The Hipster Brigade
original in blue
a toast to wrists (revised
a toast to wrists (original
this is how i feel about things
lately, my answer to everything has been "kill it." i'd like to think it would be done with those tiny swords used for hors d'oeuvres, preferably in the colour blue.
adv. fiction writing
"my overwhelming deep male voice may make you feel like shit," this is the excuse he gives us for being "too nice." he starts every critique with, "i like it" or this reminds me of [insert famous author here].
our assignments so far:
- write in a gay/lesbian voice about 9/11 (the tragedy, yes)
- write a 500 word character sketch on someone in the class
we don't talk about writing. we don't analyze great authors.
nervously, i read my piece
in class. this is his method. read your piece outloud and than the class critiques you.
no one says anything for ten minutes, then finally a girl says, "this upset me." at first, i'm a little taken aback. she doesn't get it. then i'm proud to have conveyed any emotion to her at all. my job is done. i also think she's an idiot.
the thing that makes this class even more comical is the lack of organization. no one has an assigned date, we just go. someone seems to always have some random piece to hand in. i never hand back my critiques. i don't the time i'd like to spend on them. my intentions are to critique them at home but they just stay in piles on the floor. fiction piles. leftover creativity all over my floor. i hope some crawls up in bed with me at night.
if we're lucky, the music appreciation class next door has some accompanying music to play along as someone reads. last week it was the maple leaf rag by scott joplin. it seems to be one of their favorites as they play it over and over on repeat. this week, it's opera.
every monday, wednesday and friday, i contemplate skipping this class but i have to go just so i have something to write about. it's too bad to pass up.
reliving last week's nightmare
8:30am. alert but slow. my email reads, "sorry." i bullshit an ending. i suddenly wish i'm in greenwich village -- bohemians, beatniks, snapping fingers -- none of this children's writing crap. no writing for 6 year olds. no picture books. no Goodnight Moon.
i keep closing my eyes -- flashes of dreams that i can't remember. i walk down the hall, i forget where i'm going and where my class is. where am i? who am i? i stand dazed in the hallway looking left and right. i wander down the corridor vaguely aware i'm supposed to be going down this way. people brush past me -- dirty looks -- i'm tossed between shoulders like a pinball not wanting to tilt.
i'm suddenly alert. too awake. i keep popping shots of pepsi -- caffiene shots. i'm afraid to eat. afraid of sobering up. things speed up around my eyes. when i turn my head, it's one continous fuzzy blur. fast forward. chipmunk voices. dull light. i stare at my arm -- amused by my thin wrists and hands -- goosebumps are suddently the most amazing thing i've ever seen.
there's a dead bug in my notebook where i'm writing this down. pressed flat between the pages. i bought it this way? i bought it this way! my sleeve slowly scratches his body off the page as i write down the page. no blood. no guts. i bet his relatives are eating my Life cereal. right now. bastards.
the radio today
i think i'd listen to a lot more of the radio these days, if more people had cowbells in their songs.
end result: NEEDS MORE COWBELL!
out of paranoia, i wake up before my alarm goes off. i already used my tardy for work, so i can't be late anymore or else i lose my job. i spend a half an hour reading the same websites on the internet till 6:45am. it occurs to me that i'd like to ask for help, so i can sleep in one day during the weekend, but i won't. i'd feel defeated and i'm much too proud to say i can't do something by myself. i'd rather be miserable than ask for help.
when i look at my watch, it's upside down. i don't bother to turn it the right side up on my wrist. too much trouble. when i grab my stuff to leave, i notice a heads up penny between my sheets. this may be an omen for the future, i don't move it.
sometimes i can be a complete asshole
every since i got yahoo chat, i haven't felt like being nice at all. if you want me to talk to you, steer clear of all these things:
- being over 27
- using "2" or "u" or "r" as words
- asking me if i'm into "casual sex," i mean i might be but certainly not with you
- using broken english
things that interest me:
- johnny depp
- music and by music, i mean music i like
and i'm sure there are a ton of other brillant things i enjoy.
maybe i just don't give a fuck, because i already know i'm awesome.
i think i figured out what sundays are for:
naps and brunch.
i found this on one of my computer disks. it's about 7 years old.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to drop books in the toilet. But I don’t mean standing over it dropping in book after book. I mean by accident. Like, when I’m reading a book in the bathtub and I want to put the book down on the toilet but the lid’s open. Then, kerplunk! Splash!
“Oh, crap.” I say hearing sirens immediately, because it’s a library book - no renewals. They’re sending their goons. What can I do? Panic sets in. Thoughts flash in my mind like projector slides. I pull it out - $125.00. I want to pay, but I’m completely broke. You can’t tell anyone, but you have to use the library. Suicide - it’s the only way. Hara-kiri. I reach for the Lady Lovely disposable razor. I can’t do it! Aaahh, sirens are closer. I run around the bathroom - naked and freezing. Someone knocks.
“Come on. Honestly. You only have one body.”
“OK.” I say sweetly. I’ll still jogging circles with a soggy hardback and hair up turban style.
What to do? What to do? There’s no turning back now. I must lead the life of a library criminal. How will I face my intellectual friends?
Then I think, “Boy, I’m glad this didn’t really happen.”
outtakes from a conversation held this summer on wordpad between my mom and i concerning the internet
Last night, I plead temporary insanity. I think I'll be able to stay "sober" for at least a few days now. I can't quit cold turkey, you know.
