The patient is nothing but uneasy and frightenedly aware and continually uncomfortable in her thin skin. All that is alien is struck in the iris and ignites a nerve reaction that manipulates trembling in her heart.
Two years has past and the disorder penetrates deeper than ever.
"He-h-hello," she says to the cashier, the friend over the phone, the doctor. Mere strangers.
"Hi there, how are you?" She asks in her induced confident state.
It's a damned lie; that is all.
I feel incredible. Why? Because I drank.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Self-conciousness
It's Wednesday and I am fat. My knees are cracking under the weight and I am fat. So soft and jelly in this cocoon of skin and my hip bone is missing.
I am disgusted at the rolls that make up my belly and the ever-growing stretch marks that decorate my thighs.
He won't want to come home to this lard ass. "More cushion for the pushing, baby," he'll say in his twisted consoling voice.
Well, I want you to grab me up and nail me against the wall like the jarhead you were trained to become.
I want handfuls of firmness and not cellulite to be in your squeeze.
What do I do? I do the diet. I do the fresh fruit and vegetables hustle and groove over to those fifteen almonds.
Soon I will be thin again and you'll be proud of the woman you married because you won't need to bury her at 33.
I am disgusted at the rolls that make up my belly and the ever-growing stretch marks that decorate my thighs.
He won't want to come home to this lard ass. "More cushion for the pushing, baby," he'll say in his twisted consoling voice.
Well, I want you to grab me up and nail me against the wall like the jarhead you were trained to become.
I want handfuls of firmness and not cellulite to be in your squeeze.
What do I do? I do the diet. I do the fresh fruit and vegetables hustle and groove over to those fifteen almonds.
Soon I will be thin again and you'll be proud of the woman you married because you won't need to bury her at 33.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
An Old Lover's Appeal
This is something someone wrote to me when he had discovered I was already married. Deane Napoli. I just thought it was wonderfully written.
Clearly I missed the bus to eden... Adam and Eve have arrived first, so is this Steve's turn to enter the secret garden? I'd like to think simultaneously that you're rekindling ancient fires on warm stones, while hoping you have no intention of walking across them. I've made the gap a few time, but without a bridge I won't be back across. Let me know when building commences. You're too special not greet the dawning of our glorious new age where fawns and satyrs drink their hearts out on the blood of christ and the polyamorous inclined line streets beneath wisps of your dress.
Clearly I missed the bus to eden... Adam and Eve have arrived first, so is this Steve's turn to enter the secret garden? I'd like to think simultaneously that you're rekindling ancient fires on warm stones, while hoping you have no intention of walking across them. I've made the gap a few time, but without a bridge I won't be back across. Let me know when building commences. You're too special not greet the dawning of our glorious new age where fawns and satyrs drink their hearts out on the blood of christ and the polyamorous inclined line streets beneath wisps of your dress.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Opinions for Week 14
Opinionated people are stupid. Open-minded, opinionated people are smart. Christian churches are opinionated. Universalist churches are open-minded; Coffee is for the weak and old. So is Florida; Eminem sings what we all think and cowers to no one. "No offense, but fuck you."; If creationism is real, then God is not perfect; 5 shots of whiskey a day keeps the doctor at bay, but a glass of red wine keeps the doctor astray without pay; If suicide is selfish, is eating a Whopper too?; If cops are our friends, why are my friends afraid of them? Friends shouldn't scare friends; Hitting the brake pedal when you see a police car isn't repentance.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Writing About Myself As A Writer
I am a writer. I type and I make letters into words. Then I make those words into paragraphs which leads to a story. If it flows, I am not concerned. It is my reader that must deal with the consequences of my click-clacking keyboard. I am here to tell you a story and if you follow, then you are a genius. No offense to myself, but with a mind that moves miles a minute, flowing is not an easy requirement to meet in my writing.
I do consider myself such a writer that has her tone set, however. If I were to write novels, one would be able to tell that this author is one sarcastic bitch. She doesn’t like much in the world and in other words, there is much more evil to write about than good. For instance, or then again, should I even mention it? Government policies? Do people really want to read my rant? Maybe Rush Limbaugh or Pat Robertson would like to so they could find the “so many errors” in my Democratic stand.
I hope or in another mentality, I know I will become famous for my writing techniques. No, I’m not original or a pioneer of literary methods. I am a blunt little girl. I don’t want to write a book about him or anyone else, it or anything. I want to explain the truth in a magazine or newspaper for all the locals to read, to respond to, and tell me just how wrong my opinion is on the subject matter.
If not opinion-writing, then I shall seek to report the deadly and the strange, the great and unacceptable performances, and the grand opening of the new lounge on Main Street. Times will be rough and I’ll be there to report, describe, illustrate, put into English, perhaps laymen’s terms for those who surround his or herself in the pages of the New York Times or Time magazine.
Off the topic but what is necessary to write, I found English 162 taught by John Goldfine just pure gold and fine. I’ve learned adjectives aren’t the most important element to writing, same for description. I don’t need to utilize them as much as I previously thought to be genuine with my reader. I should depend on my reader to relate with my small excerpts of non-fiction experiences within my own life.
In the end, however, I have lost what muse used to float around my head as I wrote for I am naturally an abstract writer. Whatever comes to mind gets impressed on this simulation of paper. Although, I know now not to “try so hard”, I still have trouble seeing as that green fairy of ideas fails to appear.
Time is grand, and within it I shall perfect the art of the written word. This I know.
I do consider myself such a writer that has her tone set, however. If I were to write novels, one would be able to tell that this author is one sarcastic bitch. She doesn’t like much in the world and in other words, there is much more evil to write about than good. For instance, or then again, should I even mention it? Government policies? Do people really want to read my rant? Maybe Rush Limbaugh or Pat Robertson would like to so they could find the “so many errors” in my Democratic stand.
I hope or in another mentality, I know I will become famous for my writing techniques. No, I’m not original or a pioneer of literary methods. I am a blunt little girl. I don’t want to write a book about him or anyone else, it or anything. I want to explain the truth in a magazine or newspaper for all the locals to read, to respond to, and tell me just how wrong my opinion is on the subject matter.
If not opinion-writing, then I shall seek to report the deadly and the strange, the great and unacceptable performances, and the grand opening of the new lounge on Main Street. Times will be rough and I’ll be there to report, describe, illustrate, put into English, perhaps laymen’s terms for those who surround his or herself in the pages of the New York Times or Time magazine.
Off the topic but what is necessary to write, I found English 162 taught by John Goldfine just pure gold and fine. I’ve learned adjectives aren’t the most important element to writing, same for description. I don’t need to utilize them as much as I previously thought to be genuine with my reader. I should depend on my reader to relate with my small excerpts of non-fiction experiences within my own life.
In the end, however, I have lost what muse used to float around my head as I wrote for I am naturally an abstract writer. Whatever comes to mind gets impressed on this simulation of paper. Although, I know now not to “try so hard”, I still have trouble seeing as that green fairy of ideas fails to appear.
Time is grand, and within it I shall perfect the art of the written word. This I know.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Small to Large - An Attempt To Rationalize My Feelings
Wondering when I'll see him again. Waiting for that moment where all butterflies will be trapped within the pit of my stomach, I'll glance at him and shudder with overwhelming delight.
He's still in Iraq, doodling on the margins of notebook pages, when's he not hammering away on the radios that he must repair. No sip of alcohol for a year for my love after a year of daily drinking. No halitosis or boxers; hygiene is Army strong. No touching or kissing; celebacy is Army stronger. And no freedom, just a base to roam in; imprisonment in a desert is the Army strong and ironic.
All wars end and survivors return home to screech at their spouses for not having dinner on the table at the exact moment they come home. They'll drink for three days til work starts back up again, having barbecues and parties with their battle buddies. They'll debate over re-enlisting or getting out after the two years they signed on for. "Maybe we'll get sent overseas to Japan," one will say.
"Yeah! I've always felt antithesis for Japs but I could get over that real fast."
Although in some ways we do feel like we owe our soldier kin for their sacrifices of freedom, they must recognize that while they are over there, we are still living our own lives over here. We can't possibly go to school, work, and do all the household chores on our own. We won't be beaten and tossed around like a ragdolls, just because it wasn't us who fought the brutal heat in Iraq or were under enemy attacks of mortar bombs. We fought the great war against mosquitoes and black flies, traitors and liars, temptation and desire. Our war may not be so deadly but we are merely human and soldiers we all are.
He's still in Iraq, doodling on the margins of notebook pages, when's he not hammering away on the radios that he must repair. No sip of alcohol for a year for my love after a year of daily drinking. No halitosis or boxers; hygiene is Army strong. No touching or kissing; celebacy is Army stronger. And no freedom, just a base to roam in; imprisonment in a desert is the Army strong and ironic.
All wars end and survivors return home to screech at their spouses for not having dinner on the table at the exact moment they come home. They'll drink for three days til work starts back up again, having barbecues and parties with their battle buddies. They'll debate over re-enlisting or getting out after the two years they signed on for. "Maybe we'll get sent overseas to Japan," one will say.
"Yeah! I've always felt antithesis for Japs but I could get over that real fast."
Although in some ways we do feel like we owe our soldier kin for their sacrifices of freedom, they must recognize that while they are over there, we are still living our own lives over here. We can't possibly go to school, work, and do all the household chores on our own. We won't be beaten and tossed around like a ragdolls, just because it wasn't us who fought the brutal heat in Iraq or were under enemy attacks of mortar bombs. We fought the great war against mosquitoes and black flies, traitors and liars, temptation and desire. Our war may not be so deadly but we are merely human and soldiers we all are.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
My Summer Vacation
Like most kids, I grew up going to school for the three coolest seasons and lazing around during a mind-numbing summer vacation, in which all things that were taught in the previous school year would be conveniently forgotten. All those new words in French would be substituted by slang describing which pool or skatepark would be the next destination.
No, but my best summer vacation was following the year I had dropped out of my first year in college and I was working a minimum wage job tending to the baby-boomers with high blood pressure at the Hannaford pharmacy.
One would automatically think, working during summer, are you sure that is your best summer vacation? Oh, but it wasn'at the work I found fascinating. It was my co-worker.
His name was Johnjohn and he introduced me to a life lived on the edge.
Our first meeting was when we both got locked out of the store, having stepped through the back door to have a smoke. We knocked and we woofed at the door for a straight 28 minutes. No one came to the back door and we were already five minutes late in clocking back in after our break.
Slackers seem to stick together because from then on, we hung out before and after work.
This summer my mind was numbed by the incessant smoke inhalation and alcohol consummation that happened as we drove aimlessly on the back dirt roads of Maine.
It was a whole new world to me because I'd always said, "Drinking is for losers, for the weak." Yet every day that summer I was smashed and fucked-up beyond belief and it felt great. Not a single sober moment yet I remember it all so clearly.
The first time we truly met outside of work, I drove in circles for two hours one humid night trying to find his aunt's house. He'd called earlier and left a message saying, "Hey chick, you've got this road to here and...fuck it, its in bum-fucked Egypt. I hope you make it here." Quite the charmer, I had thought.
