This, two thousand and eight, has been a metaphor in its entirety. If I were to pin it to something concrete, I would say it has been a hand. The type of that that lifts itself briefly for a swift thwack on the backside of one’s head.
Its motives, though not altogether sinister, could not be considered amicable either. In fact, when I finally took my eyes from my shoes to look the year right in the eye, I felt the short beam of an ambiguous rhetorical question, thinly-veiled in high-brow sarcasm. The kind of question that Mr. Row, my 9th grade math teacher, once asked Brad when he attempted the pluralization of rhombus. Rhombi. A steady squint accompanied by a long pause. Then, slowly, meticulously even, “When you’re outside waiting for the bus to bring you to school, and several approach, do you say to yourself, ‘I wonder which bi is the correct one?’” Clearly, you do not for the correct word he meant was “buses,” but no one dared to offer an answer.
Two thousand eight was a Mr. Row type of year.
Though often despised, the year offered something I haven’t gotten in a while, change. Albeit rapid, it was a quick toss of my hopes and dreams into yet another mixed metaphor, a vortex of actuality. Suddenly, I found myself in a world where my ambitions are realizable, and speeding toward me, another slap-upside-the-head. When you have plans laid out years in advance (five, we’ll say), you have a long time to ignore the fact that one day they may be carried out. This year was a reminder that I can do what I had planned if I so desire. Actually, I must do what I have planned or find another way to wander along.
I can’t say that two thousand eight has been malicious year. Just as I can’t say that Mr. Row was a malicious person, but sometimes the techniques of teaching that are most effective are also the most abrasive. As time and experience have it, I later asked Mr. Row for a letter of recommendation (a task that would prove difficult if asked of a personified, arbitrary length of time).
So, farewell good year, I will see you around whilst browsing through numerous facebook photo albums and scouring the depths of my memory for remnants of biochemistry.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Snowstorms and Aftermath
This is slightly revised, post-champagne.
The living room and kitchen are dotted with half-empty beer bottles, blue moon and moose drool, standing ominously, casting shadows three times their length against the lights from Christmas tree. Torn from her belt, Kara has hung sleigh bells on the tree, haphazardly dressing it up like a holiday Frankenstein. We always take things a few steps too far.
I can't hold my eyes open this evening. erika and dan are upstairs, jenna has turned in and abbey is nowhere to be found. I ran the dishwater thirty minutes ago, when everyone left, but the glasses and pans are suspended surreally in the water. They'll be there tomorrow when I wake up, Charlie entangled with me in the comforter. These days, he's the only one cutting off the circulation in one of my legs, the only one I have to wake to slide away from.
Now, I'm home and reverting to everything I used to be. I'm not wearing black anymore. Drifting from the vampire I've become. Don't pick up the phone. Don't answer the door.
The living room and kitchen are dotted with half-empty beer bottles, blue moon and moose drool, standing ominously, casting shadows three times their length against the lights from Christmas tree. Torn from her belt, Kara has hung sleigh bells on the tree, haphazardly dressing it up like a holiday Frankenstein. We always take things a few steps too far.
I can't hold my eyes open this evening. erika and dan are upstairs, jenna has turned in and abbey is nowhere to be found. I ran the dishwater thirty minutes ago, when everyone left, but the glasses and pans are suspended surreally in the water. They'll be there tomorrow when I wake up, Charlie entangled with me in the comforter. These days, he's the only one cutting off the circulation in one of my legs, the only one I have to wake to slide away from.
Now, I'm home and reverting to everything I used to be. I'm not wearing black anymore. Drifting from the vampire I've become. Don't pick up the phone. Don't answer the door.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Complexities
My self-analyses are always so shallow, misted over. Everyone I've dated always tells me I have all of these issues, confidence complexes, but I'm ever-blind to them. I'm a racing horse that stares at the finish line, and no one's so far ahead that I can see them through my blinders. But God damn, they're kicking my ass. I recount stories radially, small things. Like I've said, I don't have a single secret. I let my hubris fly. It's this manuever I've done to convince myself that I'm good at lying, this gymnastical sidestep that defies all evidence of damage and exhaustion, unhappiness.
The key is that, when you lie, you have to believe yourself.
