Saturday, October 11, 2003

My eyes were wet when I closed them for the last time that night, and they were still damper than usual when I reopened them in the morning.
In the last eight hours I had learned how to feel pissed off, frightened, and nearly loved; and, quite frankly, it was too much for me to handle. The batteries in my headphones had worn out.
I have never gotten in such fights with my best friend or parents before, nor had I ever danced like I meant it. Neither of these things were meant to be, but one thing lead to another.
I ended up drying my eyes and going to a soup kitchen, another thing I had never done. And when I had finished two hours later serving people I had never met, my eyes were wet again. I blamed it from the steam coming from the hundred and thirteenth bowl.
How can I think my life is terrible when a hundred and thirteen people can't find food every day?
Details later.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 3:53 PM

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

I distinctly remember a time.
I was four, and my father set me in the laundry basket. It was empty and made of cracked brown plastic. I mean, it wasn't cracked and falling apart then, but it eventually did. So we threw it out and bought blue ones instead, with yellow handles. And I laughed.
My father vehemently denies this, but I think that's because he just doesn't want to admit that he can't remember.
Also, I had a dream that I was a CIA assasin last night. While my identity was not leaked to the public, I still almost peed my pants. But I was kick-ass, all the way.
Who knew?

Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:47 PM

Monday, October 06, 2003

Round Here
I am a girl that wears pink pajama bottoms to school. I eat my parfaits from a wine glass, my pinky floating above the spoon in mid-air. I attend church bare-footed, letting my pink toenails shine. So basically, all of this death is too much for a girl like me to comprehend.
Last night a good friend of mine's father died. He was taken off life support after an unsuccessful liver operation and was given two hours to live. She didn't get to say goodbye.
She came to school this morning without telling a soul. By 9 AM, she was carrying 2 bouquets of sympathy flowers around the hallways.
Two deaths in two weeks for this little suburban school.
Some joke dryly that we should start our own funeral parlor. Others suggest to keep our eyes on homecoming, homecoming, homecoming! Both points get little attention, although nothing around here ever does.
We spend our afternoons molding tin foil into Oscar statuettes for homecoming floats. We turn the radio up so we don't have to talk much, and the pajamas lull us to sleep standing.
The sympathy flowers sit on a table nearby, slowly wilting in the sawdust.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:29 PM

Sunday, October 05, 2003

A Cow Called Wanda
It's one of those $5.99 Hallmark purchases. A sitting cow, carved out of wood and hand-painted by some underpriviledged and underpaid human being. Sitting among a basket of lookalikes in the store, Wanda seems to serve no other purpose than to slip the money away from those who are overly bored. Her butt forms a right angle with the ledge above my bed, and she kicks her little red heels over my head. Her right ear is missing, broken off due to an errant puppy, but I like to pretend that she can still hear me anyways.
I talk to Wanda every night before I fall asleep, as she's silhouetted by the outdoor lighting system of my neighbors (to keep away robbers and crooks, they say to my complaints). She's perched at 11-o-clock, so that I don't have to be reminded of her one-ear hearing loss.
"Wanda," I'll say, "the hallways smelled like gasoline today, and the rooms like Lysol. My bathroom smells like cucumbermelon, and the kitchen smells like burnt bagels. My nose is twitching." And then in the flicker of the light wanda's wooden snout will twitch too, because I desperately need it to do so.
"I paid for my own meal for the first time ever today, Wanda. I had trouble with the tip thing, though. Carla asked the waitress, and she said two hundred percent. We figured she was being snarky though, so we just dumped 6-odd dollars in nickles and dimes on the table and ran like mad through the rain."
"I watched 6 hours of TV today, and never got out of my pajamas. Anger Management and Bowling for Columbine and Reno 911 and then Trading Spaces for good measure. I was going to go to the bonfire at Ryan's, but I was too engrossed in Amelie and my bowl of soup."
Sometimes I talk to Wanda in a southern accent. Not because I'm trying the funny-girl-from-Michigan thing, but because it masks my voice and wraps me up in safety, and I can say anything.
"He was there again this mornin', standin' by my locker like always. I get scaired sometimes, Wanda. He knows my name, my friends, my combination. I don't like how he looks me up from bottom to top before he asks me on a date, Wanda, his greasy eyes on my legs, and I want to move so badly from his vision but there is no one to drag me onwards."
We have a simple relationship, Wanda and I. I don't have to impress her--she's the inanimate object, after all. I should at least get superiority.
"I wonder why she always has a scarf on. It's like she's the lady from the stories we told as children--the one about the lady with a ribbon around her neck that held her head on. I want so badly just to tug on her scarf and see if her head rolls off of its mount--screaming "MAIS NON!" on its way down."
"Peanut butter sandwich made with jam," I sing, in over-exaggerated Cockney, "One for me and one for Abraham." Over and over. "I'm getting better, huh, Wanda? I'm almost ready to do Monty Python impressions. 'Three is the number of the count...'" and Wanda grimaces and moos a painful moo, I'm sure, because this is all a front for love and frustration.
"I'm supposed to be going to California today, Wanda. I guess I'm sticking it out with you after all though; no room on the return aeroplane flights." And we'd sing together off of the California CD I had burned especially for the occasion that would now not come to be, and read the books that were to be read more for others than for myself.
Wanda never laughs or cries; wooden inanimate objects do not have this capabilities. So I do both for her.
Our last night was the night that the bird died and the team lost and Ryan got arrested. One crashed into the bay window and one crashed in the rainy field goal and the other crashed drunkenly into a cop. I just crashed into my journal, for my self-imposed hiatus was broken, and didn't talk to Wanda.
She didn't seem to mind. She had filled her purpose well, and there will always be robbers and crooks to silhouette this cow called Wanda when I need to talk.
I'm back.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 12:09 AM