Things I'm fucking loving lately:
1:That double Jurrasic 5 record.
It's fucking amazing. I like to walk home in the sweltering heat, strip down to my naughties and turn that record up while I sort my entire life into boxes by category. My favorite box so far is the 'Dirty Box'-tm, which contains all the things that cannot be present when my parents are here and moving all my worldly possessions around. It's Sin! In a Box!
2: The Beach Boys, Pet Sounds.
I know I'm a hundred years too late on the uptake with this one, but holy fuck if 'Wouldnt It Be Nice' and 'God Only Knows' aren't kick-ass little numbers. Too bad they went and ruined everything with that burrito batswana come on pretty momma song.
3: the soon to be reality of a Bedroom. With a Door. And no kitchen in it.
4: The Fat Boys and their respective fat boy adventures. Moving! Driving! Packing! Looking For a Roomate! Marrying Invisible Men! Planning Grammar Rodeos!
5: getting macked on by the guy at cakes coffee shop in the following manner:
Guy:"Hey girl! I haven't seen you in a while. Didja kick that jerk to the curb or something?"
Sonya: "Which jerk? Oh THAT jerk. ha! Nope."
Guy: "Then I mean, uh...Where's that great guy of yours?"
(I also think it's funny that my initial reaction was "Which Jerk?")
So maybe I didn't mention it, but tiny roomate and I are moving on Friday. We gots ourselves a sweet little 2 bedroom with big big windows next to a gay bathhouse and a costume/bridal shop. Please excuse the phraseology, but I'm fucking stoked. I want to be in it right now, unpacking things into the copious number of closets that grace every room.
The only problem is that now I have to move out of the La Roy. So I've been packing (see also: throwing stuff out/smoking a little and looking at stuff I find for 2 hours before remembering I was supposed to be putting it in boxes.). In the course of this process, I have discovered many things.
1: It turns out that if you take all my cocktail dresses, lay them out flat and stack them on each other in drycleaning bags, they go around the earth 3 times and weigh more than the Grand Coulie Dam.
2: I need a giant box that should be marked "Hobby supplies" that would house my 16mm, Super 8 and regular 8mm, the film editor and projector, 2 accordions, a caligraphy set, seven thousand plastic beads, 2 pairs of rollerskates, a skateboard, the vintage beach cruiser, the wiffleball set, and all the re-upholstry stuff I bought and never used. Maybe the box should be marked "Really, I promise I'll get around to it." instead.
3: There should be a second box marked "Things I really want to get rid of but cant because of some weird guilt attachment."
4: It's too damn hot to pack.
I'm starting to think that I might actually be flirting for a living, under the guise of answering the phone.
"Sure! I'd love to take care of that for you." *wink*
I should probably be wearing rollerskates, honestly.
Electrical impulses are being delivered to your heart to keep it pumping blood. I'm not allowed to hug you hard until the scar tissue develops, and when I cup my hand over your collarbone, I can feel the machine moving around in there. Metal and muscle machines, both. Once upon a time, Mom's Heart #1 pumped blood through my tiny body with fins and tail. Tiny body with fingers and hair.
The robot heart is made of a material less sensitive to microwaves and anti-theft devices, but the pamphlet warns against putting a telephone reciever within 8 inches of your chest because there's a magnet in the ear end. You will have to deliver this message to your heart on my behalf:
Dear Mom's Heart #1 and Mom's Heart #2,
You're very precious generators. No stopping. No breaking. No running out of batteries. No clogging of arteries. No palpitations. No murmuring. No surging.
You're a team now. No giving up on us.
I got dirtier today than I've been in a long time, and my dad -in all seriousness- suggested I be a professional hooker.
wait for it.....
waaaaaaiiiiiitttttt....
Okay, really, I did get insanely dirty. Sawdust in my bra, dirt up my nose, cant wipe the crud out of my eyes because there isn't a non-crud-encrusted item available anywhere. I got up at four am, drank wildly shittiy gas station coffee, and rode up the mountain in a truck that was in our garage as it was burning down, 14 years ago. The front end is melted. This, is the wood-getting truck.
