This Year, Me Is Thankful For...

- pleasing grades
- pleasant dispositions
- turducken
- rainbow flags
- rebel flags
- my janis joplin poster
- unexplainable retention of sanity
- awesome sales
- sushi
- my annoying sister
- icebergs
- Finland
- supportive boyfriend
- new-found clarity

Mother Dearest.

So...I suppose I cannot fully claim that my mother is a raging psychopath...but perhaps we can put her under the category of "prelude to psychopath'.

My mother has always been this figurine in my life that I could never really grasp. She's insipid of mind, emotionally fragile, and projects the disposition of an eternal sixteen-year-old.

What I mean to say is...

- When I want to talk about my writing...she expresses so little interest, you'd have thought I said absolutely nothing at all.

- When you call her out on her character flaws (very evenly, and very maturely, in a conversational way)...she goes postal, and thinks you're attacking her.

- When you roll your eyes and say something snarky (as my fourteen-year-old sister does on the daily)...she will actually MIMIC her, in such a way that a five-year-old would mimic her mother or sister as if it would prove a point.

I've always known my mother this way.

But this isn't what perhaps vexes me the most about our association...

I think a new level of my annoyance with my mother began around the time my cousin (who has always been a very accomplished beauty) was crowned her high school's Homecoming Queen.

Now, before you think that this is just an everyday run-of-the-mill kind of jealousy, you're wrong.

My cousin has ALWAYS been the beauty, and I have ALWAYS been the brains--that's simply the way it was, and I have been enormously satisfied with my lot. Naturally, one day she will no longer be beautiful, and I'll still have my uppity elitist prose to wipe her runny nose with. I have looked forward to that day since I was six and she was three.

Plainly, this has nothing to do with my cousin's title.

This has to do with me, and my mother, and my mother's reaction to said title.

What perhaps hurts me the most is my mother's blatant ignorance for things that are very important to me.

I have been a writer ever since I can remember. She knows I write, and she knows that it is the epicenter of my existence.

I've already expressed that if I couldn't write; I'd rather not live.

I am perfectly serious by this.

If I wake up one morning, and I find I can no longer pen my thoughts--I'll pull a Plath.

(I find it not as obtrusive as a Hemingway.)

Anyway...

When my cousin was announced as Homecoming Queen, you could have sworn it was my mother along with her.

Plans to have a tea, and to find a dress, and a suit, and everything for my cousin began to be arranged in full-force--and my mother was "honored" to be involved in every single step of this process.

At first, I was excited for my cousin. At first, I was thinking this was a pretty fun thing. Fun, however, was the extent of it. I never held any beauty and/or popularity recognition in any higher esteem than "fun". But, nonetheless, I smiled and was happy for her and all that.

Well, the annoyance probably climaxed when I realized that my mother was perhaps more involved in this process than she was in anything I have ever done in my entire life that was important to me.

Naturally, if I called her out on this, she would say that scouring for dresses for MY homecomings and all that equaled this event--IT DID NOT.

If my mother really knew me, she'd realize:

a.) a lot of the dress shopping and general clothes shopping that i have done with her in my life has been to please HER. i, personally, hate this ritual, as it makes me feel enormously uncomfortable.

b.) she has no idea what is most important to me, which is my writing and my career. if she realized that, or even cared, perhaps she'd discuss my writing with me--or even express a desire to.

I am her daughter.

That's what pisses me off the most.

I am her daughter--and she knows nothing about me, except for what she sees on the shell.

I can't talk to her, because she will INSIST she is RIGHT and that I have NEVER TRIED to talk to her about any of this.

I was so angry that my mother would be so involved with my cousin, over dresses and frills and shit--and she has never even glanced at anything I've done.

At least...I know what I'm not going to do, when I have children.

Because it hurts, enormously, to be unnoticed by the person you wish would notice you the most.

