Thursday, August 21, 2008

SAGITTARIUS - The Happy-Go-Lucky One (Nov 22 - Dec 21)
Good-natured optimist. Doesn't want to grow up (Peter Pan Syndrome). Indulges self. Boastful. Likes luxuries and gambling. Social and outgoing.. Doesn't like responsibilities. Often fantasizes. Impatient. Fun to be around. Having lots of friends. Flirtatious. Doesn't like rules. Sometimes hypocritical. Dislikes being confined - tight spaces or even tight clothes. Doesn't like being doubted. Beautiful inside and out.

if this doesn't describe me i wasn't born on the 13 of december.

i am a good-natured optimist. i like to think that even though i have bad luck ALL THE TIME something will pan out in my favor. something has to. lil bow wow has an escalade and a mansion. there has to be something good out there for me, you know?

i don't want to grow up, i hate it. i like being able to drink legally and i would probably like things like voting if i was political... but besides drinking i really don't like not being in my teens.

i indulge. if there's one thing i know how to do very well, it's that. give me an inch, and we'll be on the riviera on a yacht.

boastful. i'm actually humble, but it's because i know i'm good at what i do. there, that about covered it.

i don't gamble with money, because i don't have any. but i would like the luxury of someone giving me money and then gambling with it, just so long as it's not mine that i lose.

social and outgoing. it's what i do for work. what can i say, i'm a great networker. -boastful-

i hate responsibilities. well, i hate them having to do with being an adult, which is covered under 'peter pan syndrome'.

i fantasize about everything, all the time. it's what i'm best at, and if i could find a way to get paid for it i would do it for money.

i'm impatient only with things that waste my precious time, which in turn is almost everything. almost.

i'm fun. just ask my friends, i have lots of them.

flirtatious is just an adjective to describe how i network. and i'm good at it, too.

my hypocrasy knows no bounds. i like to think that's called being human.

hate small spaces. i'm a big girl. i only like tight clothes if they happen to be a leotard and tights and i haven't eaten for awhile. then i don't mind, cause my body looks streamlined.

don't doubt me, cause inevitably i am always right.

i'm beautiful inside and out. cause i can fess up to anything that you ask me, even if it's something ugly.

see? i'm a true sagittarius. period. it's what i'm good at, for sure.

k.

Friday, August 15, 2008

too much to know what to do with

dust, everywhere
on these relics
of me, some
myriad of identity
all in boxes, all
in vain.
toothy grins and
best angles and
artsy shots...
all shoved in shoe boxes
to return at
a later date.
i'm boxing the past
with fist and masking tape,
shedding a skin
created in the dark, a
shell, a shield.
dust all around
like ash,
like snow,
and i'm done here,
done biding my time
in the scene, in the show.



packing, packing, packing. if you are feeling like you have nothing in this world to call your own, and you have nothing to show and no money or no friends...

pack up your place. whether it be a room or and apartment or a house... you have more shit than you think you do, and you are luckier than most people to have it. unless you don't want it, like me. i wish i could take what little i thought i had. but there is no room in a suitcase for a giant collection of fans, a plethora of 200 books, and the assorted housewares and picture frames that i have condensed down to three boxes.

my wardrobe - gone, down to what i can pack and some coats for my parents winter house in north carolina. my kitchenware, furniture, and miscellaneous i can't take - salvation army. there is change all around... i even took out my lip ring. i want to know if i shed this life that i've created once again, except this time, for real... i want to know if i can do the things i've always wanted to do. and i don't even know what they are yet, or where i'm going to find them. but they have to be somewhere, right?

i've always had a sneaking suspicion that i'm not that good at dancing. that maybe it has been, up until this year, a love-child of circumstance and devotion. well, i want to know. i want to know if i have changed enough over the past year to support how i will work in the future. i guess i'll see over time, but for now...

now i must pack what life i had into stale cardboard boxes. all the smiles, all the comfort, and all the stability of all this stuff... it needs to go away and let me see if i can do it on my own. it's hard, because i love all of it. but better now than thirty with a kid on the way to getting a divorce, right?

right.

k.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

dusted off (literally)

i write empty
i write angry
i scream devistation
i look pretty
i talk pure
i fool
you.

k., original post: 21 jan 07

it doesn't matter
how much you drink
you will still
be you
tomorrow.

