cow. i'm sorry for spitting on the sidewalk. i'm sorry for forgetting my umbrella at the boston public library. i'm sorry for the bastard that stole my umbrella. i'm sorry for the animals that die of carbon monoxide poisoning in the shelters. i'm sorry for not wearing skirts more often. i'm sorry for being so quiet in class. i'm sorry for not raising my hand. i'm sorry about blurting out the answer. i'm sorry for not saying what was on my mind. i'm sorry that i thought about slicing my wrists for five months. i'm sorry i didn't give goat cheese a chance. i'm sorry i don't like hawaiian pizza. i'm sorry for dancing around in my room. i'm sorry for the people on the fourth floor of the student union who saw me dancing. i'm sorry for dismissing soundgarden and nirvana when i was twelve. i'm sorry for not liking the nice boy. i'm sorry about the scene. i'm sorry i said things just to get your attention. i'm sorry for thinking i'm better than you. i'm sorry for not believing in god. i'm sorry for geletin. i'm sorry about stepping on that earth worm. i'm sorry for not smoking. i'm sorry for not listening to my mother. i'm sorry for crying so loudly. i'm sorry for kissing that boy. i'm sorry i used you for the kisses. i'm sorry for asking. i'm sorry for not writing sooner.
this is an idea i've carried around inside my head for awhile now. here's the plan:
i'd like to open up a automobile repair shop, but instead of hiring fat white men, i'd hire big breasted women. the name of this place would be Honkers. our constumes would be those blue button-down shirts shrunk way too small with our name tags found right above the left breast.
sabrina is already my head mechanic.
i know that some of you are thinking this is disrespectful for the women, but if you think about it, we have the upper hand. we have good looks and the ability to fix cars. not to mention men like tits and i'd bet they would go for this idea. tits and cars. what could be better for the aveage joe? i bet Fievel would dig it.
if things don't work out, i've got a plan
sometimes going to college is tiring. paying bills and going to class and trying to be a "good student." sometimes i want to give it all up. i want to leave and become a stripper. this is not something i pine over, but could eventually be coaxed into trying. it doesn't require anything but skillz. i must say that having that pole installed in my room has inspired many routines.
being a stripper requires courage and gusto. two things i'm definately not without. i'd love to shake my titchatas in the face of some businessman for twenty dollars. in the end, they are the ones being shorted out. they get to go home with an erection and jack off to some perfected image of my body. i get to go home and use the money to buy muffins. eventually, i may save up enough to where i can go back to school, but by then i may not want to go.
i'm pretty sure one of my costumes would have to be pirate wench, but i'd need help taking off that corset. i'd like my stage name to be Betty Buck.
fuck the hippie shit
so, here i am caught up with karma or maybe karma caught up to me. i got a lovely notice in the mail today from Mr. and Mrs. Emerson. it reads:
"Hi, you will be booted from your room unless you get to us by Friday. Have a shitty day in the best way possible. Dai pls. Thanks."
so here i am. my mom has tried repeatedly or so she says to talk to me about this and i've ignored her each time. we have waited till the last minute again. it's not just this we have to tackle but Rome as well. my sister needs a passport and a student visa. why we couldn't do this months ago...i have no clue.
i don't know what fate is trying to tell me now.
that strage girl
i have seven tic tacs in my mouth at once. white peppermint. they lay on my tongue. i can feel the burn from the peppermint. i'm petting the cat and looking at the full moon. i keep thinking this is a "crime watch" neighborhood, someone is going to call the cops. i keep pacing and the cat is following me up and down the sidewalk. i see 1...2...3 cars pass. none are his. he is hopelessly lost and i start to turn around to go back inside. i keep giving him five more minutes. five more minutes. i tap my toe. five more minutes.
then two cars come up. two. one keeps going as i smile through the window. it's not him. one turns in front of my house. i see his mohawk before i see him. i jump in the car, just as a cop car goes past. my heart stops. the cop car doesn't. i breath easy. i spit out my last tic tac in the front yard.
"so like, do you have something?" he smiles that grin. he gives me the face. i know it. i know it too well. his windshield is broken and i'm thinking that maybe this is a bad idea. "let's go to a convenience store."
we pull into a gas station parking lot and loop around like we own the joint. there is man on his cell phone. there are two cars getting gas. it's 2:30 am and all the rapists are out. the store is closed. i feel a little bit better.
