/her stories are boring and stuff
I could tell you about how the homecoming queen takes a stick of spearmint Wrigleys out of her pink faux-suede purse every day at around ten-thirty. She’ll take it out of its green and foil wrapper, fold it in half, and then proceed to bite off the doubled-up end. She throws the rest away as the general populace watches her migration to the aluminum garbage can sitting in the corner, under the sign that says “SUCCESS”.
I could tell you about how the boy that has to duck under doorways broke his ankle during his varsity basketball practice. He’s off the team and on the elevator, ducking his head. He’s copied the key that he gained so that I don’t have to take the stairs anymore, either, but I find the sliding doors to be rather smelly.
I could tell you about how an apple was sitting on the lower roof this afternoon, presumably for the seagulls. I knew by its upright position that it could not have been simply thrown to its spot on the middle of the black tar, and I imagine who would have the guts to walk out above and set a Golden Delicious out for the birds.
/we can cap the old times make playing only logical harm
I measure my days in the stuff I can’t remember. This week has gone down like a sticky-sweet drink that lingers past its welcome; I must have slept a long time.
I don’t remember any of my dreams, only that there once was a pit in my stomach because I couldn’t remember the lines after “Going to the chapel and we’re gonna get ma-ar-ar-ied”
The rest of the week is mostly a blur after this, and I most likely never figured out the answer.
/but she can read she’s bad
These are the things in the storybooks that scare me:
Then something began to hurt Mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face.
"What is it? What is it?" he said. "I do not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?"
"No, Little Brother. That is only tears such as men use," said Bagheera. "Now I know thou art a man, and a man's cub no longer. The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. Let them fall, Mowgli. They are only tears." So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before.
`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
`I don't much care where--' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'
/it’s in the way that she poses
So there’s these scars on my knees and on my elbows and on my hips; these places where the skin has scraped waxed floors are speckled unnatural shades of red and white and purple, where the bruises are paving the way of the future.
My lips hurt too, from all the times I have pinched down on them trying to not feel the other pains. They don’t happen often anymore, the other pains, but the lips still burn and I continue running.
When I’m wearing my jeans during the day sometimes they’ll point out that I have a paw print on my back and my hands will move to my lower back instinctively, covering the birth mark and the scars. I don’t mind this attention so much, and I’ll laugh.
I try to wash the sweat out every morning, and I’m mostly successful in this. The burning sensation in my lips goes away.
/she’s always calling my bluff
I did not tell a single lie this week, and for that I am proud.
Not once did I say “Okay” when I really meant “No”, not once did I say, “I don’t care” when I really wanted to pounce up and down on someone’s neck because they were obviously wrongwrongwrong, not once did I say, “Oh yes, I’m a Paris Hilton fan too.”
Admittedly, I did say “Oh yes, I want to be just like you”, but this was layered in fits of irony and I’m sure they understood by the way my shoulders rose and fell in exasperation.
/i wish i could eat the salt off of your lost faded lips
I came upon a new object of infatuation this week, which isn’t a surprise really because I’m always infatuated. Previous objects of infatuation include my strawberry lipgloss, Sigur Ros’ ( ) album art, anything corduroy, and half-baked MTV sitcoms.
/ she packs it away
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:53 PM
Monday, December 01, 2003
On Why Prisoners Are Not Allowed Shoelaces:
I lost my shoes in a faraway (complete and utter opposite end of the Midwest!) hotel room a few weeks ago; and, being the materialistic whiner that I am, threw a hissy fit.
This entails screaming “WHY? WHY?”, staring at the ceiling with tears in one’s eyes imagining the perfect brown leather soles lost, stomping as opposed to walking, and often pausing to throw one’s hands up in one’s hair and giving a little tug. I am a dramatist at heart.
The gel and the sweat clung to my head this evening as I answered the phone on the first ring, and a thick Hispanic lady replied, “Hello?”
“Hello?” is a funny thing, a greeting in the form of a question, validating a complying existence.
“Yes?” I said, questioning her question, and she told me that she had found the beloved shoes of mine still sitting under the bed of room 174 all these days/nights/sevendayvisitspecials later.
This, of course, after I had already bought replacement shoes, spending another ninetysome clams on another pair of identical, though not as perfect, brown leather soles.
I calmly hung up the phone, and, being the materialistic whiner that I am, threw a hissy fit.
This entails screaming “WHY? WHY?”, staring blankly at whomever dares to look with a fierceness in one’s eye, and often pausing to throw one’s hands up from out one’s disgusting mess of a head of hair and deciding to soak in warm water.
I am a dramatist at heart.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:22 PM
Sunday, November 30, 2003
Four Day Weekend Flu
It begins with a twitch of the nose and the brush of the hand—sweep the nerves away, the itch and tingle away; sweep it all away, and quick. Then the sensation passes.
Perhaps the throat will have to be cleared next; a few “excuse me’s” uttered. Then thirst—the craving for soft, cool things to brush against the harsh redness of the mouth.
And then a sneeze will erupt from inside of you, unapologetically, and hands fly and tongues press to button yourself all back down again, and to keep this little embarrassing situation under wraps. It might cross your mind to take an over-the-counter pill or two, but you’re just being silly.
The mucus creeps into the nose stealthily all through the night as you sleep. You are undisturbed as of yet, but the morning will find you crying for water and tissues.
You’ll trudge upstairs to the supplies, the fatigued muscles protesting with each step. The legs burn as you pour the milk down the throat and the stuff in the nose into the soft paper products.
The couch will beckon to you then, its plushness whispering to your clogged, raw head. It will tempt you with promises of paperback Michael Crichton novels and twenty-four hour cable marathons, and you will most likely succumb to this pressure although you should not, at any cost.
Soon, you will tire of listening to the Dandy Warhols on repeat. Soon, you will tire of applying Vaseline to the section of skin between the nose and the mouth. Soon, you will tire of being tired. It is at this point when the obligations will be placed upon your shoulder—homework, Christmas shopping, letting the dog out to take a shit. It is at the point you will utterly crack (though mucus still intact) and begin to sing “Somewhere Over The Rainbow” in a dry, cracked voice not unlike a cross between Barbra Streisand’s and Jay Leno's. It is at this point you should most definitely take a pill or two.
And then, as you are writing a thesis statement involving Mel Gibson and the battle of Gallipoli, you will begin to feel inexplicably better and contemplate taking a bike ride in the snow.
I give you fair warning.
(postscript: Also, the latest work-in-progress, now taking requests. It's maaaaaad crayzay, foo'!)
Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:46 PM