k., original post: 21 jan 07

i wanna
kick stones today,
maybe into a garage
or a tin pail
so they make noise
and pound
against thin walls
resound
resound
not skipping a beat
granite against solid
against silence
i wanna kick rocks
today
boot them
so that they feel
kicked in
just
like me...
one after another
after another
after another
like coins
tossed
in a bucket of coins.

k., original post: 1 feb 07

haha
silence sucks
but absence is worse -
silence without presence
is the best
revenge.

k., original post: 7 feb 07

"we are all liars in our own right. but perhaps the best liars of all are artists, for they create worlds that seem real to everyone, even those that don't believe in them." -nietzsche


just found these cleaning. i stow writing as if it were paper dollars during the depression. enjoy.

k.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

my lasagna days are over

i am reading a book called my horizontal life by the comedienne chelsea handler. it has been reccomended to me by several of my friends, saying that she's 'just like' me and i write just like her.

i had put it off for a minute, because i scoffed at the fact that there was someone lurking around the corner that could be considered 'my style' of writing, under the assumption that i, in my own right, am the most successful writer that has yet to publish anything of public desire. i don't write like her; it must be that she writes like me, because the former is ludicrous to believe.

i am humbled to say that chelsea handler is amazing and while it's true that we do hold many similar traits in personality, she is undoubtedly more settled in her career, as she has her own television program on syndicated cable as well as two books published as national bestsellers. i have two cats and several thousand blogs. you do the math.

its always been a dream of mine to publish a book of essays, that people will regard with wit and charm, one that makes them sit back in their chair after reading one and understand that i have a keen apperception of human nature. or, in layman's terms, that i'm extremely sensitive to the ways of thought and i can relate to every single person that finds my shit interesting. but i have also always regarded this as a crapshoot, like how i've always wanted to be a singer. i've always envisioned that career to start in some dingy smoke filled bar, singing a drunken rendition of "at last" by etta james to strangers. except, in a twist of plot, one of the strangers is visiting from LA, and he's a record executive who was blown away by my performance, and i get ripped from my stagnant life as a struggling dancer and shot to superstardom with my brand new hit album, "the way things was".

this has been my dream for a very long time, and i think about it when i'm in the shower, which, subsequently, is one of the only places i'm not scared to sing. the other is my car. with my windows up and soundproofed. i told my mother i wanted to be a singer when i was seven, and she laughed a little, saying "you should keep your day job..." it never occurred to me that i could ask for lessons. it was just apparrent to everyone else that i sucked, and so i kept my mouth shut around others so i wouldn't be told that again.

anyway. i have always wanted to publish a book of essays and dumb poetry about how i feel inadequate, how i'm lost, and how i feel about love. these are sarcastic tales from the crypt, regarding life as something that was pitted against me from the beginning. maybe eventually, when i figure out what the hell i'm trying to say, i could actually send my stuff into a publisher and they wouldn't laugh at me, they'd just laugh at it instead, and tell me i had a check coming for 30,000 dollars plus royalties. i prefer things that way. i want to make alot of money, i just don't want to do anything for it, cause i'm lazy and not that creative.

i was recently part of a dvd taping for a comedian's christmas show. i was cast at the last minute, because one girl was forced to drop out, and so i didn't really look like the other girls. i was swimming in a sea of fake breasts and hair extensions, listening to their nightmare stories of dancing for a bevvy of nfl/nhl/nba teams. i sat in the corner of the dressing room for the first day reading my book, rolling my eyes when i heard complaints out of thier collegen injected lips. i hate to be a bitch, but i have never liked professional dance squads. knowing that's what gave us things like paula abdul's career makes me wary of the talent that is contracted before. i wanted to slap them upside the head, because i am a trained ballet dancer, and i have been bludgeoning my toes and vomiting up meals before any of them ever even knew who michael vic was, which makes me better and more dedicated to my art than all of them combined.*this of course is my personal opinion of my inherent greatness and shouldn't be considered popular agreement.

one of the girls was a small blonde, despite her gregarious breasts, which were fake and implanted at 18. and when i say small, i mean she could be fukked doggy style by a pedophile and he would never know the difference if she never flashed her tits to him. so anyway, she looked ridiculous standing next to me, because i you see, am a giant, and the first words she said to me were with a sigh, "well shit on a stick, aren't you just the most prettiest thang, with your legs 'n shit. i always wanted most to be tall and shit." i thought to myself, "that's funny. i've always wished i would stop getting confused for a transvestite at gay bars and actually fit into a size not considered 'XL'". i smiled and said she was sweet. and then i found out she was bat shit crazy.