Dear Taylor Swift

Dear Taylor Swift,


Salutations! I have not have the good fortune of listening to your latest CD--but apparently I'm hearing good things. Congrats on it, and all.
Though I'm not particularly a fan of your work, I felt that I should reach out to you as a relatively concerned personage of goodwill.
I couldn't help but notice that all of your songs happen to be about small towns, fairy tales, and boys that don't like you. I can't help but wonder if you were that token annoying chick in high school that would sit with a group of fellow shallow, contemptuous women and sigh aloud
"SIGH...i'm so FAT and UGLY..."
Whilst I'd love to agree that you are--indeed--fat and ugly, I'm not the sort of female to lie in order to reserve my pride.
Miss Swift, perhaps as you pen these charming little mementos to your army of idealism-swept prepubescent girls, you're not thinking of all the money you're making weaving these awe-inspiring reveries...
The truth is evident, and perhaps you need to hear it in terms you may understand:
1.) You're fucking gorgeous, and appropriately insecure.
Only an incredibly insecure woman would sing about how many guys have dumped her, without appropriate satire, and adding numerous clauses about how much of a loser you are for being inadequate for his attentions. You just belt it out about your man leaving you for another woman--how awesome does that make you look? Are you getting my sympathy vote? Nay!
I am no victim, Miss Swift!
2.) You're a bit public about the private life, eh?
Who cares if Joe Jonas dumped you over a who-the-fuck-cares minute phone call? McDouche is a flamer anyway, who the hell gives a shit? Does the rest of the world really sympathize with a woman who is going to welcome the general public into her messy relationship drama--
HELLO MONICA LEWINSKY.
3.) Maybe you should take voice lessons?...Just sayin?...
I'm certainly not one to claim that my singular talents rise above anyone else's; but we're not talking about me, are we? Nah. We're talking about you, Miss Swift. While I applaud your relative lack of stage fright, your cute outfits, and bedazzled guitar--what does that bring to the one thing that I'm looking for the most?
Dare I say, actual talent?
Listening to your CD, I'm humming along, I find your countrypop twang catchy and endearing! When I turn up a live video via Youtube--WHAT IS THIS?!
...Where oh where hast thou vocal talents gone?...
Locked up in the studio, perchance?

I could go on and on, but clearly you understand me by now.
I would write another page and a half, but I don't wish to give you any more inspiration for your next song. I just know it's going to be about some mean girl from Louisiana that picks on you because you have a vagina and are therefore feeble at heart.

Humming Along to the Digitally Remastered Sound of Your Voice,

Lady Cracker

"Coming Out" of that "Proverbial Closet"

So...I've always known I've had this mild to great attraction to certain people--not necessarily a sex.

A lot of people don't understand my logic, so I never really go into detail about my sexual orientation. To be honest, it's incredibly ambiguous. I hate to really categorize myself, because I am one of those people who value learning experiences and trying things to get a different perspective.

I found out that I was in this limbo the summer after I got out of high school. I'd only dated men before, and a curiosity that I had always had peeked when I met this woman. She was 25, and I was 18. We shared a brief, though intimate relationship. I discovered that I could be best deemed as "bisexual", due to this experience, and other desires that I had experienced for other women.

Whilst I do think that "bisexual" is a best term for me, I don't advertise it. That was never my way. I don't like to throw my personal thoughts and feelings at just anyone. This blog, even, only certain people know about, and only certain people will I allow to see it. I like to control the way things are as much as it is in my power to do so.

I have a strong distaste for hatred of any sort--whether is it targeted from the straight to gay population, or the gay to straight population.

I'm not an advocate, but I do strongly believe in equality.

A lot of people think that just because you're gay, just because you're an atheist, just because you don't believe what they believe, that you're a bad person...

You know what?

I have had romantic feelings for, and relationships with, both men and women--

I am currently celibate, and have been in most of these relationships.

I have experienced more love and understand through these processes than I have from my own parents.

I am spiritual, and I do believe in a higher power.

I bide laws, I follow them, and I have hope for "all men are created equal" to finally be a truth in this country.

Therefore, am I a bad person?

Am I a bad, horrible person, because I don't categorize myself as a

"Christian"

or

"Straight"

or because I don't indulge myself with being as close-minded as the next person?

Goddamn it, I'm so sick and tired of having to hide myself from my own mother and father.

Literally, around other people THERE IS NO CLOSET...around the average person I know; people who know me, friends, who I work with, who I consort with--they are generally accepting of whoever the hell I am. They know I'm on the level, they know I'm not a malicious person, and that's really all that matters.

