I've been in Moe Joe's for over an hour, now. By now, I should have a steamy, creamy, delicious little post for you people to slurp up de-lightedly.
Unfortunately, no.
Why?
Because I'm feeling awfully lonely over here. I feel like no one is reading, besides my friends. And they're bored with me, because Craig and Lan Chi both have better blogs than me. Even my boobs have lost their charm. (Oh, yeah, and I've been feeling up all over my boobs lately, Cece style. Because I've started exercising at Fike, doing ABDOMINAL CRUNCHES, running on the ELLIPTICAL MACHINE, riding the STATIONARY BICYCLE, and rowing on the ROWING MACHINE. And since my boobs are just sacks of fat that appeared with all the other sacs of fat that took residence on my body when I gained the freshman 15,000, they will probably disappear if I ever manage to lose all this damn pudding clinging to me. So I'm bidding them farewell. Goodbye, boobs!) But, yeah. None of my posts have any comments. Tear, tear.
So, instead of writing my fancy little post, I've been searching through the blogs of like-minded people, trying to find someone to suck up to, and hopefully win over as a reader. Because I would really, really like to have readers. As badly as a woman wants an orgasm after 45 years of one minute daily increments of sex, no masturbation. Yeah. That bad.
So, if you have read this post, can you please leave a comment (that includes you, Craig, Lan Chi, Tyler, and Johnathon)? Every ego needs a little stroke every once in while. Dammit. If you don't have time, just send me a "Yo." Otherwise, I'd like to hear about you. WHO are you, WHY do you eat chocolate emo vampires, HOW are you doing? Chocobo? Sex? Fermentation? Yes.
Okay, okay. After this, I'm going to write a real post. I just really wanted to whine.
I think I'm going to fulfill my promise and post the plot of House of Orange.
Think of me fondly when we say goodbye,
The Mei of Supreme Coffee
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
Simplicity/ Little Poet, Dancing Gypsy
I don't know what kind of mood I'm in today. I've been feeling more in the mood for quiet contemplation, spending my days with a computer or notebook on my lap, writing about my life. I still want to work on An Ocean Between, but I don't feel that same urgency that I did earlier this month. All I really want to do is pass my days quietly, letting things fall together as they may.
I've been thinking a lot about all the things I wish I could be, and all the things that I've lost. I'm missing my high school friends, and I keep wishing that I had kept a blog then, so I could have some scrap of who I was to look back on.
I miss simplicity, and a sense of immediacy. Although I like having my whole "rich inner life" thing, I wish I could be more connected to the physical world. I read some posts in this blog http://www.theglassdoorknob.blogspot.com/ and I it had everything I feel I have been missing. It reminded me that being poetic isn't all about complexity and verbosity. Poetry is intensity.
I'm not intense!! (waa!)
The author reminded me of this girl, Astrid, who I was friends with at the beginning of high school. I think I was jealous of her, even though I didn't realize it then. She was so beautiful, like one of those voluptuous priestess Final Fantasy characters, and everything around her seemed sacred-- the pen she balanced between her fingers, the green apple she bit pensively, the jack-o-lantern she grasped in both hands. She had white skin, wide, expressive eyes, a soft face, gold hair, petulant lips, and a permanently contented expression, like a Buddhist monk. Unlike me, she always spoke quietly. She never seemed very hurried. We got along very well, even though she didn't share my sharper side-- the part of me that makes politically incorrect jokes, says stupid things for the hell of it, and writes blog posts with the title "Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!"-- and she was sensitive to the extreme, saving spiders from eminent slaughter, adopting neglected textbooks, and pouting when Fallon made jokes about aborted babies. Fallon never liked her; she thought that Astrid was a fake bitch, and resented her theatrics over the lives of insects.
As for me, Astrid's sensitivity made me uncomfortable, but I didn't blame her for it. I never really believed that she was "fake" as so many people accused her of being-- I thought she always seemed like a sincere person to me. I enjoyed the quiet days we spent together. I visited her house a couple of times, and we went trick-or-treating together one year. We both appreciated the colors of autumn, the beauty of innocence, the joy of discount books, thrift stores, and sexy photographs. She told me that she wanted to own an art studio, and I told her I wanted to be an author. When I look back on this now, I cringe. Her writing was unquestionably better than mine, and she must have known it-- mine, at the time, was hopelessly juvenile. Yes. Even worse than now. She had one of those pensive and tranquil natures that allowed her to really connect with everything beautiful in the world. I always thought she was one of the wisest people I ever met.
We started drifting apart when we were sophomores, around this time of year. Right before the election, we had a pseudo-argument about George Bush and John Kerry, which ended when I said something somewhat tactless. It really wasn't that bad, but it hurt her. I guess I should tell you what happened-- we had had a mock vote, and Astrid had changed her vote at the last minute from Bush to Kerry (when I look back, I find it remarkable that she ever considered voting for Bush- she of the "No Blood for Oil" t-shirts), but Bush still ended up winning. Afterwards, I came up to her and asked her why she changed her mind, and she said that Bush reminded her too much of her father. Then would have been the time to say something nice, but, being both an Idiot and a Republican, I said, "Well, at least your vote didn't matter in the end." Or something like that. Ok, maybe it was that bad. I was referring to the fact that I was glad that Bush still won our election, but... yeah. It was a dumb thing to say.
