In the event of Rapture, this vehicle will become unmanned.
The holiday is almost over. I should rant about how things I dread always turn into blessed events, but I haven't the energy. Maybe later. But, I love my family, and I love my cat. Tomorrow we're going to the hometown berg for new years. Well, cut me some figgy puddin', won't that be exciting? I think it will be. Because of boys, beer and beastly behavior.
I really like having this time away from people right now. It may sound callous and cold hearted, but I enjoy just hanging out with my immediate family over the holidays. What I'm really trying to say, is that Westjet is driving me crazy. Something about the holidays makes him go crazy = he phone me every day. Every day. "Lets go sit around and talk about nothing?! Or, how about we just sit down and tell each other that we love me?!"
Bizzarrely enough, instead of getting less patient and more rude, I get more patient and less rude as the holidays progressively follow through with him. And I do enjoy his friendship, I just wonder what the problem is, because he is a very high-maintenance friend, but I don't understand why.
Oh, and christmas was yesterday, that was awesome. I got snowshoes! They have crampon studs! They rock! I will snowshoe myself into a lean mean polar bear fighting machine this winter.
More laundry sitting in the washer
In addition to previous bastard literature.
She couldn't say when it happened
Could have been minutes
Or maybe every time
It just keeps occurring.
She is adamently against it
Fights the idea constantly
Of her aortic regions
Gushing in his hands.
At first it seemed he hurt her
But really all hurt is self-induced
Guided by blind susceptibility
To fantasies and dreams.
Small distant laughs and smiles
It was altogether too perfect
In the minds eye
She warrants imperfection
He deserves flawless
She wants that for him
Wawnts to look at herself
In realistic light again
Harsh fluorescent reality
Not imperfection erasing
Pink glow- self induced
(How did this happen?)
She would cry
If he ever saw her. Really.
Too white misshapeness
Design flaws and peeling paint-job
There is always something though-
She feels a weird thing.
Unnameable and mystifying.
Often wishes he'd hasten with
The inevitable heart curbstomp
He has no inkling towards
She wants to be proved wrong,
Wants absolute freeing pain
(And she gets it, hurrah!! I wrote this a few weeks ago, and mannah has answered my cursing and swearing- all is returned to normal now. Well, as normal as anything ever is anyways.)
I got told I have a complex today- an esteem complex. But it isn't. It's just a reality. I mean, morally, you don't sell people a lemon right? You're obligated to let them know that the muffler is going to fall off at the end of the block away from the lot- to be honest with them, because if you're not honest right off the bat, you're either going to attract morons (return from my analogy), or, they're going to jump in and find out all the flaws later, and break your heart- (eg: return the car from whence it came. Possibly involve a lawsuit, etc.)
Elaugh and I went through a trial today concerning the overly large mouse I may have mentioned a few weeks ago. After ignoring the counsel of many to "cut it in half like it ain't no big deal" I just gave it to her whole. And watched her intently, ready to do something if I had to. Open snake surgery. Cut off the hind legs of the mouse. Even more misguidedly, puncture the mouse to make it more compressible. But, that apparently is what bowels are for. Ever heard a dead mouse fart? It's beautiful, like herald angels with little mini trumpets. As she slowly snerfed it down (this made up word was the only one that seemed appropriate to an eating snake) I started to panic more as the lower end of the snake pillowed out to become a round fat ass that I wasn't sure she'd be able to handle. I phoned the pet people- they told me to stop underestimating my snake, and to pull it back out if it seriously got stuck. You're not supposed to pull things out of a snake's mouth, physiologically speaking, it's a dangerous thing to do, but I realized that in lieu of an alternative, I might have to. But instead, I coached. I cheered her on, keeping eye contact with my sometimes panicky expressioned little reptile friend (ok- to clarify- this is a joke- snakes do not "express" anything) and fretted in my chair. In short, she managed it just fine, though it was a tight squeeze and probably sacked her completely for the next two days- and she probably hates me. I was doubly impressed though. It was like watching childbirth, but in reverse, as the last of the mouse bum vanished into the pink gummy orifice. If you've ever seen a cartoon of a snake with a man shape in it's belly, that's what she looked like tonight. Gotta run.
Hanging the laundry, cleaning out the lint trap.
A piece of bastard literature.
You piss me off so much. Your sneery smile, your know-it-all-isms, your arrogance, your generally rude manner stinking of anal cavities, with a hint of the suburban banality lurking on the edges of your shell. How can someone so smart be so stupid? I used to ask this of you, but ask myself as much and don't like the reason behind my mean spirited irrational temper tantrums. I was in denial to the answers to any questions I had regarding you though.
I feel like running around my house stomping the crap out of the ancient red linoleum, rubbed smooth by angry lonely women before me, when I think about the latest frustrating moments we've shared together. At least, they seemed frustrating until I felt blessed by something so uncharged. Just like every happy couple, we talk about theology, comic books and movies to no end. We cuddle. We don't speak. We speak of nothing. This used to bother me until I realize we don't speak because we don't have to. Nothing is forced, nothing is intense, terrifying. What about love? What about skin touching skin? What about that profound connection that somehow seemed like a flash of brilliance that quickly dimmed? It didn't dim, it just glows unflickering. I don't know the answers to these questions though either, but I find myself more welcoming of what you will grow to offer hopefully. I realize now that we're both fated to just share sparing moments with each other for what seems to be a long time, but maybe eventually it will turn into one long moment together.
I was beating myself up about this constantly.I completely know that it is a total lost cause- you're completely gone, if you were ever there at that place, and not looking back. I was sitting here, holding the phone. Holding my breath for some incredible fucking deux ex machina to make it all work anyways. The more I moped about it, the further you got from me.
And the heat waves flicker
Between you and I
You so far up ahead
Curious as to why I haven't
Caught up yet
Sitting on the side of the road
A skinned heart
Bits of gravel smarting
In my wound
You're so young, and inexperienced, and it makes me smile tenderly to think of it. But then my reflection in the mirror takes on this whole new image of a girl dressed to kill, in a leather boustierre, mini-skirt and fishnet stockings- a riding crop named "Bill" hanging out of her hand. I am a hot-blooded animal called "Corruption." You best start running now, I used to think, though I knew it was the last thing you'd do. I'd have to push you off me, and not call you back for more.
I am the purveyor of moral dilemma
You just haven't realized yet.
You're so innocent
It hurts my eyes to look at you.
Appropriately jaded, it's understandable, was understandable. Still is. You thought you were as equally able to play "tired out, loved out" as I. Maybe- but I'll never really question that, it's not my right. You do have to understand that I knew the two things you lacked though. And I stomped around my house, because I knew them- and you didn't. If you'd known them, perhaps you would have seen things my way- looked my way. Either I would be incredibly stupid and choose to wait for you to gain some crucial knowlege through life experience- creating more painstaking moments for me in the meantime- or I would just give up. And I did, because I could pat your hand like a kindly old friend for the rest of your life and still be happy.
All I really want of you is some sort of feeling that we're together because you want to be there for me. Not because I'm someone you bump into occassionally, who likes to be with you, brings you places, experiences, weird food, corruption, the Outside realm. Look at me in the eyes and tell me that you can't bear to be without me- I complete you- you want to romance me, and that you love me just as I am. That you care about what I have to say, what I have to write about, what I have to show you with my hands. That you want to learn about me, because I want to learn about you. Can you do this? Because I really need you to do this.
I realized that you wanted the same thing I do, and while this caused heartbreak, I finally figured out that this was the reason we were friends and would stay friends. You wanted the same thing I did, just with someone else. I was too thickheaded to see that you can meet people with the same ideals and not necessarily have to be with them. It was just a sign that there are more people like that out there, and that maybe I shouldn't give up- maybe I should give others more credit.
