I've always maintained that I do not like the theatrical Les Miserables. The book is fantastic, a monstrously bonkers lifetime work of genius, and Victor Hugo wrote like 15 monstrously bonkers lifetime works of genius. You're a daunting man, VH. My inner life pales to yours.
So anyway, "I don't like Les Mis. Sors."
I've watched the trailer for the movie about 57 times. Around that. And on Sunday The Mom asked if I wanted to shotgun seats with her at the traveling production of it playing this week at the Cadillac, and I was all, sure I got nothing better to do on Tuesday.
Do you know why I don't like Les Mis? It's not because it's terrible. It's because it's fucking brilliant. I just ran the emotional fucking gauntlet for a solid three fucking hours. I am angry. I am sad. I love everyone. I hate everyone. I miss people I've lost, I'm thankful for those I have...
I cannot afford to lose all those tears, I have a goddamn cold right now. Tears are for hydrating and healing my insides. Do you understand how much water I have to drink to make up for this?
Dicks. All of you are dicks. How is it that someone so incredibly wretched in the novel comes across so beautifully on stage? Eponine is a shitbitch. Shit. Bitch. I blame "On My Own." Oh, how I hate you, "On My Own."
AND. Fuck France. This never occurred to me until recently, and by recently I mean as I started typing this sentence: I seriously love some mainstream 19th C French Lit (Who am I. Is that a real thing that I just wrote. These are not questions, they are factual statements regarding severe disorientation and how much of a prat I am) like Three Musketeers (ridicule all you want, I love it I love it I love it) and The Red and the Black and Mademoiselle de Maupin (forgive me) and Les Misefuckinrables.
That's what happens when you get too rad, France. Your descendants are douchebags. We're dealing with that same curse in the US.
Right now I am watching every version of Enjolras I can find on the Youtubes because in my youth (before I started just saying I didn't like Les Mis for fear of bursting into tears), I fantasized he did not die bravely but pulled a Purple Rose of Cairo and professed his love for me in song, stepped off the stage to take me away and we traveled around the world being super revolutionary and then we went to Ireland. Typing that, I realize that basically all of my adolescent fantasies pretty much ended the same exact way.
This fantasy was not fulfilled during tonight's production, so keep your fingers crossed for the film (just give me this and I will never ask for anything else). I have no idea who is playing Enjolras, but Dude Better Be Rad.
I'm going to go pop some Airborne tablets and pray this cold goes away before Saturday, because I'm singing in a Violent Femmes cover band for a fundraiser.
...
Showing posts with label lameness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lameness. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Friday, June 1, 2012
Lies I Have Told
After reading this, I've decided it's time.
It's time to write the blog post I have been putting off for years. Because no one wants to read this. Go ahead, stop reading. But I have to do it and I have to do it now. It's not a big deal, or anything terrible. But I need to do it for...let's say therapy.
...
My freshman year of college I lied a lot to fit in, which is a good explanation of why it was so hard for me to make friends.
Here, I thought, here I can tell people I have had boyfriends, because everyone cares about boyfriends. Of course I'd never had a boyfriend. Or a date.
In high school, I was one of those girls who never got asked to a dance. At fourteen I just asked guys myself. One dance, I took my friend Dan and he spent the night looking forlornly at other girls and being disinterested, and I realized he didn't want to be there with me, which blew my fucking mind because I thought I was awesome.
Three years later Steve called me an hour before prom to bail and buy drugs. I was murderous. I asked him because my 'best friend' Jon - who I spent years blocking from my memory, who had my undying puppy love, who could ask anything of me, who had to have known how much craved him - he told me - and I hate talking about this - he told me he wouldn't go with me because, and I quote, "Well, Rass, you won't impress anyone. I need to go with...I need to go with a woman."
Holy fuck.
Anyway, so when people asked freshman Rassles about high school, I told them I just broke up with someone. It felt true enough. I also told them things like, "Well, of course, I could have had sex, but I just haven't found the right guy" which is what all virgins say, but it wasn't true. No one ever tried.
...
I didn't drink my freshman year of college because I thought it was stupid and I had important shit to study so I could be a veterinarian. Making friends was hard, so I would go to parties by myself and try to meet people.
But people, especially boys, will not talk to sober 18 year old girls.
Sometimes I would just go to a party and buy a solo cup and pretend I had beer. I wanted to fit in so badly. I tried very hard to pretend to listen to the music everyone seemed to be obsessed with. I become a Dave Matthews Band fan, an Aerosmith fan, a Jimmy Buffet fan. I really, really tried. I lied and said my dad took me to a Jimmy Buffet concert once. My dad doesn't give a shit about Jimmy Buffet.
But I learned, slowly, that my classmates didn't trust me. Not because I lied about going to a Jimmy Buffet concert (seriously, what?) but because I didn't get fucked up.
The few friends I made were wary to invite me to parties and usually were ashamed of me when we got there, but I never understood why. I spent a lot of time saying, "No, go on, I'll be fine."
Absolutely no one trusted me when I tried to take care of the hammered girls throwing up all over the bathroom, passing out on toilets while their friends took all of the incorrect steps on dealing with a girl on the verge of alcohol poisoning. They would get angry at me for helping, tell me I was self-righteous, that they could see how I despised them and they would hoist up their tube tops and stumble in their heels, banging their knees on doorframes, wild-eyed and whammered. I tried to nurse of a lot of girls I didn't know.
Then one day in January, I got those looks and exploded. Crying. Yelling, "YOU KNOW WHY I DON'T GET DRUNK?" I told them that when I was fourteen I went to a college party, blacked out, woke up in a strange house and vowed never to drink again.
Of course, that never happened.
But it was magic. I had respect. People approached me at parties. A lot of, "You know, I thought you just were like weird, you know, I didn't know you been there. I knew there was something about you. I could tell there was a bigger story, I could tell you were cool, I knew there was a reason, I'm so sorry you went through that..."
I never even insinuated - I mean, later I learned - and by later, I mean in 2011 - apparently this story morphed into "Rassles got drunk and was raped when she was fourteen." Which is annoying, but I guess kind of predictable. Only one person ever asked me that many details, and I told her I didn't remember.
But people seemed to genuinely care about me. Only after they thought I was special. I really resented a lot of them for it.
Then I came clean to a couple friends years later, and they were all like, "so what? who fucking cares if you lied when you were 18? We were all assholes" which was awesome.
...
Sometimes I think that lie was the worst decision I ever made. Because of that I lie, I pledged a sorority. Because of that sorority, I didn't transfer schools, I stopped wanting to be a doctor, I started drinking and smoking cigarettes and turned into a general asshole. But I loved every terrible, mood-swinging minute of it.
During pledging, we had to run. A lot. And on the first day of running I fell, and a swarm of sorority banshees surrounded me, heckling (Were you born a fat, slimy, scumbag puke piece o' shit, Private Pyle, or did you have to work on it?) and I was pissed, I couldn't fucking believe the garbage they were screaming (I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you!) who the ruddy fuck do these ogre harpies think they are, they can go fuck a fencepost for all I care, these (you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cufflinks or I will definitely fuck you up) bone-faced cumdumpsters, I hate them, I hate them...and I yelled that my knee, my knee, oh, my knee...I don't have any cartilage in my knee, I can't run anymore, which shut them up real fucking quick, but was also a lie.
They never even let me try to run after that, whenever I asked, probably because they were afraid I would get seriously hurt, and then the school would kick them out for hazing. But I felt guilty, I was terrified of not fitting in, I watched my pledgemates run and stumble and endure, I berated myself to sleep and swore that for the next five weeks I would do everything perfectly, that I would help everyone however I could, that I would come clean...
That's the problem with lies. People are so darn nice about them. They're so understanding, so worried, so genuine.
I never did tell them the truth. This sorority booted liars. They kicked two of them out of my pledge class. But they would have kicked me out, I have no doubt. They had no patience for people who couldn't cut it. None. So I just let it go.
...
Oh, it feels nice getting all of these twelve year old lies on the internet.
...
It's time to write the blog post I have been putting off for years. Because no one wants to read this. Go ahead, stop reading. But I have to do it and I have to do it now. It's not a big deal, or anything terrible. But I need to do it for...let's say therapy.
...
My freshman year of college I lied a lot to fit in, which is a good explanation of why it was so hard for me to make friends.
Here, I thought, here I can tell people I have had boyfriends, because everyone cares about boyfriends. Of course I'd never had a boyfriend. Or a date.
In high school, I was one of those girls who never got asked to a dance. At fourteen I just asked guys myself. One dance, I took my friend Dan and he spent the night looking forlornly at other girls and being disinterested, and I realized he didn't want to be there with me, which blew my fucking mind because I thought I was awesome.
Three years later Steve called me an hour before prom to bail and buy drugs. I was murderous. I asked him because my 'best friend' Jon - who I spent years blocking from my memory, who had my undying puppy love, who could ask anything of me, who had to have known how much craved him - he told me - and I hate talking about this - he told me he wouldn't go with me because, and I quote, "Well, Rass, you won't impress anyone. I need to go with...I need to go with a woman."
Holy fuck.
Anyway, so when people asked freshman Rassles about high school, I told them I just broke up with someone. It felt true enough. I also told them things like, "Well, of course, I could have had sex, but I just haven't found the right guy" which is what all virgins say, but it wasn't true. No one ever tried.
...
I didn't drink my freshman year of college because I thought it was stupid and I had important shit to study so I could be a veterinarian. Making friends was hard, so I would go to parties by myself and try to meet people.
But people, especially boys, will not talk to sober 18 year old girls.
Sometimes I would just go to a party and buy a solo cup and pretend I had beer. I wanted to fit in so badly. I tried very hard to pretend to listen to the music everyone seemed to be obsessed with. I become a Dave Matthews Band fan, an Aerosmith fan, a Jimmy Buffet fan. I really, really tried. I lied and said my dad took me to a Jimmy Buffet concert once. My dad doesn't give a shit about Jimmy Buffet.
