57.0

I'm meant to be writing something different. I'm meant to be writing a personal narrative. We all know how much I love getting to work early on my soon-to-be-best-selling autobiography, right?
Right.

Personal narratives are glorified journal entries. Double-spaced recreations of first kisses, periods and dates in Times New Roman font meant to reassure the rest of the world that they are indeed human and things couldn't possibly be worse for them than they are for you.
I hate personal narratives.
Anyone who writes a personal narrative automatically comes off as pretentious even though I know they probably aren't. I think, "What's so God damned great about your life that you have to share it with the world? Oh pardon, you're not even gracious enough to share like a normal person. No, your experiences are so much more valuable than the rest of ours. Valued at $35 at the Barnes and Noble to be specific."
Yeah...

What the Hell am I supposed to write about?

56.0

Dear etch-a-sketch,
Dear shadow of the internet,
Dear cyber closet,
Dear digital corner...
Whichever you prefer to be called,
I miss you. But I have nothing for you.

I feel like a negligent parent. Or better yet, a mother who has to give up her child for adoption. Because, how is she supposed to care for a baby when she can barely care for herself?
I barely get through the day. I'll read a few sentences of Emerson, get restless, leave on a walk to nowhere, come home, and somehow the sun is still in middle of the sky, laughing at my sorry excuse for a pass time and my horribly sun-splotched shoulders.
There are far too many times when I want to be silent for days and then the following week I won't shut up. I crave the company of others, but it always leaves me unsatisfied... like fine dining. It's lovely, but I can't seem to be able to appropriately appreciate it. It's this dissatisfaction that leads me to my last resort: my brain. But lately, it's been about as intriguing as a group of senile octogenarians playing canasta. 


I'm sure it's during times like these that people turn to religion. I can't imagine why. The last thing I would seek comfort in is an intimidating-looking book with passages that hold more ambiguity than fortune cookies. Actually, when expressed in that fashion it sounds rather refreshing...


You've no idea the amount of effort that was required to type these few inarticulate and nonsensical lines. Forgive me?

55.0

I feel like my head is made out of paper.
I'm flimsy,
easily manipulated,
and apathetic for the most part.

I could care less
if someone were to fold me
into a plane
destined for nose dives,
or a boat
to be melted in the bathroom sink.

If I were left crippled
and crumpled
inside a waste bin,
I'd probably be thinking of
avocado sandwiches
and freshly brewed tea.

If I were left at the bottom
of the porcelain pond,
I'd probably think of
the reprehensible amount of money
that I owe to my public library.

If someone were to take
a pencil or a pen
to my face and scribble
an address,
a love note,
profanity
or dogma
It'd all be the same to me.

I'd dutifully display
whatever markings
come my way.
Reluctance and reverence
are tinted the same.

54.0

A few days ago I had the scare of my life.
I attended the midnight showing of an all too popular superhero movie and managed to arrive home (without waking my parents) at around 4 in the morning, wake up 2 hours later to go to school and be conscious throughout my classes.

Let me quickly explain something about my sleep patterns.

There comes a time during every instance that I've tried to function on GMT when I feel my eyelids are being weighed down by lead lashes and my head begins to subconsciously bob to the beat of imaginary reggae music. It is the moment when I walk in and out of dreams on accident and mutter something nonsensical. Now, after that moment, one of two things happens. Either I surrender my consciousness for 9 hours OR I muscle through it and the turbulent waves of falling into sleep disappear. When the latter occurs, there is no hope for Mr. Sandman. None whatsoever. I spend the rest of the day with as fresh of a face as I can muster and fall asleep at a more regular hour the following night.
That did not happen a few days ago.

I decided to take a nap at about 5 o'clock PM. It was still light outside and I was still in my school uniform. I figured my nap would only last about 40 minutes. I woke up and everything was dark. The wind slapped against my blinds and ruffled the magazine clippings on my walls. It seemed the house was only inhabited by the refrigerator and me. I lit up my phone to see a lovely 03:25 blinking in the corner. I slept into the next day.

WHAT. THE. HELL?
How could my body betray me so?? I just slept through a day and now I was stuck on GMT again.
It's times like these when I wish I had foreign friends I could speak with to fill the vacant hours. Or a car and a place to go. But seeing as I had only myself I went on a 3 o'clock jog. I'd say it was fantastic but it wasn't. It was just cold.

53.0

To The Hidden Ones:

Squalid and tired,

feeble and frail.

I’m sorry.

I really am.

But I don’t think you care, do you?