I don't feel "closeted" anywhere, but in my own parents' house.

This is a tragedy.

I cannot be who I am with the full knowledge that my parents are going to accept me and love me, because the way they are...shall never, ever change. If I told them this...if I told them that I cannot bring myself to believe in Catholicism alone, if I told them I cannot bring myself to lie and say I do not have an attraction to women, if I told them I'm still me and nothing has changed at all--I would never, ever be looked at the same way.

In truth, I would be harped-on, and bullied.

By my own parents.

My mother would probably seek out a type of medicine to cure me.

My father would most likely shake his head in disgust at the sight of me.

And I know now...I've known, entering into this discovery of myself, that this is what it feels like to be alienated within oneself by the realization of who one is.

If we are not accepted, we are aliens.

I am an alien in my parent's home.

I actually did an experiment on my mother the other night, just to see if I was perhaps wrong about these assumptions I had made in regards to her person...

I asked her if she wouldn't like the idea of marrying someone outside of my race.

She asked me if I meant marrying someone black.

I told her yes.

Her immediate response: "I wouldn't support you if he left you."

How can someone jump to those types of conclusions?

What if he's cultured? Educated?! What if he's a millionaire?! What if he loves me for who I am?! Am I supposed to not be with him because of the color of his skin?!

What if this was a woman?!

It's the same difference!

Am I supposed to not be with her, when I feel these things for her? When it's real, and pure?

I'm a human being! You can't deprive me of the differences in opinion, in myself, my collective personality: THEY MAKE ME WHO I AM.

She's my mother...her reaction should be to open her arms, and to tell me I can love whoever the fuck I want to love. Her reaction should be to encourage my growth, to encourage me in anything I want to willingly pursue.

It breaks my heart that I've never experienced that sort of untutored acceptance with her, and that I never will.

People need to understand that it is a lack of involvement, acceptance, and awareness that is making poor teenaged kids--already confused about their own feelings--commit such acts as self-mutilation, murder, and even suicide.

If people don't understand this now, how are we ever going to presume?

Is everyone going to have to keep conforming?

Keep hiding? Keep pretending? To satisfy a society that we, ourselves, populate?

We can control the future.

We can change things.

I know that I will change it, personally, if just by taking this step to let you (whoever you are reading this right now) know that you are beautiful just the way you are. The person that I know and that I see with my eyes, just you, you are perfect. You are important, your opinions are important, who you are is important.

We can help the change.

From my mother's own example I have learned more about the mother that I one day aspire to be.

I vow; my child will never be subjected to judicious treatment in my care, by my mouth or by my actions. Black, white, male, female; they are going to be mine, and I am going to nurture them. That'll be my task, as a mother.

If my son/daughter wakes up one morning and tells me he/she is gay...I am going to hug them, support them, and tell them that there is absolutely nothing wrong with their feelings.

Literally, I think I'll say something to the extent of "As long as you don't intentionally hurt yourself or anyone in the process of doing whatever you want to do in life, I don't give a fuck. Jump in, kid, the water's fine for swimming."

It feels good to rant...

I haven't done so in a while.

Bottom line:

Being gay/straight/bi/trans doesn't DEFINE a person.

I am not DEFINED by the orientation I choose to identify with--so I choose not to identify, in order to escape said definition. It is only a piece of the picture--a gilded mirror in a scene of a beautiful room, if you will.

What does define me, is the contents of my character, my differences--my entire person as a whole.

I wish people would understand that.

Maybe then, I wouldn't have to tailor this explanation down to a blog entry.

Stay beautiful.

Romantical.

I feel like I need to speak.
I hold my throat, but nothing seems to come out like it should. It's loud, and it's vulgar, and unmatched. I try to meet these ends and they never, ever connect.
You don't like what I write.
You don't understand it.
It's okay, because I'm shy to show you anyway.
I can't say this out loud.
I'm falling.
I'm falling.
I'm falling.
And you're not here to catch me.
I'm crying.
I'm crying.
I'm crying.
I'm so crazy; I need to recollect.
But I love you, and I can't say it out loud.
I love you so much, and I can't cry it out.
I can't scream it like I want to. You'll leave me, I know you will. You don't want to set anything in stone, like they all said. I'm not good enough, I know.
I'm not worth a thousand explanations.
Oh well, oh well.
We'll have a good time, then you can forget me. We'll be together for eight days, then we'll part with a hug and a kiss and a nod. You'll never see me again. You won't regret you met me, oh you'll love the story. You'll tell it to everyone you know.
Your lovely American whore.
Your lovely broken-hearted American whore.

