The harsh western winds beat at my face, a cold and bitter sting left on my skin. Here I hang on the edge of a cliff, swaying slightly with the wind, looking occasionally down to the blank depth below me. The ground is so exceedingly far below me that the colors of the landscape twist and turn, blurred into a marred image of the desert I have traveled and loved. The arms beside me are burned with dried blood from my callused, cracked hands, and I feel weak and empty. That drive to fight for what my life has become has leaked out of my being and slowly dripped to the dust below, the fervent will to survive has slowly left me as I become more and more tired and as my body seems to grow heavier and heavier. I came to be here because I had grown to despise the dank landscape behind me, yet I refuse to fall because I can't quite see the world below.
This is one place you can not stay. Eventually you will have to either crawl back on to the ground above you, the monotonous existence serving as the usurper of a life once vibrant, or you will have to fall and give your self to the land below.
Yesterday I fell.
My grasp relented, my stubbornness and intractability to move finally thwarted by the nature of life. I shed my masks, my facades, the costumes that have become my person; I stepped out of these self-made beauties. And yet, it was not a loss. I had not given up to see my opponent laugh and fly with victory, I had simply made a move I had lusted after and feared for a long time. I allowed my body to jerk limp, thrusting my self into the cavernous space below me, twisting and turning. The wind blows against my bare back, beating me as I grow faster and faster until I reach terminal velocity and simply fall. I am terrified but free, scared but ecstatic to move my hands and arms and feel the beautiful elation that comes with change.
My release is anything but glorious, however; my eyes are drained and the vivacity that has possessed my face for so long is no longer present. I haven't been sure of my surroundings since I told my mother that I have been seeing Elisse and that I wasn't going to stop just because she used to be bi (or whatever). I haven't felt stable or secure since I told her that she had given up so much for a life I don't respect or enjoy, since I told her that I'm not sure I wish to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. My passion is this doctrine, this philosophy, the leaders and the community, but I cannot bear the sight of what my family has done for it. I could never live for this the way they do, I could never bear such unhappiness in the name of service. I love her and I quake in the sight of her ability to be truly selfless and live for her children, her family. I see the wisdom in her rules, in her kindness, in her passions, but I don't know if I want to live in Utah anymore. I don’t know if I want to live with her anymore. I don't wish to play for those at school that I work so hard to convince; I will not create for them. I create for no one.
I create for no one. I write for no one. I live for no one but myself.
Breath has never been this satisfying; the pain induced by this icy wind has never been more bittersweet upon my lips. The freedom to relax and to lie limp is mine, as I fall I can move in ways I never have before. My body, however, is still as lifeless as before, my eyes still tired and apathetic, glazed and fatigued. Even with this change, I am not excited, just curious: curious to see where I fall.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Ok- my blog is being a little slut. My life in general is being a little slut. My day sucked. It wasn't mediocre, it wasn't horrendously tragic, it just sucked. And to me, that is the worst type of day. Other than the fact that I had to close tonight and I sat my servers terribly, nothing happened. Elisse and her absolutely adorable grandpa came to dine at OSF, so I chatted with them for a couple of minutes. She really cheered me up, even though the fact that she knew more people in the OSF establishment than I did was slightly depressing. Tomorrow I'm going to go meet her at the main library to set off and see her apartment. It's probably amazingly adorable, and I'll probably be sick with envy. At least I know what to expect from myself.
My life is such a little slut right now. It's not even on one side of the spectrum like my experiences usually are, due to the fact that I'm somewhat manic depressive. There isn't an extreme to feed off of; there is no emotion to sustain me. I can't delight in the purity of the black or white before me because the walls rising above my vision are gray. The dullest, thoughtless gray. This feeling swirls about me, enrapturing me, neither smooth like marble nor coarse like rough-cut granite. There's no word to define this, there aren't any distinctive characteristics or connotations to explain this, it's just present.
Such a little slut. Right now I just can't be happy with anything. After raising my pay, my manager sees that I don't care. What am I going to do with more money? It will all go towards college in the end. While trying to hit on me at work, two guys see that my apathy is not to be trifled with. I remain un-flattered, yet not disgusted. Do what you want. I'm going to bed in half an hour, and that's pretty much all I care about, because this world is a whore; A bleach-blonde tease, with a heaving inflated chest, so despicable and openly undesirable, yet craved by anyone belonging to this society.
And then I get home to see that, after spending all that freaking time on this stupid blog, it is being a little slut. If I have nothing, however, at least I have consistency.
Oh well. I comforted by that fact that I don't have to stop complaining. I don't have to cease my pathetic whining, because this is my blog and my thoughts are my thoughts. I plan to utilize this is every way possible.
I really think I need a shrink; not because I'm worried that I might just be seriously messed, although this might very well be the case, but because I think everybody needs professional help. A therapist is not for the insane alone, but for those refusing to settle with mental mediocrity.
Wow. I'm listening to a song by Sneaker Pimps, and it's pretty twisted. "spin spin sugar", said in a very odd tone, is repeated again and again to a retro beat. Why not? I finally got the song I wanted- sneaker pimps, 6 underground. This made me happy, considering how long I've tried to get a hold of that song. Now all I have to do is find out what was playing at Dior's spring/summer 2004 RTW and I'll be set. The last song of the show was totally post, I have to get a hold of it. I've researched this, but I can't seem to find it. Frustrating, to say the least.
I'm kind of worried. My little brother, Ricky, is turning into a punk. He's hanging out with these idiots that I don't trust. They stole some kid's scooter at school on Wed, and I'm getting pissed off. He's not going to turn into some mindless, impudent, scooter-stealing delinquent. He's too much of a sweetheart. He's having a big slumber party right now and him and his band of miscreants just snuck out to go toilet-papering. As if I don't know. Grow up Ricky, just grow up. The process of maturing is over rated, just get it over with.
I'm in a repulsive mood. I'm going to go eat toast.
My life is such a little slut right now. It's not even on one side of the spectrum like my experiences usually are, due to the fact that I'm somewhat manic depressive. There isn't an extreme to feed off of; there is no emotion to sustain me. I can't delight in the purity of the black or white before me because the walls rising above my vision are gray. The dullest, thoughtless gray. This feeling swirls about me, enrapturing me, neither smooth like marble nor coarse like rough-cut granite. There's no word to define this, there aren't any distinctive characteristics or connotations to explain this, it's just present.
Such a little slut. Right now I just can't be happy with anything. After raising my pay, my manager sees that I don't care. What am I going to do with more money? It will all go towards college in the end. While trying to hit on me at work, two guys see that my apathy is not to be trifled with. I remain un-flattered, yet not disgusted. Do what you want. I'm going to bed in half an hour, and that's pretty much all I care about, because this world is a whore; A bleach-blonde tease, with a heaving inflated chest, so despicable and openly undesirable, yet craved by anyone belonging to this society.
And then I get home to see that, after spending all that freaking time on this stupid blog, it is being a little slut. If I have nothing, however, at least I have consistency.
Oh well. I comforted by that fact that I don't have to stop complaining. I don't have to cease my pathetic whining, because this is my blog and my thoughts are my thoughts. I plan to utilize this is every way possible.
I really think I need a shrink; not because I'm worried that I might just be seriously messed, although this might very well be the case, but because I think everybody needs professional help. A therapist is not for the insane alone, but for those refusing to settle with mental mediocrity.
Wow. I'm listening to a song by Sneaker Pimps, and it's pretty twisted. "spin spin sugar", said in a very odd tone, is repeated again and again to a retro beat. Why not? I finally got the song I wanted- sneaker pimps, 6 underground. This made me happy, considering how long I've tried to get a hold of that song. Now all I have to do is find out what was playing at Dior's spring/summer 2004 RTW and I'll be set. The last song of the show was totally post, I have to get a hold of it. I've researched this, but I can't seem to find it. Frustrating, to say the least.
I'm kind of worried. My little brother, Ricky, is turning into a punk. He's hanging out with these idiots that I don't trust. They stole some kid's scooter at school on Wed, and I'm getting pissed off. He's not going to turn into some mindless, impudent, scooter-stealing delinquent. He's too much of a sweetheart. He's having a big slumber party right now and him and his band of miscreants just snuck out to go toilet-papering. As if I don't know. Grow up Ricky, just grow up. The process of maturing is over rated, just get it over with.
I'm in a repulsive mood. I'm going to go eat toast.
Friday, February 27, 2004
I had an extremely uneventful day today. Feeling fully recovered from last night, I got up and did nothing. I took a shower, read the paper, had some herbal tea. I was lounging until 10:30, when I decided to call Elisse. We chatted about going to brunch for some time before my mother came home and I was forced to hang up on her. Even though the occurrence was, hopefully, understood by the gal on the other side of the wire, I can't do such a thing without feeling an overwhelming sense of barbarianism. I feel so unrefined, so rough.
Walking through the hallway, my mom announced we were going shopping for Rosenthal Crystal. After going to 3 of the finest boutiques downtown, we discovered 1 pattern. Anything else, the crystal people told us, would have to be found in Chicago or New York. The whole valley of Salt Lake contains 1 pattern of Rosenthal Crystal. How depressing.
We found Francis I by Reed and Barton, though. Exquisite in every sense. While dining with such flat wear, one hardly needs tasty food. Food isn't needed at all, really; the fruit and blossoms folding around and over your salad fork creates an artistic meal in itself. This is what my family will dine off of, only grandiose subtlety such as this will touch the lips of my child. And averaging $87.00 a fork, I suppose I'll have some bratty kids.
Guess who doesn't want to go to work? Me!! I really don't want to. Travis is going to be in a bad mood tonight; the manager finally told him he couldn't work at the OSF anymore if he didn't dye his hair. He had bright blonde highlights that, I'll admit, looked a little gay- but he is gay, so it works. But not to our manager, so He's making Travis go back to his salon and pay another $65 to get it un-done. Poor Travis. Poor, poor gay Travis. He's so discriminated against. Why?