All you care about are your ephemeral friendships

your exiguous surface area

and the desire to disappear between two drops of rain.

My apologies

(or anyone else’s for that matter)

don’t make a dent in the least.

The blow of a god

shrinks instantaneously

upon caressing your aura

50 miles in circumference.

Bat your stiff eyelashes.

Stroke your layered hair.

Twist your limbs

oh so seductively

your existence teases the world.

52.0

Chance encounters. They're all I've ever wanted in life.

I've seen so many movies where the main character is fortunate enough to make acquaintance with wizards, talking animals, guitar gods and poets by simply bumping into them at a serendipitous moment. Ok, I get that movies have a LOT of serendipity in them, but it's not completely unrealistic. That's how the rest of the world is. One well planned coincidence after another. Some connections occur as if God just rolled two people like dice and they happened to fall in the same coffee shop. It's a constant gamble. Worry not, I'm not one of those people who leaves absolutely everything up to chance, but it has to be understood that human lives only take up a corner of a corner of the gargantuan mesh of what is not only the world, but the universe.

The autonomy people have can't take credit for everything. Which isn't bad, per se. It's quite beautiful. The idea that each life is a result of another. People are held at the mercy of each other even though they can't see all of the indirect influence that goes on. Especially with chance encounters. To think that meeting someone could be affected by promotions, funerals, late-night cravings and stalled cars is insane! What stands between me meeting a wizard is timeliness. That magical instance in time when the actions of two people are synchronized. When Neil Gaiman just happens to want some coffee at the same time I do. When one decides to do laundry next to a soul mate.

51.0

I'm really bad at condensing things. Which sucks because that's my stylistic goal as a writer but whatever. I've got 10 years to work at it.

Anyway, I'm in between pass times at the moment. Trying to learn a simple song on the guitar and reading various exerpts of works that I should read completely. I'm switching back and forth in hopes that it will get my brain to think about something else other than my poor excuse for a research paper that I had the audacity to turn in... Whatever. This is all just material for my memoir.

I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday. I have a love-hate relationship with that place. Love because whenever I go there I end up staying for 4 hours at minimum just reading. Hate because they debunked Borders and everything there is so expensive. I came across a Billy Collins book and a Kurt Vonnegut novel that I just HAD to have but decided against it. I don't like spending my parents' money for anything superfluous (even though one can NEVER have too many books). I have guilt issues when it comes to anything financial.

This post had an initial subject but I forgot it. This is what happens when I let thoughts fester for too long. Either that or I've been eating a lot of ginger lately. Ginger makes you forget things. But I haven't consumed any ginger. Not even ginger tea! So I think I'm just very slow and forgetful. It may be my iron deficiency. I could always blame that.

See, that's one up side to the world today is one is never to far away from an excuse. From some magnificent external force that impedes you from doing whatever it is you're just too incompetent to do. Nothing is ever your fault. But excuses don't really serve their band-aid-like purpose. I always feel that they emphasize incompetence instead of mask it. I try so hard not to use them but everyone gives in at least a little.

So while I'm on the subject: I'm sorry. This was going to be more interesting but it didn't end up that way.

I blame excess ginger and lack of iron.

50.0

Hiatus...
Right.

That's always a nice word, isn't it? My favorite euphemism as a matter of fact.
Aside from the calls of my kettle and the clink of my fork there hasn't been too much action in the household of My Desk & Co.

...
I've nothing more to report.
Not like I need to, but you know... It's my 50.0 post so it seems like it should be significant in some other not numerical aspect.
Do I have anything I'm thinking of?
No.
Besides poetry, drugs, graphic novels and cereal I've nothing to report.

I lie.
I have so much to report.
I just don't think I'd do justice to any of the things I mentioned.

Like poetry for examp--
Nope. We're done with that.

Or drugs....
Nope. Done with that one too.

Graphic Novels:
I found a cool French one called "Epileptic" that vaguely reminds me of my little brother (even though he's never had epilepsy). I'm infatuated with European comics and this one takes the cake. Damn Europeans. They have such a strange talent of being personal but not pretentious. Slightly tortured but never whiny. Extremely witty and hardly dull. Mr. David B. is phenomenal.
Speaking of art I have no idea why I'm in honors art. Actually, I most certainly do. It's because I wanted to have just one more period in the day with a couple of people. Unfortunately, the agitation I get from the subject and my sorry excuse for talent impacts me more than the good company.
I drew a lung today.
A pastel lung.
I was quite proud of it. I still am.