over the course of the following two days, she would say things that could be considered 'out there', and by 'out there' i mean way too forward and vulgar for people you had met not ten hours before. the first day i found out that she was on hormonal treatments (birth control... never let a woman say otherwise and when you hear this, run; it means their hormones are either way too high or way too low and that never = sanity) and that she was alwo prescribed zoloft and time release xanax, among a plethora of other pills and vitamins she had in her bag. she also kept rubbing abreva on a fever blister on her top lip. open lesions on your lips... it makes close quarters even closer. on the second day, she announced that she had forgotton her bra AND panties, and that she was on her period. i must mention that our costume was short cutoff jeans. that camel toe was one that america did not want to see, or at least me. i didn't really care if america liked it or not, it was gonna happen, and i was putting the blinders on from the start. she also had convieniently forgotton to shave. anything. i half expected to take out her glass eye and clean it off in front of us.

i don't know if you've ever had the fine experience of hearing someone refer their womanly salve as "pussy juice", but it made me cringe and not as proud to bear children. she said that. she said, "well gawsh, gurls, i sure hope 'merica don't see my pussy juice leak through these jeans. do ya think the wardrobe lady will let us keep this shit?" had she explained it that way to the wardrobe lady, they probably would have paid her to take them with her. gross. this was among the plethora of verbal diarrhea pouring from her mouth, describing her vagina and the way it functions under different situations.

like sex. i have the pleasure to know that she queefs. if you aren't familiar with said "queef", let me lightly explain. it's s the expulsion of air from the vaginal canal. and she does it on a regular basis, twice as much during sex. i imagine then, that copulating with her must equate to fukking a small whoopee cushion with ginormous tits. she said her doctor told her it was normal for women to do it sometimes, but as much as she did she must have some other hole inside her that's taking in air (and all the STD's a girl could want) and releasing it on a more frequent basis. she assured us that it wasn't dangerous for her though.

whew. i was scared there for a second.

after the dvd was finally finished filming and all the pictures were taken and the elf shoes were stowed back into wardrobe, we walked across the street to her car, which, to her blantant anger and surprise, was not there anymore.

now, i must interrupt myself to tell you that she had parked in the same spot on the first day because she wasn't "gonna pay five whole bucks to park in a garage!!! fukk that!!" so she found a spot on the side of the road that was behind the camel truck (yes, there was a camel involved in the taping, don't ask me why). she didn't pay a meter and worried (out loud and frequently) that she was going to get towed. all day. and when she didn't, she assumed she'd be fine for the next day too, which she wasn't. they towed her, and upon discovery of this let out a string of curse words so vile it rivaled her "pussy juice" comment. i didn't want to remind her that not only had she parked illegally and not paid any sort of meter for twelve hours, she was also parked behind a seven foot tall camel that had to be loaded and unloaded twice during those twelve hours. so we went to the wrap party instead, her pouting and telling everyone in listening distance that she was sure as shit not gonna let those tow truck mother fukkers rip her off, and that she was gonna get her car without having to pay. we would see, she said. we would see.

i was taken aback that such a small and pretty little thing was so... so blatantly lewd. i'm not offended by much, and i was determined to get her drunk at the party and lose her so that i wouldn't hear anything else out of her mouth. i'm not always the brightest bulb on the porch, but come on... my brain hurt after she talked. she was so nice and sweet when she wasn't talking about disgusting bodily habits, that i wanted to be nice back to her. i couldn't help though, that she made me throw up in my mouth a little. a little honesty isn't all that bad, i just don't think it's necessary to cultivate everything you have, at all times of the day. at least, in such a vulgar manner.

i went for wine with will the other day and he cleared some shit up for me. a person can be honest all day long, but honestly, do we want all that honesty? i think that honesty is a great character trait and it's one that can be appreciated immensly. but that sweet pretty blonde with the ghonnorhea mouth is an example of brutal honesty in it's most raw and untouched form. it was as if those pills she took stripped her of the ability not to tell a lie or distinguish that it's not appropriate to say that the lasagna i'm eating looks like it was splattered in period blood. she said that. not me. i'm pretty sure my lasagna days are over. i swallowed too much honesty on that last (sound) bite.