Hooking, for my father, does not mean prostitution. Hooking means climbing up a hillside with a heavy canvas strap over your shoulder, a 25 pound hook and pulley in one hand, and the end of a hundred yards of cable in the other. It should be noted that when I say "climbing" I do not mean "difficult walking". I mean grabbing on to bushes and slamming the toe of your shoe into the washout dirt while you clamour with your other foot for that root up at chest level. (Sometimes, I mean "running in place on a vertical incline as a hundred thousand tons of dirt turns into dust after it washes under your feet." My nose feels so fucking gross.)
Once you get to the top of the hillside, you wrap the canvas strap around the tree to protect it, and put the hook and pulley through the lpop. Then run the cable through the pulley and throw it down to dad, who is drinking pepsi at 5:30am. He rigs up another pulley, attaches one end of hte cable to the tree we are pulling from the lower hillside up to the roas, and the other end to the back of his mangled truck. Drag tree to road. Detatch. Saw into 1 foot long rounds. Load in truck. Repeat. Restack wood that fell when you accidentally popped the clutch and knocked the whole pile over. Inform father that it's not polite to laugh, dammit.
We were off the mountain by 10:30am, just as it was getting hot. My dad sees no problem with getting on the freeway, knowing full well that he can't go over 45 miles an hour with a cord and a half of wood in the back of the truck, and that his blinkers don't work.
He uses hand signals, and waves to everyone.
I dug through those boxes of miscellany in the closet for forty five minutes before I found it.
It's funny how something I used to see every day can be removed from my memory for so long and then spring forth with newfound importance 5 years after the fact.
My younger self thought it was absolutely acceptable to wear a gold tinfoil halo almost every day. I'm not necessarily proud of it, but it can't really be helped at this point, can it? I'm certain the myself of 5 years from now will wonder what the hell I was doing in these dresses. We cannot repair who we've been.
I found it on the floor in Sophomore Hall, during spirit week, or halloween, or something where people were getting dressed up for some kind of event. It was simple and stupid, but when I came home wearing it that afternoon, my mother beamed at me.
"There's my angel."
I was wearing it the night I met my first real boyfriend. I walked into a blacklit room in a big white dress and a halo, carrying a bowling bag, barefoot. He was wearing engineer coveralls and, I later found out, was rather high on acid.
I set my bag on the mattress that was covering the floor and put my hands on my hips. "I like your pants." I seem to remember saying it as if I was telling him the balance on his bank account. A declarative statement with little emotion.
"You're from outer space." he replied in the same tone.
Now, it should be noted that this seemed to be a perfectly acceptable response to my statement. For that matter, it still think it's probably the best thing he could have said.
"I think I'd like to try those pants on." I said.
"I have shorts underneath."
"Lets do it."
So my then-future, now-psycicEx boyfriend took his coverallys off in the kitchen, and I pulled them up under my dress.
When I was secure, I pulled my dress over my head and put it over his.
I'm just now realizing how weird this all sounds.
"Can I wear your halo?"
"Mmm. I don't think so."
"It's attached, then."
"For the time being."
I wore it again on our first date. We went to a mexican restaurant for breakfast on a Thursday. We were the only ones there. Afterward, we kissed on a tireswing.
There's a picture of him in the same park on a different day that was exposed in such a way as to surround him in white light in the shape of a human being, but with wings. He would show me that picture and say "That was the future version of the former you!"
it was all very, very complicated.
after I ride the bus to you, we're going to go to work.
We're going to leave the house I grew up in at Five in the morning, so there will be light and we'll have a solid few hours to work without the heat. You do the chainsawing, I'll measure and fasten and stack.
"If you bring your swimtrunks, we can jump in the lake on the way home, and probably stop and get a hamburger in town."
Mom says you're making huckleberry pickers from bits of sheet metal. She wants to paint flowers on the sides and sell them at the craft bazzar. You are not sure about the flowers, or the craft bazzar. You are very sure about the huckleberries.
The next day, we'll leave the house early again. We'll run your device from the stem of the shrub to the top, which pulls the ripe berries off and stores them in the attached bucket. The leaves and green berries remain. We have to be careful about bears and tics.