Eventually I found the place and we snuck out behind the house with his uncle, who desperately wished to escape his wife's wrath. In a circle we sat, drank, and chatted. A light flashed and the next thing I knew, all three of us were running into the depths of a nearby forest. "Joooohn! Daaaave! I know you guys are drinking out here! I'm gonna call the cops. You hear me? I know you've got some little 18-year-old whore with you!"
I ran past the guys as they turned around in the direction of their voice and laid flat on the pine needles that flooded the forest ground. "Hey, John," I heard his uncle say in the distance, "we could totally rape her."
"Are you joking?"
"No, once your aunt leaves ..." Dave continued to conspire.
I held my breath as I heard John defend my dignity and as his aunt and the light she shined faded back into the dark night.
Before I knew it, crunching footsteps were came toward my trembling body and John and I were headed away from his crazy relatives in my car. We lowered the back seat and slept with half our bodies in the trunk that night.
He kissed my ear and grasped my hips to his growing libido. "John, I don't want a one-night-stand with you," I said, embarassed by the fact I was on the rag and all the earlier excitement had caused high tides in the Red Sea.
The next night, however, I snuck him in through my bedroom window and when my mother knocked on the door in the morning saying she had clean laundry for me, he jumped up and ran behind the slowly-opening door. One side was Mom and the other her daughter's defiler.
How can any of this describe even a slightly pleasant summer, one might ask. The excitement of being caught, drinking, screwing, smoking pot, and all while driving was just what a girl who worked in a "pill box" needed.
No, but my best summer vacation was following the year I had dropped out of my first year in college and I was working a minimum wage job tending to the baby-boomers with high blood pressure at the Hannaford pharmacy.
One would automatically think, working during summer, are you sure that is your best summer vacation? Oh, but it wasn'at the work I found fascinating. It was my co-worker.
His name was Johnjohn and he introduced me to a life lived on the edge.
Our first meeting was when we both got locked out of the store, having stepped through the back door to have a smoke. We knocked and we woofed at the door for a straight 28 minutes. No one came to the back door and we were already five minutes late in clocking back in after our break.
Slackers seem to stick together because from then on, we hung out before and after work.
This summer my mind was numbed by the incessant smoke inhalation and alcohol consummation that happened as we drove aimlessly on the back dirt roads of Maine.
It was a whole new world to me because I'd always said, "Drinking is for losers, for the weak." Yet every day that summer I was smashed and fucked-up beyond belief and it felt great. Not a single sober moment yet I remember it all so clearly.
The first time we truly met outside of work, I drove in circles for two hours one humid night trying to find his aunt's house. He'd called earlier and left a message saying, "Hey chick, you've got this road to here and...fuck it, its in bum-fucked Egypt. I hope you make it here." Quite the charmer, I had thought.
Eventually I found the place and we snuck out behind the house with his uncle, who desperately wished to escape his wife's wrath. In a circle we sat, drank, and chatted. A light flashed and the next thing I knew, all three of us were running into the depths of a nearby forest. "Joooohn! Daaaave! I know you guys are drinking out here! I'm gonna call the cops. You hear me? I know you've got some little 18-year-old whore with you!"
I ran past the guys as they turned around in the direction of their voice and laid flat on the pine needles that flooded the forest ground. "Hey, John," I heard his uncle say in the distance, "we could totally rape her."
"Are you joking?"
"No, once your aunt leaves ..." Dave continued to conspire.
I held my breath as I heard John defend my dignity and as his aunt and the light she shined faded back into the dark night.
Before I knew it, crunching footsteps were came toward my trembling body and John and I were headed away from his crazy relatives in my car. We lowered the back seat and slept with half our bodies in the trunk that night.
He kissed my ear and grasped my hips to his growing libido. "John, I don't want a one-night-stand with you," I said, embarassed by the fact I was on the rag and all the earlier excitement had caused high tides in the Red Sea.
The next night, however, I snuck him in through my bedroom window and when my mother knocked on the door in the morning saying she had clean laundry for me, he jumped up and ran behind the slowly-opening door. One side was Mom and the other her daughter's defiler.
How can any of this describe even a slightly pleasant summer, one might ask. The excitement of being caught, drinking, screwing, smoking pot, and all while driving was just what a girl who worked in a "pill box" needed.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Escape and Entrance
I left you, Saturday mornings sleeping in and imaginary worlds of talking plastic; waging war over who gets “shotgun”; threats of “turning the car around”; wishing to change the classical music to thrash metal, dozing off because I can’t; tugging the handle simultaneously with the “beep”, making furrowed faces at the door; sneaking into the chips before we make it home from the store … in the dust.
And chose you, green machine. I'll sit and steer where I want, brake and unlock when I want.
And chose you, green machine. I'll sit and steer where I want, brake and unlock when I want.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
In Laymen's Terms, My Dying Cat
A tuft of orange and he’s lacking lasagna quite obviously felt by scales I could play with tracing fingers. One eye full of amber light, the other in which the sun sets. Belying his active stance, his breath reflects rot and reaper within.. Braided strings of sputum expressed in the plague he endures on the flannel roads that will cross. He’s as useful as all knick-knacks, yet too light to weigh down his own certificate. The mange, he has, but “il mange”, he has not. A cauldron boils with the tongues of horses and mystery bratwurst, a steaming mush of regurgitation soon to be sprawled out on his curdled cloak.
The German Shit-Shelf -- Not Assignment
Next to the infamous Squat-hole toilets of Asia and southern France, the German Poo-Shelf Toilet is undoubtedly one of the least pleasant methods of waste removal - assuming you're like most folks and don't feel the need to get to know your waste. It finds itself here in western Poland because this region was once part of Germany until the Germans got all riled up and tried to take over the world. They're better now, but the legacy of their doody-tech remains.
The Poo-Shelf comes from a period in German history when Germans were less interested in world domination and apparently more interested in spending quality time with their feces. That, or they were prone to accidentally eating their wedding rings and needed a toilet that allowed them to conveniently rummage through their dung before dispatching it to the abyss. Those must have been fascinating times and I'm quite glad I wasn't born in them.
I don't know how many such devices are in existence. Perhaps they're quite rare and I was simply lucky to stumble upon such a specimen. All I know is that upon encountering the German Poo-Shelf Toilet, one is forced to solemnly contemplate the reason such a horrible mechanism exists, and what demon designed such a thing.
Rather than whisking your waste away, the GPST simply lets it sit there, mere centimeters from your rump, so that you might think about the brief time you had together. When you're done reminiscing - or when the odor of a pile of poop begins to negatively affect the ambiance of your bathroom - you simply pull up on the flushing mechanism to send your creation on to the Great Beyond. However, if the flushing mechanism doesn't work - well, you're on your own with a shelf full of poo and a toilet designed so as to render the plunger useless. Good luck and God bless.
It should also be noted that any gentleman who chooses to stand up and use the German Poo-Shelf Toilet for the purpose of bladder-emptying can be expected to enjoy as much splash-back as one might get from say, peeing on a coffee table. The toilet, in all aspects aside from cigarette butt and chewing gum disposal, is utterly useless.
Those who believe in intelligent life in outer space often say that any culture advanced enough to achieve space travel would probably not make themselves known to us until we too have reached a certain level of civilization. I take that to mean the elimination of war, and every German Poo Shelf toilet currently in existence. Although stopping warfare is a tall order at the moment, I encourage every able-bodied soul to grab a sledgehammer, get to Germany, and start swinging.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Alienation - Chronology Sequence - Then, Now, Soon
Drearily framed in a constant low-light, her world was dead. No feelings, no emotions, at least none that could be shown. He’d left so long ago, she only missed him subconsciously now. It wasn’t hard anymore; distance wasn’t difficult. It was just existent like the rest of the things beheld in her presence.
****
Only yesterday was it softly lit and from every angle she could see, he was perfect. It took no time for her to fall in to that pudding-like substance called love. It was warm and wrapped around her, and like butter in a pan, she melted.
****
Blockaded in the cave of the dark reality of his disappearance, life beyond had become unreachable. Some days she would tremble and shake as she woke, no light penetrating the curtains that crusted over her eyes. Numb were the fingers she rubbed on the film, scratching away, determined to find herself and happiness again.
****
A full moon was hovering above that night, as the two of them pushed their kayaks into the calm waters of the pond. Inaudible to all but the two lovers, the love theme played long and romantically as they paddled to Bear Island, side by side. Duets of cellos and violins synchronized with the currents they fought, and the other’s eyes illuminated green in the light of the moon. Lumina, my crazy baby.
****
Just another couple months and he’d be home, standing on the stoop of the airport glaring at her, expecting open arms and pouting lips as his greeting. He looked different to her every time he came back, and wouldn’t recognize him till an hour later when they were driving to her parent’s home. He would hold her hand, but she’d still pull back, feeling as though she were doing something wrong. For so long, she wasn’t to show any affection to the opposite sex and now, it was overwhelming to think that she would have to kiss and hug him. She’d move her head away as he went in to kiss her taut lips and she’d giggled like the most innocent of all creatures.
****
That first hour would pass and things would be lit softly again, She’d cling to his sides as they walked up the driveway to the door of the house. Disappearance disappeared and so would the boulders that hindered the light. She was set free and happiness shined once again on his perfect face.
****
Only yesterday was it softly lit and from every angle she could see, he was perfect. It took no time for her to fall in to that pudding-like substance called love. It was warm and wrapped around her, and like butter in a pan, she melted.
****
Blockaded in the cave of the dark reality of his disappearance, life beyond had become unreachable. Some days she would tremble and shake as she woke, no light penetrating the curtains that crusted over her eyes. Numb were the fingers she rubbed on the film, scratching away, determined to find herself and happiness again.
****
A full moon was hovering above that night, as the two of them pushed their kayaks into the calm waters of the pond. Inaudible to all but the two lovers, the love theme played long and romantically as they paddled to Bear Island, side by side. Duets of cellos and violins synchronized with the currents they fought, and the other’s eyes illuminated green in the light of the moon. Lumina, my crazy baby.
****
Just another couple months and he’d be home, standing on the stoop of the airport glaring at her, expecting open arms and pouting lips as his greeting. He looked different to her every time he came back, and wouldn’t recognize him till an hour later when they were driving to her parent’s home. He would hold her hand, but she’d still pull back, feeling as though she were doing something wrong. For so long, she wasn’t to show any affection to the opposite sex and now, it was overwhelming to think that she would have to kiss and hug him. She’d move her head away as he went in to kiss her taut lips and she’d giggled like the most innocent of all creatures.
****
That first hour would pass and things would be lit softly again, She’d cling to his sides as they walked up the driveway to the door of the house. Disappearance disappeared and so would the boulders that hindered the light. She was set free and happiness shined once again on his perfect face.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Exploding Epiphany Within The Cell
At this moment, I am experiencing nausea by emotion. Too many conflicting emotions, too many conflicting electrons and neutrons, so much withheld energy...
The result is:
A) An ulcer
B) A fucked-up nucleus
C) "Snap!"
D) All of the above -- Correct!
I am living within a cell, a world of extremes.
Voice my opinions confidently, free the emotional energy, and be degraded as ONE CRAZY BITCH = left side of the spectrum.