Not hold them next to each other and pick off the flaws with an air gun until one target was obliterated, and one was left standing- to claim a prize that I didn't deserve.
(So I'm still standing with the profound epiphany that struck me over the head yesterday. I do love him, and I've been a terrible person to him, about him, regarding him. Things won't change, because I have always been heartfelt with him over the phone, in person- but now I will be profoundly more grateful for that then I have been, and grateful for a long due awareness of all this.)
As for you: You are one of my greatest friends, and still will be. But I'm going to have to find a new muse. Yes, you were my muse. Maybe you will continue to be, but in a different light. I hope you don't mind me using the private volumes I have amassed (creepy, I know) in poetry to do something with. They will remain nameless, though really, there never were any names. Right? ; P)
Can't sleep, clowns'll eat me
I'm so fucked. I can't sleep. I have to wake up at six thirty. I have eaten a whole bag of crackers in the hopes that they will tranq me, and no luck. Mind won't shut off. Exam at nine. What will become of our heroine? Heroine...maybe that's my answer.
I feel like my skin is just hanging off of me right now. The small of my back feels nice and flat (for this is my favorite part of my body with it's soft downy little sworl of hair), but I can feel my ribs. My legs feel dominated by bone, and my feet are skinny and the skin feels thin and I feel old, fragile, and susceptible to the cold. I can feel the looseness of my arms and jutting out skeleton bits. My wrists are small, and my fingers are long and skinny. I am remarkably healthy right now, smoking aside (and soon to be banished from my habitual repetoire), but I don't feel like I look it.
I've had an odd night. I feel really uncomfortable about something I got tricked into revealing, because everything was fine before. Things were happy, content and fine. And I suppose they will continue to be, because I sure as hell won't do anything to alter that- and there is comfort that the secret wasn't really a secret- unless the person is really dumb, or had lived in a cave all their life subsisting on squirrels.
Fuck I need to study, and I just can't do it. I don't even know where to begin ranting
about study habits. So read my take on it in someone elses words. Ha ha.
Because she knows I wouldn't.
One Hundred Things you may or may not know about me
1. I love raspberries. Anything to do with them- Je adore ! Edible or non edible things.
2. I really enjoy the simple things in life. My needs have never been complicated, nor my wants. That's why I always seem like I'm overwhelmed with complication. A pursuit of something simple always seems to explode in my face.
3. I am so flexible it hurts sometimes. Mentally and physically. I'm certain if I exercised more, that I could touch my right buttock with my right foot all the way around. No such luck yet. Mentally- I acknowlege that I have a problem with putting myself first sometimes, and will often put myself out extreme lengths to help people, but bottom line, is I wouldn't do it unless I loved the person, OR, I just don't think about it at the time. That said, I'm much to much of a jerk to have some sort of martyr complex. I'll laugh before I pick you up off your feet. Sometimes.
4. I have a weird relationship with mathematics. Any chance I get to do some sort of problem solving is something I tackle with perverse glee. This factors in to how cheap I am. I budget either scrupulously well, or not at all and pretend like my finances are always ok. Which they are, for the mostpart.
5. If I'm angry or clogged with thoughts, I clean things. I enjoy cleaning, but not in an OCD way- just for the time for mindless work and thinking that it provides. And personal satisfaction at seeing my reflection in toilet bowls. This said, I don't like being told to clean. And I don't like people telling me how to clean.
6. I love fingerpainting and sculpture. Anything that has my hands in direct contact with a medium is orgasmic fun.
7. I collect things that glow in the dark. It could be anything as useless as a paper clip, and I'd keep it forever if it glowed in the dark.
8. Will give head for dark chocolate. I absolutely love chocolate.
9. My father's side of the family is somehow really vulnerable to addiction. Everyone in his immediate family smokes except for him. And now I do. This scares me.
10. I have something called Golden Hars Syndrome. This has made me research quarry for my entire life, because no one knows what causes it. Gamma rays or space aliens. Seriously though- I have it very minorly- people were amazed that I turned out as intelligent as I did. It took me a long time to reconcile to how different I was from other people- but now, I am sort of proud of it- it sets me apart.
11. This isn't to say that I still don't have my moments of anguish about it, but really- what is going to change? I make the best of what I got. And look at what I got.
12. I defy normalcy. I have perfect balance. I bowl lefthanded, hit righthanded, write righthanded, play volleyball left handed, switch hands in badminton, throw lefthanded- the list goes on.
13. I still climb trees. Don't tell.
14. I'm curious about everything, which gives me a short attention span.
15. I love meeting new people, to the point where I will strike up conversation with strangers several times a day. I like knowing what is on people's minds in regards to whatever they feel like talking about.
16. I don't have many secrets and I wish sometimes that people were as interested in me as I am in them. I told a friend once that "I wish people would rummage through my sock drawers, or snoop in my stuff." I wouldn't be invaded, I'd be flattered. Woe befall me if I ever have a stalker, lol.
17. I really want to have sex in a lot of strange places. A quincy being one. A crawlspace being another. Bizarre.
18. I'm vulnerable when I'm out of control of a situation, but this isn't to say that I don't enjoy being out of control sometimes. Sometimes I just feel like spinning around wildly until I smack into something and get knocked out. Not literally.
19. I'm double-jointed in my left hand.
20. I have a prosthetic ear that I throw at people constantly, when they don't appear to be listening to me.
21. I have had eighteen surgeries requiring TKO, and two that were local anesthesia. I can still count about thirteen of the IV scars.
22. I always talk about how great I am at sex, but truthfully, I think I've just gotten lucky. If you're constantly bedding down virgins, of course they think you're awesome at everything. Really, I am still sort of a naif myself.
23. I've always had this hidden explosive urge to get a Moped and just take off across the country with it- strap a typewriter to the back- and just go. A real unhealthy fascination with writer's exile, I tell you.
24. I'm in love with the idea of a tiny insignificant apartment with a fire escape to sit on, and sunlight coming in all day through one window at least, a futon, a tiny fridge, and a clanking radiator in the living room and art on walls making the space seem smaller then it really is. And warm creaky wood floors covered in braided rugs.
25. I'm a packrat. I steal hospital supplies.
26. Only Belly knows, but I'm a good singer. I used to sing karaoke quite a lot and jam with the boys in Katima-V, and thus learned that I actually had talent. I auditioned for a band once but didn't get it. I have written quite a lot of songs, but they sort of collect dust. I miss karaoke though, it was fun.
27. I can do anything I put my mind to, very well. Sometimes it might take me a little more effort to learn something, but once it's there, it's stuck for life. Like driving tractors. I will never forget how to do that.
28. I love being up high. Heights fascinate me, because I like seeing how much further into the horizon I can see. Also, there is something about regarding all the anonymous lives that hum along below that is really interesting. But I don't have a god-complex, just a "I want to know everyone's bid'ness" complex.
29. I really like plants, and wish I could have a garden to putz around in. This is hilarious, because I'm also real good at killing plants. Only about one in three ever live.
30. I've never really been romanced before. Being a silly old romantic at heart, I wish I could be, but often just end up romancing the people I'm with instead.
31. I am too sensitive and passionate for my own good. Sometimes though, I can be the totally opposite. I'll always be passionate, but sometimes I'm pretty fucking oblivious to the feelings of other people.
32. I think that I will probably smoke tea for the rest of my life, about twice or three times a year- just go on a walk with a notebook and get high somewhere on my own and enjoy the quiet of whereever I happen to be. Or be around those who provide "stimulating" discussion. I can't smoke during school very often though, because it does a number on my working memory.