I think if you feel you did something that maybe you shouldn't have done, but admit your mistake, it's a good thing. Whenever you realize that something is going to be too hard to do, don't feel defeated, take another course of action. If you do this, I think you will avoid frustration, guilt, and anger.
how are your limits?
four nights ago, i ate cereal for dinner. whole milk and life. i ate four bowls throughout the night.
i always imagined that when i was out of the house i'd eat candy and pizza everyday. i eat more apples than i do candy. i eat more bagels than i do pizza. no, not candied apples and pizza bagels. nothing fancy.
occasionally, when i do go to the grocery store i stock up on the same things. apple sauce, cheese and crackers and oreos. i spend the whole time worrying that mice might break into my room on miniature motorcycles with tiny crowbars. i don't mind their company, i just want them to get their own damn food.
i guess my point is that i'm a lot more responsible adult than i'd like to be, even if i house a gang of rabid mice under my bed.
i hand out smiles like halloween candy
in conversation, i touch my lips. constantly. i tug on the lower lip or trace them with my tongue. i pinch my upper lip when i think. i bite them as well. i'm constantly reapplying lip gloss. i'm obsessed with keeping them moist. i have two tiny pots of blistex in my purse, and another tube of cherry-flavored gloss in my desk drawer.
i've been called a good kisser. i'm pretty sure it's my steven tyleresque lips that help with that.
when i'm about to kiss someone, i always stare at their lips. then i lick mine. sometimes they get the hint.
when i was sixteen, i wanted to get braces. as the orthodontist examined my mouth he said, "i'd have to be careful when readjusting your teeth in order to not give you hispanic or african-american lips."
i never did get braces.
for one whole year, i wore make-up everyday to work. i wore the palest foundation and this reddish lipstick. when i think about wearing that much make-up now, i get sick.
i don't own anymore lipstick, except blue and silver for halloween. people always said i never needed to wear make-up.
said that i looked a bit pale in my pictures. once you move to the east coast, you become translucent.
sometimes the muse is gone
i'm in children's writing class. i found out that children's writing is a lot harder than i thought. i wrote about how i found my dog. my story is terrible you can read it here
when i told my friend matt
what i was doing -- he decided to volunteer to write the last page and than decided to just start from scratch. here's what he came up with:
Eddie the Supermarket Dog
“Katherine, get your shoes on, it’s time to go to the store”!
The only thing Katie hated worse than being called Katherine was having to go to the store with her mother. Why couldn’t she just stay at home with her pet gecko, Spot, and Sam, her box turtle, who liked to eat pieces of lettuce right out of her hand and ducked his scaly head into his shell when she opened the lid of his aquarium too quickly? She was a big girl now, she could take care of herself. Actually, going to the store with Mom might not be so bad, she realized, placing Sam gently back into his glass home. Mom usually let her spend a few minutes with her nose pressed against the windows of the pet store right next to the Safeway, ogling the exotic, colorful birds and reptiles and gazing lovingly at the kittens who mewed preciously with barely opened eyes. But what Katie wanted most of all was a puppy. She imagined big brown eyes and floppy ears, a pink tongue slobbering and a tail wagging happily for her every day when she got home from school.
“I’ll be down in a minute, Mom”! she yelled out her bedroom door.
Katie tugged her socks over her feet, put on her shoes and tied them. She put on her jacket and as she left her bedroom bid her customary farewell to her pets.
“Goodbye, Sam, goodbye, Spot…don’t eat too many of those mealworms while I’m gone!”
And then the author realized he was too drunk and tired and therefore quite incapable of finishing this story within the time allotted. So then he wrote:
Katie trudged slowly down the stairs towards her mother who stood with her purse in one hand and the other hand pointed towards a table which held a three foot length of chain, a bottle of Draino and a funnel, and a copy of Dashboard Confessional’s “MTV Unplugged” performance.
Katie hesitated…Christ, the chain or the Draino…anything’s better than that Dashboard shit…
All of a sudden, Eddie the Supermarket Dog crashed through the window, chewed out Katie’s mom’s throat and then humped the leg of her dead corpse. Katie decided to adopt Eddie and fed her ugly-ass gecko and stupid turtle to him. Then they got married cuz Katie had some serious issues.
you know how sometimes you wish you had a really great story to tell and it'd be the truth and not some fabrication. yeah, that's the above.
when i first got into internet journals, i found one by a british punk boy named kai. he would tell the most fantastical tales. i hadn't yet met sabrina
so i had no idea that people could really live outrageous lives.
since i enjoyed his writing so much, i decided to start emailing him and to my surprise, he wrote back. we wrote back and forth for quite awhile until i just stopped one day. i still read his blog.
today, i just remembered about him and his blog
and was curious if he still kept it up. i was clever enough to find it through google
and now it's linked. don't be afraid of his archives, they are much more brillant than my own.
just another lost idea
my sophomore year of college, i wanted to get those little slippers with the fur trim and a silk robe with the fur trim and sit around in sexy lingerie drinking shirley temples in a martini glass while holding an unlit cigarette in my mouth.
the tale of the photo booth
my mother never liked having her picture taken. she would always shy away from the camera. the most recent photo i have of her was stolen out of her desk, taken two years ago, when she was doing the teacher stint. everything is from a long time ago when there are a thousand pictures of me just sitting or staring or standing or playing or brooding. my sister had rare visits with the camera but her's are magical -- tutus, stuffed animals, crying at her own birthday party.
my dad had to move away to washington when i was seven years old. we took a polaroid of him, so i wouldn't forget what he looked like. he's standing in his white naval uniform. that's the way i like to think of my dad now fifteen years later -- an important man in a nice suit. my mom always told me she liked that uniform, and i liked wearing his hat.