Oh- I found a cute gray wool duster for $4.99 at Meyer and Frank. I don't know why my mom thinks I spend too much money; I know how to shop around and do so whenever possible. It's incredibly adorable, I'm excited to wear it.
I think I shall go begrudgingly get ready for work. At least I can wear my new duster on the way to work. That's no consolation, though, mind you.
Walking through the hallway, my mom announced we were going shopping for Rosenthal Crystal. After going to 3 of the finest boutiques downtown, we discovered 1 pattern. Anything else, the crystal people told us, would have to be found in Chicago or New York. The whole valley of Salt Lake contains 1 pattern of Rosenthal Crystal. How depressing.
We found Francis I by Reed and Barton, though. Exquisite in every sense. While dining with such flat wear, one hardly needs tasty food. Food isn't needed at all, really; the fruit and blossoms folding around and over your salad fork creates an artistic meal in itself. This is what my family will dine off of, only grandiose subtlety such as this will touch the lips of my child. And averaging $87.00 a fork, I suppose I'll have some bratty kids.
Guess who doesn't want to go to work? Me!! I really don't want to. Travis is going to be in a bad mood tonight; the manager finally told him he couldn't work at the OSF anymore if he didn't dye his hair. He had bright blonde highlights that, I'll admit, looked a little gay- but he is gay, so it works. But not to our manager, so He's making Travis go back to his salon and pay another $65 to get it un-done. Poor Travis. Poor, poor gay Travis. He's so discriminated against. Why?
Oh- I found a cute gray wool duster for $4.99 at Meyer and Frank. I don't know why my mom thinks I spend too much money; I know how to shop around and do so whenever possible. It's incredibly adorable, I'm excited to wear it.
I think I shall go begrudgingly get ready for work. At least I can wear my new duster on the way to work. That's no consolation, though, mind you.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
I am becoming more computer literate with each passing minute! I have links now, and my text isn't centered like some stupid whore. I'm so happy. And it's orange, so orange. Trendy, I know, but mod in a sense, and I love mod. Huzzah.
So I guess all the computer-savvy readers that don't read my blog won't have to help me after all. Pretty cool, huh?
I'm going over to Jane's in 25 minutes. Apparently this red-head diety is at her house that I simply have to meet. It's nice being with Jane again, although she's going through serious family problems. Yes, her family is messed up, but they've never even began to challenge Jane's insanity. I suppose that's why I love her. I really don't feel that well, so I'll make an appearance and then make her drive me home in 45 minutes. Muhai!
My Enzio Angiolini bag is due any day now. My blog doesn't look stupid, only a tad bit typical (a fact I can live with), I didn't have to work tonight, and I got out of hanging out with Amy Jo, Jamie, and Parker.
Life is good.
So I guess all the computer-savvy readers that don't read my blog won't have to help me after all. Pretty cool, huh?
I'm going over to Jane's in 25 minutes. Apparently this red-head diety is at her house that I simply have to meet. It's nice being with Jane again, although she's going through serious family problems. Yes, her family is messed up, but they've never even began to challenge Jane's insanity. I suppose that's why I love her. I really don't feel that well, so I'll make an appearance and then make her drive me home in 45 minutes. Muhai!
My Enzio Angiolini bag is due any day now. My blog doesn't look stupid, only a tad bit typical (a fact I can live with), I didn't have to work tonight, and I got out of hanging out with Amy Jo, Jamie, and Parker.
Life is good.
So I did it. I converted to a trendy but, you have to admit, adorable blog. Even though it does have "XXX" at the top and this is most likely the most innocent blog on the internet, I still adore it. It reminds me of oranges, and I like oranges. In fact, I'm somewhat obsessed with the happy fruit.
Anyway...one flaw. I'm sure you've noticed. The text is centered. CENTERED! It almost leaves a bad taste in your mouth after reading the blog. It won't work, but I don't know how to change it. Why? Because I'm incompetent in every way, shape and form computer-wise, and clicking the template button scares me. It really does. So, I need help from all my computer-savvy readers, even though nobody reads my blog. How do I un-center this template and redeem this atrocity?
Anyway...one flaw. I'm sure you've noticed. The text is centered. CENTERED! It almost leaves a bad taste in your mouth after reading the blog. It won't work, but I don't know how to change it. Why? Because I'm incompetent in every way, shape and form computer-wise, and clicking the template button scares me. It really does. So, I need help from all my computer-savvy readers, even though nobody reads my blog. How do I un-center this template and redeem this atrocity?
There's something extraordinarily releasing about paying your library fines. Perhaps because they are the least pressing of all fines the thought of them slides to the very back of one's brain. There they lie, quietly chanting their existence, so quiet the sound is easy to drown but never forgotten. Their reminder, however, is so rhythmic and so steady that your overdue library fines seem to dive underneath your skin, spreading throughout the body fluidly and evenly, demoralizing your existence and lessening you as a person. The quiet simplicity of the library ordeal is so unique that it simply will not stand to be left unpaid, so it proceeds to even the debt by robbing one of integrity and decency. There's not a creature lower than the non-library-fines-payer. The situation is so universally despicable, it's almost an adjective. "What's she like?” "Oh, she's the type that racks up library fees and doesn't pay them". Disgusting, I tell you. They take the one aspect of this society that doesn't seem to be driven by blatant consumerism and denies the foundation of the few rights a library is entitled to, simply because this squalid individual can. The act of refusing to pay a library fine is an unconscious indolence that is simultaneously so deliberate it borders on racism. The characteristics of a library define it as an edifice much different than a store or shop; its impetus is education, its tool kindness. It is true that, when unsuccessful, this kindness morphs into harassment through mail and the phone so severe the inhumanity can be sickening, I will not deny this. This is not a battle, however, but a crusade. Not an effort for the presidents and founders to reach the top of the monetary hierarchy, but an attempt to elevate society through schooling and intellectual edification. It is a race against decadence, one of the last hopes for our race. Join us! Release yourself and fight for the cause! PAY YOUR FINES! FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN AND ALL THAT IS HOLY, PAY THE FREAKING FEES!
I just did. Thirty-two hundred, forty three cents to this noble foundation. I could have blown it on a shirt, and waited until the Anderson-Foothill library dispatched their lawyers and mercenaries to make me give what I owe. But I did not. I walked right up to that library and slapped the currency down on the desk. I will be bound no more! I will not live for this, this momentarily enthralling procrastination. How sweet the liberation, how seductive this new-found deliverance is on my lips, in my soul, in my body, filling every cavity and organ. It's beautiful.
Anyway, play practice was fun today. I'm just enjoying my character so very much. I'm acting with John, too, and he is such a sweetie. Today Elisse was kind enough to inform me that my "husband" actually has no charm, and I'm silly for thinking this. Clearly she has no experience looking from the modeling perspective (considering this guy looks exactly like Julien Hedquist), but feels the right to correct my opinion all the same. But apparently she does know him from debate, so I'm stupid for not letting her aristocratic biases rule my judgment. I mean, what's wrong with me? Even though she does have my blog address, I'm not going to censor this. I do not write for her, or anybody else.
Tonight Jane and I might go see "girl with the Pearl Earring". I don't like Scarlet Johansson, but the movie's supposed to be good. We'll see; walking home in the rain wasn't the best thing for my head cold, and I'm beginning to feel slightly dotty (hence the pontification above).
Speaking of dotty, I talked with the bat today. She bounced up to me, clearly very excited. Upon inquiring about her cheerful demeanor, she informed me that she had a joke to tell me. Truthfully, I was intrigued. The bat usually doesn't leave her cave, especially for something like this. The women is surprisingly unpredictable, considering her current life consists of three basic activities (eating, sleeping, and staring into the abyss with her mouth open, slightly sagging to the left of her face). So she tells me:
"I heard this funny on the Carolyn Rhea show.” (I thought the word “funny” was an adjective. I must have been wrong.) “So a man is sitting at the dinner table eating with his son. He asks his son, who was raised in the city “do you know what a pig is?”. So he went in another room, then the secretary turned to the cat and said, “Only during coffee break”.”
She giggled and sputtered for about half a minute before realizing my face was one of worry, not the amused gaiety she apparently had expected.
I don’t get it, I said
“Well, I had to leave some of it out. Some of the joke was inappropriate, and not for the ears of a child.” She said this smugly, as if the pieces of the joke that together formed the meaning were all secrets that she would guard valiantly till death (which, I swear, will be any minute now. I don’t know what sustains her, I really don’t).
After saying this, she sighed, and then shuffled back to her room. What would my life be without the bat?
I don’t know why so many of us hide behind the sensational daydream that is sanity. The bat is perfectly fine without such balderdash. Perhaps that’s what nourishes this woman, the sheer fact that she is possibly one of the barmiest people alive. How philosophical.
Well, I’m going to go see what I’m doing tonight. I don’t know if I’m up to a movie, I’m feeling progressively worse. Maybe I’ll just curl up with a cup of tea and some crumb cake, and watch the news. I feel severely uninformed, perhaps I’ll do that. We’ll see.
But I haven’t yet told you, my dearest reader, about my day. I shall do this before I depart. Let me see, I:
1. Took a Spanish test, which I’m quite sure I failed. The imperfect and preterit tense? What is this twaddle? I shan’t bother with it a moment longer.
2. Skipped seminary to type up a resume for an interview that, I found out shortly after, was not today.
3. I worked on my poetry only to have Elisse eventually do it for me.
4. Went to Tesoro and bought a preposterous amount of junk food, only to share it with Frank the debate coach, who has dangerously high cholesterol.
5. Went to Physics and decided that New Zealand is one of the most adorable people in the High School. The heroine and cruel behavior details only make him sexier.
6. Went to play practice. Clearly the fate of a pill-popping perfectionist is the one for me; I’m perfect at this. I’m so excited!
7. Traveled to the library, payed my dues and went shopping.
8. Came home and blogged.
I know- I’m thrilled to have such an eventful life, too. Farewell, dearest reader. I’m off for a long weekend. Whoopee!