33. I am in fucking love with photography. I have been itching to get into it more seriously lately- and money allowing, I will. I just have a knack for it, and I love being behind the lense, not in front of it. Ever.
34. My memory is really bad. I say this constantly, but it scares me how bad my working memory is. It has been getting better though. One thing I found, is that for some reason, my memory is amazing when I don't smoke. Must get oxygen to brain...
35. I don't like people who abuse the L- word. It really bothers me. Love is like a car in the garage. You don't have to constantly remind yourself or your significant other that there is a car parked in the garage do you? Every morning? "Honey....there's a car parked in our garage!" I mistrust meaningless repetition.
36. It may not look it, but I've been really fashion conscious since the age of like eight. Being able to buy my own clothes at thirteen was like heaven. However, I will sacrifice style for practicality at the drop of a hat. If you offered me a parka with more than one purpose, I'd buy it.
37. I hate incredibly passive people and get enraged with myself when I catch myself being stupidly passive. Love used to make me passive, and still makes me fear it (love) for the reason that I might be like that again.
38. I enjoy sewing. Consequently, my lack of time has tuned out this as a creative outlet, and turned it into more of "I must repair my clothes imperatively, or they will fall off my body. Or, in the instance of my Clash hoody, I will cry."
39. I don't like talking about myself. I constantly think I talk about myself too much to others, and it embarrasses me later when I look back at times where I inadvertently gabbed about me for what seems forever. I also never tell anyone about my personal problems- when I do, that means they've left the realm of my control, that I seriously need some advice. But otherwise, I keep it to myself or vent on my blog, finding that if left to my own devices long enough, I can usually sort them out. This exercise however, is an obviously massive exception.
40. Writing is something I love to do. The power that words have absolutely fascinates me. And true to the form of a writer, I suppose I'm quite narcisstic, because I too dream of getting published for some reason or another someday.
41. I'm not afraid of much. I mean, I get scared sometimes, but I have no concrete phobias. Sometimes I think I do, but I don't really. I can't just say, "I'm afraid of pirahnas" or something, like the rest of the world. You know what made me apprehensive when I was a kid though? Not being able to see my feet when I went swimming at the beach. Like, not when I was swimming, but when I was walking in the lake.
42. I have a cast-iron stomach. It's really hard to gross me out. When it really comes down to it, I think that I feel like I sometimes have to say, "Ewww grosss" to remain socially normal. But really.... I'll touch your herniated intestine and go, "shit that's cool" if anything.
43. When I was thirteen, I pulled 112 pages of political discourse behind the lyrics of the Chumbawumba cd and read them all (I'm fairly certain I still have them- 25 pages on Trickle Down Theory anyone?) Ok, that's boring.
44. I have lucky red transformer underwear. Only my immediate circle of friends know this. But now, the world...
45. I'm interested in taking some ballet lessons eventually. Hopefully before I become post-natal dumpy with that delightful little uterine paunch. I really love dancing though. I rock out anywhere at any time when the mood strikes me.
46. I am an extremely physically active person during the summer, when I have time and resources. I love being on the move doing anything, because it sort of satiates a little bit of wanderlust I constantly have picking away at me. Being busy distracts that.
47. I am socially awkward. Not awkward in the usual "I'm shy" manner, but awkward in that I have a complete disregard for social conduct as far as conversation goes. I'll talk about anything, if I understand it well enough. But this said, I can be smooth and social in any situation, but there are times where I plug in the music for the whole day and blot the world out. Also, I don't like making small talk. It's strained, and I'm just so much more interested in the things beneath the surface. I don't care about how your cat made a cute noise this morning. Even better, don't demonstrate it, I'm not listening. Sidenote: Any guy that makes animal noises in my general direction, or baby talks me, will get an appendage thrown at them. Or, maybe I'll thrown one of their missing testicles at them.
48. I don't try hard enough at anything. I am only possessed to put lots of effort into things or people that I love. I realize this is terrible, but it will be a life-long quest to come out of being an underachiever I'm told. I'm getting better then I was though.
49. I completely abhor makeup. I get the impression that people think I'm a slob sometimes because I don't wear it, but honestly, the thought of covering my face with that goop to be socially conforming and hence "attractive", just completely repulses me. The first time I ever (and hopefully last) wore it, was for my highschool graduation, I shit you not.
50. It is hard for me to fall in love, but when I do, I fall damn hard.
51. I'm a pacifist. If I got cornered in a dark alley however, I could also defend myself mightily. And I know that I make lots of tough girl talk, but I would never raise my hand against anyone. Seriously. Punching my friends is excluded from this though (by the way, I've figured out the reason I do that is because words fail me at the moment someone teases me).
52. I don't think I'm very modest, but I try. Which is why I've only written fifty-four of these, as opposed to 100. Plus, I like to be mysterious, though really, everyone is mysterious forever. I don't ever want to seem predictable though either. Solid, but spontaneous.
53. I'm constantly waiting for something to happen. I notice everything around me happening to other people that seems extraordinary to me, though not necessarily them. And the stupid thing is that there is always something happening to me. I suppose what I'm really waiting for constantly are profound moments to occur in my day- waiting for something to happen that I couldn't possibly write about that I'd just have to keep in my head and treasure for ever.
54. Inexplicably attracted to cynical and slightly egotistical people. It sounds so bad to say it, like we're awful people, but these people, in my mind, are the best people.
"The joys of exfoliation..."
(I wrote this a few months ago for Nanowrimo. Just felt like sharing. Disclaimer- lewd content!)
I should get my head examined...
I reluctantly reach forward and unluck the door, all whilst curling the waistband of my grungy blue sweats over one roll so you can't see the pink underwear.
I am greeted by the pointy face akin to satan...cheshire (sp?) grin spreading to your bony cheeks as you clomp into the threshold with your skinny, slightly taller frame- wearing those boots that you wore when we were fifteen that I despised. I still despise them. You could afford better, but you think they look macho. They don't. Your grin is turning lugubrious as your eyes wander down my body, ripped teeshirt showing the undercurve of my breasts, and the dank hip hugging sweats. I can't help but smile at that greasy look as you take off your blue parka- the notion that you think you're hot shit. You're not, but I let you think you are. It's better that way- you're more inclined to show off things you think you know how to do.
"Hey, quick get in here before the neighbors see..."
But I try not to think too far ahead as your small hands encircle my waist and pull me close for "the intent eye stare," before moving in for the kiss. Some disillusionment is imperative for this to be enjoyable. Your hands skim down my waist and caress my bottom, and you push me gently to the wall and slide your palm up my shirt. My body is a traitor, but I'd known it would betray me as soon as I woke up restless yesterday.
My id had disobeyed my thinking process as I picked up the phone and dialed you. Told you a time. Mind screamed at me : you are a weak stupid girl- control your fucking hormones for once- just say no to convenience- yes to meaningful. Id jumped back in and declared, "meaningful prospects are overrated and impossible- they're not here. In the now. We and he are in the now."
Told you a place. Cringed at your disgusting way of putting things. "Booty call" makes my life into a rap video- and me without my velvet sweatsuit.
We move into my bedroom, onto the hard bed. Things are progressing well. Your shirt falls like a plastic bag to the wind, revealing your crucifixion body. You don't like to be called Jesus, but apart from your face of nefarious origin, you look the part, and suddenly religion enters the bedroom as I think of things I know not of- I wonder if I go to hell simply for not believing.