It's really interesting because I just noticed that I love to indent and press "Enter" over and over again, creating as much negative space as I can on this little bloggy thing.
When I write on notebook paper I could never do that.
I despise margins, blank spaces, indentations. I seek them out and fill them with things. Doodles, thoughts, words, ANYTHING. I just never liked to see a blank spot in my notebook.
Granted, that little quirk made for MASSIVE illegibility so it's highly unlikely that I'll ever be able to decipher any of my past story ideas ever again, but that's all right. I'm getting better... I think.

49.0

I'd be a terrible mother. Or anything that involves taking care of something else. I can't provide constant surveillance or concern. Well, lie. Sometimes I can but it tires me very quickly. I don't think I'd be able to handle even a goldfish.

It's windy outside. The trees are wildly waving at me. Not very benignly, but not ominously either. They're just convulsing, I guess. That's quite all right. We all have those days. Even trees.

The last of the "autumn" leaves dance with flying plastic bags and faded pamphlets. We get a lot of litter here.

I wonder if the tint of snow will be the same 20 years from now.
It'd be sad if it were grey.
Because then you wouldn't get that fluorescent effect at night that you get with white snow. The moon reflects off of the white ground and everything's clear as day. Well, that's only when there aren't clouds in the sky. But even then it gives a frosted effect that I really like.
Sometimes I pretend I'm in Russia.
Or Norway...
For some reason, pretending I'm in another country makes things seem a bit more exciting.
I don't complain about being a simpleton. It's most practical anyway.

48.0

Yesterday night was fantastic.
I'm so transfixed by movies. I love them. So it's no wonder that I anxiously count down the days in February until the fateful awards ceremony of red carpets and golden statuettes. I follow it religiously.

I'd write more about it but I can't seem to muster the words. No description seems to fit the moment very well. There's just this culmination of white teeth, sweaty palms, glamour, talent and nostalgia all crammed into one theater. Simply watching it through the television leaves me dazzled. The amount of people crammed into that one theater never fails to amaze me. The artists, the musicians, the cameramen, the technicians, the writers, the actors---
All storytellers.
A profession that has lasted for centuries on end.

There's this generic idea of the movies involving popcorn, coca-cola, couples making out in the back of the theater and mothers having to constantly step outside to calm their screaming infants.
A waste of time and money. Especially now with movie tickets going for almost $9 a pop.

But popcorn is the last thing on my mind when I think of movies. And sometimes, money is back there too.

Because honestly, people pay good money to get a high on whatever. It doesn't even have to be illegal. But the point is that people are easily addicted to that strange sensation that they can't really explain and want to feel it over and over and over again in the hopes of being able to properly analyze it and know what it is.
People go broke trying to re-create these feelings and experiences when in reality all you need is the movie basement in the library.

How else can you conjure spinal shivers that come with a Shakespearean monologue?
The visual spectacles leaving your jaw weak and your eyelids peeled to the edge of their sockets?
The euphoria of an orchestra?
How can you substitute the madness,
the melancholy,
the ecstasy?
This emotional cacophony can be found through the silver screen.

Each little theatrical jewel is a portal to these potent emotions that we harbor somewhere deep in our brains and our hearts. It feels fantastic to have the work of someone else take your mind and soul and distort it, color it, turn it inside out, break it, and put it back together again.





I'd fix this, and I'd write more but I don't want to.
I can never finish thoughts. But that's all right, I guess.

47.1

French cuisine:
Elegantly minimalist.
Exiguous yet satisfactory.
And each bite takes a minimum of 3 minutes to be properly enjoyed.

I want to write with the quality of French cuisine.

47.0

I won't talk about the weather today even though it's one of my favorite things to talk about. Nope, the weather isn't a small talk topic for me. I like the weather because of the colors that come with it. I really like colors. Ever since reading The Book Thief I've been paying more and more attention to colors and the fact that everything in the world ever has a little palette of its own. It all makes me feel so synesthetic.
I've added considerable amounts of Chopin and Debussy to my life's soundtrack (Which, mind you, usually consists of nothing more than periodic shrieks and reprimands followed by the soft hum of a computer or fridge. And hugs. Lots of hugs). Talented people always give me goosebumps. It's kind of ridiculous. It's like an allergic reaction but not really.
Don't you love irrelevant analogies? I do.

46.0

scene: Granny's*.

I never had too big of a reason to be excited whenever we went to my granny's place. Which makes sense seeing as it's a downstairs apartment a little smaller than the main floor of my house (which is quite small itself).
Mom says we go there to enjoy each other's company.
Otherwise known as slouching on my grandparent's floral couches watching whatever it is the rabbit-ears of the TV happen to pick up.
Sometimes we sneak into the kitchen for an animal cracker or a glass of juice.
Sometimes I sit on their stoop and do my homework.
Most times I fall asleep.