I just did. Thirty-two hundred, forty three cents to this noble foundation. I could have blown it on a shirt, and waited until the Anderson-Foothill library dispatched their lawyers and mercenaries to make me give what I owe. But I did not. I walked right up to that library and slapped the currency down on the desk. I will be bound no more! I will not live for this, this momentarily enthralling procrastination. How sweet the liberation, how seductive this new-found deliverance is on my lips, in my soul, in my body, filling every cavity and organ. It's beautiful.
Anyway, play practice was fun today. I'm just enjoying my character so very much. I'm acting with John, too, and he is such a sweetie. Today Elisse was kind enough to inform me that my "husband" actually has no charm, and I'm silly for thinking this. Clearly she has no experience looking from the modeling perspective (considering this guy looks exactly like Julien Hedquist), but feels the right to correct my opinion all the same. But apparently she does know him from debate, so I'm stupid for not letting her aristocratic biases rule my judgment. I mean, what's wrong with me? Even though she does have my blog address, I'm not going to censor this. I do not write for her, or anybody else.
Tonight Jane and I might go see "girl with the Pearl Earring". I don't like Scarlet Johansson, but the movie's supposed to be good. We'll see; walking home in the rain wasn't the best thing for my head cold, and I'm beginning to feel slightly dotty (hence the pontification above).
Speaking of dotty, I talked with the bat today. She bounced up to me, clearly very excited. Upon inquiring about her cheerful demeanor, she informed me that she had a joke to tell me. Truthfully, I was intrigued. The bat usually doesn't leave her cave, especially for something like this. The women is surprisingly unpredictable, considering her current life consists of three basic activities (eating, sleeping, and staring into the abyss with her mouth open, slightly sagging to the left of her face). So she tells me:
"I heard this funny on the Carolyn Rhea show.” (I thought the word “funny” was an adjective. I must have been wrong.) “So a man is sitting at the dinner table eating with his son. He asks his son, who was raised in the city “do you know what a pig is?”. So he went in another room, then the secretary turned to the cat and said, “Only during coffee break”.”
She giggled and sputtered for about half a minute before realizing my face was one of worry, not the amused gaiety she apparently had expected.
I don’t get it, I said
“Well, I had to leave some of it out. Some of the joke was inappropriate, and not for the ears of a child.” She said this smugly, as if the pieces of the joke that together formed the meaning were all secrets that she would guard valiantly till death (which, I swear, will be any minute now. I don’t know what sustains her, I really don’t).
After saying this, she sighed, and then shuffled back to her room. What would my life be without the bat?
I don’t know why so many of us hide behind the sensational daydream that is sanity. The bat is perfectly fine without such balderdash. Perhaps that’s what nourishes this woman, the sheer fact that she is possibly one of the barmiest people alive. How philosophical.
Well, I’m going to go see what I’m doing tonight. I don’t know if I’m up to a movie, I’m feeling progressively worse. Maybe I’ll just curl up with a cup of tea and some crumb cake, and watch the news. I feel severely uninformed, perhaps I’ll do that. We’ll see.
But I haven’t yet told you, my dearest reader, about my day. I shall do this before I depart. Let me see, I:
1. Took a Spanish test, which I’m quite sure I failed. The imperfect and preterit tense? What is this twaddle? I shan’t bother with it a moment longer.
2. Skipped seminary to type up a resume for an interview that, I found out shortly after, was not today.
3. I worked on my poetry only to have Elisse eventually do it for me.
4. Went to Tesoro and bought a preposterous amount of junk food, only to share it with Frank the debate coach, who has dangerously high cholesterol.
5. Went to Physics and decided that New Zealand is one of the most adorable people in the High School. The heroine and cruel behavior details only make him sexier.
6. Went to play practice. Clearly the fate of a pill-popping perfectionist is the one for me; I’m perfect at this. I’m so excited!
7. Traveled to the library, payed my dues and went shopping.
8. Came home and blogged.
I know- I’m thrilled to have such an eventful life, too. Farewell, dearest reader. I’m off for a long weekend. Whoopee!
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
I am so excited! My ward's murder mystery night is tonight. I am going as Baroness Crustia Von Pepperoni- heiress of a vast instant-pizza fortune. How spectacular that would be.
So it turns out that New Zealand is a heroine whore that likes to take advantage of women. So, of course, I am that much more intrigued. I never claimed sanity, why would I now? I despise such an illusion.
Well, I have homework to do today, and preparation for the dinner. Elise also gave me her blog address, and I'm afraid the reading of the precious manuscript will occupy my blog-writing time for today.
Farewell, dearest reader.
So it turns out that New Zealand is a heroine whore that likes to take advantage of women. So, of course, I am that much more intrigued. I never claimed sanity, why would I now? I despise such an illusion.
Well, I have homework to do today, and preparation for the dinner. Elise also gave me her blog address, and I'm afraid the reading of the precious manuscript will occupy my blog-writing time for today.
Farewell, dearest reader.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
After Physics, New Zealand and I are walking down the C floor:
NZ: "So, I got a lead in one of the plays."
Me: "Really? Fabulous. Who do you play?"
NZ: "(Name of some character), he's a pirate."
Me: "That's awesome. Pirates are sexy." (There you have it. The first of many phrases telling him he's sexy. I was rather surprised, really. I never thought I'd tell him that.)
NZ: "Pirates aren't sexy!"
Me: "I beg to differ; you clearly have never seen Pirates of the Caribbean."
NZ: "Ahh..."
Me: "Johnny Depp has some major sex appeal. He has my permission to shove me into a janitor's closet and do what he wishes."
NZ: "Really?" (Somewhat surprised, also. I've never been this open or nice to him; I'm typically very, very, very unapproachable. That's the way I usually prefer it.) "But I could never be that sexy."
*this is where I became a little irritated. He knew exactly what was coming. He knew it! He knew it, and in my moment of flustered weakness he made me confess! It was completely intentional, I could sense it. He knew exactly what I was going to say, and loved every second of it!
Me: "Actually, one of my friends and I were talking about you the other day. If we slapped some Gucci onto you, there would be some major sexiness going on."
THERE! I SAID IT, AND BECAME REDDER WITH EVERY STRAINED SYLLABOL! Are islanders always this cruel? I hated this loss of control. I was in control of what I was saying, and I could have agreed with the lie that I don't think he's sexy. Of course I could of, but it was as if I had a duty to him to tell him this. So in silent yet vocalized compliance I performed, defenseless and vulnerable. This isn't me; I should be manipulating, lying, destroying, plowing my way to what I want. What is this madness? This will never work.
I now hate New Zealand. I have a duty to no one, especially a male that at one point in time liked me. Nobody owns me, controls me, there is no one I am in debt to.
You know, when I'm too emotionally involved or flustered, I'm afraid I don't write well. We'll have to change the subject...
So I go the lead role in one of the 5 plays. It turns out I am the new Psycho mom for "mother's party". I landed a killer part, and cannot wait. The reading today went wonderfully, and it turns out my husband in the play is charming, too. Scruffy, can't dress, needs to shave, but has endless potential. Why am I so drawn to this type? It must be the need I feel to save the world, one un-bathed scruffian at a time. Hence New Zealand, I suppose. My husband, I forgot his name, has amazing facial structure, pretty eyes, and perfect skin (of course). He's a drama guy, though, which pretty much sums up his personality; crazy, tactless, odd, yet sweet and charming. All I need to do is GQ him, and all will be well.
Dang. I'm such a relentless flirt. Dearest reader, you have no idea. It doesn't matter- man or woman, beautiful or decrepit, rich or, (well, in this case, wealth does affect my ability to butter-up others), but it doesn't matter much. Maybe there is some truth in this "You led me on and manipulated me" rubbish I hear so often. No matter- I can just deny this until I score a rich 80 year old.
And yet I can't attract anyone decent. I suppose this does synchronize with the other bitter ironies that are my life, but I can't just accept this. Honestly, this isn't going to work. The men (or women) that are attracted to me fall into the three following categories:
1. Sweet and considerate, yet not pretty or suave. (Ex: Drama guy. New Zealand [he’s pretty and suave in his own way, but not polished])
2. Beautiful and suave, but always have the following two flaws in common:
I. Usually claiming an IQ equivalent to that of a soap dish or lower
II. Sees my body as a stand with a large banner stating "Get sex here".
(Ex: Kuy [you'll get to know him later], Sexy idiot that models with me at my agency, The Russian I met in June, etc.)
3. Adores me to no end, and I adore them also, but I am at a position in which it simply is not possible in any form or way. With my mother, it is quite easy to have people fall into this category. (Ex: Kyle, Thomas, and one person in particular that I'm afraid I can't mention, just incase my mom hears me thinking it. [as she is so prone to doing])
Because no person falling in any of these categories is even seen as playing ground in my eyes, I'm completely out of luck. I'm not too happy about this; I do, after all, desire to get married someday. And since I'm sticking to this whole chastity thing, It looks like I'll be a virgin serving Vestia unless my luck changes. And if I'm not still beautiful when my luck finally does decide to change, I'll still be a virgin serving Vestia my entire life. Rather bleak, wouldn't you say?
I have a trig test tomorrow, though I really don't want to study (a new emotion, I know). I'm also cooking dinner tonight, so I must get started on that. Farewell, dear reader. Please don’t become sickened by this pity party I decided to have. At least I invited you in some way or another…
NZ: "So, I got a lead in one of the plays."
Me: "Really? Fabulous. Who do you play?"
NZ: "(Name of some character), he's a pirate."
Me: "That's awesome. Pirates are sexy." (There you have it. The first of many phrases telling him he's sexy. I was rather surprised, really. I never thought I'd tell him that.)
NZ: "Pirates aren't sexy!"
Me: "I beg to differ; you clearly have never seen Pirates of the Caribbean."
NZ: "Ahh..."
Me: "Johnny Depp has some major sex appeal. He has my permission to shove me into a janitor's closet and do what he wishes."
NZ: "Really?" (Somewhat surprised, also. I've never been this open or nice to him; I'm typically very, very, very unapproachable. That's the way I usually prefer it.) "But I could never be that sexy."