You've gained a little weight, which is nice. As you lay back on the bed the power struggle begins. You don't like being out of control, but neither do I- it is like a physically intimate fight, to see who can subordinate the other the most. Neither of us will ever admit to needing someone else to each other, admit that we want to be used.
"You're such a bitch," you breath down my neck as I slowly undo your belt and change my mind halfway through. Retaliation is imminent and my shirt dissappears into the folds of the blankets. Subdued. Subordinated. But not conquered, and I come back swinging, render you helpless with useful oral administrations with the sole purpose of cutting to the chase. Your foreplay annoys me, and bores me. The "hot shit" complex kicks in and that idea of "the longer I dwell in one specific erogenous zone, the steadily more turned on she will get," takes some sort of eternal root in your mind.
You dumb fuck. If only you knew that complex was so completely indicative of how much you doubt your performance. What? Less work later with your insubstantial endowment? Not that size matters, but if nothing else matters with you, at least something should. So, I'll pick on the dick.
Always interested in this unique idea that all favors must be returned, my self-serving plans are thwarted for the moment as you stick your face in between my legs. It helps, but once again- too long, too long. Hotshot complex has some orgasm quotas you feel you must meet every step of the way.
Whoa...what are you doing there?
I sit up. You've just licked my anus. Gross.
I moon, "come here..." I wipe your face off with your black Iron Maiden teeshirt, and you- thinking that transitional administrations are necessary for fear of a turn-off (Oh, we are so far past that...) trail your fingers on the inside of my thigh. I turn the charm crank to the red-zone and nibble on your ear while pushing you onto your back. The condom under my pillow has not been dislodged and I slip it on you while you're pre-occupied with my breasts. Again.
Caution: drugs will make even the best attempt at an erection flaccid and floppy at best.
The sex itself is not good- though serviceable. Right after you come, I do the hardest kegel I can. You squeal like a pig and push me off you. I laugh, and you call me a whore from the bathroom. I notice that you run like an old decrepit and hobbling man.
Serves you right for licking my asshole. Asshole.
You phone me an hour after your departure, from your car. I am relieved to have gotten you out of the house so quickly- usually you want to stay for pillow talk about your girlfriend (you deny that she left you months ago, screaming your worthlessness from the front yard and breaking your television with a frying pan- after cracking every single dvd that you owned in half by hand and throwing them in the bathtub of water you were stoned in at the time). I admire her, but used to tell you that she was a nutcase to make you feel better.
"Hey, I think some of my cash may have fallen out of my pocket when we were fucking."
"Well, I just phoned you to tell you not to worry about it. You can keep it. Hey, phone me again eh? I'll come over anytime you want me to- ha, get it? Come
ov-." I hang up the phone, and shake my head in disgust.
I used to think about all the literature I'd read that didn't really constitute as literature, after a time like this, that dictated that girls that did this sort of thing usually were feeling devoid of something after it, before it, or felt exceedingly dirty about it in general. I'd read all these tired old rehashings of "I felt like scrubbing every inch of my first four layers of skin off, to purge him from me- I felt so dirty." It sounded so terrible, like not having love with sex was going to be the undoing of any innocent young girl. And probably once it was- the awfulness that seemed to plague them seemed so raw that it scared me initially. I held my want for experience in. I was like, "this male rejection sounds terrible. Probably gonna happen to me. Take note: This happens to all girls if they don't find love. SOS pad exfoliation, or death by pink lady bic. Oh the melodrama of the non-commital, non entertaining sexual encounter."
As I sit by the phone, I find the only thing that enters my mind, is what I should make for supper. I'm an old hat at this by now. I broke your heart once, a long time ago, in the pre-battle times, in my impressionistic youthful times- always vowing to be the masher, and not the mashee. I've broken a lot of hearts, but yours was the first- and I wonder if I didn't get cheated of the victory because I let you into my bed many years later.
What eventually happens is that I get tired of the game. I get tired of cleaning up after my mistakes, doing damage control in messy situations. I do never call you again. You were the first and almost the last. The Russian was the last- an unprecedented moment accounted for by an infirm mind, something I wonder about everytime I start jonesing about for a lay -if my mind is sound, my judgement reasonable. It is, but there is always some unforseen consequence for me, whether it be about my health, my finances, or the lack of traction under my sneakers that may suddenly appear.
I derive a wonderful concept one day- a concept playfully dubbed "the boy sabbatical panties," that ultimately gets me out of trouble. I write only what inspires me, or spells me out, or makes me want to love, in the intimate creases, folds and seams of white cotton knickers tie-dyed in all the harsh colors of my personality. Vowing only to be with a man who reads them word for word, understanding the meaning behind the conquest before probing into my deep space.
And months pass. Sometimes I am so frustrated that I scream into my pillow. Ask my fingers for the instructions they know naught of, or gaze wishfully at strangers. Pretend to be purest of pure while thinking slimy earthy smelling thoughts and tangy tastes. The only thing that makes my year long now, is what I have gone so long without.
People are already crazy in July- if something major happened in July, it would just tip the scale completely and chaos would erupt. I do not think people pray in July either though. Summer is for sinning baby.
My love is like an ambulance, running red hot for ya.
As seen on Shaken Baby Syndrome Poster: "Take a break, don't shake."
I hate hospitals. When I first got here tonight, I was climbing the walls (<= a favorite catchphrase as of late). A city emergency room just hits me like a brick wall- every emergency room does though.
The smell plows into you first. It seeps into your body like a noxious gas- settles into your stomach, sticks in your hair, brings alive thoughts once dead and buried. If hospital smell had a color, it would be a foul yellow green bile colored Crayola. "Pukeshitfecesbleach."
The things in emerge have become sensationalized in the media. I look and wait, but there is no devestatingly hot hunk using incorrect jargon whilst holding the beating heart of a dying man in his hands, in the waiting room, while soapflake snow blows through the doors and a blizzard rages outside despite carols being sung touchingly inside. No gunshot wounds, no vengeful patients, no psychotic doctors, no dramatic birthings- just sombre tired faces. Slipped on the walk. Diabetic shock. Chronic emphazema flare-up. Striders. Back-ache. Mystery bleedouts. Infection. Croup. Colick. Cuts. Bruises. Excuses. Hypochondria.
All these people have done this a million times before. They will have clocked hundreds of emerge hours by the end of their lives. Some lives will end here. One already has in the last hour. Collision, no seatbelt. Hushed murmurs, "are you family? I'm afraid it's not good..." Is death really a prognosis? Sobbing, clutching, falling, catatonia- just like T.V.
There was a girl and her baby brought in about an hour ago (3 a.m. last I checked). So quiet. The paramedic carried the baby down the hall in its carrier while the mother trailed behind draped in a blanket, tired and lost. I wished I could know why they were there, but most of all I wished she would involuntarily pull that drawn dead face into a smile- that the pudgy pale baby would open his eyes, or wave. Or move. Stop being so quiet, baby. Most of all, don't let us hear the scared sounds of an infant being intubated. Muffle it.
The sounds of here are stomach churning. When I was six, I knew what all the codes were, and never forgot. Though changing over the years with technology, the chimes, sirens, chirps, beeps, dings, are still translateable on the basis of urgency. Emergency. Around these are the chorus of the ill, the dying, the scared, the bored and the angry, in a cacophony of wails, moans, phlegmatic coughing, vomitus, scuffles, and crashing equipment.
It is funny how out of all the institutions in our society, that hospitals are expected to be the cleanest. And they are not. Ever put your nose up to the vinyl papered surface of an emerge stall? A thousand bad sorties lurk there, and they conjure up flashes of horror- footage of blood, guts and feces every time you get too close, inhale at the wrong moment, or in the wrong place. At first the dirt, scuffs and ground in soylence of the surroundings is highly offensive:
"Maybe the Alec emerge isn't that bad afterall...should we have gone there instead?" Die in our own, much dirtier bedsheets? The baby sounds like he is coughing out his life.
