So we drove in darkness through downtown Kalamazoo, the closest thing west Michigan has for a ghetto, and flashed our headlights at random passerby; harkening thoughts of gang-initiation urban legends.
And we told the stories as we drove; the one about the backseat predator in the gas station, the one about the babysitter and the microwave. There are other stories too, told in harsh whispers to compel us to believe. About how the table moved, the dream, the apparation we swear our grandfather’s cousin saw. We scare ourselves, sort of. We scream and snort simultaneously.
There are overpriced haunted houses abound this time of year, so we fork over nine dollars a piece plus some canned food to walk in strobe-lit rooms with bloody rubber appendages hanging from the ceiling, just because we can.
Pizza and Ouija boards fill the time before one ayy emm. We ask the silly things because we know this is a silly thing to do. Or, at least, I think so.
“Dear spirits/finger vibrations, who will be the first in this circle to marry?”
And the plastic thing twitches around a bit, before landing on the “T”. We look around at each other—Elyn, Hillary, Alicia, Carla, and Melly. I laugh.
“What are you girls doing?” Alicia’s mother, Tina, comes downstairs.
We freeze for a minute, and then continue.
One ayy emm is the magic hour for TPing to begin. Black clothes, taut pulled-back hair, and running shoes are in silent order. We are rookies to this hoodlum business, virgin TPers as we are.
It’s a good night for mischief. The wind blows gently to mask our noises, and there is a slight drizzle falling to cement our work.
Oh god, I should not be doing this.
Three houses in three hours, plus a moved “FOR SALE” sign, plus a rabid dog, plus headlights forcing us to dive into leaves and bushes. I have never felt so full of adrenaline in the wee hours of the morning.
We trudge back to the house full of giggles and lies. Terrible makeovers and terrible movies lull us to a reluctant sleep.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:05 PM
Friday, October 24, 2003
Laughing Out Loud At The Thought Of Being Alive
On this day in history, Richard Burton bought Elizabeth Taylor a diamon ring; the United Nations was formally established; someone rode down Niagra Falls in a barrel for the first time; and Melly started her blog.
I've been writing for three-hundred-and-sixty-five days now, today. I still have not discovered a cure for cancer, nor have I gained knowledge on the subject of wormholes in the space-time continuum. I have, however, grown out of the matchboxtwenty obsession that ignited my first-ever post (thankyouverymuch).
I'm no sure what I believed I would get out of this experience. I'm not exactly disapointed, I'm just left with this feeling that I'm supposed to feel something. Nothing is particular about today besides the date; no warm feelings of achievement or love or knowledge flood my soul. Perhaps it's not surprising. I've only put me in, so I got me out.
I wish that someday, someone will call me at exactly midnight and ask me how my day is going, but I fear that my stuttered, unsure response would ruin the moment totally and completely.
Perhaps it is this above thought--the thought that my everday experiences should belong in some Cannes-winning indie flick--is the thought that drives me to write. I am a screenwriter, and this is my movie.
The week before Halloween is my Halloween. Tonight I will spend the night with friends running through the suburbs in the dark, eating candy, and watching movies that aren't really scary but make us scream.
It's almost as if we want to be scared, because living scared is much more interesting than living at ease, if but just for one night.
And I know that tomorrow I will get up and write all about it, and the next day, and the next, until it gets to the fourhundredsixteenth day and I forget all about the threehundredsixtyfifth. I realize that today is not any more a day to remember than "Talk Like A Pirate Day", or "National Traveling Salesmen Appreciation Day".
And yet I must say it: Happy birthday to me!
Fresh squeezed by melly at 12:02 PM
Monday, October 20, 2003
Throw Me A Friggin' Bone
Ok, so I looked at my page-a-day calender this morning ("World's Largest Metaphor Hits Iceberg; 1500 Dead In Symbolic Tragedy") and I thought to myself, "Today shall be confidence day. No, no, make that confiDANCE day!" and I shimmied my way over to the shower.
Now for most people, "Confidence day" would be a good thing. They'd come out, or propose, or demand a raise, or finally come to terms with how they accidentally killed their dog. I am not most people, of course. When I have confiDANCE days, I wreak my havoc throughout the greater Kalamazoo county! Insert maniacal laughing here.
She says, "I'm a friggin Hendrix!"
I say, "Yeah, except you're not male, not black, not left-handed, and he could totally kick your ass on "The Star Spangled Banner", god rest his hipster soul."
He says, "And I was like FUCK NO! No shit, motherfucker! That bastard wants to fuck with my fuckin' mind, he'll have some shit to bring to me first!"
I say, "Stop swearing, dammit!"
It is these things--the small infurities that lurk inside my brain every minute of the day--that come out on confiDANCE day. I missed out on the campaign back in middle school to stop bullying, I know.
Battles were won, Krispy Kremes were eaten, and dancing was to be had.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 4:07 PM
Sunday, October 19, 2003
I let a helium balloon fly away from me today. I watched as it sailed away from me, not in a straight line but one that bobbled back and forth between the still-visible moon and the treeline on the opposite side of the lake. I watched its purple form until I could not see its string reflecting in the sun anymore. I had done this all with the intent on making a wish, but somewhere along the way I forgot.
I went inside after this because I realized that it had been a childish thing to do. And then I ate a leftover eggroll.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:23 PM