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About Life In General

Posted on 06.09.2008 at 14:58
current location:: bathroom floor (don't ask)
listening to:: WAR! What is it good for? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!
I need to stop eating. I need to finish unpacking. I need to find a job.

I need to drop this money-draining obsession with India, also, and to realize that no one will ever work harder than she does. No one will ever be more miserable than she is. No one will ever be more downtrodden than she is. No one will ever be sicker or stronger or more mistreated than she is. People like this piss me off. They have no idea what it means to suffer, and yet they insist that no one can possibly be suffering as much as they are. People who marry guys they hate and take more classes than they can handle, just so they can tell others how immature they are in comparison.

But back to India. I imagine it doesn't smell too good, but with all of the incense and whatnot, there must be a few safe hideaways that smell like holiness and are filled with sitar music. Or something. If I were to run away, I'd run away to India.

You think I don't know that you're smoking? You think I don't know you've got a pack of strawberries in the Band-Aid box in the top drawer? I thought we agreed on this. We'd smoke cloves--only the cloves we stole from Alex, because it's only a habit if you buy your own. Strawberry is for girls who think smoking is pretty. Do you think smoking is pretty? I'm not stealing anymore cloves for you.

I fucking hate my body, even though it's my best asset. I hate it, but I love to make men lose their train of thought, stutter over simple words, look away quickly when they realize they've been staring. You can't buy that kind of power. I just want to find someone who can own me and not complain about being owned, but my body owns all the wrong people. A girl like me is seen and not touched. Fat girls hate me. Even normal girls hate me. I want a bra made of peacock-hued lace. I want matching panties. No one has the guts to ask me out. No one but Creepy Chris. Ew.

Is that enough for today?


Regarding My Friend, Who Can't Admit Defeat

Posted on 02.04.2008 at 21:11
current location:: desk again
listening to:: Forgive Durden
“You want to know how sad I am?”

“How sad are you?”

“After I read through her paper last night, I went to the library and dug up the OED. She spelled intriguing wrong.”


“Well, I’m not that sad. First I used MS Word, and it autocorrected whenever I typed in intrigueing, which means she had to manually add it to her computer’s dictionary spelled that way. I didn’t believe she'd be that arrogant, so I went to the library.”

“Oh, my God.”

“I know.”

“She thinks she’s a better speller than her computer?”

“She probably thinks she’s a better cook, too.”


About Being Voted Off The Island

Posted on 20.02.2008 at 14:47
current location:: my desk
listening to:: roomies jabbering
Hey group—

I’m sorry to hear about your decision, and while I have no intention of reversing it, and in fact would normally not respond to such a means of notification, I found it odd that you gave me permission to use the same subject for an independent project. I can only assume that you have all forgotten that I was the one who initially suggested that we record and analyze our individual experiences at different Super Bowl parties and then compare and contrast the sociological structures and means of verbal and nonverbal communication we observe by gender, race, class, etc. True you voted on it, but that does not make it yours. I’m afraid it is my sad duty to inform you that the report you have prepared for tomorrow morning’s class is my intellectual property, and while it is not copyrighted and you did not quote me word for word, using my research, thesis, and method of observation without allowing me personal acknowledgement or class credit violates the university’s plagiarism policy. I am very sorry it has turned out like this, and I’m sure that if you speak with Dr. Archibald immediately, she will grant you an extension sufficient to allow you to create a new project using your own ideas. Normally, I would not tell you the night before a paper is due that I am denying you credit for it, but since you felt it acceptable to do the same to me, I am confident that you will find no reason to protest my decision. Good luck.


eats souls

With Regards To The Worst Birthday Ever

Posted on 30.09.2007 at 18:06
current location:: my desk
listening to:: Enya
“They’re finally coming for me,” I say.

“No, they’re not,” she replies.

“No, I’m serious. They’re coming for me.”

She heaps more beans onto my plate and I mash them into something that vaguely resembles a taco.

“Well, they owe you fifteen dollars.”

“I know, but I just want this all to end.”

“This will be the best birthday story anyone ever has to tell,” she assures me, folding up her own taco. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I pass for twenty-one, don’t I?”

“Not really.”

“But I am.”

“I know.” She haphazardly sucks up some lettuce before it falls onto the kitchen floor. “That’s why you need a new license.”

“I can buy my own,” I insist. “I don’t see why they’re dragging this all out for so long. I can’t believe he called the district manager.”