Hold in all opinions, stressors and static building, not talk at all, and live as a hermit = right side of the spectrum.
I am unable to find the neutrality. I have the inability to be modest, to be reserved, to only voice the opinions that will portray the "correct" image of "myself".
There are too many levels to the "ego". You tell me to trust myself more. How can one trust someone they don't even know and can't identify? You tell me I am a better person than I think. On one the recessive level of the ego, I know that I am an exceptional being. On the dominating level, I am doubtful.
So, how, I ask, is it so hard to understand the reason I am anxious? With such internal conflict, a cell cannot function. The future is worst at best. I can't make a living voicing such strong opinions. Example - Yesterday, I quit my job after realizing that gossip was what ran the company.
I can't depend on my husband and be bound to a house for the rest of my life.
But I refuse to fake my life.
So how will things be ok, like you say?
Where can I express myself freely without being penalized for my thoughts, philosophies, and opinions?
Politics? Too many scandals; nobody votes for the extreme liberal or conservative. They must be moderate.
Lawyering? I can't defend the guilty.
Journalism? Yes. I can express myself through strong written words for choosing eyes to read that I cannot for unwilling ears to hear through voice. I can delete words that come off too strongly that I cannot take back in conversation.
I have found my major. I have found my major!
The result is:
A) An ulcer
B) A fucked-up nucleus
C) "Snap!"
D) All of the above -- Correct!
I am living within a cell, a world of extremes.
Voice my opinions confidently, free the emotional energy, and be degraded as ONE CRAZY BITCH = left side of the spectrum.
Hold in all opinions, stressors and static building, not talk at all, and live as a hermit = right side of the spectrum.
I am unable to find the neutrality. I have the inability to be modest, to be reserved, to only voice the opinions that will portray the "correct" image of "myself".
There are too many levels to the "ego". You tell me to trust myself more. How can one trust someone they don't even know and can't identify? You tell me I am a better person than I think. On one the recessive level of the ego, I know that I am an exceptional being. On the dominating level, I am doubtful.
So, how, I ask, is it so hard to understand the reason I am anxious? With such internal conflict, a cell cannot function. The future is worst at best. I can't make a living voicing such strong opinions. Example - Yesterday, I quit my job after realizing that gossip was what ran the company.
I can't depend on my husband and be bound to a house for the rest of my life.
But I refuse to fake my life.
So how will things be ok, like you say?
Where can I express myself freely without being penalized for my thoughts, philosophies, and opinions?
Politics? Too many scandals; nobody votes for the extreme liberal or conservative. They must be moderate.
Lawyering? I can't defend the guilty.
Journalism? Yes. I can express myself through strong written words for choosing eyes to read that I cannot for unwilling ears to hear through voice. I can delete words that come off too strongly that I cannot take back in conversation.
I have found my major. I have found my major!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Education Vs. "The Real Stuff"
Skipping classes on gloriously sunny afternoons, brazen enough to simply walk off the campus. Hey, I was white, Caucasian , or “other” on the list and that was enough to be out of sight of the roaming go-carts driven by the hawk-eyed campus staff.
****
Chicken shit was not my game. Smoking the green and destructing brain cells to “broaden my senses” was a damn waste of living. Instead, I’d head off to the rich neighborhoods of town, park it, and stroll down the sidewalks looking to relate with any being encountered, be it strangers, rabbits, or squirrels.
****
I wasn’t going to miss a moment of this freedom of youth. A developing mind topped a developing bosom, and out to strut this stuff, I was bound. Class, who needed it? I had the real life at my fingertips catching soft petals from the falling apple blossoms and tangible visualizations of grandiose architecture.
****
Leisure was learning. Classrooms were prison. Why take fieldtrips as young children just to yearn for it in high school? This conspiracy was not to overcome my broadening senses. School is the institute of education, they’d say, but no further than the fences that surrounded this jail would one have to look to feel inspired and educated by our own damn resources. Resources of nature in terms of transcendentalism, resources of social interactions in terms of humanity and transaction. Resources that were enough to educate the students, who sat in their assigned seats and babbled away as the “teacher” talked of Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, Descartes, the first philosopher to provide a framework of the philosophy of natural sciences, and the animal/ insect kingdom that frolicked closely nearby in the forests, beaches, and fields of our world.
****
Chicken shit was not my game. Smoking the green and destructing brain cells to “broaden my senses” was a damn waste of living. Instead, I’d head off to the rich neighborhoods of town, park it, and stroll down the sidewalks looking to relate with any being encountered, be it strangers, rabbits, or squirrels.
****
I wasn’t going to miss a moment of this freedom of youth. A developing mind topped a developing bosom, and out to strut this stuff, I was bound. Class, who needed it? I had the real life at my fingertips catching soft petals from the falling apple blossoms and tangible visualizations of grandiose architecture.
****
Leisure was learning. Classrooms were prison. Why take fieldtrips as young children just to yearn for it in high school? This conspiracy was not to overcome my broadening senses. School is the institute of education, they’d say, but no further than the fences that surrounded this jail would one have to look to feel inspired and educated by our own damn resources. Resources of nature in terms of transcendentalism, resources of social interactions in terms of humanity and transaction. Resources that were enough to educate the students, who sat in their assigned seats and babbled away as the “teacher” talked of Hecate, the goddess of the crossroads, Descartes, the first philosopher to provide a framework of the philosophy of natural sciences, and the animal/ insect kingdom that frolicked closely nearby in the forests, beaches, and fields of our world.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
New Vignette - Welcome to the Machine
I started work at the Family Dollar store a couple days ago in Ellsworth. It’s obviously not a job I wanted for the wages; in fact, it was to get some social experience, something suggested by my psychiatrist, which in reality, is my own suggestion.
I pay a psychiatrist twenty bucks per hour to hear her repeat back to me the things I’ve said. Oy.
So, I have this job now as a cashier, or in other words, a robot, an ATM. I had to be trained by a developmentally troubled girl named Jennifer. She acts like she sixteen, hyper and boy crazy, even though she’s twenty three in May and dating the fifty-one year old manager. I’m not supposed to know this because they could both lose their jobs, but apparently, I can be trusted in their opinions.
The job is a synch even for an agoraphobic like me. A usual transaction goes something like this:
“How are you today/ tonight?”
The customer mumbles something inaudibly, or when I can make it out, it’s always, “Exhausted” or “tired” or “long day”, emphasis on the ’long’.
Next, I slide Easter candy, discounted comforters, plastic fence decorations, or junk of that sort under the scanner, the laser light rarely recognizing the “SKU” number the first time. Several times already, I’ve held an item under the laser too long, it scans in two or three times. That’s when I push the intercom button and an assistant manager drags their feet out of the back room reluctantly and voids my mistakes.
The store smells like its made out of plastic as is everything it contains. Cheesy garden signs, tacky knick-knacks, and knock-offs of every brand of food fill the shelves in the store. Nobody would normally buy the stuff they do in this store, but its so damn inexpensive, they can’t resist having another deck of cards even though they already have four back home.
Once everything’s bagged and totaled, I count at the change and simply ask, “Do you want your receipt in the bag or in your hand?” Responded with another mumble, and I say, “Have a good day/ evening/ night.” Sometimes, I’m feeling cheery and replace the ’good’ with ’great’ or ’wonderful’.
They thank me for being their check-out machine and wander out the double doors, moving on with their lives, as I stand in that cage waiting for the next customer to mumble whether they’re ’fine’ or ’good’.
I pay a psychiatrist twenty bucks per hour to hear her repeat back to me the things I’ve said. Oy.
So, I have this job now as a cashier, or in other words, a robot, an ATM. I had to be trained by a developmentally troubled girl named Jennifer. She acts like she sixteen, hyper and boy crazy, even though she’s twenty three in May and dating the fifty-one year old manager. I’m not supposed to know this because they could both lose their jobs, but apparently, I can be trusted in their opinions.
The job is a synch even for an agoraphobic like me. A usual transaction goes something like this:
“How are you today/ tonight?”
The customer mumbles something inaudibly, or when I can make it out, it’s always, “Exhausted” or “tired” or “long day”, emphasis on the ’long’.
Next, I slide Easter candy, discounted comforters, plastic fence decorations, or junk of that sort under the scanner, the laser light rarely recognizing the “SKU” number the first time. Several times already, I’ve held an item under the laser too long, it scans in two or three times. That’s when I push the intercom button and an assistant manager drags their feet out of the back room reluctantly and voids my mistakes.
The store smells like its made out of plastic as is everything it contains. Cheesy garden signs, tacky knick-knacks, and knock-offs of every brand of food fill the shelves in the store. Nobody would normally buy the stuff they do in this store, but its so damn inexpensive, they can’t resist having another deck of cards even though they already have four back home.
Once everything’s bagged and totaled, I count at the change and simply ask, “Do you want your receipt in the bag or in your hand?” Responded with another mumble, and I say, “Have a good day/ evening/ night.” Sometimes, I’m feeling cheery and replace the ’good’ with ’great’ or ’wonderful’.
They thank me for being their check-out machine and wander out the double doors, moving on with their lives, as I stand in that cage waiting for the next customer to mumble whether they’re ’fine’ or ’good’.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Vignette - Indifference
Blue, like water, and alone like me, the sky was flowing like the river that day. Once again, I wondered how’d it be to live like Huckleberry Finn, floating down the Mississippi on a rickety raft. The sun would be going down soon and the xanax was making me tired beyond belief. Okay, I took two, one more than prescribed, but excuse alert! I had to go shopping today with my mom. Oy vey, excuse my Yiddish. Now she wants me to go with her to Philadelpha in April, but I don’t think there’s enough sedatives in the world to survive a ten-hour trip like that with two nagging freaks.
Anyways, I was trying to keep my focus on the things beyond the film of depression that settled over my eyes that morning. It happens when I wake up and realize the world is still shitty.
There waa a nice tide coming in, geese flying overhead, and the sky wasn’t so lonely anymore. Clouds had arrived just as soon as I thought of wading in the water, hoping it was warm. But the rain told me otherwise. Plus, it wasn’t like we were in California, where you could actually walk barefoot on the beach. Here, in Maine, you’d have to have huge calloused hooves to walk through those grooves and rocks without ending up dying the water red.
I could just go home, I though, to that one place where nothing moves and nothing talks. I mean, I spend the whole day there by myself, so there’s obviously no need for a living room, seeing as I walk room to room like a zombie looking for something that’ll never be there. Perhaps, brains.
“But I think I’d rather stay here, “ I reconsidered, “where it’s cold, and I am free to smoke cigarettes without worrying Mom might show up to shake her head in disgust and say, ‘Wow, you smell like a million cigarettes.’ ” Besides, this little nook by the water is pretty alright, you know? There’s freshly budding dandelions that fill the air with a “finally-spring” kind of aroma. At, my house, on the other hand, snow is still spontaneously sitting stubbornly on the lawn reminding of us winter.
I really don’t remember why I came out here in the first place, but I’m glad I did. I don’t know why I’m glad either. It’s just something about getting away from all things familiar. I hope people agree.
Anyways, I was trying to keep my focus on the things beyond the film of depression that settled over my eyes that morning. It happens when I wake up and realize the world is still shitty.