But I learned, slowly, that my classmates didn't trust me. Not because I lied about going to a Jimmy Buffet concert (seriously, what?) but because I didn't get fucked up.
The few friends I made were wary to invite me to parties and usually were ashamed of me when we got there, but I never understood why. I spent a lot of time saying, "No, go on, I'll be fine."
Absolutely no one trusted me when I tried to take care of the hammered girls throwing up all over the bathroom, passing out on toilets while their friends took all of the incorrect steps on dealing with a girl on the verge of alcohol poisoning. They would get angry at me for helping, tell me I was self-righteous, that they could see how I despised them and they would hoist up their tube tops and stumble in their heels, banging their knees on doorframes, wild-eyed and whammered. I tried to nurse of a lot of girls I didn't know.
Then one day in January, I got those looks and exploded. Crying. Yelling, "YOU KNOW WHY I DON'T GET DRUNK?" I told them that when I was fourteen I went to a college party, blacked out, woke up in a strange house and vowed never to drink again.
Of course, that never happened.
But it was magic. I had respect. People approached me at parties. A lot of, "You know, I thought you just were like weird, you know, I didn't know you been there. I knew there was something about you. I could tell there was a bigger story, I could tell you were cool, I knew there was a reason, I'm so sorry you went through that..."
I never even insinuated - I mean, later I learned - and by later, I mean in 2011 - apparently this story morphed into "Rassles got drunk and was raped when she was fourteen." Which is annoying, but I guess kind of predictable. Only one person ever asked me that many details, and I told her I didn't remember.
But people seemed to genuinely care about me. Only after they thought I was special. I really resented a lot of them for it.
Then I came clean to a couple friends years later, and they were all like, "so what? who fucking cares if you lied when you were 18? We were all assholes" which was awesome.
...
Sometimes I think that lie was the worst decision I ever made. Because of that I lie, I pledged a sorority. Because of that sorority, I didn't transfer schools, I stopped wanting to be a doctor, I started drinking and smoking cigarettes and turned into a general asshole. But I loved every terrible, mood-swinging minute of it.
During pledging, we had to run. A lot. And on the first day of running I fell, and a swarm of sorority banshees surrounded me, heckling (Were you born a fat, slimy, scumbag puke piece o' shit, Private Pyle, or did you have to work on it?) and I was pissed, I couldn't fucking believe the garbage they were screaming (I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you!) who the ruddy fuck do these ogre harpies think they are, they can go fuck a fencepost for all I care, these (you had best square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cufflinks or I will definitely fuck you up) bone-faced cumdumpsters, I hate them, I hate them...and I yelled that my knee, my knee, oh, my knee...I don't have any cartilage in my knee, I can't run anymore, which shut them up real fucking quick, but was also a lie.
They never even let me try to run after that, whenever I asked, probably because they were afraid I would get seriously hurt, and then the school would kick them out for hazing. But I felt guilty, I was terrified of not fitting in, I watched my pledgemates run and stumble and endure, I berated myself to sleep and swore that for the next five weeks I would do everything perfectly, that I would help everyone however I could, that I would come clean...
That's the problem with lies. People are so darn nice about them. They're so understanding, so worried, so genuine.
I never did tell them the truth. This sorority booted liars. They kicked two of them out of my pledge class. But they would have kicked me out, I have no doubt. They had no patience for people who couldn't cut it. None. So I just let it go.
...
Oh, it feels nice getting all of these twelve year old lies on the internet.
...
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Things That Are Sad Are Less Depressing When Confronted With Subpar Poetry (Slam!)
The first time I did this it went over well. To me, at least. I guess. I really know nothing about poetry, but rules are bullshit and sometimes I feel like rhyming. Yes, I know poetry doesn't have to rhyme, silly billy, but everyone should write more rhymes. I suggest going to the Wikipedia poetry page for more information, because that's what I did. But this time, I have titles.
I. So Hot Out Thurr
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
creeping up like a burglar, the colors are wrong
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
birds openly smirk in the sweet-scented breeze
bars and cafes set up seats for a throng
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
branches are jigsawing out of the trees
naked and rough, too gray to belong
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
bodies wear green but their clothes are a tease
I know that this weather can't last for too long
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
bitches be tryin' to get up on deez
but I'm all, "fuck off" cuz my snow is all gone
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
No one saw this coming except for the bees
winter got robbed of its trembling swan song
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
II. Dactylic Hexameter Is Really Hard
The other day my sister dropped the terms
dactylic and hexameter, as if
those words were bland cliches to toss and riff.
But in reality, it just confirms:
that casual asides give me the squirms.
It's a sadistic dare to test my skill.
Think I can't write it? CUZ I GODDAMN WILL.
And then I tried, I seriously did.
It's fucking impossible, god forbid
I do something fancy. Get off my grill.
III. Feelings
I wish I could stop listening to this damn song but
its gleeful depression just fondles my soul
the juxtaposition of bullets and lilting
makes the whole story seem out of control
After intense googling, I quickly discovered
that this song was covered by the Grateful Dead.
I wish I could say this fact doesn't surprise me
but my interest in Jerry holds on by a thread.
So this quaint little diddy popped up on Pandora
and the saccharine darkness just jolted my heart.
I played it on repeat and obsessed over lyrics
and cried, nearly silent, though I tried not to start.
...
I. So Hot Out Thurr
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
creeping up like a burglar, the colors are wrong
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
birds openly smirk in the sweet-scented breeze
bars and cafes set up seats for a throng
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
branches are jigsawing out of the trees
naked and rough, too gray to belong
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
bodies wear green but their clothes are a tease
I know that this weather can't last for too long
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
bitches be tryin' to get up on deez
but I'm all, "fuck off" cuz my snow is all gone
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
No one saw this coming except for the bees
winter got robbed of its trembling swan song
in the tenor of summertime smells and degrees
this just feels erroneous without grass and the leaves
II. Dactylic Hexameter Is Really Hard
The other day my sister dropped the terms
dactylic and hexameter, as if
those words were bland cliches to toss and riff.
But in reality, it just confirms:
that casual asides give me the squirms.
It's a sadistic dare to test my skill.
Think I can't write it? CUZ I GODDAMN WILL.
And then I tried, I seriously did.
It's fucking impossible, god forbid
I do something fancy. Get off my grill.
III. Feelings
I wish I could stop listening to this damn song but
its gleeful depression just fondles my soul
the juxtaposition of bullets and lilting
makes the whole story seem out of control
After intense googling, I quickly discovered
that this song was covered by the Grateful Dead.
I wish I could say this fact doesn't surprise me
but my interest in Jerry holds on by a thread.
So this quaint little diddy popped up on Pandora
and the saccharine darkness just jolted my heart.
I played it on repeat and obsessed over lyrics
and cried, nearly silent, though I tried not to start.
...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Lame.
I will not have internet at home for a while. Which means no blog. I can only fuck around so much during workdays.
I am very sad.
...
I am very sad.
...
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Why Can't I Just Play Along?
Because I've been obnoxiously defensive lately (I have to make fun of myself before anyone else does, when no one ever really cares, and they find this paranoia all too rotten and unsettling. It's also shockingly good for my complexion), today I went to a baby shower and hiked up my business to a new level of offense, and talked the entire time and hardly paid any attention to Mrs. Smith.
I wonder where this streak of insanity comes from? We're supposed to be celebrating creation and life, and all I do is sit and whine about being forced to play baby games, when in reality I should just suck it up and play along because we'll all be happier if we just make it fun instead of talking about how lame everything is.
It's outright rude of me to behave that way, brewing in discontent, blatantly wishing I was somewhere else. A good friend who is a good person asks me to take several hours out of one day of the year to celebrate the next stage of her life, and I act like a jackass.
It's not that I threw a fit, but I was just so critical, laughing and ridiculing everything. Why can't I just play along?
Baby showers and wedding showers and all that business are hard, because it means people have that next stage of progression. All it does is reinforce my own incompetence by not doing my biological duty to humanity. But it's not about me, I know. It's about Mrs. Smith and that basketball she swallowed, which I hear will eventually be a child.
It's not about me.
I have a selfish loathing when friends start families, because it means they aren't mine anymore. They never belonged to me, I know...but they just don't need me anymore. They don't need me nearly as much as I need them, and I don't think they understand how much I need them to survive.
They balance me. I'm a dry, slightly funny, slightly observant, plain girl who rambles on about unimportant things that no one ever really cares about or completely understands, but with them I have a part to play. I'm not a one-woman show. I can't do it on my own. I'm just not likable enough.
They have significant others, and they're starting families, and I will be the forty year old single woman at the bar getting drunk by myself, with no family, no career, a blog and a large DVD collection, rambling about how cool I was in college.
I've said that before, I think. That same line. It's a fear.
It means I have to make new friends which is FUCKING SCARY, because I irrationally crave acceptance and new people try to change me which just pisses me off. That or I should get my hands on a pony and dog and wander the countryside for the rest of my days. Which wouldn't be so bad, I think, because if there was enough countryside I could just wander forever. If I have no one around I can never feel brazenly inferior to everyone. Dissect that.
Be happy for people (saying something and embodying something are two different things). I am happy for Mrs. Smith, she is round and shiny and living her dream.
That's what it is. That's where the selfish jealousy comes from. It's because that they have something that they want.
It's because they have a dream in the first place.
My dreams are all fucky. Example: I'm living in a halfway house with a pet polar bear and a bionic bird, wearing a patchwork coat and goggles, hunting a blue gingham demon, and throughout the chase there is a goddamn leaky faucet that I turn off, over and over and over again - those are the dreams I have.
Of course there I things I want. I want to watch the next episode of Venture Bros. I want to make it to work on time.
But as of right now I have no dream to reach for. No matter what it is I will fuck it up, just like I fuck up everything else that I try to fix or accomplish. So right now...I guess my dream is to change my mind.
