The Hipster Brigade
She Can Read Your Aura, Too
I called her from the payphone outside of Haley’s BBQ Pit. I was about half way there, and I still hadn’t told her I had left the house. That somewhere out there a cat was waiting for me. That I had been wishing for the last five years to be in California.
Fingers shaking, I dialed the phone. It’s always strange when you have trouble remembering your own phone number, but I never had to call home, since I was always there. The answering machine picked up.
“Hi, Mom. It’s Anna. I’m in California searching for the cat. Did you get my note on the fridge?” I hung up because there was nothing left to say.
It’s 9pm Friday night by the time I finally got there and pulled into Danielle’s driveway. She’s the one that told me about the cat. That I just had to see it. I had never met her, but there’s no reason to be scared of first times. I’ve been writing letters to her since I was nine years old. Some elementary school pen pal system, and she ended up being more of a friend than my friends there in Texas.
The street was quiet except for the low thud of music coming from her house. Both sides of the street were lined with cars. Funny, how her driveway was open just for me. When I knocked on the door she opened and yells in my face, just how I was expecting. I had grown used to her wild rants and the fast life she was leading her in Los Angeles.
“Anna! Anna! Here have these,” she said, pushing a bag of blue pills into my hand. “Trust me.” She winked and then told me to mingle. Instead, I took a handful of the pills with water from the bathroom sink, and find the first empty bed.
It’s just how I thought it would be. Harry stood on the corner and the cat was dressed in a doll’s polka dot dress sitting on an upturned milk crate. He’s spoon feeding her Frisky’s from a plastic spork. The sign on the crate read: “Welcome to Harry’s Fabulous Psychic Cat. She Sees the Future for $10.” Danielle nudged me closer and points to the rope where it’s tied to the crate.
“We have to save it.” She looked at me, eyes big and bloodshot from last night’s party. “You have to save it.”
This was my second wish. I was in California and I was saving the psychic cat. It happened so fast that I don’t remember it happening at all. Danielle punched Harry in the ear, not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to where he stumbles back and I picked up the cat and run to the car. Now, that I had the cat there’s nothing else I could think of that could make this any better. I stared at Danielle.
“What next? We’ve got the cat.” I looked at her while holding the cat tightly in my arms. She’s purring and this seems to be just how I would have pictured it in my dreams.
“I don’t know. Ask the cat. She’s the psychic.” She laughed, but her laugh is loud and for a few minutes I can’t hear the music on the radio.
I figured I had nothing to lose. I looked right into the cat’s green eyes and asked the question. “What next?” She stopped purring and her eyes glazed over like she’s thinking really hard. I got scared that maybe I did something wrong, but just then she meowed. It sounded like something. A name, maybe.
“Welch?” I asked. Pyschic cat purred loudly. “So, Danielle. We are supposed to find Welch. Whatever that is.” Danielle laughed again and I couldn’t help but laugh, too.
That night we dressed in glitter, stilettos, low slung jeans and tight shirts. Psychic cat purred as she watched us. We were ready to be seen. Danielle liked making a scene wherever she went, and everyone knew her, so they played along. This Welch was still on the back of my mind. Maybe it was just a hairball in the back of her throat. This was nothing. I wished I could find it.
There was no place where we were turned down. She got behind any door or beyond the silk red ropes like they merely pieces of cotton candy floss. We bar hopped the whole night, getting rides with strangers and with acquaintances. The boys were too intimidated to say no or to make a first move. We weren’t there for them, and they knew it. Danielle would line boys up at the bar and they would buy her drinks, no questions asked. I sat next to her and would write poetry on cocktail napkins, keeping one eye open for Welch. I’m sure it would come to me, pointed out to me with a flow of bright light.
“Over there, Anna. Over there. He’s your type,” Danielle pointed to a boy with blonde hair standing by the wall. There were several boys surrounding him, and I figured he would not be interested in me. “Just go say hello. Just go.” She pushed me off the stool and I could feel her eyes burning holes in my back.
He looked bored and the guy next to him was asking him question after question. He rolled his eyes, hands in his pockets. He looked how I felt – misplaced. He caught me staring at him, quickly turning his head and staring back at the floor again. Another man approached him with a cup of beer, which he took, without a smile or thank you.
“What no manners?” I asked, approaching him.
“Not for him, the asshole. I just let them buy me drinks. I don’t even know why I’m here.” He took another sip from his beer.
“Then come with us if you want, we’re leaving soon.” I couldn’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
I could see that he was interested as he seemed to really look at me then. “Okay,” he said, following me back to Danielle.
“So, people call me Welch,” he said to us in the booth at Denny’s. I was sobering Danielle up with any amount of food I could get past her lips. She was sucking down coffee like it was her blood.
“The psychic cat, man. The psychic cat was right.” Danielle shouted, waving her arms around. “We have found Welch.”
I elbowed Danielle and smiled back at him. “We rescued the psychic cat. He told me to find you.”
He just nodded. “I know.”
so, i finally got haloscan comments because my old ones were so persnickity. so now i have NO comments. so please spread me some commenty lovin'.
p.s. if you want to be anonymous, that's fine. i won't ask you to rim me like sabrina
sudden burst of hyperactivity at 6am
why i decided to share this with you, i will never know, but i'm page 609 on moc
. i used to be page 637 or something crazy. why did i ever want to be involved with that anyways? i guess networking helps you get more threats.
this is why you want to be a writer
i want to get out of class. i want to run screaming with my arms above my head knocking over chairs and kicking people in the shins. i want to pour white out over the professor's head and stab him in the eye with the pen he always has to borrow from a student.
this is most days in advanced fiction writing.
today, he tells greg, "let me tell you why i came when i read this story..." did he just say that? dear god, the visual images i did not want to see. please punch me in the gut and end my life.
when he talks about revision he says, "go over this and mark it with the blue pen." what happened to the infamous red pen? was it retired without my knowledge? i'm going to use it from now on to make everyone hate me.
the professor proclaims, "contradiction is a sign of intelligence." well, damn. i'm a fucking genius then.
the girl next to me says, "this is multi-layered like an onion." i think to myself that's the best visual i've heard in a long time. it makes me cry and it makes think.
when i moved in with my grandma in texas in 1994, she had a jar of maraschino cherries from 1984, in the fridge. we didn't even throw them out right away. they just sat there taking up space on the shelf. i guess we can have attachments to all sorts of things, but i figure my grandma wouldn't be attached to 10 year old cherries.
does that satisfy your curiosity?
i love the city but sometimes it can become so overwhelming. damn tourists. damn Common squirrels. damn homeless people. damn puddles that collect at the end of sidewalks. so i go to into the suburbs for a bit. this time it's for a reason and more than just a change of scenery. it's also the end of the line, the farthest you can get away for just a buck. this is vacation. this is escape.
i don't do grocery stores in boston. mostly because there aren't that many. but i try to use fake college money to get as many as my meals as possible. it's virtually free, free as included (not really) into my million dollar make-me-poor emerson tuition. but we need groceries to cook. i mean "we" as in him. mostly, i make politically incorrect jokes that i swear he laughs at out of pity, and that i realize i should't have said in the first place. he has mad skillz when it comes to driving the cart, and i feel my own lack of grace as i clunk behind him, tugging at the bottom of my skirt. we head back to his house with several bags of groceries and 6 martini glasses.
