Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Friday, March 6, 2009
bah hahahahaha
this is what i feel like when i wake up every morning. that wall came out of nowhere, man...
k.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
quotes and and ha ha ha
"you have noahs ark on a clock."
k. - 14 may 2008
"the corner has saved my life."
ryan, 28 may, 2008
"92 people just saw my vagina."
miss j, 28 may 2008
"i wanna have a tennessee adventure."
k, 30 july 2008
"i am a pawn, with a rook at the top of my ear."
k, 11 july 2008
"rhonda destroyed van assche."
k, 8 august 2008
"destructive, destructive, destructive."
k, 8 august 2008
"a receipt is like a wii for cats..."
lance, 14 august 2008
"if there was a word for me, it would be, temporary."
k, 23 august 2008
"she's a MALEsbian."
will, 25 august 2008
"it smells like my bacos."
rachel. 20 september 2008
"you look like a muppet, from the ankles down."
k, 24 october 2008
"he's wearing a tourtiseshell fro a hoodie."
k, 4 november 2008
"my vagina is reminiscent of starship troopers."
k, 12 november 2008
"it's feminine shrapnel."
miss j, 17 november 2008
"i think i just got sassed by a fucking fortune cookie!"
will, 6 december 2008
"i've never been good at days."
will 18 december 2008
"wow. it's not even 10 o'clock in the morning and i've already said the word semen."
will 29 december 2008
"your onimonipea is outrageous."
k, 2 jan 2009
"it's nice. it kind of turns the hoo-ha into a folk hero."
j, 25 january 2009
"what is the kind of person that brings a beer coozy into a mall TGIFridays?"
k, 30 january 2009
"shit'll buff out."
adam, 31 january 2009
"let's oscillate this."
jacqui, 5 february 2009
<3, k.
k. - 14 may 2008
"the corner has saved my life."
ryan, 28 may, 2008
"92 people just saw my vagina."
miss j, 28 may 2008
"i wanna have a tennessee adventure."
k, 30 july 2008
"i am a pawn, with a rook at the top of my ear."
k, 11 july 2008
"rhonda destroyed van assche."
k, 8 august 2008
"destructive, destructive, destructive."
k, 8 august 2008
"a receipt is like a wii for cats..."
lance, 14 august 2008
"if there was a word for me, it would be, temporary."
k, 23 august 2008
"she's a MALEsbian."
will, 25 august 2008
"it smells like my bacos."
rachel. 20 september 2008
"you look like a muppet, from the ankles down."
k, 24 october 2008
"he's wearing a tourtiseshell fro a hoodie."
k, 4 november 2008
"my vagina is reminiscent of starship troopers."
k, 12 november 2008
"it's feminine shrapnel."
miss j, 17 november 2008
"i think i just got sassed by a fucking fortune cookie!"
will, 6 december 2008
"i've never been good at days."
will 18 december 2008
"wow. it's not even 10 o'clock in the morning and i've already said the word semen."
will 29 december 2008
"your onimonipea is outrageous."
k, 2 jan 2009
"it's nice. it kind of turns the hoo-ha into a folk hero."
j, 25 january 2009
"what is the kind of person that brings a beer coozy into a mall TGIFridays?"
k, 30 january 2009
"shit'll buff out."
adam, 31 january 2009
"let's oscillate this."
jacqui, 5 february 2009
<3, k.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
fantastical fame
i thought for a very long time, was absolutely sure of the fact that i was destined to be famous. there was no doubt in my mind, this was what was going to happen to me. it wasn't even something that i was going to set out looking for. it was just going to fall in my lap. i wasn't really sure what exactly it was going to be for, either. i just knew that all the time i spent alone in my room pretending i was something i wasn't was going to add up. one day people wouldn't notice that i had no matrices of what could be considered 'constant intelligence"; rather, hiccups of good decisions that allowed me to live from one day to the next virtually unharmed. well, in one piece. i haven't made a stupid enough decision yet to die or even get an amputation, so i figure my chances get better every day i'm alive.
and, i realized at a young age that my lack of natural intelligence and book smarts was going to hurt my chances of becoming someone of elevated status (=elevated schooling=more years of being forced to do things i thought were useless=no), so i knew for me to get rich it would have to be through me getting famous for something i could do more naturally. like being a dancer. or a singer, like tiffany or milli vanilli. or a model like linda evangelista. and while my parents encouraged me with an apathetic "sure you will, honey." i thought about what it was i wanted to be put on the map for.
i secretly wished it would be singing but i dared not tell anyone that for fear that they would tell me exactly what i didn't want to hear; that i sucked. and i thought it may be for acting, until i realized that acting in your bathroom mirror is not and actual skill; it's just a great game of pretend. it didn't really mean you are an 'actor', it just meant that you are a child. of course, i would be famous for ballet, and i was pretty confident in that one. but so far i have danced for twenty-two years and my biggest credit in dance is unfortunately Larry the Cable Guy's Christmas Extravaganza. not quite the recognition i desired for my artistry when my eleven year old students are asking their mothers (who then tell me, which doesn't make me feel guilty at all about cursing in front of their children or wearing low cut shirts to their performances) if miss kathryne is a stripper for extra money.
twenty-two years of classical ballet and an ungodly devotion to the contortion of my body and i amount inevitably to a stripper. my parents are even more proud than when i corrected their habitual referral to my career as my "hobby".
i digress. i was happy enough daydreaming about being published in magazines and being interviewed by letterman and having rave reviews written about my amazing portrayal of blanch du bois as a tortured yet subtly coquettish soul on broadway's production of a streetcar named desire. this sort of life made sense to me, and i expected the fame as well as the paycheck to have been coming at any point in my adolescence.
at any point. annnny day now. it. will. be. soon...
as you can see, the four of you who are reading this blog (i'm feeling overzealous today) i haven't exactly gotten the recognition i felt i deserved all these years. instead, i'm sitting in a coffee shop, in atlanta, waiting for tomorrow to come. it turned out that i am as bad at planning as i am at singing, and as far as i'm concerned, the days that my superficial beauty can carry me on to the next project of my life are not only few and far between, but they are also waning. the curse of a career in the entertainment industry: age.
not too long ago i was dancing at opera on a 'celebrity appearance' night. Chris Brown and Rhianna were to be showing up and also doing an 'impromtu' performance.
*note: i can't wait until i can get to a point in my life where an 'impromtu' performance will let me walk away with 30,000 dollars of someone else's money.
so they came in around 12:45 and went straight to a VIP booth above our heads. i was amazed at how many people were falling over themselves to get a picture of the two. they were cheering and flashing and crowding and looking in one direction- fame. i was amazed at the reaction of the crowd - utter awe and excitement - but most of all, at myself. as i danced on the box i realized a) how lucky i was to be standing five feet higher than everyone else so i could get a better view and/or chance of rhianna pulling her manager aside and telling him to come down to me on my break and tell me "Ms. Rhianna wanted me to come down and get you, as she would like to employ you to do all the choreography for her next world tour and also be a backup singer and sometimes sing for her when she gets tired. here's my card. we'll send a driver tomorrow morning." ; and b) that i had just become one of the douchbags vying to get a piece of the action, of the fame.
the truth is, i was just a dancer on a box getting paid what one of rhianna's pedicures are worth in a nightclub too big for the town it resided in. i drifted off to sleep that night, starting work on the tour i was to choreograph for her, and from what i remember it looks really great.
but that's just the thing. it's just an image. a facade. rhianna is beautiful and talented and was in the right place at the right time with her talent... and now, she is a representation of herself. a marketable item. she's no longer rhianna, the girl who sang in the shower and got excited about the prospect of singing the national anthem for the city's little league playoffs. she was RHIANNA the superpower, on lunchboxes and schoolfolders and teeny bopper posters... surely she must be disappointed in the fact that her image has gotten bigger than the original. it would piss me off to have to fend off photographers and think before speaking and remember all the words to songs... and i knew, that kind of fame, is not for me.
not too long ago someone told me i'm the most famous person they knew, and my head swelled with compliment. all my flashbacks of being on set or being in the makeup chair swirled back in my head, loving being the center of attention and having people tell you how talented and beautiful you are... and then i remember, those people get paid to tell you that shit. the bigger you believe your image is, the more other people believe it.
and it is with that, that i confess. i don't think i'm famous, nor do i think i'm exceptionally talented. so in direct parallel, know that you shouldn't either. a person's worth isn't based on how many other people value them. otherwise, we'd all turn out to be britney spears, even though she did make a bitch of a comeback. all i know is, my days of wishing for fame are gone. instead, what i wish for is it's paycheck, and when i figure out how to get one without the other, i swear i'll let some of you know. so keep reading. one of these days, the secret will be your reward for making it through.
k.
and, i realized at a young age that my lack of natural intelligence and book smarts was going to hurt my chances of becoming someone of elevated status (=elevated schooling=more years of being forced to do things i thought were useless=no), so i knew for me to get rich it would have to be through me getting famous for something i could do more naturally. like being a dancer. or a singer, like tiffany or milli vanilli. or a model like linda evangelista. and while my parents encouraged me with an apathetic "sure you will, honey." i thought about what it was i wanted to be put on the map for.
i secretly wished it would be singing but i dared not tell anyone that for fear that they would tell me exactly what i didn't want to hear; that i sucked. and i thought it may be for acting, until i realized that acting in your bathroom mirror is not and actual skill; it's just a great game of pretend. it didn't really mean you are an 'actor', it just meant that you are a child. of course, i would be famous for ballet, and i was pretty confident in that one. but so far i have danced for twenty-two years and my biggest credit in dance is unfortunately Larry the Cable Guy's Christmas Extravaganza. not quite the recognition i desired for my artistry when my eleven year old students are asking their mothers (who then tell me, which doesn't make me feel guilty at all about cursing in front of their children or wearing low cut shirts to their performances) if miss kathryne is a stripper for extra money.
twenty-two years of classical ballet and an ungodly devotion to the contortion of my body and i amount inevitably to a stripper. my parents are even more proud than when i corrected their habitual referral to my career as my "hobby".
i digress. i was happy enough daydreaming about being published in magazines and being interviewed by letterman and having rave reviews written about my amazing portrayal of blanch du bois as a tortured yet subtly coquettish soul on broadway's production of a streetcar named desire. this sort of life made sense to me, and i expected the fame as well as the paycheck to have been coming at any point in my adolescence.
at any point. annnny day now. it. will. be. soon...
as you can see, the four of you who are reading this blog (i'm feeling overzealous today) i haven't exactly gotten the recognition i felt i deserved all these years. instead, i'm sitting in a coffee shop, in atlanta, waiting for tomorrow to come. it turned out that i am as bad at planning as i am at singing, and as far as i'm concerned, the days that my superficial beauty can carry me on to the next project of my life are not only few and far between, but they are also waning. the curse of a career in the entertainment industry: age.
not too long ago i was dancing at opera on a 'celebrity appearance' night. Chris Brown and Rhianna were to be showing up and also doing an 'impromtu' performance.
*note: i can't wait until i can get to a point in my life where an 'impromtu' performance will let me walk away with 30,000 dollars of someone else's money.
so they came in around 12:45 and went straight to a VIP booth above our heads. i was amazed at how many people were falling over themselves to get a picture of the two. they were cheering and flashing and crowding and looking in one direction- fame. i was amazed at the reaction of the crowd - utter awe and excitement - but most of all, at myself. as i danced on the box i realized a) how lucky i was to be standing five feet higher than everyone else so i could get a better view and/or chance of rhianna pulling her manager aside and telling him to come down to me on my break and tell me "Ms. Rhianna wanted me to come down and get you, as she would like to employ you to do all the choreography for her next world tour and also be a backup singer and sometimes sing for her when she gets tired. here's my card. we'll send a driver tomorrow morning." ; and b) that i had just become one of the douchbags vying to get a piece of the action, of the fame.
the truth is, i was just a dancer on a box getting paid what one of rhianna's pedicures are worth in a nightclub too big for the town it resided in. i drifted off to sleep that night, starting work on the tour i was to choreograph for her, and from what i remember it looks really great.
but that's just the thing. it's just an image. a facade. rhianna is beautiful and talented and was in the right place at the right time with her talent... and now, she is a representation of herself. a marketable item. she's no longer rhianna, the girl who sang in the shower and got excited about the prospect of singing the national anthem for the city's little league playoffs. she was RHIANNA the superpower, on lunchboxes and schoolfolders and teeny bopper posters... surely she must be disappointed in the fact that her image has gotten bigger than the original. it would piss me off to have to fend off photographers and think before speaking and remember all the words to songs... and i knew, that kind of fame, is not for me.
not too long ago someone told me i'm the most famous person they knew, and my head swelled with compliment. all my flashbacks of being on set or being in the makeup chair swirled back in my head, loving being the center of attention and having people tell you how talented and beautiful you are... and then i remember, those people get paid to tell you that shit. the bigger you believe your image is, the more other people believe it.
and it is with that, that i confess. i don't think i'm famous, nor do i think i'm exceptionally talented. so in direct parallel, know that you shouldn't either. a person's worth isn't based on how many other people value them. otherwise, we'd all turn out to be britney spears, even though she did make a bitch of a comeback. all i know is, my days of wishing for fame are gone. instead, what i wish for is it's paycheck, and when i figure out how to get one without the other, i swear i'll let some of you know. so keep reading. one of these days, the secret will be your reward for making it through.
k.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
bringing home the bacon
"his name," she said with a slight curl in her voice,"is jeremiah bacon."
how oddly fitting, i thought, considering his line of work. i was googling the name of the man who is nat's latest interest, who also happened to be the executive chef at the new restaurant she'll be working with. in an effort to save money for our newfound desire to conquer new york city, the restaurant industry was once again the only sure bet for a good payout at the end of the day. it's funny, she has a degree from one of the biggest universitys of the south and a new certificate as an estetician, and she is still going back to serving. which is equivalent to what i'm doing, which is making a living off of go go dancing in clubs. this is what our lives have come to.
ugh. back to the bacon. i was presented with a picture of a man surrounded by a halo of pots, with "don'f fuck with me or i'll cleaver your skull" eyes, looking into the camera lens with not so much as a gleam of interest in what the viewer thinks of him. very intense. and very familiar. "you make sure he's not a virgo yet?" i asked.