*this is where I became a little irritated. He knew exactly what was coming. He knew it! He knew it, and in my moment of flustered weakness he made me confess! It was completely intentional, I could sense it. He knew exactly what I was going to say, and loved every second of it!
Me: "Actually, one of my friends and I were talking about you the other day. If we slapped some Gucci onto you, there would be some major sexiness going on."
THERE! I SAID IT, AND BECAME REDDER WITH EVERY STRAINED SYLLABOL! Are islanders always this cruel? I hated this loss of control. I was in control of what I was saying, and I could have agreed with the lie that I don't think he's sexy. Of course I could of, but it was as if I had a duty to him to tell him this. So in silent yet vocalized compliance I performed, defenseless and vulnerable. This isn't me; I should be manipulating, lying, destroying, plowing my way to what I want. What is this madness? This will never work.
I now hate New Zealand. I have a duty to no one, especially a male that at one point in time liked me. Nobody owns me, controls me, there is no one I am in debt to.
You know, when I'm too emotionally involved or flustered, I'm afraid I don't write well. We'll have to change the subject...
So I go the lead role in one of the 5 plays. It turns out I am the new Psycho mom for "mother's party". I landed a killer part, and cannot wait. The reading today went wonderfully, and it turns out my husband in the play is charming, too. Scruffy, can't dress, needs to shave, but has endless potential. Why am I so drawn to this type? It must be the need I feel to save the world, one un-bathed scruffian at a time. Hence New Zealand, I suppose. My husband, I forgot his name, has amazing facial structure, pretty eyes, and perfect skin (of course). He's a drama guy, though, which pretty much sums up his personality; crazy, tactless, odd, yet sweet and charming. All I need to do is GQ him, and all will be well.
Dang. I'm such a relentless flirt. Dearest reader, you have no idea. It doesn't matter- man or woman, beautiful or decrepit, rich or, (well, in this case, wealth does affect my ability to butter-up others), but it doesn't matter much. Maybe there is some truth in this "You led me on and manipulated me" rubbish I hear so often. No matter- I can just deny this until I score a rich 80 year old.
And yet I can't attract anyone decent. I suppose this does synchronize with the other bitter ironies that are my life, but I can't just accept this. Honestly, this isn't going to work. The men (or women) that are attracted to me fall into the three following categories:
1. Sweet and considerate, yet not pretty or suave. (Ex: Drama guy. New Zealand [he’s pretty and suave in his own way, but not polished])
2. Beautiful and suave, but always have the following two flaws in common:
I. Usually claiming an IQ equivalent to that of a soap dish or lower
II. Sees my body as a stand with a large banner stating "Get sex here".
(Ex: Kuy [you'll get to know him later], Sexy idiot that models with me at my agency, The Russian I met in June, etc.)
3. Adores me to no end, and I adore them also, but I am at a position in which it simply is not possible in any form or way. With my mother, it is quite easy to have people fall into this category. (Ex: Kyle, Thomas, and one person in particular that I'm afraid I can't mention, just incase my mom hears me thinking it. [as she is so prone to doing])
Because no person falling in any of these categories is even seen as playing ground in my eyes, I'm completely out of luck. I'm not too happy about this; I do, after all, desire to get married someday. And since I'm sticking to this whole chastity thing, It looks like I'll be a virgin serving Vestia unless my luck changes. And if I'm not still beautiful when my luck finally does decide to change, I'll still be a virgin serving Vestia my entire life. Rather bleak, wouldn't you say?
I have a trig test tomorrow, though I really don't want to study (a new emotion, I know). I'm also cooking dinner tonight, so I must get started on that. Farewell, dear reader. Please don’t become sickened by this pity party I decided to have. At least I invited you in some way or another…
Monday, February 23, 2004
I've just returned from auditioning for Take 5 at school. It's a series of 5 plays written by alumni and students; I know two of the authors. I've always marveled at the fact that I'm not a thespian. I'm dramatic and tend to be attracted to these type of people. but I've never merged with them. I'm very disappointed with high school actors when they come together; collectively, I can't stand the people. People present laughed at everything, EVERYTHING. The majority of these occurrences and comments not being remotely humorous in nature, one can see that the laughers were laughing simply because the director wanted them to laugh. Not because of the script or anything, it felt as if the directors existed off the power of being able to control the facial muscles in the majority of those present. I was extremely vexed.
I think I did well, however. I was asked to read the part of a pill-popping house wife that finally explodes, and I think I was cut out for the part. Explode I did; screaming, ranting, violent hand gestures, the works. It was quite therapeutic. Due to a shortage of time, however, I was unable to read two parts I was eyeing in two different plays. I was so very frustrated! I knew exactly what I was going to do, say, and laugh at, but I suppose it's not my loss. I doubt I'll be casted (well, actually I think I will be, but I say this so that I can pretend to not be disappointed if I'm not casted. Absence of expectation is my favorite situation; If I attain what I want, I'm the incredible youth that simply doesn't realize her talent, if I don't attain what I want, then I'm the incredible youth that's simply must be incredible in another area because of my unrivaled apathy. No, I'm not mind-blowingly defensive, don't be silly. I think I'll be casted, also, because of Robbie. He used to like my in some year, until he realized I was far out of his reach and became very bitter towards me. Elisse thinks he still likes me, and I don't doubt it. I am a sexy beast, after all)
So postings go up tomorrow. If I make it, great, if not, less work for me to do. Huzzah!
So I've discovered another reason why I hate life. There's this absolutely beautiful New Zealander in my physics class that auditioned today. He has this incredible olive skin and these black eyes that I just can't look at without imagining what it would be like to swim in them. He also wears eye liner. He's gorgeous and just barely taller that me, which means that I tower over him when I'm wearing heels. So of course, he has to be gothic. Or an anarchist- I don't know. He has a Mohawk and wears Army boots with capri-thingies and flannel. DANG IT!!! I just want to shout at him- buzz off that protrusion on your head, wear those wire-rimmed glasses I saw on you once, take a glance at the latest GQ, and I will let you push me against a wall. Until, of course, my dominant side bursts out of my oh-so-calm demeanor and then I push you against a wall. But no- he's has to wear the flannel. And those boots! Why, oh why? Add to my lists of vices: this goth in Armani. He would be dangerous, so I guess that he's best in his cut off capris. *sniffs*
I can't even flirt with him in physics, though. I sit with these preppy prats that dislike him, and if they aren't there for me to cheat off of, then I won't get an A. They're also the group the TA in my trig class hangs out with, and she's the reason I'm getting an A in trig. One of their groupies is also dating the guy I cook with in foods, who makes the class semi-bearable. Their parent group are the only people I have to talk to in choir, and a member of that parent group covers for me everyday in AP History. They are the sole reason I have a 3.8 and I only do work in English. Connections are everything, love.
I don't really care, I'd get along without them; I'm just lazy. Sure, I could branch off and be "freed" from the chain of social obligations I have, but what would that be teaching me for my life in the near future? One must keep up appearances you know...
This entry has just become ranting and blabber. Hopefully this ranting and blabber is entertaining or something, because it's helping me think. I had no idea I really want to jump New Zealand before now. Interesting, isn't it?
My mother is screaming at Rob, my older brother, in the other room. Before this annoyed me, but I have a new-found appreciation for that gal; if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have done so well today in my pill-popper breakdown audition. Everything serves a purpose, I guess.
Maybe I should give New Zealand my blog address. He would find out that I want him to go GQ, and he would do it because it's a really, really good idea. A hysterically good idea. He's so pretty. I'm also sure that he would get past this whole "I love blood" phase. I did, and I was very sadistic. I suppose I am still, but in a sense much crueler and colder that the physical. Perhaps he'll become the same way, and we can play mind games all the day long. Whoopee!
I've chatted a lot about nothing, glancing over every three minutes or so at the huge pile of work I have to do for English. I think I'll get started that and leave Elisse rolling on the floor after reading this entry. I'm so predictable, I know. Oh- I really want to see her apartment. Saturday would be good for me because I'm not working until 5 but I could tell my mom that I am. Call me.
I think I did well, however. I was asked to read the part of a pill-popping house wife that finally explodes, and I think I was cut out for the part. Explode I did; screaming, ranting, violent hand gestures, the works. It was quite therapeutic. Due to a shortage of time, however, I was unable to read two parts I was eyeing in two different plays. I was so very frustrated! I knew exactly what I was going to do, say, and laugh at, but I suppose it's not my loss. I doubt I'll be casted (well, actually I think I will be, but I say this so that I can pretend to not be disappointed if I'm not casted. Absence of expectation is my favorite situation; If I attain what I want, I'm the incredible youth that simply doesn't realize her talent, if I don't attain what I want, then I'm the incredible youth that's simply must be incredible in another area because of my unrivaled apathy. No, I'm not mind-blowingly defensive, don't be silly. I think I'll be casted, also, because of Robbie. He used to like my in some year, until he realized I was far out of his reach and became very bitter towards me. Elisse thinks he still likes me, and I don't doubt it. I am a sexy beast, after all)
So postings go up tomorrow. If I make it, great, if not, less work for me to do. Huzzah!
So I've discovered another reason why I hate life. There's this absolutely beautiful New Zealander in my physics class that auditioned today. He has this incredible olive skin and these black eyes that I just can't look at without imagining what it would be like to swim in them. He also wears eye liner. He's gorgeous and just barely taller that me, which means that I tower over him when I'm wearing heels. So of course, he has to be gothic. Or an anarchist- I don't know. He has a Mohawk and wears Army boots with capri-thingies and flannel. DANG IT!!! I just want to shout at him- buzz off that protrusion on your head, wear those wire-rimmed glasses I saw on you once, take a glance at the latest GQ, and I will let you push me against a wall. Until, of course, my dominant side bursts out of my oh-so-calm demeanor and then I push you against a wall. But no- he's has to wear the flannel. And those boots! Why, oh why? Add to my lists of vices: this goth in Armani. He would be dangerous, so I guess that he's best in his cut off capris. *sniffs*
I can't even flirt with him in physics, though. I sit with these preppy prats that dislike him, and if they aren't there for me to cheat off of, then I won't get an A. They're also the group the TA in my trig class hangs out with, and she's the reason I'm getting an A in trig. One of their groupies is also dating the guy I cook with in foods, who makes the class semi-bearable. Their parent group are the only people I have to talk to in choir, and a member of that parent group covers for me everyday in AP History. They are the sole reason I have a 3.8 and I only do work in English. Connections are everything, love.