Folded down and dried up in the tired olive green chair in the cathouse talking to Amy and Jack about family; Kara about discipline. It's starting to feel like everyone has a complex, frayed ends hidden behind thinning cigarette smoke and scarves pulled across our mouths. It's starting to feel like we're all so jaded at 21. Is it because I'm already losing some of the hair that I used to work so hard each morning to shape? I've lost that perfectionist motivation. I can't remember what it feels like to feel disguisting when I haven't showered for a day. I could go weeks if it meant my skin wouldn't break out.
I wrote once that I'd sit with everyone and know them if I could, but I'm starting to think that I already know each single person on the Earth. At times, I can feel us all breathe in unison, somehow connected through reverberating atoms, pressure build-up in the atmosphere. I'm sighing and converting oxygen to carbon dioxide at an alarming rate, and some shrub in the rainforest will exhale brand new oxygen right back out, into the mouth of the next South American dictator, and I can already feel him, too.
Now, I'm drinking tea with sugar and milk, sweetening sweetening. I'm trying so hard to thicken the evidence, but I'm as transparent as I've ever been. The only difference is that I've gotten better at lying to myself. Everything is just a magic show, an illusion.
The key is that, when you lie, you have to believe yourself.
Folded down and dried up in the tired olive green chair in the cathouse talking to Amy and Jack about family; Kara about discipline. It's starting to feel like everyone has a complex, frayed ends hidden behind thinning cigarette smoke and scarves pulled across our mouths. It's starting to feel like we're all so jaded at 21. Is it because I'm already losing some of the hair that I used to work so hard each morning to shape? I've lost that perfectionist motivation. I can't remember what it feels like to feel disguisting when I haven't showered for a day. I could go weeks if it meant my skin wouldn't break out.
I wrote once that I'd sit with everyone and know them if I could, but I'm starting to think that I already know each single person on the Earth. At times, I can feel us all breathe in unison, somehow connected through reverberating atoms, pressure build-up in the atmosphere. I'm sighing and converting oxygen to carbon dioxide at an alarming rate, and some shrub in the rainforest will exhale brand new oxygen right back out, into the mouth of the next South American dictator, and I can already feel him, too.
Now, I'm drinking tea with sugar and milk, sweetening sweetening. I'm trying so hard to thicken the evidence, but I'm as transparent as I've ever been. The only difference is that I've gotten better at lying to myself. Everything is just a magic show, an illusion.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
The Lost Week
Amy, paraphrased: When you're alone, the mornings are the hardest. Once your feet are on the ground, and you've started shuffling around, making coffee, scrubbing your teeth, everything's fine. When you open you're eyes, though, you have to say, 'Okay, I'm alone. This is was what I'm doing for a little while.' But when you wake up and you've got someone in your life, some of the responsibility is suddenly off of you.
I've been wrapping myself in layers and layers to keep warm when I sleep. Hiding. Charlie sits on my legs. I don't really have any secrets, not ones that matter. Every thing I'm feeling bubbles to the surface before it's even properly folded into a sentence, even when I sleep. I mumble things like, 'Everyone has a leather jacket.' Kara's around to hear it the most. I haven't ached with love for more than a year. I don't even remember what it means to give a fuck about anyone but myself. I go through men like denim. No no, this is much closer: I go through boys like jeans.
I'm starting to depend on the cathouse. The enforced study habits and constant outpouring of free food from one source or another. It's easy to feel like you matter when people clean up your dishes for you, when they let you sing a song they hate.
It's winter and suddenly its a blizzard out and everyone's hunkering down with some other warm body to hibernate. God knows I've eaten enough to live for a month or two in bed, and I'd never have to let my feet touch the ground. Everything around me would waste. The plants in my room. Charlie. Alone, starting and finishing are the hardest. Everything in between is just horsing around, keeping your pace. Momentum. With nobody in your bed, the night's hard to get through.
I've been wrapping myself in layers and layers to keep warm when I sleep. Hiding. Charlie sits on my legs. I don't really have any secrets, not ones that matter. Every thing I'm feeling bubbles to the surface before it's even properly folded into a sentence, even when I sleep. I mumble things like, 'Everyone has a leather jacket.' Kara's around to hear it the most. I haven't ached with love for more than a year. I don't even remember what it means to give a fuck about anyone but myself. I go through men like denim. No no, this is much closer: I go through boys like jeans.