his house reminds me simultaneously of my grandma's and my old house in pennsylvania. it smells familiar and musty. i want to breath it all in, but i become used to it too quickly. i like it because i feel "right at home" right away.
he doesn't make me lift a finger -- so i guiltily watch him and provide the small talk. hours past and we keep changing CDs, and every so often the music stops and it gets quiet. we always seem to stop talking just at the same time. and the pause lets me soak everything in. glance at the boxes of books, which ones i've read and which ones i want to read. but it never lasts long. i make him listen to elliott smith
, and he makes me listen to harvey danger. i admit i should own that cd, but really he should own elliott, too.
i watch him make tomato sauce and search for a recipe that contains more than just the ingredient of "ravioli" for ravioli. finally, success when his roommate returns, he amuses us with random outbursts and his gift for the art of dance. he and i exchange knowing glances -- his roommate doesn't get it. i can't stop laughing. by that time, the tomato sauce is dead. too thick with oil, grave yard of tomatoes at the bottom. it's okay, brand name sauces taste just as good anyway. better luck next time.
his other friend arrives and it's time for a drink and i think, "eh, what could it hurt?" suddenly, i'm more aware of the 3 on 1 guy to girl ratio. they promise not to molest me, but he looks at me and says, "i might." either no one else hears or no one else cares or no one else thinks he's serious, but i'm not so sure. after a while, i can't think of anything to say but when i do it seems slightly more obnoxious than usual. i'm drunk. drunk off "drunk." so i stay quiet and watch. the friend and roommate leave the kitchen to play video games and i think, "finally." i think i figured out why people are always having sex in kitchens. it's slightly romantic in a way. and it makes sense to me to kiss him at the time, so slurring out "come hither" doesn't really seem like such a bad idea. and yeah, it wasn't. i was too drunk to care if someone walked in, even if i kept eyeing the door every few seconds.
dinner is way more filling than i'm used to and it's nice to have a full stomach for once, and making things from scratch is so worth it. but he keeps asking if i'm okay and i'm just thinking and absorbing everything and thinking about that kiss in the kitchen and how it was so much better than i thought it would be. then he offers to take me home and we talk on the T and on the way to my dorm and he tells me about the Wonder Years episode that gets him close to crying and i can see why because i almost tear up just from his retelling and then we hug and say goodbye.
when i was around two years old, i only spoke in japanese. my grandma taught me a few choice phrases which i would repeat over and over.
i soon forgot.
i also had kermit the frog slippers, i would never take them off. i wore them to sleep. i wore them to the mall. they were the height of fashion. no really. my mom would take them off my feet at night so she could wash them.
everyone has a blankie. mine was "gahgi" and he came from a bigger blanket that fell to pieces over time. mine was a 5x5 inch square that i would hold under my nose as i slept. my grandma would spray it with perfume and i'd sneeze. i used to cover it white in baby powder and toss it like a pizza.
my first teddy bear i received from a stranger. i stranger i kept calling "andy" which i realized was the name of their poodle. in fact, that's the only reason i wanted to go to the party. as a girl, i asked for a poodle every christmas. i never got one, but this was pretty damn close. "andy" gave me a teddy bear that santa left at their house. he was holding a snowman. i had my mom free his hands of the "iceman" as soon as i got home. then sometimes i would have her re-sew him back into his hands. i was fickle, i suppose.
my favorite tv show was The Elephant Show with Sharon, Lois and Bram. i owned all of their tapes and of course, danced to them privately in the backyard with my cabbage doll, della. della and i had matching dresses that my grandma made me. della was also bald, just like me as a baby. we had so much in common.
my backporch housed a sandbox and a super dooper plastic playmate that my mom was particularly fond of. it was a neighborhood and i used to drive my matchbox cars over the flat roads past the flat houses. then i used it as a sandbox and the back got moldy from me making pretend cakes out of water and sand.
i loved playing with guns as all my neighbors were boys, but i read this poster in my elementary school that say, "don't give your children guns...it causes violence." i remember telling that to all the boys then. i knew guns were bad, but i'd dismiss that all together for the camouflage rifle. the camo rifle was great for explorers. it had a strap to go across my back and i felt just like rambo, even if i'd never seen the movie.
i used to trade those plastic garbage pail pink wrestling figures with my next door neighbor's older brother. my mom bought them for me, because she thought they were cute. i thought they were fierce.
i made the boys play barbies with me. they'd fight for the one ken doll i owned. it was, of course, rock star ken. his arm broke off and he became handicapped ken. it was tragic. he floated really well in the little valley on the side of house. it would always fill with water, and i'd float him like sailboat ken. i guess i always liked pirates.
the scariest toy i owned was a lifesize mannequin my dad bought for me. at night, i used to dream of two men standing over me with chainsaws and then the mannequin would come to life and kill them and then me.
i used to play dress up in my mom's lime green party dress. i'm still not sure why she owned something lime green, but you know, it was bought during the 70s.
men in cars always called me "baby" and whistled when they drove by. i was only nine. i liked the attention.
i was 11 when i stopped crying. i was 15 when i started again.
the best christmas present i ever received was my gameboy. that big chunky grey gameboy. i miss it.
my favorite musical artists were george michael, prince, mc hammer and paula abdul. the first concert i ever saw was the monkees in a huge arena. i told myself i'd marry davey jones. i never did. the last concert i saw was the deathray davies in a small bar. i met the lead singer. he's married. but not to me.
i stopped wearing dresses at 10. i started wearing dresses again at 21.
i never stopped dancing.
sometimes i think about the jobs people have recommended to me in the past. one was firefighter and the other was professional football player. obviously, these people found themselves to be quite humorous. well, they were wrong.
all i can imagine myself doing is sitting on the steps of a big front porch punching the keys of a typewriter. there would be a daisy behind my left ear and i'd be wearing overalls since i'd be adopting that farmer's life. i'd own ducks and cats and maybe guinea pigs.
most likely i'll end up in New York being a waitress and i think there could be worse things.
just a thought
is there a difference between going nowhere fast and going nowhere slowly?
hope you have sweet dreams
of rotary phones; fireflies
less dream cavaties
he's from paris, i hear them say
music is playing softly in my neighbor's room. it's something i recognize. the mercury program. i think to myself, "okay, maybe he isn't that bad." i've only seen him once. that one time he tries to murder in my sleep. i walk up and he's a face over the edge of my bed. then i realize, no. he just shakes the knob that connects our room. the door that leads into my room. well, i have the lock. so it leads into his room, i suppose. then he goes out in the hallway and shakes the knob of that door. by then, i peer around the corner to see his smiling face.