Hugh asked his nurse tonight, only three floors above us, what he should expect dying to feel like. Ostensibly she replide that she had no experience in the area, and stricken, abandoned Hugh's doctor to the question and fled the room. The doctor calmly explained that Hugh would bleed out, either in his brain, or in his liver. He would simply fall asleep and never wake up. Up front, but not truthful. All the dying man wanted to know. He's 75 with Leukemia that would kill him by treatment alone. Last week he was healthy, given six months to live. This week, he has one transfusion and Christmas to survive. Hope is imperative to life. Healthy spirit = a cliched healthy body. If I have a prescribed amount of time to live (we all do), I don't want to know. The fact that we break that rule and confirm the mortality of others on our whim is indicative of how shitty the lives of humans are, or have become. I don't ever want to know. Please don't tell me of my death, or my love either- both are equally frightening.
But hospitals become the place to witness existing humanity. I will volunteer here in the summer, merely to see more occasion of people being kind and compassionate with total strangers. The head nurse is soft and commanding, gentle and helpful. She's not fresh, but doesn't lose her cool when one of the Aunts does. She bends over backwards instead; gts us canned nutrients, extra blankets, a peds pullout chair (the "rocking-green-mystery-stain-cushion-on-wheels").
The attendent nurse is even more heartening. I keep finding him trying to catch my eye. I scoop up his gaze and shoot my little "we are amused" smile back. He banters with the Aunts, makes my grandma laugh, and peppers them with indirect questions about me. They do the same with him and tease me when I blush. We tally up his life as he's told it- realize we don't know his age- we're dying to know, but dying to leave too.
An assalut of tests later proves only one boone to any discovery- which is that we will be staying overnight here. I- fearing the gremlins and witches of the nightshift- stubbornly refuse to leave- also realizing a good studying opportunity when I see one. Andrew, the nurse, discloses he is 33, which fits his army reserve, military enlistment, Serbia and Croatia peacekeeping tour, teaching and nursing degree. Just barely. He musters up some bravery upon his return trip. We talk of Pierre Burton and the "great Canadian novel" I pledge to be writing. He asks me how old I am and I want to just lie for the sake of being loved on sight by him for the last twelve hours- feeling him watch me with interest and curiousity everytime I pass him- but I cave and tell him my meagre numbers. He mumbles something about "still having lots of time to grow up" and I counter it with an assertive look and the comment of "and gain new experience to write about." D'oh. I'm out of that innocent affection now. Back to old love, old painful and frustrating insolvable old love. It haunts me like hospital smell, or like condensation on toilet seats. Only me...surely I must have an STD by now. Le sigh.
But the reason I'm here- what it has amounted to- is this: An aspiration problem (of air being inhaled with great difficulty). Three vapour steroid treatments. One bossy research doctor on pager dressed for an opera. Blood tests (veins). Monitored vitals. Five seperate occurences of "lets have a listen", intrevenous saline, steroids and anti-biotics. Blood gas test (arterial- a little scary to see that surging red). One pulmonary specialist (has a cold, or is a smoker. Ha ha.)Two lectures. Two repeats of diagnosis by a nurse. Three mentionings of my dead grandfather, also diagnosed with COPD. Two seperate highly emotional moments with the Aunts. ECG. One battle with stubborn matriarch. Us= 1. Matriarch= nothing. She's too tired to fight it. Possibility of Strider. Definately an infection. Possibility of blood clot, or new cancer. Jokes about upcoming PETSCAN. Four trips to Timmy Ho's. $3.50 for breakfast. Fear of forgetfulness. IS ALLERGIC TO IODINE. And shrimp. Is there shrimp in that drip?
The baby is laughing and cooing. I can hear him smile. His mother is relieved and Andrew walked back into ICU with the baby.
Obtained Nutriem 1.5 drip with appropriate adapter for MICKEY. Constructed the "Chickenfish" mascot from latex glove (now thicker with no powder lining- more sharp resistant)- taped loony with ECG button on bottom for maximum sitting stability. One missed vein for IV. Two hard blows for the spirometrics test. Very very tired- yet averse to sleeping, despite complete exhaustion. I think she's too bogged down with hookups to be comfortable. Re-occurring leg cramps. Sharp lids litter the floor. We've filled one waste can almost completely with refuse.
I went and played with the baby. He's not sleepy, and watches me tickle his hand with wide happy doe-brown eyes. His skin is so soft and fawn colored, with tiny little hands and tiny little fingernails with little white half-moons. His head is a chaotic mess of black hair tufting out all over the place. I want one just like him, little snotty nose crust and all.
"Wash your hands," Andrew chides. And I do, not knowing if I've somehow committed a taboo by playing with a sick baby in this place, but smiling at the moment of avid eyes and calmly curious tiny fingers. He's forgotten me, but I'll remember him.
"Attention! Attention to Triage! Code Blue. Code Blue." Merry Christmas, may I stop your wound? I'm bored and not sleeping, feeling slightly nauseaus.
Uh....the morning after.
There's something really sort of peaceful about having a hang over. I don't have them often (this actually only being the second time I've ever suffered from one) but when I do, it can be pleasant. I look at my eyes in the mirror and watch the pupils react doubleslow, and it makes me giggle when I get out of bed in the morning. Everything seems unimportant past the basics. Brush teeth. Eat breakfast. Drink coffee. Read comics. Sigh profusely and relish in the fact that you can just rehash the fun of the night prior while you hold your head. But of course it would be silly to say that hangovers are enjoyable. I merely enjoy the lazing/recovery period. In fact, I think if we were able to sleep completely through the day after partying, that life would be better. Half of my hangover today seemed to be caused by the profuse amount of things I kept remembering and duddling through, (wow, I just made up an awesome word). In short, hangovers suck, because I really was stupid last night, and my brain and my heart hurt with the implications of that fucking chemical soothsayer we call alcohol. I don't think I want to do that anymore. Get inebriated, I mean.
I remember when I was in highschool, that I drank seldomly, because of Fred, the Toyota that I drove everywhere and my disdain for sleeping on couches, or leaving Fred behind. I was often the drunksitter which blew chunks (ha ha ha....) but it was also quite amusing. I smoked, I observed, I came off as the cleverest person there, and all in all- it was a win-win situation that saved my pocket book from the things it suffered through yesterday. Oh man....I'm running out of bling.
One thing I wanted to broach. It's dawned on me how weird blogs have made social dynamics for us. I mean, we all read each other's blogs, essentially we know what has REALLY been going on in each other's lives, excluding all the vague whining that we're all liable to do sometimes, yet, if you run into me, or I run into you, it's strange. We have these facades that make us appear to know nothing more, nothing less than we've ever known about each other on a person to person basis. And then....there's that whole, "oh my goddess, that person reads my blog- he/she knows this...doot doot doot." See? It's all so terribly messy. I say: lets be up front with each other.
Blogger public buddy: Man, I'm sure glad you pulled through that STD fine Emerson, I was worried about you for a while there.
Me: Hey, no problem. By the way, those pyrogies you had the other night sounded fantastic, can I have a recipe?
Ok, so this is a bad example, but really- Who gives a fuck? I don't care. Come talk to me about my blog. I gots no secrets. Hell, introduce yourself to me by way of my blog. Initially, creepy, maybe, but also completely hilarious. Of course I would never do that to anyone else though- people and their unknown qualms. I need a tee-shirt that says "Got no qualms about Nothin' " or something. "Will take off shirt for I-Pod." "Pink Like Labia"
"My Vagina Is Hot"
You get the point? Or what? Shit...Desperate Housewives is almost on. Ahhhhh, I'm a loser.
