one paranoid android

2009-11-12T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's all different type of persons, but one kind that stands out is the type that deliberately chooses to make themselves suffer. The reasons for this are numerous: you want to keep evolving, you want a story to tell, you want to feel...something, anything, you are a masochist and the always lovely, you hate yourself.

It is these people I find myself drawn to. It is them I admire, that are so courageously in the words of sage old Frost, "taking the road less traveled." Maybe this is because I am of that kind. Maybe it validates me to surround myself with such folk, to feel that I'm not alone. If there's one thing we self induced sufferers do take refuge in, it's not being alone in our misery. But yet in most cases we are alone, no matter how many people surround us. The void is there. Perhaps it's the void that craves pain.

where there's smoke

2009-11-10T22:24:00.000-08:00

Being retardedly in love is a lot like being in a smokey bar. It may feel good at the time, but it can be very bad for you. You don't notice how detrimental it can be, until the next day when you wake up and smell the stench of cigarettes and aftermath in your clothes and hair. Being out and away from the bar helps you realize what a potent, noxious fog you were under; how you were willingly susceptible to it all, and loving it. Only then, after you are free from the bar's intoxicating, smokey clutches, do you realize how much it stinks.

One of the greatest things I've heard this week

2009-10-18T16:24:00.000-07:00

"California is like a beautiful, wild girl on heroin. She's high as a kite, thinking she's on top of the world, not knowing she's dying, even when you show her the marks."

To breed, or not to breed? That is the question...

2009-10-14T21:23:00.000-07:00

I come from a long line of breeders. My biological mother is a breeder, and her mother was quite the breeder (6 of them). My sister is too a breeder. It is said that when two people come together whose love is so great, a new life is formed from that very love. In my sister's case, and perhaps her predecessors cases (who knows, my family doesn't talk to me), her lust was so great that is caused her to be completely careless a documented total of three times. Thankfully, evolution did not cease on the isle of Galapagos. I, as a witness to poor choices in those breeding precipitously around me, have other ideas.

Living at home again with my post-stroke father goes a little like this: wake up in fear that I've slept in too long (as I normally liked to when I was free) and prevented him from doing his tasks (seeing that I'm his chauffeur and all), feed him, shuttle him around all day, feed him, then clean up after him.

So today, I start my routine and prepare my dad's meal of the day--no salt, not too much fat--and I set his plate and take it to him. He takes it from me and says nothing. Actually, he grunted. Yes. That was his response. Then he eats his food and I clean up. After I'm done with that, then I can eat. As I'm snorting down my food, he brings his plate to the kitchen and sets it on the counter for me to clean. Fortunately for my shattered soul's sake, he says the food was good. There is a trace of a smile on his face. I see it, faintly. I regard my mom's adult life with compassion and pity as I load the dish washer and wipe down the stove. Being in my dad's life currently is a lot like being a mother, or a maid for that matter, because both terms are momentarily interchangeable. Your day isn't necessarily yours, and it is made up of being responsible for another person, doing things for them, feeding them, cleaning up after them, taking them places, and all of this is taken as a given. There is no "thank you." It's your job. Being a parent has never been less appealing to me.

I suppose biological programming is clever that way, because when you create another human being, is comes out small, cute (hopefully) and fresh. The ploy lies in the fact that your offspring initially presents itself to you in a uncomplicated and desirable way. They just need to eat, sleep, be held and played with. You grow attached to this thing. Your like your creation. I love this thing, you say. I can do this. This is mine. This is my life. It sure is...

But then it grows and doesn't get any less needy. It may even become less cute. It needs more. And it begins to ask questions and beg and complain and monopolize your day and psychologically destroy you, without so much as a "thank you." Why? Because it's your job. This is what you signed up for. But no one ever told you that. It was merely alluded to. Perhaps you can recall a time when your parents spitefully told you at the height of their frustration, "Wait until you have kids," whilst they covetously rubbed their mitts together, awaiting their redemption. Well, I aim not to give them such satisfaction.

No, I have never been more apt to reject the idea of breeding. Ultimately, I wish for my life to be mine and not someone elses. I like waking up and being able to decide what to do with my day. I'm selfish like that. Giving up my time is a loathed, dreadful idea that I don't appreciate one bit.

Yet...I am fearful. I am fearful of the female biological bullshit that will come into play, scooting my present, clear headed reasoning by the wayside. Like a wrench thrown into the spoke of a moving bicycle, I sense love will eventually serve to ruin my life as a free woman. Maybe that's why it hasn't happened for me yet, and I'm alone as fuck...or at least it feels better when I think about it that way. Sharing my life, i.e., marriage--that's ok. I can do that. But giving it away...handing it off like a baton in a life long race I'll never win, well, not so much.

I suppose the "no kids" conclusion seems to make sense while I'm young and vibrant, but when my womb is a barren wasteland, and the coin flips and I'm the one who needs to be shuttled around and cooked for and cleaned up after, what will become of me? Who will wipe the drool from my bubbling lips? Meh, who am I kidding? Having children solely as a preventative measure to being debilitated by old age is pathetic and a pretty good indicator that I'm not fit for the job. Still, I won't say I'll never have kids. That's just a set up for appeasing my parent's eagerness to get their payback. But I will sure as hell put up a good fight.

2009-10-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

I can't name it. It's just there. The thing is there, I have to go see it. The monster, the god, the rat, the snail. What ever is out there, I have to go see it and look at it. And endure it, or maybe not endure it. It's needed, that's all. I really can't explain it. And if I could, I wouldn't go.

-"Hinterland" by Aim

"Health Care" according to Kaiser Permanente

2009-09-25T22:13:00.000-07:00

Get it taken care of, they said. It's easy, they just freeze it and it's gone. My instinctual tendency to want to avoid visiting the doctor is no coincidence, and today was a testament to that, disproving the above mentioned "it's no big deal, just get your ass to the doctor" mentality. The skin tag on the right side of my mid back was beginning to cross over into the unpleasant and gross territory. From continual snagging on my bra and clothing, it had been stretched and pulled into newer, more expansive proportions. It felt like a displaced third nipple. Being that I was soon to lose a hefty percentage of my health care coverage at the cause of being "laid off," I finally decided that I would get to a doctors office and get it taken care of. Upon making the appointment I was very specific about what I wanted out of the visit. I told the woman on the phone, "I have a skin tag that is enlarged and bothersome because it is continually getting caught in my clothing, and I would like it removed." I mean shit, that's pretty clear cut right? Well cut is the operative word here, I suppose, because my practitioner cut the skin tag off me today with a pair of scissors.

I'm still horrified. Let's start there. My general practitioner Dr. Khan seemed to be new, because she didn't know where anything was and nervously over explained logistics and mundane details I didn't give a shit about. The nurse had to show her where the drawer with the supplies was. What she lacked in experience, she made up for in talking to you like you were a retarded ten year old. By over accentuating words and sounding enthusiastic she managed to talk me into bypassing a dermatologist. I ended up feeling a lot like a retarded ten year old, actually. I also remember feeling sullen. Maybe even a little disappointed in life.

I suppose I was lucky I got anesthesia. Sure I may get an infection, but hell, why go through the time and trouble of getting referred to a specialist who has the proper equipment to remove a growth on my back when I can just have it lopped off over the counter? What a fucking primadona I am. Goddamn.