I've talked about all this before. I keep on writing the same blog entry, over and over again, saying it different ways, saying I need change, trying to change, and then snapping back into bullshit.
Dammit.
...
I wonder where this streak of insanity comes from? We're supposed to be celebrating creation and life, and all I do is sit and whine about being forced to play baby games, when in reality I should just suck it up and play along because we'll all be happier if we just make it fun instead of talking about how lame everything is.
It's outright rude of me to behave that way, brewing in discontent, blatantly wishing I was somewhere else. A good friend who is a good person asks me to take several hours out of one day of the year to celebrate the next stage of her life, and I act like a jackass.
It's not that I threw a fit, but I was just so critical, laughing and ridiculing everything. Why can't I just play along?
Baby showers and wedding showers and all that business are hard, because it means people have that next stage of progression. All it does is reinforce my own incompetence by not doing my biological duty to humanity. But it's not about me, I know. It's about Mrs. Smith and that basketball she swallowed, which I hear will eventually be a child.
It's not about me.
I have a selfish loathing when friends start families, because it means they aren't mine anymore. They never belonged to me, I know...but they just don't need me anymore. They don't need me nearly as much as I need them, and I don't think they understand how much I need them to survive.
They balance me. I'm a dry, slightly funny, slightly observant, plain girl who rambles on about unimportant things that no one ever really cares about or completely understands, but with them I have a part to play. I'm not a one-woman show. I can't do it on my own. I'm just not likable enough.
They have significant others, and they're starting families, and I will be the forty year old single woman at the bar getting drunk by myself, with no family, no career, a blog and a large DVD collection, rambling about how cool I was in college.
I've said that before, I think. That same line. It's a fear.
It means I have to make new friends which is FUCKING SCARY, because I irrationally crave acceptance and new people try to change me which just pisses me off. That or I should get my hands on a pony and dog and wander the countryside for the rest of my days. Which wouldn't be so bad, I think, because if there was enough countryside I could just wander forever. If I have no one around I can never feel brazenly inferior to everyone. Dissect that.
Be happy for people (saying something and embodying something are two different things). I am happy for Mrs. Smith, she is round and shiny and living her dream.
That's what it is. That's where the selfish jealousy comes from. It's because that they have something that they want.
It's because they have a dream in the first place.
My dreams are all fucky. Example: I'm living in a halfway house with a pet polar bear and a bionic bird, wearing a patchwork coat and goggles, hunting a blue gingham demon, and throughout the chase there is a goddamn leaky faucet that I turn off, over and over and over again - those are the dreams I have.
Of course there I things I want. I want to watch the next episode of Venture Bros. I want to make it to work on time.
But as of right now I have no dream to reach for. No matter what it is I will fuck it up, just like I fuck up everything else that I try to fix or accomplish. So right now...I guess my dream is to change my mind.
I've talked about all this before. I keep on writing the same blog entry, over and over again, saying it different ways, saying I need change, trying to change, and then snapping back into bullshit.
Dammit.
...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Everyone Is Ridiculous About Something, But Some of Us Are Ridiculous About Everything.
You know, I'm jealous of people that can just wear like, make-up. All the time, every day, they wake up and they brush their teeth and they put on make-up.
I'm just in awe that someone feels comfortable enough to wear that shit in the first place.
Can't they feel it on their face? Don't they want to scrub it away, ashamed that they care about their appearance so much, because appearances shouldn't matter all that matters is that you are comfortable in your skin your clothes don't make a difference win people over with your wit and shining personality (this is very, very hard, because I have a sneaking suspicion that I am somewhat abrasive) and no one cares what you look like, and if they do they aren't worth thinking about...don't people repeat that mantra in their head every morning when they look in the mirror, and feel ashamed, that yes, those things matter...FUCK YOU, MIRROR. And then, like with so many other things, I have to remind myself that I'm no illusion, and I am stronger than reflective glass.
But seriously, sometimes people look so pretty. How did they learn how to be comfortable and pretty at the same time? I wish I could do that.
What happens when they take it off? Do people get angry, and think it's a dirty, nasty trick? I hope not. This metamorphosis, it's a gift, changing at will, even with the aid of powder and brushes.
I can wear costumes to a party, sure, or face paint on Halloween. Sometimes I wear mascara. And chapstick, I fucking love chapstick. Chapstick is pretty much the greatest thing I have in my purse. I could eat it like candy. But I do not, because that would be gross and uncouth. Besides, then what am I going to put on my lips?
But I can't do make up. It feels like a lie. Why do I have such fear of trying to be pretty? What will people think of me? I will look like a freak, I know, and then everyone will talk about that one time that Rassles wore make-up and how she looked like Pennywise (or worse: Tammy Faye), and what, did she think she could actually be pretty? Haha, silly Rassles, and her silly ideas. She thinks she knows everything, she thinks she's so funny.
I know, I know. Shut up. I know. Who cares. Whatever. All that matters is what I think. Do what makes me comfortable. I am doing that. But that doesn't mean I'm still not crazy jealous of all of those people who can just be pretty, every day, because we are supposed to be pretty, and they're just like, "okay" and then they are, how do they do that?
It blows my effing mind. I wish I was trained that way, I wish I raised myself on magazines that weren't about horses or mountains or movies because I'm so far away from everyone, and how did I get all the way over here, and where did this fucking wall of rocks come from?
...
I'm just in awe that someone feels comfortable enough to wear that shit in the first place.
Can't they feel it on their face? Don't they want to scrub it away, ashamed that they care about their appearance so much, because appearances shouldn't matter all that matters is that you are comfortable in your skin your clothes don't make a difference win people over with your wit and shining personality (this is very, very hard, because I have a sneaking suspicion that I am somewhat abrasive) and no one cares what you look like, and if they do they aren't worth thinking about...don't people repeat that mantra in their head every morning when they look in the mirror, and feel ashamed, that yes, those things matter...FUCK YOU, MIRROR. And then, like with so many other things, I have to remind myself that I'm no illusion, and I am stronger than reflective glass.
But seriously, sometimes people look so pretty. How did they learn how to be comfortable and pretty at the same time? I wish I could do that.
What happens when they take it off? Do people get angry, and think it's a dirty, nasty trick? I hope not. This metamorphosis, it's a gift, changing at will, even with the aid of powder and brushes.
I can wear costumes to a party, sure, or face paint on Halloween. Sometimes I wear mascara. And chapstick, I fucking love chapstick. Chapstick is pretty much the greatest thing I have in my purse. I could eat it like candy. But I do not, because that would be gross and uncouth. Besides, then what am I going to put on my lips?
But I can't do make up. It feels like a lie. Why do I have such fear of trying to be pretty? What will people think of me? I will look like a freak, I know, and then everyone will talk about that one time that Rassles wore make-up and how she looked like Pennywise (or worse: Tammy Faye), and what, did she think she could actually be pretty? Haha, silly Rassles, and her silly ideas. She thinks she knows everything, she thinks she's so funny.
I know, I know. Shut up. I know. Who cares. Whatever. All that matters is what I think. Do what makes me comfortable. I am doing that. But that doesn't mean I'm still not crazy jealous of all of those people who can just be pretty, every day, because we are supposed to be pretty, and they're just like, "okay" and then they are, how do they do that?
It blows my effing mind. I wish I was trained that way, I wish I raised myself on magazines that weren't about horses or mountains or movies because I'm so far away from everyone, and how did I get all the way over here, and where did this fucking wall of rocks come from?
...
Monday, August 17, 2009
Slack
I never understood why people would write blog entries about why they weren't writing. It's a pointless waste to me, because this is an outlet for ideas and writing and bouncing things, for hooray and boo and sadface and lookatme gaaaahhhhh. There's really no reason to post a fucking stupid entry like this, but lately, I've found myself wanting just to write little updates because I feel like I owe it to people, when I just have absolutely nothing to say.
But it's really not about me, when I say "Sorry for not paying too much attention, I've been busy." It's about the weighty guilt I feel for slacking on everyone else's ideas and writing and bouncing things. I get it now. It's for you guys, not for me.
And that's a highly self-centered thing, believing that people out there might care enough to read a mindless update. I feel self-centered even typing this, but it's become apparent that my life actually does matter, at least a little, to some people. I'm not used to that. No, I shouldn't say that, because that insinuates my friends and family don't care. How about this: I never realized that I would care if people on the internet might care. Of course, chances are, either way, this is just me being dumb. I am often quite dumb.
So yes. Here is a list of updates and minor things:
1. The doctor. Yeah, it was basically nothing. I have elevated enzymes in my liver. Not a worrisome level. Shit's fine. I can't drink until they know what it actually is, but I haven't been drinking for about a month anyway, so whatever. It could be due to the fact that I've been taking Tylenol every day. Or I could have hepatitis. (No, I don't have fucking hepatitis.)
2. Work is hectic right now, with ten-to-twelve hour days that are full of nothing but work, not ten-to-twelve hour days that lengthen into such because I wrote a blog during "lunch." School starts soon, which means everyone wants money, there's all this post-event funding clean up business. Fucking bullshit.
3. It is hottern'balls and humid and I want it to be fall all fuckingready. I'm way too lazy in the summer.
4. MoLinder bought me a sweet Alexander Hamilton portrait to make up for the fact that she let Muffy destroy my Watchmen cup. It is amazing, and I can't figure out how to hang it up.
5. Reading is good.
...
But it's really not about me, when I say "Sorry for not paying too much attention, I've been busy." It's about the weighty guilt I feel for slacking on everyone else's ideas and writing and bouncing things. I get it now. It's for you guys, not for me.
And that's a highly self-centered thing, believing that people out there might care enough to read a mindless update. I feel self-centered even typing this, but it's become apparent that my life actually does matter, at least a little, to some people. I'm not used to that. No, I shouldn't say that, because that insinuates my friends and family don't care. How about this: I never realized that I would care if people on the internet might care. Of course, chances are, either way, this is just me being dumb. I am often quite dumb.
