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Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
The Rapture Has Brought Us Hilarious T-Shirt Heaven!
RECAPTURING the RAPTURE
by Alex
It's that time of the year,
it's rapture time!
Popo screaming for the anticrime!
Out come the thieves,
the cads, and the slime.
Lootin' TVs
lookin' very prime.
The "saved" sold their homes
and quit their careers.
For God, they follow,
to Heaven, He'll steer
Some ate too much
upon their "last day",
saying, "I'll be
dead soon anyway."
Some ditched their classes,
or "threw" an exam.
Who needs good grades,
who gives a damn?
But what do you know?
The rapture's a faux.
All still remains,
and He's a no-show.
So what to do now
you're broke and/or fat.
I've got a site
you need to go STAT!
It's not time to hurt,
It's time to stand proud,
Get a sweet shirt,
And scream this out loud!
I SURVIVED THE RAPTURE!
(Click the link above for pure radical raptureness!)
The rapture has once again come and gone, but you can keep the day of mythology (at it's worst) with you everywhere you go by buying one of the hysterical shirts from I SURVIVED THE RAPTURE! And just because you didn't make it to heaven doesn't mean you can't still try by helping out a wonderful cause. A portion of the proceeds goes towards the construction of a Shade Sail Structure at Sunshine Acres Orphanage to keep the kiddies cool during the hot summers in Arizona!
Or if you prefer to simply donate to the orphanage, just go to The Sunshine Acres Orphanage site . You can help the good people of Sunshine Acres improve the well-being of their community by allowing them to provide a loving home for at-risk youth!
So it's not the end of the world but keep the rapture jokes going and prove you're a SURVIVOR and not A ZOMBIE! GET A SHIRT!!!
Spread the word about these shirts on a blog, facebook, or twitter! FB = RaptureTshirts Facebook Page
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Shush the Heart
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.
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, 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.
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