What's more, Dr. Khan also explained to me that many people come in with similar requests, but many have clusters of smaller skin tags all over their necks. She mentioned that in those cases they just tell the patient to "go home and cut it off themselves."

WTF? Isn't that what they tell you not to do? So I could have saved myself a $15 co-payment and cut this thing off myself at home? Balls.

I also asked her about the mole on my face while she was examining me, and without so much as looking at me or asking any questions she blurted "If you've had it all your life it's fine." Cool.

After injecting the skin tag with an anesthetic, she had me lie down on her little table of horrors while she pulled out her scissors and other shit that was completely inappropriate for this procedure. She told me she needed me not to talk to her for a while because she had to concentrate. I was repulsed. Then I stared sadly at the ground. I began to wonder what people said when they were told by their doctor to go home and cut their skin tags off themselves.

She started to come in on me with the scissors. It honestly scared me. I just couldn't get over how low budget and morose this was. On so many levels. Why was this happening? Why was I letting it?

Thankfully it didn't hurt much, but here I am ten hours later in a little pain. Funny thing is, a friend told me his aunt used to remove skin tags by tightening a hair around them, then waiting until they died and fell off. At first that story grossed me out, but it's sounding pretty palatable at this point. It makes more sense then ripping off the thing while it's still fresh. Especially since my back wouldn't stop bleeding. It didn't help that I had taken about 1400 mg's of ibuprofin the previous day. Real neat.

After my "procedure" was over I asked her about my back. I told her my lumbar spine had been in pain for about 4 months due to over exertion in yoga class. She poked around my spine and said it felt fine. She also told me because I was petite I didn't have strong muscles in my back and that's why I was prone to hurt it. It's weird because I do yoga about 3-5 times a week, so I feel like I have a pretty strong muscular frame, but whatever. I was also advised to never to do backbends as well, one of the common types of poses in most yoga classes. Sure, no more back bends ever again. You got it.

Then she gave me some literature on back pain. Actually, she couldn't find it. She had to ask the nurse again. It was hidden behind the pamphlet about "Gonorrhea." I guess their pamphlet section was out of alphabetical order, that's why she couldn't find it. It had nothing to do with the fact that she's a clueless tird.

All in all I really got boned dry today, but the unfortunate part of all this is, you see your doctor feeling like you're supposed to be able to trust them, thus you're automatically prone to being cajoled into these sorts of unsavory happenings. Something inside you knows it's wrong, but you are confused and scared and so wearing that stupid little smock, so you feel extra vulnerable at the cause of your semi nakedness. And even when I did ask questions, she blew me off and came up with some reason why her bunk reasoning was correct. What is one to do? It's a lose-lose.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I don't get tetanus or something. If I do, you better believe I'm writing a complaint to the grievances department. Yeah, really stick it to 'em. Yah...

Help Obama! Do something! You promised...

Stepping closer

2009-09-24T23:52:00.000-07:00

I have been restless. I often stay up late into the night, thinking, dwelling, anxiety ridden. I don't know why. The ball is moving, the forces are taking me to the next destination, just as planned. Why can I not take comfort in this? Why do I remain unsatisfied? I made a decision to change my life, I left my job, the most difficult hurdle thus far. I put in my 30 days notice with my landlord...I am on my way, however though the ultimate destination is marked in my mind, it's still not a tangible reality. There is no set date to work towards. It's all still somewhat speculative. It has been one week since I have stopped working and I can already feel the days slipping away from me. It's comfortable, minus the reality. I took a longer than necessary moment to bask in the glory of breaking the chains of servitude. And I was enjoying it.

The tentative date to leave remained a big questions mark. I began to prolong my departure, for this reason or the other. People started to discourage me from leaving, told me it was a bad time to go--too expensive, too cold, too soon, too sad. It's never a good time. It swayed me. I felt guilty. I wondered when I really would go. Never did I once doubt the idea of leaving, but the matter of when was a different story altogether. Should I wait until Thanksgiving was over? Early December? But then the holidays would be just around the corner, and I may want to come back for the holidays, so why not wait until after that? How long would I keep waiting? But then it got hard to look at myself in the mirror, because I knew what I was doing. I was getting scared again.

I had to choose between facing myself in the mirror and accepting the fact that I was going back on my own word and distancing myself from my goal, versus facing the backlash felt from abandoning the most important people in my life during a predetermined calendar period of togetherness. When I can't decide I usually choose both, but this time I decided to choose the latter, because at least that one didn't lead to self deprecation. So without thinking about it, without investing too much emotion or sentiment, I went online and bought a one way ticket to New York City. On November 17th, I will fly into a city where I have little to no friends, family, job prospects, or a place to live. I don't know what I will do, or where I will end up, but I take comfort in the fact that the ball is rolling now, and I know where it lands. What happens after that is still in the air...

2009-09-16T02:09:00.001-07:00

Birds flying by, you know how I feel

Sun in the sky, you know how I feel

Breeze drifting on by, you know how I feel

It's a new dawn, it's a new day

It's a new life for me

It's a new dawn it's a new day

A new life for me...

comfort in the hopeless emptiness

2009-09-11T21:09:00.000-07:00

I have never been more afraid. There's no cloak to hide behind anymore. I am finally going to find out what I'm really made of.

After 5 years at the same job, the same unfulfilling job that failed create any sort of feelings of long term satisfaction, I have decided to take control of my own life. The fear toyed with me for approximately one year. Maybe longer. The void that was a precursor to the fear was a cause of my aimlessness. The emptiness that came along with the aimlessness was so palpable, but I found ways to fill it. I wrote it off, I drank, I partied. I managed to have fun. I also managed to let 5 years blow right past me.

I didn't understand why I felt so paralyzed by fear and anxiety. I was getting older, but I wasn't growing. Those moments where everything became a blur, where I sought distraction from reality, I began to look within my self and question my purpose. Was this it? Was this life? What was I meant for? I'd always hoped I'd be destined for greatness, but I suppose I expected greatness to come and sweep me off my feet, to come and save me from the banality of it all. It had not. I couldn't even comprehend what kind of greatness I was destined for. I certainly hadn't excelled at anything just yet. Then the hopelessness began to seep in. Perhaps I wasn't destined for greatness after all. If I was, wouldn't I have achieved it by now? But the funny thing was, all that time my passions and creative abilities were staring me dead in the face, and I wasn't even paying attention to them. They were incubating, dormant. I had never even considered them as abilities. I wanted to believe I had a chance without really believing it. I guess I was waiting for someone to rescue to me, to validate me, to save me from myself. When did I wake up from my trance? I really don't know.

All that time, I could always peg my potential failures on my lack of interest in anything I did. It always felt better to resign myself to not being good enough because I didn't care about it. It didn't hurt so much that way. If I cared, failing would be all the more painful. I desperately wanted to find what I loved, what I excelled at. I didn't understand why it was taking me so long to find it, when all my peers were pursuing what interested them, and thriving. I felt alone, useless, ineffectual. I told myself I didn't care. I wished for it to find me. But there's a pattern here, because I continued making myself of victim of circumstance. In actuality I avoided every opportunity to give myself a chance to do what I loved, because I was so fucking afraid of failure. I never wanted to even have to deal with the concept of failing, so I never tried. Not trying was so much safer.