"hi, i'm ilan."
i smile outside but inside i'm frowning. i don't care who you are, why the fuck are you breaking into my room. and please turn that down that shit you sing to at night at the top of your lungs when i'm listening. but that second part doesn't happen till later.
thursday nights he parties. i stay in here and instant message people i wish i was hanging out with instead of just talking to and procrastinate. i'm good at the latter. really good. i hear him sing in round with about four other men. i'm pretty sure it's a bachelor's party every night in there. i'm not angry, i just think his worse crime is his lack of good looks and common sense.
some nights i can hear him talk on the phone till 5am. in french. sometimes he argues. other times he laughs. amelie makes french sound so much more romantic.
he goes in and out of the room at weird times of the day. he's popular, he has visitors. they knock loudly vibrating my dresser. i'm not jealous, i just want him to have better taste in friends. they are loud and stupid.
then i look down and realize that the song wasn't coming from his room at all, but from the headphones on my desk. then i think, i wish he'd move out.
obviously, my sister is awesome and i missed something. she is starting to sound like me and i can't tell if that's a good or bad thing. i'm leaning towards bad.
she sent me this IM today, while i was in class:
sarah: i am so in love with joey
sarah: im crazy for him
sarah: but he has a girlfriend
sarah: i hate her
sarah: i cant wait to see you, then you can see him
i think i sounded like that when i was 15.
what do you call it?
i am now the owner of a bottle of Thierry and Guy Fat Bastard Shiraz Red Wine. it only cost 10 dollars -- i'm so high society. mostly i bought it because it had a hippo on the label.
ten times more the reason to move faster
Smith grew up in Dallas, TX and was physically and emotionally tormented by insensitive schoolmates before moving west. Smith went to high school in Portland, OR and attended college in Massachusetts.
today in class i mentioned to the girl next to me, "Elliott Smith killed himself yesterday." we both talked about how sad it was and that it was such a waste. then i mentioned that he was raised in dallas, texas and that was probably why. that most people in texas are messed up. she said, "yeah, i have a friend in dallas. she's messed up." and i said i had lived the past ten years of my life there and then she replied, "yeah, i don't think you're messed up." i just shrugged.
i finally handed in a piece of fiction i was happy about today. it was something i had written over the summer. something i was pretty proud of writing. i posted it here. this is how the teacher wanted me to change it. i loved how he kept commenting about how we are just writing assignments and not actually taking writing seriously.
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. BEGIN HERE, he recommends
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 added this at the end to make the obituary requirement:
Thursday, March 5
Daniel Michael Levy, 23, was an aspiring film maker and a volunteer at the Recreational Center, where he taught CPR classes. He was found at the local library, where he had committed suicide after closing hours.
i never know what to take seriously anymore. one girl kept saying, "this girl is weird. this girl is strange. is she a cat?" i wanted to stand up and say, "this girl is me" but instead i said, "i wrote this in the summer." i kept battling the teacher. someone came up to me after class and told me what he thought. it's nice when someone says, "fuck the class. you aren't full of cliches."
My Horror Story for Kids
It was finally the weekend. I had just stepped into the house, when I heard my Mom yell for me.
“Samantha, you need to make some salad before your Dad and I leave,” Mom said, looking down at me, hands on her hips. “I told the sitter you could handle dinner.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, Mom,” I said out loud. "Whatever," I whispered.
I headed for our cow-themed kitchen, and reached my hand into the vegetable drawer to grab the head of lettuce. That’s when I heard my brother running down the stairs and yelling.
“Run, Sam, run,” he ran back and forth across the linoleum floor. He grabbed the lettuce from my hand and tossed it into the living room. “No, salad.”
“What’s going on here?” Mom said running to the scene. She glanced from the lettuce, then to us in the kitchen.
I shrugged and pointed to Adam. “He did it.”
“Mom, don’t make us eat it. Get it away from us. No, salad. No, lettuce. Please,” he begged, getting down on his knees. “Tossa. Tossa.”
“Ben, stop it. Enough about the babysitter. I want you two to behave for her tonight. Now, get the lettuce and let your sister get back to work.”
Tossa Salada was our newest babysitter. When my brother and I first saw her, we exchanged huge grins. She had green hair. She had to be fun, but she ended up giving Ben and I the creeps. My brother was convinced there was something else to the woman. Something behind her glaring bright green eyes that looked like Christmas lights in her pupils. Ben couldn’t stop talking about her ever since that first visit.
Ben used both hands to pick up the lettuce. It seemed about twice the size of a normal one. He held it far away from his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle T-shirt.
“Mom, I don’t want it anywhere near me. Can we just have leftovers?” He opened his eyes really wide and stared right into Mom’s. I knew Ben was serious when he was asking for leftovers. Last night’s dinner was fish sticks and homemade cole slaw. He hated both.
Mom grinned and straightened out her sequin dress, and clutched her party purse under her arm. “Leftovers? Seriously, I don’t know what got into you. Help yourself.”
Just then the doorbell went off, four quick chimes and than four slow ones. At one time, it played a sort of lovely melody but now it was slow and drawn out. It was the southerner of doorbells. It was one of those jobs that Dad never got around to on the weekends.
Ben grabbed my hand and moved into my side, melding us into one short and one tall Siamese twin. She was here. He clung tightly to my side as we watched our parents slink out the door smiling at Tossa as they walked out.
As soon as she walked inside, the entire house began to smell of cow dung. Ben pinched his nose, which meant that he had to loosen his grip on me. She didn’t say a word, but just stared at us standing there by the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“Hi, kids. Do you want to play a game?” She twisted a strand of green hair around a long slender finger painted to match her hair. She sneered at us.
I didn’t really want to say yes, but I knew that a no would send us to our room. Ben let go of his nose as soon as she asked. He was more afraid to be in his room with her here. He couldn’t watch her, he had told me earlier. “She makes noises like a car engine and she smacks when she eats. And sometimes I hear small squeals. I hate it, Sam. I hate it.” I knew what he meant, and so I decided our fate with one word, “Yes.”
The corners of her mouth turned up at the side. It was her widest grin and not even our mother was capable of smiling like this. She looked like the happiest clown at the circus. The circus that was full of scary clowns that probably ate children.
Ben and I moved as one being closer towards Tossa. Our feet were tied with an imaginary string that kept us together in the face of certain doom. Ben’s hands were turning white from holding the sides of my T-shirt so tightly. I nudged him to loosen up, but instead he held on tighter.
“Okay, hide and go seek. You guys know how that works, right? I’ll count and you guys hide, okay?” We didn’t have time to answer, she had already started counting. All that we could see was her green mass of hair hiding her face in the cushions of the couch. “One…two…three…”
We heard her coming closer to the place where we were hiding. Ben refused to unwrap himself from my leg as I ran frantically trying to remember all the places I had hid before. I was ten now, and much too old for childish games. Plus, Ben preferred playing video games and that was just as well. But the past weeks, had him obsessed over the secret of Tossa. He was determined to find out what was wrong with her. What her story was and I was just as curious.
“Is that her?” He asked, breathing hot peanut buttery breath into my ear. “That is her. She is coming.”
I nudged him in the ribs and covered my mouth with my finger. “Hey, be quiet. Your breath smells and she’ll hear us.”
“I already did,” Tossa said pulling open the door to my parent’s bedroom closet. But instead of seeing the wide grin of a green-haired babysitter, we saw leaves. Hundreds of tentacle-length leaves and two big glowing green eyes that reminded me of the light from underneath escalators at the mall. It was a giant lettuce with arms!