"and, if you want, we can bring along the rifles or a pistol and stop off at the range. But we don't have to...if you don't like that kind of thing anymore."
"I'd love to, poppa."
"What do you want to shoot?"
"Mmmm, the 30ought6 and the 22 pistol."
"Okay. I'll buy a brick of shells before you come. You need anything else while I'm out?"
"From the Sporting Goods Store? No, I don't think so."
"I'll go tomorrow, call me if you think of something before then."
"Okay."
"Sonie?"
"mm?"
"I'm really glad you're coming. This is going to be fun."
You: Think I'm simultaneously too sensitive and too optimistic.
I: Think you're not as jaded as you'd like to think you are.
You: Don't listen.
I: Get really defensive.
You: Pin me down by holding the comforter tight around my upper body
I: Warned you, I swear I did, before I brought my legs up to my chest and hoisted you off me with my foot, accidentally hitting you in the left nut.
You: Did not think this was very funny.
I: Tried hard not to laugh, and failed.
Remember when we got hit by a car and then I tried to write a book in a month? I've been thinking that I'd like to do that again.
Not the part where I got hit by the car, or the part where I tried to do it in a month, but the part where I write something big.
And really, I think I could do it. I've (1)learned how to type, (2)got a vocabulary that consists of mostly made up words that sound like what they're supposed to mean and (3) bought a laptop. What more does one need?
Well.
One probably needs the ability to give a story arch, which I think I tend to lack. I can write little bittits and every once in a while, a big bittit, but my bittits never grow into biggins. (Ooh! Sounds Dirty!) I've decided that I like my fictional characters, but I don't like trying to make what happens next match up with what just happened. This is how we end up on ferrys, going to canada.
and I'd like to get attached to something new. Or take another old idea and remake it. have you liked something specific here in the past? I'd like to know what it was, and -if you feel like it- why you liked it. I would also be happy with email that went like this:
Hey Sonya,
You know that thing you do where you're really vague and only a few people seem to know what's going on? It'd please me if you knocked that off.
yeah, so there,
a reader.
or
Sonya!
Every time you talk about pirates and zombies fighting, I want to kill you!
best regards
some guy in kansas.
In the meantime, I'm going to think about it, and try to make a chart or graph. Charts and graphs fix nearly everything.
Maybe you saw us on the corner of first and Pine, waiting for the 18. Maybe you saw me raise a bottle wrapped in a plastic bag to my lips, and maybe you were confused. Or offended. (Or incredibly impressed, if you were those guys riding in that El Camino.) But the true story is this:
What good is being an adult if you can't drink a beer out of a paper bag at a bus stop while waiting to go to your senior prom date's 22nd birthday party?
No good, that's what.
There are moments, specifically moments when I'm thinking about eating those sweet, perfect, utterly filthy blackberries that grow by the overpass as soon as they're ripe, when I remember that it's the end of July. My favorite holiday has passed already, and I'll have to wait another 12 months for it to come around again.
I want to be able to snatch the explosions out of the sky like you snatch a spider with a paper towell but don't crush it. I'd wrap them up in my brawny tough with quilted absorbancy and I'd put them in my pockets. Then, when it's February and I can't seem to coerce myself into sitting up off the floor to swallow, so I'm drinking burbon through a straw, I'll just pull one out of my cardigan pocket. It will have been crouched in the dark, waiting to resume exploding, white rockets up and pop pop pop and leaving golden streams of fire behind in the night air.
Holy crap, I'm whining the pants off of everyone today! "Unh. I wanna write the SUMMER FASHION EDITION of t.i.h. today, but it just seems so...I dunno....time consuming? Is the phrase? I'm looking for?"
The great thing about summer fashion is this: It Doesn't Matter.
It's hot outside. I don't care if you come out in a mumu. (Sidenote:I put 2 dollars in the meter yesterday wearing my sleeping mumu with the strawberry on it, except it was like, 1:30 on a weekday, so people were bustleing all over in their business clothes. I cannot wait to move to a more ghetto location.)
I don't even care if you're so muddled by the heat that you can't manage to match your tops to your bottoms, the only things I care about are as follows:
1: No socks with sandals.