Yet when you don't try for so long, and you let what's bubbling inside you go stagnant, you begin to accept the mediocrity. You accept the idea that you are incapable of being exceptional. You are caged, and you have no idea. You plead for happiness, but security starts to mean more to you. I could have remained here, in a place devoid of passion. I was too afraid of anything else for a while. But then I started to transfer my fear into a different kind of fear. I began to fear what would happen to me if nothing changed at all, and I continued to live a seemingly mediocre existence. To possibly confront living in regret. That really frightened me. I knew I had to leave myself with no choice in order to take action. I gritted my teeth and made a choice. I took a stand on my own behalf.

On September 15th I was laid off from my job of 5 years, and I requested that this happen. It was a bitter-sweet feeling for the obvious reasons. I can't say there wasn't a welling in my chest when I walked away from my office for the last time, and that I didn't look back, but I can say I have never felt more free. I'm finally giving myself a chance. I've never felt more unsure, fearful, anxious or more alive.

life's surprises

2009-09-01T22:38:00.000-07:00

It always comes when you least expect it. That's a trite little number you can apply to so many of life's offerings; love, tragedy, all of it. For good, for bad. It always manages to knock you on your ass. You begin to hit a stride, possibly feel content, like you have it all figured out, perhaps not, maybe even comfortable with the routine, then BOOM. Down you go, as life knocks you over your smug little head.

Today started out like any other ordinary day, but became a day less ordinary when I got the call.

LCD Soundsystem once said, "I woke up and the phone was ringing, surprised, as it's early. And that should be a perfect warning that something's a problem."

I think we inherently know something's wrong when we get a call from a particular person at an unconventional time. Something inside you tightens, and you brace yourself as you place the phone against your ear.

Yet it never makes the blow you are about to receive any easier. My father had a stroke this morning, collapsed at work and was ambulanced to an unknown hospital. That was all I knew. A flood of scenarios ran into my head. Was he alive? What happened? How bad? Would I ever see him again? Why now? Why ever?

It's situations like these that allow the underlying guilt to surface. Seeing my dad in ICU, the big bear of a man that was always there to help me move furniture into my new apartment, or drive me to the airport mid week, or readily able to advise me when I was and wasn't getting ripped off at the mechanic, jolted my sense of what closeness between family members was supposed to be. At the hospital, I held on to his hand, suddenly remembering how large his hands seemed when I was a little girl. On a trip to the zoo when I was about six I remember gripping his immense thumbs in my entire hand and marveling at how enormous and strong they were. Now his hand was covered in tubes and bandages, not nearly as commanding as it was all those years ago as he guided me through the petting zoo.

The stroke rendered him incapable of speech. I watched him struggle to get a few words out, exhausting himself into silence, resignation. I had avoided calling him for the past month. I was trying to evade his questions and sermons regarding my impending layoff at work. I knew he would nag me to look for a government job, because they were one of the few places hiring, affording me some kind of stability, and it didn't hurt that it served as his current place of employment. I however, had other ideas. I very much did not want to work for the government. I wanted to transition into more creative pursuits, I wanted to chase my passions. Those sort of lofty ideals wouldn't sit well with him. I knew this. I didn't want to hear it. So I didn't call.

Now I long to hear him nag and bitch at me. I wish with all my being for a sermon from him. He is no longer the person I previously found unpleasant to talk to. He is vulnerable and weakened and indifferent. From his hospital bed he stares vacantly, able to answer yes, or no, able to be spoon fed his hospital food. I sit there powerless and just stare at him. I wish for nothing more than the person I was avoiding to come back. His stubborn commentary would be music to my ears. What I resented him for is what I long to have returned to me; it was the essence of him. But now it's too late. It's easier to wish for anything when you have nothing.

Slowly and steadily, with each year, my family tree is losing all its leaves.

2009-08-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

To dream. Will having a dream carry us through? To simply continue dreaming in a time where there are no dreams...Is this in itself, a victory?

Imagine what would've happened if you'd pursued your dreams earlier? Would you have been ready?

little man

2009-08-30T23:57:00.000-07:00

There is a greedy, little, aching man inside me. He often ruins my relationships. With men and women.

My relationships with women are affected because of what the little man does for the men in our lives. They like this little man. They can relate to him.

This man is clever and asinine. He relies on the kindness of strangers and he takes what he wants. He is obscene. He is magnificent. This is yet to be implicitly stated by anyone other than myself.

This man was evoked by my failures, my misgivings. He trudges on. He's wounded but he trudges on. He wants to prove something goddammit. He wants you to even dare to question his ability. This will be his fuel.

This little man is hungry. He is starving for something more. But that doesn't make him any less afraid.

two is the loneliest number

2009-08-28T21:26:00.000-07:00

Emptiness. She’d felt the emptiness for weeks now. She felt it even before he left her. She knew the fall would come, in this way. Lying next to him at night, she felt so damn lonely. She’d never felt that lonely, even when alone.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked him.

He looked away.

“True love,” she said.

“Maybe once,” he said.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He looked down.

“Look at me,” she said.

He hadn’t really looked at her for the last few months they’d spent together. She held on. She held on longer than she should have. It was hard to forget who he was to her. How safe she felt with him. She kept thinking about how he used to look at her. She kept thinking.

She remembered all of this and she forgot herself. She pleaded with him. She begged him. Sitting across from him at the bar where they’d agreed to meet, the place they used to come when his eyes shone, she asked him why.

“It’s not fair to you,” he said.

“I care for you,” she said. “I need you to know. I care about you, no matter what you say,” she said, tears forming.

“I’ve been feeling so guilty,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t. It’s just not fair. I have no time to give. It’s not fair to you.”

“But we can make time…” she pleaded.

“Our time is over,” he snapped.

“Please,” she said, and felt a welling in her chest.

He turned his head away.

“Can I please come with you?” she said, looking at him, her eyes searching his for a shred of tenderness.

He turned towards her. He closed his eyes and opened them.

“I just want to be with you one last time. You make me feel safe,” she uttered.

“You really are a masochist,” he said.

She looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

“Just understand one thing,” he warned. “I will be terrible company.”

She nodded.

She accepted this, whatever he could give, though it wasn’t much.

dating the "sensitive guy" can blow up in your face

2009-08-26T21:37:00.001-07:00

I was on the verge of dumping Jason after I discovered how disappointing he was as a human being, but he bought himself some time by apologizing. He always did. Just when I was at the end of my rope, when I thought I’d had enough, he found a way to suck me back in. To make up for his misgivings, he offered to make me dinner on Wednesday. I agreed. Food was a weakness of mine.

On Wednesday I only had a few hours to spend with Jason because that night he was driving to his mother’s in Los Angeles for the Thanksgiving holiday. When I got to his apartment complex I had to wait outside for a bit. He didn’t hear me incessantly pressing the buzzer, for about three minutes. His roommate Tim began shouting for him to let me in. He casually comes out to greet me with beans on his breath. I seem to have interrupted a nice little dinner he was having with his roommate.

“You started without me?” I was aghast.

“I figured you weren’t showing up,” he replied dumbly. Nice.

The dinner was mediocre. Jason made rice, potatoes and salad…again. I conversed with Tim for the most part. He is, after all, more interesting and Jason did leave the room on several occasions to use the phone for ten minutes intervals. We lingered at the table for a while after we finished, chatting and smoking. Eventually Tim wandered off to his room to get ready for an evening out and I moved into the living room. Jason followed me to the couch. I sat in his lap.

“So you’re really driving up to your mother’s tonight?” I asked.

“Yeah, she’s expecting me. I just spoke with her earlier while we were eating dinner.”