"not yet. but if he is, there's no way in hell." if you like crazy, you'd like a chef. if you like crazy with a side of neurosis, you would LOVE a virgo chef. *ding* orders up!
i had a series of virgo chefs in my past. the first one, and most integral, was one i'll call the 4th. he was the catalyst of the chefs that would follow... portland, the best friend, mohawk, mooseface. all culinary artists; all virgos. i was sixteen when i met (well, re-met, but that's a different story) the 4th, a line cook at (ironically enough) the same restaurant i met mooseface at six years and one state later. it was my very first job as a hostess and he was perfection to me... quiet, brooding, and beautiful... and being sixteen, i thought it would last forever. "forever" lasted on and off over the following six years, until it finally occurred to me that he was extremely possessive slash controlling, not to mention BAT-SHIT CRAZY. i blame not knowing this important observation on the fact that we were long-distance the entire relationship, not my fukkin thick-ass head.
i digress. during those six years, during the off seasons of our long tirade, i met and wooed all the rest. no one really stuck, because as it turns out, they were all either possessive or not that interested. with the exception of mooseface.
mooseface was everything that my boyfriend before him was not. he was tall and hadsome and he made money. he made a lot of money, actually, and at twenty-one i was working five jobs to support the unpaid ballet company i was working for in south atlanta; i wasn't aware of the concept of having money in excess to spend. before that, i had dated a guy who treated me horribly and fucked with my mind so that i thought he treated me fair. he should have been in school for law, if it wouldn't have interrupted his plans to be a schmuck dropout pothead. so coming off this relationship, money and nice dinners and gifts were all the more attractive, as one could imagine. mooseface expressed his attraction to me as a friend first, but soon the friendly glasses of wine turned into flowers and romantical dinners.
this is the catch. he was sleeping with natalie, and i knew that she liked him. we found out later that he was also sleeping or had slept with the other half of the attractive female servers at or around that time, so it makes me feel a little better, but i was still a dick and karma has since never stopped reminding me. long story short, she eventually gave us her consent, and mooseface and i embarked on a year long journey that i like to refer to as, my medevial period.
mooseface and i had things in common. we both liked to smoke pot and drink wine. we both liked good food and pretending like we were wealthy. what else...hmmm... we both liked sex. that's five things in common. what else should i have looked for? what he lacked in conversation he made up for in dick, and i was okay with that. i was a rebound for him, and he was a rebound for me. we decided after much deliberation that i would move in with him the following year, and at that point is when things really started to sour. he was depressed with his life, and he had gotten back into doing cocaine, and gotten me to start doing it more that what i condider to be a healthy vice, even now. you know, given the warning signs... the unpredictable mood swings, the restless nights in bed, the frequent nose bleeds... i should have probably guessed that he was doing something that was detrimental to his health. but la la la i just went about my life, wrapped up in how i was going to make it as a ballet dancer, how i wanted to be thinner, how i wanted to get famous so i could have money to spend instead of just pretending like i had all the money in the world, that i really had no idea that he was coked out of his mind every day.
note to self: two selfish people in a relationship will never work out.
we fought constantly. if we weren't fighting, we were in silence. i would get so bored next to him. it turned out that everything i initially liked about him i hated towards the end. i hated how he chewed his food. i hated how he shaved his body hair. how he laughed, how his mouth opened up wide with his tongue hanging out. how he belittled me in front of other people. on that last morning of us living together, it was not even ten o'clock before the fights began. and i told him i wanted out. i packed a bag and my cat and left down the street to live with sarah and natalie, my ever saving graces. that's right. nat took me in after i stole her thunder. i was a total douche and she acted as if it were all his fault for fukkin me up. that's a true friend.
a week later i got a text from mooseface thanking me, that i had showed him that he had a substance abuse problem. i had no idea what he was talking about. when i called him he confessed that he was dealing with an addiction to cocaine and that he had told the restaurant, and that they were paying his way for a thirty day stint in rehab. the substance abuse center was located in miami, and he would be leaving in four days to recover from what he called his "last chance at sobriety". he asked me to stay with him, as i was the only thing that would get him through, that i was his guiding light and the single thing in his life that he felt he had done right... and of course, i did what any girlfriend with a heart would do.
i said i absolutely would not be there for him, and for him to go fukk himself.
i was pissed. i couldn't belieive he didn't tell me about his problem. and still, because i never really noticed for whatever reason, i'm not quite conviced he ever had one. i have this theory in the back of my mind that it was an elaborate ploy for me to stay with him. it was all too convenient; the move out, the impending break up, the habit that i never saw. like rehab was the only dire circumstance that would judge how much i loved him and was willing to fight for the relationship's survival. but really, for a couple who's relationship is based on little more than how you want to decorate your future kitchen and different sexual positions a female partner can climax in, it was probably pushing it to say i was going to stand by him due to the strength and nature of our love.
i felt foolish and naive. how could i have trusted this was going to work out again? none of the virgo chefs beforehand ever did. the 4th was all over the map, moving from possessive to cold in under 60 seconds, and then there was portland, who wanted me to move to oregon to be with him, and the best friend, with whom i had no desire to begin a relationship though he called me for about a month in hopes thats where things would go... it was a rise and fall with the virgos, like the tides. it's funny, i have always prided myself on the ability to look at someone and feel whether or not they are good for me as a friend. well, i either am severely disillusioned, or that ability only extends to plain friends, because my history of men has been way over par.
we get lost in projection, i think it's a problem that we all have a tendency towards. the person that you choose to be with has been that person their entire lives. of course, the beginning of a relationship does bring about change in both people. but it's mostly temporary and once it dissipates a little, begins to manifest projection. this is where the phrase, "i don't even know you anymore" comes from. what you actually mean is, "this is totally not who i thought you were and it's your fault for making me think you were the way i wanted you to be". think about it, especially if you have ever said that before or had it said to you. it's infuriating... if you say it, you feel as if you had been fooled. if it's being said to you, it's a direct blow to your character and/or personality.
the human mind will complete certain things if they are missing. there were a whole series of tests we had to do in one of my psych classes in college in which we looked at cards and said a word that was on the card. in most instances, we would say the word and upon closer evaluation, would realize half of the lines on the letters were missing. it was an excercise in understanding that the mind projects what the image really should be so that it's host won't become confused and disoriented with the patchy information the mind is receiving. like this:
Olny srmat poelpe can raed tihs.
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!
this paragraph defines what i've done in every single relationship i have ever been in.
the truth is, if i find something i want, something i have wanted for years with ALMOST all the parameters necessary to be a "dream come true", i complete the lines so that it fits inside nice and neat, even if the framework is loose and slack-strung. it seems that if i believe hard enough, things actually are what i want them to be, even though in the end, it is not something i ever would have desired. i have been left with a trail of disappointment, a string of lovers that i believed were everything i wanted in life, and only because i wanted that life so bad i could taste success in the food they fed me.
sometimes, the only thing we have is desire, and sometimes, that desire overcomes our reality. it's about as healthy as gourmet food every night for dinner, and that kind of gluttony is only useful if you want one thing; to be fat.
and so it was. natalie called me a few days after working with jeremiah bacon and told me it was over. "he's a total douchebag. his name isn't even jeremiah; it's jerry martin bacon. i fell for a man who uses a stage name in the kitchen because his isn't 'marketable' enough. how could i ever be so stupid?" and all i could do, was lower my head in shame.
i know how she did it. i fell in love with my chefs like that too. and even though mine didn't use a stage name like old jerry martin, they didn't ever have to. i might as well have made up one for them. they were never real to begin with anyway.
k.
how oddly fitting, i thought, considering his line of work. i was googling the name of the man who is nat's latest interest, who also happened to be the executive chef at the new restaurant she'll be working with. in an effort to save money for our newfound desire to conquer new york city, the restaurant industry was once again the only sure bet for a good payout at the end of the day. it's funny, she has a degree from one of the biggest universitys of the south and a new certificate as an estetician, and she is still going back to serving. which is equivalent to what i'm doing, which is making a living off of go go dancing in clubs. this is what our lives have come to.
ugh. back to the bacon. i was presented with a picture of a man surrounded by a halo of pots, with "don'f fuck with me or i'll cleaver your skull" eyes, looking into the camera lens with not so much as a gleam of interest in what the viewer thinks of him. very intense. and very familiar. "you make sure he's not a virgo yet?" i asked.
"not yet. but if he is, there's no way in hell." if you like crazy, you'd like a chef. if you like crazy with a side of neurosis, you would LOVE a virgo chef. *ding* orders up!
i had a series of virgo chefs in my past. the first one, and most integral, was one i'll call the 4th. he was the catalyst of the chefs that would follow... portland, the best friend, mohawk, mooseface. all culinary artists; all virgos. i was sixteen when i met (well, re-met, but that's a different story) the 4th, a line cook at (ironically enough) the same restaurant i met mooseface at six years and one state later. it was my very first job as a hostess and he was perfection to me... quiet, brooding, and beautiful... and being sixteen, i thought it would last forever. "forever" lasted on and off over the following six years, until it finally occurred to me that he was extremely possessive slash controlling, not to mention BAT-SHIT CRAZY. i blame not knowing this important observation on the fact that we were long-distance the entire relationship, not my fukkin thick-ass head.
i digress. during those six years, during the off seasons of our long tirade, i met and wooed all the rest. no one really stuck, because as it turns out, they were all either possessive or not that interested. with the exception of mooseface.
mooseface was everything that my boyfriend before him was not. he was tall and hadsome and he made money. he made a lot of money, actually, and at twenty-one i was working five jobs to support the unpaid ballet company i was working for in south atlanta; i wasn't aware of the concept of having money in excess to spend. before that, i had dated a guy who treated me horribly and fucked with my mind so that i thought he treated me fair. he should have been in school for law, if it wouldn't have interrupted his plans to be a schmuck dropout pothead. so coming off this relationship, money and nice dinners and gifts were all the more attractive, as one could imagine. mooseface expressed his attraction to me as a friend first, but soon the friendly glasses of wine turned into flowers and romantical dinners.
this is the catch. he was sleeping with natalie, and i knew that she liked him. we found out later that he was also sleeping or had slept with the other half of the attractive female servers at or around that time, so it makes me feel a little better, but i was still a dick and karma has since never stopped reminding me. long story short, she eventually gave us her consent, and mooseface and i embarked on a year long journey that i like to refer to as, my medevial period.
mooseface and i had things in common. we both liked to smoke pot and drink wine. we both liked good food and pretending like we were wealthy. what else...hmmm... we both liked sex. that's five things in common. what else should i have looked for? what he lacked in conversation he made up for in dick, and i was okay with that. i was a rebound for him, and he was a rebound for me. we decided after much deliberation that i would move in with him the following year, and at that point is when things really started to sour. he was depressed with his life, and he had gotten back into doing cocaine, and gotten me to start doing it more that what i condider to be a healthy vice, even now. you know, given the warning signs... the unpredictable mood swings, the restless nights in bed, the frequent nose bleeds... i should have probably guessed that he was doing something that was detrimental to his health. but la la la i just went about my life, wrapped up in how i was going to make it as a ballet dancer, how i wanted to be thinner, how i wanted to get famous so i could have money to spend instead of just pretending like i had all the money in the world, that i really had no idea that he was coked out of his mind every day.
note to self: two selfish people in a relationship will never work out.
we fought constantly. if we weren't fighting, we were in silence. i would get so bored next to him. it turned out that everything i initially liked about him i hated towards the end. i hated how he chewed his food. i hated how he shaved his body hair. how he laughed, how his mouth opened up wide with his tongue hanging out. how he belittled me in front of other people. on that last morning of us living together, it was not even ten o'clock before the fights began. and i told him i wanted out. i packed a bag and my cat and left down the street to live with sarah and natalie, my ever saving graces. that's right. nat took me in after i stole her thunder. i was a total douche and she acted as if it were all his fault for fukkin me up. that's a true friend.
a week later i got a text from mooseface thanking me, that i had showed him that he had a substance abuse problem. i had no idea what he was talking about. when i called him he confessed that he was dealing with an addiction to cocaine and that he had told the restaurant, and that they were paying his way for a thirty day stint in rehab. the substance abuse center was located in miami, and he would be leaving in four days to recover from what he called his "last chance at sobriety". he asked me to stay with him, as i was the only thing that would get him through, that i was his guiding light and the single thing in his life that he felt he had done right... and of course, i did what any girlfriend with a heart would do.
i said i absolutely would not be there for him, and for him to go fukk himself.
i was pissed. i couldn't belieive he didn't tell me about his problem. and still, because i never really noticed for whatever reason, i'm not quite conviced he ever had one. i have this theory in the back of my mind that it was an elaborate ploy for me to stay with him. it was all too convenient; the move out, the impending break up, the habit that i never saw. like rehab was the only dire circumstance that would judge how much i loved him and was willing to fight for the relationship's survival. but really, for a couple who's relationship is based on little more than how you want to decorate your future kitchen and different sexual positions a female partner can climax in, it was probably pushing it to say i was going to stand by him due to the strength and nature of our love.
i felt foolish and naive. how could i have trusted this was going to work out again? none of the virgo chefs beforehand ever did. the 4th was all over the map, moving from possessive to cold in under 60 seconds, and then there was portland, who wanted me to move to oregon to be with him, and the best friend, with whom i had no desire to begin a relationship though he called me for about a month in hopes thats where things would go... it was a rise and fall with the virgos, like the tides. it's funny, i have always prided myself on the ability to look at someone and feel whether or not they are good for me as a friend. well, i either am severely disillusioned, or that ability only extends to plain friends, because my history of men has been way over par.
we get lost in projection, i think it's a problem that we all have a tendency towards. the person that you choose to be with has been that person their entire lives. of course, the beginning of a relationship does bring about change in both people. but it's mostly temporary and once it dissipates a little, begins to manifest projection. this is where the phrase, "i don't even know you anymore" comes from. what you actually mean is, "this is totally not who i thought you were and it's your fault for making me think you were the way i wanted you to be". think about it, especially if you have ever said that before or had it said to you. it's infuriating... if you say it, you feel as if you had been fooled. if it's being said to you, it's a direct blow to your character and/or personality.
the human mind will complete certain things if they are missing. there were a whole series of tests we had to do in one of my psych classes in college in which we looked at cards and said a word that was on the card. in most instances, we would say the word and upon closer evaluation, would realize half of the lines on the letters were missing. it was an excercise in understanding that the mind projects what the image really should be so that it's host won't become confused and disoriented with the patchy information the mind is receiving. like this:
Olny srmat poelpe can raed tihs.