sophomore year of high school, i remember being disappointed i was barely in the yearbook. i'm hiding behind a book or smiling jaggedly at the camera. i never looked like i was at the right place. a misfit. i was voted, "most likable." senior year, i plastered my face on every page since i was on the yearbook. i knew this would be the last time i would belong in any place. i wanted to be remembered.
my high school has a wall of all the graduation photos. i remember spending the afternoons staring at the older ones to the newest -- picking out the people i would never see again. each year i lost someone. i loved seeing the dresses -- it was my version of watching the Oscars. i picked my dress out the day of graduation -- black sleeveless with shooting stars and moons -- it was my grandma's beach dress. everyone looked like cinderella at the ball and i looked like i was ready to play volley ball.
i used to carry around my photo albums to show people. strangers. anyone that would look. they were all pictures of me with various rock stars. i couldn't have been more proud to say that i had met reel big fish, smashing pumpkins, less than jake or the gadjits. it's funny how i keep them in the closet now. just memories of a time i can't relive.
now, there are photo booths. i can't help but want to be inside one when i walk by. i crave the attention of the lens. once instead i forget about the poses i have prepared and end up doing the same blank stare at the camera. i stare at the strips for hours.
i like where this is headed
while other kids went to the park, my family went on outings to the cemetary
. my dad would drive the "wagon" up and down the narrow paths, and we'd press our faces to the windows while my dad read the names outloud.
we would park the car and wander over the graves. not on, because i respected the dead. i'd stare at the graves with the flowers and the ones that didn't have any would always make me sad. i loved the big statues of angels and crosses. the behemoth tombs were always the most intriguing. i always pictured my grave with a huge stone swan, arms spread, watching over me.
i almost had a little brother. my mom said he looked just like me, and i just knew that we would have had tons of fun together. i imagine what he would be like now -- sixteen, tall, handsome. and gay, i think. but he's in the ground now.
i remember standing there at his funeral. i never got to see the body, just a hole in the ground where it was. a priest was there and he made a sermon. a small one. no one was there except for my family. just the three of us standing over the baby's section of the cemetary. when the priest walked away, i whispered into my mother's ear, "what does amen mean? is it like almonds?"
every month my mom would place flowers on brian's grave. he always had flowers.
my mother's father died when i was about five. she cried on the phone as she sat up against the cubbards in the kitchen. she sobbed japanese into the reciever. i didn't cry when i saw grandpa. i would miss him but i didn't cry. he looked really peaceful there. resting and beautiful. i didn't go with them where he was buried, i stayed with this woman named barbara who watched all the kids there. i remember guessing her age and telling her she was 27. i think she was flattered. i remember being scared i would guess too old. she laughed and smiled.
i never saw barbara again. i don't know how she knew the family.
i haven't been to a funeral in ages, but i still enjoy stopping into cemetaries. small ones. nothing here in boston, because it's too famous. it's been done. the last time i went, it was just my mother and i. we stumbled upon a whole family in one plot. the mother had four children who all died at young ages. i remember thinking she must have been lonely, but in death she would never be alone.
Claire’s mom has a hook for a hand, and an eye patch for a left eye. Her smile is like what they show children at the dentist’s office to scare them into flossing. Her front teeth are chipped and her others are Cheetoh-colored crisps barely holding onto her gums. I shake her hook, she smiles bigger.
“Claire has told me so much about you.” She can’t remember before the accident. I remember when her hair was down to the middle of her back, now it’s a barely there piece of black fuzz. Her legs always shiny from just being waxed, now they rest immobile in her wheelchair. She uses her good hand to move closer to me. “So tell me, Ned, how are you?”
“Mom, it’s Nadine.” Every since the accident she can’t remember my real name, she always just calls me Ned. I elbow Claire, I don’t mind humoring her barely-there-mother. At least I have all my limbs intact.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Reese. You look lovely as usual.” She can’t remember what she looks like either. Claire removed all the mirrors in her mother’s room, she can’t see her frizz hair and her curled toes. I brush my hair behind my ear with my finger. Whenever I’m visiting with her, I can feel myself more. I feel the cold metal of the fork in my hand at dinner. I touch my hair, tugging at each red curl. I wiggle my toes in my sneakers, and count each one. I don’t want to end up like Mrs. Denise Reese.
Her husband was visiting her at work that day. She came out looking like a freak show and he went straight to Heaven. I can’t believe her luck, but I think her husband was luckier. I place my hand on Claire’s knee and massage it throw her skirt. She looks at me and I smile back. There’s something comforting knowing that things really can’t get much worse.
Denise quit the surgeries. There was just no point anymore. Claire couldn’t afford the hospital cost, and she refused my checks. “She doesn’t know what happened. Let’s not antagonize the situation,” she would say. “At least, I still have you.”
“So, when is the baby due?” Denise asks. I touch my stomach, my ex-boyfriend’s baby. I walked out on Claire and ended up spending the night at his apartment. I remember stomping out of his apartment and crying in the lobby. He still doesn’t know and I don’t think he will.
“In March, late March.” Claire reaches over and touches my stomach, too. She’s waiting for a kick, something to tell her that it won’t be like her mother. She wants a whole child, not a deformed mess. She can barely look at her mother anymore. That’s why she put her in a home. Some place where people could watch her and she wouldn’t feel obligated to her. Where she wouldn’t have to look at her, ever again, if she really didn’t feel like it. Today, she decided to bring her home.