There waa a nice tide coming in, geese flying overhead, and the sky wasn’t so lonely anymore. Clouds had arrived just as soon as I thought of wading in the water, hoping it was warm. But the rain told me otherwise. Plus, it wasn’t like we were in California, where you could actually walk barefoot on the beach. Here, in Maine, you’d have to have huge calloused hooves to walk through those grooves and rocks without ending up dying the water red.
I could just go home, I though, to that one place where nothing moves and nothing talks. I mean, I spend the whole day there by myself, so there’s obviously no need for a living room, seeing as I walk room to room like a zombie looking for something that’ll never be there. Perhaps, brains.
“But I think I’d rather stay here, “ I reconsidered, “where it’s cold, and I am free to smoke cigarettes without worrying Mom might show up to shake her head in disgust and say, ‘Wow, you smell like a million cigarettes.’ ” Besides, this little nook by the water is pretty alright, you know? There’s freshly budding dandelions that fill the air with a “finally-spring” kind of aroma. At, my house, on the other hand, snow is still spontaneously sitting stubbornly on the lawn reminding of us winter.
I really don’t remember why I came out here in the first place, but I’m glad I did. I don’t know why I’m glad either. It’s just something about getting away from all things familiar. I hope people agree.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Place - Chowdah's
After the forty-five minute drive to Bar Harbor, and taking back ways, I would finally make it to work at Chowdah’s Restaurant. It wasn’t the finest place in town, by far. In fact, that was the place across the street.
Through the small pick-up window from the kitchen, I could see people fighting over parking spots and lines that extended down Main Street. Perhaps for hours at a time, Chowdah’s wouldn’t hold a paying soul.
I was the dishwasher, full-time and paid a decent wage. I’d come in every morning around ten, gritting my teeth for another day of being sliced by knives or lobster claws. I had to park in the abandoned hotel next door and walk around an unbalanced fence being harassed by tourists for directions, so I usually cut across the flower beds.
The back door was most always locked, the owner having been late because of dipping into his bar too much the night before. Eventually, he’d stumble in with his keys jangling by his side and let in the whole crew of waiters and kitchen preps, complaining we were late because no one had found a way into the joint.
As the waiters gossiped and set the tables out front, I’d fill up the bath-sized sinks with warm water and soap with hardly any water pressure. The day had begun and I yawned with dissatisfaction that didn’t disappear till ten hours later when I got to drive home.
It was a sad sort of place with its lack of sanitation and fervor of the workers. They were all there to make money and obviously didn’t care about the quality of service, nevertheless quality at all. Disheveled was the bartender as he scooted in around three, two hours late. He’d sit in the back on the ice bucket and suck down his cigarettes till the owner came out and barked down his throat. “I ain’t paying you to smoke, and I can get a new bartender anytime. With ease, I tell you.”
The truth is I was the twentieth dishwasher this season and wasn’t expected to last for long because he was paying me ten bucks an hour and knew he could cheat a Russian kid into working for less. He was all about the money, not to mention the booze.
Many times, he’d come in the kitchen hooting and hollering for no clear reason. “Do you have to slam the dishes so hard?” He asked me one night.
I looked at him with confusion as it was plain to see the shelves were much too high for me to stack gently and I practically had to jump to put them away.
The mood was so nerve-racking, it was surreal. Catching my breath between jobs was a real task. Cruise-liners made their way into town, full of hungry Canadians and French tourists that stupidly found themselves in Chowdah’s. Spinning out clean dishes was painful at best.
It was especially a true treat when the workers left me a sharp knife at the bottom of the sink and moving as quickly as I could, injuries couldn’t be afforded to be treated till the end of the day. And by then, I was itching with infection and pus would prevail.
The place smelled of rusty deep fryers and sulfur from the fish, tartar sauce, and starchy clam chowder. It bottled inside my nose and left me no choice but to run outside gasping for air every five minutes. And then in this case, the owner would once again furrow his brow and demand I return.
This place was a wreck and now it’s for sale. But nobody wants to buy the shithole that was renown for bad reviews from both customer and employee.
Through the small pick-up window from the kitchen, I could see people fighting over parking spots and lines that extended down Main Street. Perhaps for hours at a time, Chowdah’s wouldn’t hold a paying soul.
I was the dishwasher, full-time and paid a decent wage. I’d come in every morning around ten, gritting my teeth for another day of being sliced by knives or lobster claws. I had to park in the abandoned hotel next door and walk around an unbalanced fence being harassed by tourists for directions, so I usually cut across the flower beds.
The back door was most always locked, the owner having been late because of dipping into his bar too much the night before. Eventually, he’d stumble in with his keys jangling by his side and let in the whole crew of waiters and kitchen preps, complaining we were late because no one had found a way into the joint.
As the waiters gossiped and set the tables out front, I’d fill up the bath-sized sinks with warm water and soap with hardly any water pressure. The day had begun and I yawned with dissatisfaction that didn’t disappear till ten hours later when I got to drive home.
It was a sad sort of place with its lack of sanitation and fervor of the workers. They were all there to make money and obviously didn’t care about the quality of service, nevertheless quality at all. Disheveled was the bartender as he scooted in around three, two hours late. He’d sit in the back on the ice bucket and suck down his cigarettes till the owner came out and barked down his throat. “I ain’t paying you to smoke, and I can get a new bartender anytime. With ease, I tell you.”
The truth is I was the twentieth dishwasher this season and wasn’t expected to last for long because he was paying me ten bucks an hour and knew he could cheat a Russian kid into working for less. He was all about the money, not to mention the booze.
Many times, he’d come in the kitchen hooting and hollering for no clear reason. “Do you have to slam the dishes so hard?” He asked me one night.
I looked at him with confusion as it was plain to see the shelves were much too high for me to stack gently and I practically had to jump to put them away.
The mood was so nerve-racking, it was surreal. Catching my breath between jobs was a real task. Cruise-liners made their way into town, full of hungry Canadians and French tourists that stupidly found themselves in Chowdah’s. Spinning out clean dishes was painful at best.
It was especially a true treat when the workers left me a sharp knife at the bottom of the sink and moving as quickly as I could, injuries couldn’t be afforded to be treated till the end of the day. And by then, I was itching with infection and pus would prevail.
The place smelled of rusty deep fryers and sulfur from the fish, tartar sauce, and starchy clam chowder. It bottled inside my nose and left me no choice but to run outside gasping for air every five minutes. And then in this case, the owner would once again furrow his brow and demand I return.
This place was a wreck and now it’s for sale. But nobody wants to buy the shithole that was renown for bad reviews from both customer and employee.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Narrative - The Two Jews (Joos)
Looking back on those days in middle school, I wonder how I could have lived without her. I never really believed in a blessing but Jenna Joo sure comes to the closest encounter with one.
The day started like every other, getting teased by Kelly Wilson, the punk who compensated for his short stature by bullying girls. Homeroom was a bummer with him there. He’d sit across the table and pretend to be revving a motorcycle. “Vroom, vroom…” Kelly thought this was hilarious because I rode my bicycle to school and pulled my brother on his skateboard. As a little girl and a recovering crybaby, I couldn’t help but take it personally. One day, actually, I got so unnerved by his inane jeering, I grabbed him up by the shirt collar and demanded he stopped. The sly bastard just shrugged me off and replied, “Hey, hey, I got a girlfriend.”
The day progressed as it does and classes made no impression on my young mind as I gazed out windows daydreaming about the glorious hours of freedom after school. Occasionally, I’d catch a glimpse of Mr. Moody, the vice principal, telling boys to pull up their pants and girls to pull down their shirts. “Your chonies are showing,” he’d say or, “I’ll send you to the principal, Little Missy.” The male staff were always to afraid to say anything to the girls who had no decency, except for Mr. Moody.
Last class of the day was P.E. or rather PU. Our locker rooms were crammed like sardines in a can and didn’t smell much better either. I never found out why but I was the target of one girl in the class, Christina Rodriguez. She enjoyed harassing me so much, that day she had somehow found her way into my locker and was sharing my lotion with her friends, not to mention right in front of me.
P.E. was taught by Ms. Lyerla, emphasis on the Ms. She was always telling us, girls, to protect our “ta-tas” in touch football, soccer, even golf. It wasn’t just a rumor; she was a lesbian and the only thing we wanted to protect our “ta-tas” from was her.
The whistle was blown and we were all out on the field now, stretching for the day’s sport: basketball. A dark-skinned boy strolled to my side and whispered that his friend, Pablo, like my “you-know-what”. Embarrassed, I looked at him like he was nuts and walked to the side of the group that was only girls. That wasn’t much relief because soon after, some ditzy blonde girl asked me where my ankles were. Confused, I looked down and realized for the first time, my Achilles tendons didn’t protrude like everyone else’s. From that day on, despite the discomfort of the humid California summers, I would only wear pants.
Before basketball, we ran around the four baseball diamonds and something tragic happened, pessimistically in my favor however. My friend, Samantha, had always had problems with asthma but the teachers never tolerated anything less for her than for the rest of us when it came to running. She was clinging to the fence, gasping for air, and as I ascended upon her, she had already collapsed and began to seizure. Another girl and I helped her up and yelled across the field for Ms. Lyerla, who came galloping to our voices. We were told to bring her to the front office and find her inhalers. Like I’d written before, this was very fortunate for me in that I could now be clear of any further persecution for having mutated ankles.
After we brought her to the office, we were asked to leave and the two of us snuck into the locker rooms and got dressed way before the bell rang. We relaxed on the locker room benches and that’s when I realized I had never seen this girl before.
“Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” I said, looking at her curiously.
She didn’t speak much English but she did manage to say she was from South Korea and that her name was Joo-Jieun, Jenna Joo in English. It wasn’t very surprising seeing as her face was wide and her eyes slanted upwards as if she were always smiling. Indeed a awfully friendly face. With only a half an hour to go till school was over, we discussed what her home country was like, where she lived now, why she came here, and I supervised her English the entire time.
Apparently, she had enjoyed her time in Seoul but she said, “It was like concrete mountain. There were no tree, like they are here in the U.S. It become very cold in wintertime, and snow a lot. My oma (mom) and opa (dad) work at Mexican restaurant and I must work there on weekend.”
It also turned out she lived a block away from me and hadn’t met many friends at the school yet. The bell finally rang, and as she walked on the sidewalk, I rode in the street toward our houses. When I got to mine, she asked, “Will you ride bike tomorrow if I bring mine?”
“Wait, you have a bike? Why didn’t you ride it today?”
“Oma gave me ride,” she explained. “I love to ride bike though. Like in Seoul.”
From that day on, Jenna and I had ridden our bikes to school from seventh to eleventh grade, that is until we both got cars. Then we would take turns driving each other to school or tennis practice or yearbook conventions. Kelly Wilson never stopped teasing me but it didn’t matter anymore to me. Christina Rodriguez became pregnant at age fifteen and dropped out of high school, but I didn’t hold a grudge. I was too busy running Key Club as president and Jenna as vice president. I was too overjoyed with helping Jenna on her English and her parents at their restaurant. I was too happy writing captions to Jenna’s pictures for the school yearbook. A friend and a blessing indeed. She was my 제일 친한 친구, my best friend.