"let's go to the library." i have the key. the key to the city's library. we keep laughing and i keep saying, "umm...yeah" and "mm hmm." it's not like i haven't known him for seven years. i have. i know his face. i know his looks. he gives me one.
i stop and he looks at me. "i was just thinking you're a strange girl." i nod. i am. i just snuck out of the house at 2:30am. i think about someone else as he kisses my neck. "you said you were hanging out with alvaro? i hate alvaro." and i do. and he just looks at me again.
we trade places. we trade glances. when it's over. when he has to go home because he knows his parents are awake and worrying about him. because he's paranoid. because i'm not. it always works like that. he says, "you never look in my eyes." then i stare and he stares. "i just noticed, you have pretty eyes." and he says, "yeah, you too." i nod.
i can't taste the tic tacs anymore.
if you listen close
sometimes when i listen to certain bright eyes songs, i can hear a dial tone or a phone off the hook. is it just me?
when you grow up you often think of yourself as having a certain job. when i was a little girl there was nothing i wanted more than to be a waitress. i wrote paper menus. the name of my fine establishment, "The Golden Eagle." i served loads of pasta dishes. i couldn't wait to balance a silver tray on one hand and pour pitchers of water. it's funny, i still wouldn't mind being a waitress.
i also thought about being an acrobat. i liked the idea of flying and the sequined outfits were just a plus. it looked like a lot of fun. i never did gymnastics growing up, maybe i should have.
there was a brief time when i wanted to be a playboy bunny. i didn't know anything about having sex with hugh hefner, but the magazine did appeal to me. i had never seen one, but i'd heard of them from other sources. i DID live in a neighborhood of all boys. i'm sure they had some stashed under their mattresses. perhaps it was my tendency to lift my shirt for them. flash the boys. i was only ten, so it wasn't like there were breasts, just promises for the future. i remember my next door neighbor asking me to do it. forcing me. i remember yelling no several times and his mother walking out of the house. i don't remember what he said but i knew he was wrong.
my love for dave coulier made me an avid fan of comedy. i knew i was as good a comic as sinbad. he stole one of my jokes. i never got farther than saying i wanted to be the next ellen. but less gay.
boys with mullets fascinated me in the 8th grade. jaromir jagr's especially. i wanted to be the next woman in the NHL. i almost applied to the University of Toronto and went to a specialized high school there. nevermind i didn't know how to ice skate. i used to practice with my best friend in her room with street hockey equipment. i thought i was pretty good. watch out BELFOUR.
then i had a band. we didn't actually play instruments but we dreamed about it. some of our names were Corgan, Boxite and then finally Siva. they were all my ideas. i had a new cooler name for myself, Jaide. i don't think we would have made it. there is no way i wanted to be called jaide for as long as we were not famous.
now, i'm a writer. the job that never goes away. anyone can say they are a writer, but even your best tries are mediocre. i know there is too much competition for me to stand out, but i'd still like to be on the spine next to all the other Reagans.
P.S. if you're ever walking around and you see a record store called a haus. it might be me. [insert city name] record haus. but by then things might have changed.
according to justin's
journal, i should already be reading this writer
it took me this
entry to get me there. something about that last line even though almost anyone could have said it and it wouldn't have made me like them any better, just him. just fader.
then there was the name controversy. how not knowing his name was sorta creepy to me. at least with other people i had some sort of hints. some clues. with fader i felt like it could be anyone. anywhere. it reminded me of darth vader and not in that cool sci-fi nerd way either.
i talk to janice about this problem. she tells me that fader is a hot enough name or something. she likes the mystery. i hate it.
...but i'm a little like nancy drew with a dash of james bond, and it's safe to say that i can read him and not be creeped out anymore. i'm the most excited about finding this out.
also, eventually i would have let it go. you have to do that when you find someone that really should
be read -- no matter how creepy his name is to me.
"I've decided, I should always carry my passport around (once I renew it) and have a nicely shaved cunt 'cause I don't know where life will take me."
taken from this girls
isn't there anyone?
when i was a little girl, my boyfriend came in the form of a pizza delivery boy. his name was Tim. i didn't know what a boyfriend was exactly, i just knew i wanted one. i saw them everywhere on television. it was just the thing to do. as i got older, my boyfriend changed to movie stars to rock stars to bike messengers to losers to jerks to assholes. now my boyfriend is this empty space on my arm and imaginary fingers intertwined inbetween mine.
for the math nerds
description. it's worth it.
one less day of being in misery
when i wake up, i can still feel last night's headache. my muscles ache from sleeping all night. i feel like my body is collasping in on itself. the next syep is surely self destruction. i'm ready for novacaine.
i've been set to this room before. it's the size of the discipline corner in kindergarten except this time i don't have to wear a hat. i look around the room. i'm not in the mood for babies, couples or the handicapped. bible stories lie under the coffee table. "miss reagan?" i answer "mm hmm" from across the room. we are basically face to face anyways. "could you please come the window?" i don't see how going to the window is going to keep what you have to say to me secret. i can hear everything you say to everyone else at the window. she shuts the glass on my face. i walk two steps and sit down.
