the conversation i did not have with dennis kucinich today:
Glad you could stop in to the Scone Zone downtown here. I've never been here either, but I've seen its deliciously tacky neon sign glowing on the way to the Kraftbrau for that one concert with the guy with the eyeball on his forehead, or the one where the drummer randomly fell down on his kit and had to be hauled off of the stage.
Have a scone. No, really. I heard the cranberry-orange is supposed to be pretty good. On me.
Why? Well, I guess I feel kind of bad that you came all the way over here from Ohio and when no one here really has heard of you, much less pronounce your last name. "Coo-kin-itch", they say. And that big bully Kerry is just going to steal your votes in the primary. I tried to get my friend Alex bribe people waiting to vote outside the Senior Center with gift certificates to West Lake Drug, but he chickened out without my presence. I, unfortunatly, was busy losing in the gym.
No, I can't say I really know your stance on the issues, other than I'm pretty sure you're not a supporter of that War-Thing. Hey, I'm not either! Nor am I fan of the Oil-Thing, or the Freedom-Fries-Thing, or the Dubya-Thing. But Alex tells me you're too liberal to win the Nomination-Thing, and I usually just agree with him on these points because he's smarter than me and also owns a Michael Moore t-shirt.
So you see, Mister Coo-sin-itch, we're both losers. I'm a loser because they don't make jeans that fit me; because I'm prone to fall too easily into lust; because I haven't played my guitar in ages. You're a loser because you're losing time talking to fellow losers that can't even help you not lose because they're under the legal voting age anyway, and stoop to bribing the elderly with gift certificates; which, if this got leaked to the media, would make seem even more of the losing loser that you already are.
[Not 'loser' in a deragatory way, Mr Coo-(can I call you Coo? I think that will do nicely), but just that you are losing and have lost and will lose in the future.]
Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:28 PM
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
close your eyes and fold your hands
this started out as an english paper on "my greatest trial", but ended up as a letter to myself. go, voyeurs, go!
it didn't begin the day i walked home through the snow in protest, but the beginning before that day was so long and morose and redundant that i figure that that particular day is as good as place as any to start.
i walked home as a bit of a protest. he said, "do you want/need a ride home?" and i said "no." he looked at me funnily, and the proceeded to pull laurie ortega's name out of a hat.
i felt just a teensy bit badass saying that. like i was about ryan and me and why it needs to be over and why it can't.spiting him, saying with a singular two letter word, "i'd rather walk home in the cold than ride with you." i thought that, perhaps, this oh-so-subtle act of rebellion would stab him in the heart and he would have to go to one of those self-esteem classes repeating to himself, "i AM a good person." of course, this didn't happen.
drew says: he's a guy, mere. he probably is thinking, "good, now i don't have to waste gas to drive her ass home and i'm not even getting any."
drew says: this is the same as like not eating the crust off of your bread and saying, "take that, mainstream society!"
drew then proceeded to draw me a picture of james dean and assured me that i still have at least a decade to be badass. (he doesn't realize that 'decade' is a very un-badass word, but his heart was in the right place.)
i have always been shy in person because i'm afraid of getting hurt. i have always preffered to be in the position of power; ie; the one that can say 'yes' or 'no' or 'um' to whatever statements come my way. this is in such direct contradiction to my quest of rebelliousness that i wonder if i'm flubbing, internally, on either affirmation. and it scares me that i can't tell.
i spent the night blowing bubbles from one of those little kid soap bottles shaped like a teddy bear. in went the wand, out came the soapy water, in came the lips, out came the blast of breath, and the bubbles floated upward, glimmering in the reflection of the snow. they're the kind of bubbles that pop instantly for no reason at all, and i felt them sprinkle down on my face wetly.
i should probably insert that i wish i cried then, but i didn't. i didn't feel at all heartbroken, merely blunt, and so no indie-foriegn-movie tears came. there are no smiles playing across lips that could be classified as "faint", or "quizzical"; there are no subtitles contrasting with grainy footage; there are no screens made of silver, only silk. perhaps it is better this way. i have forgotten that you can't strive to be indie; either you are or you aren't.
i hide behind the word 'he'. there are tens of hes in my life, and i really don't understand any of them. i think, perhaps, i refrain from using their names because i feel as if i don't understand them then i really don't have the right to write about them. i realize that this is stupid now, childish, as boys are really not all that mysterious and that i just wish they were.
i vowed to continue to blow bubbles until either i ran out of music or i ran out of bubble solution, but my right arm grew numb long before either ultimatum. i turned the pillow over, to avoid the sticky-soap residue, and fell asleep only after i thought about
oh, it kills me to write this because it will seem so anticlimatic and meaningless to you but very neccessary for me, to break out of my habits and preconceptions and belligerents (the noun) and false images. it's not just name, or a crush, or a relationship, or even about him or those; it's another piece of fourteen years of an imaginary life. this is merely the incident that made me realize it.
so i switched off Kings of Leon and took a deep breath of Air and thought about ryan, and me, and why it can't work and why it must.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:32 PM