I drove us there today. And my mom didn't freak out until my parking job which is considerable improvement.
We came in and each distributed our quota of hugs and kisses to my grandparents and my uncle and proceeded to take our spots on her couches.
The evening plateaued there.

While I watched Cosmo Kramer (the only one WORTH watching on Seinfeld), my granny ranted about her feet to my mom and my grandpa was... Well, I don't know what my grandpa was doing. However, it's highly likely that he was sitting in his corner of the living room the whole time.I just can never tell if he's sleeping or not. Even magnified behind his huge glass lenses his eyes are lost behind saggy eyelids. A token of his age and wear. He'd occasionally ask what we were watching and what Jerry and his gang were saying, but other than that he migrated from the kitchen back to his chair again.

My uncle took up all of the long couch. His feet were propped up on the opposite armrest. His activity was limited to sporadic guffaws at the glowing screen. One time he was feeling really energetic and managed to crack a couple of dirty jokes at a mattress commercial.
They weren't as funny as his commentary on PBS kids programs.

But that's my granny's house. Everything revolves around the TV there. I don't know what we'd do without it.
We might stop visiting them altogether.
Or we'd probably pick someone else's house to crash on Fridays.









*I was always curious about the fact that even though men are the ones associated with ownership and whatnot I would never think to refer to these places as "Grandpa's" or "dad and mom's." ... Just a thought.

45.0

Night time is nice. Early morning is nice too.
Mainly because it's the only time when sitting alone watching traffic doesn't seem idle at all. In fact, I think it should be encouraged. Not just watch traffic but watch anything. I recently walked up to my old neighborhood (literally 2 minutes away from my current dwelling location) and sat on the faded mural of wildflowers painted by the Orem Junior High class of 1990. It's on a reasonable hill, so I got a good view of the lake. It's quite nice when the sky is a perfect blend of peach and slate-blue. It was nicely accompanied by my mint-lemongrass tea in my owl mug.

Now that I think of it, that was a strange morning.
I woke up strangely early, and instead of eating my fridge or continuing my "Arrested Development" phase, I made myself a mug of tea, grabbed a coat and my bag and headed out. I had a strange feeling that something was going to happen. Maybe someone would be at my doorstep. Maybe I'd get a spontaneous visit from a friend. But I headed out and nothing happened. No one was there. The road was empty and the houses were quiet except for the soft murmur of furnaces.
It was a bit of a disappointment to my subconscious desire of being swept away by a phantom friend. Oh well. You get used to those disappointments after a while.

The sun hadn't fully risen by the time I was finished lake-watching either.
I woke up very early.

44.0

After a crepe lunch accompanied with congenial conversation I found myself being transported from town to town and plaza to plaza on a teenage whim. To the beat of Senegalese rap and profane cackles emitting from the passenger seat, I spent the whole day in movement. Constantly looking out the window to the blurring "suburb-scape" or perpetually walking around the perimeter of any and every hole in the wall that made so much as a blip on our radar.
We spoke too loudly.
We ignored the admonishing signs (laminated or not) and came into contact with as many breakables as we could.
We saw Steinbeck for $1.50.
The whites of my eyes almost leaked from the sockets.
My hands were matte with household dust collected from the old woolen sweaters placed on musty racks.
Sometimes we didn't speak too much.
But it was fine. We let the veteran couches do the talking for us. Having them imply their biographies to us through their stained threading.
When we were finished the clouds had eaten the sun. Once home I got my things through the door only to put on my sneakers and head out again about half a mile up the road to an overlooked haven.
I fell in love just a little bit.
Walking home with 12 rich and warm ounces coating my stomach, we talked about a variety of things using the same 3 or 4 words over and over again. It gets our point across, however reprehensible our method may be.

And now I'm here.
Trying to record this rare pleasantry I've experienced in the past 10 or 11 hours. I'm not very good at recording anything. I even suck at taking photographs. But something is better than nothing.

43.0

Why am I thinking so much?
I really don't have to, you know. I really don't.
So why do I?

It's times like these when I wish I wouldn't care. I wish I could be satisfied with mediocrity. But alas, I can't. I'm cursed. I can never do anything because I'm so wary and selective.

I envy people who have the power to be rid of a burden with a shrug of their shoulders. I envy people who carry themselves with all the security and assurance in the world. I envy those who have that "the devil may care" disposition.
I wish I had that.
But I don't.