i just know that if the baby cries, i'm going to lose it. i survey the room again. my weapons: good housekeeping's and sports illustrated's thrown like ninja stars, boring into your forehead. i feel a little better.
the lady with crutches takes up more than her alloted space. she speaks loudly into her cell phone. it plays "yankee doodle dandy" twice and i just know i'm going to lose it.
a teenage boy steps into the reception area with his mother. he is carrying a notebook and i feel at ease with a kindred soul. he also has moby dick
. i watch him. he opens up his notebook and i can see him hesitant with words. then 123 they pour out. just a trickle. i wonder if he's writing about how small the room is like me or he's writing about Ishmael. he looks at me, i smile back.
i think about sex. they call my name. they apologize for running a little late. i nod my head.
i wonder what the doctor would say if he caught me masturbating in the dentist chair. "oh, um...i'll come back later." instead, i watch an airplane fly by outiside the window. i imagine it catching on fire and crashing into the tiny room. the baby on fire. i want to play the hero.
i'm (almost) twenty-two. i've had two root canals on the same tooth. the "black dot" is getting smaller. he can't assure me of anything. he shakes my hand and orders me back in four months. "truly, madly, deeply" plays overhead. i think about sex in the ocean.
i know where i'd rather be.
just another reason to become vegetarian
not for the weak
you might be a nerd if you...
there's this series of books about a unicorn girl. her name's Acorna. she has hooves for feet, a little horn on her head and long silver hair. i really want to read them.
less than subtle
my birthday is a math equation. 9 x 9 = 81. *nudge nudge* also, if you can't give me ryan adams this year, i understand.
do mermaids have vaginas?
why the fuck does a mermaid need a vespa?
have you ever seen the boys that air guitar to their favorite songs at shows? i find them both irresistable and hilarious.
my fake dad is a vegetarian. that's right, mr. rogers. he says, "i won't eat anything that has a mother."
today i overhear, "someone doesn't know how to shelve books here." it stops me. i halt. i puff. i turn back to see who says it. two teenage girls sit on the ground by the 512s, probably looking for algebra books. i want to walk up to them. "excuse me, would you like to volunteer? i shelve books here four days out of the week. these books you see out of order aren't because of me. they are because of you. thanks." i also want to hit their heads with nerf bats like that groundhog game at chuck e. cheese. instead, i walk past and close my ears and hum bright eyes.
i'm not holding my breath
i've seen him here before. he's a volunteer. i hold my breath. he's one of the few men in the library that aren't over sixty years old. i think of ways to talk to him. my intentions are for more than a friendly chat though. there are a string of conversation starters racing through my brain. do you go to desoto high school? do you have a girlfriend? when's the last time you kissed someone? would you make out with me? i get nervous. i just stare. these are harmless thoughts. i shelve books to get my mind off things.
i can't help the ache. april 21st was a long time ago.
i'm relieved when i see him leave. i can relax without the distraction.
then he's in the R's. straightening my books. here's my chance.
me: they gave you the fun job, eh?
him: yeah. (chuckle)
me: do you go to desoto high school?
me: oh. when do you start school?
him: august 18th or something.
me: oh. i was just curious.
he walks off.
sigh of relief. i was really afraid that would have turned into a sexual harrassment lawsuit.
tax free weekend and endless bad dreams about pinecones
the sky is overcast
like faded navy chucks
i bite my lip and curl my fringe
nervously with my finger
waiting can be so hard
95% is not a sure thing
but it's as close as I've
i'm not really sure how it's supposed to work
i keep forcing the pieces to fit
and your eye is next to your chin
i am not picasso
i think i feel the safest
by strong rhythms
instead of strong arms
positively exhausted but in a good way
i'd like to send you daisies
made out of metal exteriors
from old coke cans
look, i can be a poetess
there are times when rainstorms feel like open hugs.
when glass feels like smooth pebbles
and i can ignore the blood on your lip.
i'm sorry about biting too hard.
it just happens.
your open palm signals to me
an ending to the dreams
that we once held.
i didn't really expect anything to turn out right.
the book told me that i did it right.
your fingers looked so pretty
till i placed my fingers together with yours.
i like you so much better when you are with me.
i like the sound of toture
i'm almost twenty-two.
i have two years till i finish college.
i'd really like to have my own record store.
i don't have a home. not a real one.
the last boy i went out with only wanted in my pants.
the last boy i kissed went out with me because he was lonely and bored.
i'm in a town where the library is my life.
twenty-two more days till i get to boston.
my mind is broken.