I don't really care, I'd get along without them; I'm just lazy. Sure, I could branch off and be "freed" from the chain of social obligations I have, but what would that be teaching me for my life in the near future? One must keep up appearances you know...
This entry has just become ranting and blabber. Hopefully this ranting and blabber is entertaining or something, because it's helping me think. I had no idea I really want to jump New Zealand before now. Interesting, isn't it?
My mother is screaming at Rob, my older brother, in the other room. Before this annoyed me, but I have a new-found appreciation for that gal; if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have done so well today in my pill-popper breakdown audition. Everything serves a purpose, I guess.
Maybe I should give New Zealand my blog address. He would find out that I want him to go GQ, and he would do it because it's a really, really good idea. A hysterically good idea. He's so pretty. I'm also sure that he would get past this whole "I love blood" phase. I did, and I was very sadistic. I suppose I am still, but in a sense much crueler and colder that the physical. Perhaps he'll become the same way, and we can play mind games all the day long. Whoopee!
I've chatted a lot about nothing, glancing over every three minutes or so at the huge pile of work I have to do for English. I think I'll get started that and leave Elisse rolling on the floor after reading this entry. I'm so predictable, I know. Oh- I really want to see her apartment. Saturday would be good for me because I'm not working until 5 but I could tell my mom that I am. Call me.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
I got back from the University's fireside about 30 minutes ago. I loved it; the music was phenomenal. I was truly impressed by the choir and the orchestra, and the spirit was extremely strong. I'm glad I went.
I went with Angie and Bree, two lead hostesses from work. How refreshing it is to be around some semi-mature people compared to those at school. I'm so sick of high school- I am happy that I'm graduating early.
The weather outside is still cold, although slowly warming. Soon the snow will flee, and Salt Lake will give birth to the beauty that can only be seen in a desert. The colors will burst with strength hidden by the delicate shapes of the petals and leaves, the lovely desert grasses will be seen once again. The scents and smells will ride the wind, so potent one can almost see swirls of pink and purple perfume dancing on the planes of the breeze, filling the air gloriously with the triumph of the season. On the wings of the sweetest note will spring flutter onto the horizon any week now.
How enthralling anticipation is.
I went with Angie and Bree, two lead hostesses from work. How refreshing it is to be around some semi-mature people compared to those at school. I'm so sick of high school- I am happy that I'm graduating early.
The weather outside is still cold, although slowly warming. Soon the snow will flee, and Salt Lake will give birth to the beauty that can only be seen in a desert. The colors will burst with strength hidden by the delicate shapes of the petals and leaves, the lovely desert grasses will be seen once again. The scents and smells will ride the wind, so potent one can almost see swirls of pink and purple perfume dancing on the planes of the breeze, filling the air gloriously with the triumph of the season. On the wings of the sweetest note will spring flutter onto the horizon any week now.
How enthralling anticipation is.
One of the things that I don't understand in life is why my grandma is still alive. After a multitude of serious health problems, surgeries, and recoveries, the gal is still up and kicking; she’s 67 and alive, although she has become incredibly senile in a short span of time. Mormor (grandma in Norwegian) lives with us, and she has for four years. I don't know her real name; ever since I was born she was Mormor to me and everybody around me. The woman has lived an explosive, irresponsible scandal of a life, and is now suffering the consequences thereof. I understand the bond between us, but I don't love her. She's a barmy old bat that demands respect bordering on reverence which she simply hasn't earned. I don't know why being decrepit is reason enough for respect; perhaps it's some sort of consolation for the deteriorating of one's body. Well, I think she should die soon. I swear, one more sickness or problem will do the trick, I'm sure it will come anytime soon. Then, you see, we could have our downstairs den back that has become her bedroom, her bathroom, and the statuettes and luxurious knickknacks she blew her money on when she was wealthy back in the 60s. I don't think the bat is attached to life anymore, considering that hers consists mainly of sitting on the couch with her shifty eyes, staring at the dog. Boris the dog is just as old, so he lays on the floor with his shifty eyes, staring at the bat. It's a vicious cycle, I know. At least boris is cute in his feeble, venerable way; he'll see you when you come home and wait 3 seconds before lugging his tail up in the air and letting it plop back on the floor with a loud smack. He doesn't run, he barely walks, and his two goals in life are the following:
1. acquire food of any type, shape, and edibility.
2. Imitate a rug.
He's a pro at both activities listed above, so he must be very satisfied with himself, even though the bat swears up and down that he's depressed and needs Valium. I've decided I like boris as long as he's not in my way, and I've decided I dislike the bat as long as she's within view. This might seem heartless, I know, but the Bat would understand. She hates my aunt Susan for not going to prom with her best friend's nephew; she hasn't sent Susan or her offspring a Christmas gift since the ordeal in 1982 and reminds the family about it incessantly.
I come from a very interesting family. The strange thing is that my family in Norway, my dear relatives that pretty much don’t believe in clothing during summer months, are the normal ones. My insanity is completely and wholly justified.
1. acquire food of any type, shape, and edibility.
2. Imitate a rug.
He's a pro at both activities listed above, so he must be very satisfied with himself, even though the bat swears up and down that he's depressed and needs Valium. I've decided I like boris as long as he's not in my way, and I've decided I dislike the bat as long as she's within view. This might seem heartless, I know, but the Bat would understand. She hates my aunt Susan for not going to prom with her best friend's nephew; she hasn't sent Susan or her offspring a Christmas gift since the ordeal in 1982 and reminds the family about it incessantly.
I come from a very interesting family. The strange thing is that my family in Norway, my dear relatives that pretty much don’t believe in clothing during summer months, are the normal ones. My insanity is completely and wholly justified.
Every time I get off of work I walk down to the lower level of the mall to call for a ride home. I wait on the same bench everyday, staring off into the abyss in the same, empty way. Approximately 8 feet in front of my bench is a display window for Williams Sonoma, displaying the latest nostalgic electric beater or steel fondue pot. The displays change with the season, from Christmas to Valentines and then to Asian cooking in between holidays. For some reason I find this incredibly insulting, how the last month we all just scraped through is represented by a pot designed to melt cheese, how the absolute kitchen must-haves change every time they decide to alter that display window. One could never have a complete kitchen; a new must is named every month as an essential to the well-rounded kitchen. Who do these people think they are? Someday I'll march into Williams Sonoma and remove everything from that stupid display window. I'll toss the heart-shaped cupcake molds, chuck the sea-green blenders, I'll take everything. The colorful posters, the lights, the antique table holding the treasures of the store. Then I'll leave the store and sit on my bench, staring into the pure emptiness of that window that once demanded so much of the owner of a well-rounded kitchen. There will be no must-haves, no handy knickknacks, no bright posters telling me why my kitchen isn't complete. Then there will be nothing I need.
Saturday, February 21, 2004
I really would like to study in Europe for graduate school. They have so many fabulous schools of architecture, I'd really adore studying there. Well, in four years we'll see, I guess.
I don't want to go to work today. I never do, but especially when I'm working a double on Saturday. Good new, though; we have a new hostess. I'm no longer the newbie and can give advice to her like I know the ropes. I'm so thrilled! She's shy and really reserved, and I think she's scared by some of the more, er, outgoing hostesses such as Jane. Well, everybody's afraid of Jane at one time or another. I think the new girl's name is Vicky. Pity; I've always despised that name. It just has too many hard tones in it for me.
I had the weirdest dream last night that two of the servers asked me to have a threesome with them last night. Considering I'm the youngest employee working there, it was kind of sick. It's so funny what I dream up after surfing for an hour.
Still, I'm not going to be able to suppress a laugh when I see these servers today, though. It was a pretty awkward dream. After I turned them down, they asked a manager and then closed the upstairs of the restaurant so that they could have some privacy. I remember being so frustrated about the fact that I had no explanation for the yells coming from upstairs to give to the guests dining by the stairs on the lower level. It was a very interesting dream...
Well, look at this! According to this letter I just found by the computer I have library fines of $28.95 for books I have yet to return- and this is dated the 9th of January. I probably owe the library my first born by now. I have no idea where these books are; I haven't seen them since 2003. Well, this sucks.
I'm going to go shower now. After I surf some blogs first, I suppose. Farewell
I don't want to go to work today. I never do, but especially when I'm working a double on Saturday. Good new, though; we have a new hostess. I'm no longer the newbie and can give advice to her like I know the ropes. I'm so thrilled! She's shy and really reserved, and I think she's scared by some of the more, er, outgoing hostesses such as Jane. Well, everybody's afraid of Jane at one time or another. I think the new girl's name is Vicky. Pity; I've always despised that name. It just has too many hard tones in it for me.
I had the weirdest dream last night that two of the servers asked me to have a threesome with them last night. Considering I'm the youngest employee working there, it was kind of sick. It's so funny what I dream up after surfing for an hour.
Still, I'm not going to be able to suppress a laugh when I see these servers today, though. It was a pretty awkward dream. After I turned them down, they asked a manager and then closed the upstairs of the restaurant so that they could have some privacy. I remember being so frustrated about the fact that I had no explanation for the yells coming from upstairs to give to the guests dining by the stairs on the lower level. It was a very interesting dream...
Well, look at this! According to this letter I just found by the computer I have library fines of $28.95 for books I have yet to return- and this is dated the 9th of January. I probably owe the library my first born by now. I have no idea where these books are; I haven't seen them since 2003. Well, this sucks.