The day started like every other, getting teased by Kelly Wilson, the punk who compensated for his short stature by bullying girls. Homeroom was a bummer with him there. He’d sit across the table and pretend to be revving a motorcycle. “Vroom, vroom…” Kelly thought this was hilarious because I rode my bicycle to school and pulled my brother on his skateboard. As a little girl and a recovering crybaby, I couldn’t help but take it personally. One day, actually, I got so unnerved by his inane jeering, I grabbed him up by the shirt collar and demanded he stopped. The sly bastard just shrugged me off and replied, “Hey, hey, I got a girlfriend.”
The day progressed as it does and classes made no impression on my young mind as I gazed out windows daydreaming about the glorious hours of freedom after school. Occasionally, I’d catch a glimpse of Mr. Moody, the vice principal, telling boys to pull up their pants and girls to pull down their shirts. “Your chonies are showing,” he’d say or, “I’ll send you to the principal, Little Missy.” The male staff were always to afraid to say anything to the girls who had no decency, except for Mr. Moody.
Last class of the day was P.E. or rather PU. Our locker rooms were crammed like sardines in a can and didn’t smell much better either. I never found out why but I was the target of one girl in the class, Christina Rodriguez. She enjoyed harassing me so much, that day she had somehow found her way into my locker and was sharing my lotion with her friends, not to mention right in front of me.
P.E. was taught by Ms. Lyerla, emphasis on the Ms. She was always telling us, girls, to protect our “ta-tas” in touch football, soccer, even golf. It wasn’t just a rumor; she was a lesbian and the only thing we wanted to protect our “ta-tas” from was her.
The whistle was blown and we were all out on the field now, stretching for the day’s sport: basketball. A dark-skinned boy strolled to my side and whispered that his friend, Pablo, like my “you-know-what”. Embarrassed, I looked at him like he was nuts and walked to the side of the group that was only girls. That wasn’t much relief because soon after, some ditzy blonde girl asked me where my ankles were. Confused, I looked down and realized for the first time, my Achilles tendons didn’t protrude like everyone else’s. From that day on, despite the discomfort of the humid California summers, I would only wear pants.
Before basketball, we ran around the four baseball diamonds and something tragic happened, pessimistically in my favor however. My friend, Samantha, had always had problems with asthma but the teachers never tolerated anything less for her than for the rest of us when it came to running. She was clinging to the fence, gasping for air, and as I ascended upon her, she had already collapsed and began to seizure. Another girl and I helped her up and yelled across the field for Ms. Lyerla, who came galloping to our voices. We were told to bring her to the front office and find her inhalers. Like I’d written before, this was very fortunate for me in that I could now be clear of any further persecution for having mutated ankles.
After we brought her to the office, we were asked to leave and the two of us snuck into the locker rooms and got dressed way before the bell rang. We relaxed on the locker room benches and that’s when I realized I had never seen this girl before.
“Are you new here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” I said, looking at her curiously.
She didn’t speak much English but she did manage to say she was from South Korea and that her name was Joo-Jieun, Jenna Joo in English. It wasn’t very surprising seeing as her face was wide and her eyes slanted upwards as if she were always smiling. Indeed a awfully friendly face. With only a half an hour to go till school was over, we discussed what her home country was like, where she lived now, why she came here, and I supervised her English the entire time.
Apparently, she had enjoyed her time in Seoul but she said, “It was like concrete mountain. There were no tree, like they are here in the U.S. It become very cold in wintertime, and snow a lot. My oma (mom) and opa (dad) work at Mexican restaurant and I must work there on weekend.”
It also turned out she lived a block away from me and hadn’t met many friends at the school yet. The bell finally rang, and as she walked on the sidewalk, I rode in the street toward our houses. When I got to mine, she asked, “Will you ride bike tomorrow if I bring mine?”
“Wait, you have a bike? Why didn’t you ride it today?”
“Oma gave me ride,” she explained. “I love to ride bike though. Like in Seoul.”
From that day on, Jenna and I had ridden our bikes to school from seventh to eleventh grade, that is until we both got cars. Then we would take turns driving each other to school or tennis practice or yearbook conventions. Kelly Wilson never stopped teasing me but it didn’t matter anymore to me. Christina Rodriguez became pregnant at age fifteen and dropped out of high school, but I didn’t hold a grudge. I was too busy running Key Club as president and Jenna as vice president. I was too overjoyed with helping Jenna on her English and her parents at their restaurant. I was too happy writing captions to Jenna’s pictures for the school yearbook. A friend and a blessing indeed. She was my 제일 친한 친구, my best friend.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Facts, Less Facts, Craziness
1. Last year, I singlehandedly drove from the west to the east coast. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed three days earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken toe, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our three months of occupancy. John had already left and I was responsible to fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a friend's apartment for the night and hit the road early next morning.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. Washington and Idaho were dull and went by in a flash, but Montana was next and long. There was no way I was slipping through that one til the next day. I stayed in a lodge by the interstate and simply drank my whiskey, watching The Happening, and drifted to sleep.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming, landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough. However, I did manage to find one hotel with a very obsessive-compulsive owner named Dave. I ended up repeating the activities of the previous night in this flop joint, wasting away on Jimmy Beam and orange soda.
Competing with motorcycle fanatics for the road, the next day started off slowly and agitatedly. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. I wasn't ready for Chicago just yet. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely, provoking one. Out of Illinois, I was tired, lights were blurring, and my neck was stiff mess. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was three in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland. I found out I had just drive from South Dakota to Ohio in one day. I pulled over and slept in the car for three hours, then "up and at 'em" I made it to my destination, Philadelphia.
2. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed just the day earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our only one month of occupancy. Before John left, he hadn’t helped me at all with the packing and demanded that I fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a girlfriend's apartment for two nights eating junk food and complaining about men. But the morning had arrived for me to leave, and I said my many good-byes and hit the road.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and I drove them in a trance, but Montana was desolate and there was no way I was slipping through that one till the next day. I stayed in the Thunderbird Lodge by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. After sharing a drink with him, he went back to his room and kept drinking, watching HBO.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough, especially when I realized my front tire was flat. The Triple A guy came and like a savior, fixed my way home and found me a hotel room. It was a small place owned by a very obsessive-compulsive man who handed me a rag and said, “Use that to wash with, then throw it away.” I ended up not washing and falling asleep, grateful to be in this flop joint, instead of wasting away on Jim Beam and orange soda in a park somewhere.
The next day, there were motorcyclists everywhere, rows upon rows. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic ingloriously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. It was Chicago, almost as bad as New York City. There were construction signs with speed limits of 45mph but the majority of cars were doing eighty. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely in fact, provoking one. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck was a stiff as a board. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland before, I found a parking lot in Ohio to pull over in. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. So I opened the driver’s window and laid sideways on all my junk, hanging my feet out. It would have been such a sight to see.
Two hours later, the sun was piercing through my windshield and sleep became impossible. And just a few more hours later, I had driven the entire windy Pennsylvania Turnpike to my destination at last.
3. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been sent to jail for ripping off my skirt in public and pushing me down. I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot and bruised up back, I struggled up and down the fifty-five flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out a piano, an elephant, and everything we used for our circus business. Once I was all packed, I stayed in the nearby shelter for battered women for a month licking my wounds and hiding from the world. It was the morning the sky cried with me, I knew I should get going and move on with my life.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. My hand trembled on the wheel as I steered towards Away and Further Away. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and the incessant flashing of the sun provoked my epilepsy, so I had to stop many times and have a seizure. Luckily, Montana was desolate and trees were scarce. I stayed in the Hilton Montana by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met on the indoor waterslides. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. I said, “No, but I have something better.” After sharing a drink with him, we went back to my room and hit the crack pipe all night.
What day was it? What time was it? Where are my clothes? My elephant had been towed and I had no clue where I was. I just knew I should start driving east. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, and all the hotels wore the “no vacancy” sign. Just great, I thought. To add salt to my wounds, my front tire was flat. I tried to hold the tears back but that just made them spill over and some strange motorcyclists stopped to see what was wrong. They offered to let me stay in their room and to call Triple A to come tow the car. I accepted and the four of us, jumped into the Jacuzzi in their room to ease the pains of the day. I fell asleep in the warm water and woke up in the clinic. Apparently, I had almost drowned and they had to pump my stomach because I had consumed too much chlorine. The Triple A guy came to the hospital and said the car was fixed and that I should be going because a raving mob of vampires was after my blood.
The next day, motorcycles were everywhere, in front of me, on my tail, on the top of my car; there was even a midget cycling under my engine. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic obnoxiously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was running low on gas, so I stopped at a pump and realized I was in Chicago. The clerks treated me rudely and called me “white girl” and wouldn’t except my “evil white man money”, so I stole the gas and left . The speed limit was 25mph but the majority of cars were doing 120, as if they were on the Audobon. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but instead, I caused a pile up. I got out of the car and hijacked another, lit a spliff and made it out of that nightmare. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck had morphed into a piece of plywood, it was so stiff. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Can’t wait to hit that bong. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and the pot fumes found me sleepy so I found a parking lot in Ohio and pulled over. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. I found a bench at a McDonald’s and laid down on its cold, red plastic till I was startled by a meteor that had struck earth only four feet away. “Man, can’t a girl sleep in peace?”
My car was missing; I guess I had forgotten to take my keys out. At least I had my stash. Some transvestites saw the baggy in my hand and said if I hit them up, they’d hit me up. So I gave them my load, and they dropped me off in druggy paradise, Philadelphia.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. Washington and Idaho were dull and went by in a flash, but Montana was next and long. There was no way I was slipping through that one til the next day. I stayed in a lodge by the interstate and simply drank my whiskey, watching The Happening, and drifted to sleep.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming, landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough. However, I did manage to find one hotel with a very obsessive-compulsive owner named Dave. I ended up repeating the activities of the previous night in this flop joint, wasting away on Jimmy Beam and orange soda.
Competing with motorcycle fanatics for the road, the next day started off slowly and agitatedly. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. I wasn't ready for Chicago just yet. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely, provoking one. Out of Illinois, I was tired, lights were blurring, and my neck was stiff mess. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was three in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland. I found out I had just drive from South Dakota to Ohio in one day. I pulled over and slept in the car for three hours, then "up and at 'em" I made it to my destination, Philadelphia.
2. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been deployed just the day earlier to Iraq and I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot, I struggled up and down the three flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out appliances, furniture, and all the useless junk we had acquired over our only one month of occupancy. Before John left, he hadn’t helped me at all with the packing and demanded that I fit what I could in the car. Once I was all packed, I slept at a girlfriend's apartment for two nights eating junk food and complaining about men. But the morning had arrived for me to leave, and I said my many good-byes and hit the road.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and I drove them in a trance, but Montana was desolate and there was no way I was slipping through that one till the next day. I stayed in the Thunderbird Lodge by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. After sharing a drink with him, he went back to his room and kept drinking, watching HBO.
