May 22, 2016 § Leave a comment
Angel Olsen is killing me. today all of a sudden not really i remembered music and how that is. we drove to the library today. the whole ipod on shuffle, liberal with the skip.
the other thing was that earlier i looked through every photo of me on facebook in hopes of finding a new profile picture. to re-enter the fray. but why look to the past to represent the present, if a profile picture represents anything, anyway? no answer yet. i saw a picture i drew on mspaint of a moment i had with julian casablancas during a strokes show. we all agreed it was very much a moment, that his dead eyes and stylish husk stopped longer than normal in front of me, and the bouncer was very kind to let me touch his hair.
so today somewhere towards the library the strokes came on. that combined with the mspaint scene. i remembered who i was when i was 19. i am not that person anymore so here is an elegy to that scattered mess of a proto-woman who loved with her whole body but directed said love like an orange rolling blindly down a curb gutter. that person who schemed in her pea coat and new balances and crafted aim away messages for the boy in irish literature who never seemed to do any work but tucked his shirt in.
a person liberal with the eyebrow tweezer. dedicated to and untalented with her nikon camera, steadfast to film, not that digital crap. who tried on a cancer wig and saw the rough arc of the human experience in 7 months and rode the bus to the hospital. who illustrated vulvas on t-shirts for the upcoming performance of the vagina monologues.
that girl drank a lot of dasani, drank whatever else was available, wore a black tanga, made forts, slept on uncapped pens. feng shui-ed the dorm. schemed and schemed. signed an ex-nothing up for scat porn emails. lived in a thick layer of self-hatred, charmed her way around, begged for suggestions as to what to do with her appearance. saw silence of the lambs and secretary. none of her various idolized tools deserved her but she persisted anyway thinking perhaps the right man had taken the form of a pretentious gaslighting asshat.
she was an underbaked shiksa blogger (called livejournaler?) with doughy promise and such squeezing, pressing unmet needs. a sloppy wobbling superstitious ingénue. such an unrolled, obvious, glowing idiot. you were quite a sight.
May 15, 2016 § Leave a comment
Holy moly driving around, a warm breeze coming from all directions. i write every twelfth thought. something like that is only half-grounded anyway. if it was full-grounded: what a shudder. i have not the constitution.
my skin gets darker in the summer, let the beat drop and hold the prayer close — even the permanent marker on the t-shirt fades. overall, nothing is permanent, not even that buzzing sound coming from underneath your clothes.
it does not feel like the end of the year, because the weather is such a disappointing person. this year i wrote “ugh” and “sigh” on papers that i’ll never give out, realized students do not know my writing. does not matter.
the way the t-shirt hangs. where it drapes is like an invitation.
January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
your potpourri dreams, tablescapes with swan napkins and a blonde wood pepper grinder. your dream is underfoot, is flattened under the weight of this new bamboo placemat made from sustainable eco-goats.
the chair pull itself out and asks, where have you been?
i did the budget today and felt how easy it was. it was so easy. i logged in and thought, this is tedious busywork that i enjoy, and all this time i have mistaken it for a challenge. what is a challenge? how do people stay on track? how do people not dive roll out of moving cars all the time?
i’m going to write a cookbook and name it Gross Recipes from the 70s. i want cottage cheese to make a comeback, egg noodles and golden raisins. i don’t understand the colors from then, because it means that my colors from now have the potential to be putrid and embarrassing.
avocado, mustard, orange
dove, emerald, cobalt.
i want to get back into the gut, stick my hand in the blender and over-enunciate FRAPPE
quinoa chevre bacon sriacha asiago pomegranate streettaco. acai kale flatbread
i’ll see you at the book signing
June 23, 2015 § Leave a comment
up late again, reading reviews of marshmallows. oh boy.
i bear down like i want the horse to get there, yesterday. no one gives a fuck about your table numbers.
truth talk. that’s my wedding theme: no one gives a fuck. they just want free food. and favors, that’s a thing. “thanks for being my friend!” i sort of thought renting 12 cabins was a favor. “they’ll be so glad!”
you think you can do it differently, but that’s just a single pearlescent bead on your vintage heirloom bracelet of majestic delusions.
the centerpiece titanic blue heart charm, bought from pandora’s box of thoughtlessly named stores, is the idea that you yourself don’t care about all this. “ha ha!” (drinks tap water from a pyrex measuring cup) “i don’t care about such frippery!”