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!
this paragraph defines what i've done in every single relationship i have ever been in.
the truth is, if i find something i want, something i have wanted for years with ALMOST all the parameters necessary to be a "dream come true", i complete the lines so that it fits inside nice and neat, even if the framework is loose and slack-strung. it seems that if i believe hard enough, things actually are what i want them to be, even though in the end, it is not something i ever would have desired. i have been left with a trail of disappointment, a string of lovers that i believed were everything i wanted in life, and only because i wanted that life so bad i could taste success in the food they fed me.
sometimes, the only thing we have is desire, and sometimes, that desire overcomes our reality. it's about as healthy as gourmet food every night for dinner, and that kind of gluttony is only useful if you want one thing; to be fat.
and so it was. natalie called me a few days after working with jeremiah bacon and told me it was over. "he's a total douchebag. his name isn't even jeremiah; it's jerry martin bacon. i fell for a man who uses a stage name in the kitchen because his isn't 'marketable' enough. how could i ever be so stupid?" and all i could do, was lower my head in shame.
i know how she did it. i fell in love with my chefs like that too. and even though mine didn't use a stage name like old jerry martin, they didn't ever have to. i might as well have made up one for them. they were never real to begin with anyway.
k.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
death by glitter
Upon walking into the hotel the other night in a town right outside of minneapolis, we were accosted by a cop in full gear, yelling at us to stay where we were and to keep our hands where he could see them. And you know it is sad when this is the pinnacle of your tour so far: a bored and power-hungry cop at an extended stay screaming at four young girls about to pull a gun, and you get excited because it's the most action you have gotten in the last three weeks. this is my life on tour.
the company i'm working for has a tremendous amount of money, which we only see a little of each week. so in effect, we end up staying in extended stay hotels on the outskirts of town. the amenities include a half kitchenette and running water, alongside coin operated washer/dryers (ratio of 3:6). before this venue, the dancers didn't have a car, and so were forced to bum rides off the other girls who could drive the company car. but our agent broke down and rented us one so we would quit bitching, which we did. and even though it wasn't a very nice car, we were polite and held our tongues, because we didn't want to appear greedy even though we are.
the venue that we worked was a club that puts on m musical acts, so it had a nice stage with no low flying light rafters on top of it, and was in the downtown area of minneapois. both of these facts were great, considering at alot of the venues the boxes are either put in corners with no music or people to be heard or seen, or on a stage that, combined with the three foot tall boxes, smash our heads into the show lights. the venue two days before this one may have some serious damages to it's lights and wiring from my hands, which are now bruised and sore and burned from hitting them and pulling down connector cables.
now there are two different dj's on the tour, both very famous and with thick resumes. i will call the first one dj badass, who is very pleasant to be around, and very nice, very funny, and all around congenial to the girls on the tour. the sencond dj, hereafter dj too cool for school, doesn't talk to us and above that won't let the dancers be within fifty feet of him performing. this means that our boxes get shoved to the back of the club in the opposite direction, and we therefore dance to music we dont like with no body watching. sounds enticing, hm? you know you want my job...
so we got in our own car after the 'show' was over and went home to the hotel, only to be greeted with flashing blue lights in the parking lot. which happened to be there because of a brawl on the third floor, coincidentally enough on rachel's floor. evidently, there was a situation involving a party there where a young blonde boy got jumped and beaten. his face was red and puffy, but i couldn't tell if it was from the beatdown or the fact that (aw, so sad) he was crying. not only was he crying, but his voice was incredibly high and distraught, like a kitten whining. poor thing. the cop was even half hugging him. it's a shitty day when you not only cry in front of four girls, but also when you look to a police officer you dont know for emotional support and physical comfort.
sad.
the situation was funny because of two reasons. first, we were coming home from work, ragged and sweaty, with our dance bags slung over our shoulders, completely sober and dressed like we just got back from the gym. and even though people offer us shots all the time when we work, we are under strict policy not to accept them, otherwise we will be terminated from our contracts. it should really be the other way around, because it may actually look as if we were having a good time if we were inebriated. really. second, all of us were doused in glitter, which is probably the last thing i would look for in a violent personality. the infamous drag queen maurauders we were. we seek out the pixies of the world and torture them to death, leaving behind a glitter residue that doesn't come off without oven cleaner and ajax.
really? i thought, as the cop came barreling towards us in his misinterpreted confusion. did we really look as if we would have jumped a seventeen year old boy and beaten him to a bloody pulp? is that how things are done in minneapolis? one of the residents (yes, people live in the extended stay, some have full on decorations and/or pets that they keep in their home) cleared our names though, and corrected his mistake. we walked unsettled to rachels room in silence, past the bloodstain on the carpet (now i understand why the patterns are hideous, you really had to look for the stain... the color and design of the carpet concealed it rather nicely) and into her room, silently understanding that the next tour we go on, we will push for an upgrade in hotels. having a refridgerator is convenient, having my life is necessity.
i slept very uneasy that night, and as a precaution i checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the tub before i swing- and pad-locked my door and windows shut. i also woke every hour, which only ensured to calm my nerves until the next hour, all during the night. i was no spring chicken the next day.
the other girls who had to stay longer to finish some reports that no one looks at came back with a story the next day too; evidently, there was a riot downtown minneapolis. where are we? i thought, amused at the idea that the midwest could be so unruly and violent. atlanta's not even that bad in midtown, and it's ghetto as hell. the other girls said that there was a groupl of four girls that ended up attacking a cop there, after exchanging profanities and jeering at the officer as they walked down the road. there was no backup for the officer, so the girls were able to have a quick beatdown and quick exit, and the cop was left lying on the sidewalk outside of the bars in her useless bulletproof vest.
i wanted to know if the girls were covered in glitter. if they were, some shit will go down between gangs here pretty soon.
k.
the company i'm working for has a tremendous amount of money, which we only see a little of each week. so in effect, we end up staying in extended stay hotels on the outskirts of town. the amenities include a half kitchenette and running water, alongside coin operated washer/dryers (ratio of 3:6). before this venue, the dancers didn't have a car, and so were forced to bum rides off the other girls who could drive the company car. but our agent broke down and rented us one so we would quit bitching, which we did. and even though it wasn't a very nice car, we were polite and held our tongues, because we didn't want to appear greedy even though we are.
the venue that we worked was a club that puts on m musical acts, so it had a nice stage with no low flying light rafters on top of it, and was in the downtown area of minneapois. both of these facts were great, considering at alot of the venues the boxes are either put in corners with no music or people to be heard or seen, or on a stage that, combined with the three foot tall boxes, smash our heads into the show lights. the venue two days before this one may have some serious damages to it's lights and wiring from my hands, which are now bruised and sore and burned from hitting them and pulling down connector cables.
now there are two different dj's on the tour, both very famous and with thick resumes. i will call the first one dj badass, who is very pleasant to be around, and very nice, very funny, and all around congenial to the girls on the tour. the sencond dj, hereafter dj too cool for school, doesn't talk to us and above that won't let the dancers be within fifty feet of him performing. this means that our boxes get shoved to the back of the club in the opposite direction, and we therefore dance to music we dont like with no body watching. sounds enticing, hm? you know you want my job...
so we got in our own car after the 'show' was over and went home to the hotel, only to be greeted with flashing blue lights in the parking lot. which happened to be there because of a brawl on the third floor, coincidentally enough on rachel's floor. evidently, there was a situation involving a party there where a young blonde boy got jumped and beaten. his face was red and puffy, but i couldn't tell if it was from the beatdown or the fact that (aw, so sad) he was crying. not only was he crying, but his voice was incredibly high and distraught, like a kitten whining. poor thing. the cop was even half hugging him. it's a shitty day when you not only cry in front of four girls, but also when you look to a police officer you dont know for emotional support and physical comfort.
sad.
the situation was funny because of two reasons. first, we were coming home from work, ragged and sweaty, with our dance bags slung over our shoulders, completely sober and dressed like we just got back from the gym. and even though people offer us shots all the time when we work, we are under strict policy not to accept them, otherwise we will be terminated from our contracts. it should really be the other way around, because it may actually look as if we were having a good time if we were inebriated. really. second, all of us were doused in glitter, which is probably the last thing i would look for in a violent personality. the infamous drag queen maurauders we were. we seek out the pixies of the world and torture them to death, leaving behind a glitter residue that doesn't come off without oven cleaner and ajax.
really? i thought, as the cop came barreling towards us in his misinterpreted confusion. did we really look as if we would have jumped a seventeen year old boy and beaten him to a bloody pulp? is that how things are done in minneapolis? one of the residents (yes, people live in the extended stay, some have full on decorations and/or pets that they keep in their home) cleared our names though, and corrected his mistake. we walked unsettled to rachels room in silence, past the bloodstain on the carpet (now i understand why the patterns are hideous, you really had to look for the stain... the color and design of the carpet concealed it rather nicely) and into her room, silently understanding that the next tour we go on, we will push for an upgrade in hotels. having a refridgerator is convenient, having my life is necessity.
i slept very uneasy that night, and as a precaution i checked under the bed, behind the curtains, and in the tub before i swing- and pad-locked my door and windows shut. i also woke every hour, which only ensured to calm my nerves until the next hour, all during the night. i was no spring chicken the next day.
the other girls who had to stay longer to finish some reports that no one looks at came back with a story the next day too; evidently, there was a riot downtown minneapolis. where are we? i thought, amused at the idea that the midwest could be so unruly and violent. atlanta's not even that bad in midtown, and it's ghetto as hell. the other girls said that there was a groupl of four girls that ended up attacking a cop there, after exchanging profanities and jeering at the officer as they walked down the road. there was no backup for the officer, so the girls were able to have a quick beatdown and quick exit, and the cop was left lying on the sidewalk outside of the bars in her useless bulletproof vest.
i wanted to know if the girls were covered in glitter. if they were, some shit will go down between gangs here pretty soon.
k.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
judgment day in the land of golf carts
i, for the first time in my life, was a victim of blatant prejudice. it happened this friday, in peachtree city, where money is abundant and golf carts run wild. that’s right, golf carts. there is not a course to be seen closeby, but for some reason, everyone in the town owns and uses daily, golf carts. fukking bass-ackward, it is.
so mike and i, excited at the prospect of making an easy hundred or so dollars for a measly three hours work, embarked on our trip 36.8 miles southwest of the metro atlanta area, in good spirits and pressed slacks. he was bartending, i was greeting and taking coats for a small private party from 6-9. we were in good spirits and pressed slacks. pressed, lint rolled slacks, because for some reason, i thought it would be a fantastic idea to adopt an all-white cat from the shelter two years ago. knowing everything i own in my wardrobe is black or dark-like. i love her, but shit... the clothes hanging in my closet have white hair on them, from some mesterious osmosis-type aerial transfer from the ground up.
anyway, we were clean and ready for action, and for the first time, EARLY. so early that we were able to find the house and grab a bite before we had to go and set up.
*just a side note, everything in that city is exorbitantly nice. the bathrooms at chick filet were bigger and prettier than my entire loft, which in retrospect, should have been a precursor to throwing a couple red flags in the air.
the houses in the neighborhood we were bartending in were huge. no, gigantoid. wait... superfously retarded gargantuan. one of the ones we passed had eight air conditioning units. eight. i can barely afford one, according to the assholes at georgia power. if entities were estates, this mansion would have been god on steroids, smoking crack. the guest houses (yes, houses, there were like two or three, minus the "toolshed", which was probably decorated from pottery barn) could have been mistaked for the cottages one may rent in aspen, drinking champagne by the fire on a bearskin rug. and to boot, it was on the lake, which in georgia is just the word they use for big pond. but one the water, nonetheless.
so, although i think the concept of owning and actually driving golf carts through a city that’s not an island less than 1 mile in diameter, the houses for the most part, were really very pretty. including the one we were contracted to, tucked in the remote backside of the neighborhood. it stood stolid and strong, as if it were puffing it’s chest out, with it’s reagal windows and elevated entryway. we parked on the street, and quietly made our way up the hill to the doors, which were easily twice my height. i pressed the doorbell and waited, peeking in through the side windows, waiting for movement behind them. and waited. and waited...
the door opened about a full minute and a half later, to a tanned, latino-ish man in a black crewneck shirt and gray pants. i’m not very good at distinguishing nationalities. not-so-tall, dark, and ditinguished leather handsome, i guess, would be the best way to describe it. anway. his belt buckle was undone, and hanging open in a come-hither kind of fashion. he didn’t really give us a second look, just gruffly remarked, "did you ring the doorbell?" i replied that i had, and he ushered us inside and popped his head out the doorframe to look for himself. he spent a couple seconds mumbling to himself curses and such, and i reveled in the pure... affluence...of the foyer. an elegant tailored-oak staircase, cast iron ornate railings, check. plush tassled rug, check. velvet, check. fukk, everything was velvet... the rug, the only-for-decoration curtains on the burnt-gold french wooden frames, the toilet paper in the bathroom.
no, i’m just kidding with that last one. but for real. probably.
so the yet unnamed man of the house closed the door and says as he buckled his belt, "you can go ahead and go into the kitchen, my wife is in there, she can probably tell you what you need to know." he then turned around, gave one last dejected glance at the doorbell, shook his head, and walked upstairs.
we walked through the foyer to the sitting room, again velvet everything, and hung a right into the kitchen. i caught a glimpse of a framed photo of mr. unnamed and what i presumed to be his wife, a pretty, young latina thing (you may delete the comma in that phrase and it would work as well)with very long black hair and magniloquent breasts. she was a looker; quite the trophy for any man.
walking into the kitchen, which was quite nice and designed not only classically but efficient as well, that young latina thing turned around with a big smile from her place at the h’ors de vours table and...
smiled at me, while i said my name, and waited for a response, and said mikes name, and waited for a response... oh, god, i thought. my smile faded as she inquisitively looked from my eyes to my hair to my lip ring and back again, and through her smile (still an impeccable illustration of someone so surprised their face literally doesn’t know how to register this information) she said, "is there any way you coould take out the lip ring?... this is a very conservative event with many of my husbands CEOs, and it’s very important that... that theres no..."
oh, god. i’m not going to get paid tonight. that’s all i could think, that my four-hundred dollar weekend was now going to be a quarter less and whatever gas it took to get to and from peachtree city. i touched the ring on my lip. "well, no, not really." i said. "i need to take it into the store to get it taken out for me, and... no. i can’t."
now, what i did right there, was lie. i have switched out my lip rings several times, and though it was true i would have to go back and get the ball replaced because i don’t have the pliars or patience to do it myself, i could have popped out the ball and put the ring in my purse.
she looks at mike and says, "i would still love to have you bartend, though, i just can’t..." looks back to me and makes circular hand gestures "...i need the look to be more conservative. she obviously understood that because i have a lip ring in my mouth and some light pink strips in my hair (they’re faded for fukks sake) i can’t comprehend the english language.