I've said it before, people, and apparently I need to say it again because you didn't hear me loud and clear the first time. Stop it. Take those off. One or the other, tiger. One or the other.
2: Men: No Short Shorter Than the Knee.
You are not a Villiage People groupie. If you've gotta wear cutoffs, keep 'em down low. (This is not, by the way, granting approval for shorts. This is a concession in the current heat. I'll be on your ass about this if you don't put those away when the temperature normals out.)
3: Ditch The Underwear.
While this is totally optional and entirely based on preference, I'd just like to say that it's rather liberating, just so long as you keep an eye on how you sit in that skirt. I'm more of a bra-ditcher, myself.
4: Ladies, put at least a portion of that shit away.
It's okay to put the twins on display.
It's okay to shake dat ass.
Its okay to go backless.
It's okay to show exactly how far your legs go up.
Just don't do it all at the same time.
'cause it's kinda gross.
Thanks.
(also, when displaying, shaking, backlessing, and how far-ing, you May Not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, call yourself fat or draw attention to your weight. I will not stand for another single second of it. You put it out there. Keep your trap shut about it.)
"But Sonya!" you say "I need specifics! You're being half assed!". and I reply, Quiet, you!
fine.
Ladies, for you this summer, I'm thinking it's all about the eighties cut t-shirt. You can do this at home. take that shirt you got for giving money to PBS last year and put it to good use. chop out the area immediately surrounding the neck and see how it looks. Experiment with cutting more and less. Cut off the sleeves to a cap or a muscle tee and tye shit up with the fabric you cut away. If it's too large, gather it in the center of the back and pin it where you want it. Take it off, cut out the excess, and re-attach the center as you desire. Then take off your bra. Whee!
And I'm not being biased here, but I really think cotton skirts are the way to go right now. It's just so fucking hot outside, and you're just so fucking hot. Your key accessories are a trashy magazine and access to a foosball table.
Boys, I'm checking you out when you're in comfy, stylish shoes, non-denim pants and natural fiber shirts. (see how easy? Easy!) Your number one fashion accessories are an extra baseball mitt and a pitcher of Mojitos.
The thing about it is this. One started out as a crack in the sidewalk. The other started out as an oversized pore. The average passer-by wouldn't have looked twice. The average passerby wouldn't have even noticed that something was going utterly and completely wrong in a way it had never ever gone wrong before. The average passerby is not this nervous.
Part One: How I noticed The First Hole.
I shower three times a day. Once in the morning, once after my afternoon meal, and once before bedtime. When I was a kid, we had a small but vicious infestation of bed bugs, and that particular itch has never quite gone away. I clip coupons from the Sunday edition to pay the water bill. These things are important.
I had eaten a tomato on white sandwich that afternoon with a pickle sliced lengthwise and a glass of prune juice. Perhaps you think young people don't actually drink prune juice. You are incorrect. I am twenty three. A very very nervous twenty three. So I unfolded my noontime towel, (I have three on the rack at all times and I use them for a week, one for each shower of the day. This way, they have a full 24 hours to dry.), stepped from the hallway carpeting, one big step to the bathmat (I don't like the feel of lineoleum on my feet.), and into the tub.
It was conveniently placed just above my left collarbone. As conveniently as an unexpected body chasm could be, I suppose, but at least it wasn't at the back of my thigh or near my elbow, which would have made me sick. Don't ask me why. I can't explain how it is with elbows. It was the size of a thumbprint on the back of a cheque at a foreign bank, and not at all unlike the gorge made by a melon baller I tried to avoid it's filling with soap, but was generally unsuccessful. It worried me.
Part Two: How I noticed the Second Hole.
Like I said, I'm a nervous person. If you see me walking around, you'll notice me looking down and mumbling to myself. I'm not crazy. I have a job that I perform well. I have normal social interactions. I went roller skating and swimming just like every other kid. I just have peculiar nerves, and I find it deeply satisfying to count the cracks in the sidewalk when I walk certain places (see: The corner market. The newsstand. My office. Jonah's Bagel and Coffee Shoppe.) So one evening, shortly after finding the first hole, I set off to the newsstand to pick up The Atlantic Monthly. When I get to crack number 184-which has always been one of my personal favorites, as it tends to sprout flowers and grass in the spring,- I find not a crack, but a gaping hole. A hole big enough to get your foot caught in. A hole big enough to cram a small mammal corpse in. A hole certainly created by psychopathic bank robbers as a place to hide guns and masks and booty and other terrifying things. Between this unsavory occasion and the particularly unsavory occasion of finding the hole in my body, I was feeling more than a bit unnerved. Downright cranky, in fact. How dare psychotic bank robbers dig a hole in my sidewalk and aliens drill a hole just above my left collarbone! This is an outrage!
