this imploding heart

Does it come with rustleing leaves? I'll take it!

Man, It really looked like I was going to do some work there for a second! good thing I've got my head on straight.

AND NOW, THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR:

SONYA'S HALLOWEEN HALL OF FAME (formerly known as sonya's Halloween Greatest Hits or something like that. I put on a costume on my lunchbreak!)

When I was four, my parents had already gone through 16 years of parenting, so they pretty much let me do whatever I wanted*. And I wanted to be a Honker from Sesame Street. It was one of those Plastic-Bag-in-Child-Shape-and-Mask getups, and I thought I was SMOKIN hot. My friend Wesley had a similar costume, except his plastic bag had pictures of wires on it and said R2D2 in big block letters on the front, and his mask didn't honk. He was already in Kindergarten, and I was jealous.

So when I actually was in kindergarten, I dressed up as a Little Dutch Girl. My mom let me wear a dress that had laces across the bust, and she made me a little white hat. I was in the costume parade at school, the photographs of which capture me Vogue-ing for the first time. Strike a pose, little dutch girl.

Lets skip ahead to my most socially awkward years.

I was a really, really weird kid in the first place. I had big existential beliefs and I couldn't help but randomly burst into song (which landed me in the principals office several times. seriously. for singing. I couldn't stop.). In sixth grade, I painted a bunch of wire hangers, tied up a bunch of colored scarves, secured myself a bodysuit and went as 'A Great Idea'.
Nobody got it.

The year after that, I taped a bunch of empty cereal boxes with plastic knives stuck in them all over my body and went as a Cereal Killer.

Skipping ahead to high school, where I was still regarded as pretty weird but had stopped caring much, costume wearing started taking place on a fairly regular basis. Idaho had me feeling artistically stifled, and again, parents didn't care so much about what I did up to a very specific point. However, in my Sixteenth year, on Halloween night, I did one of the dumbest/funnest things ever. I went to my first rave and I started dating a guy 6 years my senior. Both of these things were very fun, but very very dumb.

2 or 3 years ago, I was housesitting for some very clean gay men. Tim and James and I did some major, very messy, pumpkin carving. I carved a dinosaur that came out looking like a bulbasaur. Tim carved the scarriest thing he could think of, which I think ended up being the quadratic equation. The clean gay men came home a day earlier than I thought they would, and found the kitchen covered in pumpkin guts. I felt bad. I gave them my jack-o-pokemon.

and this year, I'm really hoping to get my hands on one of those bad one piece red swimming suits, slap on a pair of support hose and some high heels, add a sash and a tiara, and I'm Miss Idaho, muthafucka!

*see also: not brush my teeth. never wear socks. make sandwiches for the dog.

A witch or a Goblin or a Ghoooooost?

In celebration of Halloween, I ate a candy bar, a bismark doughnut, and some fried rice all before 11am. I'm going as 'Fatass' this year, I think.

(Guess what was a year ago? Car Accident!)

Later Today: Sonya's Halloween Greatest Hits, starting with her Honker costume of 4 years old. Stay Tuned!

A brief synopsis

So, I definately did some math this morning. Some of it is pretty for sure correct. Some of the steps are entirely made up, so some of it is also pretty for sure totally wrong. This hasn't stopped me yet, nor will it.

I bought my 3.99 fake chennille gloves of the season from the drugstore this afternoon. I will lose them within the next 17 days. I've named them flopsy and barbara, and I'm secretly pitting them against each other in the hopes that mitten drama will ensue.

Cake just called me to tell me that he is reluctantly attending a cocktail party with me this evening, but then proceeded to get all excited about the new pants he's going to wear. I'm suspicious of his reluctance, and delighted at his new-pants giddiness.

PS: Go to Ghosty

Race for the Prize

She said something that really hit it on the head the other evening. I was walking to pick up hamburgers and complaining about a halfhearted hug that I was certain was meant to say "I hate you and I've hated you this entire time."

I told her that I was getting what I'd been getting from the start...exactly what I expected. Yet here I was, complaining about it.

"We're a funny species that way, aren't we?" She said "Once you get what you want it's nearly impossible to remember that it was what you wanted in the first place, so you constantly try to change what you've got."

And maybe that's okay. Try for the better job, the better house, the American Dream, I guess. But isn't that setting us up for a lifetime of unhappiness? Doesn't that put us in a place where we're constantly living barely within, or outside, our means?

If there were 2 of me, one who would live in the now, and one who would look at every possible option, that would be one thing. The truth of it is, though, that this is it. I don't know if the better option is actually better. I don't know if I could be learning more, doing better, being smarter, because this very moment is my reality.