So yes. Here is a list of updates and minor things:
1. The doctor. Yeah, it was basically nothing. I have elevated enzymes in my liver. Not a worrisome level. Shit's fine. I can't drink until they know what it actually is, but I haven't been drinking for about a month anyway, so whatever. It could be due to the fact that I've been taking Tylenol every day. Or I could have hepatitis. (No, I don't have fucking hepatitis.)
2. Work is hectic right now, with ten-to-twelve hour days that are full of nothing but work, not ten-to-twelve hour days that lengthen into such because I wrote a blog during "lunch." School starts soon, which means everyone wants money, there's all this post-event funding clean up business. Fucking bullshit.
3. It is hottern'balls and humid and I want it to be fall all fuckingready. I'm way too lazy in the summer.
4. MoLinder bought me a sweet Alexander Hamilton portrait to make up for the fact that she let Muffy destroy my Watchmen cup. It is amazing, and I can't figure out how to hang it up.
5. Reading is good.
...
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Doctors Have Asses For Heads
I have West Nile virus. That has to be it. Or mono. Or cancer. Or a goiter. Possibly a tumor.
Oh my god, I hate my life.
I have a swollen lymph node. I mean, that's probably it. Which leads to either cancer or West Nile. And there's a little guy living there, throbbing, pissing me off, being a big fatty lump underneath my jaw. Ideally, I should see a doctor, you know? But here's the thing: You have to make an appointment with doctors, and to make an appointment they either must (a) answer their fucking phone, or (b) return my call after I leave five hundred messages.
I've been trying to get an appointment for a week.
I. FUCKING. HATE. DOCTORS.
Are you a doctor? (I hate you.)
Doctors, you see, have never done anything good for me. Oh, I believe in modern medicine, I just don't believe in a doctor's ability to properly administer it. I also don't believe they want to help people, because if they did THEY WOULD CALL ME BACK AND I COULD GET THIS THING OFF OF MY FACE, but they don't call me back because they are assheads. They have asses for heads and their heads are asses and they probably creep into examination rooms and masturbate to my melancholy voicemails, aroused by my foolish dreams that they know will inevitably go unrequited.
Also, I don't care what any of you say, fucking Grey's Anatomy is a stupid fucking show full of stupid fucking people and it makes me want to kill myself.
Yesterday I had this raging fever and I was walking from the bus and shivering, wrapped in a sweater. Fucking seventy-five degrees outside, and I ached for a winter coat.
Why don't I just go to an urgent care facility? I'll fucking tell you why - because they don't take my fucking HMO. No, my insurance isn't good enough for immediate care. It's good enough for dying in throbbing, agonizing discomfort, it's good enough for, "Hello, my neck really, really hurts," "Well, you should see a doctor. We can't help you, but someday, someone might."
And then I call my insurance company and I say, "Please give me the names of all of the doctors I can see" and then it's all, "Oh, you already have an assigned doctor" and I say, "Yes, but he hasn't returned any of my many many phone calls and I think I have swine flu." So there.
Why can't I just walk in through the front door of the hospital and say, "Hello, my name is Rassles, and there is a giant fucking thing swelling right here" (and I will point for effect) "and can you please cut it out of me, or give me medicine so it will go away, because I'm embarrassed to even ride the bus right now and I'm five minutes away from X-acto knifing my face."
And then if they tell me that my insurance doesn't cover elephantine tumors I'm gonna bleed on them. I'm going to slice my jaw open, and I'm just going to spray blood all over their heads that look like asses. Might kill me, but at least I'll get that last spiteful "fuck you, modern medicine" message across.
And that is why I haven't been writing blogs, or reading anyone elses, really. Because I have West Nile virus, and I'm probably going to die.
I am sooooo mad.
...
Oh my god, I hate my life.
I have a swollen lymph node. I mean, that's probably it. Which leads to either cancer or West Nile. And there's a little guy living there, throbbing, pissing me off, being a big fatty lump underneath my jaw. Ideally, I should see a doctor, you know? But here's the thing: You have to make an appointment with doctors, and to make an appointment they either must (a) answer their fucking phone, or (b) return my call after I leave five hundred messages.
I've been trying to get an appointment for a week.
I. FUCKING. HATE. DOCTORS.
Are you a doctor? (I hate you.)
Doctors, you see, have never done anything good for me. Oh, I believe in modern medicine, I just don't believe in a doctor's ability to properly administer it. I also don't believe they want to help people, because if they did THEY WOULD CALL ME BACK AND I COULD GET THIS THING OFF OF MY FACE, but they don't call me back because they are assheads. They have asses for heads and their heads are asses and they probably creep into examination rooms and masturbate to my melancholy voicemails, aroused by my foolish dreams that they know will inevitably go unrequited.
Also, I don't care what any of you say, fucking Grey's Anatomy is a stupid fucking show full of stupid fucking people and it makes me want to kill myself.
Yesterday I had this raging fever and I was walking from the bus and shivering, wrapped in a sweater. Fucking seventy-five degrees outside, and I ached for a winter coat.
Why don't I just go to an urgent care facility? I'll fucking tell you why - because they don't take my fucking HMO. No, my insurance isn't good enough for immediate care. It's good enough for dying in throbbing, agonizing discomfort, it's good enough for, "Hello, my neck really, really hurts," "Well, you should see a doctor. We can't help you, but someday, someone might."
And then I call my insurance company and I say, "Please give me the names of all of the doctors I can see" and then it's all, "Oh, you already have an assigned doctor" and I say, "Yes, but he hasn't returned any of my many many phone calls and I think I have swine flu." So there.
Why can't I just walk in through the front door of the hospital and say, "Hello, my name is Rassles, and there is a giant fucking thing swelling right here" (and I will point for effect) "and can you please cut it out of me, or give me medicine so it will go away, because I'm embarrassed to even ride the bus right now and I'm five minutes away from X-acto knifing my face."
And then if they tell me that my insurance doesn't cover elephantine tumors I'm gonna bleed on them. I'm going to slice my jaw open, and I'm just going to spray blood all over their heads that look like asses. Might kill me, but at least I'll get that last spiteful "fuck you, modern medicine" message across.
And that is why I haven't been writing blogs, or reading anyone elses, really. Because I have West Nile virus, and I'm probably going to die.
I am sooooo mad.
...
Monday, July 27, 2009
Offense Makes the Best Defense?
I don't want to get all preemptively combative here, because I'm just trying to let off steam, I'm trying to put stuff out so I can lose it, so it's gone, push that irrationality out the window so I don't have to think about it anymore. Now everyone knows up front. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to be coddled or comforted. So please, please, please understand: I don't want anyone to try and make me feel better.
There's a substantial amount of comfort to be had in just letting loose. Writing stuff like this to myself, in a diary - I did that for years. But putting it out here on the internet is a much better release, because it's public, now people know. Now it's not an absurd secret that I flip over and over in my head, kneading it to an unrecognizable mass. It's a fact now. It exists.
So much easier to let go of bullshit burdens when you're not the only one that thinks about it, at least in your head. Other people probably think the same thing, but it's inward, isn't it, I can't see their brains. But if I let mine out, and two people read it, there's two people that know my secret.
It's really is not much of a secret anyway, it's not a good secret or an important one. But you know, when you have thoughts that you obsess over, and you let someone know, and then you don't obsess as much? It's like that.
So I'm just warning any readers out there who might care: That's what the next post is going to be about.
...
There's a substantial amount of comfort to be had in just letting loose. Writing stuff like this to myself, in a diary - I did that for years. But putting it out here on the internet is a much better release, because it's public, now people know. Now it's not an absurd secret that I flip over and over in my head, kneading it to an unrecognizable mass. It's a fact now. It exists.
So much easier to let go of bullshit burdens when you're not the only one that thinks about it, at least in your head. Other people probably think the same thing, but it's inward, isn't it, I can't see their brains. But if I let mine out, and two people read it, there's two people that know my secret.
It's really is not much of a secret anyway, it's not a good secret or an important one. But you know, when you have thoughts that you obsess over, and you let someone know, and then you don't obsess as much? It's like that.
So I'm just warning any readers out there who might care: That's what the next post is going to be about.
...
Monday, July 20, 2009
I'm Not Bored. You Are Boring.
Lately, I've been feeling like a total snob, because there are some people that I really just don't want to fucking talk to. I find them boring. Not you, but them.
I'm not the type of person that really gets bored. Not anymore, anyway. It's this thing I'm trying. Not really a new thing, more of a "for the past few years" thing that I don't know if I've ever said out loud.
"Only boring people get bored," right? So if I ever feel the onslaught of boredom, I am going to just fucking do something instead of sitting around grumbling, "I'm bored." It holds hands with "just do whatever makes the better story," which is probably my second favorite piece of advice, right after the classic Tolkien, "Not all those who wander are lost."
Lately, people are boring. Is it me, or them? I feel guilty labeling someone as boring, but it can't be avoided. There are people out there that think I'm boring. Don't know who they are, but I'm sure they're out there, existing, being bored by me.
But Meems inadvertently reminded me that I don't talk to people who aren't shiny, and lately there's all these people that aren't shiny and I'm trying to be all nice because everyone deserves a chance, but fuck it, I'm going to take that unnecessary stand of snobbery for my own sanity and just not hang around the boring ones.
I mean, there must be balance. There must be squirrels and sheep, and there must be lots of 'em, and they must be boring. Makes room for the shiny ones.
I just hope I'm not becoming one of them.
...
LATER EDIT 7.22.09: Man, the more I read this, the more I hate it. "I'm not the type of person that really gets bored"? I sound like a dick. I try hard not to typify myself like that, not directly, not because I'm putting myself in a category, but because it means that the category exists in the first place in a place of elitism, and that I am one of the few who dwells there. Fuck, I can't stand that high-minded crap. It annoys me when other people do that, and now I'm doing it too.
But I am a big fan of personality quizzes. They just give me a chance to talk about me. Go figure.
...