I'm starting to depend on the cathouse. The enforced study habits and constant outpouring of free food from one source or another. It's easy to feel like you matter when people clean up your dishes for you, when they let you sing a song they hate.
It's winter and suddenly its a blizzard out and everyone's hunkering down with some other warm body to hibernate. God knows I've eaten enough to live for a month or two in bed, and I'd never have to let my feet touch the ground. Everything around me would waste. The plants in my room. Charlie. Alone, starting and finishing are the hardest. Everything in between is just horsing around, keeping your pace. Momentum. With nobody in your bed, the night's hard to get through.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Defragmenting
I'm eliminating "should" from my vocabulary, like Angie said in Espresso Expose months and months ago. Apropos. It's sinking in. Basing my life on "shoulds" has thus far been anything but fruitful. I'm not the same person I was. Present fights the past, fears the future, etc. I've been messy like this for months and months.
I know why, too. I live in fragments. I am different between sueded sheets than between aisles in a supermarket. I morph somewhere between the telephone lines and text messages. Transforming for each setting, different on different buses; 6: stand-offish, 3: polite, 14: razor-edged, 16: exhausted. I'm setting up Christmas trees, decomposing them in a time lapse. Sifting through cardigans I can't afford and woven sterling silver bracelets I'll buy anyway. I would order everyone something beautiful, if I could. Stackable rings or 1000 thread count sheets or a self-portrait by Belenciaga. An animal to love.
But I'm two knees deep in layers and layers of messes I've made. Things I've stomped, beautiful things I've purchased only for myself. Cigarette butts and empty coffee cups. Old albums, different versions of myself, cat litter, fleece tied blankets. Other peoples' sweatshirts that only smell like me. I accumulate and consume mechanically. It divides me into all of these different people, and I can change attitudes faster than I can rip myself from my jeans (and that's some record time, broseph).
I know why, too. I live in fragments. I am different between sueded sheets than between aisles in a supermarket. I morph somewhere between the telephone lines and text messages. Transforming for each setting, different on different buses; 6: stand-offish, 3: polite, 14: razor-edged, 16: exhausted. I'm setting up Christmas trees, decomposing them in a time lapse. Sifting through cardigans I can't afford and woven sterling silver bracelets I'll buy anyway. I would order everyone something beautiful, if I could. Stackable rings or 1000 thread count sheets or a self-portrait by Belenciaga. An animal to love.
But I'm two knees deep in layers and layers of messes I've made. Things I've stomped, beautiful things I've purchased only for myself. Cigarette butts and empty coffee cups. Old albums, different versions of myself, cat litter, fleece tied blankets. Other peoples' sweatshirts that only smell like me. I accumulate and consume mechanically. It divides me into all of these different people, and I can change attitudes faster than I can rip myself from my jeans (and that's some record time, broseph).
Monday, November 10, 2008
Several Inches From the Door
My utter lack of momentum remains a complete mystery to me. These days, I spend hours and hours laying upside down on the huge floral couch on the main floor of the cathouse, drifting in and out of consciousness, munching on chocolate chip cookies and doughnuts that other people have mashed into being. Crossword puzzles and starting even more books that will probably never be finished.
I constantly acquire new fears, absorbing them from everyone around me. I can thank my wife for my sudden claustrophobia and immediate urge to urinate every time I step into an elevator. I think the only fear that's really mine is the fear of conclusion. I begin things left and right, here and there, books by Oscar Wao and F. Scott, my own novel, I suppose. Workout routines. I start relationships with practically everyone I meet. You know, obnoxiously prolonged eye contact and new Rock and Republic jeans. These things never find culmination. I'm afraid to follow through because I know myself. I understand that I'll be disappointed.