Astrid, being divinely sensitive... I don't know if she ever really forgave me for that. I don't remember if I tried to apologize. I was embarrassed that I had said something so tactless, and I guess I hoped that if I didn't think about it again, the problem would eventually go away.
I wonder if she still remembers. I'm friends with her on facebook, and she still seems like the same old Astrid. Effortlessly wise, a better writer than I will ever be, beautiful, and spirited. I wish I weren't so afraid of trying to strike up old friendships. But what I'm really afraid of is to find out what she remembers me as. I've changed a lot since early high school, but how could she know that? She ended up leaving for another school at the beginning of junior year, and I only saw her once since then. I was standing on line, waiting to take the SATs, which was a right bag of fun, when I saw her standing a little ways ahead in line, her hair short, bleach blonde, and streaked with light blue. She used to have this really long, beautiful hair that was the color of honey, before she decided to cut and dye it. I thought she looked fantastic either way, but she used to say that she missed her long hair. Anyway, I said hi, she said, hi, we might have exchanged a few "how are you"s, but, altogether, it was a very awkward meeting.
Later that week, I laughed off the encounter with friends and Fallon, who is always a very generous person except when it comes to Astrid, used the opportunity to remark that she always knew that Astrid was a bitch. I might have even agreed-- I think I was bitter that she didn't remember me more warmly. But, now that I've left all the old conflicts of high school behind me, I realize that I was angry at myself-- I take the full blame for the fact that our friendship fell apart. I sometimes find myself thinking of how wonderful it would be if we were still friends, and curse the fact that I'm too cowardly to try talking to her. I know why, too. She's a reminder of everything I hate in myself. I'm rash, crude, judgmental, and even ignorant. Those qualities might have been more pronounced in my younger self, but they are still there. Astrid is a constant reminder of the costs of my flaws.
I'll leave you with this piece of poetry I wrote with Astrid in mind, over the summer. I envisioned her as the title character, and I also tried to write the way she would. I didn't do her justice in either sense, but here it is:
Little Poet, Dancing Gypsy
Who were you last year, Faina, and
did you sleep beneath
willows? sky? me?
Do you remember the carnival--
the fires in the tents and the smoky
skin I kissed, the pristine arches
of feet, and the dancing, swirling
carousel when I led you into
me? And the cherry-bursts
of fireworks; the lemonade lanterns
of fireflies that perched like stars
in the branching midnight of your hair?
I’ve long forgotten
your spider-thin hands, spinning
my fortune round in your
crystal ball, the musk of your
voice as you sang my future,
etching your lines in my opening
palms, and your palms--
how they were dipping bowls
brimming with stars, swirling
cards that sifted through folding
fingers tracing the life told
in the spaces between
galaxies
of freckles strung on my neck
and the silences
sundering my words.
And I’ve lost the red string
you laced around my
finger, and the poems
you branded into parchment;
the way they
tasted--
the blazing, briny ink
of your tears.
What was my name last year,
little poet, dancing gypsy?
It seems to have fallen
somewhere through the cracks in my palms.
Did it sing like fireworks
blooming on your tongue?
Or did it sting like a knife
and the pomegranate juices of your own
blood?
Oh, but I wish you would speak it,
so I could
remember.
I've been thinking a lot about all the things I wish I could be, and all the things that I've lost. I'm missing my high school friends, and I keep wishing that I had kept a blog then, so I could have some scrap of who I was to look back on.
I miss simplicity, and a sense of immediacy. Although I like having my whole "rich inner life" thing, I wish I could be more connected to the physical world. I read some posts in this blog http://www.theglassdoorknob.blogspot.com/ and I it had everything I feel I have been missing. It reminded me that being poetic isn't all about complexity and verbosity. Poetry is intensity.
I'm not intense!! (waa!)
The author reminded me of this girl, Astrid, who I was friends with at the beginning of high school. I think I was jealous of her, even though I didn't realize it then. She was so beautiful, like one of those voluptuous priestess Final Fantasy characters, and everything around her seemed sacred-- the pen she balanced between her fingers, the green apple she bit pensively, the jack-o-lantern she grasped in both hands. She had white skin, wide, expressive eyes, a soft face, gold hair, petulant lips, and a permanently contented expression, like a Buddhist monk. Unlike me, she always spoke quietly. She never seemed very hurried. We got along very well, even though she didn't share my sharper side-- the part of me that makes politically incorrect jokes, says stupid things for the hell of it, and writes blog posts with the title "Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!"-- and she was sensitive to the extreme, saving spiders from eminent slaughter, adopting neglected textbooks, and pouting when Fallon made jokes about aborted babies. Fallon never liked her; she thought that Astrid was a fake bitch, and resented her theatrics over the lives of insects.
As for me, Astrid's sensitivity made me uncomfortable, but I didn't blame her for it. I never really believed that she was "fake" as so many people accused her of being-- I thought she always seemed like a sincere person to me. I enjoyed the quiet days we spent together. I visited her house a couple of times, and we went trick-or-treating together one year. We both appreciated the colors of autumn, the beauty of innocence, the joy of discount books, thrift stores, and sexy photographs. She told me that she wanted to own an art studio, and I told her I wanted to be an author. When I look back on this now, I cringe. Her writing was unquestionably better than mine, and she must have known it-- mine, at the time, was hopelessly juvenile. Yes. Even worse than now. She had one of those pensive and tranquil natures that allowed her to really connect with everything beautiful in the world. I always thought she was one of the wisest people I ever met.
