this imploding heart

and it makes me shine

Mates of State played with the most un-mates of state-ish bands last night. lots of white boy rap. A boy girl team in matching shirts with lots of screaming and cartwheels. I didn't hate that act, but the boy portion of the act was talking. Not witty banter talking, but "Fuck Yeah! Fuck the Police! Seattle! Fuck the Police!"

Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to get Seattle to rally, but Seattle doesn't really rally at shows. If they did, it would be more like:

"Come on Seattle! Fuck the Police!"

and the call back would come: "Um.........I disapprove of many law enforcement tactics! But I appreciate the service they provide!"

Thank goodness for those 4 underagers from Olympia, or we'd still be back there, listening to that guy go "Come on! Yeah! Motherfucker! Are you fucking ready?! I can't hear you! I SAID are you fucking ready?!!???"

Mates of State was a total delight live, as usual. This was one of the first shows on their tour, so a few things were forgotten or fudged, but I'm always amazed at the complicated cassarole of simple melodies. They're lookin' good. As ever.

After the show, I opted to walk home on order to pick up fruit and milk. Tiny and I can tear through a box of oranges, a bunch of bananas, a bag of grapes and 5 apples in 4 days. After the fruit is gone, she goes straight for the cereal and I start demolishing the pasta and frozen vegetables.

At the grocer, I found myself in the not-too-uncommon but always weird situation of being the only woman in a large group of unknown men.

As I stacked my 10 pounds of satsumas and 10 pounds of other various fruit and milk items at the register, the tittering began.

"Ooh, yeah. Girl's gotta have her ViTE A MIN CEE!" etc.

The funny thing about being in that situation, (girl, 12:30am, Surrounded by 15 men in line at the grocer), is that there are always a few guys who will look at you as if to say "That guy? Talking about your legs? I'm not with him." (sidenote. One of the things I like about Cake is this. In the above situation, he's the guy who looks at you as if to say: "I also like your legs, but I'm not going to embarrass you by saying anything. That guy did it for me. Hi. Don't I have nice arms?")
I looked up at the checker trying to get my orange boxes into a paper bag. He looked at me, and his look said: "I've got to ring up frozen pizzas and budweiser for these assholes all night."

Just you wait, 'enry 'iggins

Usually, I like to start these little entries as a means of getting to a place. Something happened or someone said something brilliant, and I try to write my way around to that place.

Today's big line, unfortunately, was "You don't actually need to punch me for that. I'm already bleeding from an orifice." But I just recently concluded that it might be a little bit too gross. Sorry!

In class last night, I decided that I didn't give a shit what mister sweatervest thought of me, and I started asking questions. When he threw off short answers with no context and looked at me as if to say "Now see? It's so simple! You're retarded, little girl.", I popped up my hand again and said "I'm sorry, can you go back to before that X is negative and walk us through step by step? You keep saying something about this form difference, but you haven't really explained what it is."

and then I felt just like that lady in the movie where she stands on a table with a sign and everybody rallies around her, because the whole damn classroom went

"Yeah!"

And he just stood there for a moment. He had been getting ready to give me the level 3 stink eye, but his face kind of relaxed, and he said "....Oh.........well then...." and proceeded to say the only thing that's made sense so far.

I'm gonna tie a bandana over my head and start a revolution! You bring a sign that reads "Votes for Women!" and I'll bring a sign that says "No Blood for Oil!"

when I see you in the night

Last night I dreamed of gas stations and cocain. Abandoned buildings and bad deals. Polar Bears shedding all their fur and taking over the earth.

But today, it's just tangent, tangent, equation of a circle, bibliography, and a mild sense of panic.

but not as bright as your eyes tonight

Hello lovebirds,

I can't yet tell if this is going to be very, very cranky or not. It may also be very mushy. Either way, you're going to indulge me, because:

Today is my birthday, and I look great.

Tiny bought me this sassy little set, and I wore it around the house all weekend with my giant pink square dancing tu tu. (the one I wore 2 new years eves ago, remember? I fell asleep in it and when I woke up I thought I was paralyzed because the mass of the skirt prevented me from rolling over? Yeah, that one.) Tiny and Cake tried to convince me to wear the combination to Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, and while there's nothing I like more than being dressed all in pink and fluffy, my skewed sense of modesty was, as usual, the victor.

Ted Leo was great, as were The Fitness. The Firey Furnaces didn't really make it happen for me, but a lot of people seemed to be into what they were doing. Jack and his friend from harvardio Liz were at the show, and everybody developed the usual crush on Ted Leo and his Enthusiasm. Cake bought me water and checked my coat, carried my wallet in his back pocket and let me punch him in the arm as hard as I could. It was a great birthday present.