“Yeah, I figured that. Say, why don’t you just wake up early and leave in the morning?” I asked, running my hands through his hair. “It’s pretty late. Aren’t you tired?” I asked, trying to lure him into staying.

“Yeeaah,” his voice trailed off. “I promised mother.”

“Jesus. Fine.”

“Sam, I told you I was going to my mother’s tonight.”

“I know.”

I wasn’t going to argue. It was a losing battle. Jason was never one to be forthright, or put his foot down about anything, especially when it came to his mother. He proudly admitted that he was a momma’s boy. He was an honest to Christ Cub Scout. All the t-shirts in his closet were color coded and folded into neat little squares, and he cried more than I did.

“I’m going to start some coffee,” he announced as he leaped out of my lap and bounced into the kitchen.

I decided to wait for him in his room. I wanted to get the ball rolling. We hadn’t slept together in two weeks, and I was horny as hell. I knew he would take forever to initiate sex, and we didn’t exactly have all night. He’d made that very clear. Normally when it came to having sex, I practically had to rape him. It was annoying.

He eventually finished in the kitchen and came in his room to find me. As soon as he walked in I started to press up against his crotch. I would think that if you hadn’t seen your significant other in a while, and weren’t going to see them for another few days, you would want to consider sleeping with them. But maybe that’s just me.

We began kissing. Things started getting intense, so I suggested he close his door. He started to, but stopped short, remembering he wanted to say goodbye to Tim first, in case he stepped out for the night before we finished. I asked him if this was necessary, as I honestly didn’t believe his roommate would be hurt if he didn’t get a goodbye. Guys know the code. Getting laid is priority. All else comes secondary. He insisted on saying goodbye anyway. This flabbergasted me. I started to protest.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he says. “C’mon. I have to say bye to Tim. I don’t want to be rude…God.”

In order to occupy my time while Jason ensued an elaborate goodbye with his roommate, I started checking out an instruction sheet on his dresser that came with the rubics cube he’d recently purchased. He came back in the room while I was observing the instruction sheet and got excited about the fact that I was looking at it. He showed me a cheat sheet he made during his spare time, from the rubics cube manual. I feigned interest out of politeness, nodding my head and smiling weakly. Somehow this fueled his energy regarding the rubics cube. He then proceeds to work on the rubics cube, explaining how he’s applying what he’s learned from the manual to the rubics cube. He became enthralled by it. He seemed more interested in the rubics cube than the prospect of getting laid. I sat there, blinking. He wasn’t aware that I didn’t give a shit about his rubics cube.

Breaking from my trance, I took the rubics cube away from him. A bit surprised I’ve snatched his toy away, he asked, “You don’t want to see how it works?”

“No,” I said.

Tossing the rubics cube aside, I moved in on him again and began kissing his neck. I moved my hands down his waist and start fondling his crotch. Suddenly he tears away from me, as if he’d remembered an urgent matter he needed to attend to.

“I know…we need music! I’m going to go grab the radio. I left it in the kitchen during dinner. I’ll be right back.” He started for the kitchen.

“No Jason, it’s ok. We don’t need…”

Halfway to the kitchen before I finished my sentence, he remained set on the idea of having a soundtrack for our impending sexual encounter (were it to happen). Come to think of it, he always wanted to have music on while we screwed, and I began to get the impression that the musical choices he made were always premeditated. It’s as if he had chosen a certain song to fit a certain moment, and played it with nonchalance. As if the romantic ballads constantly spewing from his speakers were randomly selected. He did, after all, always seem embarrassed when I was loud in the bedroom, which I usually was. Maybe he wanted to drown me out.

After he returned with his boom box in tow, he put on one of his favorite playlists: Jas1chillmix.

“Do you want some water?”

“NO.”

“Well I’m thirsty. I’m going to go get some water. You sure you don’t want any?”

“YES!”

He rushed off to the kitchen to get some for himself. I threw myself flat against the bed and decided he was trying to kill me.

Finally he returned after finishing with his errands. He carefully sets the glass of water down, not taking one sip from it. I stared at him in amazement as he lit a few candles on his desk. He turned to me. He was ready.

At that point, I predicted awful sex involving erectile dysfunction and me lying there like a dead fish. It was surprisingly fantastic. He lasted longer than usual and I was able to climax effortlessly. That moment certainly wasn’t set up for success, what with him resisting my advances prior and his mother psychotically calling him about fifteen times in a row while we were having sex, wondering what time he would arrive at her house. What was more surprising, he didn’t stop mid coitus and answer the phone, as he usually took her calls during our dinners and general outings. My mind was somewhat blown. That sex bought us approximately one more week.

untitled

2009-07-31T11:41:00.000-07:00

In the city of angels and demons, everything looks perfect. What’s shiny and within your reach, dare not reach out and touch. It will crumble in your hands. Merely observe. Survey the beauty, the chaos. Watch it happening. I promise no one will notice you. And you may feel outside of it all, displaced. You may feel superior. You may feel ineffectual. Just exist. Look at life happening around you. See the man reading his paper, the bus boy making his way through the maze of people with a stack of dishes. Hear the clinking of glasses, the rustling of chairs being moved around the wooden floor. Wait in line. Stay calm when your order doesn’t arrive. Smile when they screw your order up. Watch people knock into each other like penguins. See it unravel, the numerous story lines, the noise, the scattering. You’re in a vortex. It may even start to consume you. But there’s a moment when you look outside. All of this is happening around you, but you don’t hear it anymore. There’s a girl. You see her lips moving, her expressions, her vivacity; you see her inner fire. You can’t hear her, but through that glass door, you manage to catch a glimmer of her soul. It’s your little secret. No one knows you’re watching. She doesn’t see you, or anything else around her. All she sees is what’s in front of her, and all you see is her.

She speaks intently, her gestures sharp and passionate. She focuses on someone. Whom? Who engages her so? There is intimacy, it seems. She is comfortable in her domain. She is queen. The unknown party shares their sandwich with her. She bites into it carefully and quickly, pondering her thoughts as she chews. Satiated, she hands it back, continuing what seems like a description of conflict in her life. She seems proud, and speaks with fervor. I decide she is having lunch with her significant other. I strain to see outside, then stop short. I decide I don’t want to know after all. There is beauty in this exchange, and the catalyst is an arbitrary matter. I remain transfixed on her interaction, and feel like I have found my place among the rubble. There is safety in the unknown. In a world of disorder and hidden agendas, you can still encounter presence of mind. You can still find those with a zest for life, with passion, interspersed among all else. There is beauty among the chaos.

america, fuck yeah.

2009-07-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

An inappropriate title for an inappropriate holiday. Not that I'm complaining about getting an extra day off my soul destroying job, but it's as Ms. Stroud from Dazed and Confused once said, "this summer when you're being inundated by all the American bicentennial fourth of July brouhaha, don't forget what you're celebrating, and that's the fact that a bunch of slave owning, aristocratic white males didn't want to pay their taxes."

Not much has changed. I suppose any reason to get shit faced works for us.

So my friends who I love, well they're in a band. A great band. A band called The Flower Thief. No, I'm not talking about the 1960's film by Ron Rice depicting the beat poets inhabiting San Francisco's North Beach...I'm talking about the three man band called The Flower Thief. Well they booked a show...on fourth of July...at Canes in Mission Beach. Not only do I hate Mission Beach, but I especially hate Canes, which I consider to be the Sports Arena of small venues. It's gross and old and should be burnt down with torches. I most especially hate Canes in Mission Beach on fourth of July, when I have to sit in shitty traffic with all the other yokels out to celebrate "America's birthday," according to many a bikini clad bitch parading the streets with a dopey Uncle Sam hat perched on her head. Sorry Christian...