It's why this college-life-crisis comes so easily to me. I excel at backing out, lying. Now that everything's solidifying, it's nothing I want. Why would I ever want to commit myself to 7 additional years of school when I've longed to escape for the past couple of months? What I want is to be George Saunders, or not George Saunders per se (because his satire is exhausting after just a few pages), but someone George Saunders-esque. I want to drop the fuck out of school and work in the mines, join the army, train myself as a barista (of course none of these would last a year). My expectations for myself are so high, but all they continue to do is limit me from what I want to do: nothing. I want to bake souffles and play with Charlie Katdinsky.
I want to be the only one for miles and miles.
I constantly acquire new fears, absorbing them from everyone around me. I can thank my wife for my sudden claustrophobia and immediate urge to urinate every time I step into an elevator. I think the only fear that's really mine is the fear of conclusion. I begin things left and right, here and there, books by Oscar Wao and F. Scott, my own novel, I suppose. Workout routines. I start relationships with practically everyone I meet. You know, obnoxiously prolonged eye contact and new Rock and Republic jeans. These things never find culmination. I'm afraid to follow through because I know myself. I understand that I'll be disappointed.
It's why this college-life-crisis comes so easily to me. I excel at backing out, lying. Now that everything's solidifying, it's nothing I want. Why would I ever want to commit myself to 7 additional years of school when I've longed to escape for the past couple of months? What I want is to be George Saunders, or not George Saunders per se (because his satire is exhausting after just a few pages), but someone George Saunders-esque. I want to drop the fuck out of school and work in the mines, join the army, train myself as a barista (of course none of these would last a year). My expectations for myself are so high, but all they continue to do is limit me from what I want to do: nothing. I want to bake souffles and play with Charlie Katdinsky.
I want to be the only one for miles and miles.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Ne Me Quitte Pas
Jogging through the drizzle on Hennepin avenue and my head's been pounding for a week. It's paralyzing and frightening to think that I've consumed bottles and bottles of Excedrin and my headaches always come back. Like telemarketers or Mormons on bicycles or election years. You know, the other inevitables of life. Dopamine degrades and bills pile.
Every Monday feels the same. It's usually raining or threatening as much. I start in the morning and promise myself that this segment of seven days will be better. I'll be strong and positive and not lost in thought on the bus. I won't skip classes or smoke and maybe this evening I'll run after genetics and probably pick up my organic textbook and power through 100 pages. That doesn't work, though, and I spend a few hours hitting the snooze and gallivanting around campus in cowboy boots without ever actually making it to class, and soon it's midnight and the melatonin is begging me to sleep.
It's so humid I feel like I'm drowning.
Every Monday feels the same. It's usually raining or threatening as much. I start in the morning and promise myself that this segment of seven days will be better. I'll be strong and positive and not lost in thought on the bus. I won't skip classes or smoke and maybe this evening I'll run after genetics and probably pick up my organic textbook and power through 100 pages. That doesn't work, though, and I spend a few hours hitting the snooze and gallivanting around campus in cowboy boots without ever actually making it to class, and soon it's midnight and the melatonin is begging me to sleep.
It's so humid I feel like I'm drowning.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Trusting/Thrusting
I guess you could say I'm a mild disaster, you know, the whirlwind of American Crew hair gel, Aveda exfoliant, Parliaments, Orbit Sweet Mint, Neutrogena oil-absorbing sheets, scuffed cell phone, Tiffany key chain, cheap-ass blue bic lighter. My pockets are always so fucking full, but, like Shane says, I feel naked without all of my things to comfort me. I can't downsize all of my clothing and I can't pay my visa bill and I can't flinch when I make someone else cry. "It's so easy to hurt others when you can't feel pain."
I'm feeling so indie today in my obnoxious green and white sunglasses from Nick and Abercrombie cutoffs (I'm praying you're laughing at how accidentally ironic I am, listening to Ashanti and Kellie Pickler and pretending to be a critic). I'm still sore from this weekend's antics and Kara ripped her Taverniti Sos and had to scratch away crusted blood on her toenails. I haven't cried in months but you can't say that means I'm happy. James picked up these stupid sheets from TJ Maxx and they're ridiculously soft (like so many boys have said about my ever-thinning, in-need-of-plugs hair) and I would torch them if they didn't match my room so well. I would light up all of these remnants of people and places and past adventures because I'm working really hard on focusing on the now. Or maybe what's ahead. John in the future tense is a successful doctor with a few vaguely ethnic children. Snore.