i was lying there between the 515s (biology) and 610s (health). my shoes on the floor by the 709s (pop art). my soul somewhere around 638s (cats). a breeze over head as a patron steps over me. no thanks you's. no excuse me's. a monopoly on volunteers and i am losing. community chest reads: go to jail. do not pass go. do not collect $200. i'm still lying in the aisle at 6pm. library closes. lights off. everyone leaves. i take a deep breath. next on jerry springer: librarians that lose it and the men that got them there. (fine print: today's show will not include fighting, midgets, or horse fuckers.) i consider the razor in my purse, and then remember it's just a toothbrush. and that cleaning my wrists holds no appeal for me.
there on the floor it's cool. anything above knee high and i begin to suffocate. i browse the lower shelves. i crawl on my knees, eyes sharp on the look out for crickets and spiders, my only companions. it's barely quiet at the library at 6pm. i hear shuffling in the back room. then i realize it's the racoons in the ceiling. i lie on my back again, content on watching through the tiny cracks of plaster. the squeal of babies is discomforting. they'll be asleep in the morning. i wish i could trade places with them. eternity at rest.
then he's there between the fiction bra - che and che - cum. another hideaway. he's wearing blue chucks. his hair is thinning on the sides but he looks barely twenty. he looks wet but it's not raining outside. he scracthes a sideburn and shuffles his feet back and forth. his shoelaces are untied and i immediatly want him to fall on the ground. i want him to see me hiding behind the wheel chair ramp. i want to shout "hello, can i help you?" but it's after hours. it's not part of my job requirement to do that now. i am obsessed with gaining his attention without doing anything at all. i just stare a hole in his back. i figure the hot from my eyes will make him turn around.
he picks up a misplaced Cussler and flips though the pages. he's not concentrating, just leafing through the yellowed pages. this is an old novel from the old library. i've heard this story over and over again. about the tornado and the car and how we moved into the mall.
i think about the toothbrush. i lick my wrists and stroke down my hair. there there.
he puts down his backpack and unzips the top. he's slow to find his treasure. i see his left hand shake at his side. i hear papers, clattering of metal and finally a "thank god." he whispers. he scratches his ear.
i black out.
"are you okay?" i'm being asked. i can see the sun through the skylights. "we thought you had left early. are you okay?"
i say nothing. i see the stretcher leaving from the library. "he was barely twenty." i overhear.
it's a shame. i wanted his last breath.
i don't care what they say about us anyways.
i can't forget the day after valentine's day. february 15th. harvard square. that wave. that we-don't-go-harvard miscommunication. the sex eyes all the way home.
i haven't thought about you all summer. you are just a screen name. a screen name who is always away. a screen name that doesn't say hello. not a single "hey, what's up?" not a single "sal." not a single h-e-l-l-o. this doesn't bother me. it's what you said the last time i saw you. that promise of a birthday present. that "see ya next year." then nothing. no words.
i keep seeing signs for Louisiana. i keep meeting people named Ian. i keep seeing you you you.
five mintues later. still nothing.
I AM WAITING. still nothing.
i am losing. i'm losing because i don't want to talk to you. that awkward hug didn't mean anything. the 123456789 hand hold didn't mean anything. that "that'll work over your stomach" didn't mean anything.
i'm just your "not really a friend" friend. i guess i can handle that, but i really miss that spontaniety.
oh, remember that time you promised to save my life? i could sure use it now.
life is not hair
i'm starting to look like daniel radcliffe if he were a rock star. i decide to see a gay hairstylist. the only reason i mention that he's gay is that the person he is recommended by keeps saying, "he's gay," while covering her mouth and whispering. "the girls make fun of him." she adds.
the "gay man" walks out. he introduces himself. he is mr. rogers if he were gay. i don't feel comfortable around this man. he's too nice. he's too NOT GAY. he's cautious with my hair like this is maybe his first try. he washes it, "is this too cold? is this too warm?" no complaints from me. as long as you don't shave my hair off i'm comfortable.
this haircut is not going okay. he barely cuts any hair. "excuse me, can you try and cut my hair? i can see that recorder behind you playing that snip-snip-snip noise. yeah, thanks." this time i watch him carefully. he's REALLY cutting my hair. it's better. getting better. i think.
he's done. he's blowing dry my hair. i look like tammy faye baker. this is not okay. "um, yeah...can i have a regular hairstyle, please? i'm not an old lady. i'm not mary tyler-moore!!" i think about saying this but instead i see he's fixing it. he can feel the burn from my gaze. i stare him down.
the conversation makes me uncomfortable. it's not okay to hit children. how can you not know who johnny depp is? you haven't seen amelie? you went to new jersey? this is a disaster.
one big breath and i'm out of there. my mom doesn't scream at me because "i look just like her." this is not okay.