"i’ll leave, it’s fine." this was true. i had officially begun to hate her velvet mecca of grandiousity and charlatan lifestyle. "really, mike, i don’t mind, i"ll go. you stay and make some money."
but really, what a pain in the ass, all to please this stupid cunt of a trophy wife who has enough velvet for a goddamn royal families wardrobe. no, thanks. mike assessed the situation, and went to call ed, to see what he should do. we both walked outside, and i stood on the palatial steps coming up to the door. he walked down to the car, lit a cigarette.
i stared at the house. the windows were dirty. noticed some chips on the brick steps, and the paint on the top of the archway was stained with a green mold, maybe algae. the grass was growing back from the dead, and was yellowed and brittle, like chopped straw. the lock on the right windowpane, on the inside, had electrical tape on it, holding it shut. the foliage lining the perimeter of the yard was unkempt, and the weeds underneath unruly and tangled. this wasn’t so great. it was a big house in a stupid city, waiting for better things to come to it. i walked down to the car.
i looked at mike. "you know, i could take my ring out. if you really want me to, i can. then we can make some money and be on our way."
mike shook his head. "nah." he said. "she was just looking for reasons not to use us. if it hadn’t been your ring, it would have been your hair, or my tattoos... people like that should be killed." i smiled, nodding my head in agreement. "it’s cool. i’m not gonna stay. i’m just going to grab my barkit and we can go." and just like that, he walked up the house on the hill, grabbed his shit, and we left.
he was right. people like her, well, they really only think one way. it didn’t matter that we’ve been requested to bartend at parties. it didn’t matter how great mike’s drinks were, or how well i could take people’s coats. she didn’t want us around her, to sully her perceptual image of regality. i highly doubt that the guest of her party would give me so much of a head nod, much less find it of dire importance to speak of the "help".
when mike went back in to grab his kit, he said she was irate and said she had specifically requested bartenders that were very clean cut and conservative. i highly doubt she did that, she just wanted to say she did so she wouldn’t look like the moronic golddigging whore she really was, mainly because i am the opposite of conservative. i don’t think ed would have chosen me had she said that word, conservative. mike looked at her and said, "sorry lady, i don’t know what you want me to do about it. we’re here, and you don’t want us. what do you want me to do?"
she called her hsband down, who was on the phone with the doorbell repairman, trying to get the "damn thing fixed!! what do you want?" he evidently was understanding of mike but to tell you the truth, i really just think he wanted to get back to fixing his doorbell. a man who answers the door to complete strangers with his belt undone does not strike me as a type of man that worries about a lip ring and tattoos. she bitched some more, and mike said, "good luck with your fukkin party..." and walks out.
i wish i could have been there to see her face, see if that smile was pasted on it from twenty minutes before. she never called ed, and we have no idea what her party was like. hopefully, she choked on an escargot and died. she is the reason why i don’t think people should procreate.
we went home, popped in kat williams, and hung out until i had to go to work at the club. it was completely worth not making that money, and not being around that woman all night long, to just laugh and chill out in my 800 sq foot apartment, relaxing. i would hate to be her.
no, wait. i would hate to be him. i would have already been dead from a .22 through the skull.
so mike and i, excited at the prospect of making an easy hundred or so dollars for a measly three hours work, embarked on our trip 36.8 miles southwest of the metro atlanta area, in good spirits and pressed slacks. he was bartending, i was greeting and taking coats for a small private party from 6-9. we were in good spirits and pressed slacks. pressed, lint rolled slacks, because for some reason, i thought it would be a fantastic idea to adopt an all-white cat from the shelter two years ago. knowing everything i own in my wardrobe is black or dark-like. i love her, but shit... the clothes hanging in my closet have white hair on them, from some mesterious osmosis-type aerial transfer from the ground up.
anyway, we were clean and ready for action, and for the first time, EARLY. so early that we were able to find the house and grab a bite before we had to go and set up.
*just a side note, everything in that city is exorbitantly nice. the bathrooms at chick filet were bigger and prettier than my entire loft, which in retrospect, should have been a precursor to throwing a couple red flags in the air.
the houses in the neighborhood we were bartending in were huge. no, gigantoid. wait... superfously retarded gargantuan. one of the ones we passed had eight air conditioning units. eight. i can barely afford one, according to the assholes at georgia power. if entities were estates, this mansion would have been god on steroids, smoking crack. the guest houses (yes, houses, there were like two or three, minus the "toolshed", which was probably decorated from pottery barn) could have been mistaked for the cottages one may rent in aspen, drinking champagne by the fire on a bearskin rug. and to boot, it was on the lake, which in georgia is just the word they use for big pond. but one the water, nonetheless.
so, although i think the concept of owning and actually driving golf carts through a city that’s not an island less than 1 mile in diameter, the houses for the most part, were really very pretty. including the one we were contracted to, tucked in the remote backside of the neighborhood. it stood stolid and strong, as if it were puffing it’s chest out, with it’s reagal windows and elevated entryway. we parked on the street, and quietly made our way up the hill to the doors, which were easily twice my height. i pressed the doorbell and waited, peeking in through the side windows, waiting for movement behind them. and waited. and waited...
the door opened about a full minute and a half later, to a tanned, latino-ish man in a black crewneck shirt and gray pants. i’m not very good at distinguishing nationalities. not-so-tall, dark, and ditinguished leather handsome, i guess, would be the best way to describe it. anway. his belt buckle was undone, and hanging open in a come-hither kind of fashion. he didn’t really give us a second look, just gruffly remarked, "did you ring the doorbell?" i replied that i had, and he ushered us inside and popped his head out the doorframe to look for himself. he spent a couple seconds mumbling to himself curses and such, and i reveled in the pure... affluence...of the foyer. an elegant tailored-oak staircase, cast iron ornate railings, check. plush tassled rug, check. velvet, check. fukk, everything was velvet... the rug, the only-for-decoration curtains on the burnt-gold french wooden frames, the toilet paper in the bathroom.
no, i’m just kidding with that last one. but for real. probably.
so the yet unnamed man of the house closed the door and says as he buckled his belt, "you can go ahead and go into the kitchen, my wife is in there, she can probably tell you what you need to know." he then turned around, gave one last dejected glance at the doorbell, shook his head, and walked upstairs.
we walked through the foyer to the sitting room, again velvet everything, and hung a right into the kitchen. i caught a glimpse of a framed photo of mr. unnamed and what i presumed to be his wife, a pretty, young latina thing (you may delete the comma in that phrase and it would work as well)with very long black hair and magniloquent breasts. she was a looker; quite the trophy for any man.
walking into the kitchen, which was quite nice and designed not only classically but efficient as well, that young latina thing turned around with a big smile from her place at the h’ors de vours table and...
smiled at me, while i said my name, and waited for a response, and said mikes name, and waited for a response... oh, god, i thought. my smile faded as she inquisitively looked from my eyes to my hair to my lip ring and back again, and through her smile (still an impeccable illustration of someone so surprised their face literally doesn’t know how to register this information) she said, "is there any way you coould take out the lip ring?... this is a very conservative event with many of my husbands CEOs, and it’s very important that... that theres no..."
oh, god. i’m not going to get paid tonight. that’s all i could think, that my four-hundred dollar weekend was now going to be a quarter less and whatever gas it took to get to and from peachtree city. i touched the ring on my lip. "well, no, not really." i said. "i need to take it into the store to get it taken out for me, and... no. i can’t."
now, what i did right there, was lie. i have switched out my lip rings several times, and though it was true i would have to go back and get the ball replaced because i don’t have the pliars or patience to do it myself, i could have popped out the ball and put the ring in my purse.
she looks at mike and says, "i would still love to have you bartend, though, i just can’t..." looks back to me and makes circular hand gestures "...i need the look to be more conservative. she obviously understood that because i have a lip ring in my mouth and some light pink strips in my hair (they’re faded for fukks sake) i can’t comprehend the english language.
"i’ll leave, it’s fine." this was true. i had officially begun to hate her velvet mecca of grandiousity and charlatan lifestyle. "really, mike, i don’t mind, i"ll go. you stay and make some money."
but really, what a pain in the ass, all to please this stupid cunt of a trophy wife who has enough velvet for a goddamn royal families wardrobe. no, thanks. mike assessed the situation, and went to call ed, to see what he should do. we both walked outside, and i stood on the palatial steps coming up to the door. he walked down to the car, lit a cigarette.
i stared at the house. the windows were dirty. noticed some chips on the brick steps, and the paint on the top of the archway was stained with a green mold, maybe algae. the grass was growing back from the dead, and was yellowed and brittle, like chopped straw. the lock on the right windowpane, on the inside, had electrical tape on it, holding it shut. the foliage lining the perimeter of the yard was unkempt, and the weeds underneath unruly and tangled. this wasn’t so great. it was a big house in a stupid city, waiting for better things to come to it. i walked down to the car.
i looked at mike. "you know, i could take my ring out. if you really want me to, i can. then we can make some money and be on our way."
mike shook his head. "nah." he said. "she was just looking for reasons not to use us. if it hadn’t been your ring, it would have been your hair, or my tattoos... people like that should be killed." i smiled, nodding my head in agreement. "it’s cool. i’m not gonna stay. i’m just going to grab my barkit and we can go." and just like that, he walked up the house on the hill, grabbed his shit, and we left.
he was right. people like her, well, they really only think one way. it didn’t matter that we’ve been requested to bartend at parties. it didn’t matter how great mike’s drinks were, or how well i could take people’s coats. she didn’t want us around her, to sully her perceptual image of regality. i highly doubt that the guest of her party would give me so much of a head nod, much less find it of dire importance to speak of the "help".
when mike went back in to grab his kit, he said she was irate and said she had specifically requested bartenders that were very clean cut and conservative. i highly doubt she did that, she just wanted to say she did so she wouldn’t look like the moronic golddigging whore she really was, mainly because i am the opposite of conservative. i don’t think ed would have chosen me had she said that word, conservative. mike looked at her and said, "sorry lady, i don’t know what you want me to do about it. we’re here, and you don’t want us. what do you want me to do?"
she called her hsband down, who was on the phone with the doorbell repairman, trying to get the "damn thing fixed!! what do you want?" he evidently was understanding of mike but to tell you the truth, i really just think he wanted to get back to fixing his doorbell. a man who answers the door to complete strangers with his belt undone does not strike me as a type of man that worries about a lip ring and tattoos. she bitched some more, and mike said, "good luck with your fukkin party..." and walks out.
i wish i could have been there to see her face, see if that smile was pasted on it from twenty minutes before. she never called ed, and we have no idea what her party was like. hopefully, she choked on an escargot and died. she is the reason why i don’t think people should procreate.
we went home, popped in kat williams, and hung out until i had to go to work at the club. it was completely worth not making that money, and not being around that woman all night long, to just laugh and chill out in my 800 sq foot apartment, relaxing. i would hate to be her.
no, wait. i would hate to be him. i would have already been dead from a .22 through the skull.
Friday, March 21, 2008
the problems with cargo khakis
(original post: december 11, 2007)
i dated someone for a hot minute some summers ago, a guy with good intentions and a big heart. we didn't work out long before we stopped talking, because i was insistent that i didn't want a boyfriend and because his insistence that he was in love with me. i just wanted a distraction, someone to laugh with and hang out. i think he wanted to live with me.
we did not have much in common, obviously.
anyway, he contacted me after we had blown the fuse with the whole relationship thing and he told me he was moving to california, probably within the next week, to begin work on a huge big money movie with famous actors and hefty paychecks. and he said he wanted to take me out to dinner to hang out one last time.
"like a date?" i asked, implying the dress up/down notch on the bedpost.
"like a date date." he said. "we've never gone out on a nice date."
so that means to dress up a little, agreed? a "date date" is the double dog dare of a "date", and he used the adjective "nice" so that means put a little elbow grease in it. push up the girls, splash some red across your lips, etc...
and i looked damned good. heels, a skirt, a shirt not from a plastic bagged set of four. i answered the door to him in cargo khaki's, converse, and a stained white work shirt. he worked at a gay bar. logo all over the shirt.
i didn't know what to say. I was embarrassed that i had gotten dressed up for him, like i just wasted my precious time brooding over what would make me look good. thinking that i had thought too much into it, i mumbled someting about being overdressed, and quickly went back to my closet. i changed into jeans and a wife beater, wiped the red off my lips, and sullenly walked out the door in silence. we ended up going to a bar and eating fried onion rings and french fries, getting drunk in awkwardness and stella, until he confessed to me that he had purposely dressed down. he said he knew that i was going to dress up and he wanted to act like it wasn't going to be a big deal that he was going to see me, maybe ever again.
he wore khaki's to be cool? he wore khakis to be mother fucking COOL?!? i mean, i had figured that anyway, but if you're gonna do something as childish as pretending not to care about something you actually really do, at least you could have gone with some other form of pants. maybe go plaid, or rip your jeans. don't insult me with khaki fucking cargos...
but why even do that in the first place? why come to my door, and foreclose a possibly wonderful time? there's no fucking point in sabotaging something that has already been sabotaged. we weren't going to go home together and fuck. we weren't even going to fucking make-out a little, so why try and be an even bigger douche? you do realize that this will be the way i think of you for the rest of my life... as the guy who didn't care enough about me just so that he would make himself look good.
it's bullshit.
if you like something, say so. if you want me, have me. but don't dress in khakis when you wish you would have worn jeans. it makes you look bad and the other person feel bad. i was so disappointed in the whole evening, and when i think of him randomly i am always brought back to the fact that he was too cool to be affected by me. insignifigance is not bliss.
i recently talked to him for the first time in about a year and a half. he's doing well, i think he's been dating someone out there for a while now. i hope he dresses up for dates now. she'd probably appreciate that.
k.
i dated someone for a hot minute some summers ago, a guy with good intentions and a big heart. we didn't work out long before we stopped talking, because i was insistent that i didn't want a boyfriend and because his insistence that he was in love with me. i just wanted a distraction, someone to laugh with and hang out. i think he wanted to live with me.
we did not have much in common, obviously.
anyway, he contacted me after we had blown the fuse with the whole relationship thing and he told me he was moving to california, probably within the next week, to begin work on a huge big money movie with famous actors and hefty paychecks. and he said he wanted to take me out to dinner to hang out one last time.