Speaking of which, lets open this brown paper package from grandma.

It's a pocket sized hardback book called Story Wisdom. The card enclosed reads:

Dearest Sonya

Grandma

Over the last few months, I've really come to appreciate having a young and healthy body every single day. I like to move my toes and think, "These are my toes moving. Doesn't it feel good to move your toes?" It does. It feels good to breathe and to run and to be warm and laying down. It feels good to lift heavy things and put my arms around my friends and listen to my parents voices. It also makes me afraid, for the first time in my life, of dying.

(And don't you dare give me all that "You're so young, nothing to worry about, Barring any unforeseen, sure to live a long and blah blah blah". I know all that crap. I've just never cared this much before.)

So I'm feeling kind of displaced and sad, but it's all very possibly chemical. I'm also thinking of cancelling the rollerskating because we won't be able to do it until next weekend, and I just don't see myself being in the mood for it after today. We'll see. Either way, I'll still don my ruby red low top rollerskates tonight after trudging through math, and take myself skating down Summit at top speed until I fall down and end up with my ass in the air. One has to keep one's birthday traditions in tact.

I got the hippie hippie shake

"Cake? I know what I want for my birthday."

He props up on his elbow to look at me.

"I want you to take a single, white, deflated balloon in your fingers, blow it up until it's bigger than your head, and tie it off. Then, I want you to take a giant silver safety pin out of your lapel pocket and pop that balloon. When the balloon pops, I want a thousand pure white butterflies to burst out of it and go flying away."

"You got it, baby. Not only that, but every butterfly will have a tiny pair of castanets held in their little.....their little...."

"Paws."

"...in their little paws, so they make a beautiful little tinkling noise."

"I'd prefer it if you taught them to sing. And you were dressed like an ice cream salesman."

"No problem, baby. Anything you want."

-Two hours later. No one's said anything for 45 minutes or so.-

"And these are the things I want to wear. You be the counter, because it's too cold to take my arms out from under the blankets."

"Wait, what?"

"Hold up your fingers, please! Number one." (he holds up his pinkie.) " A pink wife beater with my big ballerina sqare dancer skirt and some pink frufflebutt underpants. With the layers of lace on the butt like they put on toddlers, and my rollerskates.
Number Two." (he holds up his first finger. Whatever, Slayer.) "A cowboy hat and cowboy boots cut to fit over my rollerskates with a little skirt and a holster with a cap gun.
Number Three." (thumb.) "Red shorts with a white stripe down the side, white soccer socks with red stripes at the top, and a matching sweatband set. And my rollerskates."

--Another Forty Minutes Later--

"Know which one is the best?"

"Which?"

He holds up his first and pinkie fingers.

"Slayer?"

"Man! Why'd you make me count those if you can't remember which one is which?"

"For dramatic effect! Is it the pink one?"

I think we're going rollerskating in White Center for my birthday. Cake is taking me to Ted Leo on Friday and Tiny is making plans for me, seeing as how I hate planning things.

Come skating!

tell her no.

"I have a question about number 55"

"Okay, so first, we set up our equation so that.."

"Wait. I know how to do the problem. What I want to know is.."

"Now now, what does x equal?"

"But, my question is actually..."

"x is the amount invested at 4.5 percent, so...."

It turns out that I'm not allowed to represent fractions as decimals, I'm supposed to multiply everything by 100. And even though large numbers with lots of zeros always cause me more problems than small numbers and decimals, I am not to do it the way that works best for me. And I'm a failure because I don't know all the perfect squares into the ten thousands, so it's not immediately apparent that one thing will turn into another thing.

But the good thing is that I was able to keep from sobbing in his office by taking deep breaths and saying I understood when I didn't. I made it all the way to the apartment before I set my forehead against the doorframe and let my nose run down the wall while digging for my keys. Once inside, I sat down on the floor and took my breath in gasps. Tiny put her arms around me and let me throw my shoes at the ottoman.

I'm not big on crying. Not real crying, anyway. I get weird half sobs out of the attacks of seasonal despair, but not actual crying.

I guess what's so upsetting about this is that I know how to do this kind of work. I understand the steps to these problems, but the new explainations are confusing. So I ask questions. And I get more confused by the way the answer is presented. So I ask again, and you punish me with humiliation.

And I Fucking. Hate. That.

So fuck you and your old math. Your unwillingness to switch over to whatever system everyone else in the math department seems to be using. Fuck you and your implications that I'm stupid.