I don't want to waste these mornings. I don't want to wake up and look at you and wonder if I'm supposed to be looking at something else. When the time comes, I'll look at that other thing. But for now, the jokes that are ours are only good for now. I don't want to walk away thinking that I wasted time. More than that, though, I don't want to walk away feeling like I didn't get my money's worth.

One way, or another

So I just realized that segue in the earlier post made no sense to anyone other than me and perhaps my street sweeper bretheren who can make big mental leaps like the one from circumcision to my future in street sweeping.* What I meant to say was this: First I was entranced by this one thing, but then this other, totally different thing, distracted me.

In other news, it turns out that if I want to be a street sweeper, I'll have to get arrested for public drunkeness first. While I'm pretty sure I could do the public drunkenness bit, I don't know if I've got what it takes to be Street Sweeper public drunk.

I just gutted 3 pumpkins! I'm feelin' like a pumpkin pimp.

*Sidenote: Trixie just came up to me and said "I heard that whole conversation about you not making sense. I thought you made perfect sense." Thanks Trixie!

Dont want to meet your daddy, just want you in my caddy

I was all ready to write about uncircumcised penises and my newfound fascination with them and how I really want to see one but anyone who offers to show me theirs is probably going to be a sicko so I really shouldn't bring it up, but THEN I realized my new calling.

I think I want to quit my sitting around being nice to people job and get a job as one of those cigarette butt and leaf sweeping on the sidewalk guys. For the following reasons:

1: Walking around and looking at stuff. All day.

2: Navy Blue Uniform! And a Reflective Vest!

3: Beligerancy and foulmouthedness? Not only accepted, but expected.

4: The general attitude of all the sweeper guys seems to go something like this: "Perhaps I'll sweep that. Perhaps not. Perhaps I'll sit on this curb and watch those skateboarders."

5: If I were a street-sweeper, I'd grow my hair to my shoulders and pull it back in low pigtails and wear a hat and comfortable shoes while I was at work. This would free my regular wardrobe considerably, because I wouldn't have to have anything be work-appropriate. Not that anything is, anyway.

thursday thru monday

Many good and wacky, pink and blackey things happened.
But I'm sick (again)
and cranky
and I'm carrying a hanky
so if you wish me well, then thank'ee
but otherwise, fuck off.

Pirouettes, bursts into coughing fit, has to bend over at the waist, cracks head on corner going over, flips everyone off as struggling offstage. fin

We thought he was a goner, but...

Today is my wild annoyance with a ghost cat, folks from PETA showing up and not being able to identify who they are or what they want or what the fuck they want me to do about a cat that no one has seen except an annoying woman who thinks for sure I'm hiding it under my desk and calling it dirty names.

In other news, TONIGHT! SUNSET TAVERN! HEDWIG TRIBUTE CHARITY EVENT! Erin is playing the marimba and singing, and her brother and I are singing backup. Other folks will do other things. It's going to rock. 9:30pm. Cheap.

And this weekend is Annex's retreat. We're all shacking up and getting loaded and making major fiscal decisions. Whee!

(bye, e. smith. I hope your heart feels better.)

Sometimes when I get the No Reason or Dumb Reason Sads, I wonder why the hell you can't just do everything right for a change.

And when I say 'you', I mean all of you, including me.

It's now your personal responsibility to make me feel better.

And when I say 'you', I mean me.

I hummed in your ear like a fight song

Happy Birthday Tim! Happy Birthday Ida! I Heart You Two Thousand Clem Snide!

Molly and I went to the Califone/Clem Snide show last night. Califone failed to impress me. Succeeded in making me think their assorted percussionists would be more comfortable following the Grateful Dead. Sorry Califone! I had such high hopes for you.

I expected Clem Snide to be a lot more, you know...stand around and bop your head. People, when Mister Multi-Use Banjo started to play, Molly and I physically swooned. SWOONED! I don't think I've ever swooned in public before, and I've definately never seen Moll lose her decorum so readily.
Everything they played was new to me, which tends to frusterate me at live shows since it's so hard for me to hear in the first place, but the sound was better than usual at Ye Old Crocodile, and it was an 18+ show, so everyone was crisp and sober. And the entire set was engaging, suprising, and inexplicably sexy.

In conclusion. Swoon! I love you Clem Snide Two Thousand!

Clap! Clap! You de-serve it a-all

Okay! Lets give it a shot.