We started drifting apart when we were sophomores, around this time of year. Right before the election, we had a pseudo-argument about George Bush and John Kerry, which ended when I said something somewhat tactless. It really wasn't that bad, but it hurt her. I guess I should tell you what happened-- we had had a mock vote, and Astrid had changed her vote at the last minute from Bush to Kerry (when I look back, I find it remarkable that she ever considered voting for Bush- she of the "No Blood for Oil" t-shirts), but Bush still ended up winning. Afterwards, I came up to her and asked her why she changed her mind, and she said that Bush reminded her too much of her father. Then would have been the time to say something nice, but, being both an Idiot and a Republican, I said, "Well, at least your vote didn't matter in the end." Or something like that. Ok, maybe it was that bad. I was referring to the fact that I was glad that Bush still won our election, but... yeah. It was a dumb thing to say.
Astrid, being divinely sensitive... I don't know if she ever really forgave me for that. I don't remember if I tried to apologize. I was embarrassed that I had said something so tactless, and I guess I hoped that if I didn't think about it again, the problem would eventually go away.
I wonder if she still remembers. I'm friends with her on facebook, and she still seems like the same old Astrid. Effortlessly wise, a better writer than I will ever be, beautiful, and spirited. I wish I weren't so afraid of trying to strike up old friendships. But what I'm really afraid of is to find out what she remembers me as. I've changed a lot since early high school, but how could she know that? She ended up leaving for another school at the beginning of junior year, and I only saw her once since then. I was standing on line, waiting to take the SATs, which was a right bag of fun, when I saw her standing a little ways ahead in line, her hair short, bleach blonde, and streaked with light blue. She used to have this really long, beautiful hair that was the color of honey, before she decided to cut and dye it. I thought she looked fantastic either way, but she used to say that she missed her long hair. Anyway, I said hi, she said, hi, we might have exchanged a few "how are you"s, but, altogether, it was a very awkward meeting.
Later that week, I laughed off the encounter with friends and Fallon, who is always a very generous person except when it comes to Astrid, used the opportunity to remark that she always knew that Astrid was a bitch. I might have even agreed-- I think I was bitter that she didn't remember me more warmly. But, now that I've left all the old conflicts of high school behind me, I realize that I was angry at myself-- I take the full blame for the fact that our friendship fell apart. I sometimes find myself thinking of how wonderful it would be if we were still friends, and curse the fact that I'm too cowardly to try talking to her. I know why, too. She's a reminder of everything I hate in myself. I'm rash, crude, judgmental, and even ignorant. Those qualities might have been more pronounced in my younger self, but they are still there. Astrid is a constant reminder of the costs of my flaws.
I'll leave you with this piece of poetry I wrote with Astrid in mind, over the summer. I envisioned her as the title character, and I also tried to write the way she would. I didn't do her justice in either sense, but here it is:
Little Poet, Dancing Gypsy
Who were you last year, Faina, and
did you sleep beneath
willows? sky? me?
Do you remember the carnival--
the fires in the tents and the smoky
skin I kissed, the pristine arches
of feet, and the dancing, swirling
carousel when I led you into
me? And the cherry-bursts
of fireworks; the lemonade lanterns
of fireflies that perched like stars
in the branching midnight of your hair?
I’ve long forgotten
your spider-thin hands, spinning
my fortune round in your
crystal ball, the musk of your
voice as you sang my future,
etching your lines in my opening
palms, and your palms--
how they were dipping bowls
brimming with stars, swirling
cards that sifted through folding
fingers tracing the life told
in the spaces between
galaxies
of freckles strung on my neck
and the silences
sundering my words.
And I’ve lost the red string
you laced around my
finger, and the poems
you branded into parchment;
the way they
tasted--
the blazing, briny ink
of your tears.
What was my name last year,
little poet, dancing gypsy?
It seems to have fallen
somewhere through the cracks in my palms.
Did it sing like fireworks
blooming on your tongue?
Or did it sting like a knife
and the pomegranate juices of your own
blood?
Oh, but I wish you would speak it,
so I could
remember.
In Which I Take a Break from Literary Genius to Bring You News of the Outside
Blogger Buzz: Concerning the Historie and Nature of Blogs of Note
How intensely interesting... Here I was thinking that Google, with all their fancy tech-knowledge-y-ness would decide what their "blogs of note" were by seeing which blogs were getting the most traffic and positive comments. But. No. They just skim around and arbitrarily look for ten blogs out of thousands that strike them as interesting. Real scientific.
Has anyone else noticed that it's impossible to search for other blogs by topic? Well, either it's impossible to do it, or it's damn near it. So much for easy interface. Let us rally together, and fight the bitches! Bloody the bitches! Revolution!!!
Yeah.
So, I've decided to post my favorite peace of prose to date. That oughta cheer you up (I know you're distraught)
“A Good Book”
There is nothing so decadent and voluptuous as a book sitting fat and unopened on the shelf, like the most sensual secret whispered haughtily between lovers—a novel that looks so plump and inviting, beckoning like a pretty young prostitute, “Read me, deeply and knowingly, peruse my secrets and my darkest corners, touch the cobwebs of my soul, read me, oh, oh, read me!” A title that flirts with your senses. The Joy Luck Club, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Bluest Eye, Anna Karenina, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, Lolita—teasing, provoking, cunning, kissing titles, like geishas, coy and lovely. Like a veiled bride, like the first bud of spring.