Sorry buddy. It won't happen again. As my father always says "One time, shame on you, Two times, shame on me." It's unfortunate for both of us, really. I've paid the school to have to find a way to teach this course to myself, and you've lost a really enthusiastic student who was excited about what you might have had to offer. I'll still be there, 2.5 hours on Monday and Wednesday. Still go to study group for 5 hours every Sunday. But you can keep your detrimental bullshit. I don't want it.

Baby, take off your cool

Really baby, you look beautiful tonight. I'd love to take you home and treat you right. It's just....

It's just that I've got all these word problems, see? I know, I know, you say "Didn' you usta be really good at word problems?". And that's just the thing. Yeah, I was real good at em, but the new boss. He's got this system.

The new boss wont help me remember how to put things in a table to find out what amount was invested at what percent. The new boss likes it when I can make up problems without using a formula. The new boss beats me with a sweatervest when I can't.

So you see, baby? I can't take you dancing and then whisper sweet nothings into your delicious smelling hair! I gotta find out how many feet this guy has to walk along the boardwalk and how many feet he has to walk on the beach to reach his umbrella in exactly 4.5 minutes! Doesn't have a thing to do with you, sweetness. I fear the sweatervest.

message in a bottle

Dear Martin Luther King Jr,

Happy Birthday (observed) To You,
Happy Birthday (observed) To You,
Happy Biiiiiirth-day Doctor Martin Luther King Juuun-ior,
Happy Birthday (observed) To You.

I got you a Connect Four set and bucket full of hope.

beat beat, beat your heart out

This morning, when I woke up, I discovered that I had a hickey the size of my thumb, and dark as a blackberry stain at the base of my neck, and all I had to wear was a boat neck shirt.

It should be noted that my skin turns color when you touch it at all. If I scratch my stomach, there will be long red marks on it for the next 4 or 5 hours. But I don't remember any neck kissing whatsoever in my recent past. Either Cake is playing mean tricks in his sleep, or it appeared of it's own volition.

Dear Hickie,

As we are fast approaching my 23rd year, I hope you are a sign. I hope you are a sign of my missed youth catching up with me and my future opening it's arms to kiss with tongue.

How did this happen?

Shit, do you guys remember when I didn't even have a TV? And then I bought the 10 inch black and white at a garage sale for 3 bucks, and we were inseparable from 5pm to 6:30 every day?

With the arrival of the Big (27 in) Color (mostly) Television, Tiny and I have really been enjoying curling up on my bed to watch syndicated sitcoms and chatter about our favorite topics. (Favorite topics include: socializing as a part of business strategy, Fuck-Marry-Kill, what fictional outfits we would wear to what fictional events, and working models of communism)

Yesterday, I opened our mailbox to find an advertisement. The deal was too good to believe. I asked Tiny if she was in, and we called Steve the CS guy.

Ladies and Gentlemen, we are getting cable tv. and it is going to be awesome.

I hope that if I found the strength to walk out, you'd stay the hell outta my way.

Here is what I'm going to tell you about Seasonal-A' don' wanna get outta bed, a' wanna Die-disorder. Also known as S.A.D or JANUARY.

You think its a fake, but then it sneaks up on you and robs you blind.

For example, most weekdays I spend the morning chatting up the whole freaking planet. Lots of people call, lots of people ask questions, I sit around and behave in a chipper manner. Cake and I talk about nothing for a half hour or so. It's nice.

Lately, however, people still demand things of me, and I still have to act nice, but inside, I think to myself, "Self, this is your crappy crappy day. Another crappy day in your crappy life. Another crappy day in your crappy life in this crappy world. There is nothing you can do about all this crappyness, miss crappity sunshine."

And that crap just aint true. I do all kinds of things I like on a pretty regular basis. I have hot and amicable Tiny, who is always willing to hunker down and do some nothing, but is also always willing to attend totally retarded crap with me. I have Cake, who has won me over by dancing and singing on demand. I have a miriad of great friends who would probably be into doing something if everyone weren't feeling like crap.

But everyone is.

Generally, it's not an oppressive kind of crappiness. Just a general, "Man, stuff is crap." But sometimes, I find myself in line at the drugstore, and I just want to sit the fuck down right there amoungst the deodorants, pop open an uncooked package of ramen, and watch the epi-lady infomercial play over and over at the end of the hair and hair removal aisle while weeping quietly.

Or, while taking a walk downtown, I want to push and punch pretty much everybody. Like a tidal wave. Little individual tidal waves.
PUSH mister pizza man and
PUSH PUNCH miss banana republic outifit and
PUSH group of touring Japanese businessmen and
PUNCH PUSH lady who blocks the whole escalator with her nordstrom bags and talks on her cell phone, the entire stairway totally clear in front of her stupid bitchass nose.

