Today I waded through a pool of garble. occasionally I caught a familiar looking twig but it would immediately snap between my tight grip. I am alone speaking quickly and more like them but it doesn’t really make too much sense still. The women are makeupless and beautiful and I look awkward and angry all the time. I am- but I am also happy now. This city charms even if their people cause me to sit in a wading pool of low self-esteem. The roofs are beautiful and I want to hug them but that wouldn’t accomplish much because they are big and pokey. Oh! I forgot to mention the “cool” kids in leather jackets and sunglasses and rolling stones shirts. AHAHA
Category Archives: Life
Now, all I care about is DINOISY. I spend all my time working on that. Trust me, it’s worth it.
I wish I could blog more. I was so happy when I would blog everyday. No one is reading this and I’m so ok with that because you can be more honest to a white wall than to your best friend. Honestly, I stopped because the computer was stealing me from someone else but something else has already stolen me so in the end the stealing was inevitable. I don’t want it to be like that anymore but change has put skates on me and pushed me down a hill. Very soon the largest changes will come and even though I have been floating and completely stagnant they will happen. Then where do I stand?
I just want to make surprise balls all day and never worry about anything besides all my paper goods. Will change not stop till everything has completely changed and what I want is gone or mad or mute?
When I go to Paris I am going to spend some time with my adorable cousin’s exboyfriend and mother. Will it be a small apartment covered in vines with chipped blue paint and pictures of her as a young woman standing next to a new bike that she was too scared to ride anywhere other than the country side? Will she have curly black hair and no makeup with large dark eyes that crinkle into a the warmest mental hug I have ever felt? Will she be able to understand me and my nervous studder? Will she serve us pan au chocolat and raspberry tea she got from the sweet gruff man who has a stand at the market? Will my feet hurt from the beautiful cobble stones that I spent the previous day floating over? Will the chair I slump into be soft from all the years her husband sat there next to the record player as she watered her tulips that live outside her livingroom window? Will she shake my hand or wrap her soft tan arms around me and kiss me two times on the cheek while bumping her glasses against mine? Will she smell like something so beautiful that I have never had the chance to smell before? Will she be small and thin? Will she have spent the entire day cooking for our arrival? Will she be large and loving and anything like Julia Child? Will I leave there that day finally having had learned how to be genuine and sweet and warm and no longer awkward and finally stop thinking “what next?” and learn to look people in the eye and ooze amorous enthusiasm without being loud and touchy like all the little girls I have schooled with for so long? Will she tell me stories about raising her children and “the old Paris”? Will she teach me how to pronounce my words deeply? Will she teach me new words to coo to the ones I miss?
I will take the metro to see her, and during holiday season I will send her and her son presents that are genuine and warm like the new me.
I don’t like how you yell and your histrionics and your unadulterated love for driving like a tremors sufferer (if the movements of the wheels were in soul-like sync with your trembling fingers) and how you speak worse than the worst speaker and your love for quick silver and how you lust over large boobs which topple out of shirts made by a small child with cracked lips and asbestos lazily floating around inside them and how you carry around books that you will never read just so that you can be a living representation of an U.O. ideal citizen and how you drink from red cups and smoke menthol cigarettes and don’t realize how ugly you look and don’t realize how unattractive you are.
High school, you have been nothing to me.
I have been lazily floating around waiting to be done and finally 20 years from 28 or so days from now I wont remember any of your names.
Well, I Did it.
Basically, yesterday I did a garage sale solely to be able to afford my 68 dollar haircut at The Electric Chair. I think I’m okay with that.
I cut my longish limp hair to a short fluffier and less orphanish hairdo. I made the mistake of having it cut to the right instead of the left because, I wont lie, I have a great right ear. If I liked having my picture taken I would show you but, instead, I’ll just see you guys around.
Maybe at Zia where you will most likely see me getting 9 dollars for 10 records (ugh) or even sneaking behind shopping center walls to watch a cop draw his gun as he approaches an unlicensed Yukon but then becoming super disappointed because nothing Shoot ‘Em Up-esque happens. Then returning to Brandon’s car where you will see him leaning in to kiss me but then, all of a sudden!, you see the confusion on our faces as we realize a fat man is in the car right next to us viciously gnawing at a Carl’s Jr. death patty.
It felt a lot like Donnie Darko but not. Ya digg?
This was highly rushed. Sorry, but I can’t pay attention when Flapjack is on. It…I…um…jesus…wtf?
Wtf. Wtf. Wtf. Wtf.
I would say Happy Easter but I don’t care about this holiday- so I wont.
I’m going to cut to the chase.
I look a lot like Woody Allen sometimes. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s as if he had a daughter with a very attractive woman and being that he isn’t very attractive he needed a highly attractive wife to have an average kid (me). I’d show you but I don’t have a scanner anymore or, to be honest, the true desire to look like a brilliant but toadish Jewish man in front of all my (one) readers. Maybe it’s the nose and the glasses?
What can I say? I love boys with red(dish) wavy hair who don’t always make much sense. I especially love when they wake up super early for me. Especially when the reason they’re waking up super early for me is a ghetto-ass garage sale. Ya, it didn’t go that well but I did end up finding out the name of the nice old bag lady who lives down the street- Carmella. Such a pretty name. The last time she bought something from me was when I was selling old records. Amongst the ones that she purchased were a highly passionate pastel woman and some punk band from some city that I never cared enough to figure out. Today she bought a bag of old jewelry for $5. My first costumer. She lives in a big house down the street filled with (seemingly) Italian thirty or forty something year old children. When I met her raspy voiced daughter she gave me a huge hug and wished me luck with my trip to Paris (which I bought my ticket for, did I mention?). I feel like they’re my only connection to this neighborhood. I still can’t tell if I’m going to be sad or not when I move. I applied to Mesa. Nerves. Nerves. Nerves. All of it makes my anxiety flutter. Fuck you Future.
I’m not scared. I’m not going to think about the 8 or so years of crying over this. I’m not afraid. I’m going to do it. It’s going to be great. I’m not fixing to lose it. It’s going to be wonderful. I get a massage out of it. I think I’ll be okay. Ya, I’ll be fine.
This is what Brandon would look like with man boobies and a grown out job hunting haircut.