So not only did I sit in traffic, but I had to hunt for parking. Oh how I love the opportunists who come out of their holes on these special holidays. Those who decide to make an easy buck by exploiting others for parking. An elementary school parking lot was opened up to serve as a viable option for those shit out of parking luck, FOR A WHOPPING $100. Monsters...

So after an hour of searching I found one last parking space at the Mission Bay Aquatic Center, but I was still about 15 blocks away from my destination. No problemo! There's plenty of dodgy foreigners with those pedi cabs to haul you around. I got a little Russian number to take my cousin and I to our final destination...for $20. Fuck.

In all honesty, the going rate was only $10, but my cousin was generous enough to give the poor guy a nice tip, seeing that he was probably sweating his balls off lugging around drunk people all day.

So we get there and find out the show is over. We missed the band. They were done. Long done. Shitty...suuuper shitty.

But we DID get to see Jacqueline Grace perform. Oh, you haven't heard of her? That's weird...

Maybe that's because she's a big fat joke. Picture what would happen if you cross bred J.Lo (before she made it) with Christina Aguilera and just to add insult to injury, Britney Spears' costume design, particularly from her fresh out of rehab come back tour. She had on heels, a white bustier, a red girdle, and a plastic blue pencil skirts that accentuated all her stomach folds. She also had on an air force hat, with glittery red lipstick. And the ultimate accessory had to be the $20 bill tucked into the a-cup of her right titty. I liked how she kept saluting the three people in the crowd like she was a pinup girl visiting soldiers in Korea. She wanted to look sexy and patriotic, I suppose, but she looked more like a flight attendant in a low budget porn movie. Or a cigarette girl. She looked not unlike the beaner version of this:

But instead, she just made me feel like this:

Her fan base consisted of her mom and two tia's, her manager, and her cousin Ricky's friend Irene, who had nowhere else to go that day. Her band was the rest of her family. There was the old dude on the congo's, the cheesy bald guy with wannabe Versace sunglasses on bass, the poor guy who can't catch a break in the music biz on drums, the ex-meth addict key board player with the leather page boy hat and a sleeveless denim button down, and some gal wearing stacked soda flip flops and a fake smile on vocals. And the music was shit. Jacqueline calls it a "surprising blend of hip-hop, dance with a pop-rock edge. " Shiiiett. That is surprising. I call it chode laced with more chode.

Needless to say, we broke the hell out of there asap and drove back to North Park to start a real fourth of July celebration, with a bucket of fried chicken, paddle ball and a J on my lawn on the corner of El Cajon Blvd. Konichiwa, bitches.

To Ovid

2009-06-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

This letter, my dear, will be rather long. I always felt more comfortable expressing myself to you in writing. I can be as bold as I like. What I put down on paper I can reconstruct after careful consideration. There have been a few edits already. But when I stand before you, I never know what I’m liable to say. At this moment I feel in control. It feels right. You are not present, ready to tell me otherwise. It is not to say that you should feel my words are not sincere. The force inside me is moving my hands at this very moment. For if it is difficult to love, it is even more difficult to explain why one loves. Perhaps it would be better if I did not constantly question matters of love. Perhaps this is not an option for me.

It’s been three weeks since you’ve contacted me. It might’ve been better for me to just let you come back when you were ready, to wait quietly and sullenly for you. Patiently anticipating you, at that hour of dusk when we can see so little and feel so much. I often expected your greatest ease to occur at dusk, but I soon came to understand you. I know you, my dear. You may be emboldened by night, yet it was only in the dawn of day when you saw me with softness, and your eyes ceased to search.

I remember the first time I saw you. You were at the park reading Euripides under a tree. Oh how desperately I wanted to meet you! I admit with severe trepidation that I returned to that spot constantly, with the anticipation of seeing you. I waited. This may sound trite, but I have always been waiting for you. There were numerous times in which I did find you there, sitting at that same dilapidated bench, reading and smoking a cigarette. You always seemed to be brooding. I couldn’t understand the depth of my interest, without knowing who you really were. I even found myself gazing at you once. I often tried to imagine what you were like, what your voice sounded like, if you had a peculiar sense of humor like mine. You were always reading so intently, your eyebrows knitted in concentration. You rather enjoy poetry, don’t you? Callimachus, Philetas and Sappho were just a few of your favorites. Oh yes, I studied you. And after all those times I returned to the park, I don’t think you really noticed me. Or had you? Now that I think about it, you did smile at me once. I’m not sure if you remember that.

I don’t know if you realized this, but I have always been rather shy. I’m sure this statement will elicit a smile from you, because at this point it seems rather presumptuous, but I can promise you it’s true. I’m convinced that the shy, meek girl inside me will always be present, an active participant in everything I do. The thing about us late bloomers is, we spend a great deal of our lives making up for lost time, thereby submitting ourselves to constant acts of zealotry. What’s important to note is how everything is done out of a sense of longing. I’m utterly convinced my lack of experience in dating during my teenage years had a hand in my assertion with men. This is precisely why I returned to that park bench, week after week. Did you sense my longing? Sitting there alone, did you ever feel me wishing for your closeness?

Perhaps you had, because it didn’t take too long for you to react to my presence. You actually turned out to be more than I’d bargained for. Contrary to me, you were never the least bit timid. In fact, when given the opportunity you were rather bold. I was surprised. Pleasantly so. Do you remember when I came to see you at work for the first time? You were about to finish your shift. You sat in that broken chair by the exit sign, while I stood in front of you and spoke with your co-worker Jack. You did something I won’t forget too soon. It was a small detail, but it evoked an irresistible sense of desire in me. You casually stroked the back of my leg as I spoke. Your fingers moved slowly over my skin, making their way up the back of my knee. You did this so absentmindedly, almost instinctually, as if the forces of the universe had taken your hand as an instrument. I feigned nonchalance, but internally my heart danced. I continued talking with Jack, never missing a beat. But as I did this, I moved closer to your hand, so you could access me without struggle. Do you ever wonder why people rarely admit to this kind of attention to detail? It’s overtly human of us, I suppose. Yet I feel we lose the magic love elicits when we start to take these small details for granted. I like to think that I’ve always surrendered myself with candor, but in a sense I’ve also detested myself for it. I am not unfamiliar with ambivalence. This feeling of ambivalence would stay with me throughout the course of knowing you, and for good reason. You were my biggest victory. You were my greatest mistake.

Driving home today, engulfed by feelings of emptiness and vulnerability, I saw the remnants of a beautiful sunset, the deep purple and pink hues spreading vibrantly across the sky. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I drove on, being surrounded by so much beauty, while filled with such pain. The beauty I observed in the landscape only heightened my sorrow, somehow. It mocked my pain. In this life, everything tends to carry on as planned, with or without us. We are inconsequential to the natural order of the world. Fighting against this is futile. The fact that I have become inconsequential to you however, leaves me cold. I am tormented by your absence. In the midst of this torment, I can only think of finding you, loving you, but I sense that my need to desperately follow you will only cause you to flee. Shall I forget you, rather than wait for you? How am I to forget the way you have treated me now, when you treated me the way I have always longed to be treated, just prior to that?