I guess I better get back to work, huh?

42.0

I got my first real F today.
It felt strange.
For a minute I felt my face flare crimson with shame. I felt my eyes, irritated by the red marks, well up with tears. I didn't dare open my mouth. I wasn't sure of what would come out.
Yeah, that's right.
For a minute I was in 4th grade again.

But nervous chuckles mitigate some of the tension. And soon, I didn't have to look at the dreadful stains of graphite anymore.

And then I remembered:
I've grown up in the past 6 years.
I have too much dignity to cry over the agricultural revolution.

41.0

I just realized that I'm not good at this.
Or that I'm tired of it.
Either way, I'm going to stop writing the way that I have been.
It nauseates me and summons migraines.

I care too much. What's wrong with me?
Can't I just wear blue and black on my palms and be fine with it?
I know I used to.
I used to be funny, too.
God, I'm turning into my father.
Well this is ironic. Quite theatrical as well.
But don't get me wrong. I don't part-time as a closet diva contrary to popular belief. And by popular belief I'm referring to the judgement of my multiple moods upon each other.
Yeah, I can be a mess. But don't worry, I save it for my desk.
I guess this is where things get real and much closer to the actual level of eloquence I'm lucky enough to scrounge up.

Well, there you have it.
Take me or leave me!

40.0

I am ruined.
By the Kleenex,
The sight of an LED screen.
By the coffee I poured in my mug
And spilled into the sky,
While my eyelids disappeared.

Quick to be kindled by
Streams of electric consciousness,
I am wanton to shut
Down my world-in-a-box.
For as soon as I do,
I’m left anhedonic.

Ineffably idle
In the presence of
An astronomical to-do list
Stuck to my fridge by
a lonely lighthouse magnet
old as the expired yogurt inside
Bought by the incorrigible soul
I thought I left behind.

39.0

Hibiscus juice
and Tamarind paste
slices of ginger
saffron colored lace

and the trails of dirt
specked with beer glass
and aluminum
Sunk into the ground
by bare feet
and sandals.

Amidst the chime of the vendors,
the unintelligible haggles,
the hands patting dough
for the dormant stoves

men in visors and sunglasses
women in khaki Bermudas.
Tourist pastels
mingle with coppers and golds,
with the fragrance
the flavor
the rhythm
the heat.


A motley market
in the late afternoon.

38.0

My granny's pretty great.
She always smells like baby lotion and clean linens. Her speech is made of cloves that are coated in honey. And though her eyes may be too fatigued to read the small print of a contract, they never fail to read the subtle marks of expression on my grandfather's heavily marked face.

Though the trigger to her tears is sensitive, her sadness never suffers a drought. And I think it's safe to say that her heart is bulging out from her rib cage.

37.0

I know why authors tend to have such odd handwriting. At least, I know why I tend to have such odd handwriting. Not that I consider myself an author, oh no. I'm not feeling THAT presumptuous today. Sorry to disappoint.:)

Anyway, it's pretty simple. A notebook page is not just a piece of paper. It is an incubator for a whole world. For a whole scenario. It's like growing sea monkeys only with a pen and it's much harder and it turns out cooler.

But, that scenario or story is still fragile. Nothing more than a fetus of a thought. It's squishy and under baked, and even though it's out in the open it's still sensitive to light. You have to protect it, right? From what? Well, from wandering eyes, of course!
See, that's the thing with writing in close proximity to other people like say, oh I don't know, a cramped 10th grade English classroom. Yeah.
You know those spots where you're talking about the transition of agricultural processes during the 1800s and people just start looking around to find something better to pay attention and they just happen upon your strange poem about dandelions and dementia.
God forbid that they read it and give you those oh-so-dreaded words of "What. The Hell?" to which you're now quite accustomed to responding with a harsh "Nothing."

Yeah, in order to avoid that horrendous scenario you have to disguise your writing in the most indecipherable chicken scratch anyone has ever laid their eyes upon. Then you write worry-free under a cloak of illegibility.



(this is a page from Neil Gaiman's American Gods notebook)

36.1

I never thought that it would
come to this
I don't know how we reached this
precipice.

I'd come to think that you were
just a brat.
And I'll bet you'd come to think that I was
a negligent prat

I hated you and
you hated me
and all my sorrowful attempts at being
motherly.

You'd scream and kick,
I'd slap your face,
we'd both go to our rooms
pray to our pillows
so that we could leave this place.