Awkward.

So, I'm beginning to think that I have an atrocious issue of dating men who I never in my right mind would have dated--were I using all accurate parts of my brain.
I say this because I was introduced to a blog that an ex-boyfriend of mine began writing...
Clearly, it was not a blog that expressed any sort of thought at all. In fact, I don't believe he put five minutes into it's construction.
Perhaps we should review the reasons people begin blogs?...
To express ideas?
To protract views?
To bitch out punk ass hoes?
I dunno.
You tell me.
But here I am wondering why in the name of Allah did I ever even consider him a suitable candidate for my romantic life...
I mean, as I read this rant which--though, perhaps, heartfelt--is entirely self-pitying...He goes on about his job, about his life, using phrases like "suck a dick, then choke on it"
Classy.
Let's wonder if your life really is that bad. Let's wonder if you actually love the attention you're getting from all of these negative vibrations. Let's wonder if I actually give a real consistent shit about your problems--considering your incredibly effortless attempts at finding your own happiness?
I'm thinking why, oh why, did I ever look at you twice?
I mean...you have a Chevy tattoo...the whole time you were dating me, you couldn't stop bitching about your ex...and, you hesitated whenever I asked you to come see me when I was crying.
Hello, asshole. You're my boyfriend. Yeah, you. I didn't just end a year-long single streak to fuck around with a two-bit jerk.
Bottom line, I don't pity him, or his so-called "issues".
A person who writes a blog about his issues with women, avoiding correct grammatical composition and being oblivious of his own annoying qualities--
does that need anything more than a blog dissing him?
No.
So this is my valediction.

Some Things I Realized...

- the men i date usually turn out to be borderline pedophiles
- i have a thing for accents
- i have an eating disorder, but rarely talk about it because i'm ashamed
- i love being wanted and needed
- i've decided to forsake capitalization and general sentence structure in this blog
- i'd kill someone for my sister, and i've already coordinated the ways i'd do it
- edward scissorhands, amory blaine, holden caulfield, the green ranger, and clark gable were the first loves of my life
- i find it easiest to love plants
- i find it hardest to love women
- always admire, never desire
- i can be weird about wanting things in a certain place at a certain time
- i drink at least six glasses of water a day
- i wanted to be a nun when i was in grade school
- i nearly fainted when i got my first kiss
- it was in the backseat of an SUV
- he was the first in a long and distinguished line of jerks
- i think of the characters in my novels as real people, and often as my friends
- i'll be arrested one day for stealing antiques
- the uglier my mother thinks i look, the more attractive i tend to feel
- the colder, the better
- there's a novelty to being cajun that i'm only just beginning to appreciate
- i'm convinced i'd have been best friends with my great-grandmother in the 30s
- nature has taught me more about the world than any particular person has
- i can be deep
- i will get what i want, because i know i deserve it
- recollect yourself
- i want to be a thousand things
- i wish i had the patience to properly curl my hair from time to time
- "the friends zone" has been my fortress for many years
- i wish deadbeat guys would stop hitting on me
- i fall for them because i like to nurture
- i wish i could eat something without feeling guilty or nauseous
- there's something about music snobs that really piss me off
- i've sought the approval of people who really don't get it
- it's safe to say i have a bi-eye
- i don't advertise it
- i fall victim to beautiful women, or intelligent women
- i have yet to find a woman who meets both in decent fashion
- i hate it when women use casual sex as a means of liberation
- the whole "men can do it, why can't i" philosophy is shit
- WE'RE supposed to be the wiser sex
- i'm european
- my standards make me seem prudish, and often snobby
- i'm tired of this

My Twenty-First Birthday Plan:

- Purchase a scratch-off ticket and a bottle of some girly fruity shit.

- Indulge myself with a guilt-free pampering via Barnes&Noble

- When the lights dim...dress to impress... This means I want to look like Lana Turner in her Ziegfeld Folly's days.

