Last night I felt like I was stuck somewhere in a teen movie.
Washington is beautiful. Everything looked like it was out of some surreal moment on a Hollywood camera, although the moments were not surreal, the backdrop was.
Maybe it took spending time with people a little too much younger than me to realize that I am older than I feel. I am still very inexperience in life, and I don't think I'm ready to let go of those late night adventures and young shenanigans. I'm not ready to abandon any sense of irresponsibility that I may have. I'm only 21, right? I know I'm not 18. I know that I have to own up to some things.
But why can't I stay out 'til 4 am, sitting on the edge of the bay, listening to the low hum of the oil refinery, and talking about life? Had it been so long since I'd met someone far enough removed from my social circle to have a real conversation with? Last night was the first time in a long time that what I had to say didn't feel like old news.
It made me realize just how severely depressed at my lack of social involvement has made me. I know that my friends are not very interested in meeting new people. Holley has said in the past that she's met everyone she thinks she needs to. I definitely have not.
There's something exciting about meeting someone new, getting to know what they are all about. Someone who really cares what you say because it's not the same old thing they hear everyday from you. Someone full of stories that you've never heard.
I need to meet more people. I need to get out of this house and make more friends. I can't survive on a handful. I love my friends, and they are the best things in my life, but I feel like if they're busy, my options are nil. I need to get my license and car, because there are a lot of people I've been meaning to get to know better. I need to start limiting my hours at both jobs because the pay isn't higher than the cost of my slip into insanity. Sleep work sleep work work sleep work does not go well for me.
I don't know, someone suggest ways for me to meet more people.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
This blog may seem self-assuring or vain. Apologies in advance.
Over the past few years, I'm not sure that there has been a time where I have not served as a muse for an older man. Whether on purpose or involuntarily, something about me makes men in their late 20's become obsessed with me.
Most of them were very boring older men whose affections were unwarranted and stifling.
There is one who, 2 years after we had been friends, still texts me sexual things. Mostly things about classical music and beer and hot baths. I promise he wasn't sixty... but shit.
My problem with this situation was that I have a tendency to befriend older men in pursuit of intelligent conversation. And even if I am upfront and honest of my intention just to have discussions, it seems that the man expects or wants more, and despite my blatant aversion, he continues to speak to me, and normally quite sexually.
Currently it is coming to me in the form of a stranger on myspace who has sent me at least 100 messages in the course of a few months. He either sends me excerpts from Chuck Palahniuk books (which, come on, I was once a teenaged hipster. I read it and got over it already.) or e.e. cummings poetry, but most often his own poetry and prose. His is fairly elementary for a 26 year old who fancies himself an author. Most of it reeks of a copycat attempt to be "different" and none of it is striking in any way.
I feel I must clarify that I have never once responded to any of his messages, aside from one of the first, stating that I did not know him.
Anyway, in these messages he often responds to whatever change comes about in my profile. This worries me a little more than the poetry, because it means that he scours my profile daily. In his most recent message he commented on my cleavage. So, there's a good chance there's a dude in Florida beating off to my internet profile. Sweet.
Most people would ask why I don't block him, or make my profile private. Honestly, this is all so ridiculous that I feel if I did that, the man would go into a depressive rage about it, like he did when his friend request to me timed out, thinking that I denied it, even though I hardly ever deny friend requests in favor of just letting them rot.
Basically, I'm a muse for older men who insist on making their lives seem drunkenly artistic, with a penchant for younger ladies who have brains. Gross, dude.
Edit: I never did like poetry, though. I enjoyed writing it but aside from my teenage obsession with Edgar Allen Poe, I don't get into it. I just don't care. My 7th grade Literature teacher would be ashamed.
Over the past few years, I'm not sure that there has been a time where I have not served as a muse for an older man. Whether on purpose or involuntarily, something about me makes men in their late 20's become obsessed with me.
Most of them were very boring older men whose affections were unwarranted and stifling.
There is one who, 2 years after we had been friends, still texts me sexual things. Mostly things about classical music and beer and hot baths. I promise he wasn't sixty... but shit.
My problem with this situation was that I have a tendency to befriend older men in pursuit of intelligent conversation. And even if I am upfront and honest of my intention just to have discussions, it seems that the man expects or wants more, and despite my blatant aversion, he continues to speak to me, and normally quite sexually.
Currently it is coming to me in the form of a stranger on myspace who has sent me at least 100 messages in the course of a few months. He either sends me excerpts from Chuck Palahniuk books (which, come on, I was once a teenaged hipster. I read it and got over it already.) or e.e. cummings poetry, but most often his own poetry and prose. His is fairly elementary for a 26 year old who fancies himself an author. Most of it reeks of a copycat attempt to be "different" and none of it is striking in any way.
