Saturday, December 13, 2003

The day progressed with little ado about everything, and it was decent in this respect. The rise was contained in the sting of the hand and the fall had something to do with sarcastic intonation, for which I was penalized. Bath and shower check for the day totaled in around three, with showers occurring around eight and two ayy emm, and a bath, complete with vanilla-scented bubbles from a faux champagne bottle taking place around seven. Christmas shopping was completed with one final ten-minute jaunt into the mall.
I wish that there could be more depth and interest to this day and story, but there is none and that is that.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:14 PM

Friday, December 12, 2003

I can't get no
I take comfort in being vague because I can wrap up my days with words like
[[The microwave hums as the food warms, and I run my hands under the too-warm water as I scrub under the white-speckled nails. The fucking nails, what there is of them; they’re always dotted with grime.
It’s shrimp alfredo in a bowl today, the microwavable kind. It’s only three-thirty but it will be my last meal until morning (my gut requires at least an hour for food to settle in order to be volleyball-ready). I pull a chair into the corner where the countertops and television meet.
I hum Bright Eyes as the twelve-inch television fizzles on. Not the band, but the terrible song the one girl sings in the movie “Urban Legends” right before she’s murdered by the ax man in the back of her Range Rover. “Every now and then I fall apart…”
Nothing’s on except for home-decorating shows and some sort of competitive wood-chopping event on ESPN two. And I fucking hate microwavable shrimp alfredo in a black plastic bowl. Just like mom used to nuke.
I calm down now, flipping to the Home Shopping Network. If I am tired of straining my eyes to read my lottery numbers, and I demand to receive the money that is rightfully mine, I can buy the souped-up chalkboard-with-a-magnifying-glass LottoReader for the low, low price of 29.95 pieces of currency.
I peer into the microwave and realize that white sauce has now exploded all over the insides.]]
instead of merely
[[It began to snow and I lost my scarf; falling in love with the wrong people.]]

your tongue is a rudder/it steers the whole ship/sends your words past your lips/or keeps them safe behind your teeth
but the wrong words can drown you/come off course while you sleep/sweep your boat out to sea/or dashed to bits on the reef
need you like water in my lungs


Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:47 PM

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Shake your tailfeather, please
These things that I have received today:
-One Disney-themed Christmas card from my (hot) British second-cousin twice removed, with confetti in the inside.
-One Jones Soda bottle; flavored Berry Lemonade; empty.
-Sixteen spam e-mails regarding enlarging my penis, obtaining generic Viagra, and/or the Paris Hilton tape
-Several non-understandable badly made jokes regarding the bowling team, supermarkets, cheerleaders, "black talk" and "white talk", and Scooby-Doo
-Two bruises on my hips; one on each side
-One pair of shoes; air-mailed from Milwaukee
-Three comments regarding the book Reefer Madness, all made while I was in the midst of the pages.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:04 PM

Monday, December 08, 2003

Driving Miss Melly
There’s a song in my head and remnants of hairspray in my hair. I’ve taken four showers already; nothing can shake it.
My shirt is too short today; I tug at it self-consciously to hide my belly button and then hold my arm over the skin. December is arguably the sexiest time of the year, but it’s cold outside and inside too.
I’ve come by a different staircase today, and I sneak up behind him. He turns around before I can surprise him, though, and he simply says, “Saladays.”
“My car’s parked over by Saladays. I forgot my parking permit today and got busted at lunch.”
Well, hell, by the time we walk over to Saladays and get in his car and get to my house, I could have walked straight home in half the time. He knows this, but I follow him anyways. We’re both silent.
“Easy come, easy go.”
Still silent.
“Gallileo! Gallileo! Gallileo figaro!”
He coughs.
“Are you pissed today or something?”
“I’m just tired. No motivation. Ect.”
“Good, then I’ll drive.”
“There is no way I am letting a freshman drive the Nissan, however cute.”
Well, hell again.
We reach the soup-and-salad shop whose name always reminds me of some Middle Eastern warlord. Its white Formica countertops and harsh fluorescent lighting don’t help its presence, but I’ve never eaten there to be totally just in this description.
There’s a group of four or five seniors smoking here, between the road and the trees. I don’t look them in the eyes, and I must admit I was scared. I’m not sure of what, as high-school smokers are nothing new, but there’s something about hoodlum-ing that can send a shiver down the spine of those painfully innocent.
The front seat is pushed up too far in order for my legs not to hit the dashboard. I slide it back with a jerk of the plastic handle. This car is old, lightweight, and perfect for taking insanely sharp corners. There are precisely three of these corners en route to my house on the lake; seven if you take the long way.
We take the short way today, and he almost accidentally passes my street even though he’s been down it many times before. I’m in the middle of telling him about this weird kid I saw at Meijer’s yesterday dancing in the frozen-food aisle.
“Woah, you’ve got ice already.”
He’s looking into my backyard now; into the lake.
“Yeah, I went walking on it last night with the dog.”
I’m getting out of the car as he thinks about this, and then he says, “Okay.”
And then he honks the wimpy horn and speeds off taking the corners in reverse.
I look out across the lake now too, over the ice and to the other side. I see his house as a speck; his destination.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:20 PM

Sunday, December 07, 2003

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned:

Fresh squeezed by melly at 12:18 AM