- Stuff my face with my favorite sushi dinner at my favorite sushi resturant.

- Order a glass of red wine to go with this meal--just because I can.

- Kiss the first random hot guy that I see walking towards me--also, just because I can. (God-willing he isn't with some attractive female who may or may not punch me in the face).

- Return to my abode. Scratch ticket. Enjoy girly fruity shit. Run my fingers over my purchases from Barnes&Noble. Watch my three favorite movies ever.


Sounds like a plan.

Dear Journal...Part II

So...this morning I had aspired to wake at 6:30am.
That didn't work.
Liam Neeson...you're at it again.
It fuckin sucks, I made a 61% on my test.
I have so much random crap to do today.

Nude As The News.

You know, I'm becoming really disgusted with the way that I am being taught to view nudity by conventional society...
First off, I suppose we'll speak of a little history--
After all, that's where it all starts, right? In the youth, and the way we are taught in our youth? We are a product of our environment; I am a believer.
So...
How have people come to fear, or find something revoltingly feral, about human sexuality (nudity included)?
There are certain religious sects that will argue the idea that sexuality was meant to be protected, kept decent, reserved only for "marriage"... yet, the ancients taught that sexuality was a healthy and socially-conscious way for the sexes to interact.
In ancient Greece and Rome, sexuality was used as a key figurehead in political manipulation...though perhaps not the wisest motive, it apparently kept both civilizations quite prosperous.

Happy Valentine's Day! (From Me to You, Fo Real)

It started off as a perfect day
you were freshly twenty-one
and I wanted to say
"I love you"
In the only real way I could.


I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.


I knock on your door
and the knob turned slow
she stood there and murmured a nervous "Whoa,
I'm sorry...I was going to tell you...
please don't go."


I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.


But it was too late, she was standing there
with her golden locks and underwear
And I couldn't understand...
Classy dude- why of all girls
my best friend?


I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.


How completely freakin a-typical
for me to trust and really care
I put my heart and soul into every word
You'd think I know by now,
That not every sweet whisper is a promise or a vow.


I just wanted to say I love you,
and is that so wrong?
I'd have stood in the rain for years,
and it wouldn't seem so long.
How lucky I am to be the girl to find a guy like you-
I hope you fucking love your birthday song-
my ode to being true.

Top Five Most Annoying Resturant Taboos:

1.) If I ask for no tomatoes...I mean I don't want any fucking tomatoes.

2.) Oh, your name is Mindi? That's nice. Stop flirting with my date.

3.) Ahem...you asked me if I wanted a lemon in this water...I said yes...where the hell is my lemon?...

4.) There's a cozy booth, right there--why are we sitting at a dank table right near the door to the kitchen? Oh. I think it's because you like watching me get slapped in the back with the swinging door. D'accord. Salope.

5.) Check?...Check?...CHECK?!

I Sympathize, Ophelia.

In my opinion, Ophelia, the ill-fated heroine of William Shakespeare's Hamlet, is perhaps one of the most interesting character's he's ever created.
However, she's often incredibly and unfortunately undermined.
I don't like it.
I think that one should realize that this woman had all the qualities to be more lovable and less fancifully idiotic than Juliet (of Romeo and Juliet, for the Shakespeare-illiterate).
I find myself hungry for more of her story. Apparently, Shakespeare gave me enough information to fall slightly in love with her, but not enough to keep me satisfied. Surely, he didn't give me a detailed idea of who she was as a person (and her relationship with Mad Hamlet, Prince of Denmark), or even a pretty little picture of where the hell she came from.
I understand that this wasn't the point of the story, in being that Hamlet was about...Hamlet... but--in theory, I think Ophelia had more umph than that lunatic!

But I, O yes, I shall attempt to fill in the places...suck on that, Willy.

First off, I don't think she was the fucking basketcase everyone made her out to be... I think she knew perfectly well what she was doing the entire time. I mean, here she is, this pretty young thang in the Court of Denmark, and she just totally conquered the affection of the Prince and Heir Apparent to the throne...
This Hamlet cat thinks he's the coolest dude around, because he's got this kingdom, and all of these issues. His emo disposition is somewhat appealing. Ophelia sympathizes, and reciprocates the feelings he offers her. She knows this is dangerous, being as he's somewhat unbalanced, but she's optimistic.
Then, after this massive fight to end all fights with psychotic Hamlet (in which he mutters the infamous "get thee to a nunnery!"), her father winds up six feet under...
Of course she's going to fake a mental breakdown.