The only people exempt from Punching and Pushing are babies.
Babies are the saving grace of SAD because, for some reason, they get cuter, fatter and happier the crappier I feel. (Thanks, babies. While you may grow up to be annoying adults, you're providing a much needed service in your youth. ) I've sunk to openly cooing at babies on TV, just to get a little rush of not-crappityness.

In winters past, I've waded through the crappiness by drinking burbon in the bathtub for a few months at a time. This year, my oppressive fear of pre-calculus and my unwillingness to uncoil from the feotal position have prevented this therapy. So this year, I've decided that the me who feels like crap and the me who does things I enjoy are 2 seperate people. One who only gets to feel like crap, and who is allowed to speak only when spoken to. One who does The Twist on demand and knows that eventually, the sun will come out, and every Crapface will turn back into a Hotpants.

Will the math never end?

Dear old Pre-calculus teacher in the sweatervest you wear over your bike clothes:

First and foremost, you make a better door than a window. You're clipping along at top speed. I'm trying to write down what you're doing and comprehend at the same time, and half the time, you stand really close to the board and write right in the center of your body, so none of what you say makes sense. You're like a magician. Say some magic nonesense words, jump back, and TA DA! Math! "What? You say you don't understand? How can you not understand that?"

I know it's incomprehensible to you that I wouldn't naturally understand why the H cancels out after all that, because you've been doing this for the last 40 years. There is nothing more apparent to you in the world than that canceled H.

I, however, have only been able to confidently say that 6*7=42 for about 7 months. I still subtract by counting the distance between numbers on my fingers. I can complete the square, but not if you don't call it completing the square. I don't just naturally remember the formula for finding the height of a right triangle. And your handwriting and organizational skills are like a poop burrito to a starving man. Messy, disgusting, and most of all, frusterating.

But all in all, I think you're a good guy. You're willing to give extra help. You spend time answering questions. But here's your warning. When I'm trying this hard and you snap at me for not being able to follow, I might spontaneously vomit and faint.

I'm not joking.

Love,

sonya

I don't know whether it's beauty that creates confidence or confidence that creates beauty.

I know beautiful people. Beautiful people who have no doubt that they are beautiful. They have other doubts and insecurities about themselves, like anyone does, but those doubts do not change the fact that they know they are beautiful.

Now.

In my life I've been told I'm a pretty girl. I've been told this by people with opinions that I generally trust. However, while I'm willing to accept that this may be true, I'm also willing to accept that it's not. Or that it's only partially true. I cannot, with full confidence, say "You will find me attractive. You will probably do what I want you to because you find me attractive."

On the other hand, the beautifuls I mentioned earlier seem to be perfectly comfortable assuming that beauty will tip the odds in their favor. They're fine with getting things simply because they're beautiful, and they seem assured people will go along with it.

(I should note here that I don't think that kind of confidence is a negative characteristic. I may have been taught that it was, and I'm thankful for that, as it forces resourcefulness. but I don't actually think there's anything bad about it.)

Whether or not those beautful people and I are actually beautiful could be argued. We can always say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Relative. Not a constant. but that's not my question. My question is about where that confidence came from. What came first, the beauty or the confidence?

Are you confident in your beauty?

Honey,

If you look in the freezer, you'll find a ziplock of lasanga. Put it in the microwave for 7 minutes, maybe stir it a bit, it should be a good dinner.

I met a man on the street today selling parakeets. He asked to kiss my hand but I turned him away. So many birds sitting around him! I didn't like it at all, the way they peck and flutter. I tried to escape politely, but I was eventually forced to disctract him by throwing the contents of my overcoat pockets into the air and making a run for it.

If you're going to the store, I need a new comb, pen, handkerchief and housekey. I seem to have lost them somewhere. Also, I broke the downstairs window. Please don't be too sore about it, love. I broke the smallest one I could find.

You may have also noticed that I've rigged the treadmill to the turntable. The belt on the turntable broke halfway through Peter and the Wolf today, but I was able to use the motion of the treadmill to move the table. I've found the perfect speed and incline on the treadmill in order to play the record. It took me a few hours. Please don't touch it.

I've gone out smiling, and won't be home until late. I taped the Joy of Painting marathon for you, if you don't have other plans tonight. There are cookies on a sheet in the dishwasher, for safe keeping. Don't start the diswasher without taking them out first. Don't touch the treadcord player. Drink all the milk you want, I'm worried about your joints.

with love,

Margaret.

Thanks, homeless guy.

Walking down Pike toward first, we pass the wig shop, the pawn shop, the rough section of the block. He has probably been standing within 20 feet of his current location for most of the day.