"like a date?" i asked, implying the dress up/down notch on the bedpost.
"like a date date." he said. "we've never gone out on a nice date."
so that means to dress up a little, agreed? a "date date" is the double dog dare of a "date", and he used the adjective "nice" so that means put a little elbow grease in it. push up the girls, splash some red across your lips, etc...
and i looked damned good. heels, a skirt, a shirt not from a plastic bagged set of four. i answered the door to him in cargo khaki's, converse, and a stained white work shirt. he worked at a gay bar. logo all over the shirt.
i didn't know what to say. I was embarrassed that i had gotten dressed up for him, like i just wasted my precious time brooding over what would make me look good. thinking that i had thought too much into it, i mumbled someting about being overdressed, and quickly went back to my closet. i changed into jeans and a wife beater, wiped the red off my lips, and sullenly walked out the door in silence. we ended up going to a bar and eating fried onion rings and french fries, getting drunk in awkwardness and stella, until he confessed to me that he had purposely dressed down. he said he knew that i was going to dress up and he wanted to act like it wasn't going to be a big deal that he was going to see me, maybe ever again.
he wore khaki's to be cool? he wore khakis to be mother fucking COOL?!? i mean, i had figured that anyway, but if you're gonna do something as childish as pretending not to care about something you actually really do, at least you could have gone with some other form of pants. maybe go plaid, or rip your jeans. don't insult me with khaki fucking cargos...
but why even do that in the first place? why come to my door, and foreclose a possibly wonderful time? there's no fucking point in sabotaging something that has already been sabotaged. we weren't going to go home together and fuck. we weren't even going to fucking make-out a little, so why try and be an even bigger douche? you do realize that this will be the way i think of you for the rest of my life... as the guy who didn't care enough about me just so that he would make himself look good.
it's bullshit.
if you like something, say so. if you want me, have me. but don't dress in khakis when you wish you would have worn jeans. it makes you look bad and the other person feel bad. i was so disappointed in the whole evening, and when i think of him randomly i am always brought back to the fact that he was too cool to be affected by me. insignifigance is not bliss.
i recently talked to him for the first time in about a year and a half. he's doing well, i think he's been dating someone out there for a while now. i hope he dresses up for dates now. she'd probably appreciate that.
k.
the goth girl in buckhead
(original post: january 27, 2008)
i had an interesting night last night.
i went into buckhead (eeew) to see lisa, who has been really busy and sick and unable to do anything but work and school as of late, so i figured if i got her at work we could (relatively) hang out.
within ten minutes of being in lola, a new and pretentiously overpriced and good looking modern style bar slash restaurant, i was handed a glass of wine by a man in his mid fifties. i didn't say anything to him, as i had just walked up to lisa's section and was desperately trying to flag her down, but he leaned over and asked me what kind of wine i drank. i said sauvignon blanc, and like magic, it appeared in my hands. we had about three minutes of conversation after that, and i excused myself to use the restroom, graciously thanking him for my first glass of the night.
this happened four more times over the course of the night. there was even a man that followed me outside as i was smoking a cigarette, an iranian financial somethingorother named abe, just so he could see what i was all about. he also bought me another glass, right before i decided that was enough to ensure a dui on the way home. he didn't smoke, which he declared upon his arrival on the patio, but he had seen me across the bar and wanted to know if i was interested in sitting down with him.
i wasn't. but he bought me a glass anyway, in hopes i would change my mind. i didn't, but, i graciously thanked him and excused myself to the bathroom again. it wasn't because he wasn't nice, or cute, or whatever (although i will say this man was waaaaay out of his league and i give him kudos for having the balls to try)... i just prefer being alone in that setting. it gives me a chance to think about things, to write about things, and to get away from myself. i get to be involved in people's conversations without ever having to explain what i do, where i'm from, and most importantly, why i'm alone.
but this is the turn. i go to bars by myself because i enjoy the people watching, but i seem to always end up becoming one of the watched. i almost feel invisible in the setting, so i almost forget that people could be doing to me what i do to them. my bartender friends shake their heads and laugh as they put drink after drink in front of me, mumbling gently about how they don't know how i do it. i just shrug my shoulders and nod my smile at the buyer, cheers them, and go about sitting there quietly, staring off into space.
i don't think it's because i'm pretty. and it can't be the fact that i'm funny, because most times the drink is bought before i ever open my mouth. i guess they could buy it because they like my style of dress, although often my body is hidden behind the bar and without x-ray vision it's impossible to see what i'm wearing. no, no... i think it goes deeper.
people are always surprised after asking me who i'm here with and my response is, "you're looking at it." they raise their eyebrows with a concerned look, peer over my shoulder as if i were lying, uncomfortably laugh a little as i were joking... they wonder to themselves but more often out loud, why? as if they can't fathom someone just going out by themselves. it's alien to most. but it's comfortable for me, and that makes them uncomfortable, and i guess, intrigued.
going out by yourself is a little like living by yourself. it's quiet when you want it to be, you can make conversation and inside jokes to the only person that knows what's going on, you can invite people in or tell them to go away when they knock on your door... it's designed on your own terms, and you can play by your own rules. you don't have to anser to anyone, you never have to leave if someone else wants to go, you don't have to babysit if he or she gets sick. its. just. you.
it goes without saying that ladies will be hit on by men in bars, and i guess reading into it is pointless (as i'm doing right now). these men could be buying me drinks just to see if they have a shot in my pants, although we both know what my answer will be. it a game of cat and dead mouse. my answer is no before the ever shell out the 10 for my glass of wine. especially, in buckhead.
last time i was at lola, there was a man who was sitting three spaces down from me at the bar, in a suit and tie with that matching kerchief that sticks out of the pocket. he reeked of money and cockiness, and the entire night he was watching me from his periferal, as if he thought i was being sly. you can ask my students this... i dont miss much that is going on around me. i catch glances, i hear whispers, and i pretty much know where every exit in the place is so i can get out first in an emergency. he was not sly enough. maybe he wasn't trying to be.
after about two scotches to my three whiskeys, he got up enough nerve to talk to me, telling me he liked my style and that he wanted to buy me a drink. i agreed, and switched to wine, knowing i wasn't going to finish it but i like making my bartender friends money. he started off the conversation by telling me that he used to be "goth". as if i was supposed to be impressed that a man in a suit and a pink tie was really telling me that he shopped at hot topic and wore jenkos for a month before his parents threw out his marilyn manson t-shirt and made him wear pleated khakis again.
i looked around at the rest of the people in the bar. who was he talking about, goth? nobody in buckhead fits the sullen teenager persona, and i realized he was getting me confused with something else. i gently tried to explain to him that i'm not goth, that i never have been one to wear the platform lace up army boots and white out my skin behind my black hair. i just had black hair. that was the only thing that i could think of that me and goth have in common. but he just kept on going, about how he thinks goth girls like me are hot cause we're so dark and blah blah blah blah blah, until i stopped him, told him i was going to smoke a cigarette, and got up to leave.
thinking i had washed my hands of him, i sat on the patio and exhaled, raising my eyebrows when he came outside to join me. he asked me for my number, which at this point, was laughable, and instead i gave him my card. "i'll give you my email, will that do?" i just wanted him to go away.
i began writing it down on the back, and he started sketching out, looking over his shoulder and saying, "do it discreetly, make it fast..." i stopped writing and looked at him in disbelief, and then a woman poked her head out the door and said (glaring me down, as i were the one who was being skeezy), "c'mon honey, the car is here. hurry the fuck up. darling."
i put the card back in my purse, thanked him for the glass of wine, and got up to go back to the door. he was still trying to persuade me on my way back in, and finally i looked at him and said, "i will cut off your balls and feed them to you on our first date. betcha didn't know goth girls were into cannabalism..." he paid his tab and walked out.
it's stories like this that i go to bars for. the one hope that humin interaction will spritz out to me and give me something i couldn't write with my own imagination. i swear i don't make this shit up. i'm not that creative. im going to continue to go to bars and get my stories. they're fun, and it gets me drunk for free.
plus, the ladies in buckhead hate me for that reason, and that's reason enough for me.
k.
i had an interesting night last night.
i went into buckhead (eeew) to see lisa, who has been really busy and sick and unable to do anything but work and school as of late, so i figured if i got her at work we could (relatively) hang out.
within ten minutes of being in lola, a new and pretentiously overpriced and good looking modern style bar slash restaurant, i was handed a glass of wine by a man in his mid fifties. i didn't say anything to him, as i had just walked up to lisa's section and was desperately trying to flag her down, but he leaned over and asked me what kind of wine i drank. i said sauvignon blanc, and like magic, it appeared in my hands. we had about three minutes of conversation after that, and i excused myself to use the restroom, graciously thanking him for my first glass of the night.
this happened four more times over the course of the night. there was even a man that followed me outside as i was smoking a cigarette, an iranian financial somethingorother named abe, just so he could see what i was all about. he also bought me another glass, right before i decided that was enough to ensure a dui on the way home. he didn't smoke, which he declared upon his arrival on the patio, but he had seen me across the bar and wanted to know if i was interested in sitting down with him.
i wasn't. but he bought me a glass anyway, in hopes i would change my mind. i didn't, but, i graciously thanked him and excused myself to the bathroom again. it wasn't because he wasn't nice, or cute, or whatever (although i will say this man was waaaaay out of his league and i give him kudos for having the balls to try)... i just prefer being alone in that setting. it gives me a chance to think about things, to write about things, and to get away from myself. i get to be involved in people's conversations without ever having to explain what i do, where i'm from, and most importantly, why i'm alone.
but this is the turn. i go to bars by myself because i enjoy the people watching, but i seem to always end up becoming one of the watched. i almost feel invisible in the setting, so i almost forget that people could be doing to me what i do to them. my bartender friends shake their heads and laugh as they put drink after drink in front of me, mumbling gently about how they don't know how i do it. i just shrug my shoulders and nod my smile at the buyer, cheers them, and go about sitting there quietly, staring off into space.
i don't think it's because i'm pretty. and it can't be the fact that i'm funny, because most times the drink is bought before i ever open my mouth. i guess they could buy it because they like my style of dress, although often my body is hidden behind the bar and without x-ray vision it's impossible to see what i'm wearing. no, no... i think it goes deeper.
people are always surprised after asking me who i'm here with and my response is, "you're looking at it." they raise their eyebrows with a concerned look, peer over my shoulder as if i were lying, uncomfortably laugh a little as i were joking... they wonder to themselves but more often out loud, why? as if they can't fathom someone just going out by themselves. it's alien to most. but it's comfortable for me, and that makes them uncomfortable, and i guess, intrigued.
going out by yourself is a little like living by yourself. it's quiet when you want it to be, you can make conversation and inside jokes to the only person that knows what's going on, you can invite people in or tell them to go away when they knock on your door... it's designed on your own terms, and you can play by your own rules. you don't have to anser to anyone, you never have to leave if someone else wants to go, you don't have to babysit if he or she gets sick. its. just. you.
it goes without saying that ladies will be hit on by men in bars, and i guess reading into it is pointless (as i'm doing right now). these men could be buying me drinks just to see if they have a shot in my pants, although we both know what my answer will be. it a game of cat and dead mouse. my answer is no before the ever shell out the 10 for my glass of wine. especially, in buckhead.
last time i was at lola, there was a man who was sitting three spaces down from me at the bar, in a suit and tie with that matching kerchief that sticks out of the pocket. he reeked of money and cockiness, and the entire night he was watching me from his periferal, as if he thought i was being sly. you can ask my students this... i dont miss much that is going on around me. i catch glances, i hear whispers, and i pretty much know where every exit in the place is so i can get out first in an emergency. he was not sly enough. maybe he wasn't trying to be.
after about two scotches to my three whiskeys, he got up enough nerve to talk to me, telling me he liked my style and that he wanted to buy me a drink. i agreed, and switched to wine, knowing i wasn't going to finish it but i like making my bartender friends money. he started off the conversation by telling me that he used to be "goth". as if i was supposed to be impressed that a man in a suit and a pink tie was really telling me that he shopped at hot topic and wore jenkos for a month before his parents threw out his marilyn manson t-shirt and made him wear pleated khakis again.
i looked around at the rest of the people in the bar. who was he talking about, goth? nobody in buckhead fits the sullen teenager persona, and i realized he was getting me confused with something else. i gently tried to explain to him that i'm not goth, that i never have been one to wear the platform lace up army boots and white out my skin behind my black hair. i just had black hair. that was the only thing that i could think of that me and goth have in common. but he just kept on going, about how he thinks goth girls like me are hot cause we're so dark and blah blah blah blah blah, until i stopped him, told him i was going to smoke a cigarette, and got up to leave.
thinking i had washed my hands of him, i sat on the patio and exhaled, raising my eyebrows when he came outside to join me. he asked me for my number, which at this point, was laughable, and instead i gave him my card. "i'll give you my email, will that do?" i just wanted him to go away.
i began writing it down on the back, and he started sketching out, looking over his shoulder and saying, "do it discreetly, make it fast..." i stopped writing and looked at him in disbelief, and then a woman poked her head out the door and said (glaring me down, as i were the one who was being skeezy), "c'mon honey, the car is here. hurry the fuck up. darling."
i put the card back in my purse, thanked him for the glass of wine, and got up to go back to the door. he was still trying to persuade me on my way back in, and finally i looked at him and said, "i will cut off your balls and feed them to you on our first date. betcha didn't know goth girls were into cannabalism..." he paid his tab and walked out.
it's stories like this that i go to bars for. the one hope that humin interaction will spritz out to me and give me something i couldn't write with my own imagination. i swear i don't make this shit up. i'm not that creative. im going to continue to go to bars and get my stories. they're fun, and it gets me drunk for free.
plus, the ladies in buckhead hate me for that reason, and that's reason enough for me.
k.
what do you tell a bitch with two black eyes?