Denise nods and her frizz moves a little to the right. I reach over and fix it for her. She has it the same way each time I see her. She smiles at me again, and I can feel the Cheetoh crumbs about ready to fall out. I keep wanting to hold a bowl under her chin to catch them, just in case. I don’t want her mother to lose anymore of her body than she has already.
Claire looks at her watch. I squish my toes again in my sneakers and stroke my stomach. I feel like it’s time to go. Sometimes I wish it was her mother going instead of us all the time. We hired a nurse for the weekend to watch after her, if I spend too much time looking at her I begin to forget what I look like. I begin to think that maybe we all look the same. We are all a Denise, at least, just in the inside. Our lungs crumbling and our muscles barely hanging onto our bones. My stomach starts to grumble and I nudge Claire.
“Mom, Miss Becky is here for you. We’ll be back to tuck you in later.” We both scramble to get out of the door. This is always how it goes. It starts out with me being the caring one, the nice one. Then I remember what Denise looks like and that slow gravely frog voice she croaks to us in, and it makes me wish that she had died, too. I would have missed her, but as it is, she’s pretty much dead to us now. We can barely stand to look at her eyes. We shift them around the room – clock, lamp, knee, hair and hands. Anything for us to pass the time we think is necessary to spend with her.
We’re standing on Claire’s front porch by the red fence and the empty dog house, Barney, it reads. She reaches out for what I think is a hug, but touches my stomach instead. “Please, don’t be like mother,” she whispers to my belly button. I nod, and stroke her hair.
last night at about 3:30am, i heard a voice shout my name. it sounded like it was coming from outside. Diana, i heard a woman's voice shout, just loud enough for me to hear it. so i stuck my head up to the window screen and tried to locate the stranger below. the stranger with the voice. i waited five minutes but still no call back. maybe it was just a passing phantom playing games with me. although, i secretly wished it was sabrina
with her new martini glasses and some vodka.
la la la
my room is located conveniently right next door to the bathroom. i can never feel lonely with 3am flushes, and the sound of too much partying alcohol induced vomiting on the weekends. honestly, if the bathroom wasn't right next door, i think i might develop dread locks and eat a lot of granola. i'd also join Emerson Greens and wear tye dye shirts that say, "save the whales" and "treehugger." i don't have to worry about this...yet.
another lovely thing about the bathroom is the singing -- not in the shower singing, but stand-up urinal singing. which is funny, since we don't have a urinal, but everytime i go to unlock my door there is someone singing in there. always a guy, usually a broadway musical piece. i'm not sure what that says about the sexual orientation of the the males on my floor, but i like it. i like knowing that rufus wainwright might feel right at home.
a toast to wrists
i'd see you at the bar
biting on your tongue
writing on cocktail napkins
thinking too hard
Bukowski? i asked.
your lips curling into a smile
you know Bukowski?
you buy me shots of tequila
until i'm telling you about my dead brother
and we argue about ACDC and The Beatles
and the meaning of lyrics as a form of poetry
your apartment is a mess
and we tiptoe around
7 inches dirty clothes yellowing paperbacks
we barely kiss
and all i leave with is the taste
of vomit in my mouth
i was raised by lies and rock and roll: the story of my childhood
as a girl, my mom told me i was adopted, that i was the child of an alligator family. that she had heard about me and went to the Alligator Swamp to go pick me up. i asked her why she chose me and she said, "i liked you the best." she explained the process to me time and time again. i always imagined a line of cradles -- all of them full of baby alligators -- except mine. i was wrapped tightly in a yellow blanket and smiling. she liked me the best.
i believed this for the longest time, even though i had heard about my real birth as well. i just figured i had two. my dad would tell me about how i was the biggest baby in the hospital -- the longest. i was born off base in an Okinawan hospital and my mom said she could hear the nurses whispering in the halls, "she's a movie star, no?" i always felt proud that i was not only japanese but an alligator as well.
i was about four when dad shared his music collection with me. he had a big blue gym bag full of cassettes, and a square white box with an aqua swirl on the front for his records. on roadtrips, we would listen to his mix tapes. my favorite tape was always Queen's News of the World, where i knew all the words to "we will rock you."
he used to hold me in his lap as he would place the record on the player, slowly placing the needle on the groove. i remember looking at the vinyl jacket -- a life size iron with one eye, one arm, one leg, half a mouth and one ear. i kept examining it even though it scared me. i traced the outlines of the creature hoping to make friends with it. i remember the feeling of the bass. the boom boom boom of the opening of that song, "Iron Man" by black sabbath.
Has he lost his mind?
Can he see or is he blind?
Can he walk at all,
Or if he moves will he fall?
Is he alive or dead?
Has he thoughts within his head?
We'll just pass him there
why should we even care?
as soon as it would start, i would run out of my father's lap and behind the skirt of my mother. "MOM! he's doing it again. make him turn it off." i could hear him laugh in the backgroud.