I'm not the type of person that really gets bored. Not anymore, anyway. It's this thing I'm trying. Not really a new thing, more of a "for the past few years" thing that I don't know if I've ever said out loud.
"Only boring people get bored," right? So if I ever feel the onslaught of boredom, I am going to just fucking do something instead of sitting around grumbling, "I'm bored." It holds hands with "just do whatever makes the better story," which is probably my second favorite piece of advice, right after the classic Tolkien, "Not all those who wander are lost."
Lately, people are boring. Is it me, or them? I feel guilty labeling someone as boring, but it can't be avoided. There are people out there that think I'm boring. Don't know who they are, but I'm sure they're out there, existing, being bored by me.
But Meems inadvertently reminded me that I don't talk to people who aren't shiny, and lately there's all these people that aren't shiny and I'm trying to be all nice because everyone deserves a chance, but fuck it, I'm going to take that unnecessary stand of snobbery for my own sanity and just not hang around the boring ones.
I mean, there must be balance. There must be squirrels and sheep, and there must be lots of 'em, and they must be boring. Makes room for the shiny ones.
I just hope I'm not becoming one of them.
...
LATER EDIT 7.22.09: Man, the more I read this, the more I hate it. "I'm not the type of person that really gets bored"? I sound like a dick. I try hard not to typify myself like that, not directly, not because I'm putting myself in a category, but because it means that the category exists in the first place in a place of elitism, and that I am one of the few who dwells there. Fuck, I can't stand that high-minded crap. It annoys me when other people do that, and now I'm doing it too.
But I am a big fan of personality quizzes. They just give me a chance to talk about me. Go figure.
...
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Rant. Sorry. Whatever.
Dear Little Sisters,
1. No, I am not being mean when I think your discomfort is funny, or when I do things "just to make you mad." Because I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm trying to see if you've fucking grown up at all, or if you're still offended by bullshit comments and light mockery. You're both in your twenties, and you're damn sensitive. I'm trying to find out if you've finally learned to stop taking everything so seriously.
2. I don't think I'm better than either of you. In fact, I know you're better than me. By the time I'm forty, I totally want to be fourteen-year-old Yellavitch. Fourteen-year-old Yellavitch was hilarious and fearless and unembarrassed and self-aware of her naivety, and smiled often. What happened in the past seven years that made you so coiled and defensive and angry? I'm fascinated. I care. Stop being a stupid bitch and getting angry at me for giving a shit about you.
3. Chill out. Yes, you're being a stupid bitch. Let's talk about this.
4. You both insult me constantly. Half of the sentences you say to me begin with, "No offense, sister, but you [are not a shining example of success--are never on time--drink too much--will talk to anyone and it's creepy--spend money unwisely on stupid things like traveling--don't exactly have the most reliable friends and therefore you are not a good judge of character--don't care about anything--aren't wearing bra--are a walking joke--will never be taken seriously--should never be a mom--don't know everything--etc.]." I don't argue with you on these points, because you're entitled to say whatever you want to say. That, and sometimes I find them hilarious. Sure, you hurt my feelings too, and I usually just laugh it off. But I hear you, and I understand you, and I'm pretty sure I comprehend your words on a far more intimate level than you anticipate.
6. I don't think you should respond to a question or comment the same way I respond, because you are not me. Duh. But instead of going all fucking crazy banshee when I ask you your top ten favorite movies, maybe you could just have a conversation with me. It is not offensive to be interested in your likes and dislikes.
7. Of course I'm judging you. Sisters, every person you encounter judges you, this is inevitable. They judge the way you walk, the sound your feet make, if they like your belt or your hair. They judge your mood by the expression on your face. They make decisions about your worth when they don't even intend to do so. Every. Single. Person. They judge you by choosing to ignore your presence, by oggling your rack, by turning the other way, by making eye contact and smiling.
8. The difference between me and you is that sometimes, I choose to judge people by speaking to them and making a decision. You judge people by pretending they don't exist. Seriously, by choosing to remain strangers with a person, you imply that someone is not worth knowing. This is not rude, it's just the way it is. Everyone does it. Sometimes, not all the time, I choose to make an attempt at friendship. So...yes. I'm the person that talks to people riding the elevator, in line for a roller coaster, sitting at the bar.
9. What better way to find out about someone than learning what they love? Um, I'm sorry, but people are defined by their interests and their actions. Those are the closest things outsiders have to reading minds.
10. So, yes, asking people their top ten favorite movies is important. It's very important, and I don't want you telling me otherwise, because the fact of the matter is you don't fucking know everything. The order you list them is essential, even though I made a point of annoucing its irrelevance. If you think order matters, you'll try harder to do it right. Loving things isn't about being right.
Your development in linking one movie to the next is significant. Your explanations between titles is imperative to your thought process. It's mesmerizing watching people churn and burn and glow over discussing something they love.
Yes, it must be limited to ten, because constrictions push your internal discussion and reaction outward and amp up the interesting. I understand that people are allowed to watch more than ten movies. I've seen well over three thousand, according to Netflix. That's six months of my life. I worked at a video store and didn't have cable. Yes, I understand that one cannot be defined by a mere ten things, I'm not fucking retarded. But that doesn't mean it's not interesting, it doesn't mean you can't learn something about a person from it.
See, that's what you don't understand: this isn't life or death. They don't have to be your top ten for the rest of your goddamn life. It's about me witnessing your personal connectional hurricane and learning about you.
Take away social pretension about trying to impress someone with your elite knowledge, these aren't the best movies, they are your movies. Just name ten movies you love, and then I know the narrative style that speaks to you, I know what jokes resonate, I know what excites you, and what you're afraid of, how you define yourself, how you see other people, how you want to be seen. And if you're trying to be impressive and elite, I'll know that too.
Stop taking shit so seriously and just play.
Love,
Me
...
1. No, I am not being mean when I think your discomfort is funny, or when I do things "just to make you mad." Because I'm not trying to make you mad. I'm trying to see if you've fucking grown up at all, or if you're still offended by bullshit comments and light mockery. You're both in your twenties, and you're damn sensitive. I'm trying to find out if you've finally learned to stop taking everything so seriously.
2. I don't think I'm better than either of you. In fact, I know you're better than me. By the time I'm forty, I totally want to be fourteen-year-old Yellavitch. Fourteen-year-old Yellavitch was hilarious and fearless and unembarrassed and self-aware of her naivety, and smiled often. What happened in the past seven years that made you so coiled and defensive and angry? I'm fascinated. I care. Stop being a stupid bitch and getting angry at me for giving a shit about you.
3. Chill out. Yes, you're being a stupid bitch. Let's talk about this.
4. You both insult me constantly. Half of the sentences you say to me begin with, "No offense, sister, but you [are not a shining example of success--are never on time--drink too much--will talk to anyone and it's creepy--spend money unwisely on stupid things like traveling--don't exactly have the most reliable friends and therefore you are not a good judge of character--don't care about anything--aren't wearing bra--are a walking joke--will never be taken seriously--should never be a mom--don't know everything--etc.]." I don't argue with you on these points, because you're entitled to say whatever you want to say. That, and sometimes I find them hilarious. Sure, you hurt my feelings too, and I usually just laugh it off. But I hear you, and I understand you, and I'm pretty sure I comprehend your words on a far more intimate level than you anticipate.
6. I don't think you should respond to a question or comment the same way I respond, because you are not me. Duh. But instead of going all fucking crazy banshee when I ask you your top ten favorite movies, maybe you could just have a conversation with me. It is not offensive to be interested in your likes and dislikes.
7. Of course I'm judging you. Sisters, every person you encounter judges you, this is inevitable. They judge the way you walk, the sound your feet make, if they like your belt or your hair. They judge your mood by the expression on your face. They make decisions about your worth when they don't even intend to do so. Every. Single. Person. They judge you by choosing to ignore your presence, by oggling your rack, by turning the other way, by making eye contact and smiling.
8. The difference between me and you is that sometimes, I choose to judge people by speaking to them and making a decision. You judge people by pretending they don't exist. Seriously, by choosing to remain strangers with a person, you imply that someone is not worth knowing. This is not rude, it's just the way it is. Everyone does it. Sometimes, not all the time, I choose to make an attempt at friendship. So...yes. I'm the person that talks to people riding the elevator, in line for a roller coaster, sitting at the bar.
9. What better way to find out about someone than learning what they love? Um, I'm sorry, but people are defined by their interests and their actions. Those are the closest things outsiders have to reading minds.
10. So, yes, asking people their top ten favorite movies is important. It's very important, and I don't want you telling me otherwise, because the fact of the matter is you don't fucking know everything. The order you list them is essential, even though I made a point of annoucing its irrelevance. If you think order matters, you'll try harder to do it right. Loving things isn't about being right.
Your development in linking one movie to the next is significant. Your explanations between titles is imperative to your thought process. It's mesmerizing watching people churn and burn and glow over discussing something they love.
Yes, it must be limited to ten, because constrictions push your internal discussion and reaction outward and amp up the interesting. I understand that people are allowed to watch more than ten movies. I've seen well over three thousand, according to Netflix. That's six months of my life. I worked at a video store and didn't have cable. Yes, I understand that one cannot be defined by a mere ten things, I'm not fucking retarded. But that doesn't mean it's not interesting, it doesn't mean you can't learn something about a person from it.
See, that's what you don't understand: this isn't life or death. They don't have to be your top ten for the rest of your goddamn life. It's about me witnessing your personal connectional hurricane and learning about you.
Take away social pretension about trying to impress someone with your elite knowledge, these aren't the best movies, they are your movies. Just name ten movies you love, and then I know the narrative style that speaks to you, I know what jokes resonate, I know what excites you, and what you're afraid of, how you define yourself, how you see other people, how you want to be seen. And if you're trying to be impressive and elite, I'll know that too.
Stop taking shit so seriously and just play.
Love,
Me
...
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I Ruin My Life, Or: Why Writing Is Like Sausage
I realized today, about five minutes ago, that I am absolutely terrified of trying to find a new job, and I do not want to do this forever, and I'm slowly ruining my own life with fear.
Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?
I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.
They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.
I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.
I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.
I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.
Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.
Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.
So at least they can't see me.
How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?
No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.
I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?
How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?
So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.
Okay. I feel better now.
...
Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?
I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.
They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.
I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.
I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.
I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.
Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.
Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.
So at least they can't see me.
How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?
No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.
I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?
How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?
So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.
Okay. I feel better now.
...
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Disgust
About twenty minutes ago, I'm standing outside. Needed to walk. Thinking about Poppy, how much this must suck for my dad. Whatever. I don't want to go to the funeral. I would rather go to the pie fight. But I'm going to the funeral, and I'm going to like it, because of Dad. I really just would rather ditch out on it. It's not like I hate Poppy - I just totally don't care about him. Who cares more about pie fights than their dead grandfather? Does this make me a horrible person? What kind of a--
"You disgust me. Disgusting," she says. This little old woman, pointing her long hook-handled umbrella at me. Looking me in the fucking eye. Snarling. She's not obviously dirty or street, but who knows? I look down at myself, thinking, well, I showered today, and my clothes fit...did she...?
"You disgust me."
And then she keeps on walking.
I turn to the suits standing behind me. "Did you guys see that?"
One of them nods, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, yeah."
I don't know what to do about that.
I'm actually quite used to having odd people approach me. Some of you know that. But this freaked me out.
...
"You disgust me. Disgusting," she says. This little old woman, pointing her long hook-handled umbrella at me. Looking me in the fucking eye. Snarling. She's not obviously dirty or street, but who knows? I look down at myself, thinking, well, I showered today, and my clothes fit...did she...?
"You disgust me."
And then she keeps on walking.
I turn to the suits standing behind me. "Did you guys see that?"
One of them nods, laughing awkwardly. "Uh, yeah."
I don't know what to do about that.
I'm actually quite used to having odd people approach me. Some of you know that. But this freaked me out.
...
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Torture Is Illegal.
It's so depressing, knowing that there are men in the world, and they're like my age, just walking around, being dudes, exuding hotness, looking like Zachary Quinto and Chris Pine. Existing, laughing, making out with people that aren't me.
Fuck you. Fuck you magazines and television and goddamn Star Trek movies. This is torture, and that shit is illegal. Kind of.
I don't even read magazines, but I can feel them rattling on the shelves with their airbrushed pictures and their interviews, where guys are charming and casual and clever, and girls are coy and leggy. Fuck you.
It's going to last months, too. All summer long. Guys riding their bikes all scruffy and glisteny, heavy linked bike chains wrapped around their waists. I don't know why I find that so goddamn attractive. I love watching them eat apples, drinking out of bottles. Laughing. Especially when they're laughing, and they use their whole body as visible, shaking proof. I just like knowing that they're around, as long as they're booming and smirking and undeniably smiling and alive. It's not a look or a style, it's just this elemental, sunny, relaxed, carnal guyness. I want them around me all the time, because making them laugh might just be the greatest thing in the world, and closest I really get.
Gah. Fuck you, spring. You taunting, abstracted, glorious bastard.
...
Fuck you. Fuck you magazines and television and goddamn Star Trek movies. This is torture, and that shit is illegal. Kind of.
I don't even read magazines, but I can feel them rattling on the shelves with their airbrushed pictures and their interviews, where guys are charming and casual and clever, and girls are coy and leggy. Fuck you.
It's going to last months, too. All summer long. Guys riding their bikes all scruffy and glisteny, heavy linked bike chains wrapped around their waists. I don't know why I find that so goddamn attractive. I love watching them eat apples, drinking out of bottles. Laughing. Especially when they're laughing, and they use their whole body as visible, shaking proof. I just like knowing that they're around, as long as they're booming and smirking and undeniably smiling and alive. It's not a look or a style, it's just this elemental, sunny, relaxed, carnal guyness. I want them around me all the time, because making them laugh might just be the greatest thing in the world, and closest I really get.
Gah. Fuck you, spring. You taunting, abstracted, glorious bastard.
...
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Having Things.
I am seriously so anti-(getting things I don't need). Do you understand how addictive of a person I am? Everything interesting must be embraced and shaken with vigor until it's damn near broken. Movies I like, books I read, friends I make. The shoes I wear, a piece of jewelry: they're all a commitment to me, and I exhaust all their jazz until they're breathless and worn, drain them of value and keep on on asking them for more life, to affirm and assure my identity, because so few things make me happy.
I mean: the last purse/bag I had? Eventually it ripped, and I stripped it for parts. It's a goddamn purse, who cares, right? I didn't want to get rid of it, though, I made the damn thing and it served me daily and faithfully, as a whole, for two full years. Scraps of it reinforce the purse I have right now, and when this one rips, I'll make another one out using both sets of leftovers.
So getting an iPhone, or a Blackberry...you guys can have that shit all you want, and I will never look down on you for it. But seriously, if I get one, my life will rely on that little bit of plastic in more ways than I feel comfortable thinking about right now, because I get hooked on things, and then I break things, and then I can't afford to replace things, and then I'm all upset that I have no more things.
You should have seen how I reacted when I couldn't find my favorite beer koozie. All drunk and angry and yelling at people. I had a relationship with that thing, it made everything familiar and safe and real, and then I threw a fit when someone accidentally threw it away.
And all that thing did was keep my beer cold.
So believe me when I say this: if something is not essential to my happiness and survival, I really, really, really don't want it.
That being said...I bought a new phone online. Kind of, I mean, it's refurbished.
It has a keyboard.
Shit.
...
I mean: the last purse/bag I had? Eventually it ripped, and I stripped it for parts. It's a goddamn purse, who cares, right? I didn't want to get rid of it, though, I made the damn thing and it served me daily and faithfully, as a whole, for two full years. Scraps of it reinforce the purse I have right now, and when this one rips, I'll make another one out using both sets of leftovers.
So getting an iPhone, or a Blackberry...you guys can have that shit all you want, and I will never look down on you for it. But seriously, if I get one, my life will rely on that little bit of plastic in more ways than I feel comfortable thinking about right now, because I get hooked on things, and then I break things, and then I can't afford to replace things, and then I'm all upset that I have no more things.
You should have seen how I reacted when I couldn't find my favorite beer koozie. All drunk and angry and yelling at people. I had a relationship with that thing, it made everything familiar and safe and real, and then I threw a fit when someone accidentally threw it away.
And all that thing did was keep my beer cold.
So believe me when I say this: if something is not essential to my happiness and survival, I really, really, really don't want it.
That being said...I bought a new phone online. Kind of, I mean, it's refurbished.
It has a keyboard.
Shit.
...
Monday, May 4, 2009
Salespeople Must Hate Me.
"Welcome to AT&T! What can I do for you today?"
I feel defeated, because he's cute. I don't like it when the cute ones try to help me, because I get all rambly and defensive. Besides, I'm sunburned today, after sitting outside yesterday for five hours while my sister graduated from college. There's even a nice round white circle behind my necklace pendant thingy, and shit - he's looking at it. I grab the necklace and squeeze.
"I'm uh, just kind of...browsing. I got, um...I got an umm, oh, whatever it's called, a, ummm...upgrade. Phone upgrade. Thing? Because I'm down for one, or up for one, or whatever. You know. The whole new phone. Thing. Stop talking." Fucking seriously, I just told myself to stop talking out loud.
He smiles cleanly, friendly salesman-like. "Are you looking for a PDA, or a (couple other types of phones that mean nothing to me)?"
"I don't know. I just need a phone. Mine won't charge anymore. It's all discombobulated."
"How long have you had it?"
"I dunno, like three years or something."
"Well, we've got a great selection of (boogedy boogedy boogedy phone and I'm going to look up your account and then I'm going to show you a bunch of phones you have no interest in)."
"Sure, whatever."
He does his stuff, banging away on the keyboard. Nice jawline, all angular and ending at the ear, just like a jawline should--
"Can I have your phone number?"
"Hmmm?" I snap my head back up from it's little dreamy tilt. "For, uh...oh, okay." The computer. I close my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed, reciting my number.
"Okay," he says with a smile and a sigh, reading over my account information, and begins walking towards the phones. "So were you looking for something more like Blackberry? An iPhone? Or something else--"
I just interrupt him right away. "iPhones are pretty and all, but I can't help feeling they're pointless."
"The handy thing about them is all of the different applications you can download--"
"Yeah, um, other than Ninja Ropes and that app where you drink digital beer out of your phone, I don't really care about iPhones."
He takes me a step or two further towards the Blackberry phones, with all their extraneous buttons and little rolly mouse things. "What about something more like--"
"Yeah, I'm just going to stop you, because I really don't need all that extra fangly bizness all up in there."
"Extra...what? Okay."
"Sor," I shrug. He's showing me things I don't care about, and instantly his attractiveness wears off. "I just don't see the point. No one liked those little rolly things on laptops, either, what's the point of having them on phones?"
He chuckles, confused, "It is nicer for like, you know, checking your email--"
"Yeah I don't need the internet on there, I don't need an MP3 player, I don't need to watch movies or film things or whatever."
"Well I can pretty much tell you you're gonna find those options on nearly every phone on the market."
I glance at the line up of phones, bummed. "Balls."
He laughs again. "Well, let's say if you have all that on your phone, then you don't need your iPod anymore--" I start shaking my head as he continues, "--and you can get one of these hot little pink Croc cases--" He touches the stupid rubbery holey pink case thing, and I scoff, trying not to giggle. "--and that's not the route I should take with you."
"No, I don't have an iPod, I don't need one. And I didn't even know they made Croc phone cases," I laugh. "That's just dumb."
"Girl, what? You don't need one? You don't like music?"
"Like it just fine, I just can survive without one, so what's the point of making it essential? You know, like--"
"Okay, okay, they're nice for other things too, but I can see I can't convince you."