That’s when Ben let me go, and pushed and pushed her out of the way. He grabbed my hand and ran me down the stairs.
“I’ve had this plan for weeks, Sam.” He ran straight for the fridge. My sneakers skidding across the linoleum squeaking to a halt in front of the white Frigidaire. “Quick, grab forks.”
I did as I was told. He was the boy with the plan, and I suddenly missed him as the twin stuck to my left side. My hair stuck to the back of my neck, and I could feel the sweat pouring down my forehead. Ben grabbed my hand again, but there was no need because Tossa crawled to us in the kitchen.
“Ben, you were such a smart boy. So, I’m sorry to have to do this to you.” She whipped one of her tentacles at him, but I blocked it with my salad fork.
“I don’t think so Tossa.” I heard myself saying out of disbelief. That’s when I noticed the Green Goddess dressing in Ben’s hand. He threw it in her eyes, blinding her, and then continued to glob it all over her tentacles.
“Sam, I guess you made us salad afterall,” Ben said, smiling.
I laughed as I poked the prongs into her long leafy arm with a loud crunch.
the bamboo forest
it was across the street, down the road, over the gravel, through their backyard and past the "no trespassing" sign. it was a dense forest where one could lose themselves and their friends. we'd call out and turn around but no one would be there -- just sound waves trying to reach me. i still have the walking stick stuck somewhere in a lost closet in an empty house in pennsylvania.
i just heard the door close behind me. it felt, for just a second, that i was at home. that i was sitting in the kitchen typing while mom washed the dishes and i lied about being on the internet. i have the aftertaste of japanese curry on my tongue and i keep taking small sips of water.
i can see my sister out of the corner of my eye. she's watching one of her tapes. she has the entire 3 seasons of roswell on video. she watches them like religion.
my dog is wandering around looking for a quick fix. bread his drug. there is no one offering, so he sleeps by my feet. he waits for me to stir.
that smacking noise are the cats. barbara and tuffy have seperate bowls because they hate each other, but they'll tolerate the company while feasting. i want to pet them instead of sitting here and typing some idea i just got. catching ideas before they disappear. take lift off.
then i snap out of it. i'm here. i'm procrastinating. i'm daydreaming of some place warmer.
so i got bored and found this stupid list i wrote about the requirements i look for in the *coughperfectcough* boy
-must enjoy ethnic food (japanese and indian -- a must)
-knows when to stop
-good taste in music
these lovely sentences were also attached:
and where did these go? i gave them up in temporary delusions. i said, "one out of ten, ain't so bad." it's not that the rules can't be broken, but they shouldn't have to be. i'd rather live alone in idealism than take second best.
so much can change in just one season. although, i think the list is pretty accurate if we're looking for ideals.
somedays i've got nothing and i rip off my friends
so, how come when i tell people i'm single they say, "...but you're so cute." i'm sorry but that doesn't make me any less of a singleton. besides, i'm convinced that being a spinster with sabrina would be so much more appealing.
today should be a nice day
once around the block takes 10 minutes. a small gathering of fans. channel 5 news and a league of sore losers. a man psst-ing us from behind a wall -- he waves us closer. we keep walking.
"was that for me?"
we are #2 in line. boyfriend/girlfriend duo in black chucks stand, smirking. i smile. concrete step and soft, barely recognizable vibrations filter through locked doors. she doesn't fall through. remarks on cat ears, forgotten IDs and Ben Gibbard hair. third in line wears red chucks. black - black - red. broken pattern?
upfront to the right, no barrier. i can touch their feet as they try to keep balance. almost knocked out by a guitar and mic stand. i'm on my toes. his hands and wrists mesmorizingly moving over strings. i count chords. i keep a running tab of images -- the must not forgets of audio-visual failures and strengths. mostly i look at other people's faces.
plastic shot glasses with dime-sized dozes of intoxication. almost toppling lemonade liquor balances on the edge of a speaker. i keep waiting for it to topple -- stop the show. get a mop. rock on. kiss on the cheek more sexual than touching tongues.
ugly boys hide faces with pretty hair. you're in the band pity fucks. i want to live on the road. hide in the glove compartment just for the ride. no rock, just ride.
there's a screen of fake stars and the light show is almost as hypnotizing. perfect timing.
he's blonde and she thinks of me. he's blonde and i think he's mine. he's blonde and that's not my type. i still want to lick the sweat from his neck and feel him hard against my inner thigh. this is more than groupie sex -- i want to take part of him home, so that way i dont' feel as gyped afterwards. not as empty.
"they're a super band." and the way they pump through their set and the way he plays bass gives me the impression that i'll feel miserable after the show. i'll want more but the house lights will go up. there's nothing i can do. i'll take him and him. fucking to forget. fucking to remember.
they were so much better than my expectations.
Then this chick comes up to me and she's all, like,
" Hey, aren't you that dude?"
And I'm, like, "yeah, whatever!"
It has to come to my attention that I am not a very nice person. After spending most of the night thinking about this observation, I'd have to agree that it's correct. I am not a very nice person. Not that I care about being nice. Nice has not gotten me very far. I'd rather be mean and have 5 close friends than be nice and have 45 close friends. It's not even that I'm blatentedly mean. I'm a snide, obnoxious and sarcastic little weasel. It must be true, my mom says so. Although, I should bring to your attention that anyone that knows me will realize I'm just joking and that I'm racked with guilt at most any confrontation. I'd rather be miserable and tell someone that I like them, than be free of the insanity and happy. That's just how I am. I also will listen for hours to stories about how you love hacking into other people's computers and sending them nasty viruses, and I will listen because I'm a nice...er...wait, mean person.
So later I'm at the pool hall
And this girl comes up
And she's, like, "awww"
And I'm, like, "yeah, whatever!"
I guess what makes me the meanest of all meanies is my lack of patience with most anyone. I'd hardly call it elitism, because I'm simply too "stupid" to understand enough to undermind most hipsters. I just don't like people. Most people are stupid and most people I can argue with and win. Although, I hate arguments because there is no reason for them. I have never solved anything with a single argument. I have solved more with apologies and hugs and mid-afternoon sex. It's just senseless to fight about something that can be fixed through kind gestures. Although, I don't believe in being kind at all. I volunteer, give money to the homeless, make mix cds for my friends and don't eat the fuzzy wuzzy animals. Apparantly, this is not part of being nice at all, these are just parts of me. Parts of the mean me and if I had to give them up, I'd rather die. So I guess, you take what you can get and that's a motherfucking evil devil bitch also known as Diana.
And then up comes Zafo
I'm, like, "yo, Zafo. What's up?"
He's, like, "nothin'"
And I'm, like, "that's cool."
My 5th grade class all had to write letters to Chelsea Clinton. I remember everyone was writing mean nasty letters, because they all thought she was ugly. I wrote something like:
I really like your cat, Socks. He's neat. Plus, if you'd use some straightner maybe you'd be more accepted by the general public. I'm sorry that my class is being so mean to you. I like you tons or rather, I don't know you so I refuse to discriminate just because you have a zit in that one picture we are looking at in our Weekly Readers. I still don't hate you for being a teenager. Yeah, that sucks. Next time, tell your mom to spend the $200 on your haircut and not her's.