will and i conceded that it's the delivery of honesty that makes it appropriate. even though i still think that if you are approaching the way you are to be honest then it is already altered from the get go. so therefore i have come to my own conclusion that it doesn't matter how fukkin honest you are, if you are polite. because one has nothing to do with the other. you wouldn't pay money to come hear me sing, even if it was drunken karaoke, which would never happen anyway. (i hate, hate, hate karaoke. but the one time i ever do it i hope to get a record deal. i live in a fantastical world.) i am honest about how i sound. i can hit a note every once in awhile that sounds delightful, the same way that certain ways blondie would turn her face made her look sweet, and doe-like. but the truth is, we don't want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. go ahead and tell me i look good when i've been vomiting for two days. the white lie softens the image of my colorless and flacid body, wrapped around the toilet bowl, shaking with fever and repulsion. throw me a bone, right?

mmph. words manipulate everything; intelligence is regarded by the manner in which they are delivered. while chelsea handler can say the same thing that the sweet little blonde, i would rather spend time talking with the former instead of listening to the inane bullshit that came out of the latter. but when it comes down to it, they are both talking about being fukked. so chew on that.

for those that have made it through this essay successfully, you have probably learned nothing. but! you have at least put me at a higher esteem than someone who has the audacity to say the phrase "pussy juice" with all seriousness, and for that, i thank you. it makes me feel like i have published something that people can appreciate me for.

k.

Monday, August 4, 2008

for you, for me

my world is filled
with apologies and
a reserve of skeletons
in my locked closets
no matter how hard
i try, or
how hard i am,
my pores are seeping
dark on my bones,
like ink in water,
or red wine on white linen
and no matter
what decision i decide
it's never right, it's
never whole, but
as bad as i am
i'm proud of the fact
that i'm worse,
than i seem.

k.

the red dog incident

when i was five years old, i stole gum from the checkout line after grocery shopping with my mom. when she noticed that i had it and asked me about it, i lied to her and told her i had found it.

i have seriously never seen my mother so angry with me. she marched my happy ass back in there and made me give it back, and apologize to the store manager. she then gave me an ass whoopin and shoved me back in the car. i cried the whole way home and felt guilty for weeks afterward. over gum! the kind that had the sweet liquid on the inside, that sugary, bright pink mess that exploded candy wonderful in my mouth... it was so worth it. i may have apologized to the manager through tears feigning apologies, but i was inevitably more pissed that my gum, which i had so calculatingly taken when no one was looking, was no longer in my posession but in someone's hands less worthy of my own.

i never was the smoothest of individuals, until i figured out that i could lie my ass off about anything and get away with it. it took several years from that intitial brush with kleptomania to perfect how to do it, but once i realized how to get the stories i created out of my head and manifest them into actuality there was no stopping me.

when i was sixteen my parents went out of town and unwisely put me under the charge of my friends twenty-one year old sister who didn't really give a shit about following the strict guidelines my mother and father laid out in their absence. it was a blast; no curfew, no stipulations, just me having a weeklong break from the man. on one of the last days we had a barbeque and bought a case of red dog beer, which i never ended up drinking all the way through because it happened to be disgusting. i bought it becuse i love bulldogs, the mascot gracing the label and the box all over. this made sense to me and kind of still does. when i buy wine now and i don't know anything about the wine itself i'll pick it for the packaging, which i also have a tendency to do with bottled water and movies in the discount box. it's hit or miss really, but in the end i'd rather have a cool looking bottle than a great glass of wine, i guess.

anyway. several months later my dad was walking around my car outside, smoking a cigarette, and felt compelled to go into my car and poke around. *note to parents: if you can't control your anger when you find things that are age-inappropriate in your child's personal space, wait a few days to talk to them so you won't fly off the handle. it works. trust me on that. and poke he did. he first found a silver cigarette case that my friend lindsay had given me, and upon going into my trunk he found two (out of the ten i had drank two months before) warm red dogs that had been rolling around across random papers and pointe shoes over the course of a couple weeks. i watched the whole thing happen. i was talking to my friend melissa and looking at him from my brother's room which stood two stories above where he was in our driveway. i ran down the stairs and flew into the kitchen saying "it's not what you think! it's not what you think!!!" and waving my hands around like a madman.