I stood there for a moment, lacking any particular action to take. I looked at the holes. The holes did not respond. I shouted briefly at them. They again chose not to respond.
I was rather flustered at this point. No. I wouldn't call it flustered, I'd call it wild with grief. I don't know why, but it just seems like there are so few things I really had in control, and I was losing them one by one. I fell to my hands and knees and reached up with my right hand to touch the hole under my collarbone. A popsicle stick, cherry, from the looks of it, had stuck to my hand. This was even worse. I fell to a crosslegged position on the sidewalk and began to wail like a child. I peeled the stick from my hand and jabbed it into the sidewalk hole. Instead of the sound of earth or old cement or robber booty, it made the sound of poking a hole through paper. Just what I needed. More holes. I pulled the stick out and a great rectangle of paper was attached. It read:
This is the mouth of the city cracked open to tell you something.
You're missing everything.
As far as the hole in your shoulder goes, we don't know. Maybe you should ask it.
Also, you love Chinese food.
I wiped my eyes with my sticky, sticky palms and re read the paper. There it was, clear as day. Unsure of what to do, I picked up the popsicle stick and jabbed the hole in my collarbone. Again, out came a piece of paper, much smaller than the other, but still legible.
You haven't danced in years.
I began to eat the rectangles of paper as though I hadn't eaten in days. They were pasty and sweet. When I had finished, I stood up, did a pirouette, caught my toe and broke my ankle in the mouth of the city.
It was the best I'd ever felt
11:30pm. We were sitting in the corner window booth of that little cafe and the Men are talking over the table at each other about world pop and the Women are on the rays from the corners ninety degree angle with bare shoulders tilted toward each other, as if about to kiss.
I tell her that I'm tired and thinking of going home. She leans in so that our cheekbones rest together and speaks in my ear. 'Walk with you? You Sure? Could sleep in belltown.... Certain? Careful.' (I like it when people lean close and talk, because it soothes the panic of not being able to hear. The part of my brain that is always scrambling and re-scrambling sounds to make words gets to take a few seconds off.). I stand and congratulate the musician, for whom we have been drinking, kiss cheeks, and blow out the door.
I'm experimenting with those extremely tall shoes with the terrycloth apples embroidered on them, and have donned a pink gingham apron for the dual purpose of making the shoes go with my otherwise all powder blue attire, and keeping my newly de-and-re-constructed skirt up around my navel instead of down around my hips. With the shoes, I'm six feet fucking tall. With the short pigtails that became necessary in the heat, I'm six one. I'm an Amazon. I'm an Amazon in an Apron.
Being so far away from the ground makes it seem like I'm walking on the ocean. The cuts of sidewalk that have been uprooted by trees and then smoothed by blacktop are the soft swishing motion of the water. I could part the red sea. I could part the red sea and bake you a pie in the same afternoon. But not now. It's too hot.
On the corner of Pike and 2nd, I turn my eyes away as business is being conducted as usual. I'm not a threat, so they are casual in their secrets, but I always turn my eyes so I can honestly say I didn't see anything. I wait for the light and a Metro Training Coach goes by. I wish the new driver well in my head the same way I cross my fingers for ambulances and firetrucks. Habit.
He sidles up to me so quickly I barely have time to register what kind of situation I'm dealing with. He comes up on the sidewalk from my right, behind my body and stands RIGHT next to me on the left.
"Looking for some company?"
I don't have time to keep the words I'm thinking from coming out of my mouth. They're sharp and awkward, like being hit with rocks.
"You're standing too close to me!" and I nealy jump away.