"Mom, when can we go to the Wood Animal's Milkshake Factory?" i would ask this anytime we were in the car. she had told me about this whimsical place many times. they always seemed to be closed when i asked or we were too busy running errands. i imagined a woody forest, pine trees every other step, and right there in the middle was a lemonade stand-ish shack, where beavers and woodchucks sold milkshakes. i couldn't wait to go visit, but apparantly the wood animals made up their own hours not according to our schedule.
i remember my first fisher price tape player. it had a built in microphone so you could record yourself and spy on your parents. my dad would mock interview us. i remember him slurring my sister and my name together. dianasarahus. we sounded like dinosaur. i remember giggling for hours and replaying that part over and over in my room.
once i got my real sony boombox, i used to tape songs off the radio. making mix tapes for myself of songs i liked. i hadn't started buying music yet, with my dad's collection and all my mix tapes, i never needed to. i started an audio diary, which listening to it recently seems ridiculous. i complained about boys and taco bell and generally everything. it was like a bad livejournal entry.
when i was five, i dropped my lucky stick in the pacific ocean. i saw it get farther and farther away and i cried for my stick. it didn't deserve to be all wet and lost. my mom told me, "the birds are your friends, they'll bring it back to you." i'm still waiting for the birds to bring me my stick. i'm hoping one day they will.
my dad made a big effort to be interested in me. he did this through music. when i became the biggest pumpkinhead one could ever be in high school, he was right there telling me if billy corgan was on tv or if he saw an article on them in the paper. he would ask me about bands he'd heard of and i'd ask him about black sabbath or bauhaus. we'd listen to oldies and he would tell me which hard rock albums he owned on record.
my dad used to own a motorcycle. he biked from tennessee to california with my uncle jim. i think that's the coolest thing he's ever done. i've always been a lot more like my dad. we share our bond there in music, but it doesn't get much more complex than that. i'm glad i have it though.
we still believe in santa claus, because if i didn't i wouldn't get presents on christmas. that's just how my mom is. she lives in her own thoughts and fantasy world. people know us around our small texas town, because we are a super duo and we look-a-like. we make jokes about nazis, not because we actually believe they are good people but because it's funny -- to us. we have this "behind closed doors" relationship that i think a lot of people would be ashamed or even shocked by.
a boy in my elementary school once said, "is your mom deaf? she never talks." i'm the only one that knows my mom is not quiet, and that her purse has bubble gum stuck to the bottom of it.
my mom told me that she likes to get closer to her enemies. she is probably the most manipulative person i know. she can get her way like no one else i've seen before. i hope to aspire to her greatness. her advice to me, "use your feminine wiles."
p.s. i'm still waiting for my wood pulp surprise milkshake -- their specialty. i'm pretty sure the surprise is not vegetarian friendly.
the misadventues of yahoo chat
hbkjames469: i want friendship and more
sassy_spacecadet: i want a pirate.
hbkjames469: what do u mean?
sassy_spacecadet: i mean an eyepatch and a parrot.
hbkjames469: and what would u want to with him?
sassy_spacecadet: i would marry him of course.
sassy_spacecadet: i mean once you have a pirate lover you have to take him right then before he finds another lass.
hbkjames469: i am so hard right now
there's nothing quite as sexy...
i swing a left to the dunkin' donuts. i'm in the mood for iced coffee and a spiced pumpkin donut. i look at my watch again and then back to the line forming outside the doors of the building i have class at. i stand there for several seconds considering that coffee may indeed be more important than a good seat in my adv. fiction writing class, but instead i play the good girl and turn around for class.
in the corner by the wall, there's a man with a starbucks cup. i think to myself he's spotted a treasure on the ground and is mystified by his twinkling radiance when he starts putting his finger down his throat and vomiting all over himself. i turn my head, suddenly finding myself with no appetite.
i have one question, what the heck is a umass dirty girl? is this a special squad of umass girlies who pride themselves on never taking showers or is it a special porno troupe? i really hope you can answer this for me as i'm quite curious. i've also noticed you have added brigade at the end of your search -- umass dirty girl brigade. i can tell you right now that i'm not part of these particular shenanigans. i might be a dirty girl, but i have nothing to do with umass. i hope this letter clears any confusion you might be having with your search.
"just jealous and jaded"
"you can do better," echoes in my head everytime i'd like to settle down. settle down in the sense that it doesn't feel right to just keep dating around. the dates seem so meaningless. i don't want to go beyond "just friends" with the majority of the boys i meet. i want something exclusive. someone i can give all my attention to -- relatively speaking. but instead i keep looking for "something better," even though i don't know what the better is. does better mean:
- better financial security?
- better car?
- better looks?
- better smarts?
- better personality?
- better shoes?
so i just keep wandering around looking for the better. perhaps one day i will run into someone named Better McTavish and i'll know i've found him.
if dreams help you discover your inner fears, than drawings must be your inner passions
lately, everything i draw seems to resemble a vagina. i swear it's not on purpose.
people creep me out
i guess i'm infected with looking for blogs, but this one is called "Suicide Rules," so i just had to click it. i can't tell if i'm scared or not.
scary shit, you decide.
i stumbled onto this
and it's not as bad as i thought it would be. although, he seems to spend a great deal of it writing about chili.
just a trim, really
i cut my hair like ryan adams again. i keep finding pieces of hair along the line of my collar and stuck on my hands. i can't stop looking at my reflection and running my hands through my hair. it's so short. it was one of those decisions i'm not sure i was so happy making but it felt right at the time.
everyone always says they like it when they really don't.
if eyelashes could talk, they would be spitting out a lot of hair
i saw "once upon a time in mexico" without knowing anything about it other than johnny depp could be found in the cast. i had no clue what was going on the whole time, but i do know that i want a remote controlled guitar case. he kept laughing next to me, which ended in me laughing as well. we ate dinner at Al's Diner or Al's Subshop or simply Al's. Al was not in, but apparantly he likes to remember his customers and will ask you your name upon entry of his establishment. i had a Lady Cafe Special, which was the only vegetarian thing on the menu. i told the girl next to me, Crystal, that i used to love chicken salad but I'm a vegetarian now. She said, "I'm sorry."
on the way home, a boy called out to me, "hey mama, is that rose for me?" i told him, "sorry, honey. it's not."