36.0

Is there a problem with your head?
Do you need some tears to shed?
Come with me, I'll lend you three
I've got underneath my bed.

Do you spend your time on sidewalks
that border busy streets?
Are your best friends dark and Doppler?
Do you have a place to sleep?
Do you ever want to sleep?
Are you coughing just because
it stops you from sobbing in your sleeve?

35.0

Story:

Once
upon
a
time
Richard Nixon
lived
in
a
casino
with
George W. Bush
and
they
ate
each other.

THE END.


written by my brother and myself.

34.0

Vals

Yo toco el odio como pecho diurno,
yo sin cesar, de ropa en ropa vengo
durmiendo lejos.

No soy, no sirvo, no conozco a nadie,
no tengo armas de mar ni de madera,
no vivo en esta casa.

De noche y agua está mi boca llena.
La duradera luna determina
lo que no tengo.

Lo que tengo está en medio de las olas.
Un rayo de agua, un día para mí:
un fondo férreo.

No hay contramar, no hay escudo, no hay traje,
no hay especial solución insondable,
ni párpado vicioso.

Vivo de pronto y otras veces sigo.
Toco de pronto un rostro y me asesina.
No tengo tiempo.

No me busquéis entonces descorriendo
el habitual hilo salvaje o la
sangrienta enredadera.

No me llaméis: mi ocupación es ésa.
No preguntéis mi nombre ni mi estado.
Dejadme en medio de mi propia luna,
en mi terreno herido.


*****



Waltz

I touch hatred like a covered breast;
I without stopping go from garment to garment,
sleeping at a distance.

I am not, I'm of no use, I do not know
anyone; I have no weapons of ocean or wood,
I do not live in this house.

My mouth is full of night and water.
The abiding moon determines
what I do not have.

What I have is in the midst of the waves,
a ray of water, a day for myself,
an iron depth.

There is no cross-tide, there is no shield, no costume,
there is no special solution too deep to be sounded,
no vicious eyelid.

I live suddenly and other times I follow.
I touch a face suddenly and it murders me.
I have no time.

Do not look for me when drawing
the usual wild thread or the
bleeding net.

Do not call me: that is my occupation.
Do not ask my name or my condition.
Leave me in the middle of my own moon
in my wounded ground.



Imagine, if you will:
You are a postman in a small town.

Your pay is pittance and you only get to deliver mail to one house, so you wouldn't get tipped very much either. It's just you, your bicycle and some stranger's mail.
But what if that stranger were the perfect stranger? What if you were stuck with this seemingly insignificant menial job but soon find yourself blessed with the honor of delivering mail to the man who wrote the poem above?

Something so simple as delivering mail could be the start of a connection. The very thing that can allow you to pass through the grand crevices of such an entrancing mind. Musings shared with you exclusively. Inklings of ideas that turn your pathetic salary into a mere shadow of a thought. The world was left overwhelmed, overjoyed, intimidated and welcomed all at the same time by this man. And you are his postman.

Pablo Neruda is the Chilean poet who wrote "Waltz". Mario Ruopollo is the lucky fictional postman who gets to meet and befriend this grand poet.

For anyone who's ever dreamt of dinner with Dickinson, Sunday brunch with Steinbeck, afternoon tea with Tolstoy...
I highly recommend the movie "Il Postino".

33.1

There's a time in a girl's life when she can't wait to get her period (I know, right?). Girls can't wait to have an age that required 2 digits to be told. 13 is the checkpoint.
A time when girls have this problem where their brains don't process age correctly so they think that 13 = 20 for some reason. So they fill their wardrobes with "mature" tops and skirts, they stuff their drawers with bras so padded they could be used as skydiving helmets. They start to spend their pocket money on mascara, eyeliner and lipgloss instead of the K-Mart carousel, gum and wishing fountains.

At the same time, boys can't wait to grow facial hair. They inspect their cheeks and chins religiously. Hoping, praying for the smallest trace of stubble. These prayers are usually misheard, and the boys are granted acne instead. They long for a car, they long for a girlfriend. They grow sick of their girlish frame, and want to be bigger, taller, older. They stop hanging around by the slide and start hanging around by the weight room. They start to look at their cowboy pajamas with detest, and they shun anything that might be classified under "doll".

I come into contact with these endangered specimens almost every day, and sometimes I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I want to laugh because they look so ridiculous but I want to cry because it's one of the many examples of this whole "grass is always greener" syndrome.

Kids can never wait to grow up. Never. Once you hit 13, you want to be 16. Once you hit 16 you want to hit 18, 19, 20. But everyone gets to the age that they wish they could be frozen in forever. Once you get past that age, birthdays are no longer looked forward to. They're feared. And the tables are turned.