I feel I must clarify that I have never once responded to any of his messages, aside from one of the first, stating that I did not know him.
Anyway, in these messages he often responds to whatever change comes about in my profile. This worries me a little more than the poetry, because it means that he scours my profile daily. In his most recent message he commented on my cleavage. So, there's a good chance there's a dude in Florida beating off to my internet profile. Sweet.
Most people would ask why I don't block him, or make my profile private. Honestly, this is all so ridiculous that I feel if I did that, the man would go into a depressive rage about it, like he did when his friend request to me timed out, thinking that I denied it, even though I hardly ever deny friend requests in favor of just letting them rot.
Basically, I'm a muse for older men who insist on making their lives seem drunkenly artistic, with a penchant for younger ladies who have brains. Gross, dude.
Edit: I never did like poetry, though. I enjoyed writing it but aside from my teenage obsession with Edgar Allen Poe, I don't get into it. I just don't care. My 7th grade Literature teacher would be ashamed.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Last night, my friend Heather and I watched a BBCA Reveals episode called Britain's Worst Teeth.
If you know me, you know I am sort of obsessed with clean teeth. This show really made me squeamish. This is the teeth of one of of the people actually on the show:
Right now, I have no health coverage, much less any dental insurance. 2 years ago, one of my fillings fell out. This show made me even more freaked out than I already am.
I can't wait to get it fixed...
What I don't understand is how people let it get that bad. The show didn't mention how long they went without brushing their teeth, but it did make mention of their consumption of sugar. Heather brought up that Americans eat ungodly amounts of sugar and you rarely see teeth like that unless they do meth.
So, moral of the story -- brush your teeth, y'all.
If you know me, you know I am sort of obsessed with clean teeth. This show really made me squeamish. This is the teeth of one of of the people actually on the show:
Right now, I have no health coverage, much less any dental insurance. 2 years ago, one of my fillings fell out. This show made me even more freaked out than I already am.
I can't wait to get it fixed...
What I don't understand is how people let it get that bad. The show didn't mention how long they went without brushing their teeth, but it did make mention of their consumption of sugar. Heather brought up that Americans eat ungodly amounts of sugar and you rarely see teeth like that unless they do meth.
So, moral of the story -- brush your teeth, y'all.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tomorrow we are throwing a surprise party for one of my very best friends. I am much more excited than I should be, but surprising people and doing something that I know will make someone happy are my absolute favorite things to do. Unfortunately, all this excitement just reminds me of my forthcoming birthday.
I am nearing legal drinking age with each passing second, much like any of you are slowly ticking towards your next birthday. In fact, in two months time and with any luck I will be propped up semi-conscious in front of a malfunctioning ATM with a pull lever, pissing away my hard earned money, and quite possibly ending up married via Klingon vows on the bridge of the NCC-1701... let's hope I maintain some sort of discretion and at least marry someone hot. Or famous. Or both.
I am hoping that this will be the first good birthday I've ever had, and it will be the first that I spend with my best friend Holley.
Now the trouble is getting the money to reserve my room soon!
Anyway, just a small bit of what's going on in my head tonight.
I am nearing legal drinking age with each passing second, much like any of you are slowly ticking towards your next birthday. In fact, in two months time and with any luck I will be propped up semi-conscious in front of a malfunctioning ATM with a pull lever, pissing away my hard earned money, and quite possibly ending up married via Klingon vows on the bridge of the NCC-1701... let's hope I maintain some sort of discretion and at least marry someone hot. Or famous. Or both.
I am hoping that this will be the first good birthday I've ever had, and it will be the first that I spend with my best friend Holley.
Now the trouble is getting the money to reserve my room soon!
Anyway, just a small bit of what's going on in my head tonight.
Friday, May 30, 2008
A story, or a brainstorm. For my book or despite my book.
His teeth protrude from his mouth like shards of porcelain in a pool of blood. The color of said teeth and his pallid complexion are almost indistinguishable, were it not for the transparency of his skin. It is what bruises would be like if they were white instead of purple. It sits loosely on his body like a garment of clothing, moving not as him, but with him. His nostrils sit in the skin, a pair of holes in the middle of his face, not on the underside of a nose. They sit symmetrical below a pair of small, beady black eyes, sparkling with some sort of sadistic gleen that would send shivers down my spine had I not stared into those eyes nearly every day for the past few years.
He smells like whiskey. Or is that me? It's hard to tell these days, but one of us smells like whiskey, and the other smells like dust. And considering my drunken state, it's probably safe to assume that he is the dusty one.