you looked into her eyes,
the color of
frozen grapes
washing over you
as tears spill out
the sides,
softly telling her, lovingly,
that she wasn't
needed anymore,
watched as she shook
with fear and
hatred and
depravity, thinking
about wherever else
it was
you wanted to be,
but here.
it's not her,
it's you.
you,
you,
you.
the way
it's always been,
not a pebble lost
on your great wall of you.
you cheated her,
the same way he
cheated me,
or she cheated him...
this is not
just about you, and
your waning grip
on your life,
you fucking idiot.
you will never find
another freckle-faced
grace kelley that
sings showtoons in the shower
or kisses your cheeks
as you sleep.
it's too bad
your life is so hard
and your will is so weak.
you should go cry with
the vegans.
k.
i've been thinking alot about relationships recently, as there are different situations arising and failing all around me, while i sit in a stalemate, quietly observing. my best friends moron of a boyfriend took two years of her life and then recently decided he wanted nothing to do with her and the life they built, the dog they adopted, and the car they shared. he said that he needed time to figure out want he wants in life, time to grow into the man he know he needs to be to be with her, and blah, blah, fucking blah...
there's a million things i told her, from my past experiences with men who said the exact same things to me. there must be a manual out there floating around, with correct responses to specific questions. you can find it right next to the "exact things to say to ensure she feels like it's her fault" digest. and i told her some things that made me feel better when i was abandoned, like getting a glass of wine by herself or scratching the eyes out on old photos of them... but there was one thing i didn't tell her, that i am going to explain right now.
no matter if you are male or female, crazy or subdued, blonde or fucking brunette... you take a knife out of the drawer and cut your skin, and you're gonna bleed. we are fucking human, with the same sets of rational thinking, walking in the same metaphorical shoes as the generation before us. we eat, sleep, shit, laugh, run all using the same genetic guide, which is why being a human separates us from all the other animals in the food chain.
point being? GROW THE FUCK UP. if you want to be with someone, do it. if you can't handle a relationship, don't get inside of one. don't cheat on that person with another one because you're too much of a pussy to tell them you're unhappy. don't throw them under a bus because you're too goddamn selfish to understand that you are responsible not just for the way you feel, but the way they feel, too. i've watched this happen to everyone around me, and i've had it happen to me, hell, i've done it to some unlucky men back in the day.
relationships are not about you. if they were, they would not be relationships, they would be selfiships.you, being involved with you. as humans we strive for companionship and comfort but in my experience, lack the ability to be honest enough for communication to work. the most important thing about them from what i've come to understand, is having a working respect for the other party involved, which entails everything from flowers on a first date to making a decision to raise a child together.
i watched my parents in an unloving relationship for years. they fought and split and threatened divorce and talked shit about eachother to me. and for the most part i would sit outside on the balcony, listening to the screams down the hall, hoping for the silence in the days to follow would happen right then, and wish, wish, wish that one day, i would find someone that could give me the respect i deserved. now, after bitter splits and hostile argument with lawyers, watching my mother take off her wedding band in front of me and my firends on her celebratory divorce trip to the beach, feeling my father's tears on my neck as he was leaving the house... now, there is this genuine comraderie betwixt them. i can see it, the change. my father realized how much he needed my mother's strength, and my mother can look past and let go of the mistakes he made in the past. they're not perfect, but there is substance to their relationship now that was never there before.
a relationship is a matchpoint of respect, which grows it's own garden as it deepens. people too often take for granted the person underneath, and let pride and silence and fear fog up the window.
i wanted to drive to charleston just to give nat a hug, and let her shudder in my arms instead of wishing she was in his, and somehow infuse in her that she is one of the most incredible people i have ever met. shit, she has saved me from myself on numerous occasions, whether it be starving my body or loving people undeserving too hard... she is an amazing singer, hitting notes that draw tears; she is a dreamer of unlimitable proportions; she's exotic and intelligent and driven and beautiful...
she is everything that no one else will ever be, and she should be given the respect of a man that isn't a pussy ass little bitch that can't make up his mind about his "life." man up, you fuckin' idiot. you just lost the only thing you had going for you, and now, you're just a pretty face like all the rest of the douche's out there. it's such a shame that you think your life will be more fulfilled without her. and you will never get what you had back. it changed the minute you opened your mouth. pissant.
as for me, well... i should take my own advice on most occasions. i don't really know what i am to others now. all i know is that people continuously surprise me, good and bad, and that plans are really just a loose framework of the future. i guess ive taught myself to take nothing as seriously as you're told, because you will usually be dis-a-fuckin-pointed. and it's been working out great. without the promise of forever, you already have your explanation, and you are never disappointed.
unless it's in yourself, for thinking that way. but, fuck it. all i need is my ipod and a pair of point shoes, and i've got pretty much all i need to survive. i'll figure out the future when i come to it.
the color of
frozen grapes
washing over you
as tears spill out
the sides,
softly telling her, lovingly,
that she wasn't
needed anymore,
watched as she shook
with fear and
hatred and
depravity, thinking
about wherever else
it was
you wanted to be,
but here.
it's not her,
it's you.
you,
you,
you.
the way
it's always been,
not a pebble lost
on your great wall of you.
you cheated her,
the same way he
cheated me,
or she cheated him...
this is not
just about you, and
your waning grip
on your life,
you fucking idiot.
you will never find
another freckle-faced
grace kelley that
sings showtoons in the shower
or kisses your cheeks
as you sleep.
it's too bad
your life is so hard
and your will is so weak.
you should go cry with
the vegans.
k.
i've been thinking alot about relationships recently, as there are different situations arising and failing all around me, while i sit in a stalemate, quietly observing. my best friends moron of a boyfriend took two years of her life and then recently decided he wanted nothing to do with her and the life they built, the dog they adopted, and the car they shared. he said that he needed time to figure out want he wants in life, time to grow into the man he know he needs to be to be with her, and blah, blah, fucking blah...
there's a million things i told her, from my past experiences with men who said the exact same things to me. there must be a manual out there floating around, with correct responses to specific questions. you can find it right next to the "exact things to say to ensure she feels like it's her fault" digest. and i told her some things that made me feel better when i was abandoned, like getting a glass of wine by herself or scratching the eyes out on old photos of them... but there was one thing i didn't tell her, that i am going to explain right now.
no matter if you are male or female, crazy or subdued, blonde or fucking brunette... you take a knife out of the drawer and cut your skin, and you're gonna bleed. we are fucking human, with the same sets of rational thinking, walking in the same metaphorical shoes as the generation before us. we eat, sleep, shit, laugh, run all using the same genetic guide, which is why being a human separates us from all the other animals in the food chain.
point being? GROW THE FUCK UP. if you want to be with someone, do it. if you can't handle a relationship, don't get inside of one. don't cheat on that person with another one because you're too much of a pussy to tell them you're unhappy. don't throw them under a bus because you're too goddamn selfish to understand that you are responsible not just for the way you feel, but the way they feel, too. i've watched this happen to everyone around me, and i've had it happen to me, hell, i've done it to some unlucky men back in the day.
relationships are not about you. if they were, they would not be relationships, they would be selfiships.you, being involved with you. as humans we strive for companionship and comfort but in my experience, lack the ability to be honest enough for communication to work. the most important thing about them from what i've come to understand, is having a working respect for the other party involved, which entails everything from flowers on a first date to making a decision to raise a child together.
i watched my parents in an unloving relationship for years. they fought and split and threatened divorce and talked shit about eachother to me. and for the most part i would sit outside on the balcony, listening to the screams down the hall, hoping for the silence in the days to follow would happen right then, and wish, wish, wish that one day, i would find someone that could give me the respect i deserved. now, after bitter splits and hostile argument with lawyers, watching my mother take off her wedding band in front of me and my firends on her celebratory divorce trip to the beach, feeling my father's tears on my neck as he was leaving the house... now, there is this genuine comraderie betwixt them. i can see it, the change. my father realized how much he needed my mother's strength, and my mother can look past and let go of the mistakes he made in the past. they're not perfect, but there is substance to their relationship now that was never there before.
a relationship is a matchpoint of respect, which grows it's own garden as it deepens. people too often take for granted the person underneath, and let pride and silence and fear fog up the window.
i wanted to drive to charleston just to give nat a hug, and let her shudder in my arms instead of wishing she was in his, and somehow infuse in her that she is one of the most incredible people i have ever met. shit, she has saved me from myself on numerous occasions, whether it be starving my body or loving people undeserving too hard... she is an amazing singer, hitting notes that draw tears; she is a dreamer of unlimitable proportions; she's exotic and intelligent and driven and beautiful...
she is everything that no one else will ever be, and she should be given the respect of a man that isn't a pussy ass little bitch that can't make up his mind about his "life." man up, you fuckin' idiot. you just lost the only thing you had going for you, and now, you're just a pretty face like all the rest of the douche's out there. it's such a shame that you think your life will be more fulfilled without her. and you will never get what you had back. it changed the minute you opened your mouth. pissant.
as for me, well... i should take my own advice on most occasions. i don't really know what i am to others now. all i know is that people continuously surprise me, good and bad, and that plans are really just a loose framework of the future. i guess ive taught myself to take nothing as seriously as you're told, because you will usually be dis-a-fuckin-pointed. and it's been working out great. without the promise of forever, you already have your explanation, and you are never disappointed.
unless it's in yourself, for thinking that way. but, fuck it. all i need is my ipod and a pair of point shoes, and i've got pretty much all i need to survive. i'll figure out the future when i come to it.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
all who wander are not lost. but if you are, that's cool too.
(original post: august 8, 2007)
tomorrow will be my last full day in san francisco. when i wake up on friday, i leave for orlando. and thus ends the california chapter of my life.
and what's wierd, is that even though the last four weeks have been riddled with obstacles and things that were less than fortuitous (understatement), i have had an amazing time. not to say that it couldn't have been better, you know, if i didn't get a stomach bug, sprain my shit, scratch my eye (again), etc etc etc... but for what it's worth, i can say that this city is amazing.
i went to the top of nob hill last week. the hills were so big that i was literally walking at a forty-five degree angle. my quads and calfs screamed the entire way, but it was so worth it. i looked down on top of the harbor, and the white boats swaying inside of the waves, and chills ran up and down my spine from the wind, wipping through the sleeves of my hoodie. gulls screamed in the background and dove into the surface of the water fishing for whatever they could find. the fog rolled up and over me. really, i watched it, felt it cover me, as if it was breath from someone in the sky. the golden gate bridge disappears every night when it rolls in, as do the rooftops of the cliff houses and the island of alcatraz.
for a day i was one of the only white girls in chinatown, playing with pink paper parasols, debating on which one i should buy. i realized i couldn't because i have no room in my bag anymore. i bought nunchucks and sesame candy, and tried on crazy plaid pocket dresses that were almost too small in an XL. i was also one of the tallest people there. no surprises, i usually always am regardless. i looked at a caligrapher digilently working on tourists names, painting them on rice paper as they posed for pictures around him.
i met international bums and squatters, chatting with them as i smoked a cigarette outside of a bar, every bar, cause they're everywhere... a young kid of maybe seventeen drew me a picture of a rose with my name in it, detailed and ornate, with grubby hands that pass heroin through their veins. i saw crackheads lying on the street, some with nothing, some who owned a couple dogs or cats, and lent cigarettes to some punks with neon lit hair and barbells through the top of the bridge of their nose.
i rode the bus with everyone, from businessmen in power suits to a woman who kept telling me to look at the pretty tree. i went everywhere i could, to nob hill and russian hill, back to the haight, to union square and the marina, up to japan town and back to the tenderloin. the neighborhoods flew by right in front of my eyes, the neatly stacked townhouses with contrast crown molding and laid brick. it took me to golden gate park where kids frolicked under their parents supervision, as the dealers hit you up as they passed.
i stayed in jyouth hostels, which are fascinating to me, because theyre so inexpensive for everything that you get... free breakfast in the morning and free internet? i'm there. the first was in the middle of the tenderloin, the shady area that everyone tells you to stay away from. i liked it. i thought it was more or less of an adventure. the second was in union square, and it looked like the hostel from the movie hostel. it was super creepy and co-ed, which i don't have qualms about if it's not super creepy. but it was super creepy. good breakfast though. i love english muffins. the one that i'm at right now is actually way cool, right in the middle of union square and clean and not creepy at all. there are people from all over that stay here. europeans backpack through california the way we backpack around europe. i don't know why that seems so strange to me, it makes perfect sense, i guess.
i played pool in a couple bars by myself and got challenged to some games, most of which i lost, but two that i won! yay. i had super burritos and real italian pizza, and a couple nights ago i had bacon wrapped scallops that would have been delectable had i been able to tast them. i'm deathly ill right now so they tasted the same as, say, a subway sandwich. but they looked amazing, anyway.
there's been so much this month that i've seen, it kind of takes the edge off of everything else. granted, this dreamland is over tomorrow, but, i still have one more day. i knew that only being here for a month was going to be impossible to get everything i wanted to do, done. so i will have to come back. settled, when everything gets a little less crazy.
it was fun to be lost. i like the fact that i'm just like everyone else here. i feel like i just might be from a foreign country, cause i know so little about everything out here. there's so much to be seen, to be tasted. and under different circumstances, i might have actually gotten to experience all those things in the forthcoming year. but, it also gives me the mindset that there is something to explore everywhere, including where i'm coming back to. there is so much i haven't done in atlanta. i guess now i don't want to ignore it, now that i realize wandering is the only way to find where you're going.
what a great metaphor for life that is. the best way to find out where you are is to get lost. and lost, i am. so i guess im gonna keep on keepin on until i figure out what it is that i need to get done.
goodbye for now, san francisco.
k.
tomorrow will be my last full day in san francisco. when i wake up on friday, i leave for orlando. and thus ends the california chapter of my life.
and what's wierd, is that even though the last four weeks have been riddled with obstacles and things that were less than fortuitous (understatement), i have had an amazing time. not to say that it couldn't have been better, you know, if i didn't get a stomach bug, sprain my shit, scratch my eye (again), etc etc etc... but for what it's worth, i can say that this city is amazing.
i went to the top of nob hill last week. the hills were so big that i was literally walking at a forty-five degree angle. my quads and calfs screamed the entire way, but it was so worth it. i looked down on top of the harbor, and the white boats swaying inside of the waves, and chills ran up and down my spine from the wind, wipping through the sleeves of my hoodie. gulls screamed in the background and dove into the surface of the water fishing for whatever they could find. the fog rolled up and over me. really, i watched it, felt it cover me, as if it was breath from someone in the sky. the golden gate bridge disappears every night when it rolls in, as do the rooftops of the cliff houses and the island of alcatraz.