Like a photograph of lovers in trench coats meeting in the St. Petersburg snow, exchanging letters with wax seals, eyes locking—blue eyes, love-making eyes—and red, red lips. The cathedrals that soar over their heads are in black and white, blurred in a swirling background. Silhouetted against the grey towers, her hair is brown, curled. And she is classically beautiful and so his he, with his strong chin, daring eyes, and sensuous lips. The snow is so white, and it’s like the most hauntingly beautiful Christmas you ever dreamed (the year when the lights made glowing gum-drop patterns in the fiery snow, when your breath puffed in cotton candy clouds, and your mother bought you the most beautiful dark green coat, with the big, fat buttons and the narrowed waist, the one that made you look so grown up. And you were only 6 and you were in love with life; with the lonely sounds of the railroad tracks mingled with the laughter in the candy shops, mingled with the bells and rosy voices soaring from the vaulting cathedral heights. )
There is a universe of loss to be read in that scene, in those eyes.
Later she will be sprawled on his bed, in his penthouse apartment. And there are no shades and the city is glowingly alive through the windowpane, but abandoned by its sleepy denizens—a snowy skeleton sprawled out beneath their arching bodies. And she is in her lacy lingerie, so unbearably white, as white as her skin is white, as white as her hair is dark, as white as her eyes are brooding. You know it will be so, as certainly as you know the hollowness in your own heart—the aching want that wants to be filled with her eyes, her cheeks, her smile, her story.
She is an orphan. Her tightened muscles and darting eyes tell you so; exclaim it. Her parents met in some slum in Leningrad, in some romantic, vodka-fueled, passionate, and tragic tryst not so unlike the one she is having tonight, but without the glamour, brandy, and cigars. You can tell because her speech is all sophistication and cunning, but with a bite and bitter aftertaste that speak to working-class lovers, sloppy kisses, and bad breeding. She is a spy. You can tell by the way she hides her teeth when she laughs, like her mirth is a badly-kept secret. You can tell by the way she makes love, because her moans are deeper than the darkest well, and her eyes are shut against her pleasure.
Her name would be something foreign, feminine, and rare- a sapphire of a name, strong and deep, faceted and light-catching, satin and steely. Fantine, Anna, Marie, Cossette, Wei Wei, Eowyn, Summer, Miranda, Esmeralda, Nina. Nina, Nina, like a tiny ballerina, like a broken promise, like a runaway child, like a brief touch of heaven for an eternity in hell- burning passion and longing, locked up, tortured, burning, burning, while she is so coy, so afraid, and laughing cruelly all the while. Like Antoinette posed on the guillotine, precious and guilty. Like snow. Nina, Nina.
You could put her in a cage, like a sparrow, but she would neither fly nor sing. You could beg her to dance, to but speak your name, but she would deny you, again and again. Oh, but that would only make you love her all the more, dream of her always- of her nakedness under the snowing sky, of your name being swirled on her tongue, of her sure fingers dancing some mournful waltz on the piano as her eyes contemplate the grey and dreary countryside, misty and lonely beyond the clouded windowpane. You could keep her forever, and still she is always a secret, always safe from your prying thoughts, but you- she had every corner of you from the moment she thought to glance you, nothing of you is a mystery worth wanting, and you know it—knew it from the moment you saw her photograph, faded and dying in some attic somewhere. Dead and bones crumbling in some grave, anonymous and dirt, she is still more alive than you have ever been. She is intoxicating, unbearable, and never, ever yours.
You tuck the book under your arm. It feels secure and right, nestled against your side, the vaulted secrets of a life that never lived, but will live on long after the worms have forgotten you. You will lie in bed and it will whisper such secrets in your ear, the most patient of lovers, because it has forever.
There is nothing more beautiful, whole, and good than the tragically suggestive; nothing more dear than the company of a good book.
It's a prose poem! So smile!
Good Cheer and Violent Rioting Forever!
---Your Always Lovely Mei-Mei
How intensely interesting... Here I was thinking that Google, with all their fancy tech-knowledge-y-ness would decide what their "blogs of note" were by seeing which blogs were getting the most traffic and positive comments. But. No. They just skim around and arbitrarily look for ten blogs out of thousands that strike them as interesting. Real scientific.
Has anyone else noticed that it's impossible to search for other blogs by topic? Well, either it's impossible to do it, or it's damn near it. So much for easy interface. Let us rally together, and fight the bitches! Bloody the bitches! Revolution!!!
Yeah.
So, I've decided to post my favorite peace of prose to date. That oughta cheer you up (I know you're distraught)
“A Good Book”
There is nothing so decadent and voluptuous as a book sitting fat and unopened on the shelf, like the most sensual secret whispered haughtily between lovers—a novel that looks so plump and inviting, beckoning like a pretty young prostitute, “Read me, deeply and knowingly, peruse my secrets and my darkest corners, touch the cobwebs of my soul, read me, oh, oh, read me!” A title that flirts with your senses. The Joy Luck Club, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Bluest Eye, Anna Karenina, The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, Lolita—teasing, provoking, cunning, kissing titles, like geishas, coy and lovely. Like a veiled bride, like the first bud of spring.