“it’s a celebration of our love.”
the fuck it is. i love him every day, anyway. the cat bears witness. a wedding is a poorly designed delivery system. more parts there are, more parts can break.
elopement disappoints others, and people say they have regrets, but those are seafaring tales. there’s no way to go through the fire without regret. i’ll tell my child to elope her heart out. o child, shut the computer. i wasted my summer looking at sticks and jars, and making guest lists that turned out just to be camouflaged magic eye pictures of disappointment.
March 19, 2015 § Leave a comment
movie titles to provide to guests for when you are a wealthy, conservative, (very) Christian bed and breakfast owner, in order of least to most in character:
- 48 Hours
- Liar Liar
- The Mask of Zorro
- Fried Green Tomatoes
- Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
- Man in the Iron Mask
- Tie: Titanic and Terms of Endearment
- Sling Blade
- Bill Durham
- Secondhand Lions (two copies)
- Rain Main
- Dear God
- The Patriot
- The Ultimate Gift
- The Journey (21 min. from Open Heart Ministries)
- The Passion of the Christ
- Turner and Hooch
January 22, 2015 § Leave a comment
Saw a man in a kilt in the suburbs. The suburbs!
Today I was in a park and I wondered if it had wi-fi. I was so ashamed. Also I never even got out of my car. I’m making a fitness tape called “These are My Exercise Socks — I Wear Them to Bed.”
Nothing so hopeless as lusting after a character. Sigh, modern love on the phone in the park parking lot. I don’t even mean a particular actor — I mean a fic-fucking-ticious character. Why don’t you go hump a vapor?
Your deflated hot cocoa.
No one could have predicted that “deflate” would be all over the news. It’s such a pleasant surprise — thrills me that a deeply embarrassing word like that is in the front of everyone’s mind.
I think it is one of the most embarrassing words out there.
Think of the most embarrassing, cringy word you know.
You think it’s “moist”? You’re wrong.
“Moist” is for plebes.
No, what I’m talking about (spins chair around, stands up suddenly) is the kind of word that has levels to it — bonus emotions like guilt, depression, dysfunction, the creaky disrepair of old age and the creeping stench of death. It’s coming! Plus the word has to be slightly, grossly sex-related, so that when you hear it and think of something sexual, you get mad at yourself. You have to get mad at yourself.
I also, on opposite side, like “pique” as a sexy word. It has a lot of layers (peak, peek, pick, piquant, tang, saliva) and when you say it, you could be doing fake French, very nearly as sexy as Real French. vooujz a vlu jzean le damme?
to my list of truly embarrassing words. My top pick (my pique ha ha help) is
yesterday to a colleague I said, “Welp, See ya later!” and I don’t think she knew what it meant. I got in my car and said, “This is why you’re not professional, the next time you ask me.” Then I drove to my bank and slept in the parking lot. Then I drove to the park.
January 13, 2015 § Leave a comment
Sometimes when I’m standing around eating old Christmas candy, saying, It’s going to be different! I think about my cat, who likes to dig and scratch at her litterbox after she poops. Doesn’t she realize it’s a hard plastic tub? She isn’t digging anything — no progress at all.
If you’re wondering, it’s the Sisyphean behavior that seems similar. This story wasn’t about how the old Christmas candy is like cat turds.
I have an unhealthy relationship with Max, the feature-creature on Netflix that tries to make recommendations to me. He’s never succeeded. And now when I bring him up he gets defensive and critical, and honestly it’s like I have a second boyfriend who is manipulative. I just ignore him now — that’s the closest I can get to dumping his fucking ass — but a friend came over and wanted to see him, and so I fired him up.
Right away, he flung some shit about how long it’s been since I last saw him. Then he asked me if I trusted him. Well isn’t this a little test! Drama and games. The truth is I don’t trust him, but I said yes, just like if we were having a fight in front of friends. So he just started a movie, right then, no questions asked. It was “Inventing the Abbotts,” which maybe I’ll want to see one day in 2023 when I’ve run out of everything else on my list.
I felt so bad stopping the movie. But then I realized he was a software program. I still want to read “The Gift of Fear.”
Today I rang the treat bag to see where my cat was. Sometimes I get these panics about her. I know I’ll be one of those moms that checks to see if the baby’s breathing every minute or so. I didn’t hear anything so I ramped it up and started shaking the bag really hard. Then I heard her frantically scratching her litter box in the basement.
I felt terrible, making her rush like that. No one likes to rush when they’re on the pot. I gave her three treats out of guilt.