“The man cut up your license. They owe you a new one.”

“It’s just such a damn hassle.”

“Sounds like you need a drink.”

“Yeah, but I need you to buy it for me.”


Regarding Wonderwood

Posted on 31.08.2007 at 23:54
current location:: under the desk (again)
listening to:: TV in the other room (again)
She and I have dinner together, which I don’t think we’ve ever done before, and then we decide to go find boys. They, of course, are too busy watching TV and/or playing video games to care, but eventually they come around, and we all decide to make a break for it.

The park closes at dusk, and the sun is already running, but we go anyway, since every other distraction in town requires money or negotiating with homeless people. He relates the happenings of his childhood at this particular park while we play dumbly on the kiddy toys, and then he leads us through the woods and shows us the great tree that was struck twice by lightning, though it has since been cut down and lies in scattered chunks along the path. We get caught in spider webs and somehow manage to fit all five of us in a single tree, but then I (being the closest to the ground) am drafted as the photographer and jump down to get the camera.

There’s a clearing beyond the tennis courts that holds at its center a single tree, and we sit here for quite some time, catching our breath and watching for bats. The sky goes dark, and we get it in our minds to stack every picnic table in sight, making all manner of mountains and forts, and climbing any object that obliges, no matter how tall or rickety. I begin taking more pictures, simply because the flash is the only light source we have to guide us through the dark.

When we at last run out of distractions, we retreat to her apartment and eat popsicles, slowly attracting a crowd of fourteen people, all eager to hear of our adventures and see our photos.

I go home early because I have class tomorrow morning, but the stress has dissipated now that I know I have a place to escape to. I think we should all disappear into Wonderwood someday. I think it would do more good than bad.

fly away

Regarding The Cottage By The Bay

Posted on 29.08.2007 at 15:38
current location:: under my new desk
listening to:: the TV in the living room
If I stand really still and pretend I’m alone, flat little fish come swimming up to me, all around me, between my legs and across my toes. Some keep their wings sucked into their sides and look thin and babyish, and some get all spread out as big as my head, but only half an inch thick at the most. They never blink and they are the color of the rocks and shells beneath the water.

Then my cousins try to catch them, scare them all away, splash ice-cold saltwater in my eyes and mouth, and laugh because apparently this is funny as all hell.

I go as far out as I can while they stay behind clamming. I find crabs and snails and little flounder-like fish, and the seagulls aren’t afraid of me unless I trip and wave my arms for balance. A live clam hits me in the face—too small for my cousins to eat—and I pick it up and put it in one of the sandy patches beneath the waves so it can dig its way to safety.

First they starve them so they will clean all of the sand out of their meat. Then they boil them, dead or alive—because there’s no difference as far as my family is concerned. Then they eat them right out of the shell and tell me I don’t know what I’m missing.

I fracture that night, babbling to my brother in the dark:

“I’m going to go crazy here.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, God. I’m losing my mind.”

“You’ll be alright.”


And I giggle almost maniacally because it keeps me from crying.

The beach smells like dead things, and people seem to enjoy it. I hold the bucket while they hunt clams. I rescue as many as I can. I replace live ones with empty shells I’ve saved up and stored in my pockets. But after a while, it loses all meaning and I’m back out in the bay walking toward the horizon, going as far as I can, trying to escape their laughter.


About My Old Friend, Who Is Different

Posted on 21.07.2007 at 13:21
current location:: kitchen
listening to:: The Offspring
She’s in another play, so we all have to go.

“I told you,” I say, “she’s different.”

“Different happens,” he says.

“But not to her.”

“Since when are you the expert?”

“Since I changed,” I say.

“I thought she changed.”

“No, she’s just different.”

“Go to the play.”

“How do you spell apothecary?”

Why can’t the rest of life be this easy?


With Regards To My Pitiless Saboteur

Posted on 20.07.2007 at 13:37
current location:: bed
listening to:: the neighbors' new puppy barking
I stare at the self. 40-010. It should be here. The receptionist claims that the patient was last seen within a week, so I should have put it away within a week. But it’s not where it should be.

“Maybe someone else put it away,” I suggest weakly.

“No, it should have gone on the shelf,” she replies.

“It just doesn’t sound like something I would do.”

“I’ve pulled a few out before.”

“They must not have been mine.”