for a day i was one of the only white girls in chinatown, playing with pink paper parasols, debating on which one i should buy. i realized i couldn't because i have no room in my bag anymore. i bought nunchucks and sesame candy, and tried on crazy plaid pocket dresses that were almost too small in an XL. i was also one of the tallest people there. no surprises, i usually always am regardless. i looked at a caligrapher digilently working on tourists names, painting them on rice paper as they posed for pictures around him.
i met international bums and squatters, chatting with them as i smoked a cigarette outside of a bar, every bar, cause they're everywhere... a young kid of maybe seventeen drew me a picture of a rose with my name in it, detailed and ornate, with grubby hands that pass heroin through their veins. i saw crackheads lying on the street, some with nothing, some who owned a couple dogs or cats, and lent cigarettes to some punks with neon lit hair and barbells through the top of the bridge of their nose.
i rode the bus with everyone, from businessmen in power suits to a woman who kept telling me to look at the pretty tree. i went everywhere i could, to nob hill and russian hill, back to the haight, to union square and the marina, up to japan town and back to the tenderloin. the neighborhoods flew by right in front of my eyes, the neatly stacked townhouses with contrast crown molding and laid brick. it took me to golden gate park where kids frolicked under their parents supervision, as the dealers hit you up as they passed.
i stayed in jyouth hostels, which are fascinating to me, because theyre so inexpensive for everything that you get... free breakfast in the morning and free internet? i'm there. the first was in the middle of the tenderloin, the shady area that everyone tells you to stay away from. i liked it. i thought it was more or less of an adventure. the second was in union square, and it looked like the hostel from the movie hostel. it was super creepy and co-ed, which i don't have qualms about if it's not super creepy. but it was super creepy. good breakfast though. i love english muffins. the one that i'm at right now is actually way cool, right in the middle of union square and clean and not creepy at all. there are people from all over that stay here. europeans backpack through california the way we backpack around europe. i don't know why that seems so strange to me, it makes perfect sense, i guess.
i played pool in a couple bars by myself and got challenged to some games, most of which i lost, but two that i won! yay. i had super burritos and real italian pizza, and a couple nights ago i had bacon wrapped scallops that would have been delectable had i been able to tast them. i'm deathly ill right now so they tasted the same as, say, a subway sandwich. but they looked amazing, anyway.
there's been so much this month that i've seen, it kind of takes the edge off of everything else. granted, this dreamland is over tomorrow, but, i still have one more day. i knew that only being here for a month was going to be impossible to get everything i wanted to do, done. so i will have to come back. settled, when everything gets a little less crazy.
it was fun to be lost. i like the fact that i'm just like everyone else here. i feel like i just might be from a foreign country, cause i know so little about everything out here. there's so much to be seen, to be tasted. and under different circumstances, i might have actually gotten to experience all those things in the forthcoming year. but, it also gives me the mindset that there is something to explore everywhere, including where i'm coming back to. there is so much i haven't done in atlanta. i guess now i don't want to ignore it, now that i realize wandering is the only way to find where you're going.
what a great metaphor for life that is. the best way to find out where you are is to get lost. and lost, i am. so i guess im gonna keep on keepin on until i figure out what it is that i need to get done.
goodbye for now, san francisco.
k.
nicotine and love: an undying relationship
(original post: september 15, 2007)
people don't change unless they want to. it's like quitting smoking. you can't do it until you really really want to. because otherwise, even though you know it's bad for you, even though you know lighting something and inhaling it into the only organ that we have that makes us breathe couldn't possibly be a sound way to ensure it will still do so sometime down the road, you won't quit until you are absolutely ready.
my father smoked for thirty-five years. he smoked a full pack, and sometimes two packs of camel wides for the last ten years he smoked. he would cough and weeze and mumble about how he needed to quit and how every cigarette was going to be his last. until the next one, and the one after that. i never thought that man would ever stop his beloved habit.
but, like all beautiful romances, this one too bit the dust. after going to see his doctor who told him that if he didn't quit smoking he was not going to live to see sixty. he was fifty-four at the time. i guess a six year death sentence was enough for him to drop the reigns. he quit, about two weeks before our annual christmas trekk to the mountains.
that was an amazing road trip. three dogs, one with a vengeful stomach problem, my two brothers, my brother's girlfriend who is allergic to everything, my bitter french catholic grandmother who had just gotten married and divorced all in under three months, my mother's stop and go driving skills, my father going through nicotine withdrawls, and me, crammed in the backseat with presents and luggage and groceries. all in one big expedition.
all i wanted to do, was smoke a fucking fag. but my arents still didn't know i smoked, or rather, denied that i did, so i couldn't.
i'll tell you, if that's not a fucking slice of heaven, i don't know what is.
but dad did it. he smokes cigars now, which, to me, kind of cancels the whole triumphant quitting thing out. but shit. i guess if you're gonna go, you should go out with style. it's havana time.
now, me, on the other hand, i don't know when i'm going to quit. i know i have to, i know i shouldn't do it because of the career i'm in, and blah blah blah. listen, smoking is not something that has ever been branded as the "goody two shoes" habit. it wasn't sandra dee who started the trend. james dean, marilyn monroe, tommy lee, most of the bad guys in movies, and teenagers full of angst and revolt... it's not a happy coincidence that they all smoke.
smoking is rebellion. rebellion of the body and what it was meant to be used for. inhaling is like telling everyone "i don't fucking care" and doing it with a certain... je ne sais quoi... penchant for masochism, maybe?
smoking is the habit of habits, the queen of hearts, if i may. i say this because we all know what type of people they are. smokers will befriend other smokers because there is a common ground they share. and many non-smokers do that whole coughing thing and wave their hand in front of their face as if there were carcinigeous bees flying all around them. my favorite non-smoker line is "did you know that's bad for you?"
gee. thanks. did you know that you're ugly? at least i can quit.
so, here we have this attitude and now a habit that runs through our blood and makes us crave more. how is this any different than quitting a person?
it occured to me the other day that quitting a cancerous love is alot like quitting smoking. especially if it's something you don't really want to stop. if you cheat, only with one little cigarette, it sets you back to day one, and you have to restart all over again. your heart still craves the nicotine no matter what your head tells it.
love has the same effects that ciggies do, quickening the heart and temporarily releasing tension in the muscles. it puts us in a better mood and makes us forget that there are things out there that are bothering us. love is a longer version of a cigarette break, then.
but when something goes wrong, when you know there is something that has poisoned your heart, a cancerous sort of love... when you know that the only thing that's right is the one thing you don't want to do... quitting smoking is harder than beginning the habit. it's always harder to stop.
you get mad at yourself when you slip up. when you cheat. you were doing so well. you were making progress, getting stronger without the need for nicotine. you didn't crave one as much after a hard day, nor did you think to buy a pack when you stopped to get gas. you are on the path to washing your hands of a bad habit.
but then, one night, you find one single cigarette lying on the floor of your car. you put it to your mouth, taste the sweet musk of the tobacco, and delight that the paper filter still fits perfectly betwixt your lips... there is a lighter you never through away, and it ignites easily under your thumb as you watch the flint spark in front of your eyes. your heart is racing... it's been too long since you felt the fire in your chest, and as you inhale, you feel it run through your veins, under your skin, the length of your body... the smoke ropes up and into your nose from your mouth and you are reminded of the memories you and the cigarette have had in the past... lying on beach blankets and shivering under the cold mountain sky, singing in the car, or coffee in the morning. it is an old friend, who has been there for a long tme, and without ever reaizing it, you had fallen in love.
cigarettes give you cancer. lovers can too. both kill you in some form or fashion. both betray the relationship you never intended on being so strong, that you never knew you had depended on so heavily. and both, you miss when you quit.
one of my favorite quotes of all time is from the writer oscar wilde. he states, "the only temptation i resist, is to resist temptation." i believe oscar wilde died of complications due to alcohol and opium abuse, sometime in his thirties. as far as it pertains to me, i'm hoping that my resistance to resist temptations will eventually make me understand that i am responsible for my health, regardless if it's mental or physical. i'm the one who doesn't want to quit smoking, because smoking is so damn enjoyable, and therefore if i continue to do so i will perish underneath a nicotine hand.
i think oscar wilde was right, though. hey. at least he was honest with himself.
people don't change unless they want to. it's like quitting smoking. you can't do it until you really really want to. because otherwise, even though you know it's bad for you, even though you know lighting something and inhaling it into the only organ that we have that makes us breathe couldn't possibly be a sound way to ensure it will still do so sometime down the road, you won't quit until you are absolutely ready.
my father smoked for thirty-five years. he smoked a full pack, and sometimes two packs of camel wides for the last ten years he smoked. he would cough and weeze and mumble about how he needed to quit and how every cigarette was going to be his last. until the next one, and the one after that. i never thought that man would ever stop his beloved habit.
but, like all beautiful romances, this one too bit the dust. after going to see his doctor who told him that if he didn't quit smoking he was not going to live to see sixty. he was fifty-four at the time. i guess a six year death sentence was enough for him to drop the reigns. he quit, about two weeks before our annual christmas trekk to the mountains.
that was an amazing road trip. three dogs, one with a vengeful stomach problem, my two brothers, my brother's girlfriend who is allergic to everything, my bitter french catholic grandmother who had just gotten married and divorced all in under three months, my mother's stop and go driving skills, my father going through nicotine withdrawls, and me, crammed in the backseat with presents and luggage and groceries. all in one big expedition.
all i wanted to do, was smoke a fucking fag. but my arents still didn't know i smoked, or rather, denied that i did, so i couldn't.
i'll tell you, if that's not a fucking slice of heaven, i don't know what is.
but dad did it. he smokes cigars now, which, to me, kind of cancels the whole triumphant quitting thing out. but shit. i guess if you're gonna go, you should go out with style. it's havana time.
now, me, on the other hand, i don't know when i'm going to quit. i know i have to, i know i shouldn't do it because of the career i'm in, and blah blah blah. listen, smoking is not something that has ever been branded as the "goody two shoes" habit. it wasn't sandra dee who started the trend. james dean, marilyn monroe, tommy lee, most of the bad guys in movies, and teenagers full of angst and revolt... it's not a happy coincidence that they all smoke.
smoking is rebellion. rebellion of the body and what it was meant to be used for. inhaling is like telling everyone "i don't fucking care" and doing it with a certain... je ne sais quoi... penchant for masochism, maybe?
smoking is the habit of habits, the queen of hearts, if i may. i say this because we all know what type of people they are. smokers will befriend other smokers because there is a common ground they share. and many non-smokers do that whole coughing thing and wave their hand in front of their face as if there were carcinigeous bees flying all around them. my favorite non-smoker line is "did you know that's bad for you?"
gee. thanks. did you know that you're ugly? at least i can quit.
so, here we have this attitude and now a habit that runs through our blood and makes us crave more. how is this any different than quitting a person?
it occured to me the other day that quitting a cancerous love is alot like quitting smoking. especially if it's something you don't really want to stop. if you cheat, only with one little cigarette, it sets you back to day one, and you have to restart all over again. your heart still craves the nicotine no matter what your head tells it.
love has the same effects that ciggies do, quickening the heart and temporarily releasing tension in the muscles. it puts us in a better mood and makes us forget that there are things out there that are bothering us. love is a longer version of a cigarette break, then.
but when something goes wrong, when you know there is something that has poisoned your heart, a cancerous sort of love... when you know that the only thing that's right is the one thing you don't want to do... quitting smoking is harder than beginning the habit. it's always harder to stop.
you get mad at yourself when you slip up. when you cheat. you were doing so well. you were making progress, getting stronger without the need for nicotine. you didn't crave one as much after a hard day, nor did you think to buy a pack when you stopped to get gas. you are on the path to washing your hands of a bad habit.
but then, one night, you find one single cigarette lying on the floor of your car. you put it to your mouth, taste the sweet musk of the tobacco, and delight that the paper filter still fits perfectly betwixt your lips... there is a lighter you never through away, and it ignites easily under your thumb as you watch the flint spark in front of your eyes. your heart is racing... it's been too long since you felt the fire in your chest, and as you inhale, you feel it run through your veins, under your skin, the length of your body... the smoke ropes up and into your nose from your mouth and you are reminded of the memories you and the cigarette have had in the past... lying on beach blankets and shivering under the cold mountain sky, singing in the car, or coffee in the morning. it is an old friend, who has been there for a long tme, and without ever reaizing it, you had fallen in love.
cigarettes give you cancer. lovers can too. both kill you in some form or fashion. both betray the relationship you never intended on being so strong, that you never knew you had depended on so heavily. and both, you miss when you quit.
one of my favorite quotes of all time is from the writer oscar wilde. he states, "the only temptation i resist, is to resist temptation." i believe oscar wilde died of complications due to alcohol and opium abuse, sometime in his thirties. as far as it pertains to me, i'm hoping that my resistance to resist temptations will eventually make me understand that i am responsible for my health, regardless if it's mental or physical. i'm the one who doesn't want to quit smoking, because smoking is so damn enjoyable, and therefore if i continue to do so i will perish underneath a nicotine hand.
i think oscar wilde was right, though. hey. at least he was honest with himself.
superheroes and their masks
(original post: august 26, 2007)
what a searchlight
ha, what a metaphor...
we all search
for that light, that
second of epiphany,
sweet reality,
when things don't feel
real,
when it hasn't yet
set in,
so that new
will remain new,
not having to delve
too deep to care
is this the way it will always be?
shallow wading ponds
of heart,
not enough to dive
i'm alive
and breathing in a city
that's choking me to death
well, maybe
it's my own city
that's killing me
but how do you move out
from your own skin?
optimism
is the hardest elixur
to swallow
during rainy days
like this...
k.
my thoughts today... it's not what you are that defines you. it's what you do.
i watched batman begins last night. and, even though i am quoting from a marvel comic, it made me think. is the only thing that defines you what you do? is the only thing i am a ballet dancer with a propensity for wine? that's it. a drunken ballerina.
or is what you do defined by who you are? everything i've ever done, i've done it because it's come from a deeper desire inside of me. who i am. if i hated teaching i probably would be something like a vet. or a suit, ugh. i wouldn't do it every day and accept a lifestyle that was as underpaid. i could have sold my soul a long time ago for the money, and i'm happy i didn't.