How fleeting love is! I can’t help but question the sincerity of our emotions when such a radical turn occurs. And yet, perhaps naively, I can’t help but absolutely believe you loved me. There was a time when you stood at my doorstep with a whole uncooked chicken and a smile. You came over to make me chicken soup from scratch because I was sick. You stayed the entire night with me, easing my discomfort with your gentle caress. I even got you sick and you didn’t mind, or at least pretended not to. This does not account for the numerous times you cooked for me at your home, the endless bottles of wine consumed. Or the way you always carried me when my feet were aching, how protective you became of me, your tender kisses, how you took care to notice every detail, the way you held me when I lost a close friend, the ceaseless tickling matches we had, how you indulged my childhood nostalgia by pushing me on the swings at the park, the way your eyes shone with tenderness when you looked at me. Your eyes betrayed you. They probed my soul.

My darling Ovid, we are indeed strange. I have come to take a perverse pleasure in my suffering for you. It’s difficult to not consider oneself superior when one suffers more. And the sight of happiness in people makes me nauseous at the idea of such bliss. I am contented by the fact that I’m in anguish, because it demonstrates how genuine my love is for you. You once told me you could love only when hurt. I didn’t understand at the time, I was too happy then. I have come to know that pleasure is too ephemeral. It abandons us, like a faithless friend. My unhappiness will too abandon me, but at this time I only escape the memory of you, and thus my suffering, during sleep.

Shakespeare once said, “To thine own self be true.” My greatest errors have been committed when not living by those words. I admit fault. I know I became careless. I stopped doing those things that were important to me, in order to allot time for you. I became too focused on work, allowed life to get in the way. I lost a sense of myself, and had less and less to say. I failed to keep alive the feeling I first elicited in you. I became all too comfortable. I took your adoration as a given. I lost my creativity, neglected to take special care with my appearance like I used to. I forgot how you loved to be loved. The magic left and I allowed that. I hadn’t the courage to address it. And now you are gone.

I’m not a fan of goodbyes, but as disdainful as I am of them, in certain situations they are necessary and owed. So, I take this opportunity to say goodbye to you, because you did not have the respect to do so. Though I’m writhing in misery as I write these words, I don’t regret a thing. I know what it is to truly feel alive. You’ve ignited my heart and incinerated my soul. I hope you find everything you’re looking for in this hideous, beautiful world. Onward!

I hope never to see you again, not particularly because I have ill feelings for you, but because I want to remember you as you once were, and not as who you’ve become.

people are so fucking realistic

2008-12-16T17:23:00.000-08:00

Is it the times, again? The times, as they are, making us so fucking realistic? So jaded? It's impossible to create a lofty ideal for yourself anymore. What's the point of being lofty and quixotic, if you have to keep it trapped deep in the pits of your psyche? Ah, to share, to dream...but no. Relating your ideals to your friends, who are beyond the brink of cynical and hardened by modern society, this leads to their funny tendency to shoot down your "unrealistic" ideals. They know what's going to happen. They always do. They see the pitfalls of your predicament straight away. It hits you like a wave of mutilation. Your ego and dreamy notions are left feeling like a deflated balloon. What's wrong with having a starry-eyed crush? What's wrong with feeling warm and fuzzy about someone you haven't even spoken to? What's wrong with believing in people? What's wrong with hoping THIS TIME will be different? This can only mean that there is merely a shred of innocence left your tortured soul. And society is trying to stomp out your fire with it's big black boot.

Do we have to automatically think about the negative consequences and reprocussions of our actions, before we even act on them? Or are we merely given fair warning of what's to come? Can our jaded outlook on life be proven wrong, just this once? Do we always have to protect ourselves ahead of time, by acknowledging the fault in people? When will we be free? When will we free ourselves?

remember when a dime bag used to cost a dime?

2008-12-09T14:52:00.000-08:00

Tough times we're living in. Every morning I wake up to NPR, as if life wasn't bad enough. I'm bombarded with constant reminders of how shitty times are, how emaciated our spirits are, how economically fucked we are. Did you know spam sales have currently skyrocketed as a cause of this recession? And Walmart is thriving more than ever. Grim shit.

I can't get a second job. Anywhere. I keep putting my resume out there. Nothing. No one's biting. Remember when waiting tables was a no brainer? If anything, you could wait tables. Now those jobs are scarce too. Right about now, nothing is sacred. I've gone to a couple interviews lately, for jobs in the food service industry. This experience entails walking into a room of 20-30 people, in suit and tie no less, with portfolios in hand, waiting for a shot at working in the restaurant biz. Lines of people fighting it out. I graduated from college, and I can't get a job waiting on you at the pizza hut. What in the hell is going on? Should I do like wallstreet and jump out a window?

Ok I lied about the pizza hut. These serving positions are a little more high end. But still. The competition for a measly job that would've been easy to get a year ago is fierce. It scares me a lot. Given that I'm considering quitting my job within the next 6 months and giving up stable income, medical insurance, and a free ride education for the unknown...yeah, I'm nervous. Sweating bullets actually.

Or perhaps this "unknown" can be better pegged as the pursuit of happiness. Because if I have to continue spending my days tediously replying to hundreds of e-mails, or answering another phone call with, "Hi this is Cynthia, how can I help you?" I might really jump out a window.

I have just seen God and God looks a lot like Sigur Ros

2008-10-13T13:56:00.001-07:00

A friend of mine, who I like to consider reasonably intelligent and well versed in the ways of music once told me, "Do not ever pass up the opportunity to see Sigur Ros live. They were the best show I've ever seen in my entire life."

That's a pretty tall order.

I had missed seeing them the last time they'd come to San Diego, but when I heard they would be touring for their new album, með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, I would not make the same mistake twice.

I did not have a ticket to Sigur Ros. Did I mention this show was sold out?

Doors were set to open at 8pm. Forgetting how laborious taking the trolley could be, especially if you accidentally take the wrong line and end up at 18th and Imperial, I arrived ticketless to Copley Symphony Hall at about 8:50 p.m. I suppose the gods were in my favor that night, because in lieu of the usual hour long begging and scrounging for a ticket session, the second guy I asked happened to be stuck with two extra tickets, which he was desperate to be rid of for $20 a piece. The box office rate for these tickets was $40 + service fees, at the time of sale. When I mentioned to the gentleman that I only needed one, he stated he would sell one for $40, under the pretense that he didn't want to get stuck with one sole ticket. I opened my mouth to protest, but before I could even get one word out, he relented.

"Oh what the hell, take it," he moans, handing me the ticket. I gladly obliged.

I guess he figured at that point in the evening he'd rather have $20 than $0. Cool beans. The gods were definitely in my favor.

I slide right in to the music hall. The venue for this show was class all the way. We're talking elegant concert hall here; plush velvet seats, tall marble columns, intimacy and crystal clear sound. I grab myself a beer and land in my seat just as the curtain is rising. I have no idea what I am in for.

I don't fancy myself a Sigur Ros superfan. My first brush with Sigur Ros occured one late drunken night in college, when the adorable gay boy living in the dorm across from me showed me their music videos on his laptop. At the time I didn't know what to make of their orchestrated rock sound, and 10 minute long videos entailing a two little boys invloved a forbidden love tryst. Perhaps I was not ready for Sigur Ros at the time. Perhaps my tasted had not evolved enough by that point. Damn was that cute gay boy ahead of his time...