Friday! I accused Cake of being ashamed of my disfigured head because he never* goes out to anything** with me. However, I've now decided to blame it on sporting events and their continued broadcast on regular television. Damn you, Seahawks! Damn you and your impressive winning streak! (did you see that fucking fake out? BAM!)

Saturday! Punk-Ass Patrickt ditched my deliciousioty in favor of caring for his nieces. Molly and I built a skiff out of maxi pads and chicken wire and we didn't pay the ferryman until he delivered us to the northgate Shop-O-Rama-Metropolis-O-DEATH, where I purchased the un-sexiest shoes*** ever and a new sewing machine. Hi-Ya!

After all that we headed back to Seatown proper, where I recovered from the life sucking force that is Target by unsexily karate-kicking around the livingroom in my new shoes.

We saw Bald Face Lie close up Sketchfest. The Pizza, Cab Driver, Jesus thing happened. We went to Ida's.

I was melancholy for the first half of this party because sketch comedians are both faster and funnier than everyone else, so this was just a house full of fast and funny. Wait. That should make for a fucking great party, you snot drip, get over your melancholy self.
So I did, and immediately remembered why**** Canadians are Great. Hopefully there's one out there right now, following my advice, leaping into the air and pumping his fist, bringing it back down with a 'Yes!' double fist toward body motion, on some Canadian commercial.

Sunday Morning! A haiku:
Monster Hangover
Slept so late I missed Car Talk
and then took a bath

Sunday Afternoon!
Once I got my vision back I pulled my new sewing machine out of it's protective styrofoam case and read the threading instructions. I made myself 2 new pairs of mittens and a new pair of legwarmers from a couple of tremendous sweaters while listening to NPR and thinking about what I want to write my research paper about. I think I should note here that this is exactly how I envisioned my early twenties when I was 13.

Hi-Yah!

* see: every other weekend

**see: shoegazer rock, art films. He'll go to pretty much anything else.

***Really. Remember those shoes your grandma had with the seam across the top? I bought those. They're so comfortable I almost lapsed into a coma on the floor of shoe pavillion, but then the old shoe pavillion 'Heh Heh Heh" guy would have been able to see my drawers.

****see: developed a crush on a

quickly, awkwardly, late.

At first I thought he was missing an arm.

We passed him on the sidewalk, to the right, on the quick. Shaking one hand near his face and prophesying the future, his truth, all our forsaken fates.

I bought Molly a slice of pizza because I had cash and she drove us all day. We sat at the counter in the pre-bar-closing, post-show-attendace bustle. He came right to my shoulder
"Excuse me, Miss?"
He looked like a kid. Like this was a play and the fake snow is falling outside and he's been miscast as the vagrant boy in the shredded gloves.
"Will you buy me something to eat?"

There's something so particular about a specific request over a demand for money. I bought him a slice of pizza and he chatted with me in jibberish and I laughed at his jokes. laughed when he laughed.

He left. I didn't watch because of the time I bought a kid a hamburger and he threw it out and it broke my heart. My resolve has since been to forget what's given as soon as possible. Let go, already.

He appeared again outside the window. Tapped sharply at me with his first finger, his other hand filled with the folded slice of half eaten pie. He licked his first finger and started writing, quickly and deliberately, backward on the glass. I think he wrote 'Thanks' first, but continued on after that, licking his finger and writing in grease and spit.

Molly and I took a cab to Ida's to slice and assist in hostessing and fancy our crushes. She came up to me a moment ago and said "Wasnt it strange how much our cab driver looked like the man in the pizza shop? I know it's crazy, but things like that make me think I've seen Jesus."

I've always got my fingers crossed.

Hello Fall

This is my 1000th entry.

Because it's ROCK, that's why!

I have a question:

Dear guys over twenty who still have long hair, or had long hair after 1998 and were over 20 years old,

I have a theory about the conjoining forces of early twenties and up long hair guys, and I want to know if I'm way off. Here's my question: You obviously must have noticed that the trend was going out, and you were getting to a point in life where it would probably benefit you to get rid of the ponytail. Why did/do you keep it? If you got rid of it, what prompted the getting rid? Did/do/would you miss it? Feel free to email me if you don't want to talk about it here, I'm really interested.

Best Regards,

Mister Lucky

your eyes wont open wide enough.