Like a photograph of lovers in trench coats meeting in the St. Petersburg snow, exchanging letters with wax seals, eyes locking—blue eyes, love-making eyes—and red, red lips. The cathedrals that soar over their heads are in black and white, blurred in a swirling background. Silhouetted against the grey towers, her hair is brown, curled. And she is classically beautiful and so his he, with his strong chin, daring eyes, and sensuous lips. The snow is so white, and it’s like the most hauntingly beautiful Christmas you ever dreamed (the year when the lights made glowing gum-drop patterns in the fiery snow, when your breath puffed in cotton candy clouds, and your mother bought you the most beautiful dark green coat, with the big, fat buttons and the narrowed waist, the one that made you look so grown up. And you were only 6 and you were in love with life; with the lonely sounds of the railroad tracks mingled with the laughter in the candy shops, mingled with the bells and rosy voices soaring from the vaulting cathedral heights. )
There is a universe of loss to be read in that scene, in those eyes.
Later she will be sprawled on his bed, in his penthouse apartment. And there are no shades and the city is glowingly alive through the windowpane, but abandoned by its sleepy denizens—a snowy skeleton sprawled out beneath their arching bodies. And she is in her lacy lingerie, so unbearably white, as white as her skin is white, as white as her hair is dark, as white as her eyes are brooding. You know it will be so, as certainly as you know the hollowness in your own heart—the aching want that wants to be filled with her eyes, her cheeks, her smile, her story.
She is an orphan. Her tightened muscles and darting eyes tell you so; exclaim it. Her parents met in some slum in Leningrad, in some romantic, vodka-fueled, passionate, and tragic tryst not so unlike the one she is having tonight, but without the glamour, brandy, and cigars. You can tell because her speech is all sophistication and cunning, but with a bite and bitter aftertaste that speak to working-class lovers, sloppy kisses, and bad breeding. She is a spy. You can tell by the way she hides her teeth when she laughs, like her mirth is a badly-kept secret. You can tell by the way she makes love, because her moans are deeper than the darkest well, and her eyes are shut against her pleasure.
Her name would be something foreign, feminine, and rare- a sapphire of a name, strong and deep, faceted and light-catching, satin and steely. Fantine, Anna, Marie, Cossette, Wei Wei, Eowyn, Summer, Miranda, Esmeralda, Nina. Nina, Nina, like a tiny ballerina, like a broken promise, like a runaway child, like a brief touch of heaven for an eternity in hell- burning passion and longing, locked up, tortured, burning, burning, while she is so coy, so afraid, and laughing cruelly all the while. Like Antoinette posed on the guillotine, precious and guilty. Like snow. Nina, Nina.
You could put her in a cage, like a sparrow, but she would neither fly nor sing. You could beg her to dance, to but speak your name, but she would deny you, again and again. Oh, but that would only make you love her all the more, dream of her always- of her nakedness under the snowing sky, of your name being swirled on her tongue, of her sure fingers dancing some mournful waltz on the piano as her eyes contemplate the grey and dreary countryside, misty and lonely beyond the clouded windowpane. You could keep her forever, and still she is always a secret, always safe from your prying thoughts, but you- she had every corner of you from the moment she thought to glance you, nothing of you is a mystery worth wanting, and you know it—knew it from the moment you saw her photograph, faded and dying in some attic somewhere. Dead and bones crumbling in some grave, anonymous and dirt, she is still more alive than you have ever been. She is intoxicating, unbearable, and never, ever yours.
You tuck the book under your arm. It feels secure and right, nestled against your side, the vaulted secrets of a life that never lived, but will live on long after the worms have forgotten you. You will lie in bed and it will whisper such secrets in your ear, the most patient of lovers, because it has forever.
There is nothing more beautiful, whole, and good than the tragically suggestive; nothing more dear than the company of a good book.
It's a prose poem! So smile!
Good Cheer and Violent Rioting Forever!
---Your Always Lovely Mei-Mei
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!
Sorry for the random title. I just wanted to be really intense. Whew.
So, I've been stalking Craig and Lan Chi's kick-ass blogs, and I'm like, "Kick? Aaaass? Why can't I do that?" Even Tyler says that I suck compared to them.
So, my friends, I am going to hang up my proverbial hat; rescue my proverbial towel back from the proverbial ring into which I proverbially threw it back in my younger, more reckless days. I am retiring to a secret island with lots of palm trees and Peperidge Farm cinnamon toast, passing my days fucking the natives (of both sexes), drinking free coffee, letting my many lackeys clean up my tampons, and doing anything BUT writing. Because I suck. This is the end of my dream. Goodbye. For-ever.
-------------------------------------------
That is what I would have said if I were Lan Chi. Luckily, I'm Mei-Mei, and I persevere despite my overall suckage (not that you suck, Lan Chi. I think you're fifty times as awesome as me on your most shitty day than I am on my best day. Not that you have shitty days). Three cheers for perseverence.
-------------------------------------------
So. Yeah. I haven't been writing lately. Tell me about it. My computer contracted a violent case the flu, was rushed to the hospital, underwent several major surgeries, and was returned to me with a severe case of amnesia. Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!
Meanwhile, my friends have been hard at work. And they are better than me. And will be killed. Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!
Ummm... I'm an ADD kid today. My brain is zipping through Zero Space right now... Brain? Brain?