as i was walking through the common someone said, "nice rose." i nodded politely, "thank you." i smiled, drunk off the perfume of this beautiful rose. it's amazing what a stranger's kindness can do for you.
i met a boy in the elevator. he likes heavy metal. he's always wearing guns n' roses shirts. he noticed my chicago keychain and i told him about my dream city, and about meeting the smashing pumpkins. he was in awe. and i liked that. he asked me my name and what floor i lived on. he lives on three, by the by.
tonight i felt happy even if i looked sad.
if there was a laundry song, i'd quote it
it's 5:30 am, what better time to do laundry? no rush for the machines. no fighting over dryers. also, i don't have to hide my thongs from anyone or my scooby doo skivvies neither.
it's a challenge to even find the laundry room in this dorm. it's on the first floor and you have to take the back elevator. the ghettovator, we call it. someone has written this on the door: "ass cheese" and this on the wall: "for sex call ghettovator." after reading them, i'm pretty aware of the fact i don't have any socks or shoes on. i hope i'm not stepping in cum.
we have top loading machines here. fancy. it feels like a real laundry room and not the fake one i was used to in my past residence hall.
i have to follow the directions since i'm not "miss independent."
#1 pour laundry detergent in approximately 3/4 cup
#2 pile shit in washer
#3 close lid
#4 place quarters slowly into our slit
#5 pick setting
#6 go away
it's number 1 where things start to go wrong. i put my clothes in first even though i know the detergent goes in before the clothes. i have to take everything out and than pour the woolite in, and than put everything in again. then i get to the quarter part, 1 quarter 2 quarter...wait...2 quarter....for some reason the quarter is slightly misformed on one of the edges. i keep placing it in hoping i can jam it into the machine. 2 quarter. again and again. it's stuck. 2 quarter is not budging. i do not panic.
i have to use another machine, i guess. this time no quarters stick and i remember to put the clothes in second, but i can't help thinking the process went a little too smoothly and right now my clothes are vomited all over the 1st floor.
they go in three's
i didn't give a fuck when wesley willis died. mostly because i had no clue who he was. and everyone kept writing about him and i had no clue. he did have that great song about killing families and that gets a serious heads up from me.
but today i'm grieving because...
JOHN RITTER and JOHNNY CASH died.
sometimes i just don't feel like going on.
maybe he's not so far off
Babblin Joe (11:40:20 PM): i don't know. i picture you walking under street lights at night and taking pictures of people you see along the way or butterflies. buying food at the market and being friendly to strangers, falling in love with every boy you see, writing viciously on a notepad in a diner late at night, i just make things up based on my own sterotypes in my head.
on the lookout
- a fairly unattractive man waits on the corner hiding flowers behind his back
- three men sort through produce at the corner florist
- businessman hums by on a vintage white vespa. i envy his helmet.
- a blackbird is picking up a lighter in the common.
- CVS is out of printer paper and every sort of notebook you can imagine.
- cashiers hate their jobs and refuse to help custermers properly
- my left breast isn't keen on the restictiveness of a bra. it pops out to say, "hello."
- couples like to stop and make out right in front of me and block doorways and walkways.
- cream of tomato soup is my friend
- grilled cheese are called cheese toasties by the british
- dunkin' donuts has pumpkin spice donuts
- if you really want something done, ask your nerdy boyfriend to do it for you
- you can make extraordinary furniture out of cardboard boxes
- my woochata mistress
makes my vagina sweat
- i miss you
- if you break up with someone and you make a request, make sure it's not, "don't read my blog." they won't listen.
- "blankets" by craig thompson is awesome. it makes me want to marry someone that draws a comic.
- i change my mind every 3 minutes and i'm a complete hypocrite
- i want a D and a 19 tattoo
- R.L. Stine is coming to Boston to speak
- showers are nice in the mornings
- make sure your towel is not slipping off you when you step out into the hall because someone might be waiting to use the bathroom after you
- basements are quiet at 4:35pm
- i like grape juice
- i want to own a duck for a pet
- happy pirate day!
that is all.
you look just like josh hartnett but less manly
he was ten when i first met him and i was fourteen. he was part of the small circle of friends i had in junior high. keep in mind that i went to a school with about eighteen kids total in the upper elementary. i was always the oldest.
he used to play Magic the Gathering with my best friend's boyfriend. he collected X-Files cards and gave me the David Duchovny doubles. his older cousin got him into God Lives Underwater and we'd listen to it on repeat afterschool. he liked legos and it goes without saying that he could fix all the computers in the school.
once he called me to set me up with his cousin. he kept "accidentally" hanging the phone up on me and than calling back. we only talked once and than i never heard from his cousin again. he was trouble, i remember him saying.
later, we would talk about our love for cats and Hayao Miyazaki films. he'd carry, at least, ten assorted different books with him at all times. his laptop was always at his side. at parties he would force us into the backroom to listen to J-Pop till our ears bled and we couldn't forget the lyrics. while i slept at parties, my friends would make amateur kung foo movies. he always got hurt trying out some stunt for the first time. blood didn't scare him though.
it was my last summer in texas, he was fifteen and i was nineteen. he had grown taller and lankier, but his friends would make him show off his abs and everytime he would blush. out of boredom he did sit ups everyday, so you see what exercise can do for you.
i'm not sure what happened that night but we ended up passing notes, too shy to say, "i think you're cute." everyone else occupied with the actual party or watching Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie, we stayed up all night too afraid to fall asleep next to each other. we kept waking up and watching the other one sleep.
i had really wanted to kiss him that night.
then he just started calling, emailing and asking to see me.