I'm going to go shower now. After I surf some blogs first, I suppose. Farewell
Well, It has been decided for me. I will marry an Italian.
Yes, I happen to be playing off false stereotypes and misconceptions birthed by the media and loved-crazed idealists. So? I see nothing wrong with that. As long as I can land myself an Italian that's tall, dark, handsome, and knows a thing or two about architecture, I'm afraid that's who I'm going to marry. It's not my fault; I've been exposed to this idea that Italians symbolize love and intimacy in every way, shape, and form. It's natural I long to push a couple against a wall.
I just finished the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun". Complete garbage, I know. The main character is supposed to be a writer and her narration throughout the movie is a sappy joke. Yeah, I know. But beautiful Italian men! Come one now, that has to count for something! That's the only good thing about the movie, but that's all I need in a film; a pseudo-plot and great angles of beautiful men (preferably Italian or French). I'm afraid this movie meets all of the tough criteria above, so I liked it. At least it persuaded me to move to a gorgeous Italian Villa and make love to even more gorgeous Italian men (which wasn't too hard, I'll admit I've never need TOO much persuasion for something like that).
Anyway, now that I've wiped the drool off of my keyboard and chin, I'll tell you about my oh-so-eventful day at work. The job of a hostess is never boring, you see. Right when you think it's become dull, BAM! You've got something new and exciting to do, like seat another table! Whoopee!
I was upstairs in the restaurant, which is preferable. It's easy to fill up and never has any annoying parties of, say, 75 people. (We had two of those yesterday. TWO!) It is, however, hard to seat the balcony, which has been appropriately named "the skinny". 20 of the tiniest tables and chairs have been crammed on the sides of an isle that, if it weren't for the 100 people dining on either side, would be considered pretty wide. But, since the builders of this fine establishment thought that this isle would make a great dining room, few people want to work up there. I myself happen to like it. If you chat and laugh with the customers all the way to the table, smile widely as you give them their menus then run away, they usually stay there, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.
I started the movie before I went to work, so I had Italy on my mind tonight. Ironically enough, I sat a party of 6 Italians right after I started working. I was a bit disappointed, I'll admit. They were old and fat, and seemed to prefer grunting to talking, which they apparently thought was very clever and appropriate. I seat them, and the lead man proceeds to violently jerk his head in a gesture that bears a faint resemblance to a nod. Is that how those in the service profession are thanked in Italy? Well, not today, Bucko; I'm afraid I have your menus. So I'm waiting for them to sit down at their table while the leader continues to perform this motion, and I start to worry. If he's unhappy now, which is what I'm going to assume he's feeling upon observing his mini-spasms, what state will he be in when he discovers what an insult our food is to Italian culture? After pondering this, I decide to pull my favorite maneuver; I drop the menus, mumble that their server will be there in a couple minutes, and flee. Let the server deal with them, I thought, I'm the one who's ridiculously underpaid. I wonder how well they tipped...
I work 11 hours tomorrow. Not too excited. In fact, I'm debating whether or not I should force myself to stay up all night watching infomercials so that they night might seem longer. That's never the best of signs; perhaps I wasn't cut out to suck up to spag-consuming imbeciles. Most elitists aren't, what can I say? My manager said I was getting a raise, so where the crap is it? $6.50 and hour is nothing less than exploitation in my book; just because the managers aren't the typical life-sucking wenches one usually sees in the world is no justification of theft. And that's what this is- robbery, pure and simple.
At least I find consolation in the fact that any time I feel bitter about my suckey job or Utah education, I can always turn to horrid, implausible chick-flicks. The world makes sense again! I did, actually, hear a great quote during this film that I don't think I'll be forgetting anytime soon:
"Why all the paperwork? You're buying a house, not a vespa."
classic. With a few lines like that and beautiful faces, it makes total sense that TV is America's hi-resolution deity. That’s not depressing at all, trust me.
Yes, I happen to be playing off false stereotypes and misconceptions birthed by the media and loved-crazed idealists. So? I see nothing wrong with that. As long as I can land myself an Italian that's tall, dark, handsome, and knows a thing or two about architecture, I'm afraid that's who I'm going to marry. It's not my fault; I've been exposed to this idea that Italians symbolize love and intimacy in every way, shape, and form. It's natural I long to push a couple against a wall.
I just finished the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun". Complete garbage, I know. The main character is supposed to be a writer and her narration throughout the movie is a sappy joke. Yeah, I know. But beautiful Italian men! Come one now, that has to count for something! That's the only good thing about the movie, but that's all I need in a film; a pseudo-plot and great angles of beautiful men (preferably Italian or French). I'm afraid this movie meets all of the tough criteria above, so I liked it. At least it persuaded me to move to a gorgeous Italian Villa and make love to even more gorgeous Italian men (which wasn't too hard, I'll admit I've never need TOO much persuasion for something like that).
Anyway, now that I've wiped the drool off of my keyboard and chin, I'll tell you about my oh-so-eventful day at work. The job of a hostess is never boring, you see. Right when you think it's become dull, BAM! You've got something new and exciting to do, like seat another table! Whoopee!
I was upstairs in the restaurant, which is preferable. It's easy to fill up and never has any annoying parties of, say, 75 people. (We had two of those yesterday. TWO!) It is, however, hard to seat the balcony, which has been appropriately named "the skinny". 20 of the tiniest tables and chairs have been crammed on the sides of an isle that, if it weren't for the 100 people dining on either side, would be considered pretty wide. But, since the builders of this fine establishment thought that this isle would make a great dining room, few people want to work up there. I myself happen to like it. If you chat and laugh with the customers all the way to the table, smile widely as you give them their menus then run away, they usually stay there, albeit somewhat begrudgingly.
I started the movie before I went to work, so I had Italy on my mind tonight. Ironically enough, I sat a party of 6 Italians right after I started working. I was a bit disappointed, I'll admit. They were old and fat, and seemed to prefer grunting to talking, which they apparently thought was very clever and appropriate. I seat them, and the lead man proceeds to violently jerk his head in a gesture that bears a faint resemblance to a nod. Is that how those in the service profession are thanked in Italy? Well, not today, Bucko; I'm afraid I have your menus. So I'm waiting for them to sit down at their table while the leader continues to perform this motion, and I start to worry. If he's unhappy now, which is what I'm going to assume he's feeling upon observing his mini-spasms, what state will he be in when he discovers what an insult our food is to Italian culture? After pondering this, I decide to pull my favorite maneuver; I drop the menus, mumble that their server will be there in a couple minutes, and flee. Let the server deal with them, I thought, I'm the one who's ridiculously underpaid. I wonder how well they tipped...
I work 11 hours tomorrow. Not too excited. In fact, I'm debating whether or not I should force myself to stay up all night watching infomercials so that they night might seem longer. That's never the best of signs; perhaps I wasn't cut out to suck up to spag-consuming imbeciles. Most elitists aren't, what can I say? My manager said I was getting a raise, so where the crap is it? $6.50 and hour is nothing less than exploitation in my book; just because the managers aren't the typical life-sucking wenches one usually sees in the world is no justification of theft. And that's what this is- robbery, pure and simple.
At least I find consolation in the fact that any time I feel bitter about my suckey job or Utah education, I can always turn to horrid, implausible chick-flicks. The world makes sense again! I did, actually, hear a great quote during this film that I don't think I'll be forgetting anytime soon:
"Why all the paperwork? You're buying a house, not a vespa."
classic. With a few lines like that and beautiful faces, it makes total sense that TV is America's hi-resolution deity. That’s not depressing at all, trust me.
Friday, February 20, 2004
So it turns out I've been spelling Elisse's name wrong. It's so funny- I was one of the only people that knew how to spell her name, and during her banishment, I suppose I've just forgotten. I've never understood why people care anyway; if anything I'd rather people as a whole didn't know how to spell my name, so that I wouldn't cringe to think that they're debasing it every time it escapes their lips.
yhuyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyuuuuuuuuuuujuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu7yu. oops. I'm eating a Rice krispie treat right now, and I just got a krispie stuck in between the U, the Y and the H. In my attempt to retrieve the tasty morsel, I ended up smashing it down into the belly of my horizontal friend. Man, I bet it was tasty too. I can see the remains; there they lie, mocking and taunting my desire. I suppose that's what I get for being lazy and using the puffed marshmallow crème as opposed to melting the marshmallows: a rice krispie treat that doesn't stick together and has to be eaten with a spoon. Best darn rice krispie treat I've ever eaten.
My mom's just gone to rent Under the Tuscan sun. It's supposedly a horrid plotless chick flick in which a writer goes to an exotic land and makes love the Italian men instead of working. I can't wait to see it.
Well, I don't really feel like writitng today. I feel scattered, as I'm sure some of the more observative readers are suspecting. I just realized it's the weekend, which means two steady days of working in roughly every minute of spare time I have. I closed last night, which was fun because we played pictionary on the front desk before I decided to nap on it.
I love my job...
yhuyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyuuuuuuuuuuujuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu7yu. oops. I'm eating a Rice krispie treat right now, and I just got a krispie stuck in between the U, the Y and the H. In my attempt to retrieve the tasty morsel, I ended up smashing it down into the belly of my horizontal friend. Man, I bet it was tasty too. I can see the remains; there they lie, mocking and taunting my desire. I suppose that's what I get for being lazy and using the puffed marshmallow crème as opposed to melting the marshmallows: a rice krispie treat that doesn't stick together and has to be eaten with a spoon. Best darn rice krispie treat I've ever eaten.
My mom's just gone to rent Under the Tuscan sun. It's supposedly a horrid plotless chick flick in which a writer goes to an exotic land and makes love the Italian men instead of working. I can't wait to see it.
Well, I don't really feel like writitng today. I feel scattered, as I'm sure some of the more observative readers are suspecting. I just realized it's the weekend, which means two steady days of working in roughly every minute of spare time I have. I closed last night, which was fun because we played pictionary on the front desk before I decided to nap on it.
I love my job...