I compose myself as quickly as possible and adjust my response.
ahem. "No, thank you. I do not care for company. Please go, and have a nice night."
He smiles and shrugs and crosses the street.
I have cigarettes but no match. The boy sitting at the base of the post is pierced, tatted, smoking, and reading a hefty book. I apologize for interrupting and ask for a light. He lightly touches his pocket, shakes his head and holds his cigarette to the end of mine. I pull, cough, laugh. He smiles. I imagine him rolling up his shirt sleeves to wash dishes and it makes me blush.
I'm a block from home and I feel somebody walking aware of me. I slow to let him pass and
"Oh it's you! You're not scary at all! How've you been?"
He's a little out of breath and focused on meeting others, but it's always nice to see this one with whom I share a last name but no blood. We chatty chat casual and summer and I think about stopping by his studio some time to ask him the old joke, (Hey Bob? Are you gay? In the old sense of the word, I am gay.) Mutual friends talk and parting. He to the club, I up the hill to the LaRoy. Fear, Attraction, and Friendship in a fifteen minute walk from Belltown to First Hill. I'm an Amazon. I'm an Amazon in an Apron.
Wastin' time, thats what you're doin', wastin time with me uh uh uh oh uh oh,
I like listening to records.
I like listening to music either way, but I particularly like listening to it on vinyl. Having an album on vinyl means a certain dedication to the act of listening. You can't pop it in a player and take it with you while you shop for shoes. You cant pick it up with your greasy sausage fingers and drop it in the tape deck and never think twice about touching the groves. You've got to commit to it. When people call on the phone, you've got to say, "I'm sorry, it's not that I don't care about you, it's just that I just put this record on, see..." and if they're really your friend, they'll pretend to understand, even if they have to cuss you out for being a self absorbed asshat after they hang up the phone. That's alright, it had to be done. You're listening to a record.
Buying an album on vinyl is tricky business, as you are designating that album as something you only listen to at home. That Blondie Tribute Album? Totally danceable, but simultaneously dorky and addictive, for sure a vinyl purchase. Yo La Tengo Danelectro EP? Perfect for cutting up magazines and reading all the letters from every boy I dated in high school in chronological order. Certainly don't want that kind of activity leaving the house. Might as well put that sea and cake double at the ready, fill up the bathtub and get out the burbon. We're going to be here a while.
My records are like out of town lovers for me, because so much of my enjoyment is in the anticipation. I'll sit at work all day singing that poppy little tune to myself, longing for the moment I'll be able to bust through the inner door, drop my satchel in the middle of the room and slide the needle over that Iggy Pop record. Flip the knob to Phono and Oh How Sweet It Is, like a toungue in my mouth at the airport after a month away. Like the first bite of egg and hollandaise sauce when you've been sitting outside Glo's and drinking coffee and reading the Seattle Gay News for the last hour and a half, waiting for those 8 tiny tables to fill and empty several times before it's your turn. This is the ultimate glory of vinyl. 'Soon, I will be eating amazing eggs benedict." = Soon, I will be off this plane and biting behind the ears of my lover." = "Soon, I will be singing along to that Japanese Power Punk Compilation, Side A, Track 4. The song about race cars."
I like how we are
so forthright about things now
even blushing things
So I'm cutting all
the descriptive adjectives
and sticking to facts
1:Yes 2:No 3:Probably
4:I Didn't Think To Ask That
5:I Will, I Promise
Due to a certain poet's squimishness, the post that once appeared here has been deleted. If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to contact either the author of this lovely site, or said squimish poet if you happen to know who that may be.
With best regards,
said squimish poet
Let this be a warning to you all. Do not drink and blog. It kills the next day when you can witness yourself being an idiot the night before.
Dear entire world,
I just heard the worst sound I've ever heard. I'm totally serious. Its sometime in the middle of the night and I just got my bi-yearly firework fix. I gotta say it from my roots, baby, Fuck Yeah. Fuck Yeah for Fireworks. yeah. Fuck yeah.
Okay, in other news, I made a skirt this morning in like, a half second. It was so speedy and crafty. That must be the other reason girls get to be winners forever, crafty, speedy and vaginas. I love you. I love you, but not as much as I love fireworks.