However, I like talking on the phone more with you, because it's nice to hear your voice. That sounds a little sappy, but it's true. When I hear you talking on the phone, I can think "That's Diana! I like her and she likes me!" and then usually I think about all the great things about you and how wonderful it is to talk to you and then usually I say something like "Uhm..." That's as much as I can write now because I've got to go buy a board for my
science project. I'll talk about that spectacular failure next time.
we would spend hours on the phone since neither one of us could drive. he would play strange new songs for me over the phone or read me passages from his books. he tried to not talk about computers but inevitably he would nerd talk to me and i'd zone out for hours just listening to his voice.
our first kiss was in a church. while everyone else danced, we sat in the pews and he whispered dirty things in my ear as he coaxed me out of my bra. his hands on my breasts and his tongue in my mouth. i'm certainly end up in hell for this one.
he tasted like pepsi during our second kiss. it was in the library on a sunday. i'd invited him to help me organize the books on tape in the children's section. i was an innocent thing then and maybe it was him that made me realize how erotic a library could really be.
he knew it would come to an end. he called us on our six month anniversary and i had no idea what he talking about. i played along as i twisted my hair around my fore fingers and came up with an excuse to say goodbye. i didn't want to see him or belong to him anymore. college was my get-out-of-jail-free card. he still wanted me and i wanted to be by myself.
he came me a charm bracelet and i called him on his birthday in november.
he was my first and last boyfriend. sometimes i wish what would have happened if i'd never dumped him. he's the sort of boy that i see myself with in ten years.
stop me if you've heard this one before
nicole (bff) and i sat holding hands in the corner. his name was bobo and he was making a rubber chicken talk to us. we laughed a lot because that's what we were known for at that time. we would laugh till our stomach's cramped and we would roll on the floor clunching ourselves wheezing. we wore matching floral dresses and we had small satchels for purses. we clearly had no idea what was fashionable at the time. this was no 5th grade birthday bonanza.
lee, bobo's friend, kept offering us pepsi. pushing the can into our faces repeatedly till i refused with a smile. i whispered in nicole's ear not to take drinks from strangers. she nodded.
this was a party organized by my high school. a poor excuse to go to a rich kid's house to eat food from different countries. international club only looks good on your college application. my crush's band played -- brain freeze -- he played guitar and i remember him smiling at me as we passed in the hall.
lee asked if we wanted to go outside to talk. we shook our heads violently -- of course. we were being asked something by an older boy. he didn't go to my school and i had no idea why he was talking to us. he was in community college and we were just dumb sophomores.
lee was a tall, lanky blonde boy from britain. he tied his shoes the same way i did, and he was a vegetarian. he had blue eyes and liked asian girls. he told me, "you're my dream girl."
lee knew steve. steve sat next to me in science class. he liked punk music and drawing comics. he was nice but he was just a face. a cute boy that i was too shy to talk to.
"nope, never." and it was true. i had never kissed anyone before. this was no line.
"i can't believe that. no way. i can't believe such a pretty girl has never gotten kissed." lee said, putting his arm around me. nicole stared at me with slanted eyes. what could i do?
we soon realized that everyone was drunk and stumbling around the backyard. lee kept offering his vodka pepsi to us. we kept nodding no. lee let me have his jacket and i placed my hand on his thigh. he told me the constellations while slurring in my ear.
nicole sat behind us, just watching. i felt tingly with his arm around me. could he really like me?
he leaned over and brushed his lips over my cheek. three small kisses to my lips. then it was over.
lee called me everyday for a month. we would talk to 3am as he drunk himself into a stupor. he'd sing punk rock love songs to me over the phone.
rumors went around my school. "yes, we heard you and lee were introduced." snicker.
then he just stopped calling. nicole called him and he told her that he got a girlfriend. he didn't have time for me anymore.
i think nicole was happy as she heard me cry over the phone. fake sympathies slipped through her lips while tears fell into mine.
lee is 26 years old now. i still wonder whatever happened to him.
Wow, 22 Skidoo and a Happy Birthday to you!!! ;)
Mother Dearest and I send our heartfelt congratulations on surviving
another year, which is quite a feat when I think about how many times
she told me she was ready to strangle you. But, she really does love
you and would probably never do something like that because you would
beat her up if she tried it.
let's get married on the swan boats.
here, you can have the ring around the soda.
i like recycling.
squirrels look very fancy in pastel colors, and they don't complain about your taste in bridesmaid's dresses.
pie is awesome!
"hi, my name is sarah."
we are both running to the bus stop. freshman, boston university and blonde. that's what i get out of her. she runs into a man wearing a cowboy hat and she waves goodbye. i have no idea what to look for. he could be any of these people.
he's not at mcdonalds, the gift store and never exits the bathroom. every boy with long hair is him. i make googly eyes at an old man. i walk away.
no one seems to be him
then he's in my arms.
he's a lot shorter than i thought he would be, and his hair is a lot longer. it's just right though. on him. then he fumbles around in his bag for something. i get nervous. i hate gifts in public. i'm hoping for a bomb or a tissue or chapstick. no gifts.