Then one day as I was walking through Sear's minding my own business, some woman shouted, "Hey Chelsea." I looked at her confused. "Has anyone told you, you look like Chelsea Clinton?" Well, no they haven't because I looked like this
and not like this
. I walked around the rest of the day completely confused.
Other celebrities I have been compared to:
- Madonna (when I had my short hair, previous to now which is obviously a rip off of Ben Gibbard
- Christiana Ricci
- Jeanene Garofalo
On a final note, I once got to tour the White House and I spent the entire time looking for Socks. Sadly, I never saw him.
[diana is not enough of a jap]
diana is not enough of a jap
for me. she lived in texas for ten years,
then moved to boston for school, as hap
would have it, to live with hipsters and queers.
she roams the streets wearing a tiara
and bewitches all the thin indie boys
with their little pins of che guevara.
she blithely muffles all the background noise.
when she walks to the japanese market,
feeling more in touch with her ethnic roots
(she'd drive her car, were there space to park it),
where she buys fresh vegetables and fruits.
on her way home, she clicks at the squirrels
and compares herself to other girls.
ahem. this was written by the stunningly gorgeous and extremely witty stephen m. obviously, i'm better than you.
i rock at the rock
Every now and then I get bitten by the mix cd bug. Here are the last couple I have made for the Woochata Sisterhood.
China Girl -- David Bowie
Too Shy -- Kajagoogoo
Bokkie -- Elefant
Empty Bed -- The Good Life
Reasons to be Beautiful -- Hole
You're So Damn Hot -- OK Go
Need to Get Some -- Division of Laura Lee
Hungry Like the Wolf -- Duran Duran
Afraid -- Motley Crue
Relax -- Frankie Goes to Hollywood
Like a Virgin -- Madonna
Girls and Boys -- Blur
Pull My Hair -- Bright Eyes
Bang -- Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Just Like a Whore -- Ryan Adams
Cradle of Love -- Billy Idol
The Perfect Drug -- Nine Inch Nails
Little Bastard -- Ass Ponys
Instant Pleasure -- Rufus Wainwright
Tired of Sex -- Weezer
Hey Sandy -- Polaris
California -- Phantom Planet
King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1 -- Neutral Milk Hotel
Zeroes -- Spacehog
I Love the Valley -- Ten in the Swear Jar
Stab -- Built to Spill
California Stars -- Wilco
Funny How I'm Losing You Now -- Ryan Adams
Excerpts from the Various Notes Strewn Around the Bedroom -- Cursive
B -- Pinback
Travelling at Night -- The Mercury Program
Spark -- Tori Amos
Everyday is Like Sunday -- Morrissey
Paper Thin Walls -- Modest Mouse
NYC -- Interpol
Bokkie -- Elefant
Sunday Morning -- The Velvet Underground
The Air Near My Fingers -- The White Stripes
Blue and Yellow -- The Used
Exit Music (for a film) -- Radiohead
50 word story
Sam had a pet frog, Bob. Bob liked naps. "Wake up," Sam would shake him. "Let's play." Bob tossed and turned. He did not like to play. Sam was sad. He wanted to bike, but Bob wanted to nap.
[I aborted this because I couldn't make it work.]
25 word story
Bob did not play. He did not bike. He did not skip. He did not jump. He did not sing. All he did was nap.
12 word story
Sam has a dog. He lost his bark. Now, he stays in the park.
[yes, mine is indeed 14 words.]
you can't sleep (comfortably) in a tiara.
you call this art?
so, we have done it. we have created so many masterpieces we had to start another blog
. Modern Art Failure must be taken completely serious though, because we are trying to change the world with our draw-rings, and through them you will gain knowledge of how the world really works. do not be surprised if you find the meaning of life here
. i know i did.
the final blow
today, i lost a dear friend. i had known him for almost a year and he never appeared ill, but today when i went to go see him, you could tell something was wrong. he had lost his spunk.
this friend has done a lot for me in the past. i'd go visit him whenever i was upset and he had no problem cheering me up and putting a smile on my face. just the short time we'd spend together i cherished and carried with me throughout the whole day. there was nothing i could ever do to repay him, just listen. just look. he held so many stories inside him.
then today, he was lackluster. pale. black. dying. i could barely make myself smile when i looked into his eyes. he was on his last legs and i whispered thank you when i left him.
is the last thing he gave me.
downtown harrisburg was always one of my favorite places. something about tall buildings and watching the people cross the streets, where the homeless meet the businessman on a daily basis. clean and dirty at the same time. it was always busy, giving me something to focus on, never blinking in case of missing a part of the action.
tuesdays were strawberry square nights located in the midst of that hustle and bussell. my sister, aspiring actress, would go to participate in the popcorn hat players
, a children's theater group. she never got big parts, but she ended up in the local paper, i think for charisma. she never lacked ambition.
while sarah would practice and expand her imagination, i would do homework in the empty food court. i would order the same thing from the chinese restaruant -- brown gravy and rice -- and get our parking ticket validated. it happened each tuesday like clockwork. then i would eat and stretch the part of my brain that never worked quite right. grasping numbers was always a lot harder than i thought it should be. with something that had such a definite answer -- right or wrong -- i could never quite get it.
my mom would tutor me as we watched the big clock in the middle of the mini-mall creep (too) slowly towards 8 o'clock. it was just us and the janitors, and i liked how it was still and it was just us in an empty building. sometimes we would walk around and peer into the windows. we kick ourselves now for not buying that Jagr autographed hockey stick, only $95, in that sports store. i'd lick my lips when we would pass the stand with the chocolates. i never liked chocolate as much as when i couldn't have it.
there was one store in particular i remember, it was the doll store located right next to where my sister was acting out one of the 7 dwarves or Jasmine from Aladdin. we rode the escalator up, its steps shining an eerie green glow, to this store. looking at the eyes, glazed over and so life-like it was like my mission to free them from behind the glass. i could almost seem them reach out and touch me through the window.
"we are not to be showcased. we are more than dolls."
i would dream of rescuing them and holding them in my arms like lost puppies. during the daylight, the dolls looked like just pieces of porcelain with fake golden curls and fancy costumes. it was at night, that they seemed alive. it was at night when everything was quiet that everything was more lively. like the stars made people more awake, more interesting. i guess that's why you always make out with the ugly person at the bar. everything is more interesting at night and when you're inebriated.
i was drunk off dreams to come. i still am.
yesterday, i woke up crying -- sobbing hard into my blankets. i had been crying in my dream over the death of my dog. his face smeared across the pavement, me kneeling down and sobbing hard over the remains. i woke up crying but not scared. i remember thinking, "i'm glad i still know how to do this." then cried myself back to sleep.
in the sidewalk by my back porch, there was a nickle stuck in the cement. i would spend hours chipping around the edges. it never broke lose. it was the backyard's flair, i suppose.
i never had a tree house, but i did have a fort. one afternoon, i lost my frisbee on the roof of the garage. my dad showed me how to climb the built-in brick BBQ pit (which we never used) to get to it. this soon became the place where i went to think, often i would test out my newest inventions as well.