What day was it? What time was it? I had no clues. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, so finding a place to sleep was tough, especially when I realized my front tire was flat. The Triple A guy came and like a savior, fixed my way home and found me a hotel room. It was a small place owned by a very obsessive-compulsive man who handed me a rag and said, “Use that to wash with, then throw it away.” I ended up not washing and falling asleep, grateful to be in this flop joint, instead of wasting away on Jim Beam and orange soda in a park somewhere.
The next day, there were motorcyclists everywhere, rows upon rows. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic ingloriously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was pretty much slapped in the face. It was Chicago, almost as bad as New York City. There were construction signs with speed limits of 45mph but the majority of cars were doing eighty. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but most likely in fact, provoking one. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck was a stiff as a board. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and my eyelids were counting down dreamland before, I found a parking lot in Ohio to pull over in. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. So I opened the driver’s window and laid sideways on all my junk, hanging my feet out. It would have been such a sight to see.
Two hours later, the sun was piercing through my windshield and sleep became impossible. And just a few more hours later, I had driven the entire windy Pennsylvania Turnpike to my destination at last.
3. Last year, I single-handedly drove from the Washington state to Philadelphia. It wasn't that I loved driving so much I decided to make this trip; my husband had just been sent to jail for ripping off my skirt in public and pushing me down. I had to get home somehow. So with a broken foot and bruised up back, I struggled up and down the fifty-five flights of stairs to our apartment carrying out a piano, an elephant, and everything we used for our circus business. Once I was all packed, I stayed in the nearby shelter for battered women for a month licking my wounds and hiding from the world. It was the morning the sky cried with me, I knew I should get going and move on with my life.
Three hundred miles passed by quickly, even six hundred, but I began to lose count and sense of the time before long. My hand trembled on the wheel as I steered towards Away and Further Away. The interstate in Washington and Idaho was surrounded by patterned trees and the incessant flashing of the sun provoked my epilepsy, so I had to stop many times and have a seizure. Luckily, Montana was desolate and trees were scarce. I stayed in the Hilton Montana by the road and talked for hours with a strange man I‘d met on the indoor waterslides. He had asked me if I had known where to get some weed. I said, “No, but I have something better.” After sharing a drink with him, we went back to my room and hit the crack pipe all night.
What day was it? What time was it? Where are my clothes? My elephant had been towed and I had no clue where I was. I just knew I should start driving east. Unfortunately, the rest of Montana and the whole of Wyoming landed me in the middle of the grand Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, and all the hotels wore the “no vacancy” sign. Just great, I thought. To add salt to my wounds, my front tire was flat. I tried to hold the tears back but that just made them spill over and some strange motorcyclists stopped to see what was wrong. They offered to let me stay in their room and to call Triple A to come tow the car. I accepted and the four of us, jumped into the Jacuzzi in their room to ease the pains of the day. I fell asleep in the warm water and woke up in the clinic. Apparently, I had almost drowned and they had to pump my stomach because I had consumed too much chlorine. The Triple A guy came to the hospital and said the car was fixed and that I should be going because a raving mob of vampires was after my blood.
The next day, motorcycles were everywhere, in front of me, on my tail, on the top of my car; there was even a midget cycling under my engine. They didn’t care for anyone with a full-size vehicle and weaved in and out of traffic obnoxiously. Once I crossed the Wisconsin border into Illinois, I was running low on gas, so I stopped at a pump and realized I was in Chicago. The clerks treated me rudely and called me “white girl” and wouldn’t except my “evil white man money”, so I stole the gas and left . The speed limit was 25mph but the majority of cars were doing 120, as if they were on the Audobon. I sped through traffic trying to escape an accident but instead, I caused a pile up. I got out of the car and hijacked another, lit a spliff and made it out of that nightmare. Finally out of Illinois, headlights became blurry in my blood-shot vision, and my neck had morphed into a piece of plywood, it was so stiff. To stay awake, I started singing, "All I wanna do is go back home. But I can't because the road's too long. Can’t wait to hit that bong. Oh, baby..." It was five in the morning and the pot fumes found me sleepy so I found a parking lot in Ohio and pulled over. With my car completely stuffed, I had to figure out a way to comfortably sleep. I found a bench at a McDonald’s and laid down on its cold, red plastic till I was startled by a meteor that had struck earth only four feet away. “Man, can’t a girl sleep in peace?”
My car was missing; I guess I had forgotten to take my keys out. At least I had my stash. Some transvestites saw the baggy in my hand and said if I hit them up, they’d hit me up. So I gave them my load, and they dropped me off in druggy paradise, Philadelphia.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Phonecall Between A Soldier and A Slob
On one end of the phone is Alexandra, pacing the floor from the kitchen to the wood stove and the other, her husband, balancing his weight on a broken chair in Iraq.
"So," he mumbled. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Y'know, anything new?"
"Uh, not really. Just doing my homework all the time and trying to be happy with life," she said holding in a cough. She didn't want him to know she started smoking again in his absence.
"Well, how are you classes? You know, I'm really proud of you for taking them."
"They're fine except for my English teacher, you know for Creative Writing, is so picky. He, like, hates everything I write. He doesn't like description or poems and that's how I write, so it's kinda tough. But my other class is easy as shit. We just watch movies and write about them. Man, you need to get NetFlix," she responded, then held the phone away as she coughed quietly.
"You still smoking?"
"No-o-o, I'm not still smoking," she lied, knowing it was too blatant and said, "Yea, I'm still smoking." She gave a hesitant giggle, expecting it would ease his disappointment.
"Why? I was just talking to my friends about how proud I was that you quit smoking, " he said in disgust.
"Hey, I'm losing weight, I'm taking classes, I quit drinking, ... don't expect me to be perfect. At least not right away, 'cause I'm feelin' really overwhelmed. Besides, I do mean to quit, but my psychiatrist says, 'do one thing at a time.'" She panicked, although she knew the terms of their marriage wasn't based on whether she smoked cigarettes or not.
"Yea, ok Alex. At least you didn't completely lie to me... only partially, right? You'll tell me things you don't want me to know, right?"
Jesus Christ! Not this again. "Duh, didn't I just tell you the truth? Why can't you just trust me?! I have nothing to hide from you!"
There is silence as he continues to analyze what he has heard for some hidden truth I have yet to tell him. The silence turns solemn and this conversation appears to be over.
"Well," John says as he carefully rises from his seat, "I'll call you next week. That should be enough time for you to quit. OK?"
"Yea, I can quit right now. I'll throw my pack of cigarettes in the fireplace. I mean,I actually did think about throwing them out the window, but --"
"No, that's too dramatic. Just smoke the rest and quit. Anyways," he says wanting to rush the good-byes but not obviously, "I'll call you, soon. I love you. By the way, stop pacing."
"I love you too, little boy. I will."
"So," he mumbled. "Is there anything you want to tell me? Y'know, anything new?"
"Uh, not really. Just doing my homework all the time and trying to be happy with life," she said holding in a cough. She didn't want him to know she started smoking again in his absence.
"Well, how are you classes? You know, I'm really proud of you for taking them."
"They're fine except for my English teacher, you know for Creative Writing, is so picky. He, like, hates everything I write. He doesn't like description or poems and that's how I write, so it's kinda tough. But my other class is easy as shit. We just watch movies and write about them. Man, you need to get NetFlix," she responded, then held the phone away as she coughed quietly.
"You still smoking?"
"No-o-o, I'm not still smoking," she lied, knowing it was too blatant and said, "Yea, I'm still smoking." She gave a hesitant giggle, expecting it would ease his disappointment.
"Why? I was just talking to my friends about how proud I was that you quit smoking, " he said in disgust.
"Hey, I'm losing weight, I'm taking classes, I quit drinking, ... don't expect me to be perfect. At least not right away, 'cause I'm feelin' really overwhelmed. Besides, I do mean to quit, but my psychiatrist says, 'do one thing at a time.'" She panicked, although she knew the terms of their marriage wasn't based on whether she smoked cigarettes or not.
"Yea, ok Alex. At least you didn't completely lie to me... only partially, right? You'll tell me things you don't want me to know, right?"
Jesus Christ! Not this again. "Duh, didn't I just tell you the truth? Why can't you just trust me?! I have nothing to hide from you!"
There is silence as he continues to analyze what he has heard for some hidden truth I have yet to tell him. The silence turns solemn and this conversation appears to be over.
"Well," John says as he carefully rises from his seat, "I'll call you next week. That should be enough time for you to quit. OK?"
"Yea, I can quit right now. I'll throw my pack of cigarettes in the fireplace. I mean,I actually did think about throwing them out the window, but --"
"No, that's too dramatic. Just smoke the rest and quit. Anyways," he says wanting to rush the good-byes but not obviously, "I'll call you, soon. I love you. By the way, stop pacing."
"I love you too, little boy. I will."
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Hardest Assignment in the world, I give up
A new millenium, a new century, and what a hell of a decade to come. That is if Y2K didn’t really cause us all to hide underground in bomb shelters for the rest of our lives. Luckily, like the search for “weapons of mass destruction”, Y2K was a scam. I don’t think I even personally knew of anybody who believed in that crap. In fact, the “emo” side of me hoped it really would happen, so we could all die and go to hell. MURDERDEATHKILL! Nah, I could never be that sorry for myself although by principle of this trend, many other kids at school were aspiring to be vampires. All I saw when I looked at those “emo” kids was a bad hair-do blinding the shadow of a crack addict. Emaciated, adorned in black, and always shaking their eyes free from hair dead from dye. I guess they did eventually have a reason to pity themselves when Bush won the presidency. ..
Maybe we “misunderestimated” him, but he really tore down “the terriers and bariffs” in this country when it comes to the requirements of his position. I laughed as much as I was appalled watching his speeches on television. It was difficult to maintain a friendship with anyone who defended Bush. I remember writing in my blog about his joke of a presidency. I really thought this country was really collapsing quickly…
I heard about the attack on the World Trade Center in New York at 5:00 in the morning when I woke up to my mother crying. “Why my city? Why my city?!” She’d told me all about her time working on the 77th floor of the second tower decades earlier and now she was completely devastated. School was different that day. Of course, we had our moment of silence but it didn’t clarify anything to me. Why had our own country’s planes been flown into the side of our own buildings? I sat there in history class that day looking down at my dirty Vans, and wondered if they would get me out of the building fast enough if I had been there. The catastrophic scene was played over and over on the news on every station. But after the shock had settled which never really did, things slightly went back to normal, except before I hadn’t ever seen so many American flags in my life til then. I felt strangely united with the whole country…
And with the rest of the nation, I went back to watching The Simpsons on Thursday. then Sunday nights, attempting to “ollie” on my Zero brand skateboard, and doing “Around the World” with the yo-yo.
I began running nights at the high school track, running like Bin Laden. Gas prices were on the rise and so was the attempt to “go green”, so taking rides aimlessly was “out”, not “in”. What else was on the rise was my feelings of hatred toward technology. Girls in their polka dot and vintage tees, flipping their hair madly, and “texting” maniacally to their friend in the room over. The ringing of the cell phones breaking my chi, and headphones on every pair of ears in sight. Apparently face to face conversation had gone down the tubes along with etiquette...