AH! I'm terribly disjointed but I suppose I wouldn't have it another way. Put-together people with good credit histories and perfect skin and clothes they can afford bore me. Give me a depressed, blonde, Jimmy Choo-wearing alcoholic with mounds of debt and emotional baggage and the tendency to skip class to smoke a few cigarettes any day.
This whole trust/honesty thing comes up a lot in my life, at least in the last year. Let me in let me in people shout at me, or maybe whimper, but that's not my nature. I'm sarcastic and mean when I'm upset, which is often. The issue is that I don't usually know what's wrong and how can I tell everyone something I don't know. My child-like enthusiasm for novelties and new people gets me in trouble all the time. It takes me too long to decide anything (especially those important things everyone needs to know right away, apparently). I need a real fortune cookie with a real fortune and not some bushlit that says "you are creative and action-oriented."
Here's the thing: there are a lot of bad things about me, but I'm ever-unapologetic. I binge on M&Ms and get too drunk whenever I have the time and look in every semi-reflective surface so often that I know where and when pimples are going to show three weeks in advance. Kiss-and-tell, run-around, arrogant, caffeinated disaster. I can't buy anything I really want and I don't need anything for this birthday but a really fucking big hug, a $250 waffle iron, $335 jeans, a black iPod shuffle that I don't deserve after breaking three apple products and a platinum AmEx card with 0% interest and crazy fucking rewards. I'm too busy and I don't have time for mental breakdowns or sex and I suppose that's the way I function best. I haven't been smilely and optimistic for a couple of years. I don't mean to say I'm unhappy. Jenna says that she always knows I'm coming home because she can hear me singing outside of her window (bless her for leaving out any adjectives describing what I call singing). That song from singing in the rain wakes me up to 39 seconds every morning and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Here's something good about me: I don't remember heartache or sore muscles or people that don't matter when they leave. My past is idealized; I can wake up everyday content with all of my flaws and misgivings and smile.
I'm feeling so indie today in my obnoxious green and white sunglasses from Nick and Abercrombie cutoffs (I'm praying you're laughing at how accidentally ironic I am, listening to Ashanti and Kellie Pickler and pretending to be a critic). I'm still sore from this weekend's antics and Kara ripped her Taverniti Sos and had to scratch away crusted blood on her toenails. I haven't cried in months but you can't say that means I'm happy. James picked up these stupid sheets from TJ Maxx and they're ridiculously soft (like so many boys have said about my ever-thinning, in-need-of-plugs hair) and I would torch them if they didn't match my room so well. I would light up all of these remnants of people and places and past adventures because I'm working really hard on focusing on the now. Or maybe what's ahead. John in the future tense is a successful doctor with a few vaguely ethnic children. Snore.
AH! I'm terribly disjointed but I suppose I wouldn't have it another way. Put-together people with good credit histories and perfect skin and clothes they can afford bore me. Give me a depressed, blonde, Jimmy Choo-wearing alcoholic with mounds of debt and emotional baggage and the tendency to skip class to smoke a few cigarettes any day.
This whole trust/honesty thing comes up a lot in my life, at least in the last year. Let me in let me in people shout at me, or maybe whimper, but that's not my nature. I'm sarcastic and mean when I'm upset, which is often. The issue is that I don't usually know what's wrong and how can I tell everyone something I don't know. My child-like enthusiasm for novelties and new people gets me in trouble all the time. It takes me too long to decide anything (especially those important things everyone needs to know right away, apparently). I need a real fortune cookie with a real fortune and not some bushlit that says "you are creative and action-oriented."