Mmmmm. So, in light of my relative shittiness in the world of bloggage and the world of everything elseage, I wanted to write a Super! Kick! Ass! post today, about all the fun stuff that's happened to my friends and I, which my friends always enjoy. That would prop up my thoroughly humped self-esteem. But it's midnight. And I still have the introduction of a paper to work on. 2-3 pages. Usually not a problem for me. Except it's supposed to be an anecdote, about 1 of 2 topics, neither of which I have an anecdote for. Woah is Mei! Chivalry timbers! (heehee)
So, instead of doing something cool, I'm going to post something thoroughly uncool, just so I can say I've posted something fairly recently (for "something thuroughly uncool, read "my paper intro"). I've got a plan! You can do whatever you wannoo, Baybay, BaybAAAAaaay! G-get naked! Get naked!
-----------------------------------
I emerged in New Jersey for winter break, after a long and harrowing flight from South Carolina, thoroughly disgruntled. After hours of having my shoulder being made into a makeshift pillow by an elderly man who was overly fond of garlic, undergoing several claustrophobia-induced panic attacks, and having my bra probed for explosives, I was exhausted. My head was buzzing unpleasantly, like someone was mowing the lawn up there. My stomach was a vat of acid. The only things I had eaten in twenty-four hours were a condom-package-sized bag of airline peanuts and half a stale croissant I had left over from yesterday’s breakfast. I was ready to go home, relax, and eat myself into a stupor.
My mother greeted me by the baggage terminal, in the ecstasies of motherly affection, (“What happened? You’re an hour late!”), sent well-wishes from my father, who was working and could not be there (“Dad wants to know when you find out what you got on your finals.”), and told me how much the family had missed my warm presence (“Your brother needs you to help him on his Social Studies project.”) I’m being unkind to her, though. It wasn’t her fault. She was being harried from all sides, and couldn’t help but be in a less than ecstatic mood. She cheered up once we got into the car and were on our way. It was then that she revealed that she had a Surprise for me.
“I wanted to take you to Luchento’s,” she explained, “And I want to make sure that we’re back before Dad gets home.” She said this in a casual tone, but this was a Big Deal. Dad didn’t like us going out to eat, even when it was just for fast food and was absolutely necessary. Sometimes there were days when Mom had to drive my brother, Thomas, and I back and forth to school, teach a CCD class, take Thomas to piano lessons, and go to her choir practice all on the same day, and she didn’t have time to cook, so she had to get us some McDonald’s. It was an unspoken rule that whenever this happened, Thomas and I would throw away the incriminating packages somewhere where Dad wouldn’t find them, and never speak of the affair. Because if he ever found out, it meant an hour long lecture interspersed with yelling, and a ticking bomb in the house for the rest of the night. Almost anything would piss him off after that—Thomas whining about practicing his trumpet, Mom not acting completely chipper, or me talking about one of my teachers (he always suspected that I liked them better than him ever since I asked my AP English teacher for advice on my college essays before I asked him). So, if he got that mad about a five-dollar grease-burger and fries purchased in a time of great need, you can imagine what he would do if he found out that we ate out at a nice restaurant in a fit of frivolity. No wonder my mom was nervous about me getting off the plane late.
Luchento’s was one of my favorite restaurants; it served the best Italian I’d ever had. I especially appreciated it since good Italian had been in short supply in the land of grits and beans. I bit off large chunks of semolina bread and, when I had time to breathe, talked to my mom about how everyone was doing. I had trouble concentrating, though—I was too busy stalking our waiter with my eyes, muttering, “I want my food, scumbag,” under my breath, and wringing my hands in hunger. My pasta was finally placed before me, and I started eating at an ambitious pace. But then, all of a sudden, I was hit by a wave of nausea. It felt like someone had let loose a colony of army ants in my stomach. Suddenly dizzy, I hunched forward and pressed my face to the tablecloth, which felt good and cool against my burning skin.
“Melissa? What’s wrong?” asked my mom.
“Nothing,” I whimpered. “I haven’t eaten in a while; I think it’s getting to me.” Truthfully, I thought that it also had to do with my depression. I’d been tired and had a fluctuating appetite for the last month, although this seemed more serious. So, the next day, I went to the doctor, and got the blessed news.
“You have mononucleosis,” he said.
“There goes my winter vacation,” I said.
Staying confined to your room for a month had its advantages. For one thing, no one tries to force you to go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. You can stay out of the way whenever Grandpa goes into a fit at the mention of the words “youth culture” on Fox News, opt out of Dad’s twentieth rendition of the “Laura and the hamburger with the hair in it” story, and have a convenient escape when Grandma embarks on her Matlock marathon. Even with my migraines, I managed to get through my entire reading list. Twice. One evening, as I skimmed Javert’s suicide scene in my well-worn copy of Les Miserables, it occurred to me that I was bored. I considered venturing downstairs, but had the presence of mind to eavesdrop before making the final decision. It turned out that Grandpa was complaining about a wedding invitation he had received (the bride and groom had already had a child together, so, apparently, they had no right to throw a party for their marriage). All things considered, it seemed most prudent to remain in bed. I began rummaging through my old books, and found one that I had never read. It was called Bass Ackwards and Belly Up. Not the greatest title, but I was desperate for something new to read. Two hours later, I had finished, but my mind was still going over each scene.
The book was about four girls who graduated high school and decided to take a year off before going to college to pursue their dreams. The way the book had explained their decisions made the whole thing seem incredibly logical and plausible, and yet… in my middle class upbringing, it never seemed like a real possibility for me, as stupid as that sounds. Bad kids graduated high school and went to go work. Good kids went to respectable colleges, respectable grad schools, worked respectable jobs, had respectable families, went into retirement at a respectable age, and died respectably. Or so I’d been told. This book was an epiphany. I didn’t have to do that. And why should I?