What free-thinking woman with any nerve wouldn't?

Can you imagine?
She was in love with an absolute sociopath!

Though I must confess, Hamlet is my ideal anti-hero.
I have a sort of twisted endearment for characters of his sort; you know-- the whiny, insane, glamorizers of suicide.
Mr. Prince of Denmark was no different.
He was like a leech feeding off of her truth and her innocence.
Yet, at the same time, she harnessed his passion and used it against him in the worse way--good girl.

So yes, anyway, she loses her mind.
The queen tries to comfort her, which isn't very helpful considering the queen is a twit who married Hamlet's uncle after the untimely (somewhat homocidal) death of her husband, the King.
Ophelia decides it would be a good idea to get everyone's attention by wading into the waters of a stream, while perfectly aware of the fact that she can't swim and her outfit (when soaked) is super heavy.

Thus, at the tender age of seventeenish...our heroine perishes.

Goddamnit, you, tears!

Latest Trend: Pregnancy.

Apparently... the new totally awesome thing to do for a moderately singular female between the ages of fifteen and twenty is become impregnated.
Chyeah, I know right?
You know, pregnancy isn't a crime. It's surely not a bad thing. Logically speaking, we need babies in this world in order to have an ongoing supply of developing human beings to populate this massive sphere called the Earth. However... I find myself wondering how the most illogical people, at the most illogical ages, in the most illogical parts of their irresponsible lives are finding themselves "prego".
I mean...sure, sex is great.
Sex is fun.
Sex is all that good stuff--whatever.
I'm far from Sister Mary Lady Cracker, but I'm a realist here.

I've chalked it down to that whole "it just happened" chestnut.
At least, that's what the girls who are unwed, uneducated, and stuck in unfavorable positions will cite as their excuse.

I base most of my theories on facts, on research that I do in my everyday life just by witnessing, and I've come to realize (surprise, surprise) that women who were raised in "difficult" or "abusive" circumstances are highly likely to become sexually active (and therefore: pregnant) at early ages.

An example:
A friend of mine is an adoptee. Her biological mother was sixteen and unwed at the time of her birth. My friend was adopted into a severely religious household as an infant, and raised under the constant eye of her adopted mother. In high school, she displayed particularly promiscuous behavior, careful to hide it from her adopted parents. Once graduated, she moved away and "went wild", dropping out of college and returning home with a desire to eventually go to community college. She serial dated for a time, before discovering that she was pregnant (at the age of nineteen, and presumably by a one-night stand with an ex). I have reason to believe she sought or is seeking some form of verification in life through her actions--as she often expressed to me her dissatisfaction with her adopted mother, and her desire to be loved.

In essence, I sympathize.
In particular, I'm honest.

Ideally; I'd like to be in a position in my life where I know I can handle the task of bringing up another human being.
That's "ideally" speaking, and the average girl never really takes the time to think about an ideal setting.
Newsflash: They ought to.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with planning one's future, and looking forward to it.
There is room for chaos!
But in my world...at this point in time, there's absolutely no place for a 6lbs 7oz mound of infant humanity.

In retrospect, I'm also a believer in the term "shit happens".
That is "shit" being a fetus...that sounds bad, let me rephrase:
Your fetus is not shit.
It's a miracle, and all that wooplah.
As a free-thinking (if not entirely rational) individual, you have secured your right to allow your eggs to be fertilized whenever and however you see fit.
If by accident or no, hook or by crook, or whatever the hell.

In speaking this way, I never mean to offend...
I just often find myself wondering why there are so many broken homes and children growing up in unstable environments.
Jus sayin.