What Sigur Ros lacks in mobility they make up for in sound and cinematic quality. They seem to be the type of band that takes the picky fuckin' bitch approach to their sound check. I can imagine the hell they give the sound guys, the hours of fine tuning required before they render their approval. You better believe Sigur Ros makes sure their sound system is tighter than the ass of a seven-year-old. To accompany the music, they had a well timed cinematic display on the big screen behind them. We're talking images, colors, very non-linear, superbly effective in the ways of invoking emotion. The display of images was executed to perfection with the musical score. You heard it, you felt it, in its most pure form. The order of songs, movement, sound, couldn't have been executed more accurately.

I love a versatile band. And here you have it, Sigur Ros is a group of musicians readily capable of switching instruments, rotating their position on stage like a volleyball team. I mean really, have you even seen a man play the guitar with a violin wand? Perhaps I'm cramming myself up their asses here, but they've certainly earned it.

There were moments when the cinematography would switch from image display to hidden camera placement on instruments, so the audience would get a close look into one of the band members playing the xylophone or drums. This is always a tasty feature, as effectively demonstrated by Radiohead.

In some of the more climactic moments, the lead singer would begin to wail on his guitar with his violin wand, meanwhile belting out a single falsetto note for minutes upon minutes. The musical tempo drawn out into a long overture, the audience became overtaken by the sound reverberating throughout the hall. We never stood a chance. We tried to clap, we tried to shout, to express our gratitude and emotion to the immensity of it all, but no sound was heard. We were overpowered by the music. Just for that moment, we became mere molecules, floating, commingling with the musical notes in the air, amongst the pitch, the frequency, the wavelengths of ethereal sound.

Amazingly enough, it gets better. The entire duration of the show, the lead singer of the band had addressed the crowd in Icelandic, which no one understood, but was charming enough. Toward the end, he switched it to English, and requested that we all stand up, which we did quite willingly. Then they shift into an upbeat number, where three of what I presume were pre-chosen audience members, caravan onstage with drums strapped to their chests. They were instructed to beat to a single tempo (great idea) and that loudened everything up. Things started to get pretty festive, with the audience joining in by clapping in unison, when three other pre-chosen audience member join the stage with confetti poppers.

What happened next was nothing short of a New Year's Eve in New York confetti dropping extravaganza. Tons of confetti flew from the ceiling, hitting the crowd in waves. I felt like I was a five year old at Disneyland's street parade, in terms of the magical sensation it created. The confetti flew and flew, reaching a decent stretch of the music hall. Everyone's mouths were agape in wonderment, our hands outstretched in the air, as we reveled in the majesty that is Sigur Ros. I felt like a kid again. It was the sincerest and purest form of innocent happiness, evoked in little 'ol me, by little 'ol Sigur Ros.

When bitterness persists...

2008-09-29T23:31:00.001-07:00

You crawled on your belly to me

And I mistook that for humility

There was tenderness amidst your cruelty

I mistook that for sincerity

In this world of conveniences

When did we become disposable?

Do you remember what love felt like

As you uttered it in haste

Do you remember how it felt

To be honest and sincere

When were you vulnerable

When you were real

Were you ever?

Buried down

In the catacomb of your soul

Your intensity fizzles

Your piety pretended

Take a bow

The stage is yours

My favorite actor

So immense and limited

Flooding then droughting

Leaving me gasping

Leaving me aching

notes from Chaucer class

2008-07-01T15:11:00.000-07:00

Teacher: "That's a really good reading, actually."

-Interpretation: teacher didn't expect dumb girl to provide any sort of analysis today. Stress falls on the word actually.

While teacher discusses point dumb girl has just made, dumb girl says, "YEAH" aloud, in accordance with teacher's commentary. Reason for that being, dumb girl is pretty excited about having received praise in class for the first time this semester.

Some people think in class lecture consists purely of an ongoing banter between themselves and the professor.

Some people feel they have to share every thought that pops into the little heads.

Some people really like to hear themselves talk.

15 minutes left of class....

I should've taken Milton.

Paris

2008-06-16T13:42:00.000-07:00

Henry Miller once said Paris was like a whore. From a distance she looked ravishing and you couldn't wait to have her in your arms. But then five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself. You feel tricked. You are my Paris.

when someone great is gone

2008-05-29T22:08:00.000-07:00

Paging, Mr. JW Deville...where are you?

You were last seen dancing with me at the Beauty Bar, you and I amidst a flurry of chaos and spilled beer and skinny jean havin' indie kids. We danced ardently, until sweat formed on our upper lips, dizzy, lustful, not caring that we were the only ones on an empty dance floor.

You were once spotted at my doorstep, holding an uncooked chicken and a large pot. You came over to make me chicken soup from scratch because I was sick. This does not account for the numerous times you cooked for me at your home, the endless bottles of wine consumed, our noses shoved into our glasses, trying to detect traces of oak or truffles or sometimes even pepper.

Earlier sightings entailed sharing a Bronx pizza, with you eating a piece of ricotta cheese out of my lap, our laughter resonating off my plaster walls. You were caught giving me a piggy-back ride or two, and you were even sighted playing ghetto paddle ball with me in an abandoned parking lot. All the movies we attempted to watch but never finished. The way you held me when I found out Ron was gone. You pushing me on the rickety swings at the park off Adams Ave. Our racy game of twister. The ceaseless tickling matches. The time we listened to Jane's Addiction records while lying on your apartment floor.

There were many sightings of you on Sundays, which served as our designated day of indulgence. Sleeping and lovemaking made up the itinerary, and not much else. One could often also catch you having a cozy breakfast for two, late into the afternoon. Sundays were comprised of pure ecstasy. Drinks and laughter and not a care in the world. The sun would shine on you as you lay peacefully next to me, drifting into a lucid dream.

You were even seen pushing me out the of the way when some prick in a Mercedes Benz almost ran me over in the Henry's parking lot. You almost got into a fist fight with him, especially after he made fun of your favorite Flossy D sunglasses. Then you made me bacon and eggs.

Long back there had been a Mr. Deville sighting on my living room floor, you helping me with my Shakespeare homework, reading the part of both Lysander and Demetrius in A Midsummer Night's Dream. You had even helped me bullshit my way through a 7 page paper, staying up with me until 5am. To make up for it, I read Ginsberg to you in bed when you were sick. I kept reading even after you were asleep, just in case you'd wake up.

You'd been spotted with me sitting on the barstools in your kitchen, your hand in mine, our fingers interlaced. Your turn tables blaring Wolf Parade, before the sun rendered it unplayable. Not a word was exchanged. We'd stare at each other, searching desperately for something we didn't know. Your eyes spoke to me then, they probed my soul. The tenderness in your shining eyes. They searched me. Thoroughly. They would continue to search me for about a month or so. Eventually they gave way to quiet. Your calm eyes ceased to search. They'd found what they were looking for.

There has been a declined number of sightings these days. Where is Mr. Deville? Is he gone? Is he lost? Is he in hiding? Has he departed prematurely? Will he ever return? His eyes don't speak to me these days, they don't search, they don't question, they don't shine. No hopes, no dreams, no resources. Where is the happiest man alive?