She rolls her eyes and continues searching through all of the purple clusters.

My tongue sticks to my teeth for a moment, and my eyes go dim. I can’t remember. I know it will be on the list if it has gone through in the last week—I started the list after nearly getting my head chopped off on Thursday. If it’s two weeks old, I have no way of knowing. I black out again. I have to know. Numbers, letters, colors—three things I do not make mistakes with. Not since I was three years old. Not since those damn flowers.

“I don’t know what else I can do…” I mumble.

“Just go,” the receptionist says, still looking.

So I head back to the computer and finish up the release slips, then take them to the front office and sort them, praying that my nose won’t start bleeding again. My head spins and I want Effexor. Twenties, thirties, teens, more thirties…The other girls talk to me for a while, and it becomes oddly apparent that I’ve never made a mistake with the slips—only with the files.

“Passing strange,” I say. “More like suspicious. Maybe I’m just foggy in the mornings.”

“That’s probably it.”

Then the receptionist shouts, “Here it is!” and brings it over to the apathetic fat lady.

“Was it anywhere near where it should have been?”

“Sort of.”

And my nose starts bleeding.

When I get home, I check the list and find that 40-010 is not on it. I never touched that damn file.

Please, God. I need this job.

eats souls

About That Freaking Job Again

Posted on 12.07.2007 at 13:57
current location:: kitchen
listening to:: nothing at the moment
Not everyone gets paid by the hour. I finally get up to fifteen hours a week and the receptionist sends me home early.

“Why don’t I help you with this?” she says. “Here. I’ll do the files, and you just get caught up on the loose sheets.”

Three hours of work done in one. That little stunt almost got my car repossessed. Then today the bosslady comes and gives me the third degree in a distinctly kindergarten manner:

“Now, I want you just use those cabinets as your desk and put these all in numerical order, and that way you won’t have to go back and forth all day—you can just start on one end and go down to the other.”

And this is more efficient? So she watches me put them in order, then makes me do the same with the loose sheets, then she takes me back upstairs and sets the pile on the preschool chair and watches me as I file.

“Now why did you go back there? Did you put them in the wrong order?”

Yes. Yes, I did. And it didn’t take any longer than it would have in the right order. She continues to watch me until I finish all of the filing for the day—and I know she’s timing me—and she thinks I’m crying because I keep sniffing when really my nose is bleeding because of all the up and down. Another pile comes and she asks if I’ve put them in numerical order.

“These are hearing aid patients.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Hearing aid patients go in alphabetical order.”


More silence.

“…Right?” I ask at length.

“You tell me.”

So I put them in numerical order, then take them over to the hearing aid shelf and file them alphabetically. It takes twice as long.

What’s worse is I know someone is sabotaging me. Things are misfiled—things I’ve never seen, files I don’t have access to—and things are misplaced and missing. I’m OCD. I don’t put things in the wrong order. And if I do, I don’t do it repeatedly for a month. The bosslady thinks I’m mentally challenged, the fat lady thinks I can’t do anything right, the receptionist hates me…I don’t know about the doctors. Most of them I don’t talk to. Two of them like me, one sort of likes me. The bilingual girl likes me and is way too nice to do something this shitty, and the same goes for the new girl.

I need this God damn job.


Regarding Dorothy Stapleton, Who Is Not Dead

Posted on 10.07.2007 at 10:30
current location:: it's a long story...
listening to:: Alanis Morissette
Dorothy Stapleton is not dead—she has made this quite clear.

“I’m not dead,” she said.

“Well, that’s strange,” I said back. “We’ve got your file in the deceased directory.”

“Well, I not dead,” she said.

So I told her I’d go downstairs and look for her file, and she was very offended that she should be in the basement, and I assured her that it was standard procedure for deceased files, and she insisted once again that she was not dead. In the basement, I found two files labeled Dorothy Stapleton, but one had only two pieces of paper in it. Hiking up my slacks and collapsing on the concrete floor, I spread the papers out beneath that damn creepy flickering light that makes satanic shadows on the walls and sorted each page by birth date. I brought the file of the younger Dorothy Stapleton upstairs and asked her to confirm a few things, then gave her doctor her file.

“I’m not dead,” she said.

“I know,” her doctor said.

“But she didn’t.” She pointed to me.

I took the file back and wrote across the front NOT DEAD, then handed it back to the doctor. Then everyone smiled and walked away.

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