from up there, i could see the cars past and the other kids playing in the neighborhood, but i never had to give up where i was. i was always hidden by the giant evergreens. i could play the spy.
one of my favorite things to do as a child was figure out how to make a fishing pole. i'm not sure why i wanted to go fishing, perhaps i had seen way too many episodes of the Andy Griffith Show, but that's what i wanted to do. mostly i would use a long stick and a piece of string with a bent paperclip attached at the end. down at the creek, i never caught a single thing. i still liked to imagine sitting out there in a boat all day, just thinking.
my other idea was to make a pea shooter, which seemed a lot harder than i thought it would be. apparantly, shooting split peas out of straw doesn't work as well as i thought. i soon abandoned that idea for a parachute. the parachute was a Hefty garbage bag with two holes, so i could hold on to it. i then i would climb my aspen tree and jump off. i always landed on my feet, but never because of the parachute which would just end up over my head blinding me.
i was not a very good inventor but i had a lot of ideas, but then i discovered matches. burning things was fun.
there was always that shady spot right under the tree by the algea covered man-made pond
between pennsylvania and maryland there was a wonderland, where the highway stopped stretching and there was a mcdonald's and two all-you-can-eat family buffets. and then there was the zoo
we found it in it's bare bones stage. when it was dirt paths and the donkeys were still allowed to roam without a fence. when you could toss your feed to the monkeys and the sunbears and the peacocks. in the beginning, there are always less rules. it wasn't too far away from home to go often, but it wasn't close enough for me to ever be disappointed when we visited.
sometimes you could see the legs of deer in the tiger cages, and i remember feeling sad. i could never understand the order of nature -- predators and prey. i liked observing through the bars -- only feet away from cheetahs and tigers and lions. although, i could never understand the cages -- the way they paced back and forth and the way their whiskers hung in frowns. i had overwhelming urges to steal the keys and let everything go in a jumbled mass of reptiles, exotic birds and billy goats. but instead i just watched.
my favorite part was always the petting zoo, except the goats would always put their hooves on my stomach and trample me down for my food, ripping the bag out of my hands or pockets. they would nibble at fingers and toes through my sandals. i was never fond of the big goats, just the babies. it was a special mission to feed them and distract their more grumpy elders who would nudge them out of the way.
there were also llamas, who always curled their long tongues out to pick up the pellets from your outstretched palm. there was one time where i wanted to visit the llamas and i walked into this giant stretch of mud and was stranded on a rock with no shoes. a very muscle-y man picked me up and i squashed around the rest of the day with muddy shoes. i never got close to the llamas that day.
one of the most intriguing parts of the zoo was that the paths led you around in a circle through a wooded area. you were never surrounded by cement and it seemed so much more natural. nothing was forced. you were outside, not confined by fake bridges and special zoned areas for aquatic life and reptiles and big cats and monkeys.
i never did like leaving. there was always a sense of emptiness when i left, something that a stuffed animal could never replace.
no return address
i'm way too oblique for my class, but maybe someone will understand this somewhere. i'm also the only one who wrote a serious piece. i do not have the funny gene, i guess.
Dear Mr. C,
I first saw her feeding squirrels in the Garden. Everyday at 2:30pm, she was there and I would watch her from a nearby bench. She always looked so happy as the squirrels ate from her cupped hands. She would smile as she passed me, and I would nod at her over the top of my newspaper. I couldn’t wait to get to know her better, and eat from her cupped hands. I didn’t have to wait long.
She didn’t make a noise when I took her by the hand that afternoon. It was like she was expecting it. She didn’t smile but she didn’t turn away. I led her to my apartment on Marlborough Street, where Holden greeted us with a whip of his tail. He was always such a sassy feline. She smiled as soon as she saw his golden eyes. She let go of my hand, but I wasn’t afraid of her running away. I knew she would like my cats. I loved watching her fingers brush through his thick grey coat. He purred loudly, and I smiled as I watched her. Her eyes were still upset, so I nudged her gently through the door. Holden leaped from her arms.
I asked if I could get her anything, but she just nodded. I gestured for her to sit down. She fell into my zebra-striped couch as if her feet could barely hold her weight.
“I quit, sir. I quit.” This was the first time I had heard more than the coos she would give the squirrels. “I cannot be a writer. I cannot keep up with his demands.”
“Then I will keep you here. You don’t have to go back to him. You never need to see another blank computer screen or another white piece of paper in your typewriter. It ends here. You are no longer a writing whore.”
She laughed but I was quite serious. I was glad to have her company, even though she wouldn’t say another word after that. She was lost in her thoughts while Alice, Charlie and Jack fought for turns on her lap. I made her tea and sat across from her trying to read her internal dialogue through her pupils.
She traced words out on her jeans with her finger, big curly cursive words – turtle, grocery and lentils. She scratched harder each time. The red marks on her arms read: I quit. I think if she could have, she would have wanted those words tattooed on her hands, but at the same time she kept staring at the pen and paper on the coffee table. She eyed them so closely I was sure they would fly up and whirl around till they landed in her lap fighting with Felix for most comfortable chair in the house.
That night I left her sleeping on my couch, but when I woke up she was gone. She had fed the cats and brushed the Persians. The only proof of her existence was a note on the table that read, “Wisdom is acquired by experience, not just by age. I don’t need school to be a writer. I quit. Please pass this on for me.”
So sir, you will see that I’m just following her wishes. The address was to this office and I promise I didn’t hurt her. She’s just words on a page now, and I haven’t seen her since. She’s just a story.
The Cat Lover
we work hard to blow your...minds
music is one of our biggest influences. here is our interpretation of "tears in heaven" by eric clapton. you can tell we are a couple of apathetic bastards and have complete lack of empathy. sorry, we just don't care. my special contribution was the stars! also, notice his sabrina-esque highlights, there's no need to disregard fashion just because you are dead.
they change the flowers in their beds every two weeks. i guess once they start weeping, they're out of there. they cover the george washington statue at night. the homeless men yell obscenities at me as i walk past. couples crowd the benches during the afternoon and eat lunch together. businessmen take naps inbetween meetings. children feed the swans and the mallards moldy remains from last week's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -- crunched at the bottom of the bag, forgotten. then there are the geese crowding the grass picking at worms while mingling with the squirrels. it's all there till fall.
with fall comes the putrid stink of the duck pond, forever uncleaned and ignored. dead leaves and frozen rat corpses. it's a time to be scarfy and pray it doesn't get colder.
but the thing i miss most is a certain man. he's been here since i've been a freshman -- reddish hair to his shoulders, janitor's broom mustache, sweat suits and workman's boots. he sits in the grass and just observes. just sits and watches. by the time, 3pm rolls around and i walk by again, he's napping. alone in the grass. he doesn't have any friends and he doesn't click at the squirrels like i do. he's always just there.
he disappears during the winter, then comes back in the spring. i've never said hello because, quite frankly, he scares me. it's just comforting to see something that never changes. a constant.
we like to call ourselves modern art failure: we're here everyday this week folks
and i enjoy the 80's. so, we like to listen to the finest examples of that period's music for inspiration. one of our favorites is duran duran
. this is our interpretation of "hungry like the wolf," please note his "majesty"
where boys fear to tread
i tried crying tonight. a single tear at the corner of my eyes. instead dried up lakes and burning grains of sand. red eyes and burnt fingers from scratching bruished shins. flesh caught under the tips of nails. yelling fuck at the top of my lungs and listening to "in the arms of sleep" on repeat. still nothing.