I wanted to go to college, of course. I like learning; I want to be an educated person. But why should I enter into a career right after graduation? I’m not taking out loans. I don’t ever need to make a lot of money, if I don’t want to.
I look at my family, and I know that I’ve been making myself sick with worry trying to do everything they want. I love them, but they look at the world in a different way than I do. The things that make them happy won’t make me happy, and vice versa. Of course, they’ll be thoroughly pissed if I don’t go right off to grad school, but, in the end, it won’t kill them if I end up one or two years “behind schedule.” And I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I never take a chance and do something adventurous.
I realize I’ve always delved into books to escape the rather dull expectations of my parents. There’s nothing appealing to me about being a career woman. Nothing. The only reason I’d ever want to do that is so I could have a family, and I don’t want to be the same kind of parent either of mine have been. I’ve always figured that the romantic lives that characters lead in books—traveling the world, working job to job, country to country—are gifts reserved only for those who are lucky enough to live in a world that is fictional. I want to live like that, if just for a time. I want to taste true freedom. I want to know what kind of person I could be if I had the chance to live just for myself. When I imagine the limitless horizon, the oceans and continents full of unknown beauty, the billions of people I could meet and maybe love, it seems sad and unfair that I should live out my days in this one tiny corner of the world.
Yet, even as I write this, my dream seems unreal. I’ve been so conditioned to think that my whole life needs to take place here—in this country, on this timetable—that it feels unspeakably blasphemous to want anything different. Hopefully, as I write this paper and examine all the specificities of what traveling the world would entail, what considerations I would have to take, and whether it is really plausible to embark on it and still keep my dreams of having a family alive, the whole thing will become more real. I hope, by the end of my research, to not only have a plan, but the will to see it through.
So, I've been stalking Craig and Lan Chi's kick-ass blogs, and I'm like, "Kick? Aaaass? Why can't I do that?" Even Tyler says that I suck compared to them.
So, my friends, I am going to hang up my proverbial hat; rescue my proverbial towel back from the proverbial ring into which I proverbially threw it back in my younger, more reckless days. I am retiring to a secret island with lots of palm trees and Peperidge Farm cinnamon toast, passing my days fucking the natives (of both sexes), drinking free coffee, letting my many lackeys clean up my tampons, and doing anything BUT writing. Because I suck. This is the end of my dream. Goodbye. For-ever.
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That is what I would have said if I were Lan Chi. Luckily, I'm Mei-Mei, and I persevere despite my overall suckage (not that you suck, Lan Chi. I think you're fifty times as awesome as me on your most shitty day than I am on my best day. Not that you have shitty days). Three cheers for perseverence.
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So. Yeah. I haven't been writing lately. Tell me about it. My computer contracted a violent case the flu, was rushed to the hospital, underwent several major surgeries, and was returned to me with a severe case of amnesia. Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!
Meanwhile, my friends have been hard at work. And they are better than me. And will be killed. Whore Shit Fuck! Revolution!!!
Ummm... I'm an ADD kid today. My brain is zipping through Zero Space right now... Brain? Brain?
Mmmmm. So, in light of my relative shittiness in the world of bloggage and the world of everything elseage, I wanted to write a Super! Kick! Ass! post today, about all the fun stuff that's happened to my friends and I, which my friends always enjoy. That would prop up my thoroughly humped self-esteem. But it's midnight. And I still have the introduction of a paper to work on. 2-3 pages. Usually not a problem for me. Except it's supposed to be an anecdote, about 1 of 2 topics, neither of which I have an anecdote for. Woah is Mei! Chivalry timbers! (heehee)
So, instead of doing something cool, I'm going to post something thoroughly uncool, just so I can say I've posted something fairly recently (for "something thuroughly uncool, read "my paper intro"). I've got a plan! You can do whatever you wannoo, Baybay, BaybAAAAaaay! G-get naked! Get naked!
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I emerged in New Jersey for winter break, after a long and harrowing flight from South Carolina, thoroughly disgruntled. After hours of having my shoulder being made into a makeshift pillow by an elderly man who was overly fond of garlic, undergoing several claustrophobia-induced panic attacks, and having my bra probed for explosives, I was exhausted. My head was buzzing unpleasantly, like someone was mowing the lawn up there. My stomach was a vat of acid. The only things I had eaten in twenty-four hours were a condom-package-sized bag of airline peanuts and half a stale croissant I had left over from yesterday’s breakfast. I was ready to go home, relax, and eat myself into a stupor.
My mother greeted me by the baggage terminal, in the ecstasies of motherly affection, (“What happened? You’re an hour late!”), sent well-wishes from my father, who was working and could not be there (“Dad wants to know when you find out what you got on your finals.”), and told me how much the family had missed my warm presence (“Your brother needs you to help him on his Social Studies project.”) I’m being unkind to her, though. It wasn’t her fault. She was being harried from all sides, and couldn’t help but be in a less than ecstatic mood. She cheered up once we got into the car and were on our way. It was then that she revealed that she had a Surprise for me.