we all wear masks. that was another big thing in the movie. of course, batman has a mask, so that people won't know who he is underneath. i thought it was ironic though, because everyone was so scared of him, in all of his capey-maskness. even though he was the one who was saving everyone. they were still adamantly fighting him as he fought for them. hmmm.... metphor alert: nobody really wants to be saved? i don't know, i'm going out on a limb here.
but anyway. there was another villian who wore a scarecrow-ish mask which, with the help of some ancient gaseous cloud, brought out everyone's worst fears when they looked at him. and when he did that, they were projecting their worst fears onto it and they were paralized with terror, of a figment from their own minds.
are our masks manifested from what we don't want people to really know about us? do we project our fears onto other people so that they can't reach us, find what breaks us down? these masks, that scare others away, that conceal what we don't want understood... aren't they easier to see through than having no mask at all?
batman is bruce wayne, the billionaire orphan who fights crime in retribution for his parents death. he wears a suit during the day and kills bad guys at night, saving others from the same lonely fate he was assigned to at such an early age. he masks his identity with a black suit, a cape, and nights shadows. and people are so scared of him. they don't thank him for his kindness, for risking his own life in saving theirs, but instead reel back in terror. i guess you can't really regard a man in a black suit and a cape as anything but unusual, but shit, people, he's fucking saving you. at least give him a head nod or something.
what point am i getting to? katie holmes looked at her old friend bruce wayne in the movie and said that line to him, which was ironic, cause she didn't know that he would be saving her pretentious ass a little later from death. not just once, but he saved the bitch like three or four times from her impending death. so, in reality, who he was underneath the mask and what he did while he was in it saved her from her last breath.
so she was wrong. i'm right. what batman does, fighting crime... what he is is not defined by what he does. what he does is defined by who he is underneath the mask, and what he went through to get there is what determined that.
so our masks, we should wear them with pride, because what they hide is everything we are inside. nobody should force the mask off of you, because then they've ripped off of you everything you are, and thrown it away. i don't think it's a bad thing for the vulnerable stuff to show through every once and awhile. but i don't think it's necessary to have to be maskless your entire life.
anonaminity is the key to privacy sometimes. just look at bruce wayne. although he shouldn't have told that dumb bitch his secret. she's going to be his downfall. i really don't like katie holmes. can you tell?
thanks to matt maher for this closing... he said his favorite superhero is batman because batman is human. he wakes up, puts on his suit, and works during the day; when night falls he puts on a superhero costume and fights crime in gotham city.
when superman wakes up, he has to put his human suit on and live a false life of a mortal.
but that's a whole 'nother essay.
what a searchlight
ha, what a metaphor...
we all search
for that light, that
second of epiphany,
sweet reality,
when things don't feel
real,
when it hasn't yet
set in,
so that new
will remain new,
not having to delve
too deep to care
is this the way it will always be?
shallow wading ponds
of heart,
not enough to dive
i'm alive
and breathing in a city
that's choking me to death
well, maybe
it's my own city
that's killing me
but how do you move out
from your own skin?
optimism
is the hardest elixur
to swallow
during rainy days
like this...
k.
my thoughts today... it's not what you are that defines you. it's what you do.
i watched batman begins last night. and, even though i am quoting from a marvel comic, it made me think. is the only thing that defines you what you do? is the only thing i am a ballet dancer with a propensity for wine? that's it. a drunken ballerina.
or is what you do defined by who you are? everything i've ever done, i've done it because it's come from a deeper desire inside of me. who i am. if i hated teaching i probably would be something like a vet. or a suit, ugh. i wouldn't do it every day and accept a lifestyle that was as underpaid. i could have sold my soul a long time ago for the money, and i'm happy i didn't.
we all wear masks. that was another big thing in the movie. of course, batman has a mask, so that people won't know who he is underneath. i thought it was ironic though, because everyone was so scared of him, in all of his capey-maskness. even though he was the one who was saving everyone. they were still adamantly fighting him as he fought for them. hmmm.... metphor alert: nobody really wants to be saved? i don't know, i'm going out on a limb here.
but anyway. there was another villian who wore a scarecrow-ish mask which, with the help of some ancient gaseous cloud, brought out everyone's worst fears when they looked at him. and when he did that, they were projecting their worst fears onto it and they were paralized with terror, of a figment from their own minds.
are our masks manifested from what we don't want people to really know about us? do we project our fears onto other people so that they can't reach us, find what breaks us down? these masks, that scare others away, that conceal what we don't want understood... aren't they easier to see through than having no mask at all?
batman is bruce wayne, the billionaire orphan who fights crime in retribution for his parents death. he wears a suit during the day and kills bad guys at night, saving others from the same lonely fate he was assigned to at such an early age. he masks his identity with a black suit, a cape, and nights shadows. and people are so scared of him. they don't thank him for his kindness, for risking his own life in saving theirs, but instead reel back in terror. i guess you can't really regard a man in a black suit and a cape as anything but unusual, but shit, people, he's fucking saving you. at least give him a head nod or something.
what point am i getting to? katie holmes looked at her old friend bruce wayne in the movie and said that line to him, which was ironic, cause she didn't know that he would be saving her pretentious ass a little later from death. not just once, but he saved the bitch like three or four times from her impending death. so, in reality, who he was underneath the mask and what he did while he was in it saved her from her last breath.
so she was wrong. i'm right. what batman does, fighting crime... what he is is not defined by what he does. what he does is defined by who he is underneath the mask, and what he went through to get there is what determined that.
so our masks, we should wear them with pride, because what they hide is everything we are inside. nobody should force the mask off of you, because then they've ripped off of you everything you are, and thrown it away. i don't think it's a bad thing for the vulnerable stuff to show through every once and awhile. but i don't think it's necessary to have to be maskless your entire life.
anonaminity is the key to privacy sometimes. just look at bruce wayne. although he shouldn't have told that dumb bitch his secret. she's going to be his downfall. i really don't like katie holmes. can you tell?
thanks to matt maher for this closing... he said his favorite superhero is batman because batman is human. he wakes up, puts on his suit, and works during the day; when night falls he puts on a superhero costume and fights crime in gotham city.
when superman wakes up, he has to put his human suit on and live a false life of a mortal.
but that's a whole 'nother essay.
still life romance
(original post: september 3, 2007)
such smiles,
in your heads,
painted underneath
dropping suns
and ocean
foam at your feet.
smiles splashed
from ear to ear,
against your skull
and down your spine.
it's lovely, there,
in memories and dusk,
with smiles and
skin
and fake kodak settings,
hurt forgotton
in the panorama
of the picture,
and it's beautiful, it's
so easy
to fall back inside,
to let the bad things
slide
and forget
the chaos behind the
smiles.
no,
you'll be happy
there,
amongst the silence
in the 5x8 walls,
living in
a picture-perfect
glossy
and heads so full
of smile and lies.
enjoy
your soulless nights
and careless hearts,
the ocean waves
nipping at your feet
cold,
but fake even now.
k.
i had this boyfriend once who told me that he had fallen in love with me from a picture. before i had ever even met him, he had come over to our house and he had seen me inside a picture frame with my two best friends and knew that he wanted me from that moment on.
at first, i found this romantic, a love at first sight kind of notion, and we dated, for just under a year. until he went psycho on me, and went to rehab for a coke addiction i don't really know if he had. there was a shrine and a dui involved too, but that's another story for another day.
anyway, he said that to me at the very beginning of our relationship, and it slowly started to eat away at me as things went on. how do you fall in love with a picture? what does that mean? what does that say about how well he knows me, falling complacent with a two dimentional glossy from a time he never even knew about...
i slowly began to realize he fell in love not with the girl who trips over air, snorts when she laughs, has a generally messy repretoire with spaghetti and red wine, eats with her fingers, has pummeled ballet hobbit feet...
but rather he fell in love with the idea of what i could be. what i was in that foreign moment that happened to be capured in time and displayed on our coffee table in the living room. he fell in love with the idea of me, two dimentional and blonde, sticking my tongue out at the camera.
him saying that to me should've been the selling point for me to throw a red flag penalty and say, whoa, mister, you are way out of line.
but of course, i didn't, and it was an obstacle laden relationship from that point on. who woulda thunk it? man, was he crazy. i mean, bat-shit, balls to the wall nuts. corn nuts. that's some serious shit. but really good writing.
so we broke up when he decided to abandon me and go to rehab that his work was paying for, for an addiction that he never really had, and i moved in with those same two girls that have never failed to save me. the same picture was up on the living room table, and i had to look at it every day when i sat down on the couches, thinking about the same thing...
how could i be so dumb? i knew when he said he fell in love with me from a picture that it bothered me, in the back of my mind, and i pushed it out. because the blinders were on, because i wanted to believe i loved him too. but that wasn't true love. he fell in love with a two dimentional kathryne, without flaws and insecurities and idiocincracies... which, i have to say, is not who i am.
living up to that one picture was the hardest thing to do for me in that relationship, ironically enough. most girls get in a relationship and are intimidated by another girl who is friends with the significant other. i was intimidated by a inanimate framed picture of myself. i'm so wierd.
but for just cause. i could never be what that picture was to him. never, not in a million years, cause me in that picture was not who i was in real life. we all have these images of ourselves that are tangible, that lay in frames and photo albums, of our good sides and funny faces and aspects of our personalities that are captured in a single milisecond of time, to be for forever. but that's all they are - an aspect of who we are. one thing out of many that create everything who we are.
you can love a picture all you want. this is my best side, loo how cute we were that night, this was so funny it made me piss my pants after we took this picture... that's all fine. but when it's done and said, there are things that a picture can't tell. i don't think erick knew that the picture he fell in love with, behind all those smiles, was a girl who had just relapsed in bulimia and vomited everything she ate back up. that picture was taken at one of the lowest points in my life, but i plastered a smile on my face and posed for the camera anyway. he fell in love with a lie.
so, pictures, to me... well, that's all they are. they aren't a window to the past. they are a posed rendition of a moment. and you can't fall in love with one, because it's not real. it will never manifest, become something that is true, ever again. you can't get those good old times back.
you can only create newer ones.
unless of course, you go to rehab for cocaine. that pretty much stops time in general. look at erick, and lindsay lohan... but they probably deserve eachother anyway. they would make great picture babies.
such smiles,
in your heads,
painted underneath
dropping suns
and ocean
foam at your feet.
smiles splashed
from ear to ear,
against your skull
and down your spine.
it's lovely, there,
in memories and dusk,
with smiles and
skin
and fake kodak settings,
hurt forgotton
in the panorama
of the picture,
and it's beautiful, it's
so easy
to fall back inside,
to let the bad things
slide
and forget
the chaos behind the
smiles.
no,
you'll be happy
there,
amongst the silence
in the 5x8 walls,
living in
a picture-perfect
glossy
and heads so full
of smile and lies.
enjoy
your soulless nights
and careless hearts,
the ocean waves
nipping at your feet
cold,
but fake even now.
k.
i had this boyfriend once who told me that he had fallen in love with me from a picture. before i had ever even met him, he had come over to our house and he had seen me inside a picture frame with my two best friends and knew that he wanted me from that moment on.
at first, i found this romantic, a love at first sight kind of notion, and we dated, for just under a year. until he went psycho on me, and went to rehab for a coke addiction i don't really know if he had. there was a shrine and a dui involved too, but that's another story for another day.
anyway, he said that to me at the very beginning of our relationship, and it slowly started to eat away at me as things went on. how do you fall in love with a picture? what does that mean? what does that say about how well he knows me, falling complacent with a two dimentional glossy from a time he never even knew about...
i slowly began to realize he fell in love not with the girl who trips over air, snorts when she laughs, has a generally messy repretoire with spaghetti and red wine, eats with her fingers, has pummeled ballet hobbit feet...
but rather he fell in love with the idea of what i could be. what i was in that foreign moment that happened to be capured in time and displayed on our coffee table in the living room. he fell in love with the idea of me, two dimentional and blonde, sticking my tongue out at the camera.
him saying that to me should've been the selling point for me to throw a red flag penalty and say, whoa, mister, you are way out of line.
but of course, i didn't, and it was an obstacle laden relationship from that point on. who woulda thunk it? man, was he crazy. i mean, bat-shit, balls to the wall nuts. corn nuts. that's some serious shit. but really good writing.
so we broke up when he decided to abandon me and go to rehab that his work was paying for, for an addiction that he never really had, and i moved in with those same two girls that have never failed to save me. the same picture was up on the living room table, and i had to look at it every day when i sat down on the couches, thinking about the same thing...
how could i be so dumb? i knew when he said he fell in love with me from a picture that it bothered me, in the back of my mind, and i pushed it out. because the blinders were on, because i wanted to believe i loved him too. but that wasn't true love. he fell in love with a two dimentional kathryne, without flaws and insecurities and idiocincracies... which, i have to say, is not who i am.
living up to that one picture was the hardest thing to do for me in that relationship, ironically enough. most girls get in a relationship and are intimidated by another girl who is friends with the significant other. i was intimidated by a inanimate framed picture of myself. i'm so wierd.
but for just cause. i could never be what that picture was to him. never, not in a million years, cause me in that picture was not who i was in real life. we all have these images of ourselves that are tangible, that lay in frames and photo albums, of our good sides and funny faces and aspects of our personalities that are captured in a single milisecond of time, to be for forever. but that's all they are - an aspect of who we are. one thing out of many that create everything who we are.
you can love a picture all you want. this is my best side, loo how cute we were that night, this was so funny it made me piss my pants after we took this picture... that's all fine. but when it's done and said, there are things that a picture can't tell. i don't think erick knew that the picture he fell in love with, behind all those smiles, was a girl who had just relapsed in bulimia and vomited everything she ate back up. that picture was taken at one of the lowest points in my life, but i plastered a smile on my face and posed for the camera anyway. he fell in love with a lie.
so, pictures, to me... well, that's all they are. they aren't a window to the past. they are a posed rendition of a moment. and you can't fall in love with one, because it's not real. it will never manifest, become something that is true, ever again. you can't get those good old times back.
you can only create newer ones.
unless of course, you go to rehab for cocaine. that pretty much stops time in general. look at erick, and lindsay lohan... but they probably deserve eachother anyway. they would make great picture babies.
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