"Girl, you got the prettiest legs in Seattle."

"Thanks"

"...And you got the blondest hair."

I want you to want me

Sleeping alone is both luxurious and totally crappy.

Last night, the rerun of 'That 70's Show' was the one where Fes gets dumped for being needy and decides to be mister un-needy. Lots of things happen, but in the end, the dumper decides she likes the new Fes and wants him back. Does he go back? No! He doesn't need her!

But there's also a portion where he's talking to the waiter, saying "Now, I don't NEED you to give me these fries. I'm only taking them because they're delicious."

And I think this is a poignant differentiation.

I try hard not to be needy. I don't need to hear from the object of my affection for a few days. I don't need to for us to sleep together. I'm fine with being out of each others hair.

But that doesn't mean I'm not wanty.

Does wanty equal needy? I want to hold your hand, but I don't need to hold your hand. I hold your hand all the time.

Maybe that's it. If I didn't hold your hand so much, I'd need to hold it more, but situations being as they are, this amount of hand holding is fine.

I sent a letter I hope it finds you

Nothing against the Japanese, but I've only written 2 papers on anti-japanese sentiment in america during world war II, and I'm totally sick of it. I thought I wouldn't be, but I am.

and maybe my invisi-professor is dead. Invisible and dead, because I haven't seen hide nor tail of that last assignment I mailed in. That's not corrospondence, that's just me. mailing stuff. to no one.

So if you have any keen ideas for a 14 pg research paper, send 'em my way. Anything having to do with current events or ecology will be rejected immediately. That's just not my bag of rocks.

Snow Day

I suppose if you've not yet won my heart, you've at least won my collarbones, eyelashes, and wisdom teeth.

You called to tell me that 100 people or more had blocked off Denny Hill, and were sledding down the avenue on anything available.

After I slide down on a dog food bag, a borrowed sled, and a big sheet of plastic, I hike back up to you, covered in snow and laughing.

"I hit the curb and my apple came out of my pocket! I found it, though."

"I knew this was up your alley. You have an apple?"

I'll give you my pocket apple any day, champ.

Cinderella in her snow shoes

OoHoo, you guys! I just saw one of the accordion busses jackknife slightly, and the back end followed the front end sideways for a block. It was just like Tetris.

I love snow in Seattle. For being as northwestern as we are, nobody seems to know how to deal with an inch or two of coverage.

In other news, I made a snow angel in a parking lot on my walk to work this morning. I suggest you do the same. Even if your butt gets wet, you're only alive and mobile for a limited time.

I've been in school one year today.

Alright babushes, I'm starting pre-calculus, thinking about dropping that Medieval History class and kicking my own ass into gear on this research project. I'm also broke as a joke. I just spent sixty bucks on birth control, and 120 bucks on One Textbook. (stupid motherfucking textbook people! burninate in thatched roof cottages!) I sold 2 dresses, 4 skirts, and 3 shirts this weekend, and my mother is sending me a benjamin, but my savings account is shot and I want to be able to afford to go to a fucking play if I feel like it. Frenchman helped me apply for another credit card.

and I'm annoyed with my writing. I showed Cake something I wrote a year ago last night, and I realized something about myself.

What I want to write, really, is this. I want to take an emotion that everyone experiences and explain in really different way. I want people to empathize with the frusterations of a girl building rockets under a fire escape in exchange for re-assurance. I want to convey a sense of discomfort with ones self with a morning realization that you are not what you always thought you were, you are a killer bee in a human body.

and I'm frusterated that I havent been doing that kind of writing much these days. I need a minute to get my footing. I'll keep talking about what stupid little things happen and whatever comes to mind, as per usual, but I'm working toward something better. Hang in there, champ.

Additionally, should the money fairy be reading this, Come back, money fairy. Come back.

Love,

Sonya

you're a bluebird

In the First 24 Hours of 2004, I

1: was given the absolutely heavenly gift of fireworks

2: kissed on the sidewalk

3: drank champagne out of a random bottle handed to me on the sidewalk

4: changed my clothes 7 times

5: drank 3 cups of coffee

6: brushed my teeth twice

7: pooped. (eewww! Ha Ha Ha!)

8: accidently gave Cake a black eye.(also, Ha Ha Ha! but I felt bad, really. It wasn't my fault, either way.)

9: did it.

10: had lunch with Josh and Trixie with special guests, Chris and Stephanie.

11: saw 'The Triplets of Bonneville' with Tiny and Jack.

12: bought some fruit and cheese.

13: caught a snowflake on my tongue.

14: listened to a Bill Cosby record.

15: baked a batch of cookies.

16: told my mother I loved her.