Your eyes are vacant, Mr. Deville. Your eyes are cold, dishonest. The shiny, luminous being that was both so candid and elusive has gone. The purity in your eyes has been clouded over with pain and fear. Once electric and terrifying, you'd forgotten, forgotten who you want to be, what you want to be. You've extirpated what you felt, just so you could feel again. You're dying for something to live for. You can't help but fade away. An errant heart, a restless soul, an ephemeral love. I will forget you as you wish, Mr. Deville, but I will never forget who you once were, and neither will you.

Wielding, Withering, Seething

2007-06-11T18:04:00.000-07:00

Annie has been engaged to Chadwick for two years and has no interest in any other human beings but him. It is 2:13 am, and Chadwick has not called since 6:20 pm, when he informed her he wouldn’t be eating dinner at home. In that moment, she thanked him for calling, before slamming down the receiver and glaring bitterly at the insipid pot roast and lumpy potatoes, growing cold and desiccated on the stove. And now she is watching Blind Date, drinking Raspberry Smirnoff with a straw, and fantasizing about hitting Chadwick with a coat rack. She wants to flick him repeatedly and with substantial force, square in the center of his forehead. She is picturing smacking him, flat against the back of his big head, hearing her open hand resonate against his unsuspecting skull. The sound would almost make up for her troubles, she thinks. It could alleviate the torment of thoughts infecting her mind, her inability to sleep knowing that he’s not lying next to her, snoring in the same rhythmic pattern she has memorized over the years. Where the hell is he? Dinner has long ended, bars are closed. She is not even sure which buddies he could be with, since she’s strategically eliminated most of them. Annie hopes it isn’t Frank. Oh how she hates Frank, who always wore wife beaters, no matter how cold it got. Frank posed a severe threat, always trying to put ideas in Chadwick’s head—ditch the ‘ol ball and chain, come and party with the guys like old times, just tear it up, yeah—but above all else, he was trying to convince him not to marry Annie. Too much time and energy had been invested into getting this engagement ring on her finger, for a derelict like Frank to fuck it all up.

Yet somehow Annie senses Chadwick’s having a night of harmless fun with his friends, and has lost track of time, thus forgotten to call. Granted, his excuse was always “I forgot,” but Annie chose to believe him. After all, that’s what an understanding fiancé does. She believes in her man. And Annie knows Chadwick loves her. He said so. Not only does he love her, he needs her. She made sure to it that he did.

Annie pours more Smirnoff into her highball glass, spikes it with rum and slurps it down in gulps. She looks over at the television and scoffs, newly aware of what she’s been watching. The couple on the show is tossing a football around at the park. They seem to be enjoying themselves, until the pigskin comes straight at the girl with the speed of a torpedo missile, and bounces clean off her skull. Her date jogs across the grass and hovers over her in quasi concern, as she lies in fetal position, clutching at her dome.

Annie vividly recalls her first date with Chadwick, nearly five years prior. She smiles to herself when she thinks of how shy and insecure he was when he first asked her out; it was absolutely adorable. His demeanor then was such a stark difference to what it is now. Now he’s secure and comfortable, in terms of his appearance, their relationship, everything. He is a little too comfortable, Annie thinks, bordering on the indolent. She often had to remind him of how to behave, or at least how she would like him to behave. She thinks back to their exchange earlier that day, when Annie walked into the bathroom and found Chadwick staring at himself in the mirror, twirling a Q-tip in his ear.

“Chadwick, are you aware that you left a hair-ball in the shower drain this morning?” Annie admonished.

“Yeah,” Chadwick replied lamely. He didn’t shift his gaze away from his reflection in the mirror.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Annie said flatly.

She did not feel she was asking for too much, but Chadwick begged to differ. He often called her a nag whenever she got on his case. Annie was only trying to make him better. What was the crime in that?

While helping herself to another glass of Smirnoff, Annie hears her stomach gurgle. She realizes she is pretty hammered by now and quite hungry, given that she hasn’t eaten since lunch. Looking over at the dinner she prepared earlier, she heaves herself up from the couch and meanders towards the kitchen. Not bothering to use a plate, or utensils for that matter, Annie begins her ravenous assault on the pot roast and mashed potatoes. Though the food tastes like dry bark, she cannot stop eating. She eats with gusto, knowing that she spent a little over two hours preparing this meal. First she is proud, then nauseous. Is my cooking always this bad? Annie wonders.

Suddenly realizing she won’t fit into her wedding dress if she continues eating at this rate, Annie drops the fistful of meat she’s clutching in her right hand. Her face burns with shame, as she further realizes she already doesn’t fit into her wedding dress, because she is, what some might describe as portly. The saddle bags she’s acquired from preparing and inevitably, choking down Chadwick’s favorite meal; chili cheese fiesta—he calls it fiesta because he likes it with nacho cheese instead of the standard cheddar, in addition to jalapeños (but not too many because they give him heartburn)—make her feel less desirable. She doubts that Chadwick has to face such insecurities about his physical appearance. And that just isn’t fair.

Agitation—or perhaps gas—gnaws at the pit of Annie’s stomach. Looking at the clock on the stove, 3:26 am, she can’t believe Chadwick still has not come home. This is so unlike him. Perhaps he is testing the boundaries of their relationship, but Annie will see to it that he pays dearly for such carelessness. How inconsiderate could one be? When did she ever leave him high and dry on a Friday night? Annie always considered Chadwick when making decisions in her life, no matter how inconsequential. She did not cut ties with the remainder of her friends to spend all free time with Chadwick, for naught. Her decision to quit grad school to get a second job as a cocktail waitress in order to fund the wedding—having customers ogle her and spill beer down the front of her too snug uniform—will not go unappreciated.

Annie realizes these were her choices, but in her mind they merely demonstrate her undying love for Chadwick. Now that she thinks about it, what sacrifices has Chadwick made? His romantic efforts have not been particularly stellar these days. The last romantic attempt he made entailed bringing home flowers his co-worker had received from a stalker. Chadwick had forgotten to remove the card that said “From an admirer. Not your husband.” Annie snorts out loud at the thought. She is picturing him now, probably doing body shots off some flat lining tramp. And here is Annie, waiting, with mild indigestion and alone. Annie is confused and angry and ashamed and she wants to scream and stomp on Chadwick’s head. Her eyes become wild with fury. Why would Chadwick be so heedless? It was such violence.

A quiet rage builds within her. Annie feels compromised. She is a walking blade. When she begins to think of what she will say to Chadwick when he finally arrives, and how shrilly she will say it, she begins to enter a strange state of euphoria. It is a feeling not unlike being able to use the restroom after being denied for so for a time. Feeling so light and tingly—like she did last summer when she got drunk at the fair and had to wait in line at the porta potties for twenty minutes, whimpering mildly and clutching at the crotch of her jeans, then finally getting her turn to rip into the bathroom and piss like a race horse-- was the most profound pleasure she'd known all month. And now, waiting for her fiancé and knowing how righteous will be her indignation, how tremendously vindicated she will be when tearing him to shreds, she finds herself anticipating his arrival like a junkie would await their next fix. She is smiling to herself. She is tapping her acrylic nails on the counter top. What will she say? Will she direct her displeasure towards tonight’s happenings or shall she delve into all his general failures? Oh where to begin! The range is so free, so open. She can navigate anywhere she pleases, the possibilities were endless. Throwing back her third Smirnoff and rum cocktail, she jerks her head towards the window, where Chadwick’s headlights are flooding through the partition. This will be stupendous, she thinks. This will be marvelous. This will be superb. She can hardly wait for it to begin!