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Today in cooking class we "cooked" microwave Mexican chip dip. This is simply too much for me; why must my entire educational career have to contain only subjects, classes, and people that incessantly point out how flawed the Utah educational system is? We have a minimum of electives we have to take so that we might become well-rounded people. Apparently nuking bastardized versions of food from other cultures is what molds American children into well-rounded, responsible adults.
Wow. America sucks.
Anyway, I nuke the insta-filler and pretend to scarf it while I sit, trying to devise a plan to discard the rubbish and save myself from developing a hatred for Mexican food. How can I save myself from these silly Americans? I'm feeling oh so patriotic today, in case you can’t tell.
So the class ends and I finally flee from the greasy purgatory foods class has become. I bump into Elise on the way to my locker, which makes my day. We were talking about this yesterday, how an intellectual begins to madly lust for intelligence if locked up in an imbecilic cage (high school) for too long. I've been so happy to see Elise lately; after my mother took a chainsaw to the extremity that had curiously joined our hips together during last year I haven't seen much of her. (That last statement is extremely funny and ironic to me because of reasons that remain unbeknownst to you, dear reader) She invited me to a play that I can't see and to a nice restaurant at which I can't dine. Why must I have a job, why?
Speaking of work, I have to do that today. At 5, or something. Actually, I have no idea, I'm just kind of guessing. In fact, I think I was supposed to work earlier this week but was too lazy to go into work and check. I might very well not have a job at this moment in time, thank heavens ignorance truly is bliss! At least I could go to the ballet Saturday, right?
So Amy, my best friend, made small-groups (part of the choir at my school). Many people yearn to be in this, um, prestigious group. It's supposed to be a lot of fun as long as you don't mind being with the chirpy drones of high school. I was going to try out until I decided to graduate early, which robs my audition of any purpose whatsoever. I could have made it; I know how to sing and enjoy the process. I guess that's just another art that these people have almost ruined for me. Luckily, I sing in the church choir, which is fun solely because of the fact that our director is a barmy old bat. I love it.
I have nothing else to write about; my day was, in retrospect, one of the most uneventful I’ve had in months. Wait! That’s not true. I read in preparation for my history exam- the very first time since the beginning of the year that I have dared to open the book. I think I did well, or better than I usually do (which isn’t too bad, surprisingly). I rushed home during 3rd because we had a sub in trig, and I studied! It doesn’t sound that impressive, but it actually is.
Well, now I have nothing to say. Other than the fact that I’m hungry and that stupid phone thing won’t stop ringing. Take that, Mr. Alexander Bell! I will not let your contraption of the devil ruin my life!
I leave you now to do some beautiful, therapeutic shopping.
Wow. America sucks.
Anyway, I nuke the insta-filler and pretend to scarf it while I sit, trying to devise a plan to discard the rubbish and save myself from developing a hatred for Mexican food. How can I save myself from these silly Americans? I'm feeling oh so patriotic today, in case you can’t tell.
So the class ends and I finally flee from the greasy purgatory foods class has become. I bump into Elise on the way to my locker, which makes my day. We were talking about this yesterday, how an intellectual begins to madly lust for intelligence if locked up in an imbecilic cage (high school) for too long. I've been so happy to see Elise lately; after my mother took a chainsaw to the extremity that had curiously joined our hips together during last year I haven't seen much of her. (That last statement is extremely funny and ironic to me because of reasons that remain unbeknownst to you, dear reader) She invited me to a play that I can't see and to a nice restaurant at which I can't dine. Why must I have a job, why?
Speaking of work, I have to do that today. At 5, or something. Actually, I have no idea, I'm just kind of guessing. In fact, I think I was supposed to work earlier this week but was too lazy to go into work and check. I might very well not have a job at this moment in time, thank heavens ignorance truly is bliss! At least I could go to the ballet Saturday, right?
So Amy, my best friend, made small-groups (part of the choir at my school). Many people yearn to be in this, um, prestigious group. It's supposed to be a lot of fun as long as you don't mind being with the chirpy drones of high school. I was going to try out until I decided to graduate early, which robs my audition of any purpose whatsoever. I could have made it; I know how to sing and enjoy the process. I guess that's just another art that these people have almost ruined for me. Luckily, I sing in the church choir, which is fun solely because of the fact that our director is a barmy old bat. I love it.
I have nothing else to write about; my day was, in retrospect, one of the most uneventful I’ve had in months. Wait! That’s not true. I read in preparation for my history exam- the very first time since the beginning of the year that I have dared to open the book. I think I did well, or better than I usually do (which isn’t too bad, surprisingly). I rushed home during 3rd because we had a sub in trig, and I studied! It doesn’t sound that impressive, but it actually is.
Well, now I have nothing to say. Other than the fact that I’m hungry and that stupid phone thing won’t stop ringing. Take that, Mr. Alexander Bell! I will not let your contraption of the devil ruin my life!
I leave you now to do some beautiful, therapeutic shopping.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
I just returned from my ward's etiquette night. The lecture was brilliant, the preparation was evident and the food was delicious, and yet I'm disappointed; even though the hard work of the leaders and guest speakers was evident, the guests were the most ungrateful swine I've ever sat next to.
I've known all these people for years, they are my friends and neighbors, they go to my school and I talk to them weekly, if not daily. They are the privileged kids of the upper-middle class/ lower-upper class rung in which i subsist; one is the son of the owners of thanksgiving point, another the daughter of the vice president of Sundance, the rest the children of prestigious lawyers and doctors. I live in the cheapest house in this neighborhood, big but old and rickety, beautiful in my eyes. I'm not one of these people; my mother is a teacher of mathematics and my father is a captain pilot for DHL.
Here these people sit before me, snubbing the gourmet our leaders worked so hard to prepare, ignore the lecturers and make fun of our "butlers".
"Is this vinaigrette on the salad? I haven't had anything but cream sauces on my salads since I was 7."
"Tomato? I'm afraid I don't eat tomato. Especially fresh- no thank you, I don't think I care to try it."
"Is this a blueberry on the cake?" asks a girl next to me that lives over a street from me. "Eeeeeeew, that's so disgusting." wrinkling her nose, she flicks, honestly, flicks it onto the table cloth. "Let's go to the pie pizzeria afterwards. This stuff is reasty."
"Word." Says a guy across from me to my right. Pizza? You're being served shrimp etouffee by youth group leaders and you want pizza?
Of course, after the meal they leave immediately (tucking their chairs in), and fly out to the Pie. There are 2 youth that even both to ask our leaders if they need help cleaning up or finding the Reed and Barton Francis I cutlery they can't seem to find after lending the $435-a-place-setting flatware to add a sophisticated touch to the night.
Do you see why being a mother is becoming less and less appealing to me?
I've known all these people for years, they are my friends and neighbors, they go to my school and I talk to them weekly, if not daily. They are the privileged kids of the upper-middle class/ lower-upper class rung in which i subsist; one is the son of the owners of thanksgiving point, another the daughter of the vice president of Sundance, the rest the children of prestigious lawyers and doctors. I live in the cheapest house in this neighborhood, big but old and rickety, beautiful in my eyes. I'm not one of these people; my mother is a teacher of mathematics and my father is a captain pilot for DHL.
Here these people sit before me, snubbing the gourmet our leaders worked so hard to prepare, ignore the lecturers and make fun of our "butlers".
"Is this vinaigrette on the salad? I haven't had anything but cream sauces on my salads since I was 7."
"Tomato? I'm afraid I don't eat tomato. Especially fresh- no thank you, I don't think I care to try it."
"Is this a blueberry on the cake?" asks a girl next to me that lives over a street from me. "Eeeeeeew, that's so disgusting." wrinkling her nose, she flicks, honestly, flicks it onto the table cloth. "Let's go to the pie pizzeria afterwards. This stuff is reasty."
"Word." Says a guy across from me to my right. Pizza? You're being served shrimp etouffee by youth group leaders and you want pizza?
Of course, after the meal they leave immediately (tucking their chairs in), and fly out to the Pie. There are 2 youth that even both to ask our leaders if they need help cleaning up or finding the Reed and Barton Francis I cutlery they can't seem to find after lending the $435-a-place-setting flatware to add a sophisticated touch to the night.
Do you see why being a mother is becoming less and less appealing to me?
I promised myself I wouldn't post today until I have finished all my homework. Oops! I must have no integrity...
So I had lunch today with Elise. Definitely a character that needs explanation until met, at which time no explanation can be given. Luckily, I am at one of the places in my world where I need no justification to plunge into my sea of thoughts and past experiences and frolic in it like a porpoise. This is an online journal, after all. So we went down to great harvest, got some bread, sat at the porch and ate the bread. Good bread, too, but the company was indefinitely better than the past times I've been there. I think I'm finally at the place that I want to be with Elise. Now we're just like stark opposites that know every move of the person sitting across from us, so alike in every area that one can talk about, and on totally on opposite ends of the spectrum of other areas that can not be explained with a human tongue.
I gave her my blogspot address, so everybody wave. Hi Elise! Dearest little Elisie, what a doll.
Oh- I stumbled upon these yesterday while doing everything on earth other than my homework. These are the three simple reasons that Mormons and other non-users don't need to do acid:
1. http://www.ebaumsworld.com/rainbowtrip.html
2. http://www.trevorvanmeter.com/flyguy/
3. http://www.addictinggames.com/skeleton.html
I don't know if I did that right, but If I did you should check this out- pretty cool stuff. The last one's not really trippy, just fun- try to screw up the points then click "duo" under actions. Pretty weird stuff.
So I had lunch today with Elise. Definitely a character that needs explanation until met, at which time no explanation can be given. Luckily, I am at one of the places in my world where I need no justification to plunge into my sea of thoughts and past experiences and frolic in it like a porpoise. This is an online journal, after all. So we went down to great harvest, got some bread, sat at the porch and ate the bread. Good bread, too, but the company was indefinitely better than the past times I've been there. I think I'm finally at the place that I want to be with Elise. Now we're just like stark opposites that know every move of the person sitting across from us, so alike in every area that one can talk about, and on totally on opposite ends of the spectrum of other areas that can not be explained with a human tongue.