I sat waiting for you in that space between 5:40 and 6:10. I watched the end of the business day go by. Go. Buy. Shoes changed from loafers and sensible heels to white tennis shoes and tall boots. Skirts. Cigarettes. The older security guard was dead set on finding the man in the grey sweatshirt. The younger security guard was more interested in the breasts of the barista.
Blue Coat and Dumb Haircut crouches before Blonde and Crying and tries to force her to look at him. She turns her head as though avoiding a bee, attracted to the scent of her hair. The young security guard returns, ignores his radio, watches as Blonde screams at the Blue Coat, "Leave me the fuck alone! I don't want to see you anymore!" she runs and the Blue Coat follows. The security guard considers interfering, but decides against it. He isn't getting paid enough.
A girl with long brown hair and an overly bored expression sits, filing her nails, waiting. Boy with hat and forks, Boy with Hat and Skateboard come down the stairs, throwing forks like spears. Hat and Forks stands in front of me and points a fork. "Give me a cigarette, or I'll fork you!"
I am accidently polite. "I don't have a cigarette"
They threaten to fork the bored girl. She gets out a pack of Virginia Slims.

I watch all the shoes until I hear you rowlowlowling at me.
"Hi babushka. I'm all full of melancholy. Melancholy as fuck."

It isn't until you ask that I remember fully why.

"There was a fire truck coming around the corner. Nobody would move. Once it finally got situated I crossed the street and found out why they were there. An old man in a grey coat with a grey beard sat on the sidewalk, sobbing.
'I just try so hard!' he cried. 'I just try so hard all the time, and I just can't try anymore.' There are just too many things broken."

This is how you know

you don't even have to look out the window or ever come outside again ever! You just call my ass up and say "Hey! Sonya! What's on your legs?" and if the answer is "that's MISTER LUCKY to YOU bub, and I aint got nothin on my legs 'cept a note about how I'm supposed to meet Patrickt at 2:00, but it doesn't say which day. Shit man, I gotta go." Then it's Summer!
If you call me up and say "Mister Lucky! What's on your legs?" and I say "What's up with your bitch ass, my friend?! I got some sweater sleeves/kneesocks/leg warmers on my fast runners!" Then you know it's kneesock season, eg: Fall, Winter, and or Spring. Possibly all of the above.

Gabba Gabba Hey!

Standing on the corner of Olive and 5th with Tiny Roomate and her Tiny Mama in the blow-you-over-and-take-your-lunch-money wind. Waiting for the light to change.
A grey corolla turns the corner, Mother and Friend in front seats, chatting. Little girl, about five in backseat. Afro-ponytail standing up on top of her head. Little mary janes and white tights. Middle finger extended straight up, face like a boxer, unmoving as they move around the corner.

I'm sure her mother would have been horrified, but I laughed so hard I almost fell over.

Suicide Rock n Roll!

Oh Electric Eel Shock, you have, once again, rocked my freaking world.

SEX! DRUZ! EMAAAAAIIIIIIILLL!

Mister Lucky

listen to the

It rained. Real rain. It's raining again and the water gets me all electricity closed fist in the air jumping in time to the ONE TWO THREE FOUR! of the beginning of the real year. Summer just doesn't count. Summer is always edging on slightly uncomfortable, too nervous to kiss you, can't leave until the cake is out of the oven. Not allowed to sit inside on such a beautiful day so forget about your writing, editing your movie, cutting up those magazines. 'Get out and do something, child!'
But now there's water dripping off the mirrors again and my fingers itch for needle and thread. Crows are dropping stale pieces of bread in the puddles and I'm trying on all my party dresses. Rain rolling over the backs of my ears and I'm playing all my favorite tricks; Winking at young men in good shoes, waving to toddlers, smiling with teeth at businesswomen.
I'll gladly go out walking, black dress, cut off sweater sleeves as leg warmers, pink peacoat walking with you. It's finally not so hot, so lets hold hands.

Timid.

(oi, this is drivel. Why are you putting this up, Mister Lucky Walker? Because of the nature of the post itself, self. I'm trying to be less of a pansy when it comes to saying what I'm actually thinking about as opposed to saying whatever will make a situation most free of conflict. You love conflict! You make conflict all the time! Didn't you once try to convince everone that the apostrophe was a mind control device? Sure, but that's fake conflict. I avoid emotionally dangerous conflict like the plague. And that gives you license to drivel on like a 13 year old? Apparently, yes it does.)

This has been a week of really wanting to dredge up settled poisons and poke sleeping monsters with sticks. I still haven't decided not to (feeling rather brave, I am), but I always worry that I'll be sorry later.

The other worry, though, is that this IS the sorry later. Sorry for not doing it right the first time. Sorry for every midnight phone call that I tried for days to make and didn't. Sorry for every moment that I didn't just say "Hey, it's like this for me, I want to know how it is for you." Sorry for not realizing that what I had to lose was actually already lost, so just go ahead and start talking. Learn all you can. Stop treading water. Swim hard until you sink.