Anthrax and SAR's weren't very mannered either, coming in envelopes to expose people with poison. More sweet attacks on the Americans, and I'm just thinking is there anything that could ever harm our country as a whole enough to where we'll go overboard like the terrorists. Oh wait, Bush wants to begin the "War on Terror", the biggest oxymoron I've ever heard.
Fast forward a couple self-asorbed, suicidal years ahead, and in fact, I am still alive and married at the early age of 20. Married for one month, and he already has to go to Godforsaken Iraq of all places. We'll never be lucky enough for John to be deployed to Germany, although the way I was raised, Germans weren't much better than terrorists. This decade ends and no new feeling is personally bestowed. Should I do it, my old emo friends? Let's finish it with life ain't ever going to be what you want it to be and a decade is bullshit.
Maybe we “misunderestimated” him, but he really tore down “the terriers and bariffs” in this country when it comes to the requirements of his position. I laughed as much as I was appalled watching his speeches on television. It was difficult to maintain a friendship with anyone who defended Bush. I remember writing in my blog about his joke of a presidency. I really thought this country was really collapsing quickly…
I heard about the attack on the World Trade Center in New York at 5:00 in the morning when I woke up to my mother crying. “Why my city? Why my city?!” She’d told me all about her time working on the 77th floor of the second tower decades earlier and now she was completely devastated. School was different that day. Of course, we had our moment of silence but it didn’t clarify anything to me. Why had our own country’s planes been flown into the side of our own buildings? I sat there in history class that day looking down at my dirty Vans, and wondered if they would get me out of the building fast enough if I had been there. The catastrophic scene was played over and over on the news on every station. But after the shock had settled which never really did, things slightly went back to normal, except before I hadn’t ever seen so many American flags in my life til then. I felt strangely united with the whole country…
And with the rest of the nation, I went back to watching The Simpsons on Thursday. then Sunday nights, attempting to “ollie” on my Zero brand skateboard, and doing “Around the World” with the yo-yo.
I began running nights at the high school track, running like Bin Laden. Gas prices were on the rise and so was the attempt to “go green”, so taking rides aimlessly was “out”, not “in”. What else was on the rise was my feelings of hatred toward technology. Girls in their polka dot and vintage tees, flipping their hair madly, and “texting” maniacally to their friend in the room over. The ringing of the cell phones breaking my chi, and headphones on every pair of ears in sight. Apparently face to face conversation had gone down the tubes along with etiquette...
Anthrax and SAR's weren't very mannered either, coming in envelopes to expose people with poison. More sweet attacks on the Americans, and I'm just thinking is there anything that could ever harm our country as a whole enough to where we'll go overboard like the terrorists. Oh wait, Bush wants to begin the "War on Terror", the biggest oxymoron I've ever heard.
Fast forward a couple self-asorbed, suicidal years ahead, and in fact, I am still alive and married at the early age of 20. Married for one month, and he already has to go to Godforsaken Iraq of all places. We'll never be lucky enough for John to be deployed to Germany, although the way I was raised, Germans weren't much better than terrorists. This decade ends and no new feeling is personally bestowed. Should I do it, my old emo friends? Let's finish it with life ain't ever going to be what you want it to be and a decade is bullshit.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I Broke My Mind Tonight
I always feel the urge to start these blogs with, "Sitting here..." So because I am feeling compulsive: Sitting here in my car, it's almost 10:00. And it's going to be a lonely hour unless slap this reluctance and laziness away and sneak back in the sleeping house to grab the phone. Who can I call this hour? There's Dan but he's working at the university probably unhappily serving college students hamburgers and fries. There's Carlos back in California, but wait, I'm forbidden to talk to him because "I once loved him". So says John, my husband, even though he can talk to his ex-girlfriend, Renee.
!She is the biggest bitch in the whole world.! Not literally, she's quite thin for having three kids at 22. So correction: she is the bitchiest of all females in the world I know. Gossip or not, I will tell you this: She cheated on John when they were together and had a kid. The guy's name was also John but instead of my husband's handsome face, this John looks like the rat from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Predictably, she's cheating on him now with one of his friends. Let's hope his name isn't John for the sake of the children.
Anyways, thinking back to who I will call. It will remain a mystery for here I go on my adventure to the house. Numbers will be dialed and perhaps a conversation will put me to sleep this bright January night. For it shall not be the full moon.
!She is the biggest bitch in the whole world.! Not literally, she's quite thin for having three kids at 22. So correction: she is the bitchiest of all females in the world I know. Gossip or not, I will tell you this: She cheated on John when they were together and had a kid. The guy's name was also John but instead of my husband's handsome face, this John looks like the rat from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Predictably, she's cheating on him now with one of his friends. Let's hope his name isn't John for the sake of the children.
Anyways, thinking back to who I will call. It will remain a mystery for here I go on my adventure to the house. Numbers will be dialed and perhaps a conversation will put me to sleep this bright January night. For it shall not be the full moon.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Dreams in Hibernation
Once I saw the grass this morning, I realized how much I missed it. Even when I watch the babbling commercials on the boob tube, I look beyond the product for that bright sun shining on the delightful summer's day that many seem to be filmed during. The Hammond Lumber Company commercial is one of those. I imagine rolling around letting the blades of grass graze my arms and face. I already see myself, Corona in hand, fishing off the back of a boat, catching something big, and frying it up over the campfire.
In California, it would be smeltering and the shade meant nothing to preventing heat exhaustion. I'd take a shower, dry off, only to be drenched once again in sweat. But no, Maine is the creme-de-la-creme of all summertime locations.
Although, it is quite a drag that all the tourists agree with that, crowding up our parks, trails, and carriage roads. Its not very pleasant to be standing at the foot of Mt. Katahdin enjoying it's majestic beauty, anticipating you won't be alone for long. The Jordan Pondhouse will never be empty once that first day of summer comes.
I guess I should be fair, not that I have a choice, and share this glory of nature with all the tourists. I admit I was once just a part of the invasion.
In California, it would be smeltering and the shade meant nothing to preventing heat exhaustion. I'd take a shower, dry off, only to be drenched once again in sweat. But no, Maine is the creme-de-la-creme of all summertime locations.
Although, it is quite a drag that all the tourists agree with that, crowding up our parks, trails, and carriage roads. Its not very pleasant to be standing at the foot of Mt. Katahdin enjoying it's majestic beauty, anticipating you won't be alone for long. The Jordan Pondhouse will never be empty once that first day of summer comes.
I guess I should be fair, not that I have a choice, and share this glory of nature with all the tourists. I admit I was once just a part of the invasion.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Reading Rainbow of Conspiracy
Has anyone else received a Sid Roth book in the mail or are we, Jews, really the "chosen people", chosen to receive this book? My brother, who lives in Philadelphia now, was sent a copy to my house, and I at my friend's house. A conspiracy? Although I haven't read it, the enclosed letter says: "You're probably wondering why I am sending you this. Change the world like the Jewish holocaust survivor who wanted to burn down churches."
Stepping back now. Burn down churches? Change the world? I'm quite boggled and a bit afraid a book might actually be stalking me. First, it appeared at my house, second, my friends, what next? The Congregational Church in Blue Hill? Or might I be burning already when it drops from the choir loft?
Stepping back now. Burn down churches? Change the world? I'm quite boggled and a bit afraid a book might actually be stalking me. First, it appeared at my house, second, my friends, what next? The Congregational Church in Blue Hill? Or might I be burning already when it drops from the choir loft?
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Great Feat
Who knew such a sluggish morning would begin this parade of a day? Dreaming about John deserting me for another woman wasn't the ideal thing to awaken from. Although, as opposed to most mornings, I was happy to wake up that my dreams were not reality.
After the morning hygiene routine, I sat down contently in front of my laptop and completed my daily analysis of Facebook, Blogger, and Blackboard. About that time, my stomach became demanding and I grabbed an apple to satisfy it's orders. Whilst munching this fruit, I came upon a Japanese horror flick being shown on Netflix and watched only half before vowing not to eat during this movie ever again.
Then it was time for Mrs. Barbara Reeves, my savior, I mean psychiatrist, and I to have a meeting. Not much came from the meeting this time, seeing as I haven't been committed to the progressive muscle or breathing relaxation exercises she recommended I do. On the other hand, the meeting did give me confidence to go to the grocery store, Mainely Music, and the Hancock Library. I did this all on my own without a twitch in the neck or one shortened breath. The parade that I had written of earlier stems from the comfort and bliss I feel to realize recovery is possible!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Ashamed and Unchanged
I'm being extremely patient right now. I'm waiting til my parents go to bed, so I can sneak outside and smoke a cigarette. Obviously, they still think I quit. It's been a month since I started up again.
I do need to break the habit because I know its disappointing to my husband. He called from Iraq two days ago and the conversation was light and cheerful, until that one measly cough. He asked if I'd been smoking still, after I'd told him so long ago I quit. I responded nervously, "No, I don't still smoke." Knowing how blatent the lie was, I went on to confess, where then his tone dropped and so did my chest. It may not seem like a gigantic deal to most, but this is my husband, who reluctantly lives the structured military life in Iraq. And furthermore, we both know he enlisted for my sake. So to disappoint him is a major offense and a reason that talk that day turned sour.
Nevertheless, I am still ready to tiptoe out the front door to selfishly grant my own wish.
I do need to break the habit because I know its disappointing to my husband. He called from Iraq two days ago and the conversation was light and cheerful, until that one measly cough. He asked if I'd been smoking still, after I'd told him so long ago I quit. I responded nervously, "No, I don't still smoke." Knowing how blatent the lie was, I went on to confess, where then his tone dropped and so did my chest. It may not seem like a gigantic deal to most, but this is my husband, who reluctantly lives the structured military life in Iraq. And furthermore, we both know he enlisted for my sake. So to disappoint him is a major offense and a reason that talk that day turned sour.
Nevertheless, I am still ready to tiptoe out the front door to selfishly grant my own wish.
Journal Entry #4 or 5
It wasn't so bad, the trip home. The truth is I was completely distracted from my normal anxious thoughts by thinking more about what I wanted to write next for the course. Especially how to write the next thing including all the suggestions made.
It was a nice change not to be worrying the whole ride back. I listened to some music, put my hand out the window (only for a second though) and fell into a dream land of literary possibilities.
At the moment, I thought I might take a aimless drive and listen to my new stress-relieving CD. However, I've a time limit, which goes hand in hand with relaxation, don't you know? My mom will be home soon from working at KidsPeace all day. I need to be on time for my lectures about smelling like cigarettes, and using her computer without permission. That said, what am I doing wasting my time? Ursula will slime across the floor any second.
It was a nice change not to be worrying the whole ride back. I listened to some music, put my hand out the window (only for a second though) and fell into a dream land of literary possibilities.
At the moment, I thought I might take a aimless drive and listen to my new stress-relieving CD. However, I've a time limit, which goes hand in hand with relaxation, don't you know? My mom will be home soon from working at KidsPeace all day. I need to be on time for my lectures about smelling like cigarettes, and using her computer without permission. That said, what am I doing wasting my time? Ursula will slime across the floor any second.