I can hear him breathing, although I was previously unaware that hallucinations had the vital organs needed to take a breath, nor that it was necessary that he should. And good lord, does he ever wheeze. In fact, I can hear his sighs from here on the stage, and he is in the projection booth upstairs. His long limbs visible moving slowly but not lethargically, you would see that his spindly arms are like intertwined tree branches, and while thin, they do not give off the impression of frailty. You can see the strength as his hands run over the length of the projector.
His eyes flash and the lights in the theatre dim. A scuffle of footsteps brings my gaze to the seating below me... and standing there is the girl.
She regards me with a startling apathy, which when I think about it shouldn't have been surprising -- after all, she is dead. Her hands lay limp at her sides and her chin is raised to look me straight in the eye... as well as she could. Half of her skull was crushed and her left eye was somewhere beneath a flap of skin hanging bloody in front of her face. The blood pouring from where her brain once was, before it was on the terrazzo in front of the Fremont, coats half her body like she is a fur coat at a PETA rally.
And I am inexplicably drawn to her, just like the first time we met. Her eyes are still beautiful with the life sucked out of them. She exudes as much grace as a dead person ever could. I loved her, I love her, and I don't know why she is here.
Outside of my mind, I am screaming at her. What are you doing here? Why are you doing this to me? Leave me alone! Let me grieve! but I am moving toward her with my hands outstretched. I am putting my arms around her broken body. I am kissing her bloody mouth.
A light flickers on from the projector as our lips touch and the sound pops and large scratches pull down the screen like someone was trying to destroy the print -- for as many times as He watched me work, he never could keep the film off the ground. It plays black and then images come, memories. From the first time we met in the lobby of the theatre, to that night on the roof... the sound of her voice in Dolby Digital Surround sound. There is a sickening thud and then the sound slows, the image on the screen eats itself from the inside out, melting and burning into a bright white light, and my arms are empty now. She is gone, and her blood is on my hands.
His teeth protrude from his mouth like shards of porcelain in a pool of blood. The color of said teeth and his pallid complexion are almost indistinguishable, were it not for the transparency of his skin. It is what bruises would be like if they were white instead of purple. It sits loosely on his body like a garment of clothing, moving not as him, but with him. His nostrils sit in the skin, a pair of holes in the middle of his face, not on the underside of a nose. They sit symmetrical below a pair of small, beady black eyes, sparkling with some sort of sadistic gleen that would send shivers down my spine had I not stared into those eyes nearly every day for the past few years.
He smells like whiskey. Or is that me? It's hard to tell these days, but one of us smells like whiskey, and the other smells like dust. And considering my drunken state, it's probably safe to assume that he is the dusty one.
I can hear him breathing, although I was previously unaware that hallucinations had the vital organs needed to take a breath, nor that it was necessary that he should. And good lord, does he ever wheeze. In fact, I can hear his sighs from here on the stage, and he is in the projection booth upstairs. His long limbs visible moving slowly but not lethargically, you would see that his spindly arms are like intertwined tree branches, and while thin, they do not give off the impression of frailty. You can see the strength as his hands run over the length of the projector.
His eyes flash and the lights in the theatre dim. A scuffle of footsteps brings my gaze to the seating below me... and standing there is the girl.
She regards me with a startling apathy, which when I think about it shouldn't have been surprising -- after all, she is dead. Her hands lay limp at her sides and her chin is raised to look me straight in the eye... as well as she could. Half of her skull was crushed and her left eye was somewhere beneath a flap of skin hanging bloody in front of her face. The blood pouring from where her brain once was, before it was on the terrazzo in front of the Fremont, coats half her body like she is a fur coat at a PETA rally.
And I am inexplicably drawn to her, just like the first time we met. Her eyes are still beautiful with the life sucked out of them. She exudes as much grace as a dead person ever could. I loved her, I love her, and I don't know why she is here.
Outside of my mind, I am screaming at her. What are you doing here? Why are you doing this to me? Leave me alone! Let me grieve! but I am moving toward her with my hands outstretched. I am putting my arms around her broken body. I am kissing her bloody mouth.
A light flickers on from the projector as our lips touch and the sound pops and large scratches pull down the screen like someone was trying to destroy the print -- for as many times as He watched me work, he never could keep the film off the ground. It plays black and then images come, memories. From the first time we met in the lobby of the theatre, to that night on the roof... the sound of her voice in Dolby Digital Surround sound. There is a sickening thud and then the sound slows, the image on the screen eats itself from the inside out, melting and burning into a bright white light, and my arms are empty now. She is gone, and her blood is on my hands.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
When I was 13, I visited Europe. Since then, it haunts my dreams and pulses through my veins.