“I wanted to take you to Luchento’s,” she explained, “And I want to make sure that we’re back before Dad gets home.” She said this in a casual tone, but this was a Big Deal. Dad didn’t like us going out to eat, even when it was just for fast food and was absolutely necessary. Sometimes there were days when Mom had to drive my brother, Thomas, and I back and forth to school, teach a CCD class, take Thomas to piano lessons, and go to her choir practice all on the same day, and she didn’t have time to cook, so she had to get us some McDonald’s. It was an unspoken rule that whenever this happened, Thomas and I would throw away the incriminating packages somewhere where Dad wouldn’t find them, and never speak of the affair. Because if he ever found out, it meant an hour long lecture interspersed with yelling, and a ticking bomb in the house for the rest of the night. Almost anything would piss him off after that—Thomas whining about practicing his trumpet, Mom not acting completely chipper, or me talking about one of my teachers (he always suspected that I liked them better than him ever since I asked my AP English teacher for advice on my college essays before I asked him). So, if he got that mad about a five-dollar grease-burger and fries purchased in a time of great need, you can imagine what he would do if he found out that we ate out at a nice restaurant in a fit of frivolity. No wonder my mom was nervous about me getting off the plane late.
Luchento’s was one of my favorite restaurants; it served the best Italian I’d ever had. I especially appreciated it since good Italian had been in short supply in the land of grits and beans. I bit off large chunks of semolina bread and, when I had time to breathe, talked to my mom about how everyone was doing. I had trouble concentrating, though—I was too busy stalking our waiter with my eyes, muttering, “I want my food, scumbag,” under my breath, and wringing my hands in hunger. My pasta was finally placed before me, and I started eating at an ambitious pace. But then, all of a sudden, I was hit by a wave of nausea. It felt like someone had let loose a colony of army ants in my stomach. Suddenly dizzy, I hunched forward and pressed my face to the tablecloth, which felt good and cool against my burning skin.
“Melissa? What’s wrong?” asked my mom.
“Nothing,” I whimpered. “I haven’t eaten in a while; I think it’s getting to me.” Truthfully, I thought that it also had to do with my depression. I’d been tired and had a fluctuating appetite for the last month, although this seemed more serious. So, the next day, I went to the doctor, and got the blessed news.
“You have mononucleosis,” he said.
“There goes my winter vacation,” I said.
Staying confined to your room for a month had its advantages. For one thing, no one tries to force you to go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve. You can stay out of the way whenever Grandpa goes into a fit at the mention of the words “youth culture” on Fox News, opt out of Dad’s twentieth rendition of the “Laura and the hamburger with the hair in it” story, and have a convenient escape when Grandma embarks on her Matlock marathon. Even with my migraines, I managed to get through my entire reading list. Twice. One evening, as I skimmed Javert’s suicide scene in my well-worn copy of Les Miserables, it occurred to me that I was bored. I considered venturing downstairs, but had the presence of mind to eavesdrop before making the final decision. It turned out that Grandpa was complaining about a wedding invitation he had received (the bride and groom had already had a child together, so, apparently, they had no right to throw a party for their marriage). All things considered, it seemed most prudent to remain in bed. I began rummaging through my old books, and found one that I had never read. It was called Bass Ackwards and Belly Up. Not the greatest title, but I was desperate for something new to read. Two hours later, I had finished, but my mind was still going over each scene.
The book was about four girls who graduated high school and decided to take a year off before going to college to pursue their dreams. The way the book had explained their decisions made the whole thing seem incredibly logical and plausible, and yet… in my middle class upbringing, it never seemed like a real possibility for me, as stupid as that sounds. Bad kids graduated high school and went to go work. Good kids went to respectable colleges, respectable grad schools, worked respectable jobs, had respectable families, went into retirement at a respectable age, and died respectably. Or so I’d been told. This book was an epiphany. I didn’t have to do that. And why should I?
I wanted to go to college, of course. I like learning; I want to be an educated person. But why should I enter into a career right after graduation? I’m not taking out loans. I don’t ever need to make a lot of money, if I don’t want to.
I look at my family, and I know that I’ve been making myself sick with worry trying to do everything they want. I love them, but they look at the world in a different way than I do. The things that make them happy won’t make me happy, and vice versa. Of course, they’ll be thoroughly pissed if I don’t go right off to grad school, but, in the end, it won’t kill them if I end up one or two years “behind schedule.” And I’ll regret it for the rest of my life if I never take a chance and do something adventurous.
I realize I’ve always delved into books to escape the rather dull expectations of my parents. There’s nothing appealing to me about being a career woman. Nothing. The only reason I’d ever want to do that is so I could have a family, and I don’t want to be the same kind of parent either of mine have been. I’ve always figured that the romantic lives that characters lead in books—traveling the world, working job to job, country to country—are gifts reserved only for those who are lucky enough to live in a world that is fictional. I want to live like that, if just for a time. I want to taste true freedom. I want to know what kind of person I could be if I had the chance to live just for myself. When I imagine the limitless horizon, the oceans and continents full of unknown beauty, the billions of people I could meet and maybe love, it seems sad and unfair that I should live out my days in this one tiny corner of the world.
Yet, even as I write this, my dream seems unreal. I’ve been so conditioned to think that my whole life needs to take place here—in this country, on this timetable—that it feels unspeakably blasphemous to want anything different. Hopefully, as I write this paper and examine all the specificities of what traveling the world would entail, what considerations I would have to take, and whether it is really plausible to embark on it and still keep my dreams of having a family alive, the whole thing will become more real. I hope, by the end of my research, to not only have a plan, but the will to see it through.
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