Here's the thing: there are a lot of bad things about me, but I'm ever-unapologetic. I binge on M&Ms and get too drunk whenever I have the time and look in every semi-reflective surface so often that I know where and when pimples are going to show three weeks in advance. Kiss-and-tell, run-around, arrogant, caffeinated disaster. I can't buy anything I really want and I don't need anything for this birthday but a really fucking big hug, a $250 waffle iron, $335 jeans, a black iPod shuffle that I don't deserve after breaking three apple products and a platinum AmEx card with 0% interest and crazy fucking rewards. I'm too busy and I don't have time for mental breakdowns or sex and I suppose that's the way I function best. I haven't been smilely and optimistic for a couple of years. I don't mean to say I'm unhappy. Jenna says that she always knows I'm coming home because she can hear me singing outside of her window (bless her for leaving out any adjectives describing what I call singing). That song from singing in the rain wakes me up to 39 seconds every morning and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Here's something good about me: I don't remember heartache or sore muscles or people that don't matter when they leave. My past is idealized; I can wake up everyday content with all of my flaws and misgivings and smile.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Solvable Predicaments
I’m running late again, and it’s humid and my back is drizzled with sweat that’s starting to seep through the ratty grey sweater I found at Target for six dollars last winter. “Well,” my mother would say in that tone of hers, “Who wears a sweater when it’s eighty degrees?” I suppose that’s fair, but you know how I hate any contest to my judgment.
All of my shoes are packed up for my hike back to Minneapolis so I’m wearing these: black Nunn Bush loafers with tasslels (you know the ones) from Kohl’s or somewhere. I can’t remember. They are shitty and cheap and rub against my Achilles and the heels are so loud, men turn to see a long-legged woman in something akin to Manolos, following their smug grins with a grimace of immediate disappointment. These shoes are hacked up. Salt lines from two years ago when I wore them to Turnabout. I still have the pants that ripped when they pulled my feet out from under me on the pavement outside of Lourdes. It’s hard to step confidently out the door when you’re treading on these.
I’ve spent the last three weeks hunched over the cryostat, hold up in a dark room staining slides, waiting and waiting in this fluorescent hole in the wall. I’m the only one who uses the stairwell in Stabile and I like it that way. It’s only six flights to my lab, but I’ve lost count and missed the 7th floor more than once. Out of breath, I’m trying to remind myself that “health” as I see it should really be more about cardiorespiratory fitness and muscle mass and BMI, and not whether-or-not-I-can-fit-into-those-jeans-that-have-always-been-a-bit-too-small. I spend so much time permeablizing membranes with 1% Triton and blocking with serum and what am I really doing? I’m stalling so my paycheck can grow and grow and maybe I can buy dolce jeans that actually fit (joking, why would I want jeans like that?) and those Gucci sandals on sale at Neiman’s.
When August leaves, so do I.
All of my shoes are packed up for my hike back to Minneapolis so I’m wearing these: black Nunn Bush loafers with tasslels (you know the ones) from Kohl’s or somewhere. I can’t remember. They are shitty and cheap and rub against my Achilles and the heels are so loud, men turn to see a long-legged woman in something akin to Manolos, following their smug grins with a grimace of immediate disappointment. These shoes are hacked up. Salt lines from two years ago when I wore them to Turnabout. I still have the pants that ripped when they pulled my feet out from under me on the pavement outside of Lourdes. It’s hard to step confidently out the door when you’re treading on these.
I’ve spent the last three weeks hunched over the cryostat, hold up in a dark room staining slides, waiting and waiting in this fluorescent hole in the wall. I’m the only one who uses the stairwell in Stabile and I like it that way. It’s only six flights to my lab, but I’ve lost count and missed the 7th floor more than once. Out of breath, I’m trying to remind myself that “health” as I see it should really be more about cardiorespiratory fitness and muscle mass and BMI, and not whether-or-not-I-can-fit-into-those-jeans-that-have-always-been-a-bit-too-small. I spend so much time permeablizing membranes with 1% Triton and blocking with serum and what am I really doing? I’m stalling so my paycheck can grow and grow and maybe I can buy dolce jeans that actually fit (joking, why would I want jeans like that?) and those Gucci sandals on sale at Neiman’s.
When August leaves, so do I.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Hematoxylin and Eosin
Today, I gave blood as a small form of protest. I'm vying for equality here in the most generous way possible. This is my lunch sit-in. Rosa Parks would be so proud, but she couldn't "fight the power" by convincing the bus driver she was white. She didn't rest because she was tired, and I'm not giving blood because replacing a pint consumes about 650 calories.