In Prague, I walked the same streets as so many influential authors. I ate ice cream from a shop in a house on Golden Lane and bought trinkets out of a suitcase from a man who probably lived there when Franz Kafka lived in house number 22. Wandering the streets, I heard a children's choir sing Czech folk songs from a festival being held in Old Town Square. My eyes wandered over a million tiny glass animals -- you see, in Prague, every other shop sells Bohemian glass. I bought a pair of fat polygonal cats for my grandmother. I stood atop the archway on the Charles Bridge, looking down on the Vltava river hugging the buildings and imagined that below the water's surface, in the bowels of those buildings could be rooms filled with secrets I could never fathom. My friend and I drank wine in a cafe across from the Jewish cemetery, the maple chairs upholstered with a fabric the color of the strong bitter red wine in our glasses. I marveled at the stained glass of St. Vitus Cathedral, and the chapel of St. Wenceslaus inside it. I giggled with friends in regards to the torture museum, favoring the amusement given by a pole that people were impaled through the rectum and out the mouth on.
We stayed in a hotel outside of Prague 1, the section of which I am unsure, and I will never know. My knowledge of the trip is limited to my memories, which when you are 13 is not much. The apartments near our hotel were many stories tall, and no more than big slabs of concrete. It was almost depressing, and somehow much more charming than the townhouses and luxury apartments that cover our country.
When I go back to the Czech Republic, I am taking a lot more pictures. And going to the Sedlec Ossuary in Kutna Hora, the chapel adorned in human skeletons.
I will post with more memories from Europe tomorrow.
I wish I could go back again.
In Prague, I walked the same streets as so many influential authors. I ate ice cream from a shop in a house on Golden Lane and bought trinkets out of a suitcase from a man who probably lived there when Franz Kafka lived in house number 22. Wandering the streets, I heard a children's choir sing Czech folk songs from a festival being held in Old Town Square. My eyes wandered over a million tiny glass animals -- you see, in Prague, every other shop sells Bohemian glass. I bought a pair of fat polygonal cats for my grandmother. I stood atop the archway on the Charles Bridge, looking down on the Vltava river hugging the buildings and imagined that below the water's surface, in the bowels of those buildings could be rooms filled with secrets I could never fathom. My friend and I drank wine in a cafe across from the Jewish cemetery, the maple chairs upholstered with a fabric the color of the strong bitter red wine in our glasses. I marveled at the stained glass of St. Vitus Cathedral, and the chapel of St. Wenceslaus inside it. I giggled with friends in regards to the torture museum, favoring the amusement given by a pole that people were impaled through the rectum and out the mouth on.
We stayed in a hotel outside of Prague 1, the section of which I am unsure, and I will never know. My knowledge of the trip is limited to my memories, which when you are 13 is not much. The apartments near our hotel were many stories tall, and no more than big slabs of concrete. It was almost depressing, and somehow much more charming than the townhouses and luxury apartments that cover our country.
When I go back to the Czech Republic, I am taking a lot more pictures. And going to the Sedlec Ossuary in Kutna Hora, the chapel adorned in human skeletons.
I will post with more memories from Europe tomorrow.
I wish I could go back again.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
"Stagnant" is one of those words where it makes you feel it's meaning. It's almost uncomfortable to say. Everyone who reads this, say it out loud right now. Stagnant. Say it again. Stagnant.
What an awful word. It is almost as lackluster and annoying to speak aloud as the situations it describes.
It is what I have been feeling lately.
I keep getting into this vicious circle of "Oh, I will be happy when ____ happens", or "I just have to wait for ______ to get life going." I am having a hard time actually getting myself to live.
I am writing music, and letting it sit on my computer, going to waste. I am creating story lines, and leaving them to rot in my head. I am painting pictures that never get to canvas. My creativity is nearly nonexistent. I feel like a lesser version of the person I thought I was.
I intend to finish one song before the month is through. Chris, you're the only one who reads this. So, hold me to that, okay?
Anyway, I'm hoping something will pry me from this weird mindset I'm in. Do they make a mental jaws of life? I need that.
What an awful word. It is almost as lackluster and annoying to speak aloud as the situations it describes.
It is what I have been feeling lately.
I keep getting into this vicious circle of "Oh, I will be happy when ____ happens", or "I just have to wait for ______ to get life going." I am having a hard time actually getting myself to live.
I am writing music, and letting it sit on my computer, going to waste. I am creating story lines, and leaving them to rot in my head. I am painting pictures that never get to canvas. My creativity is nearly nonexistent. I feel like a lesser version of the person I thought I was.
I intend to finish one song before the month is through. Chris, you're the only one who reads this. So, hold me to that, okay?
Anyway, I'm hoping something will pry me from this weird mindset I'm in. Do they make a mental jaws of life? I need that.
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