"i'm sure i'll regret this later," i overhear a girl say in the hall, then i hear the same girl moaning hours later in the room of some boy. her yes's broadcasted through paper thin walls. scratching the paint, white with red, making pink splinters.
frustrated that the only dream i can dream are the ones where i'm hurt and stinging to feel till i collapse -- a mass of hives on a white stretcher. i can't feel my neck, my fingers, my toes. i can't feel a damn thing. my only other dreams are miles away.
i can see you clearly looking over me. holding my hand. digging out the bits beneath my fingernails. trying to find secrets. trying to find the way to say hello without sounding too serious or not serious enough. and i just nod my head up and down and i'm in and out and i can't see you for more than a glow. the light reflecting off your tiara. you were always a princess even as a girl.
then i'm moving slowly through crowded hallways. all i can see is the glittering off your crown. you tell me to breath. i joke, "i'm not having a baby" and we cackle down the hallways. i tell them your my partner. my lurve partner, and that's exactly how i say it. and we laugh again, even louder.
"the bloody french," you yell for no reason.
then there are the black walls. a cave of insincerity because i can't tell where i am or who i am. i can't remember. and you aren't there when i wake up. no one is there.
i'm stuck to the bed in a white walled room -- restrained by the moaning - -the effervescence mark of someone else's regrets.
have you ever wondered what sabrina and i do at 6am?
sometimes we put on the narrative parts of fight club
and draw our own adaptation of it. we then become more than just simply writers but artists as well. this is just the first of many to be highlighted in my journal.
my mother has been watching way too much MTV and has sent me the following email
Are you making A's
Are you making B's
If you are making C's or D's
I will no longer be payin' yo fees.
Are you stayin' up all night
Have you been on the internet all right I have warned ya I have
that you and 2-D are gettin' too tight
Cool ME feat. academic Outkast yo
probably not for you
behind my closed lips
i say your name in my head
waiting for hellos
searching for the right one
i must be pretty noticeable, because once again i have gained the wrong type of attention. when i go to the diner (the dining facility on the west side of campus), i get chatted up by the employees. i now have two nicknames.
- miss serious
i'm not sure how i feel about this.
i never liked saying goodbye
i like trees
my parents left for canada when i was four, ran to the northern border and left me with my grandma in texas. the whole time, all i wanted was my mother. now, normally one would think of a grandma as someone that would play games with me outside and bake me cookies, but instead we stayed indoors and we watched soap operas and talk shows.
every night at 8:30, i would start crying for my mother. how i wanted her back, "right then." it, of course, never got me anywhere. one night, my grandma said, "it's 8:30, aren't you going to start crying now?" i did because i had a reputation to keep up.
the only thing that kept me sane was tea. celestial seasonings roastaroma, the tea for coffee lovers. i was four and i was already quite fond of drinking tea in the afternoons. my grandma had a bunch of japanese tea sets and she'd let me make it in the little pots with a bunch of little cups. i would imagine giving tea parties to a bunch of my closest friends -- tiffany, karen, tori and tim -- imaginary friends. i would drink all the cups myself and my grandma was worried about my large tea consumption, afraid it would keep me awake at nights. although, i would drink about three small pots a day. i never could get to bed on time, but that's always been a problem. even then.
the day, my mom was supposed to return, my grandma let me cook something in the kitchen. i made egg pancakes for my mother. i had no idea what i was doing but i liked cracking open the eggs. i thought i had invented them, but i guess the bloody french got to them first. my mom ate all of them. i guess she liked humoring her daughter, because i wouldn't even eat them. but i didn't like eggs either. something about the way omelets looked has always bothered me.
i still haven't been to canada.
i've got another bad idea and it's called california.
sometimes i keep looking forward towards the past
remember that colorado trip
i took in the summer? here are pictures
the boys in the pictures were from CSU studying to be mounaineers or forest rangers or something. the rest are girls that i shared a room with -- well, most of them anyway.
one night out
i decided to get dressed up tonight. some red skirt that my mom bought me a year ago -- unworn -- tags still on the hip. i have to stand on my bed to see myself in the mirror. i check out every angle. i'm sure this is a sign of narcissism, because i don't recall ever thinking, "damn, you look good" before as i looked into a mirror.
the problem is with socks. i only own argyle or blue striped or knee highs and none of them will work. i need fishnets or red socks. i have neither. i keep fooling myself into a trend, and then realized i never had it to begin with. i decide to not match. dammit, i go to an art-sy school.
i'm wearing a skirt and it's 50 degrees outside. there are goosebumps on my thighs. i'm aware this was a poor decision 5 minutes after i've been outside. but i don't turn around. i'm on the go.
one crowded train drives by me. there's something unappealing about the smell of sweat and bad breath on a too full subway car. i can't handle it. seconds later, another arrives. then red line. central square. our car just sits there and people race in as if it it's about to pull away at any second. there are 5 middle aged alcohol-breathed leering men around me. i shrug. i can't read and i can't write. i have to memorize all the details and write them down on the grooves on my brain.
an asian girl with a manicure pulls up to my pole. her hands make me feel entirely too uncomfortable. i stare at her ring -- real sterling. i stare at mine -- bought for 5 dollars in provincetown. my nail are still covered in the red polish of last month -- just flaking square blobs on every other nail. no polish remover or else they'd be flesh toned.
then it's through the medieval torture chamber. the revolving door that looks like it was built for doom, destruction and legal reasons. "is this the way to the road?" yeah, i nod. he doesn't spin it too fast, so i don't trip on my own laces. i smile.
he looks a lot cuter than i remember. but not different. and i'm not expecting much. he's frazzled and i'm entirely too tired to really care. i'd rather have fingers on my knees than fingers up my cunt.
plus, he has cats and i think i would have ridden a bus to be around real pets again in a place that closely resembles a house. i kinda want to move in and sleep on the couch with jack because it's entirely too cold and alone in my own room. i'd really like the company of more than just a radio.
I Never Said Hello
The only things I know how to do well are calligraphy, kissing and mix tapes. And for some reason I know she can do all these things better. I am an underground pop culture failure.
She’s smoking Camel Lights, leaning out of the fifth floor window of her apartment, staring at the heads of the people passing on the sidewalk. It’s 7am, but she’s not up early, she’s never gone to bed. Her lips smeared with clear gloss with hints of tangerine flavoring, cheeks pink like an early morning jog, eyelids covered in tints of seafoam green and lavender from the wings of butterflies. David Bowie is playing in the background and the cracks and pops of the record keep making the cat’s ears flip back in agitation. She stubs her cigarette out on the window sill.
She’s startled when the phone rings. She jumps not recognizing what it is at first.
“Hello?” She twirls the curled cord in-between her fingers.