The truth is that I'm not okay with passivity. I don't like waiting to be called. If you don't answer, I don't even want to talk anymore. I don't like being second. This game isn't fair anyway. The FDA can't tell me my blood isn't good enough. I don't receive directions or implications or expectations well. I'd rather slough them off or, better yet, trample them in my cowboy boots. Fuck you for telling me what I can't do. If you knew me at all, you'd know this part first.
I have this long list of wants. First and foremost, I want to always be creatively in charge and exert this odd form of chaotic control. Don't move my toothbrush.
I know I'm this messy, disastrous, unpredictable fixture in your life and I don't call you when I'm supposed to, but sometimes I'm sweet and bring you flowers and a Chai, or buy you the only thing you really wanted for your birthday. I just want to walk in and out of your life whenever the fuck I feel like it, but don't expect that freedom from me. You just don't get it yet, do you?
What else do I want? Everything. I want to fit into my jeans perfectly. Some are too big and others are too small and my waist oscillates between fitting comfortably into those teeny Dolce jeans I inherited and hardly squeezing into the Tavernitis I splurged on with Kara. I want more Elie Taharis, because these are perfect. I want thicker hair and lighter eyes and slimmer feet. I want to do gymnastics and speed-skate in the Olympics and learn French in two weeks and get a 39 on the MCAT. I want to be an MD PhD and backpack through South America and drive a convertible or a little red motorcycle.
This is all just a tantrum I'm throwing because summer is packing its bags and sauntering South, and this summer was perfect and excellent except for the disappearance my sisters and all that money I wasted on plane rides and Thai food. (I'm still getting over the fact that I paid for that twelve-dollar pina colada.) I had so much fun. I made soup and lasagna and cookies with Ghirardelli chocolate chips and drove to North Dakota for nothing but chocolate pudding cake and dancing in the street of something that can hardly be considered a city. I stumbled home after a game of Ring of Fire (or drove home the next morning). I almost stole a giant remote control. Friday, we'll find out if our soccer team got 1st in our league.
This is all beside the point. All I'm really trying to say is that I'm O negative. My blood is nice to have in an emergency. And so am I.
The truth is that I'm not okay with passivity. I don't like waiting to be called. If you don't answer, I don't even want to talk anymore. I don't like being second. This game isn't fair anyway. The FDA can't tell me my blood isn't good enough. I don't receive directions or implications or expectations well. I'd rather slough them off or, better yet, trample them in my cowboy boots. Fuck you for telling me what I can't do. If you knew me at all, you'd know this part first.
I have this long list of wants. First and foremost, I want to always be creatively in charge and exert this odd form of chaotic control. Don't move my toothbrush.
I know I'm this messy, disastrous, unpredictable fixture in your life and I don't call you when I'm supposed to, but sometimes I'm sweet and bring you flowers and a Chai, or buy you the only thing you really wanted for your birthday. I just want to walk in and out of your life whenever the fuck I feel like it, but don't expect that freedom from me. You just don't get it yet, do you?
What else do I want? Everything. I want to fit into my jeans perfectly. Some are too big and others are too small and my waist oscillates between fitting comfortably into those teeny Dolce jeans I inherited and hardly squeezing into the Tavernitis I splurged on with Kara. I want more Elie Taharis, because these are perfect. I want thicker hair and lighter eyes and slimmer feet. I want to do gymnastics and speed-skate in the Olympics and learn French in two weeks and get a 39 on the MCAT. I want to be an MD PhD and backpack through South America and drive a convertible or a little red motorcycle.
This is all just a tantrum I'm throwing because summer is packing its bags and sauntering South, and this summer was perfect and excellent except for the disappearance my sisters and all that money I wasted on plane rides and Thai food. (I'm still getting over the fact that I paid for that twelve-dollar pina colada.) I had so much fun. I made soup and lasagna and cookies with Ghirardelli chocolate chips and drove to North Dakota for nothing but chocolate pudding cake and dancing in the street of something that can hardly be considered a city. I stumbled home after a game of Ring of Fire (or drove home the next morning). I almost stole a giant remote control. Friday, we'll find out if our soccer team got 1st in our league.
This is all beside the point. All I'm really trying to say is that I'm O negative. My blood is nice to have in an emergency. And so am I.
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