my father (who subsequently LIVES for shit like this to happen and who, on multiple occasions have i said this, should be graced with his own theme music for effect and dramatic pauses when he gets angry) had already laid the objects out on the counter in a manner that an attourney would with evidence. in retrospect i'm a little surprised they weren't labeled objects A, B, and C, and supported with graphs and flow charts for the jury to make their decision. he looked at me from his place next to them, and with a raised eyebrow in his best clint eastwood-esque voice said, "oh really. then, katie, might i ask... what are these items? please, do tell..." it was the quickest and most elaborate story i could come up with. one that was epic in itself, not because i think the lie was perfect in essence and delivery, but because of how it all unfolded.

those beers, you see, were not from the barbeque i had prior to that date. i couldn't even go into that, because that would have been admission that i had not only drank the other beer before stowing the final two in my car, it would have also meant i would've gotten in trouble about the party during the summer and i just couldn't have that. instead, the beer was given to me and vanessa (my counterpart in everything that i did, even though i don't even think she was there at the party) in the parking lot of TGIFridays by two unnamed boys in my grade that i didn't know very well. i had already figured out prior to this day that if i blamed something on peer pressure it was a whole lot easier for me to get out of, because in that case it wasn't entirely my fault; i was growing up and felt the pressure of adolescence and adulthood crashing together in my head. so my MO for this one was just that... we weren't going to drink the beer, we just wanted to be accepted by our peers and had every intention of throwing the beer out but had just forgotton on the ride home. i accepted ownership of the cigarette tin, but he couldn't really say anything about that because he had smoked all my life and it was a little bit his fault that i had idolized him and therefore held him partially responsible for introducing me to smoking. but that was less the issue than the beer itself, and what happened next was simply a mix of great fortune and quick thinking on my part.

there's nothing worse than being confronted with one of your own lies, especially when the odds are no longer in your favor. as soon as he heard me say vanessa, he told me to go to my room, and that he would be inviting her over to the house to see if her story had matched mine. my heart sank hearing those words, although i couldn't show it in my face that i knew it was all over. i was determined to prove my lie as truth. i turned around and walked out of the kitchen, letting the swinging door that usually remained open wave shut behind me. directly to my right in our dining room there was a buffet that my mother always kept her purse on, and as luck would have it, her cell phone was sitting right on top. i grabbed it and ran like hell upstairs and into my closet, where i frantically called vanessa who had just recieved the phone call from my parents requesting her presence in my kitchen to look over the evidence from our fictional night together. i told her exactly what she needed to know and crept back down to return the phone, as if it had never left it's cradle in my mother's purse.

i think my parents were more angry with me for actually getting away with it than having the beer in my posession, and i got grounded anyway just for the principle of it. i was fine with it. i had gotten away with a lie of epic proportions and therefore, scot-free. i never really felt guilty about it, because in all honesty, they never let me do anything and my curfew was set at 11 the entire four years of highschool, so i figured in a way, i was repaying myself the debt they held over my head. it was totally worth those three weeks of groundation to get away with that one little lie, which wasn't really a big deal to begin with.

since then i haven't really had to lie like that. well, not to the same effect and not as frequently, i should say. i don't have anyone to answer to and on the most part, i've stopped caring so much about what other people think is right or wrong. and, throughout the years since the red dog incident, i have also realized that everyone lies. even the most honest person you have ever met has feigned sickness instead of admitting one too many tequilas at the bar the night before to his boss, or downplaying a crush to a significant other. it doesn't matter whether it's gum or sex... a lie is still a lie, no matter the caibur, no matter the backstory. and we all do it.

i think now it's less a question of for what reason, and more a question of why. if there's no reason, then why still feel compelled to twist the truth around the pinkie finger? and that, i can blame myself for. there are times when i opt not to tell the truth, because i still feel this insane propulsion to protect other people from what i am, from what they may percieve me as, even though as an adult i no longer need that form of acceptance. and juvenile as it may be, it's also habitual, and that is the hardest innate thing to break.

lying can get us anything we want in the world. but what i've come to find out, that the emotional repercussions of the parties involved has everything to do with whether or not you want to risk it. maybe it's time i get a new habit. i think i may take up knitting, or bocce ball. but most likely, that's a lie, and like most things that people say nowadays, can't be trusted.

k.