"Yeah, I just want a phone," guilty smile. "I want to make phone calls and text my friends. Maybe go over the monthly limit, I don't know, it's all up in the air."
"Well, we can change your plan for that."
"I don't really want to pay more, sooooo...no."
He looks up and down the wall and sighs. "You know, honestly, I think you're not going to find what you're lookin for here. You should just check the website."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Look at the refurb phones. Like buying a used car and all that. You're taking a small chance, but you can probably get one for free, and then you're not losing money anyway."
"Just time and effort."
"Prolly worth it, for a simple phone. More environmentally friendly, anyway."
I like this guy again. "Well, thanks."
"Sure. Just doin' my job. You want to buy a car charger or anything? How about you come back after you get your new phone and check out the accessories?"
"So you get a commission anyway."
He nods and winks. "So I get a commission, exactly."
"Thanks, Terence."
"Have a good one, now."
Internet, here I come.
...
I feel defeated, because he's cute. I don't like it when the cute ones try to help me, because I get all rambly and defensive. Besides, I'm sunburned today, after sitting outside yesterday for five hours while my sister graduated from college. There's even a nice round white circle behind my necklace pendant thingy, and shit - he's looking at it. I grab the necklace and squeeze.
"I'm uh, just kind of...browsing. I got, um...I got an umm, oh, whatever it's called, a, ummm...upgrade. Phone upgrade. Thing? Because I'm down for one, or up for one, or whatever. You know. The whole new phone. Thing. Stop talking." Fucking seriously, I just told myself to stop talking out loud.
He smiles cleanly, friendly salesman-like. "Are you looking for a PDA, or a (couple other types of phones that mean nothing to me)?"
"I don't know. I just need a phone. Mine won't charge anymore. It's all discombobulated."
"How long have you had it?"
"I dunno, like three years or something."
"Well, we've got a great selection of (boogedy boogedy boogedy phone and I'm going to look up your account and then I'm going to show you a bunch of phones you have no interest in)."
"Sure, whatever."
He does his stuff, banging away on the keyboard. Nice jawline, all angular and ending at the ear, just like a jawline should--
"Can I have your phone number?"
"Hmmm?" I snap my head back up from it's little dreamy tilt. "For, uh...oh, okay." The computer. I close my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed, reciting my number.
"Okay," he says with a smile and a sigh, reading over my account information, and begins walking towards the phones. "So were you looking for something more like Blackberry? An iPhone? Or something else--"
I just interrupt him right away. "iPhones are pretty and all, but I can't help feeling they're pointless."
"The handy thing about them is all of the different applications you can download--"
"Yeah, um, other than Ninja Ropes and that app where you drink digital beer out of your phone, I don't really care about iPhones."
He takes me a step or two further towards the Blackberry phones, with all their extraneous buttons and little rolly mouse things. "What about something more like--"
"Yeah, I'm just going to stop you, because I really don't need all that extra fangly bizness all up in there."
"Extra...what? Okay."
"Sor," I shrug. He's showing me things I don't care about, and instantly his attractiveness wears off. "I just don't see the point. No one liked those little rolly things on laptops, either, what's the point of having them on phones?"
He chuckles, confused, "It is nicer for like, you know, checking your email--"
"Yeah I don't need the internet on there, I don't need an MP3 player, I don't need to watch movies or film things or whatever."
"Well I can pretty much tell you you're gonna find those options on nearly every phone on the market."
I glance at the line up of phones, bummed. "Balls."
He laughs again. "Well, let's say if you have all that on your phone, then you don't need your iPod anymore--" I start shaking my head as he continues, "--and you can get one of these hot little pink Croc cases--" He touches the stupid rubbery holey pink case thing, and I scoff, trying not to giggle. "--and that's not the route I should take with you."
"No, I don't have an iPod, I don't need one. And I didn't even know they made Croc phone cases," I laugh. "That's just dumb."
"Girl, what? You don't need one? You don't like music?"
"Like it just fine, I just can survive without one, so what's the point of making it essential? You know, like--"
"Okay, okay, they're nice for other things too, but I can see I can't convince you."
"Yeah, I just want a phone," guilty smile. "I want to make phone calls and text my friends. Maybe go over the monthly limit, I don't know, it's all up in the air."
"Well, we can change your plan for that."
"I don't really want to pay more, sooooo...no."
He looks up and down the wall and sighs. "You know, honestly, I think you're not going to find what you're lookin for here. You should just check the website."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Look at the refurb phones. Like buying a used car and all that. You're taking a small chance, but you can probably get one for free, and then you're not losing money anyway."
"Just time and effort."
"Prolly worth it, for a simple phone. More environmentally friendly, anyway."
I like this guy again. "Well, thanks."
"Sure. Just doin' my job. You want to buy a car charger or anything? How about you come back after you get your new phone and check out the accessories?"
"So you get a commission anyway."
He nods and winks. "So I get a commission, exactly."
"Thanks, Terence."
"Have a good one, now."
Internet, here I come.
...
Friday, May 1, 2009
We Are Humoring You.
I do not work for the Salvation Army. This place isn't fucking Amvets. Both worthy organizations, however both have very very little to do with mine.
So why, Mr. Dicknose, do you think you can just dump all of your shit on our doorstep? Now I have to haul all of your baby bottles and clothing up to my office, take an inventory, and then find somewhere for it to go. It's not my job to the be the fucking middle man, and you're telling all of your friends about us? We are doing you a favor, jagoff.
People with too much money piss me off. Oh, I'll just give you this old breast pump and these cracked dishes, so you can disperse it amongst needy elementary schools.
No, Dicknose, that's not how it works. We're humoring you, my boss and I, because you have an important daddy, and pretending we're flattered and grateful for this broken alarm clock, for these six artificial decorative pears, for used underwear and a furniture painting kit. Your generosity with the inner-city children is tremendous. I know that our schools will be able to put this horseshit to good, creative use.
That, or I'm just going to haul it over to Salvation Army myself, and save you the trip. Hopefully someday you will give us something useful. For example? Art supplies. Pencils, notebooks. Computer equipment.
And then there's Mr. Silver Spoon Scholarship Man, who feels like the reception we have for his scholars isn't classy enough, so could we throw a benefit at this expensive dinner restaurant? This will cost our organization four thousand dollars.
They're fourth graders, sir. I know you want them to have the experience of eating at some fancy establishment, but none of them are going to care about asparagus pasta with butter garlic sauce and whitefish vomit with capers. They want cheese fucking pizza, maybe sausage. They want to eat their swirly ice cream in tiny paper cups with flat wooden double-sided spoons. We do not have unlimited funds, here.
Okay, sir. Whatever you say.
I hate that my boss is a pushover.
...
So why, Mr. Dicknose, do you think you can just dump all of your shit on our doorstep? Now I have to haul all of your baby bottles and clothing up to my office, take an inventory, and then find somewhere for it to go. It's not my job to the be the fucking middle man, and you're telling all of your friends about us? We are doing you a favor, jagoff.
People with too much money piss me off. Oh, I'll just give you this old breast pump and these cracked dishes, so you can disperse it amongst needy elementary schools.
No, Dicknose, that's not how it works. We're humoring you, my boss and I, because you have an important daddy, and pretending we're flattered and grateful for this broken alarm clock, for these six artificial decorative pears, for used underwear and a furniture painting kit. Your generosity with the inner-city children is tremendous. I know that our schools will be able to put this horseshit to good, creative use.
That, or I'm just going to haul it over to Salvation Army myself, and save you the trip. Hopefully someday you will give us something useful. For example? Art supplies. Pencils, notebooks. Computer equipment.
And then there's Mr. Silver Spoon Scholarship Man, who feels like the reception we have for his scholars isn't classy enough, so could we throw a benefit at this expensive dinner restaurant? This will cost our organization four thousand dollars.
They're fourth graders, sir. I know you want them to have the experience of eating at some fancy establishment, but none of them are going to care about asparagus pasta with butter garlic sauce and whitefish vomit with capers. They want cheese fucking pizza, maybe sausage. They want to eat their swirly ice cream in tiny paper cups with flat wooden double-sided spoons. We do not have unlimited funds, here.
Okay, sir. Whatever you say.
I hate that my boss is a pushover.
...
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Screwy
This is my formal apology for my previous rant. I dislike preachers, and that's what I'm doing. Doesn't change how I feel, but whatever.
I am all kinds of surly ornery today.
...
I am all kinds of surly ornery today.
...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Adventures of Poppy and His Ridiculous Spawn: Part 2
After that lumbering half hour I hear a familiar voice in the hallway, and turn to see my cousin Tony walking into the room. Tony is a successful disappointment in the Rossi family. All-star athlete before joining the army, one of the nicest, easiest guys in the world to talk to, but kinda slow. He's eight years older than I am, taught me how to play poker when I was five and Risk a couple years later, and always let me partner up with him during the manly family card games, because to him, I was the smartest girl in the world.
But after he left the army he left Catholicism too, and is now a preacher at one of those hardcore Christian churches in Bakersfield, California where they don't watch TV and all the women wear long skirts. This, to our family, was absurd. When I found out he was moving to Bakersfield, I told him to brush up on his Merle Haggard, and he smiled and said, "Well, I'm not sure I know what that means, but I'll be sure to do it."
And when Tony eased his wiry army frame through that door, with his ten-year old mini-me son beside him, Poppy geeked out like a hippy in a Bonnarroo drum circle.
All of a sudden, Poppy wants to sit up and engage. He wants Tony to talk to him about Bakersfield, and we hear a story about how Tony's brother, cousin Rob, who also lives out in California, is the sliding star of a twenty-foot baseball action photograph on the wall of the biggest sporting goods store. For the first five minutes or so, Tony leans over and subtley adjusts Poppy's bedsheet every few seconds, covering the puckered belly and diaper. Inevitably, the sheet slips every ten seconds, and eventually Tony gives up trying to keep Poppy decent and respectable.