Love, not as much as fireworks, but love all the same, take what you can get,
Sonya
and when you're standing there, reading your book of cleverly disguised smut on the corner while Five o Clock traffic is slouching by, maybe you hear your name being sung over an invisible intercom. Your full name, in a lilting baritone, being sung over an invisible, but very real (it must have been real, everyone was looking) very loud intercom.
You think maybe its from the car lot across the way, but no. It's so loud and full of singing!
Maybe you imagined it...No...there it is again.
It's confusing for a second, but then it's just so absurd and wonderful, and the sun is so beautiful, and the people you know are so full of firing synapses and kindness that it almost makes you cry.
Don't forget to tell yourself to put this in your pocket.
Stand on the corner with your cleverly disguised smut while the sun nuzzles your cheekbones and you just put that moment of delight in your pocket, because you only get a few of these, sailor. Too precious few.
(Thanks, youMisteryou. You made my day.)
According to yesterdays comments, I am purely a construct of Josh's mind. I'm fine with this, but I only ask that he imagine the tiny roomate and I into a sweet ass apartment for cheap, please. And make it so I don't have to work anymore but I don't go into debt.
In other news, first day of MATH-O-MANIA: PART III was yesterday evening. This is the first class I've had on the fifth floor of SCCC, and there are plants everywhere. The instructors head is too small for her body, but this is going to be no where near as distracting as Mister Bald On Top With Edges Grown Into a (you ready for this? ) RAT TAIL. I'm serious. An honest to goodness rat tail with a bead on the end. All the hair around the edges was grey, but the tail was so old it was still black on bottom. He also wore giant amber Bling on his fingers and a mirrored belt. I couldn't stop staring at it. Swinging there in the wind. He gave me a 4.0. Maybe he thought I had a thing for his hair appendage.
Current instructor also has the incredibly annoying habit of writing out every single thing she says on the blackboard. Verbatim. No abbreviations. Printing. Slowly. I can't wait to be finished with dumb kids math. I am, however, enjoying writing as though I'm fourteen years old.
I'm going to see American Analog Set with Patrickt this evening. Rumors have been spreading that a meal may be eaten at Bimbo's and there is a slight possibility of going to the fabric store.
Josh, maybe you should imagine me doing something more interesting here quick. Something that involves a body of water, a fireworks show, a melon, and a chase scene, perhaps.
The great thing about weblogging that people don't want to say is the great thing is this: You can tell whatever the hell dumb, pointless, possibly untrue stories you want, and people don't have to read them. For example,
Tiny Roomate and I went to the hip hop and breakdancing night at that club that's attatched to that new arcade last night. While it was neat to watch all the floor-spinning and hat falling off etc, we were kind of tired and in desperate need of fruit, so we headed toward casa de la roy but made an emergency stop at the grocer. Somehow, it became the best idea ever to buy hot dogs and white flour buns. We put them in the microwave before we unpacked anything else and each ate a hot dog with ketchup at one in the morning.
So I'm sitting on the floor, eating my hot dog and already developing what has become a horrible stomach ache, when I realize that tomorrow is the first day of school for summer session and I haven't seen my math book in a week. TR has already passed out on our bed with her party shoes on and is half waking up to offer such gems of enlightenment as "Did you look in the freezer?"
Are you fucking crazy? Of course I looked in the freezer. Every lost thing is usually in the freezer.
So after I check under the shoe pile and in the laundry... ("Maybe you put it away with the towells....I don't know...") I give up and go to bed. stupid math book.
I wake up first thing this morning and it hits me like playground bully. I roll out of bed onto the phone and dial.
"Hello?"
"mmrrrrgghhhnnmmath bookat yourhouse?"
he laughs a little. "Good morning, you. Yeah, it's been at my house since the beginning of break. I'll bring it along tonight."
"mmmmmrrgghhh."
"I'll talk to you later in the morning."
and that's the end of the story unless you count the part where TR realizes that all the work shirts she bought may or may not accidently expose mid or cleave, and that I used hair gel from the free pile this morning. Go Pointless Story! Make Love! Have Pointless Babies! Populate The Earth!
and then I found five dollars.
the end.