Journal Entry #3 or 4
I must admit; I feel like I've just made it to Hollywood on American Idol for writers. I've been successful with some entries in this course, but the criticism makes me think twice about how much more wonderfully I could write. It's a shame we can't write poems, because I have this neverending rhythm in my head. Iambic pantameter, kill me now please.
Not too much description, definitely no rhyming, don't alienate the reader, and don't be too direct. I think that's it for now. What's really difficult is not being able to describe every nook and cranny, because I figure the reading should get a genuine feel to every situation.
Anyways, I must be leaving shortly or I'll never build up enough courage to make the hour ride home to Hancock. It's best to leave before the sun really starts making its appearance; that way, its more unlikely to be noticed.
Not too much description, definitely no rhyming, don't alienate the reader, and don't be too direct. I think that's it for now. What's really difficult is not being able to describe every nook and cranny, because I figure the reading should get a genuine feel to every situation.
Anyways, I must be leaving shortly or I'll never build up enough courage to make the hour ride home to Hancock. It's best to leave before the sun really starts making its appearance; that way, its more unlikely to be noticed.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Journal Entry One Thousand
I must write again, I must, I must! I wonder if anyone has ever become addicted to writing. That might be scary, considering I am addicted to everything else under the sun. (Except the nagging of "Motherdear".)
I ordered a pizza to keep me company while my best friend works at the University of Maine. He's bartending tonight, which means I REALLY shouldn't show up or I might cost him his job.
I admit, I am a little lonely. My husband is in Iraq. No, I don't need your pity. I just need a damn taco. Sorry, phrases are bad habits.
Who knew, man? Seriously, I kept a blog when I was 16. I actually just erased everything once I started this class. But who knew that at 16 years old, I was preparing for a college class?
Buddha, I am just so lucky. I better make my face if I want to be presentable for the pizza man or lady. They might just throw it in my face!
I ordered a pizza to keep me company while my best friend works at the University of Maine. He's bartending tonight, which means I REALLY shouldn't show up or I might cost him his job.
I admit, I am a little lonely. My husband is in Iraq. No, I don't need your pity. I just need a damn taco. Sorry, phrases are bad habits.
Who knew, man? Seriously, I kept a blog when I was 16. I actually just erased everything once I started this class. But who knew that at 16 years old, I was preparing for a college class?
Buddha, I am just so lucky. I better make my face if I want to be presentable for the pizza man or lady. They might just throw it in my face!
Journal Entry #2 - Third Person Autobiography
"Who's she?" she asked. She liked to say the phrase her once living grandmother used when insulted. "I am not just a 'she'. In fact, guess what," she said as she scowled. "I am a person." Her teacher who was a strong feminist and shopped at Anthropologie grinned menacingly at the boys who chose to debate her star student.
Alexandra was entirely a different girl this year. She accepted the term "she" and felt it was impossible to be just a person instead of something related to a gender. "Why, I'll make my own posse. My own commune, in fact." And so she did.
She was entering her first year in the college known as one just beside the great almighty University of Maine. With her joined five young men just graduated from nearby high schools and lacking a mother figure. Yes, of course, she was only nineteen, but she knew she could make them her own.
Every afternoon, they would meet in the corridor of the English department looking to her for answers of the female species, the ones who rare in their miserable lives.
One day, Alexandra "the Greatest", they would call her, realized the solution to these problems of the so-called castaways. She would write a whole-length rule book for them. No halitosis for one, she wrote. Definitely, no sexist remarks, she typed as she thought of her own pet peeve of the evil word "she". She continued the paper until it was an entire ten pages long, detailing the horror of every wrong mistake a male could make towards a girl. By the end of the list, any man reading would be too frightened to let their lips mouth a "she", for she was through.
Alexandra was entirely a different girl this year. She accepted the term "she" and felt it was impossible to be just a person instead of something related to a gender. "Why, I'll make my own posse. My own commune, in fact." And so she did.
She was entering her first year in the college known as one just beside the great almighty University of Maine. With her joined five young men just graduated from nearby high schools and lacking a mother figure. Yes, of course, she was only nineteen, but she knew she could make them her own.
Every afternoon, they would meet in the corridor of the English department looking to her for answers of the female species, the ones who rare in their miserable lives.
One day, Alexandra "the Greatest", they would call her, realized the solution to these problems of the so-called castaways. She would write a whole-length rule book for them. No halitosis for one, she wrote. Definitely, no sexist remarks, she typed as she thought of her own pet peeve of the evil word "she". She continued the paper until it was an entire ten pages long, detailing the horror of every wrong mistake a male could make towards a girl. By the end of the list, any man reading would be too frightened to let their lips mouth a "she", for she was through.
Journal Entry for the Masses
Once again, I am aloof. Online classes, you make me weep. Is there some tissue in my brain I am missing? I already know I have an abnormally small amygdala. Yikes, what next.
By the way, my favorite word for the past year has been "tacos" or more like "TACOOOOS" if we want to be politically correct. I never really understood the meaning of politically correct. Although, I know this joke has been used many-a-time, politics are not correct. Fair to say the least. Wait, that's an incomplete sentence.
I want to write another poem. Poems are fun to write because most the time you don't even know what you mean. I mean, what do I mean?
Oh, Mr. Goldfine, you don't know how much this assignment means to me.
I've been writing all day and yet, I can't manage to become tired.
Okay, okay. It's time to be serious. I will let those concerned who I am and what I'm "all about". I am agoraphobic for one. Whoo, didn't see that one coming! I am from California and moved to Maine when I was 17, one month after graduating from high school. I went to University of Maine, took advantage of the freedom from parents, and did the old-fashioned Animal House bit of criticizing the sober and raising thee havoc. Yes, thee havoc. After this, I moved to Hancock to live with my dear old folks and started working at the Hannaford in Ellsworth as the "drug lady", or so my soon-to-be husband called me. In other words, I was a Pharmacy Technician. (He was actually working in the Deli, my "Meat Man"). Let's not get into that.
So after working for several months in this cage of narcotics, I enlisted in the Air Force and was to become (get ready for it) an Airborne Linguistics Cryptologist. Yes, that is someone who interprets the evil plans of the enemy into plain English. I called it "playing Sudoku with sister planes". However, without explanation, I write simply that I was discharged and soon married to my husband, John Wayne. Okay, his name is actually John Wayne Carpenter II. Oy vey, my fingers are arthritic and I must save some room on this simulation of paper for some more rambling about my putrid existence. Til we meet again.
By the way, my favorite word for the past year has been "tacos" or more like "TACOOOOS" if we want to be politically correct. I never really understood the meaning of politically correct. Although, I know this joke has been used many-a-time, politics are not correct. Fair to say the least. Wait, that's an incomplete sentence.
I want to write another poem. Poems are fun to write because most the time you don't even know what you mean. I mean, what do I mean?
Oh, Mr. Goldfine, you don't know how much this assignment means to me.
I've been writing all day and yet, I can't manage to become tired.
Okay, okay. It's time to be serious. I will let those concerned who I am and what I'm "all about". I am agoraphobic for one. Whoo, didn't see that one coming! I am from California and moved to Maine when I was 17, one month after graduating from high school. I went to University of Maine, took advantage of the freedom from parents, and did the old-fashioned Animal House bit of criticizing the sober and raising thee havoc. Yes, thee havoc. After this, I moved to Hancock to live with my dear old folks and started working at the Hannaford in Ellsworth as the "drug lady", or so my soon-to-be husband called me. In other words, I was a Pharmacy Technician. (He was actually working in the Deli, my "Meat Man"). Let's not get into that.
So after working for several months in this cage of narcotics, I enlisted in the Air Force and was to become (get ready for it) an Airborne Linguistics Cryptologist. Yes, that is someone who interprets the evil plans of the enemy into plain English. I called it "playing Sudoku with sister planes". However, without explanation, I write simply that I was discharged and soon married to my husband, John Wayne. Okay, his name is actually John Wayne Carpenter II. Oy vey, my fingers are arthritic and I must save some room on this simulation of paper for some more rambling about my putrid existence. Til we meet again.
Journal Entry #2 - Second Person Autobiography
Hours drift by like snow past the window. Wandering and revising, your mind lingers on that perfect idea. What's interests is interesting, you mouth silently. Oh, this treacherous assignment, you think. Don't they understand you need sleep tonight? How can you possibly write an alternate ending to such a well-known book without getting chastised? It was named a Tale of Two Cities, not the Tale You Should End Yourself.
Journal Entry #2 - First Person Autobiography
I always wondered why my high school yearbook was only worth one glance. I'd skim through the captions and stories of winning sports teams, the supposedly inspiration student of the year, and mediocre statements of fellow classmates. Bland and low brow, all these words wasted all this space in the so-called book of memories. Yet, it was I who was not chosen for the position of copy editor. After all the creative and smirk-provoking descriptions I bestowed last year's book. What about the captions I worked so hard on, making sure no adjective or adverb was ever used twice? What about the headlines I'd used comparing the men's water polo and orchestra page to well-known songs of the year? Someone had been bribed; there was just no other way I shouldn't have been the first choice for the job. Even Jessica, a fellow writer I'd concocted entire stories and completely clever captions, was named one of the editors. To make this foolishness worse, I was offered a simple job as the newspaper editor. Newspaper? The junk that nobody read in my high school was not about to be part of my resume. In addition, my focus would be lost to the Doldrums, with the knowledge my beloved Christopher would be in the same room as me. Distraught and feeling cheated, I put the keyboard aside, and all those fantastically colorful words went along. If I couldn't be editor and share my passion with the droll of the earth, a free period was my revenge.
Journal Entry #1
Hello, journalpants. I deem you this name because I think pants are necessary for such a delightful assignment. I choose to write in a way that erasing is not a choice and that my fingers move as quickly across the keys as the thoughts enter my mind. I believe this is the truest way to be genuine, or the most genuine way to be true.
At the moment, I am phsyically shaking due to the realization that I was late on perhaps my first two assignments. I've been spending the past weekend at my almost 40 year old friend's, Dan, house in Brewer, calling and harassing the EMCC employees with my questions about online classes and how they work. You'd think that knowledge of these things comes with growing up in this generation, a generation where the inane amount of time spent texting, instant messaging, and blogging prevails over any other activity.
I suppose I should be talking about my schedule but if it's of no interest to me, I'd imagine it wouldn't be much enjoyment for your skimming eyes.
I will say, however, that I am stranded in Brewer an hour away from my actual residence in Hancock, until the snow plows come around.
And now I am concluding. Let us all cheer!
At the moment, I am phsyically shaking due to the realization that I was late on perhaps my first two assignments. I've been spending the past weekend at my almost 40 year old friend's, Dan, house in Brewer, calling and harassing the EMCC employees with my questions about online classes and how they work. You'd think that knowledge of these things comes with growing up in this generation, a generation where the inane amount of time spent texting, instant messaging, and blogging prevails over any other activity.
I suppose I should be talking about my schedule but if it's of no interest to me, I'd imagine it wouldn't be much enjoyment for your skimming eyes.
I will say, however, that I am stranded in Brewer an hour away from my actual residence in Hancock, until the snow plows come around.
And now I am concluding. Let us all cheer!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