T'aint so bad. Cheap thrills abounded.
I didn't really want to write about this, seeing as it would sort of immortalize an event I'd really rather forget. But then I was like, "fine, take the joy out of giving your scanty number of readers a good laugh."
I was inebriated. But let me start at the beginning. I wisely bought an overpriced slice of pizza before I went up, as well as downing a coffee. I promptly sat next to R, who really doesn't like me much, and I don't know why. Perhaps I said that he resembles Toby Maguire in every way possible too loud one day. In short, he didn't talk to me, so I talked to my good and fun aqquaintance T for a while, and claimed my one drink ticket (which I feel I had no right to- one submission? Omygod) and got a slimer. One of many slimers. They're pretty gross after a while. Anywho....the night sort of trudged up until Fenton got there, and I passed the time talking to S and crowd (though pretending to be interested in R's faux brand of chauvinism was tedious) and slamming back a few more drinks. Fenton arrives. Immediately scopes out every "hot chick" in the crowd. Gross.
We drink profusely. I hug my favorite sports dude a LOT. He's so sweet. My favorite sports dude buys me a drink for all my hug whoriness and a promise that I will help him out if he ever gets caught in a sports pinch. And really, I mean it. I would help sports dude in a second if he needed it. We egg on Ross. Sixteen beers? One night? He made it to fifteen, and my god can the kid hold it. And then, I click into mental deterioration mode. I talked with D for a LONG time, and man, he's really interesting. I could totally dig that guy if so much other shit wasn't hitting the fan around me already. Plus, I don't think he'd dig me. I have the impression I was good for an ego stroke. He kept saying, "I'm so grateful for your compliment!" He also bought me a drink. A slimer which I coyly (yeah, I think I am coy when I'm drunk, but I'm probably just a buffoon) traded for his cranberry vodka instead.D chokes down slimer in humored disgust, still keeps smiling and talking. Drink rotation to cranberry vodkas. Much better. Fenton by this point, is surrounded by people. I join in after D runs off to catch the last train. I discover I really like talking to "no head box", he's a cool guy. Also, Fenton is hilarious when drunken. But at this point, everyone seems cool to me. We stayed for EVER. We were the last people to leave. I was slightly embarrassed, but also completely caught unawares, because it cleaned out really fast.
Fenton and I decided to make a walk of it down to Whyte, and it was hilarious. I enjoyed the walk as much as I enjoyed the party, which is funny. Our cab (which I flagged, like a pro) was SO cheap. I kept giving fuzzy directions (reminders of the same weekend last year involving the Strat...eek) though, so I'm surprised he didn't kick us out to freeze in a snowbank.
And we went home. And that was it. I feel like such a huge buffoon for various reasons, but the fact remains that it is a once a year thing (ok, twice a year) so, whatever. I enjoyed it. But really, I am such a buffoon. I really felt like a slob last night too. I mean, I put effort into looking ok, but I really realized last night just how much "one of the guys" I can appear to be like when I don't dress up. Thus, no action. Next time, I will wear a skirt so I at least get authentically hit on when someone has beer goggles = the only way this ever happens.
Lastly: Fenton is a complete oddity. I will never really understand how that kid's head works. But he's a damn good friend.
In an effort to finally be cool (it seems my fight is never going to be over) I downloaded several awesome things yesterday and this morning, in a desperate vie for procrastination (deadly) away from my godawful paper. I have Firefox. I have Soulseek. I rock. Worship me. I also have a billion tracks of beautiful new music as of four o'clock last night. Rocking so hard it hurts. Bored, tired, and lacking conclusion statement? So am I!
High art versus the low underachiever
I rolled out of bed after hitting snooze sixteen times this morning, at about twelve. It was just that difficult to convince the carcass it didn't just want to stay under the soft warm covers of my piles of duvets and pretend the day wasn't happening.
Remembering that I have an essay due tomorrow is what really got me up, and I figured I'd have enough time to get it started before my mother swooped in and picked me up for le Ballet (The Nutcracker). She picked me up two readings later, at three o'clock- Tony Roma's (Tony Revolting's!) followed with some carb friendly chicken caesar salad. The dressing was blue cheese, and my mother told me I was allergic to penicillin halfway through. First of all- I was not aware of this, and second of all...sure, there's "mold" in my dressing, but come on...
The ballet was hilarious. There were very homoerotic undertones throughout that I figured I must have been imagining, as well as some other fairly - ok, ballet is just erotic, period. However, the etiquette required for such things slipped fairly badly when I realized that the snowflake fairy dance was being danced by nine fairies, one be-tutued fairy of which who happened to have a package
. I was fairly certain I must have hallucinated the whole thing- until a friend of my mom's commented on the "strapping" qualities of one of the dancers during intermission.
Overall, the production itself was suprisingly informal. There was a fair amount of humor injected into the thing (slapstick- as much as one could stick into a ukrainian ballet troupe I suppose) which sort of suprised me. Not that the Nutcracker is the most serious dramatic story ever to begin with, but it is considered a formal performance art. I've never seen a live performance before, but I do remember watching my tape of NB on Ice over and over when I was a kid. That had to do with my burgeoning desire to be a professional figure skater more then anything though. I'm being serious- stop laughing assholes. I memorized all the solo routines in it, and the music just stuck. I realize later that this has a lot to do with how I feel about music now, especially choreography in dance and event.
Notes of interest:
I should have went to Raving Poets on my own anyways on Tuesday- Mingus Tourette was there, thus I could have gotten drunk and puked in his lap. Been one of "the blond hair empty eyed young." Just kidding.
Male ballet performers have the most amazing bottoms. I've never been an ass observer, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from the white lycra. Bottoms that are begging to be plucked like fruit.
I have always had an itch (grade eight on) to be in ballet. I heard once that Van Vliet offers a class, and I think I may go investigate, since no one wants to bowl with me. The idea of doing that on my own though is massively appealing. I mean, I love dancing anyways, and if it's something I could do and be in shape too- double rad.
I registered yesterday. Marginal lit (nice!) , intro to counselling (awesome!), teaching english as a second language (rad! think 'overseas with no return'), edit 202 (yuck), and postcolonial literature and culture: Irish writing in English (I'm dying (dying!) of excitement for this course!!). And coincidently (through amazing powers) I still have lunch opportunity with those rotten lads I hang around.
Someone brought up "convocation" in Chapters yesterday, and I thought I was going to cry. I don't want to be by myself again next year after having it so good this year avec mes amis. Everyone is so close to just scattering, and that depresses me.
I got a really pleasing orange sweater from Value Village today. It's a little big, but it's just 'pleasing'. That's the only word I could come up with.
I was supposed to phone mr. pink yesterday and I totally forgot. I also totally forgot to phone him tonight and make up for it. I hope he's pissed off. Better yet, I hope he's so pissed off that he drives down here to tell me, and to tell me that he's desperately in love with me, and that he will move to the city promptly and get a job with the new re-opening of CanWest theatre. And we'll move in together- I'll forget that I'm not in love with him- and all will be good.
I wrote some poetry that I deemed acceptable to publish. Read, and be inspired, or I'll hunt you down and slap you. Also, I need a title for the first one. Ideas welcome.
I. (labeled pretentiously like a Canto...wee)
Look at me!
My body is off the map
Uncharted scar galaxy;
Starry marred eyes
God's physical exercise
In abstract post-modernism-
Not as it was suppose to be.