Then my Uncle Dick strolls in like a Goodfella and waves his hands at us. "Christ, Dad, put on a pair of goddamn pants." Thank god for Uncle Dick.
Poppy is defiant. "I am fine."
"You want the girls to see you in your, your, uh, you know? Diaper? Have some respect. Your goddamn great grandson is here for Chrissake."
"I know. Hey, Timmy--" Poppy reaches a knarly hand out to Timmy, who shakes it and turns back to the fascinating hospital television, because he doesn't have one at home.
"Did you tell the nurse you didn't want to wear pants, or is she lazy?"
"I don't need 'em, it's hot in here."
"Christ almighty, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Tony interrupts, "Dad, could you please not say that?
"Why? It is stupid."
"Not that, Dad, the Lord's name."
"Jesus, it doesn't matter, it's not like he's not your goddamn Lord anymore."
"Dick, shut up and calm down," my dad jumps in.
I think my Uncle Dick is slightly stressed out. They bicker for awhile longer, with Poppy grumbling about how he doesn't need any worthless goddamn pants, and no one cares about how he feels in his final days, Uncle Dick is yelling at him for being a baby, my Dad is yelling at Uncle Dick for yelling at Poppy, and Tony is trying to calm the lot of them, clutching his pocket Bible. Me and my sister just try to watch the Cubs game with Timmy, talking about In-and-Out Burger and good places for fries.
Eventually it's time to go. We've all been successfully embarrassed by Uncle Dick, confused by Poppy, and proselytized by Tony. A jolly good time, by our standards. We say our goodbyes.
"Oh, Rassles," my uncle grabs my elbow just before he walks out the door. "I almost forgot. You're going to be a pallbearer, when it's time. Up for it?"
I nod, slowly. "Are you sure?"
He's not really looking at me while he shrugs lazily. "I don't give a rat's ass if you do it or not, I just thought you might want to."
"Okay. Yeah."
"Good. Because...you should. You should be one of them."
...
But after he left the army he left Catholicism too, and is now a preacher at one of those hardcore Christian churches in Bakersfield, California where they don't watch TV and all the women wear long skirts. This, to our family, was absurd. When I found out he was moving to Bakersfield, I told him to brush up on his Merle Haggard, and he smiled and said, "Well, I'm not sure I know what that means, but I'll be sure to do it."
And when Tony eased his wiry army frame through that door, with his ten-year old mini-me son beside him, Poppy geeked out like a hippy in a Bonnarroo drum circle.
All of a sudden, Poppy wants to sit up and engage. He wants Tony to talk to him about Bakersfield, and we hear a story about how Tony's brother, cousin Rob, who also lives out in California, is the sliding star of a twenty-foot baseball action photograph on the wall of the biggest sporting goods store. For the first five minutes or so, Tony leans over and subtley adjusts Poppy's bedsheet every few seconds, covering the puckered belly and diaper. Inevitably, the sheet slips every ten seconds, and eventually Tony gives up trying to keep Poppy decent and respectable.
Then my Uncle Dick strolls in like a Goodfella and waves his hands at us. "Christ, Dad, put on a pair of goddamn pants." Thank god for Uncle Dick.
Poppy is defiant. "I am fine."
"You want the girls to see you in your, your, uh, you know? Diaper? Have some respect. Your goddamn great grandson is here for Chrissake."
"I know. Hey, Timmy--" Poppy reaches a knarly hand out to Timmy, who shakes it and turns back to the fascinating hospital television, because he doesn't have one at home.
"Did you tell the nurse you didn't want to wear pants, or is she lazy?"
"I don't need 'em, it's hot in here."
"Christ almighty, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."
Tony interrupts, "Dad, could you please not say that?
"Why? It is stupid."
"Not that, Dad, the Lord's name."
"Jesus, it doesn't matter, it's not like he's not your goddamn Lord anymore."
"Dick, shut up and calm down," my dad jumps in.
I think my Uncle Dick is slightly stressed out. They bicker for awhile longer, with Poppy grumbling about how he doesn't need any worthless goddamn pants, and no one cares about how he feels in his final days, Uncle Dick is yelling at him for being a baby, my Dad is yelling at Uncle Dick for yelling at Poppy, and Tony is trying to calm the lot of them, clutching his pocket Bible. Me and my sister just try to watch the Cubs game with Timmy, talking about In-and-Out Burger and good places for fries.
Eventually it's time to go. We've all been successfully embarrassed by Uncle Dick, confused by Poppy, and proselytized by Tony. A jolly good time, by our standards. We say our goodbyes.
"Oh, Rassles," my uncle grabs my elbow just before he walks out the door. "I almost forgot. You're going to be a pallbearer, when it's time. Up for it?"
I nod, slowly. "Are you sure?"
He's not really looking at me while he shrugs lazily. "I don't give a rat's ass if you do it or not, I just thought you might want to."
"Okay. Yeah."
"Good. Because...you should. You should be one of them."
...
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Grouchy
This morning I looked at the sun for a good, long while and realized that I was like, an hour late to work. Fuck.
It's getting hotter outside.
I love the winter. I love, love, love the winter. Wrapping and locking my scarf in place, the heft of winter boots, pink cheeks and snowflakes. Breathing out, watching yourself live. Look. There's proof, right there, that I just took a breath, I can see it. Don't shiver, it wastes energy. Makes you tired.
I feel so much more alive in the winter. You have to try to live, you struggle through the wind, refreshed that you survive.
I like everyone all packaged up and meant to be opened. Boxes are equalizers. Some are larger, some are smaller, but in the end it's just a box, and who knows what's inside? It's harder to notice how slender and tight that package is, compared to mine, which is much softer and rounder. Not as round as that one over there, thank god, but I've been imperfectly wrapped. Uniquely so, if you ask me. True, true, no one's packaged quite like me, and I like that, even though my ribbon doesn't really match my paper, and I didn't do it on purpose. Not like some people and their intended mismatchy ribbons. I just picked up the first ribbon I could find. As long as it's a ribbon, you know?
Summer is just complete horseshit, and I'm jealous of everyone who likes it. Everyone's all glisteny and brown, and I can't get glisteny and brown like all of them, and being soft isn't acceptable in the summer. No one likes soft girls, not when they can see them unboxed. Summer is a sexy, sexy time, and have you met me? I am not sexy, I don't think I've ever been called sexy in my life. So I have to pretend to be harder, on the inside, as if a pale matte finish doesn’t bother me.
Don’t you think I would prefer to like summer? Wouldn’t it just be easier, in the end, if I could be miserable in the winter and carefree in the summer? It wouldn’t be as lonely, that’s for sure, as taking solitary snow walks and hiding from a heat wave.
But they’re all so happy, and everything is golden and warm, and it’s hard not to be thankful that they’re all so happy. I’m proud that they squeeze the sun so tightly that it takes her all winter to flesh out again.
And I do love to be outside, but not when its sticky. Spring is heavenly, fall is breathtaking, winter is thriving, and the summer is depressing.
So I just pretend that I want to be there. That oh, yes, it’s glorious with the heat, I’m so glad you guys can wear skirts and be all leggy and gorgeous. I know, I could wear shorts if I wanted to, but the fact of the matter is, if you had my legs you’d hide them too. Yes, it matters. Yes. It matters. Shut up, I know that you don’t care. I fucking care. No, I’m fine in my jeans. Really. Yeah, I don’t mind. No, it’s fun peeling my pants off like a bandaid.
Oh, no, I’m not looking forward to summer at all.
And I want to go camping. Like, yesterday.
...
It's getting hotter outside.
I love the winter. I love, love, love the winter. Wrapping and locking my scarf in place, the heft of winter boots, pink cheeks and snowflakes. Breathing out, watching yourself live. Look. There's proof, right there, that I just took a breath, I can see it. Don't shiver, it wastes energy. Makes you tired.
I feel so much more alive in the winter. You have to try to live, you struggle through the wind, refreshed that you survive.
I like everyone all packaged up and meant to be opened. Boxes are equalizers. Some are larger, some are smaller, but in the end it's just a box, and who knows what's inside? It's harder to notice how slender and tight that package is, compared to mine, which is much softer and rounder. Not as round as that one over there, thank god, but I've been imperfectly wrapped. Uniquely so, if you ask me. True, true, no one's packaged quite like me, and I like that, even though my ribbon doesn't really match my paper, and I didn't do it on purpose. Not like some people and their intended mismatchy ribbons. I just picked up the first ribbon I could find. As long as it's a ribbon, you know?
Summer is just complete horseshit, and I'm jealous of everyone who likes it. Everyone's all glisteny and brown, and I can't get glisteny and brown like all of them, and being soft isn't acceptable in the summer. No one likes soft girls, not when they can see them unboxed. Summer is a sexy, sexy time, and have you met me? I am not sexy, I don't think I've ever been called sexy in my life. So I have to pretend to be harder, on the inside, as if a pale matte finish doesn’t bother me.
Don’t you think I would prefer to like summer? Wouldn’t it just be easier, in the end, if I could be miserable in the winter and carefree in the summer? It wouldn’t be as lonely, that’s for sure, as taking solitary snow walks and hiding from a heat wave.
But they’re all so happy, and everything is golden and warm, and it’s hard not to be thankful that they’re all so happy. I’m proud that they squeeze the sun so tightly that it takes her all winter to flesh out again.
And I do love to be outside, but not when its sticky. Spring is heavenly, fall is breathtaking, winter is thriving, and the summer is depressing.
So I just pretend that I want to be there. That oh, yes, it’s glorious with the heat, I’m so glad you guys can wear skirts and be all leggy and gorgeous. I know, I could wear shorts if I wanted to, but the fact of the matter is, if you had my legs you’d hide them too. Yes, it matters. Yes. It matters. Shut up, I know that you don’t care. I fucking care. No, I’m fine in my jeans. Really. Yeah, I don’t mind. No, it’s fun peeling my pants off like a bandaid.
Oh, no, I’m not looking forward to summer at all.
And I want to go camping. Like, yesterday.
...
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