I gave her my blogspot address, so everybody wave. Hi Elise! Dearest little Elisie, what a doll.
Oh- I stumbled upon these yesterday while doing everything on earth other than my homework. These are the three simple reasons that Mormons and other non-users don't need to do acid:
1. http://www.ebaumsworld.com/rainbowtrip.html
2. http://www.trevorvanmeter.com/flyguy/
3. http://www.addictinggames.com/skeleton.html
I don't know if I did that right, but If I did you should check this out- pretty cool stuff. The last one's not really trippy, just fun- try to screw up the points then click "duo" under actions. Pretty weird stuff.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
How terrible are my work habits! This blog will be the end of me if I continue to write in it. I have a Macbeth essay I should be currently working on. The final draft is due- I could change around a couple sentences in my second draft and modify the thesis, sliding by with an A. But I can't- I would be able to turn in last-minute, shoddy rubbish in any other class (believe me, I do, and have yet to feel one pang of remorse), but never in English. It's not the subject; it's by far my best and I read and write avidly and passionately, but passion has never been a strong enough impetus to battle my amazing apathy. My teacher, Suzan Lake, installs fear. That's why I work.
Isn't that sad?
Mrs. Lake is by far one of the most fascinating people I've ever encountered. She's subtle, soft spoken, and has this amazing power over anybody she talks to. She won't hesitate to rip a student to pieces in front of the entire class because he or she didn't put any thought into a paper, but is kind and willing to teach if you are open, submissive, and ready to learn. She never interrupts anyone that interrupts her in class, but waits quietly to explain to him why he/she is so impatient, where his/her impatience stems from, and what depths of meaningless existence it will drive him/her to if he chooses not to abandon it.
Nobody has ever insulted Lake. She is one of the most learned people that has ever served as a mentor in my life; she speaks 4 languages, and knows the work of every author and poet ever mentioned in class. She studied the pronunciation of ancient Gaelic so that she might be able to read poems in the language to her students. And yet she is humble, never flaunting this immense wealth of knowledge; her wisdom is simply so pure and abundant that it seeps from her eyes and from her pores and from her very being, ever present and silent. She is willing to share this with any that yearn to partake of the sweet concept that is experience, but is ever ready to punish those that forsake what she has given them and try to use ignorance as justification for indolence. Before her I feel as if I am standing before Howard Roark (for those of you familiar with The fountainhead)
She is the reason that I will get only 4 hours of sleep tonight because of a paper that could technically be completed in 10 minutes. She is the only person in the world that I've ever thought of as a true objectivist. Her work isn't in architecture or in art, but in the shaping of human minds.
Quite an extraordinary woman.
Isn't that sad?
Mrs. Lake is by far one of the most fascinating people I've ever encountered. She's subtle, soft spoken, and has this amazing power over anybody she talks to. She won't hesitate to rip a student to pieces in front of the entire class because he or she didn't put any thought into a paper, but is kind and willing to teach if you are open, submissive, and ready to learn. She never interrupts anyone that interrupts her in class, but waits quietly to explain to him why he/she is so impatient, where his/her impatience stems from, and what depths of meaningless existence it will drive him/her to if he chooses not to abandon it.
Nobody has ever insulted Lake. She is one of the most learned people that has ever served as a mentor in my life; she speaks 4 languages, and knows the work of every author and poet ever mentioned in class. She studied the pronunciation of ancient Gaelic so that she might be able to read poems in the language to her students. And yet she is humble, never flaunting this immense wealth of knowledge; her wisdom is simply so pure and abundant that it seeps from her eyes and from her pores and from her very being, ever present and silent. She is willing to share this with any that yearn to partake of the sweet concept that is experience, but is ever ready to punish those that forsake what she has given them and try to use ignorance as justification for indolence. Before her I feel as if I am standing before Howard Roark (for those of you familiar with The fountainhead)
She is the reason that I will get only 4 hours of sleep tonight because of a paper that could technically be completed in 10 minutes. She is the only person in the world that I've ever thought of as a true objectivist. Her work isn't in architecture or in art, but in the shaping of human minds.
Quite an extraordinary woman.
Yesterday my purse was stolen. It was terrible; I didn't have any credit cards, debit cards, my drivers license, or my social security number in the purse at the time it was viciously ripped out of my life, but my Christian Dior sunglasses are gone! Why, oh why? Why my Christians? I am a restaurant hostess, and I make 7 freaking bucks an hour. Those sunglasses cost me $250.
Note to self: Cease to exist as a brand whore and save up for college.
My family and I were at Domino's pizza at the time (which makes perfect sense, I know). I left the purse (which is my fault, I know). We came back to the greasy edifice to find that the manager had found it after I called to inform him of my loss, but had left it on the seat. A Hispanic man had come in, ordered and paid for a pizza, saw my purse and bolted without picking up the food he had paid for. Upon seeing the man frantically running out of the shop, he wrote down the license plate number and called the police. So now I have a case number, the policeman's sympathies, and no purse. Dang.
I'm fine with this; I'm glad I learned this lesson with a cheap purse containing nothing more than $4 cash and my precious Diors. I'm just bitter about the fact that it would be so easy to repossess my belongings. The store had the license plate number, from which the officer could look up an address and phone number. That's all I want- a phone number. I'd call Pedro up and say:
"Hello, are you by any chance the man that ran off with my purse last Saturday at Domino's? No hard feelings, honestly, I work hard for my money, too. I'm sure that you found out shortly after the incident that the bag contains only four dollars." AND MY DIOR SUNGLASSES THAT YOU HAVE PROBABLY ALREADY GIVEN TO YOUR BLEACH-BLONDE WHORE, YOU IMBICILIC MONKEY FROM SOUTH OF THE BORDER! “I’ll give you twenty if you just give it back to me- I'll even let you keep the four you've probably already spent. Quite a deal, eh?"
Come on- I can't turn him in, why would he refuse? Most likely because he knows that If I get a hold of his address I'll torch his car. Well, what are you going to do?
Note to self: Cease to exist as a brand whore and save up for college.
My family and I were at Domino's pizza at the time (which makes perfect sense, I know). I left the purse (which is my fault, I know). We came back to the greasy edifice to find that the manager had found it after I called to inform him of my loss, but had left it on the seat. A Hispanic man had come in, ordered and paid for a pizza, saw my purse and bolted without picking up the food he had paid for. Upon seeing the man frantically running out of the shop, he wrote down the license plate number and called the police. So now I have a case number, the policeman's sympathies, and no purse. Dang.
I'm fine with this; I'm glad I learned this lesson with a cheap purse containing nothing more than $4 cash and my precious Diors. I'm just bitter about the fact that it would be so easy to repossess my belongings. The store had the license plate number, from which the officer could look up an address and phone number. That's all I want- a phone number. I'd call Pedro up and say:
"Hello, are you by any chance the man that ran off with my purse last Saturday at Domino's? No hard feelings, honestly, I work hard for my money, too. I'm sure that you found out shortly after the incident that the bag contains only four dollars." AND MY DIOR SUNGLASSES THAT YOU HAVE PROBABLY ALREADY GIVEN TO YOUR BLEACH-BLONDE WHORE, YOU IMBICILIC MONKEY FROM SOUTH OF THE BORDER! “I’ll give you twenty if you just give it back to me- I'll even let you keep the four you've probably already spent. Quite a deal, eh?"
Come on- I can't turn him in, why would he refuse? Most likely because he knows that If I get a hold of his address I'll torch his car. Well, what are you going to do?
-
Do I have a story to tell? No, not really, I suppose not. The profound experiences that will make my life worth listening to have just barely begun to shape my existence. I'm young; unbearably young. Here I stall in my underappreciated youth, waiting to grow older and older until one day I'll feel mature enough to sit back and pine after my lost juvenility.
I have no story. I'd like to think I have something worth reading regardless. I have my thoughts, my mind, my consummate greed, my insanity. I have my defensive sarcasm and the sympathy I am capable of offering but too embarrassed to extend. I have the little picture of myself that I store in the back of my mind, and I convince myself day after day that that is what I am; I have my arrogance. I have a beautiful smile that lingers on my lips when I laugh and glance out of the corners of my brown eyes.
Despite the confusion that currently defines my life, I am progressing and growing, and my life is therefore worth living. I cling to a sense of nobility in my genteel poverty. Though disappointment and self hatred are not likely to flee my life anytime soon, I will always think highly of the creature that I am. I will always smile, after all has been said and done and the last escapade has taken its bow, I will smile. I will look upon whatever bereavement follows my departure and cry, "my, what a show!". Whatever procession finds me, be the mourners tens or thousands, my demise will be one of a prophet: the flight of a goddess, the death of a queen.
Written 4.21.2005 3:56 AM
Do I have a story to tell? No, not really, I suppose not. The profound experiences that will make my life worth listening to have just barely begun to shape my existence. I'm young; unbearably young. Here I stall in my underappreciated youth, waiting to grow older and older until one day I'll feel mature enough to sit back and pine after my lost juvenility.
I have no story. I'd like to think I have something worth reading regardless. I have my thoughts, my mind, my consummate greed, my insanity. I have my defensive sarcasm and the sympathy I am capable of offering but too embarrassed to extend. I have the little picture of myself that I store in the back of my mind, and I convince myself day after day that that is what I am; I have my arrogance. I have a beautiful smile that lingers on my lips when I laugh and glance out of the corners of my brown eyes.
Despite the confusion that currently defines my life, I am progressing and growing, and my life is therefore worth living. I cling to a sense of nobility in my genteel poverty. Though disappointment and self hatred are not likely to flee my life anytime soon, I will always think highly of the creature that I am. I will always smile, after all has been said and done and the last escapade has taken its bow, I will smile. I will look upon whatever bereavement follows my departure and cry, "my, what a show!". Whatever procession finds me, be the mourners tens or thousands, my demise will be one of a prophet: the flight of a goddess, the death of a queen.
Written 4.21.2005 3:56 AM
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