An incomplete project
Smelling like toxicity of man,
Shoved into a closet of creation
Auctioned off prematurely
Upon His sudden death.
But my mind
Is a beautiful girl
However frequently tripping.
My brain moves quicker
Spins me out of my body,
Makes me dizzy
And I have to sit down.
Watching people as they pass
Observe them observing others:
And true ugliness
Becomes something I
Partial Hail Marys
Full of Grace and Beauty.
II. Up Yours
My intestines were herniating.
The disconnected tissue
Of soft belly
All running amok,
Legs shaking slightly.
Stomach meets cold fingers
Taut cool plasticity returns
You make me climb angry pink walls-
Lynn Johnson couldn't break
My ascension time.
how uniform your beautiful is
I went for a walk the other night, on Sunday night. Admittedly, I should have been studying, but instead I threw my jacket over my warmer-then-conventional-clothing-but-lacking-complete-taste pajamas, and bundled up to go outside. I even wore winter boots. Nothing makes me feel more Canadian then the ritual entailed in dressing up to go outside, other then the prospect of cardiovascular activity caused by sloughing through knee deep snow to get anywhere.
In anycase, it was right at the tail end of the big dump we started getting the night before, and by that time, it was about four and a half inches to five inches deep and still falling. My house is uniquely situated at the top of the edge of the river valley, overlooking the low-lying areas of edmonton and the downtown area, so the most logical and nicest place to go for a walk is along the edge, which is always across a street lined with huge houses, and provisioned with more benches dedicated to dead people then you can shake a stick at.
I really sort of savor the first winter walk of the season. The air was crisp, and the snow was pristine and untouched in the parks for the most-part. I'd love to say completely, but alas, there are still a few kids that realize the value of the outdoors, as is evident by the sled trails still remaining in the park that I walked to across the circle. I love the sound of boots smushing through snow. I love being surrounded by smooth white oblivion (in the coolie of the park) that sparkles under the streetlights. But I'm getting all scattered here.
I walked slow and wonderfully, watching the snow spill and avalanche in front of my boots. I cut across the coolie, I listened to Matt Good. I ended up suprising myself though with my apparent lack of knowlege in the area, because I found the most breathtaking place to sit. And by breathtaking, I mean the scenery.
Below me spread (as previously understated) the river valley and the downtown core. I could see all the way east as far as the second green bridge (past our green bridge), and I'd never noticed how you could see the river hook around like that until then. A fair amount of apartment buildings had put up christmas lights over the weekend, which added to the houses already lit in the river valley residential area (the swanky end- the idiots who built on a floodplain that was seventeen feet underwater in the big flood) by their own festive cheer and streetlights. On top of these lights, in traffic as well as sporadically lit office building floors, was the hazy film of falling snow that spread it all into a (albeit unhealthy) glow over the city.
When I look at a scene like this, it's hard to say why I enjoy it so much. Perhaps it is the feeling of standing still when everything else is moving below you. Or it's the aneurism you can provoke when you think of all the complexities of the hundreds of lives being lived out in front of you, which in turn joins up with the thought of, "pitiful and insignificant" in the grand scheme of the world. But it's not something that makes me feel bad, it just sort of puts me in awe all over again, which seems sometimes impossible when you turn into a agnostic cynic.
I ended up sitting in the snow and thinking for quite a while as I enjoyed it all. I had originally come out for the walk to see if I could clear my head a bit. I've had minimal success with sleeping a whole night through lately, or getting to bed on time, or falling asleep. My mind feels like it's going a million miles a minute, and it's not even because I'm validly stressed. It's fucking pathetic though because I still don't ever feel like I have something valid coming out of my mouth. A cohesive thought? A well formed opinion? Sometimes I wonder if I just have a string of fart jokes left to keep me going for the rest of my life in the "speaking" part of the brain. I wonder if I could criticize my own ability to speak so much that I cancel myself into muteness. It is incredibly appealing to just be able to walk around with a whiteboard on a string with a blue marker for communication sometimes. I keep trying to pinpoint why I've become so incredibly unable to be more than a white noise person when I talk to my friends, but I'm wondering if it's like a disease or something- once you catch it, you can't escape it, and it's like your voice becomes trapped in your body and it has no way out. What if it just leaks out the back of your brain, in the memory that you (I? I seem to lose a lot of memory. I need RAM) lose each day? What if I forget that I was once able to be clever and verbose and witty in a conversation, full of knowlege and profound things to say?
This is a message to myself: I am clever, verbose and witty, full of knowlege, and profound things to say. Don't forget!
A lot of other things have been racing through my mind as well. Surprisingly enough, most of these involve my new year's resolutions. I know it's early, but I've been thinking of two things specifically that need to be done on the behalf of my heart. I'd just like to start over in January with a clean slate in that regard. I can't say that I've ever had a lack of complexity in my life involving relationships or love or whatever people pretend draws them together, and I'm so fucking tired of it. It's like an overeater- doesn't just take small portions of food for each meal, but instead dumps huge piles of steaming crap onto a plate in one go. It's not that I don't want to be in love, it's that I do. But I can't do that until I figure out a way to keep myself from doing such stupid things with my own foolish organ. I'm glad I learn from my mistakes (well, I do, but sometimes they have repeats) but goddamn, I have to stop making them.
I had a very strange dream last night. Actually, it was a kaleidascope of many, but I’ll only talk of a few strange bits that I remember.
I remember the three of us were wearing low sitting black baseball caps and hoodies, and our roundish counterpart was wearing a grey wool balaclava. All my friends. A tall one, a slightly shorter one, the toqued token fat-guy, and me, striding through a darkened building with some sort of purpose. One of us had a crowbar, one had a baseball bat. There were stores, restaurants all barricaded off for the night around us. It seems to me we had a purpose for being there, slinking through the shadows, only briefly aware of a time limit before detection became imminent. Token fat-guy is hungry and prys up a metal rollgate on a chinese food venue. I remember jumping over and sliding across the stainless steel serving counter, and watching in disgust as he reaches around the counter and shovels handfuls of old springrolls and ginger beef into his mouth, naming each aloud before throwing them down his maw with cartoonish delight. The two other conspirators have caught up with us by then.
“Stop fucking around.”
I check the cash register, and jump back over the counter. As I pull the metal barrier roll back down with a clatter, I notice the small black bubble eye sitting over the lineup area. A red light beeps and I remember thinking of how we must have looked on camera, faces hidden by low billed hats, walking single file down a white sterile janitor hallway. We walk past the row of restaurants and into a big open room, huge empty and brick floored, strangely reminiscent of the bottom floor of the humanities building, but larger, with that same set of stairs going up. At this moment, our time is up. Floruescent lights flash on and there are five members of security standing in front of us. Caught.
The thing that troubles me about this dream is that I don’t even know what the quarry was. I have a sneaking suspicion though that I can chalk this one off to imprinting, after seeing the most godawful movie about “changing the cycle of happy” yesterday. If I had a cycle of happy to change, maybe I would care more, but this dream is really bunk.
The kiss of two people in love: cool, slightly moist, and soft lips. Ideally. (another fragmented dream- with who or where, I don’t think I know. It was on the floor of a carpeted and sunny living room, and unexpected.
I don’t think I can remember the rest, but I had a dream a few days ago that I was driving around with Bill and some other guy in a big van to go to football games, or some other sporting event. For some reason, I think they were the announcers or something, which is absolutely ridiculous. I would be sitting with them, and look down, and see that I was naked. Run off, find clothing, come back, look down again, and be naked. I hate naked dreams. Helplessness and humiliation. But, I always drive cool cars in my dreams- this time, a white convertible Audi.