Dear Journal... Part I

Dear Journal,

Who the fuck is that moron singing on the radio...I don't feel like opening my eyes. Sounds like a rapper. Mother--
Oh, did I unload the dryer?
Yes.
Good.
So, I'm pretty sure my French substitute is a tweaker... I tried to solicit Ty to follow him into the bathroom to see if he shoots up right before class, because I don't think I've ever seen someone look quite so spaz-tastic while they're trying to teach passe compose and imparfait.
Seriously, this guy does the "triple blink". I haven't seen the "triple blink" since high school. And he slurs his words, and his accent is atrocious, he sounds like he's from New England...
Ty thinks he's just nervous, and refuses to follow him into the bathroom...he thinks it would make him a creeper.
I don't think it would make him a creeper.
I really want to know.
In fact, I think I'm willing to pay Ty for his services (that sounds wrong--I like it).
I don't even know this French substitute's name, and I don't really care. I wasn't there the first day he decided to fill in for the real professor, because I was at the hospital...but his name is completely irrelevant to what sort of drug he shoots up before class.
I'm betting it's coke.
He doesn't look like he could afford heroin.
Or maybe he can afford heroin, because it doesn't look like he can afford a semi-formidable wardrobe.
Sigh.
It's really freakin cold in here...
I want a blanket.
And a Norwegian prostitute.

Bisous.

Glance At the Clock Again in 5 More Minutes...YOU ARE WEAK.

Class...oh, class...

Right now I'm sitting in Communications, on a Monday, and this guy has to be the most irrelevant preacher of anti-modern Journalism tactics I've ever known in my life...

First off, he's like--wha? Ninety?

Second off, he has a voice like freakin Liam Neeson...I'm about to fall asleep, it's like the voice of God.

There's ten minutes left in this class, and I can already tell there's no hope of me walking away from this experience learning anything.
It's because I wasn't taught anything.

Don't get me wrong, this guy is totally nice...

He's like God, your Grandpa, and Liam Neeson all rolled into one.

This combination, though interesting, is a recipe for naps.

It couldn't be anymore perfect...
Soft hum of the air conditioner...the lesson plan being read...the air feels like blankets.
Power nap time.
Pull down the beanie.
Kick it.

FUCK.

It's time to leave already...and I totes forgot there's going to be a test Wednesday...


Onward, Lady Cracker...
University Hath Made Thee Her Bitch.

I Hate Goodbyes.

Death.

The sound of the word on my tongue is almost as hard and as cold as it looks when I see it written.

No one is ever prepared for it, no matter how long you've waited, or how many times you've seen it. I think after the general death of a loved person, I'm through. You know? I don't need a verification, I don't need a traditional ceremonious ritual that's supposed to bring "closure".
My closure comes gradually.
My closure comes from within myself.

In fact, things that are often supposed to bring "closure", often gives me nothing more than this bad-tasting residue...

I hate funerals.
And I don't mean hate them like a normal person is obliged to hate funerals...

I'm talking this deep, demented loathing...that climbs up from the pit of my stomach and chokes me.

There is nothing quite so pretentious as a funeral.
I mean traditional southern funerals, you know?
You have old ladies with their rosaries and their big ugly hats that go and sit down next to so-and-so with big fake smiles and gossip about so-and-so's unwed pregnant granddaughter being hauled up in a convent somewhere until the illegitimate offspring is born.
Mind you...this is being spoken of in the same room where your beloved dead relative's body is chillaxing in the coffin.

Don't people understand that it's basically the rudest thing in the world to gossip in a funeral home?!

You think that after living seasonally for a couple of decades and bitching at your kids for not having basic table etiquette, you'd be able to hold your silence in the presence of the dead--you dumb fuck.

And then, oh, and then...We must pray.

Oh yes, let's pray.
Let's pray for this person laying here without a pulse.
Let's pray that your husband doesn't find out you're screwing the family attorney.
Let's pray that you turned off the stove before you left the house.
Let's pray, let's pray, let's pray...

You know what?
Instead of going on and on all this tripe about prayers and peace and eternal happiness and yadda yadda yadda...can't we just look at each other with frank distaste and say

"This fucking sucks."

It does.
It fucking sucks.
There's no better way to word it in my opinion.

I think I'm going to try that one day, seriously.
Seriously.
When everyone is praying for the eternal beautification of this person's soul...I just want to stand up and say "can I say something for a moment"... go right up to the pulpit...look out into the congregation...Raise my head with this frank and forthright look upon my brow, and say

"This fucking sucks."


Amen.