"does this look like a tulip?" it's a white piece of paper with a pencil drawn tulip. i try not to look too excited. "yeah, it does."
i drag him through chinatown. i'm lost and like a man i say i'm lost repeatedly but never ask for directions. i just keep trudging forward hoping we run into something familiar. i keep muttering under my breath and laughing.
he can't make a decision and i just end up dragging him everywhere. wide-eyed he walks into my dining hall, at first believing that we were taking a short cut, only to find out this was an emerson building. "we don't have anything like this at umass." i nod, umass sucks.
he hits his head on the hanging light. we leave.
harvard square is the only place i can think of right then. the only place where i can entertain us for free. i want to wrestle the subway punks but he doesn't so much go for that idea. in fact, he mentions he'll run for help everytime a scenario comes up where i get attacked. this can't be good. i'm glad i'm trained in the way of the ninja.
i clumsily drag him down alleys exploring where no one else would let me before. i find a lost CD Spins down a lost road -- hipsters only, it should say right above the stop signs to enter.
i see brian. the boy i've supposed to be with in my dreams. the boy i'll never have. i hold his hand tighter.
we circle the same blocks and walk past the same street musicians. they start to recognize us. it's too bad i'm broke. we leave, ryan adams is in my purse as a consolation prize for all the hard work.
it's nice to share my bed with someone. the empty space doesn't seem so big. i keep looking over and thinking i'm in the bed with a pretty girl. he falls asleep before i do. i'm really glad he doesn't snore.
he likes to experiment with salad dressing, perhaps i can read his salad like a mood ring. he picks at his food. and he tells me stories about "the boys" or "the gang" and it makes me sad that i don't have that. i don't have anyone to remember that fondly or even unfondly.
he eats like a bird. two bites in about an hour. he makes me feel like a walrus.
we walk around more. hours and hours of walking and pointing. long stories that end with, "yeah, that had a point when i started, really." i hold his hand and drag him into everywhere i want to go. he never complains other than to say that he doesn't want to go back to my room or that he doesn't know what he should be doing or that he's bored.
he never seems happy. at least, i can never tell.
the only time i can tell he's giving his all is when i kiss him. it's like he never wants to let go, i'm his life support. his breath.
i told him i would cry. i knew i would. but just as soon as it starts, it stops. sometimes i know i'm looking for something too hard. i'm not even sure what i'm looking for anymore. it just all seems wrong and i can't tell what's right.
he talks more than i do and it surprises me. i just don't know what to say. i must come across as arrogant and lost. he makes me feel tired and the whole weekend feels like i'm lying in bed even when my feet are pounding against the concrete.
i just keep thinking about what i'm going to write. it's like i can't live normally. everything is words for later. everything is inspiration.
on the way home from the bus, i see a poster for david bowie's new album. i really like his
when you look for your stinger on the wrong hand than you probably won't find it.
is that it?
oh yeah. heh.
he noticed while on the way to harvard square, just like that.
i have a stinger in my finger. i can just see it under the first layer of skin. it's been there since i was seven. some people have freckles and moles, i have a stinger. it's my distinguishing mark. there are others too, but this is the one i like to show people. the one that can get a conversation going if i can't think of anything to say. showing someone your stinger certainly breaks the silence. i have to go into how it got there. this story often gets told on meeting someone the very first time. i like to ramble to fill the silence.
i was sitting on the edge of vance's new pool and my hands were on the rail of the stairs. i'd forgotten my swim suit at home, so my feet were just dangling above the water. i felt the prick and there it was, the flying ant who lost its stinger in my finger.
last week, i was showing someone the stinger and it was gone. vanished from my finger. i had never wanted to stab myself with a pencil more than at that moment. lost lead never looked so attractive.
i'd follow the arrow but i'd probably end up lost
sometimes i follow instinct. it starts as an irrational feeling to do something i normally wouldn't do. it distracts me from my original mission.
it starts off with a turn to the right, the beaten trail. i'm unsure if there are many undiscovered parts of downtown boston. i know this isn't one of them. i'm not sure why i'm going up this way. i've already told myself i'm not buying anything before i even get there.
the stores i go into are just by habit. newbury comics. virgin megastore. the japanese grocery.
i buy thai iced tea with koi milk, rice crackers and rum raisin chocolates. this is all i buy.
i notice a large percentage of the women i see have panty lines. i can't help but stare.
i forgot what it was like to walk around here. i forgot the people. i miss the people.
i see a policeman arresting a homeless man, and he's pleading for his freedom. apparantly, they've been through this before and this is no time to rumble about it.
no one asks me for directions.
there are two new vespas parked on boylston. one green and another blue.
i don't remember my reflection being like this. a ghost. china doll skin. i immediately think i'm dying. i know i'm dying. i move on.
i remember why i missed the city when a man comes up to me and asks, "do i look like a sissy in this shirt?"
chloroform the one you love
i think the best way to get over an unrequited crush is to get them really drunk in a friendly atmosphere. that way they don't know what you are up to. if you must, trick your boyfriend into taking acid and sit him in front of the computer to watch this
. "oh, the colors. oh, the lights." then sit your crush on your bed and seduce the fuck out of him. i figure after making out you'll feel a lot better.
sometimes never just means no
no is a word i just don't have in me. it comes from having too little of everything -- friends, whiskey and sex. i'm all those twangy country songs about being alone.
i think the thing you said was true, i'm going to die alone and sad.
when i think back about how happy i never was and realize now that's just a facade. i've been happy or at least not miserable. when i think about what's to come, that's when i think i might be happy or at least not so bad.
someone told me that i've made you into the impossible dream, but even the unattainable is better than what i've got -- my favorite sin, lust.
if i could close my eyes and rewind time, i'd be in a booth next to hugh gardner. i'd be eleven years old. i'd be scooting in closer instead of sitting on the edge too scared of nothing and everything at the same time. that's my one regret, i always say.
think about you lying there.
those blankets lie so still.
nothing moves out here in the cold.
nothing breathes or even smiles.
i've been thinking some of suicide.
i'd like to reverse that.