I had a good time last night- birthday ambush went off with nary a hitch,despite the late appearances of many. Discovered that straight martinis taste like spruce tree sap, and far better tasting if corrupted by Five Alive berry. I also realized last night that I just wanted to be absolutely stupid out of relief that my aunt was gone, and perhaps used my one gross beverage as an excuse to just let loose and be a retard.
We watched Amelie yesterday, which was absolutely amazing awesome fantastic. It was, of course, heart-churningly romantic, and thus a little bit sad, but overall, what a fucking concept, and just- Wow. Apparently “wow” was once a cool word back in the beat days. Now, “wowie zowie” no longer holds the same contemporary effect. It depicts ideas of old men shuffling through the jitterbug. Anyways the movie- it was comprised essentially, of silly niggling thoughts and dreams carried one step further into actuality, and I dug that- makes me feel less loopy to know that at least one other person is prone to silly romantic thoughts and “stratagems,” however fictional it may have been. Ahh nuts.
Almost ended up showing Fenton my entire portfolio yesterday, not realizing what a grievous error that would have been until the doorbell rang upstairs, and I was saved. I realized later that I don’t really know why it would have been a big deal, but it is a big deal somehow.
Dr. Phil, I hate you.
I just finished writing my hardest final exam (yesterday). Only three more to go!
It was so fucking hard though. I don't think I failed it, but I'm not entirely convinced that I did stellar on it either. And wouldn't you know it but I did not recall a single memorized quote at all either, which doesn't bode horribly well for me.
My computer is being satanic. I'm utterly convinced that my hard drive is melting slowly or something. Or that it has a birth defect that is being problematic with maturation. I can't get scan disk to work, no matter what tinkering I do, which is what I decided to try after my defrag didn't work either. Fucking thing. Maybe I should burn it. Another thing that's been wonky, is that my D- drive has some sort of spiritual posession. It doesn't like to read when I'm trying to burn cd's.
Watching Dr. Phil yesterday. What a quack. First of all- this kid was fucked up because of some physical abuse from his step-father, and was on a downward spiral. And this is awful, there is no denying that. But, the kid did some pretty appalling stuff. I won't bore you with the details, but what ended up happening is that Phil blamed the mother entirely. He tore a strip off of her on national tv, and proceeded to apologise and spray some hippy-wash about how he would have taken back everything that has happened to the boy "if I could." His mother took the full brunt of the blame for everything that kid had done wrong, in Dr. Phil's eyes. It made me really angry, because sure, sometimes parents are appallingly bad, and sure, she'd done some bad shit, like staying with an abusive husband for three years that traumatized her son. But she's just as damaged as he is, and she didn't do any of the shit he did.
He lashed out. He was violent, and greedy for things to fill a void with, and he tried to fill that void with any means possible with little consequential thought to the fates of others. But, obviously "she was the most in the wrong." I felt so bad for her, Dr. Phil just treated her like she was shit with legs- it was in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her, it was really abrasive. I mean, if she was really that horrible of a person, she would have kicked her son out. Disowned him or something. She wouldn't be constantly bailing him out of jail, much less be willing to bare her problems on TV to get her son some help.
The other thing that didn't irritate me so much, but made me extremely curious, was the next guest he had as a follow-up feature. The parents of a homicidal (aren't they all?) fifteen year old girl were guests to the show, and telling them about the progress with their daughter who had been spent to a "special school" (read: an institution for crazies!). Apparently this kid had threatened to kill her mother several times, and had actually taken several measures to do so on different occasions. Chemicals in drinks, stuff on the stairs, and had even fashioned several crude weapons with which she desired to kill her mother or other people with. She had lists and lists of people she wanted to kill, in her family, at school, and pets in the neighborhood and stuff. It was the most bizarre thing. She'd actually been caught hiding behind the shed by her mom, and just outright said, "I was going to hit you on the back of the head with this [a bent in-half thirty inch crowbar] and watch you die, and then call 911." Just out of the blue like that. Like, in the tone of voice any other kid would have been saying, "I'm playing hide and seek."
Now, to the parents. They both loved her a lot- this psychological issue completely mystified them, and had appeared when she was about eleven or twelve (maybe, not sure). They didn't know why she was like that, never treated her badly, or anything. One detail worth mentioning is that the mother was actually a step mom, and that they attribute this disorder that the girl has to not recieving enough physical or mental affection/attention between the ages of four months to two years - the time the birth mother would have had with her.
One horrible thing: They had to build a cell for her. There's footage of it and everything, it's like five feet by nine and a half feet, with a chime on the door ("Pop- Goes the Weasel" -I'd kill some people too) and a lock. Now, tell me that's not breeding someone to be a little bit of a serial killer. Gacy got locked up in a closet by his mom constantly (don't quote me on that).
The follow-up after about three months or so in the institution was not surprising. She hadn't changed. This just kills me. If she was in a loving environment (cell excluded, they testified that it was so hard to go through this because it was so confusing- "we've never done anything but love her. Bringing her to ... was the hardest thing we've ever had to do in our lives.") beforehand, and it was ineffectual.... But also, three months is too early to make a change in much of anything for anyone in regards to this. I mean, it'll take more than that to get over the fact that she was dumped there in the first place. But I'm interested to know how it all ends up for her. I want to know more about this.
I don't even know why this is so fascinating to me. Mental abnormality is so fraught with mystery, and bizarre things. A lot of psychological things are open and shut, and this one has been diagnosed the same way, but there has so got to be more to it then just "lack of affection." Not on the parent's part perhaps, but on the part of the human brain. I mean, even when looking at organized or dis-organized serial killers, there are so many questions there too that I'm dying to find an answer to (pun-tastic). And there is still so much that we don't know about the brain.
The train stopped in the middle of the bridge today. Grey and brown dead city flank these dark and murky waters.
I pressed my nose to the glass and looked down, down past the optomistically blue rails that would never serve the purpose of holding a careening track-evading aluminum death-trap back from a slurping water maw. Morbid thoughts are pervasive when death is only a creaky plexiglassed door plus a hop, skip and a plummet away. I stared down at the deceptively sluggish looking river, covered in what I percieved to be crystallized benzene rings, or rather, to this date, what I have imagined them to look like, floating, seething, and pulsating in their movements on that skulking deadly river. It made me dizzy to get lost in the white undulating shapes half submerged in that green-black unknown depth and I wondered if a person were to plunge to their death in that frigid place, whether those sharp octogonal shapes would break their bones before icy water filled their lungs and pierced their bodies with needles killing cells one by one- a domino effect, and surely a very painful death if compounded with multiple fractures. These thoughts scattered like inconsistent waves of rioters when the train lurched back into motion. Will my classes be good today? I shivered and wondered how long my coffee would stay hot.
Mestasticizing globules of death
My father told me that my grandmother's MRI uncovered some "trouble spots" in her mouth. And all I can think of when I think of that word overused by society in an ironic attempt to turn it into something society pretends not to be, is this pulsating shiny blue-black mass that must be intrenched in my grandmother's body still, yawning a nebulous mucuosy squelching yawn and wiggling in anticipation with a hunger for rot, invasion, poisonous discipline, constriction and death. My grandmother said "I love you," to me today. She's scared. In turn, this terrifies me.
It is astounding how my family can be so full of the intention to protect, love and cherish, and yet, my grandmother is the last person of all to find out the results of her own MRI. How would you feel if everyone knew what was going on with your body before you did? It's the natural order with doctors perhaps, though I feel that everyone knows intrinsically when something is horribly wrong with them, but family members? How could this be more scarier to us than her?