What's nicest about this is that anything that was ever broken has been ground down and shaped into something new and good and pain free. All that remains is an elemental curiosity. A need to talk about things that were left unspoken. A want to apologize, to ask questions, to spit out the backlog of things that were almost said on telephones I never let ring.

If you don't then my plans will all be ruined

I didn't get the pick-up class, even though i totally played up every unfair angle I could get my hands on. He was young, attractive, well-dressed, unwed, and overfull already by 6 students. DAMMIT! I could'a got some Education, iffen you knows what I mean.

So I walked home in the (very movie-set suitable) pouring rain. Baked a cake for Cake (See:Birthday-Belated due to Death Cold. 5! Seperate! Bowls!)
and shook my ass to Outkast in the livingroom with Tiny Roomate.

TR: "Um, we really need to eat those brownies soon."

Sjet: "Why? They'll keep for months in the freezer."

TR:"...........what I mean to say is, I want some chocolate, and we have brownies in the freezer."

sheep in the meadow

Last night I dreamed that a woman abandoned a blue little boy, 2 years old. He never cried, but when I lifted him to my hip he buried his little blue hatted head in the crook of my neck and his nose ran the way only 2 year old noses can run. Unashamed. I knew I was supposed to tell someone. The state. Somebody. But what if they put him where no one would love him? I quit my job and left the the city and named him November. When I woke up, I missed the little boy who wasn't and I wanted to tell you, but I decided not to say anything. Boys never understand those dreams.

Because of your love for my flippant tounge

Will somebody Please Please Please take me to Anecortes on Sunday? The mountain goats are playing the tractor tav. on Saturday night but I already made plans. I had given it up as a lost cause until I realized that he's playing at The Department of Safety on Sunday night. Come on! it'd be just like that time in high school when I talked you into driving me over to my forbidden college boyfriends house! (and we got all scared that my dad was following us, but then it turned out he actually *was* following us and I got in deep shit later.)

Crockpot Crockpot, Everybody Crockpot

Um Guys?

Don't be mad at me. I'm dropping that chemistry class. Yesterday, miss mousie the chem prof was showing us how to convert things from one thing to another, but instead of, I dunno, Explaining how to do it, she just did it, and then looked at me like an idiot after I asked her to go through it again. I don't have the programming in my brain to make big math leaps yet. (by the way, Underwearninja, you were totally right about that cross multiplication business) If you're inverting shit, you need to say to me "invert here", not just assume that I know it's okay to flip shit over at will. Stupid crackfaceassplatapuss.

This led to me going over to cakes to watch the taped FINAL EPISODE of Paradise Hotel (eg: addictive like crack hotel), and prefacing the evening with much shouting of the c-nt word, which I really rarely ever say. There was also definately some air punching and shoe on the floor slamming. I just don't see this class being conducive to a healthy lifestyle for me, and no way in hell am I taking a 2.1 or something stupid like that for a class I don't actually need.
ENG 102, I'm gonna rip yo shit up.

"And now, 50 percent less talking about schoool! 50 percent more talking about explosive stew!"

Not crackpipe, but .

So on the same day that I started demanding that Tiny Roomate call me by my new first name (Mister Lucky), I started thinking about that time I melted all my appliances in the oven on accident. And how the crockpot was so noble and unmeltable. And how I'm never going to be able to eat anything other than burritos and latte's again since I'll be getting my smarts on pretty much every day for the rest of my life. And how there's a portion of an elk's body in my freezer. And this all works out to

Make stew so that you never have to cook again, and yet will not die of Scurvy!

Mister Lucky is a geniush. Which is like a genius but worse at math. and the stew kicks ass, but a good portion of it liberated itself all over the counter.

Go Crockpot!

all mathy smarts, all the time.

Dear Monday and Wednesday Night Chemistry Classes,

I understand your frizzy hair-ed-ness. I accept that you are 99.5 percent nursing students. I embrace your relationship with semi-useful information.

Whats killing me is that you go from Six PM to NINE FUCKING THIRTY. I don't know who you think you're dealing with, but I'm all out of attention by eight, and I get the twitch around eight forty five. Just a heads up.

Love,

Sonya

IN OTHER NEWS:

I just forked over 250 bucks for books. Does anyone have a Graphing Calculator left over from their college days that they'd like to sell me on the cheap? Or, better yet, let me borrow for ten weeks?