People want to hold on to the very thing they wanted to skip: their youth.

I see kids who can't wait to grow up and I see adults who wish they wouldn't. Either way, I see impatient, anxious, unhappy people who grow to fear something as magical as a birthday.


A gloriously narcissistic day in which your accomplishment of inhaling and exhaling for a whole 365 days is celebrated with cake, ice cream, and free stuff from all of your relatives and friends.

I can only see a WIN/WIN here.

In short, I guess what this is all supposed to add up to is to calm down and eat your birthday cake. Something that comes and goes as consistently as age isn't something to get very worked up about. There are a million other things that are more worthy of your worries.

33.0

Why is it that I hardly ever write about happy things? I guess writing is what I do to substitute for pillow punching mainly because I'm scared that if I punch ANYTHING (even something as soft as a pillow), I'll break my fist. However, I am immune to carpal tunnel syndrome (SCORE!). Hence, hours at the keyboard with repeated uses of my write pinky for the "backspace" button.

But I'm feeling the need for some smiley faces here, my blogs have been too bleak and whiny. So in the meantime:

:) :) :) :)

you can name them John Paul George and Ringo. Or any other famous foursome that comes to mind. They can keep you company while I think of something happy to write about.

This may take a while.

Oh forget it, this post is becoming too synthetic. I'm going to go do "work" now. See you in 2 seconds.

32.3

I seem to perpetually find myself in situations of distaste. Of crookedness. Of discomfort. Of exclamations that go a little like "whoops." And in the moment, my whole world falls. I smack my palm to my forehead and wince while I think, "I messed up. I've ruined everything." And the little squigglies in my brain tangle up and mesh real tight while I go through all of the horrible scenarios of my adult future that for some reason is terribly affected by this one screw up. Kind of like the whole "Sound of Thunder" deal. You know, step on a butterfly and all of humanity disappears. I tend to freak out, silently. So as not to disturb the serene ambiance of my home(*cough couch* SARCASM *cough*). But freaking out silently feels more painful than freaking out noisily. However, I found a trick that always helps me. I stop and I give my ego some oxygen and think, "psh, this can just be one of those humanizing anecdotes I tell in my autobiography I'll write 20 years from now titled 'Even I wasn't always perfect!' and the cover will have a professional looking picture of me smirking amusingly at my would-be audience." That always makes me smile, and gives me hope of future redemption.

32.2

I apologize, Blogger, for calling you incompetent. I realized it's just part of your allure to be mysterious and hide the "draft" button so no one can find it. But in the words of a sharp young girl, being enigmatic really doesn't suit you. And neither does your new layout. I apologize for my strange internal drama that was exhibited via this blog, but there aren't too many people go apologize to so I won't worry too much about it. :) Your welcome for the Jersey Shore quality entertainment. Savor it while it lasts.

32.1

I literally just finished a really nice post about tea and the weather. Blogger decided to be incompetent, as it neither saved nor published my golden material. Now my 32.0 post is just going to be this 3 sentence complaint, which is not as colorful or as interesting as the 32.0 post I had in mind before.

32.0

I'm craving the cold.
No, not the chill, the COLD.

Global warming totally ate up the hardcore winters I grew up with as a kid. I can't believe I'm saying this but I miss 'em. Part of me feels incomplete if my nose doesn't turn blue for those magical 3 months and a half. It's just the way it's always been. But not this year I guess.

Another reason why I'm craving the cold is because the unusual warmth has caused me to neglect tea. I have no idea why. It's not even that hot that I would disregard my favorite beverage. I have tea in the summer for crissakes! HOT TEA! IN THE HOT SUMMER! WHAT IS WRONG WITH HOT TEA DURING THE EVE OF SPRING-LIKE CHILL OF WHAT IS SUPPOSED TO BE THE MIDDLE OF THE BEGINNING OF WINTER???

Maybe it's because my Linus mug and one of my Snoopy mugs broke from the handle. Maybe that's what's throwing off my tastes. Well whatever it is, I'm going to stop it. Lately I've been eating bread and chocolate like a pothead and I'm thinking "What the hell? I'm not even on my period... WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME??" and then I glanced at my lonely kettle sulking in the corner from neglect and my eyebrows shot up in realization and I uttered a small enlightened-sounding "Ah."

But all is well now for I am happily sipping at a Charlie Brown mug full of Tazo Organic Chai ($2.50 for a box. TOTAL STEAL).