I hang up. I only want to hear her voice. It’s soft and low, always a whisper, always calm. It reminds me of the softest parts of songs, where I readjust the volume so I can catch the slightest changes in rhythm. The Sundays I spend inside with the curtains closed, listening to The Velvet Underground, recovering from yesterday’s hangover. I examine my face looking for traces where we might be alike somehow. I know we’re not, but in my mind we’re just like sisters. Although, I would never tell her that to her face.
Her perfect smile, teeth and lips. I feel like Jan – the middle Brady, I’m lost and I can’t recognize who I am anymore. I’m just glimpses of other people’s lives. I get lost in who I want to be, and who I really am. I’d like to be like her.
She’s lost on the wings of faeries and touching the scales of dragons. She’s sleeping with rock stars, fucking them in the van, as I wait outside with a pen in my hand, disappointed that they never show. But I can’t be mad at someone that I admire. Someone I’d like to be. I just shrug and walk away, breathing out cold air, puffs from my imaginary cigarette.
I spin songs in my head, while she deejays the party. I eat toast, while she’s preoccupied with her crème brulee. I walk away, while she’s not afraid to stand. I turn my back as she faces forward. I cry and she laughs. I’m coal on the inside and she’s the sunset over Malibu.
At least I can pretend we were friends, too afraid to actually say hello.
His breath escapes in whispers, small clouds forming stars and shamrocks, in front of his lips. He nods like he knows me, but we barely kissed that one night. I’m sure he doesn’t remember the night I made her cry.
She was across the room with an empty glass in her left hand. Her mascara running down apple cheeks, her barrette hanging from loose golden threads. She watched as I sat in his lap kissing his neck, leaving bruises to show my mark. I whispered in his ear, “Dump her,” but he was too drunk to understand. He just nodded and I could feel him hard against my thigh. This didn’t feel right at the time, and just standing next to him makes me recall the taste of vomit in my mouth and the smell of cigarettes and pineapples in his hair.
After that, I couldn’t even look at her without feeling sick. There was no way to start a conversation without saying, “Yeah, I’m the one that fucked your boyfriend at that party, but I’d really like to get to know you better.” I wanted to say sorry, but there is only so much you can say with your eyes.
p.s. a girl i know offered to put this in comic form once i'm finished with it. so help me critique this, okay!
i can't remember the last time i thought about myself so much
watching a disturbing movie
in the company of 17 other people is a bit uncomfortable. around the room people are wiping the corners of their eyes or are concentrating on the floor instead of what's on the screen. i like to watch the faces of the people around me as much as i like to watch the movie. it gives me a sense of what i'm supposed to be feeling.
which is sad.
after class is over, we just leave. "i'll see you next tuesday." blank. there is almost nothing to say after you see dysfunction quite like that. i almost don't know what to say. i want to talk about it but instead it just goes around in circles in my head. i keep thinking of the girl who wrote obsessively in her book. that's what they called it. Grace's book. and when her alcoholic father grabs it out of her hand's and tears it in two. that's the part where i want to cry the most.
that's the part of the movie that makes me say, "that's it," and i walk out, at least, in my head i do.
if i went to school anywhere else, i'd get a response
it's a shame when a girl can walk around her dorm in just red pajamas and a green scarf
, and no one says a thing. not a damn thing.
this here is sean dack
you may all recall a little show on MTV
featuring this guy.
i'm not sure why he's worthy of tons of girls writing about him on their blogs, but i guess he is, so I'm going to write about him again.
at one point, i gained the interest of a man on this site
. "his boy is sean dack" and he said he could arrange for me to meet him -- more or less. i emailed him, he emailed me back, i emailed him and no word.
i guess the dilemma was that i didn't live in new york. that i didn't have a place to stay there. so, if you are a kindly soul in new york, help a girl out and let me stay with you while i go party with sean dack.
i call this the art of studentry
i told myself i would study, but telling yourself to do anything does not mean it will get done. it started at 3pm and i kept pushing the time forward and forward till it was 11pm. i assumed i'd just go to sleep early and get up and study.
wrong wrong wrong.
it's 6am and i've already decided i don't need to go to my first class. that crap adv. fiction writing class that just makes me want to stab my own eyes out and twirl about the room like a top flinging blood on everyone's clean clothes. somedays you just can't take it. i figure this is my one day.
later, i get a call. the counseling center. this must be a sign as it's 11:15, the exact time i would be getting out of that class i skipped. i decide to go back to sleep.
now, it's 1pm. i have that class with the exam in two hours. i push myself to start studying. it's 3:45, fifteen minutes before class and i'm cramming dates and names into my brain. there is no way i can remember it all, but i trick myself into thinking it will be okay.
when i'm done with the test. there are about 4 complete blank spots. i can't remember the names. i can't remember the dates. i can't remember the names of spirituals and folk songs and where amazing grace was finally put down in words and the composer. i want to try but i'm just sitting there saying the same things over and over in my head. it's just not there. empty. you are overdrawn. go back to start. better luck next time.
so i hand in my exam and walk away. this is the only right answer i have.
not quite as imagined
disclaimor: i am very unhappy with this blog. it can suck it. also, present tense, past scenario.
he gets lost on the way to my house. he calls me and i tell him to look for the O'Reilly's and the William's Chicken. to take a turn past the alley and that my house is at the top of the hill. i tell him what i am wearing (skirt and knee highs) and he tells me he is excited.
his hand is on my thigh the whole way there. i'm sure he can tell how wet i am, but he never moves his hand. we listen to finch, who he tells me are going to be huge soon. huge, he says. my ears are ringing and everything he says sounds like whispers. all i want to do is get back to his apartment, and all he wants to do is eat indian food. he feeds me mater paneer and poori bread. i smile across the table at him.
"do you mind if i smoke?" i always thought that people smoked after good sex. he likes to smoke after a really good meal. i don't mind. he blows the smoke out of the window. i think it's sexy.
he keeps giving me pieces of gum. we chew in unity. we're sitting outside his apartment chewing gum. i want inside. i want him inside me.
he kisses me as soon as we get to the door, i could still taste the smoke on his breath. and when he kisses, he kisses hard. deep kisses that i couldn't ever find a way of escaping. he pins me on the couch and i just let him. i want him too. he pulls my hair and pushes me away. i climb on his lap wanting more. i spread my legs without realizing i am inviting him to touch me. it's hard to hide what you want. your pussy doesn't hide anything.
his neighbor knocks on the door and i pretend i'm not naked, cold, hiding under a blanket. he gives us beer and talks about vin diesel. i want him to leave but he plays nice and talks him out the door by nodding his head and saying thank you thank you thank you.
it's cold this time of year in texas, forties. he makes a fire. and by makes a fire, i mean he turns a knob and a fake flame appears over some pretend logs. it's still nice.
"let's get close. body heat."
then we're back at it. it is kissing, where i can feel his tongue ring tap against my teeth but just barely. it's his hands on my breasts. it's him licking a trail down my neck towards my belly button and not stopping where i think he will and he tongues at my clit.
i don't know the exact moment when it happened. when i lost it and just let him. when i asked him to fuck me. when he does -- i tell him he has to stop. when i whispered in his ear that i didn't really mean it.
when he drove me home again, his hand went right back on my thigh. still hot from what i'd just done. i was throbbing and empty. and i remember thinking, i want you back inside me.