31.0

It's 7:00 PM, and I just had a whole block of chocolate cheesecake, this means I can't blog. So I'll copy and paste something I did write earlier when I was sober and not as tired. Yeah, it's only 7, but it's DARK outside and I have it embedded in the depths of my soul (if I have one) that DARK = NIGHT and NIGHT = SLEEP therefore DARK = SLEEP. This combination of events leads to situations in which I make up proofs for everything, and crave more cheesecake. This is a total lose/lose. Anyway I guess it's a good idea to put this stuff up here (by up here I mean on the internet in general) so that if my computer explodes or whatever I'll always have this snippet of a story saved on the interwebz forever... Thanks, interwebz.

Below the weeping street lamp there lay a boy curled up in a ball and fast asleep. This boy wasn’t a bum and he wasn’t a runaway. Why, he hadn’t a scratch on his body or a trace of dirt underneath his fingernails but there he was, asleep beneath a weepy street lamp. He hadn’t a blanket and he hadn’t a pillow, yet he slept with a smile on his lips and a glow of warmth in his cheeks. and yet there he was, asleep beneath a weepy street lamp.

Through the night, the boy was left alone. When morning came, the few passers by paid him no heed. The men and women who sat at the bus stop just across the street could not be bothered to say “Good morning” to the person they sat beside, let alone take notice of a sleeping boy across the street. No, they were people of much too much importance to trouble themselves with a thing as silly as that. Because no one took notice of the boy, he stayed asleep for quite a long time. He didn’t so much as stir at the clack of women’s shoes or the hiss and rumble of the buses.

Many people walked beside that street lamp that day, and it wasn’t until around noon that things started to get interesting.

“Rebecca, I told you to stop fiddling with that thing,” said a woman.
“I’m not fiddling,” answered a little girl holding a balloon. She made it bob up and down with a flick of her wrist.
“I’m telling you, Rebecca,” the woman continued, “if you keep fiddling with that thing it’ll become loose and you’ll lose it to the skies. And I won’t get you another one.”
Rebecca gazed up at her rubber bubble on a string, completely unfazed by her mother’s words.
“Ok,” she replied, bouncing the balloon as they walked.

When they approached the corner of the sidewalk, Rebecca immediately turned her attention toward the sleeping boy still huddled up under the lamp which was no longer weepy.
“Mom, is that a person?” she asked, losing grip of her balloon as she reached to point at the boy. But Rebecca’s mother wasn’t listening.
“Oh, Rebecca. What did I tell you? If you think I’m going to walk all the way back to that stand to get you another one you’re extremely mistaken.”
“But mom,” Rebecca persisted, “is that a person?”




Right, now the next time I come on to this blog, seeing this post will remind me, "oh yeah, I did that huh?" and maybe that will make me laugh.

30.0

While my sitar gently weeps...


I've always had this fascination with odd instruments. Sitars, dulcimers, accordions, ocarinas, melodicas etc. When I grow up I'll buy one of each instrument I've listed. Maybe I'll learn to play them all, and create some obscure one-woman band music with my newly developed musical polyglotism. This musical anomaly will be so fantastic as to serve the purpose of completing my soul and the world. Maybe I'll become extremely famous in Spain and Norway. Maybe I'll be a worldwide sensation within a short while, like internet cat videos.


And maybe I won't learn how to play them. Maybe I'll be far too busy doing whatever it is I'll be doing when I'm "grown up", whatever that means. Perhaps their only purpose will be to provide culturally stylish litter to my living room. Maybe I'll be far too depressed to try to play them. Nothing makes me more frustrated than discordant noodling on an instrument, which is why when I noodle discordantly on my guitar whenever I'm upset I get more upset. But I'll be far too depressed to sell them as well. I'm a pack rat. I can only imagine how I'll be as an old lady, hoarding every tea tin and yogurt container I come across. The only contact I'll ever have with my instruments will be with a feather duster. The only sound they'll produce will be soft whimpers of dust.


And maybe I won't learn how to play them, but I'll still hear them be played. Maybe I'll have kids, and they'll know how to play sitars, dulcimers, accordions, ocarinas, melodicas etc. But suppose they decide to leave house, and I won't have anyone to play for me anymore. But then again, suppose my kids don't have washing machines. Or change. Perhaps they can use my washer and dryer in exchange for playing my obscure instruments. Laundry days will be spent at my house, and the basement will fill with the songs of sitars, dulcimers, accordions, ocarinas, melodicas etc. playing to the beat of the clothes tumbling in the dryer.

I would like that.